A bit of rough road
Date: 2026-01-24T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Young women -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Great Britain -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: A bit of rough road

Author: Amy Le Feuvre

Illustrator: Percy Tarrant

Release date: January 24, 2026 [eBook #77761]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1928

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BIT OF ROUGH ROAD ***

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

"DO YOU REMEMBER IT—'PEACE, PERFECT PEACE'?"

A Bit of

Rough Road

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By

Amy Le Feuvre

Author of

"Probable Sons," "The Mender," "Heather's Mistress," etc.

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"Oh! dost thou complain that Heaven's way is rugged?. . .
Be the oftener walking in it, and that will make it smooth."

GURNALL.

Illustrated by Percy Tarrant

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London

The Religious Tract Society

4, Bouverie Street; & 65, St. Paul's Churchyard

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Mender Jill's Red Bag
On the Edge of a Moor Odd Made Even
Dwell Deep Legend Led
A Puzzling Pair A Little Maid
Heather's Mistress The Carved Cupboard
Miss Lavender's Boy, and Other Sketches Odd

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY, 4 BOUVERIE STREET;
& 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, LONDON, E.C.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. STRANGE THOUGHTS

II. A QUIET HOUSE

III. A NEW FRIEND

IV. TAKEN BY SURPRISE

V. CONFLICTING DUTIES

VI. A BUSY DAY

VII. SETTLING DOWN

VIII. HOPE'S CHOICE

IX. A HOLIDAY

X. HESTER'S BEES

XI. TROUBLE

XII. THE NEW HOME

XIII. KITTY

XIV. THE LITTLE FLAGGED PATH

XV. A SPEEDY PARTING

XVI. A LONG NIGHT

XVII. HOMELESS

XVIII. AN UNCERTAIN FUTURE

XIX. BOY AND GIRL

XX. A VISIT TO LONDON

XXI. A SUCCESSFUL SEARCH

XXII. ALONE

XXIII. WAITING

XXIV. WEDDING BELLS

XXV. IN THE BORDERLAND

XXVI. A YORKSHIRE HOME

XXVII. VISITORS

XXVIII. A CONFESSION

ILLUSTRATIONS

"DO YOU REMEMBER IT—'PEACE, PERFECT PEACE'?" Frontispiece

HOPE SLIPPED AWAY TO HEAR THE FAMOUS PREACHER

"MR. ST. CLAIR KEEPS ASKIN' IF YOU'VE COME"

"HOPE, YOU ARE CHANGED," JIM SAID, SUDDENLY

"YOU CAN DO NOTHING FOR HIM, BUT JUST WATCH HIM"

"SIT STILL AND SEE A MAN MAKE TEA"

"WHAT IS IT?" HE INQUIRED. "CAN I DO ANYTHING FOR YOU?"

"I THINK YOUR NAME OUGHT TO HAVE BEEN PEACE," SAID KITTY

THE WATER WAS SLOWLY BUT SURELY MOUNTING THE STAIRS

SHE GAVE HIM MISS RILL'S ADDRESS

"WHAT ON EARTH HAVE YOU BEEN DOING WITH YOURSELF? YOU'RE A WRAITH!"

HER SURROUNDINGS SEEMED TO MELT AWAY, SHE WAS WAFTED INTO A LITTLE PARADISE

HOPE PUT HER FACE IN HER HANDS AND SOBBED ALOUD

HOPE RAN DOWN TO MEET THEM

"YOU MUST TELL ME WHAT YOUR PLANS ARE FOR THE FUTURE"

"OH, LANCELOT, HOW GLAD I AM TO BE HOME AGAIN!"

Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin?
The blood of Jesus whispers peace within.

Peace, perfect peace, by thronging duties press'd?
To do the will of Jesus, this is rest.

Peace, perfect peace, with sorrows surging round?
On Jesus' bosom nought but calm is found.

Peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away?
In Jesus' keeping we are safe and they.

Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown?
Jesus we know, and He is on the throne.

Peace, perfect peace, death shadowing us and ours?
Jesus has vanquish'd death and all its powers.

It is enough: earth's struggles soon shall cease,
And Jesus call us to Heaven's perfect peace.

E. H. BICKERSTETH.

(From the Hymnal Companion. By permission of Messrs. Longmans,
Green & Co.)

A Bit of Rough Road

Chapter I

STRANGE THOUGHTS

"HOPE, what are you doing?"

"Something that she ought not to do. She is thinking."

"Don't be cynical, Jim. Do you want me, Aunt Gertrude?"

The young girl who spoke rose from her seat by the window and came towards a stout old lady, who was carrying on an animated conversation with two or three of her Sunday visitors.

They were in a London drawing-room, and though outside the sun shone, and the flowers in the park close by were bright with colour; it was early enough in the spring to need a fire.

Mrs. Daubeney's room looked the picture of cosy warmth and comfort. Tea was being handed round; and as Hope St. Clair came into the little circle round the fire, there were two who regarded her very critically. Her aunt saw a tall slight girl, exquisitely gowned, whose walk and voice and movement all proclaimed her to be one of Society's successes. Mrs. Daubeney noted nothing of which to complain, as her eyes travelled from the Paris gown to the delicate oval face, the wealth of soft dark hair, the sensitively cut features, and the bright, vivacious grey eyes that were alive with a thousand lights and shadows, and seemed to reflect to the world in general a charming personality from within.

But Jim Horrocks's eyes saw further. He noted that the girl's lips were quivering, that her eyes were troubled, and that, in spite of her apparently gay demeanour, that seat by the window had been taken with a purpose. For about twenty minutes she had withdrawn herself from her fellow-creatures, and those twenty minutes had been full of troubled thought. He drew a chair forward for her, and offering her a cup of tea, he said persuasively:

"Just tell me how far away you got from us, and if you are very sorry to be back again."

Hope looked at him rather gravely.

"The Murrays took me to St. Ambrose's this morning."

"Oh, I wish I had known! I would have come too. That fellow is the last sensation. They say he lashes us with a most able and cutting tongue. Lady May Fosberry has given up all gaiety for five whole days and taken to the slums. What did he tell you? It's rotten bad form, I consider, to abuse the class by whom he lives."

"You must hear him for yourself."

Hope's eyes were mirthful now. She added:

"I wonder where and when you heard your last sermon, Jim."

"In India," he replied promptly, "six years ago. Sermons are an unnecessary appendage to any service, I consider. Your aunt talks of leaving town; surely she is not going to do so yet?"

"Her doctor says she must. We are thinking of trying what a quiet life will do."

Jim Horrocks laughed.

"When I see a fish flourishing on dry ground, then I shall see Mrs. Daubeney's health improve in a quiet atmosphere! No wonder such a prospect, combined with the Canon's discourse, has depressed you."

"I am never depressed; I don't know the meaning of the word."

Hope spoke emphatically. Jim smiled at her provokingly. He and she were the best of friends. Once, he had been in love with her. That was when she was just launching into her first season, and having known him from the time she was a little maiden in short frocks, had constituted him as her cavalier and comrade. But Mrs. Daubeney nipped it in the bud. She reminded Jim that he could not make his income suffice for his own needs, being an impecunious younger son and only having a secretaryship in some Government billet to supplement his allowance; and she told him that until she died, Hope would only receive from her £400 a year.

"I am likely to live some years yet," she informed him. "Hope has no idea of economy; she spends more than £400 on her clothes as it is. How do you imagine you could set up house together? No, she must do better than take you, Jim, for her own sake and for yours."

The young people had accepted the wisdom of their elder. Neither were very disturbed at this ultimatum, for Hope had boundless anticipations of the future, and Jim was fast becoming resigned to the fact that the best things in life were not to be his.

He remained her friend; he was always at hand if she wanted his help; and he watched her progress through the daily routine of her full and busy life with amusement, and sometimes with concern.

Mrs. Daubeney, as she was wont to declare, "knew everybody worth knowing." Her energy never flagged, her worldly wisdom never failed. And yet, though Hope was popular with all her friends, she was still unmarried, and there seemed no prospects of her bestowing her affections upon any of those who desired her favour. For four years she and her aunt had been swept along in the social tide. No race-meeting, no regatta, no Society function was without their presence. They had travelled, they had yachted, they had wintered on the Riviera, at Cairo, and in Spain, and when they were not exercising their hospitality in their Park Lane house, they were visiting their friends' country houses. Hope's supreme freshness and energy, her capacity for all games, from bridge to hockey and golf, her gay spirits, and, above all, her warm-hearted sympathy with the world in general, made her a universal favourite.

Lately Mrs. Daubeney had been out of health. She would not own it for a long time; but she was forced to take a physician's advice, and the result was that a move from London was contemplated.

"What quiet place will hold you?" Jim asked, and Hope, with a little laugh, said:

"Brighton or Homburg, I expect."

Then fresh visitors were announced, and Hope turned to them. It was late before the last ones took their departure. For a few minutes aunt and niece were alone. Hope drew up an easy chair to the fire and let herself drop into it with a little sigh of satisfaction.

"Now we can be silent," she said, with a mixture of mirth and wistfulness in her tone.

"No," said Mrs. Daubeney; "I have been waiting to speak to you all day. You were so long at church this morning that you did not return before the Seatons arrived to lunch, and I have had no opportunity since. I heard from your father by the late post last night."

"From my father?" Hope repeated the words in wonder. "Why, Aunt Gertrude, we have not heard from him since I first went to school!"

"No, he washed his hands of you—to use a vulgar phrase—from the time I adopted you."

"I began to think I had no father," Hope continued. "He is a myth to me. Is he still in Canada?"

"Yes. Your stepmother is dead. It is a sad story; he was driving her with some young horses, and they bolted, and there was a terrible upset. She was killed on the spot, and one of the children with her, and your father very much injured. That was some time ago, but your father says though he is nearly right again, he is not able to farm much, and he talks of coming home. He asks if you are married."

"Poor father!" Hope's eyes grew meditative. "I wish I knew him, aunt. I have only a recollection of a jolly handsome man tossing me up in the air and calling me puny! How dreadfully he must feel the loss of his wife! She was such a capable person."

"His letter is very like him," said Mrs. Daubeney. "He wonders whether you will be of any use to him if he returns to England and finds you still unmarried, or whether you would like to go out to him. George's one idea is how to use people. He has never taken the slightest notice of you till now, when he fancies you may help him."

"Usefulness is an unknown term to me."

Something in the girl's tone made her aunt look sharply at her. Hope returned the look with one of her low laughs.

"You have not brought me up to be useful, have you?" she said.

"No, thank goodness! There has been no necessity for that."

"I am afraid I could not help him," said Hope slowly and meditatively. Her thoughts went back to the first years of her childhood spent in a dreary suburban house; her young stepmother, with a crowd of babies, managing her household wisely and well, but with little time or sympathy for her small stepdaughter, who was then very delicate.

Young Mrs. St. Clair was more relieved than otherwise when, on the eve of their migration to Canada, her husband's sister came forward and offered a home to Hope. The child left her home with little regret, and had long ago ceased to correspond with her relations. Her father had never seen much of her, and he did not encourage correspondence.

Now as she thought of the suggestion her father had made, she dimly began to wonder whether he had not some claim upon her. After all, he was her father, and she was his eldest daughter.

Mrs. Daubeney saw the growing thought in her eyes. She spoke at once.

"Of course, I am going to write to your father immediately, and show him the ridiculousness of such a proposition. He must get some housekeeper out there. I can read between the lines. The farm is not paying, and he wants to throw off all his responsibilities like an old glove, and be off to some other sphere. We need not think any more about it. I did not adopt you or educate you, to lose you just when I want your society most. Now will you give me your attention to another matter? I have been thinking of a small house of mine at Kayminster. It has been let furnished to a tenant for eight years. She has just left it to join her husband in India. I feel very much inclined to go down, and take possession of it for a few weeks. Of course we should vegetate; but I know some nice people there, and it is rather a pretty neighbourhood. You know how stagnant a cathedral town is, so you must not expect any gaiety, and if we find it too dull, we can come back to town. I should not dream of staying there beyond a week or two. What do you think?"

"I am quite willing," said Hope brightly. "Is the house in order for us to take possession at once?"

"I wondered if you would take Nelson down and inspect it for me. I cannot quite trust her—she takes such prejudices."

Nelson had been maid to Mrs. Daubeney for fifteen years, and her rule over her mistress was a masterful one. Hope was the only one who could manage her.

"Of course I will. Let me go to-morrow, and then I can cut the Blakes' dinner-party. I always hoped something would turn up to prevent my appearance at it."

"Certainly not. Will you ever lose your impulsiveness? Next week will be quite time enough."

There was a pause. Hope leant back in her chair and gazed into the glowing coals. Mrs. Daubeney was mentally composing her letter to her brother. She started when Hope spoke again.

"Aunt Gertrude, you ought to hear Canon FitzRoy. He is the most eloquent preacher I have ever heard."

"I am not fond of eloquence. It takes an unfair advantage of you."

"Oh, but he told us some home-truths!"

"I can imagine he did!"

Hope was not to be repressed by her aunt's sarcastic tone.

"His indictments were very severe; but he got them out of the Bible, and they have been ringing in my head ever since. We are 'lovers of our own selves,' 'lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God, having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof.' Oh, I know you will say it is just cant; but I wish you had heard him take up every point and thresh it out to the bitter end. It has opened a new field of thought to me, and not a pleasant one. Captain Murray was dumbfounded. He told me he was going straight home to think it out, and his wife was in tears."

Mrs. Daubeney went to her davenport.

"I am afraid I am not interested, my dear. Do not speak to me now. I must write a line to your father."

So Hope sat with puckered brows, reviewing her life for the first time with a sense of shame. The stinging words of the preacher had burnt into her very soul. She could not get rid of them, and she at present was not conscious of any desire to do so. She was like a child awakened from a dream, and though the first touch hurt, astonishment at the possibility of a different existence kept her from resenting the awakening.

Mrs. Daubeney knew her niece too well to argue with her. She wrote her letter, and dressing for dinner followed. Hope had no more time for thinking till she went to bed, and as she was playing bridge till twelve o'clock, she was too tired to sit up after it.

As she laid her head upon her pillow, she murmured to herself:

"And Sunday bridge-playing he condemned. I wonder if the Murrays will give it up."

The following week was a very full one. Hope did not have much time for further thought; but when Sunday came round again, she slipped away to hear the famous preacher, and this time Jim accompanied her.

"Oh, Jim," she said, as they walked back together, "is life really what Canon FitzRoy makes it, or is it what we make it?"

"What do we make it?" asked Jim quizzically.

Hope knitted her pretty brows.

"Just a level bit of time to be got through as brightly and pleasantly as we can. Isn't this your experience?"

"No," said Jim sturdily. "I've had too many hard knocks to look at it with your eyes. You have never seen below the surface, and I hope you never will."

"Don't talk to me as if I am a doll or a puppet. How do you see life?"

Jim would not answer.

"Of course," Hope continued, "I know that the Canon does not quite understand us. There is a great deal of real kindness and goodness of heart amongst those he condemns. Very religious people are not half so pleasant in their manners, nor so sympathetic, as a rule, as those they judge. But I do acknowledge that 'God is not in all our thoughts.' And I, personally, love myself, and love pleasure much more than I do Him. Of course I do. I am not an infidel! But my belief in God doesn't touch my life; the Canon is quite right there."

"We'll forget the sermon," the young man said lightly. "It isn't worth becoming uncomfortable over it. You women take things so seriously. I enjoyed hearing him. His hits were given straight from the shoulder; but I have a fancy that I could stand up one day and give it to him back. I could tell the clergy a few home-truths about themselves. Couldn't you?"

"No; don't be irreverent, Jim."

Jim laughed, but did not pursue the subject, and Hope kept her thoughts to herself.

On the following Tuesday she and Nelson went down to Kayminster. They stayed at the hotel there, and were away for a couple of days; then returned to report themselves.

"I think it will be a charming retreat, aunt," said Hope. "It is in very good repair. Of course you know it; but I love the quaintness of the town; and the old house opening upon the street one side, and stretching out at the back into that beautiful old garden, took my fancy immensely. I don't know what you will do with yourself—that is the only objection I offer. We can drive, I suppose, and attend the cathedral services, and perhaps receive a few visitors. Will that satisfy you?"

Mrs. Daubeney looked rather doleful.

HOPE SLIPPED AWAY TO HEAR THE FAMOUS PREACHER.

"We must have some nice week-end parties," she said. "It will not be for long. I dare say I shall be better for the quiet."

And so it was arranged, and a few days afterwards they left town, and took up their abode in Wistaria Lodge.

Chapter II

A QUIET HOUSE

MRS. DAUBENEY'S house was at the end of the street leading to the cathedral. The oak door with the massive brass knocker, the mullioned windows, and gigantic wistaria which covered the front of the house, all betokened age. To Hope's eyes the interior was even more charming. A low broad hall ran through the house and ended in glass doors leading into the delightful garden, which consisted of a green lawn, flanked on each side by ancient cedar-trees, a broad, old-fashioned terrace of flowers, and a second walled garden beyond, containing fruit and flowers.

To the right of the hall lay the drawing-room, and it was as great a contrast to the town rooms to which Mrs. Daubeney was accustomed as could be imagined. Deep recesses, quaint spindle-legged chairs, china and old-fashioned chintz, a harpsichord, an old spinet, and a straight high-back sofa, with bolster cushions—these delighted Hope's soul, but brought dismay to her aunt's. The windows at the back of the room looked out upon the garden, and one opened into a small conservatory. On the other side of the hall was the dining-room and morning-room, both good-sized rooms, and simply though suitably furnished. The stairs were low and broad, and of solid oak, as were also the banisters. Upstairs there was a delightful broad landing, and five or six bedrooms. One of these, which Hope took for her own, had a charming view of some buttercup meadows lying by the side of the river, and on the opposite side, amongst some stately elms, was the cathedral.

And one sunny afternoon, about a week after their arrival, Hope sat on her window-seat listening to the afternoon chimes and indulging for the first time in a good "think." Mrs. Daubeney was lying down in her room. The house was very still. As Hope sat there, the only sound that broke the silence inside was the ticking of a grandfather clock in the hall. Outside, the rooks building their nests in the old elms kept up a continuous cawing. The murmur of the swift-flowing river and the chirping of the birds had more of a soothing effect than a distracting one. Hope opened her window, and leaning her elbows on the broad sill, gazed over the buttercup meadows and river to the range of far-distant blue hills.

"How delicious this sense of rest is! I wonder if our London life is a good one. I am getting a little tired of the rush; but there is little else to do, and, I must say, I love my fellow-creatures. If Canon FitzRoy is right, we are very wrong. 'Lovers of pleasure more than lovers of God.' Of course we are; but I did not realise I was destined to be a lover of God. It is a terrible thought that God requires loving service from every creature He has made. He does not get it, and we really are a godless lot. The Canon was specially severe on Society's Sundays. I thought if one went to early service, that was sufficient. Sunday is a holiday; he makes it a holy day. Oh, in the bottom of my heart I feel I am all wrong, and the world is all wrong! Why has no one told me before?"

The cathedral bell began to toll for evensong. It interrupted her meditation, and then a sudden impulse made her seize hold of her hat and, slipping into her jacket, she went softly downstairs. In the hall she met Nelson.

"Tell Aunt Gertrude not to wait tea. I am going to the cathedral."

She stepped outside into the old-fashioned street. There was little traffic; a few people like herself were quietly making their way to the cathedral.

As she entered it, the hush and calm struck her very forcibly. She was shown into one of the stalls. The remembrance of that spring evening never left her. The sun stealing in through the stained-glass windows and colouring every spot upon which it rested, the deep soft vibrating sound of the organ, the pure voices of the choir-boys, and the reverence and quiet of the evening service, all combined to leave a lasting impression upon her mind. She looked at the various occupants of the stalls with some interest, and smiled as she recognised the different stamp, in dress and appearance, from most of her town acquaintances. One figure strangely attracted her. It was that of an elderly woman—a tall stately figure, with a face of wonderful strength and sweetness. By her side was a young man, who, by his likeness to her, was evidently her son.

The mother looked as if she were accustomed to the cathedral, as if she were a part and parcel of it herself. She was absorbed in the service, and Hope knew that it was no empty form to her. The son appeared interested, but his attention was more upon his mother than the service. He moved a footstool for her, handed her the anthem-book, and found the place in it for her. Once he bent down and asked her something, and smiled as he received her low-toned reply. He looked bronzed and weather-worn. Hope fancied that he had not been long home from abroad. She felt, as she sat opposite them, that she would like to know them, and wondered who they were. Then her mind turned back upon herself, and faintly and dimly there rose up from the depths of her heart a longing to see and understand the beauty of true religion.

The sense of shortcoming and of shame that had been slowly gathering intensity, now surged upwards so overwhelmingly that she felt the hot tears spring to her eyes. A wave of black depression seemed to take possession of her.

"'A lover of self, a lover of pleasure, having the form of godliness, but denying the power thereof.' That is me, and I am condemned, utterly condemned by my life! I am really a hypocrite. I have no right to be here. I am an outcast with all the rest of my world. We shall never be anything but rank outsiders. A holy God must abhor us. We deny His power. We think we can rule and fashion our lives. We are utterly indifferent to His wishes, and independent of Him. Oh, I am absolutely miserable!"

In the midst of these disquieting thoughts, the boys' sweet voices suddenly sounded forth, echoing down the empty nave and returning with vibrating sweetness and power:

"'Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin?
The blood of Jesus whispers peace within.'"

Hope did not hear the remainder of the hymn. The tears she had been restraining with such difficulty now fell so fast that she sat back in her corner, and hoped that the gathering dusk would shield her from all observation. She remained in her seat after the rest of the congregation, and was the last to leave the cathedral.

When she reached home, she was composed and cheerful again, though the first verse of the hymn still rang through her heart and brain.

She found her aunt receiving visitors.

"Hope, come here. Lady Chesney says she has met you once or twice in town."

Lady Chesney greeted her kindly, and introduced her two daughters, one of whom was about Hope's age, the other considerably older.

"I have not met you before, I think," Hope said, turning to the eldest Miss Chesney.

"No, I have not been to town for several years, I dislike it so, and my sister has been abroad studying music."

"Don't you find Kayminster very quiet?"

"We do not live in Kayminster. We are five miles out, at Landbeck Abbey. I prefer country to town."

"Oh, Hester is a regular hermit! But we shall not give you a chance of keeping quiet, Miss St. Clair. We have a bazaar next week for our church organ, and we shall enlist you at once as one of our helpers. What are you good at? Theatricals, music, games? We are having a gymkhana; you must take part in that. We are going to have a house-party for the occasion, and a friend of yours, Lady May Fosberry, is coming to stay with us."

Minnie Chesney and Hope were soon talking away as if they had known each other all their lives.

"You won't find many people to know in Kayminster," Minnie said. "The Dean is nice, but his wife's a regular prude! The Moberly girls are passable, their father is one of the canons, and then there are Mrs. Dane and her sons. Of course there are a good many old maids and quiet humdrum folk, who treat Kayminster as if it alone was the centre of the universe, but you won't have much to do with them, I expect. Are you a good bridge player? We always have bridge at home on Sunday afternoons. And there's golf about two miles off, and we shall soon be beginning tennis and archery. You will find enough to employ your time, I expect."

"I have never found it hang on my hands yet," said Hope, as soon as she could get in a word. "I am surprised May Fosberry is coming down to you. I thought she was working hard in the slums?"

"She has had a breakdown, I believe. Between ourselves, I expect she is pretty sick of it, and wants a reasonable excuse for getting away from it. I think we shall cure her of that little pastime."

Hope knew that May was a girl of impulses, who was always trying some new experience, so she felt inclined to agree with Minnie Chesney. She was startled to hear Hester say, in rather a deep gruff voice:

"Give her justice, Minnie! Slum work isn't all play, and I know something of it."

"Do you?" questioned Hope eagerly. "Did you find it interesting or depressing? It seems to me people either love it or hate it. I don't think I could stand a day of it. Dirt and poverty are so offensive when combined."

Hester's grey eyes quietly looked Hope up and down, then she smiled rather cynically.

"No," she said, "I don't think you would stand it."

"By which you mean to infer that I am a very poor creature?" Hope's eyes were mirthful as she spoke. She added:

"May I ask why you gave it up?"

Minnie had turned to talk to Mrs. Daubeney. Hester's clear-cut features and rather unimpressionable countenance seemed to soften and sadden for an instant.

"Because I did not believe in the remedies we were employing, and the atmosphere of open sin sickened me. In our class we gild and paint it. I prefer it so; do not you?"

Hope looked at her gravely.

Then Hester laughed, and her lips took their usually hard curve.

"Oh yes. I worked very hard in the slums for six months, and now I am working just as hard bee-farming; I find the bees pay me better."

"I suppose they would, if your object is to be rewarded."

"One generally expects to get something for one's pains, else why make any efforts? What is your goal in life—leaving the marriage question alone? You look as if you have some ideas in your head? Do you act up to your Puritan name?"

"My head," said Hope, in her pretty mischievous way, "is always too full to be sorted out and catalogued. My chief idea is to enjoy the thing I am doing tremendously till it is finished, and then the next one. Just now I am going to enjoy this old house, and the quaint town, and the cathedral atmosphere. I have never been in anything like it before. If I cut your bazaar and send no excuses, you will know it is because I am steeping my soul in Gothic architecture, and having visionary dreams in the dim silence of the cathedral."

Conversation became general, but Hope was attracted by Hester.

"She is an original woman, aunt," she confided to Mrs. Daubeney afterwards. "The youngest sister is a very ordinary type, but Hester has thought and, I think, suffered."

"And what type are you?" asked Mrs. Daubeney good-naturedly. "For goodness' sake, Hope, don't get into the habit of criticising and generalising people! It is such bad form. Lady Chesney is one of my oldest friends. They have been abroad so much that we have seen little of each other the last few years. The only son is a sad scapegrace. I don't believe he will ever inherit the Abbey, and it has been in the Chesney family for centuries. I fancy his father finds it very difficult to keep up the place as it is. There will be next to nothing for those girls at his death. Hester used to be quite a beauty, but she has quite gone off. I dare say it is as well that she is happy leading a quiet country life. Minnie is sure to marry, and I can see that her mother hopes great things from her."

After a pause, she looked at her niece rather keenly. "George Adair is coming down to the Chesneys."

"Is he?" Hope's tone was supremely indifferent. "He will be a good match for Minnie, aunt."

"He asked me before we left town whether we should be near the Chesneys. I let you go your own way, Hope, and am too fond of you to be sorry that you have been under my wing these four years, but I would remind you that time is slipping away, and your fresh young years will not be yours always. I should like to see you settled, and I know George Adair would make you happy."

There was a little wistfulness in Mrs. Daubeney's tone. Hope had disappointed her more than once, but she knew that to try to coerce her was to court failure at once.

Hope did not answer. She hummed a little tune as she went about the room whisking a few chairs into their place, then she disappeared in the small conservatory, and emerged with a handful of heliotrope. Holding it up to her aunt, she said playfully:

"Take a whiff, Aunt Gertrude, it will refresh you. You are looking tired."

"I am anxious sometimes—about you."

"But why? I assure you there is not the slightest cause. You said when you received my father's letter that you did not adopt me to lose me when you needed my society most. Don't tell me that you want to get rid of me."

"I want to see you married," said Mrs. Daubeney firmly.

Hope's shoulders shrugged themselves almost imperceptibly.

"Marriage doesn't seem a success in Society, aunt, except to give you the wherewithal to clothe yourself and have a good time; and I am having that with you, thanks to your generosity."

"George Adair—"

"Excuse me for interrupting you. George is a wealthy man, I know, but he is an idle one; he will spend his married life exactly as he does his single one, in society."

"Where else would you spend it?" asked Mrs. Daubeney with raised eyebrows.

"I think I have a few old-fashioned notions. I should like a home. If I married George, I know exactly what it would be like. He would rush me round even faster than I am going at present; and do you know, Aunt Gertrude, I am getting rather tired."

"You are a very silly child. Every married woman owns a home. You would not expect George to retire from all his friends, and spend his life in one long honeymoon with you."

"No, I shouldn't," said Hope, laughing merrily. "Poor George! It would be hard lines to be tied to one woman like that. He is never happy unless he is following about a dozen round, and his marriage would never alter him."

"I hope you are not getting supercilious," said Mrs. Daubeney, regarding her niece carefully. "There is nothing that tells your age more than becoming cynical and intolerant of the failings of your fellow-creatures. Young girls ought to have faith and trust in every one, and you are not very old yet, my dear."

"I am sorry, aunt, but don't please quote George Adair to me again. I hoped we had left him in town."

Mrs. Daubeney said no more. Hope was her bright sweet self for the rest of the evening. It was not until she reached her bedroom and was again alone, that her thoughts flew back to the cathedral service.

"I suppose," she mused, "it is the contrast to anything that I have experienced before, that attracts me so. St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey are finer buildings, and have more beautiful music, but they never give one the sense of absolute peace and rest that this cathedral does. How beautiful that hymn was! I felt quite thrilled with it. I shall go there to-morrow. It is Sunday, and I shall have a legitimate excuse. Oh dear! I wish George Adair were not coming to these parts!"

A little sigh escaped her. George Adair had nothing in himself to recommend him, she considered. He was a heavily built man, inclined to stoutness, not a sportsman, not a politician, but quite content to sit in ladies' drawing-rooms and flatter pretty women. He never read; he took his information entirely from conversation around him; he had the reputation of being a "ladies' man," but Hope always considered that an insult to her sex; and he was never happy unless he had a lot of people round him.

He owned a castle in Scotland, a villa in Cannes, a yacht, and a motor; and for the past five months he had been haunting Hope's footsteps.

Mrs. Daubeney liked him and encouraged him. His unfailing good-humour and adaptability to people's moods made him a favourite with all old ladies. Hope had not disliked him until he began to make his attentions marked; then she took fright, and now evaded him whenever she got a chance.

"Oh," she said, as for an instant she opened her window and gazed at the dim ghostly outlines of the turreted towers of the cathedral, "why is it I feel so restless and so discontented with life? Is it at the possibility of passing most of it in company with George Adair? Or is it that I feel there is something better in store for me, something even more satisfying than marriage, which seems our only goal?"

She shut her window hastily and went to bed. Her last conscious thoughts were of the dim, hushed atmosphere of the cathedral and the boys' sweet voices singing:

"'Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin?
The blood of Jesus whispers peace within.'"

Chapter III

A NEW FRIEND

MRS. DAUBENEY very seldom went to church. If Sunday was not full up with engagements, she retired to her room and went to sleep.

"It's a day of rest," she would say to her niece; "and if I am given the opportunity, I shall take advantage of it. Church is too fatiguing at my age."

So Hope went off by herself to the morning service at the cathedral. She sat outside in the nave, and just in front of her was the widow she had so admired, and three sons. They were already there when she entered.

Hope felt a kind of fascination in watching them. Few men of her acquaintance ever sat through a full morning service, including a sermon, and as she looked at the three stalwart young men, she wondered at them. The one who had accompanied his mother the day before was there, another whose clothes were irreproachable in cut and style and who fingered a dark moustache in rather a "blasé" fashion, and the third, a handsome fresh-faced boy apparently only just out of his teens.

Hope noticed, from several little indications, that all three were devoted to their mother. As she caught sight of her sweet and rather regal face, she felt a queer sensation rise in her heart, and for the first time in her life wished she had a mother. "If I had some one—some one like that," she thought, "to whom I could turn for comfort and guidance. Aunt Gertrude is very kind, but this woman is such a different stamp. Her very look sets me wishing to be good!"

Then she smiled at her own emotion. "I might be a romantic schoolgirl. What has come over me? I believe it is the atmosphere of this place."

She tried to turn her attention to the service, but somehow it no longer impressed her, and she began to find it tedious. The Dean preached himself that day. But after he had given out his text, Hope felt that she had had enough, so she got up and left the cathedral.

The text alone remained with her.

"The way of peace they know not."

She was annoyed at the persistency with which the subject was brought to her notice.

"Mere coincidence," she said; "but I will not be made miserable over it. I don't want peace, I want enjoyment."

She hurried home, and appeared before her aunt in the gayest of spirits.

"Don't let us go to sleep down here," she pleaded. "Let us do something. It is a lovely day. Shall we have a drive?"

"Yes," assented her aunt eagerly. "We will go over and see a distant cousin of mine, old General Bacon. I have been looking through my 'Where is it,' and I find that he lives about eight miles off."

"Does he live alone?"

"He is married. She was a daughter of Lord Champneys. They have no children."

Hope pursed up her pretty lips.

"I hope they won't be dull. I want excitement."

Mrs. Daubeney looked at her.

"We have come into retreat," she said; "you must not forget that, Hope."

"Oh yes, I know; and yesterday I thought it delicious, and to-day I am sick of it! This old town is so intensely solemn, isn't it? I think I shall see what the golf ground is like before lunch. There is still an hour. What time shall I order the carriage?"

"At three."

Hope went cheerily downstairs, sent a message to the coachman, and then went through the garden by a gate in the wall and across the buttercup meadows. It was very quiet and sunny; a small boy, trying to fish in the river, looked at her with fright in his eyes as she approached him. To her amusement, he threw his line down on the grass, and dodged round a tree.

Out of idle curiosity she pursued him, and, putting her hand on his shoulder, asked:

"What are you doing?"

"Please, 'm, I ain't doin' nothin'."

"Weren't you trying to fish? Why did you throw your rod down?"

"Cause 'tis Sunday."

Hope laughed.

"I shan't scold you," she said, and she walked on.

Some words that Canon FitzRoy had said in his sermon returned to her.

"Sabbath-breaking? Do you think it is only the poorer class who abuse the privileges of Sunday? It is the rich, and not only the poor, who cast morals behind their backs, and ignore the claims of the Sabbath upon them. They ignore the God who made it, they ignore the fact that it is His day, and not theirs."

"God's day, and not mine," she repeated to herself. "That small boy's conscience is more tender than mine."

It was not a pleasant thought, and she walked on the faster, to forget it.

The golf course was in fiat meadows by the river. She crossed them and found herself on a country road upon the outskirts of the town. An old red-brick house stood back amongst some trees. The smooth sloping lawn in front of it and the bright flower-beds attracted her attention.

She was wondering who lived in it, when she saw the widow and her three sons evidently coming back from the cathedral service.

They glanced at her in passing, and then crossed the road and went in at the iron gate.

Hope walked quickly home.

"I want to know them," she said again to herself; and then she wondered why the sight of the widow filled her at once with the desire for better things.

She returned to her aunt in another change of mood.

"I almost feel inclined to stay at home and sit in the garden with a book," she said.

"But I don't feel so inclined," said Mrs. Daubeney good-humouredly. "Your feelings change oftener than the barometer, so we cannot rely upon them to guide us through a day."

Hope laughed lightly and said nothing more. But before lunch was over, a motor drove up to the door with a party of six friends in it from town, so their drive had to be cancelled. Bridge-playing and music took up the whole afternoon, and after dinner was over, Hope went early to bed, acknowledging to herself that it was possible, even in Kayminster, to continue their usual pursuits.

And as the days slipped by, it seemed as if they were, indeed, almost as full as those in town. There were a great many garden-parties and picnics given in the neighbourhood, and the Chesneys took care that Hope should not feel dull. Outwardly she was the life of every gathering in which she found herself. Minnie Chesney said that there was no "go" in any game if Hope did not join in it, and yet, under her keen animation and sparkling merriment, Hope was conscious of a growing discontent and restlessness in her heart.

One afternoon she took Lady May Fosberry into her confidence. A tennis tournament was going on at General and Mrs. Bacon's. Both girls had been playing, but had been beaten, and between the sets Hope asked her friend to walk round the garden with her.

"I have always meant to ask you about your time in the East End, May. Did you get tired of it? Did it come short of your expectations?"

Lady May gave a little embarrassed laugh. "It made me so miserable, Hope. I had to give it up."

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't exactly know. You see it all began by my going to hear Canon FitzRoy in town. He made me so ashamed of the life that I was leading that I felt that I must do something. And I thought that the East End poor would be like our tenants on our estate, who are so pleased when I go to see them. They think it quite an honour."

"Well?" said Hope, as May came to a pause.

"I found they were absolutely void of any respect towards our class; they were either like rough drunken savages or insolent socialists. I could not get on with them. The dirt and the wickedness sickened me. And if you want the honest truth, Hope, I discovered that there was nothing that I could do for them. I could not teach them anything. They only laughed at me behind my back; I heard they did. Only one woman was really nice, and she was dying, poor soul. She said to me one day,—

"'Oh, miss, it isn't so much food that I want, and good nursing, I get enough of both, but it's peace in my soul. I've led a wicked life, and I've got to meet God. 'Tis that which scares me so.'

"What could I say to her? She was too ill to go to church. I told the Vicar about her, and I suppose he went to her; but I could do her no good. Could you have helped her?"

"No," said Hope gravely, "because I'm feeling exactly the same myself."

"And so am I," returned May quickly; "and I think Canon FitzRoy is right, we are just as bad as they are, as far as our relationship to God goes. We don't know or love Him any better than they do; and I came to the conclusion that it was all a farce, and so I gave it up."

"Do you ever talk to Hester Chesney? She worked in the slums, she tells me."

"Yes; she gave it up as I did. But I am afraid of her, she is so cynical. Mother scolds me because she says I mope; but I'm really quite miserable about myself."

"I heard a hymn sung in the cathedral here that was quite lovely," said Hope slowly, "at least it sounds so. Perhaps you know it?

"'Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin?
The blood of Jesus whispers peace within.'"

"Yes, I have heard it."

May repeated the words softly to herself, and then Minnie Chesney came up, and the little talk was over. But Hope began to feel that there were other restless hearts besides her own; and she wondered again if there was any solution of the problem that was perplexing her.

That same afternoon she was introduced for the first time to Mrs. Dane, the widow lady in whom she was so interested. She learnt that she was the wife of a late canon at the cathedral; that her eldest son held some civil appointment in India and had just come home for a holiday, and that her two other sons lived at home. One was agent on a ducal estate in the neighbourhood, the other was reading at home for the Bar. Mrs. Dane only spoke to Hope for a few minutes; but her youngest son, Paul, was Hope's partner at tennis, and he was very communicative.

"We have been wondering who you were," he said to Hope, "for you are foreign to the usual type about here. I don't mean the county people, but the Kayminster folk. My mother noticed you at the cathedral long ago. Oh, you don't know how you have been discussed. What do you think of our sleepy town?"

"I like it," responded Hope brightly; "it is restful."

He looked at her comically.

"You don't want rest."

"I do. My life is mostly spent in town. One gets so tired of the crowds."

"Ah, that is what I like. I'm soon going to take up my abode there. You are seeing our neighbourhood to the best advantage now, but wait till the winter comes."

"I don't think I shall be here then."

He looked a little disappointed.

"We heard that Mrs. Daubeney was becoming a resident here."

"Oh no, she has only come here to be quiet. She is not very strong at present, and her doctors advised the move."

"Do you know the Danes well?" Hope asked Minnie Chesney a little later.

"Yes, Mrs. Dane is a dear; a little too good and proper for me. Her sons idolise her. Paul is a very nice boy; Rufus gives himself airs; the eldest has just come home from India. He is very clever, I believe. We asked him here to-day, but he wouldn't come. He is not a 'ladies' man,' Paul says. Don't you hate that expression? I do. Mrs. Dane is going to call on your aunt, so you will have an opportunity of knowing her boys, and perhaps you can persuade Lancelot to be a little more sociable. We used to be girls and boys together. Lancelot was always different from the others. Not a prig, but one who always expected us to follow his lead, very masterful, and with very high-flown notions. He has hardly come near us since he has come home. He told me straight out that we were too young for him. Did you ever hear such nonsense?"

And then Minnie chattered away on another subject, and Hope returned home looking forward with pleasure to Mrs. Dane's acquaintance.

She called the very next day, and Mrs. Daubeney was not well enough to see her. Hope was writing at her davenport in the drawing-room when she was announced, and the girl rose to meet her with a soft flush upon her cheek, and with shining eyes. Mrs. Dane's low sweet voice fascinated her, but after a few commonplace remarks Hope said brightly, though the wistfulness of her eyes belied her tone:

"I have wanted to know you, Mrs. Dane, ever since I first saw you in the cathedral. I expect you will laugh at me, but I can't tell you what the rest and repose of that first evening service were to me, and you seemed part of it."

Mrs. Dane regarded Hope's face very tenderly. "I, too, have learnt to look upon that evening service as something very precious to me," she said, ignoring the reference to herself.

"But I'm not at all religious," said Hope quickly; "and I didn't go to the service in the way you did. It seemed to lay hold of me in some inexplicable fashion. I suppose the atmosphere impressed me. I am quite a stranger to quiet. As the good preacher said a couple of Sundays ago, 'The way of peace they know not.' You see I have remembered his text, though I heard no more."

"You went out, I think?"

"Yes; did you notice me? We don't often listen to sermons in town, unless it is anything very out of the way." She did not say this flippantly, but stated it as a fact. "Then I went for a walk, and met a small boy fishing with an uneasy conscience, and then I met you, and all that Sunday I was alternating between frivolity and seriousness. I don't know why I am saying this to you except that I have a feeling that you can help me."

"Tell me more about yourself."

"There is nothing to tell you. I am what Canon FitzRoy calls a butterfly of fashion; and I have only been wondering lately if I could turn into a bee. I am afraid the two natures are very far apart."

She laughed gaily as she spoke, but her eyes belied her mirth.

Mrs. Dane looked at her with deepening interest. "You and I must have some talks together," she said. "If you can spare the time, will you come over to see me one morning? I am always at home then."

"Yes," said Hope quickly, "I will, after our state call has been accomplished."

She turned to talk of other subjects, but she felt, before Mrs. Dane left, that she had made a friend of her, and told her aunt that she had been entertaining the most fascinating woman that she had ever met.

Mrs. Daubeney looked dubiously at her when she heard who it was.

"I should not have thought she was your style, Hope."

"I am thinking of changing my style," was the girl's quick retort.

"What do you mean? There is something the matter with you I am sure, you have been so odd in your manner lately. Is anything troubling you?"

Hope did not answer. She was pouring out a cup of tea for her aunt in the drawing-room. Mrs. Daubeney had just come down and was lying on the couch. She looked at her niece anxiously as the girl came up to her, cup in hand.

"Hope, you are not going to refuse George Adair?"

"My dear aunt, you are premature. He is at present having a very good time at the Chesneys'. Minnie likes him very much, she told me so. Now we have come here for a rest. I hear so much about marriage and proposals in town that I want a change in our programme here. Shall I play to you?"

She moved to the piano as she spoke.

Hope's music was always acceptable, because it was sympathetic. She was not a brilliant musician, but she loved the art itself, and it was not so much an accomplishment with her as it was a keen enjoyment. Mrs. Daubeney as a rule enjoyed it as much as she did, but she was always vexed when her niece deliberately refused to discuss certain subjects with her.

She interrupted a Beethoven sonata:

"I have asked George to lunch with us to-morrow, and he has accepted."

Hope nodded her head and went on playing; then suddenly she crashed her hands down on the keys and rose from her seat.

"I would rather go straight out to my father, Aunt Gertrude, than marry George, so I hope he will not ask me."

With which rather tempestuous sentence she left the room, and Mrs. Daubeney murmured to herself:

"She is getting more and more difficult every day."

Chapter IV

TAKEN BY SURPRISE

GEORGE ADAIR did come to lunch, and took Hope off to golf in the afternoon. She was polite and distant with him, but he would not take the hint, and before the afternoon was over had hastened his fate, and been kindly but decidedly refused.

"I really did think you liked me," he said ruefully.

"So I do as a friend, very much," returned Hope, with troubled eyes; "but we should be unsuited to each other."

"I will not allow that; we are always meeting each other at the same functions. I could give you even a gayer time than you are having! What else do you want?"

"I want quiet," said Hope, turning upon him with passion in her tones. "I am fighting against it, but I believe I really want that peace of heart and mind that preachers talk about. Our lives are all wrong, George, and I'm realising it more and more every day."

George Adair was literally struck dumb by this aspect of things. He departed very quietly, and Hope went home to break the news to her aunt.

Mrs. Daubeney was bitterly disappointed; but she had been prepared the day before for the possibility of such a thing, and Hope was unusually tender and attentive to her in consequence.

"If only marriage was not such an irrevocable thing, I would accept George to please you, aunt; but it wouldn't be to please myself, and disaster would be sure to follow."

"I think we had better return to town," said Mrs. Daubeney. "I feel much better, and it really is very dull here. The Chesneys are going to Norway next week, and the Bacons are going up to town very soon."

"It is barely a month since we came down."

"It is quite long enough."

When once Mrs. Daubeney made up her mind to move, it was soon accomplished.

When Mrs. Dane's call was returned, it was to say goodbye, and she was out when they called.

"Fate is against my knowing her," thought Hope; and though she tried hard to go to the evening service at the cathedral again, she could not manage it. She left Kayminster with keen regret.

"I wish you would leave me Wistaria Lodge in your will," she said laughingly to her aunt. "I don't know when I have taken such a fancy to a house!"

"It is a dull little hole," said Mrs. Daubeney with impatience. "I shall tell my agent to let it without delay." And she never mentioned Kayminster again to her niece.

One afternoon Hope was at a picture gallery in Bond Street. She was suddenly accosted by May Fosberry.

"I did not know you were in town," she said. "Oh, Hope, I want to talk to you so much."

May was looking very bright; there was something in the quiet intensity of her tones that struck Hope.

"I am full up," she answered, "and must meet Aunt Gertrude at Lady Burberry's in half an hour's time."

"Half an hour is better than nothing. Come over here. There is a delicious little picture in a quiet corner that has been delighting my soul. And if you come at once, there is a vacant seat opposite it."

The two girls walked off. May pointed out the picture. It depicted a severe thunderstorm in the Highlands; frightened cattle were stampeding and flying for shelter. A blue blaze of forked lightning was realistically represented. Hope expressed her admiration.

"These French artists are afraid of nothing!" she exclaimed. "That lightning is most vivid; I can almost hear the roll of thunder after it."

"But you have missed the best point," said May.

"What is it? The blast of the wind and rain, the terrified cattle? It is a little masterpiece of its kind."

"Look at the title in the catalogue."

Hope turned it up.

"Security," she read, in a puzzled tone, and then the flash of enlightenment came to her eyes.

In the corner of the picture she perceived a tiny bird on its nest. It was in a cleft of a rock overhanging a slope of the hill, and the little creature was looking on at the storm with quiet, unruffled eyes. As Hope gazed, sudden tears dimmed her sight.

"Oh, May!" she exclaimed, and then she stopped.

May put her hand gently on her arm.

"I have got there, Hope, I believe. I wanted to tell you so, and it was your verse that was the beginning of it."

"What verse? Oh, the one I heard in the cathedral. Do explain!"

It was a strange opportunity. Many passersby, seeing two fair heads so close together, wondered what the confidences might be, but not one of that fashionably-dressed crowd could have guessed the nature of the confidence.

May spoke very directly and simply.

"You know how miserable I was, Hope. I tried so hard to be good, to get peace in my heart, but it all seemed so hopeless. I thought when I got away from Society and went into the slums that I should feel better, but, oh! it was ten times worse. I saw so much sin and misery that it sickened me. I was just soaked with the atmosphere of open sin, and when I left it the sense of sin still remained with me. I got to loathe our Sunday week-ends and bridge parties—one never-ending round of pleasure, and contempt of all serious things. And then you said that verse to me:

"'Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin?
The blood of Jesus whispers peace within.'

"I got hold of my Bible that night, and I prayed as I had never prayed before for light. It came, Hope. I could not quite see the connection between those two thoughts in that verse, and so I got a concordance and looked up all the passages that spoke of our Lord's death and His blood that He shed. And there are some verses in the epistles that struck me, and one especially made it clear. Are you interested or am I boring you?"

"Very interested," was the quick reply.

"It was about our Lord. First it spoke about us having 'redemption through His blood, even the forgiveness of sins.' And I felt that if I knew I had God's forgiveness, I should indeed have peace, and then it said, 'Having made peace through the blood of His cross'—I forget the exact words, but it said that was how God reconciled us to Himself. And in a flash it came to me how wonderfully simple and yet how wonderfully grand it was. And I knelt down and told God I wanted to be reconciled to Him through the blood of Christ. I can't tell you the joy that came into my heart when I realised that it had all been done. It was like walking through an open gate that had been open all the while I had been struggling to find the way outside it. Am I making it clear to you?"

"I think so," said Hope slowly. "And what difference has it made to you?"

Lady May was silent for a minute.

"It is just another life," she said softly. "I am at peace. I feel I am in God's family, and all my affairs, spiritual and physical, will be managed and arranged by Him."

"Oh!" said Hope, with a long-drawn sigh. "You have got beyond and above me now. I can't follow you."

"'The blood of Jesus whispers peace within—'"

Lady May repeated. "Go to Him and ask Him to give you the peace that, as the verse says, He made through the blood of His cross. Then you will get it."

"But," said Hope, "this isn't the whole of religion. What about works?"

"Oh no, this is only the beginning; but it's a very happy beginning, and I'm going to learn now, and work, but I'm only just finding out how little I know."

The talk was over. Hope's friends had discovered her; but she went home very silently, pondering deeply over her friend's words.

And in the ensuing days, which were full of engagements, though Hope laughed and talked with her friends, and joined in all their pleasures, at heart she felt that the distance was gradually widening between them, and when she retired to her room at night, her Bible, like Lady May's, was generally to be found on her knee.

She did not grasp the truth so quickly as her friend. There were times when she longed for some one's help, but as she read her Bible, she began to see that the centre of the Christian faith was contained in those two lines she had heard sung in Kayminster Cathedral. And at last, very feebly, she put out her hand and claimed the promise—

"'We have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.'"

Mrs. Daubeney saw that something was working in her niece's mind. At first she thought it was regret at having refused George Adair; then, as the girl's face grew more happy and the anxious furrow between her eyebrows entirely disappeared, she came to the conclusion that she was becoming herself again, and gave no further thought to it.

One afternoon, just as aunt and niece had come in from a shopping expedition and were having tea with Jim Horrocks, who had returned with them, there was a sharp ring at the bell, and a few minutes afterwards, Clark, Mrs. Daubeney's butler, ushered into the room a stranger.

"Mr. Brian St. Clair."

Hearing her name, Hope looked up astonished. It was a young fellow of a different stamp from Mrs. Daubeney's usual visitors. He was dressed in a rough flannel suit, and looked weather-beaten and worn. He held himself well, and was tall and broadly built, with a look that an open-air life indelibly stamps upon a man. His hair was dark and a trifle curly, he had Hope's eyes without their softness, and his voice, when he spoke, had rather a quick, curt ring in it.

"I am sure you didn't expect to see me," he said, addressing Mrs. Daubeney; "but we only landed early this morning, and are staying at the Portland Hotel. I came round to see if Hope was here; my father wants to see her."

Hope started forward, her face aglow with excitement and interest.

"Are you my brother? I remember you a small boy in frocks! We never knew that you were coming over? How many of you are there? And how is father?"

"Not very well. He has been a different man since the carriage accident. There are only Jerry and Toby—they were wild to come with me, but I left them in charge. Can you come back with me?"

"And pray," said Mrs. Daubeney, with stiff disapproval, "what is your father going to do with himself in England?"

"Get well, I hope," said Brian, looking his aunt in the face steadily.

"What is the matter with him?"

"That is what we can't make out. He pins his faith to a certain doctor he used to know years ago, and is going to see him."

"I suppose he has made his fortune in Canada and is coming home to spend it?"

Brian's face was imperturbably grave. "Fortunes are not made so easily," he said.

Then Mrs. Daubeney smiled and made Hope pour out some tea for him.

"I suppose you must be the eldest boy," she said. "How is it that you have come home with your father? Are you an idle young man with unlimited time on your hands?"

"Now, Aunt Gertrude," said Hope brightly; "he has only just arrived in England; let all these questions wait. Jim, I am sorry that I cannot go to the Arbuthnots to-night with you, but I must see my father at once."

Jim thoughtfully rose to go, but Mrs. Daubeney stopped him.

"Hope is going to leave me, and Captain Larkins and his sister are coming in to play bridge, so you must stay and make a fourth. Hope, are you going off at once? I want to speak to you. Jim, you can entertain Brian for a few minutes."

Mrs. Daubeney left the room, and Hope followed her, feeling a strange sense of uneasiness and foreboding of evil.

"Now, Hope, listen to me."

Mrs. Daubeney had seated herself in her small boudoir, and looked at her niece with determination in her glance.

"This has taken me very much by surprise. Tell your father that I shall come to see him to-morrow, if he cannot come to see me; he ought to have written more definitely about his plans before coming to England. But remember, I have adopted you, and I am not going to give you up. He has done without you all these years; he has other children besides you, and he must turn to them for the help he needs. I shall not, of course, keep you from seeing your father as often as you like, but he must understand that my claim upon you comes first. I know your father better than you do, and you must take a firm hand with him from the first. Do you understand me?"

Hope's eyes twinkled with amusement.

"I am a novice at managing and controlling a parent, aunt! I may fail in my first attempt."

"It is no laughing matter, as you would find to your cost if you forsook me."

"Oh, don't talk so tragically! Should I be likely to do so after all your goodness to me?"

And Hope stooped down to imprint a light kiss on her aunt's forehead, the only caress that was ever permitted, for Mrs. Daubeney was not a demonstrative woman.

Then Hope departed a few minutes later, with her young step-brother.

"Shall we take a hansom?" she suggested, and when they were in it, she turned to him very gently.

"Tell me all you can," she said, "I seem to know so little."

He drew in his breath a little sharply.

"He is a wreck, and that's the fact," he said. "A nervous breakdown, the ship's doctor called it; but I think some injury was done to his brain when the accident took place. He was unconscious for a week after, and has never been the same since. It was an awful shock. Poor little Carrie was the idol of his heart—the only girl, you know. She was just fourteen, and mother had begged him so hard to leave her behind. He blames himself for it all, and that hasn't made life easier to him. He sold up everything and insisted upon coming home; I have had to come with him, as he wasn't fit to manage himself, and the two kids are a handful. Of course, I am hoping to go back again."

"I have not heard from any of you," said Hope, hesitating—"I don't even know how many of you there are."

"Five of us now. Jerry and Toby are eight and ten. They are with us. Father wants them to have some schooling in England. Ralph and Tom are both doing for themselves in Canada; Ralph is going in for engineering, and Tom is on a farm."

"And what do you like doing?"

"Me? I've been running our farm; but I'm not a good farmer, I prefer horses."

"Is father really ill?"

"You will see for yourself. He suffers a good deal from headache and sleeplessness."

The stern gravity of the young fellow impressed Hope. She felt as he spoke that he knew life as she did not; and she wondered if the Colonies had the effect of ageing boys before their time.

When they reached the quiet unpretentious hotel in which her father was, Hope was again seized with a nervous apprehension of the future.

Brian took her straight upstairs into a small dingy smoking-room. Her father and his two younger sons were the only occupants of it. George St. Clair rose from his chair at his daughter's approach, and Hope looked up at his tall figure and still handsome face with a certain amount of admiration.

He put his hand on her shoulder and surveyed her critically. Hope, in her turn, noted his sunken eyes and the restless light in them, the hollows in his cheeks, and the grizzled hair that lay rather untidily across his forehead. He looked as if he were suffering too much to care for his outward appearance. But he was the one to break the tense silence that prevailed between them.

"And so this is my eldest daughter! A successful product of what money, education, and fashion can turn out! I should think your aunt is very well pleased with you, is she not?"

Hope's heart sank at his tone. She had half-expected some little expression of affection; and though she had not seen her father for nearly eighteen years, she could not meet him without some emotion. She looked up at him rather tenderly, and did not answer his question.

"I wish I could see you looking better, father. Your return has been a great surprise to us; Aunt Gertrude says she will come and see you to-morrow, if you would prefer it to coming round to us yourself."

"She is no good, Brian!"

Mr. St. Clair dropped his hand, and sank back into his chair with a gesture of disappointment. He went on, without heeding Hope's astonished eyes.

"I might have known it! Gertrude would only develop the self-indulgence and love of ease and luxury that have been the curse of the St. Clairs for so many generations. Were she to come to us, she would require a carriage and pair to save her legs, and a maid in attendance to save her hands, and we should be as badly off as we are at present!"

Brian looked at Hope uncomfortably.

"You must not mind father's way of speaking; he is not well. Suffering makes him irritable. Here are our two small scamps. Jerry and Toby, come and speak to Hope."

Two very small, curly-headed boys sprang forward from the corner in which they had been occupying themselves. They were not over-clean, for they had a pot of glue with which they were doctoring a couple of miniature yachts, and their fingers and faces were liberally smeared with the sticky compound. Hope did not know much about boys, but she stooped and kissed them, noting as she did so that while Jerry's face was the essence of sunshine and good-humour, Toby's was solemnity personified.

They did not speak, but stared at her in silence.

Hope turned to Brian somewhat wistfully.

"Tell me what I can do for you. What are your plans?"

Her father answered her quickly.

"Plans are frustrated sometimes. I hoped that you might fill the gap for us, and not let us feel the blank—"

He stopped, then added hurriedly with a short laugh:

"You would not care to rough it, and just at present money is not too plentiful with us."

"It is not that, father," said Hope eagerly. "It is only that Aunt Gertrude is getting old and is in failing health. She has been like a mother to me, remember, and I feel now that she really needs me. But—"

"My dear Hope, there is no need for any excuses. I have not asked you to leave her, nor have I asked you to make your home with us. Brian, I think I shall turn into bed. I'm extraordinarily tired. Give me your shoulder, boy. I shall be losing the use of my legs pretty soon, I fear. What time am I to go to Dr. Pierrepoint to-morrow?"

"Eleven sharp. I'll bring your dinner up to your room."

"I want no more food to-day. Well, Hope child, tell your aunt she must come round here to-morrow, if she wants to see me. Good-night; you're a thorough St. Clair, every inch of you! And you were such a scrap of a thing when you left us!"

He gave a quick sigh, and left the room, leaning heavily on his son's arm.

Hope's eyes were misty. Though she had not come to offer her services, the indifference of her father towards her cut her like a knife. She began to feel the pathos of the situation. Two men and two boys, without a woman to care for them or look after them; and she gazed at her small brothers in deepest perplexity, and then she put her hand on Toby's shoulder.

"Be friends with me," she said, "I belong to you. Tell me about yourselves."

Toby looked at her stolidly through long black eyelashes.

"Brian is too snorky!" he remarked. "Jerry and I can manage ourselves right enough. Always have!"

"What is it to be 'snorky'!" Hope asked, amused.

Jerry gave a little chuckle.

"It's one of our words. We have a lot you wouldn't understand. I say, are you going off? Because do just let Toby and me come with you. We want to see round a bit, and if Brian is going to keep us in a hen-coop all our time, we'll soon let him know it!"

"Why do you call him Toby?" Hope asked.

"Isn't he like him? He's every bit as sober to look at! Oh, here's old Brian again!"

Jerry backed into his corner, and Hope began to think her visit had been long enough.

"You have a lot on your hands, Brian," she said, "so I won't keep you. I shall see you to-morrow, and we can talk over plans better, after we know what the doctor thinks."

Brian accompanied her downstairs, and put her into a hansom. Then he leant across from the pavement and said earnestly:

"Don't think that father doesn't feel, but he's always irritable and depressed now, and his head is one perpetual ache. He had got it into his head that you might come and mother the little chaps a bit. They want it, but he understands how you feel, and we shall get on all right. My idea is to go down to the country as soon as possible, where we can live cheaply and quietly, and I'll get a billet close at hand, so that I can look after things!"

"We'll talk it over together," said Hope brightly.

But when she was left to herself, she felt perplexed and bewildered at the conflicting duties which lay before her.

Chapter V

CONFLICTING DUTIES

"I NEVER saw a man so altered!"

Mrs. Daubeney had just returned from her visit to her brother, and was addressing Hope.

"Yes," said Hope gravely, "but he is ill. Brian has been telling me that the doctor fears that there is some pressure on the brain. He says the only chance is for him to have perfect rest and quiet, and freedom from all anxiety. And Brian told him that he would see he got it. I like that boy, aunt; I'm sure he's got real grit in him."

"Well, my dear, George and I had it out about you. He is quite willing that you should stay on with me, and I have settled to go to Homburg next week. That cousin of mine, whom I mentioned to you, will be there with her daughter—my god-daughter, you know—and she is very anxious that I should make her acquaintance."

"This is a sudden move, aunt."

"I am tired of town. I know it is early for Homburg, but it can't be helped."

"But," said Hope, with a little hesitation in her voice, "I have promised Brian to help him all I can in settling somewhere. I really must see a little of my father. Couldn't you wait a week or two longer in town?"

"I am not going to wait a day later than I said. I have offered your father my house in Kayminster till he can look round. It is empty, and he may just as well have the use of it."

"Oh," cried Hope, "that will be delightful for them!"

"Yes," said Mrs. Daubeney, with a virtuous smile, "they will be most comfortable and happy there, and the small boys can go to the grammar-school. I believe the expense is very little. Now that your family is provided for, my dear, you must give me your time for the next few days, for I must get some garments for Homburg, and I think you had better too."

Hope gave a little sigh.

"These endless clothes! How I wish we could do without them!"

The week sped away, and Hope did not see much of her father or brothers. Twice she called at their hotel and found the boys out, and her father not well enough to see her. She took Jerry and Toby to the Zoo and to the Crystal Palace, and persuaded Brian to drive out to Richmond with her one afternoon. He was singularly silent and uncommunicative, and instinctively Hope felt that he did not approve of her. She tried to tell him that she was very tired of her life, but he did not encourage her confidence, and she realised that to him she must appear a very self-indulgent idle pleasure-seeker. When she once said something about her aunt's dislike to go about alone, he said with intolerance of youth:

"I should think an old lady of her age would be only too glad to be quiet. I can't conceive how she can find pleasure in it, unless it is to see you enjoy yourself!"

And Hope then subsided entirely. The day before she left for Homburg, she went round to the hotel and wished them all goodbye.

"I shall come down to Kayminster, father, and see you directly I return. I do hope the quiet, country air will do you good."

Mr. St. Clair hardly replied to her. Jerry called out:

"You'd much better come with us now. I'm sure we want some one to look after us, don't we, dad? And Toby and me mean to get away from Brian's clutches as soon as ever we can!"

Just before leaving, Hope put an envelope into Brian's hands.

"It's a trifle for father's comforts. Don't tell him, but use it as you want it; and do write to me if things don't go straight."

When Brian opened it after she had gone, he found a cheque for fifty pounds.

As Hope was speeding down to Dover in the train with her aunt, she abandoned herself to gloomy anticipations of the future.

"I am so tired, so disgusted with it all. I would so much rather be helping Brian to keep house in Kayminster. I don't believe Aunt Gertrude would miss me for a time. And yet father does not want me. And I am so helpless, I feel quite lost without a maid to look after my things. How I wish I knew what to do. I suppose I must wait till we return to town again!"

Jim Horrocks, who always took upon himself to see them off on any of their journeys, was talking in an animated way to Mrs. Daubeney. As his eyes noted Hope's troubled face, and he heard her sigh for the third or fourth time, he turned to her.

"What on earth is the matter with you, Hope? You are gazing out of the window as if your last hour had come!"

Hope looked at him half-gravely, half-humorously.

"I am just wishing I could turn into a cow," she said. "I always wish I were one when I am in a train; they look so deliciously restful in their shady fields. Just think of the quiet meditation they can have. No one harries them—"

"Except the flies."

"That is a very trivial annoyance. They must feel they are of use to mankind, so that their lives are not entirely empty ones; they are not lonely, for they have their companions, and yet they are not bothered by them. I think I would rather be a cow than any other creature on earth!"

"My dear Hope, what extraordinary things you say!"

Mrs. Daubeney looked quite scandalised, but Jim laughed delightedly.

"We'll cow it together one day, Hope. I'll take you out for a day's fishing; that's the nearest situation to your ideal one, I fancy! What subject are you taking for your meditations, may I ask?"

"Conflicting duties," said Hope audaciously. "You know where I ought to be, Jim, and Aunt Gertrude knows too. That is why she hurried me away so quickly, before I had time to formulate my convictions. Aunt, dear, I wish you would imagine that I am going out to Homburg to get married."

"I wish you were," said Mrs. Daubeney.

"Do you really? Then what would you do?"

"I should be delighted to see you settled," said Mrs. Daubeney, innocent of the trap that was being laid for her. "And in that case I should take my god-daughter about with me. Her mother is not at all well off, and wants me to chaperon her."

"Oh!" said Hope, with a little nod across at Jim. "Mow I see daylight!"

"Are you meditating matrimony?" asked Jim. "I'm sure you couldn't do better than to take me."

"Don't resurrect dead bones! No; if my convictions grow too strong for my peace of mind, I shall elope by myself back to England one day, and Aunt Gertrude will solace herself with Eva. You can't say I haven't warned you of the possibility."

Mrs. Daubeney looked at her niece rather sleepily.

"Lord Hawthorne is at Homburg, so is Captain Calthorpe. Lord Hawthorne is an estimable young man."

Her eyelids drooped.

Hope looked at Jim with mischief in her eyes.

"Dear aunt! May those two names figure in her dreams and bring her visions of wedding-bells and orange blossoms!"

"Look here, Hope, what are you going to do?"

"I don't honestly know, Jim."

Hope's twinkling mirth died away. It was what made her attractive to so many—her sudden changes from grave to gay, and her endless varieties of moods.

"I know what I would like to do," she said softly, so as not to disturb Mrs. Daubeney's nap. "I would like to retire to the country with my father and brothers and make myself useful to them. I am tired of this kind of life, Jim. If Aunt Gertrude would be happy without me, I should leave her without a qualm!"

"You would die of the dismals if you buried yourself in the country," said Jim decidedly.

"No, indeed, I should not; but they don't want me. That is the bitterest part; they think I shall be more trouble than I'm worth. I have other interests now, Jim; I have told you so before. And I want to do something with my life; I have wasted so much time that I don't want to waste any more. I am sure I could relieve Brian of some of the strain he is feeling. You rather took to him, did you not?"

"Yes, I thought he was an awfully good sort."

"Then will you go down to them at Kayminster and say a word for me? Tell them that I could make them comfortable. Say I don't mind roughing it. I can light a fire, Jim—you know I did it at that picnic we had last summer, and I washed up the dishes afterwards, did I not? I'm not absolutely useless. Tell them all you can about my useful qualities and then write and let me know the result. Will you do this for me?"

Hope lifted soft pleading eyes to the young man's face, and he hastily promised he would do his best for her.

But as he waved his farewell to her on the steamer, he said grimly to himself:

"She would not face poverty with me. Why should she court it now by going to them? She is not cut out for a working-woman."

The weeks that followed at Homburg were not enjoyable to Hope. She found it increasingly difficult to get any quiet time to herself, and things that she formerly had done as a matter of course now grated on her feelings.

Her Sundays were miserable; and at last she decided to speak out to her aunt and tell her of the change she felt in her heart. She did it in much trepidation one Sunday night after she had refused to make a fourth at bridge. Mrs. Daubeney was vexed, and came to Hope's bedroom between twelve and one o'clock at night to remonstrate with her.

"Now, Aunt Gertrude, I will make a clean breast of it," said Hope, drawing forward an easy chair and making her aunt sit in it.

Then she sat down on the rug beside her, and, laying her head against her knee, took her hand caressingly in hers.

"I don't want you to think me priggish or uncharitable or hypocritical, but I'm beginning to look at things quite differently now. It was Canon FitzRoy's sermons. I do wish you had heard them, aunt. You would have felt just as I did, I know you would. Anyhow, they made me pretty miserable until I found out from the Bible how I could be happy. I think it's not seeing what religion really is that makes one so indifferent to it—"

"Come, come," said Mrs. Daubeney restlessly, "don't begin to preach to me, Hope. Say what you want and have done with it."

"Then it is this. I want to spend my Sundays in a manner that will please God. I want to put His pleasure before my own, and I am going to knock off all week-day pursuits, bridge first and foremost amongst them."

"You are crazy!"

"I don't think I am. I don't feel so."

"I begin to think," said Mrs. Daubeney slowly, "that you are commencing a series of small annoyances with an object in view. I am not dense by nature, and I know what a hankering you have to be with your father. Do you think that by making yourself disagreeable I shall be more likely to let you go? I am determined that you shall not, for your own sake as well as theirs. I intend to keep you with me, Hope, until you marry, and if you attempt to leave me before that day arrives, you will leave me penniless, for I shall stop your allowance immediately, and then where would you be?"

"Oh, Aunt Gertrude, don't be angry with me!"

Hope felt startled and dismayed at her aunt's determined accents.

"You must not give me credit for such underhand motives," the girl continued, with distress in her eyes. "You know how I love you and how grateful I am for all you have done for me. But I know, and you say yourself, that if I married to-morrow, you would be perfectly happy. Why should you not let me pay my father a visit? Eva would take my place, and you would not miss me much. Still, all this has nothing to do with the case in point. I cannot play bridge on Sunday. I am quite determined in my own mind that it is wrong for me to do it. I don't judge any one else. I seem to see everything so differently now. Please let me go my own way as quietly as possible. I don't want to interfere with any one else. And, oh, Aunt Gertrude, if you only knew what peace I have in my heart, you would not grudge it to me! I have been so miserable, and I am so happy now! I wish you could understand about it."

Mrs. Daubeney patted her shoulder caressingly.

"There, my dear, keep your religious convictions to yourself. It is not good taste to talk about them. And wait to offer your services to your father till he requires them. He does not want you at present, he told me so. I must go to bed; I am quite sleepy. I know these new emotions of yours will pass, so I am going to take no notice of them."

She kissed the girl kindly. It always cost Mrs. Daubeney a good deal to speak harshly to any one. She had deemed it best to show her niece that she was not to be trifled with, and having done so, she was not going to refer to the matter again.

Hope returned her aunt's kiss warmly, but she spent a sleepless night. The words of her young step-brother rang in her ears:

"Father had got it into his head that you might come and mother the little chaps a bit."

And she realised that her aunt was not given to consider others' needs before her own. Then she prayed for guidance, and met her aunt the next day with a cheerful smiling face, for she felt sure that her way would be made clear to her.

About three weeks after she had arrived at Homburg, Hope got her first letter from Kayminster, and it was not from either Brian or her father, but from the small boys.

"MY DEAR HOPE,—This letter is from me and Jerry, but I'm writing it because Jerry blots so. We'd like you to know that things are going bad. The school is rotten, and Brian won't let us stay to dinner, and the stuff this Anne gives us is simply filth, and Brian is away most of the day and doesn't know the rottenness of it. And Brian is a shocking mender. We're ashamed of our stockings. Dad sits up and slangs all round. We think you ought to come and tidy the house a bit, like mother did; there's no one here to keep Anne in order, and she's too cheeky, and I caught her drinking dad's soup.

"England is no good at all, and Jerry and I wish we were back in Canada. We have no horses, or cows, nor poultry, nor even a dog, and what are fellows to do out of school-time? The only fun is walking on the top of the walls round the neighbours' gardens, and Jerry cut his head when he tumbled, and Anne screamed, and dad scolded, and I had to stop the bleeding with Brian's handkerchiefs. We'll expect you five days from this. Two for this letter to get to you, one day to pack, and two days to get here. Jerry and me will meet the train next Thursday. We think you'll come, and we've told Anne you will. It has made her sit up. She wants a mistress. Your affectionate brothers,—

"JERRY and TOBY."

Hope laughed and sighed over this letter, then took it straight to her aunt, saying:

"I am going to run away from you. This shows how I am wanted. You will be quite happy here looking after Eva, and she will look after you. And I'm sure you won't miss me. It doesn't matter about money. I shall have to earn something if I can. Oh, Aunt Gertrude, dear Aunt Gertrude, let me go! I feel torn in two!"

For an hour Mrs. Daubeney scolded, reasoned, and pleaded with her, then suddenly relented and told her she would let her go.

"I believe the discomfort of it all will drive you back to me. I will allow you one hundred pounds a year—no more. You will not be going out into Society, so that will be sufficient to clothe you. And I shall adopt Eva for the time; her mother is only too willing."

"I would rather have no allowance from you when I am away from you," said Hope.

"Nonsense, you can't afford to be proud. You are my niece, and I know your father too well to let you be dependent on him for every penny that you need. Say no more about it. If I did not think he is fast breaking up, I would not let you go to him. As it is, I feel it will be only for a short time."

Hope was only too thankful to part on friendly terms with her. She made her preparations quickly, and wrote to her father telling him that he might expect her. But when the last minute came and she was wishing her aunt goodbye, she broke down.

"I'm glad I'm going," she said, struggling to restrain her tears; "but I feel like a bird leaving the nest. You have mothered me for so long, and been so good to me, that I shall feel perfectly forlorn without you!"

Mrs. Daubeney's eyes were misty, but she controlled her feelings.

"You ought to have married sooner—you are throwing away your chances. Never mind, you will soon get tired of it and come back to me!"

With this prophecy in her ears, Hope journeyed back to England.

Chapter VI

A BUSY DAY

HOPE was very tired when she reached Kayminster. She arrived at the station about four o'clock in the afternoon, and was a little disappointed to find no one there to meet her. She had not heard from her father since she had written saying she was coming to him, and she began to wonder if he would welcome her gladly or not.

She drove to the house in a fly, and the door was opened by a rough, good-natured looking girl.

"Yes, miss," she said, in reply to Hope's inquiry for her father, "we're all expectin' of you, and Mr. St. Clair keeps askin' if you've come. You'll find him in the droring-room, miss. He uses that mostly. Mister Brian, he bade me look after you and tell you he couldn't be back afore seven."

"MR. ST. CLAIR KEEPS ASKIN' IF YOU'VE COME."

Hope made no reply to this volubility, but pushed open the drawing-room door, and found her father smoking in an easy chair.

He rose and held out his hand.

"Here you are, then? Have you had a good journey? I'm afraid it's a great mistake your leaving your aunt, but time will show. I'm sure we want some help in running this house, for any one more incompetent than this stupid creature we have at present I never beheld. Her cooking is enough to put any one off his food. Why don't they bring up English working-girls to cook? A colonist's daughter would be ashamed if she couldn't bake bread and pickle pork and meat. This girl makes a hash of everything she tries!"

Hope sat down and took off her gloves.

"Where are the boys?" she asked.

"At school. Would you like a cup of tea? I don't drink it. We don't have our evening meal till seven. Well, how is your aunt?"

"Very well. She sent her love. You are not looking very grand, father."

"It's this town. I never could stand town from the time I was a boy. And I shall never get my sleep again till I'm in the open country."

"We found this house very quiet when we were in it. I remember I thought Kayminster such a peaceful little place after London."

Hope's eyes strayed round the room as she talked. Dust lay thick on ledges and corners, a pair of boy's boots was under one chair, a boy's cap on the piano, books and papers were strewn about untidily; the room had a dingy uncared-for look, as different from the quaint little dainty place that she remembered as black from white. Her father caught her glance.

"Yes," he said humorously, "we shall shock your fine artistic feelings; but for your own sake, my girl, put your shoulder to the wheel, and don't criticise, but reform."

Then Hope laughed out.

"I will, father; I shall make mistakes, but you must try not to be hard upon me. I have come with the intention of making you comfortable, and however hard I have to work, I am determined to succeed."

The door opened and Anne appeared with a beaming face. On a tray with a soiled table-napkin she brought a cup of tea and some bread and butter.

"I knewed you would like a cup o' tea," she remarked; "my missus at my last place always had it."

Hope thanked her with a smile. The tea helped to fortify her for her tour through the house. It all looked very untidy and dirty, and when she got to her own room, the very same she had had when she was there before, she locked her door, and sitting down, gave way to tears.

To her, the contrast from her aunt's luxuriously and well-appointed house struck her forcibly. And a deep depression for the time seemed to overcloud her spirits. Her father treated her so very indifferently that she wondered if she would ever learn to know and understand him. She doubted her own capabilities for housekeeping on such a small scale; and then she took herself to task for being so faint-hearted. A little later, a loud whoop and shout and a scamper of feet up the stairs told her of the advent of her small brothers. Then came a thump on her door.

"Hope, let us in! What are you doing—unpacking?"

She opened the door and kissed the boys affectionately.

"I have turned up, you see!"

"Time enough too!" cried Jerry, dancing round her. "And Toby and me don't mean to let you go again. We like you, we do, and we don't think you a bit stuck up!"

"Thank you," said Hope, laughing; then she glanced at her closed trunks in dismay. She only now realised what the absence of a maid meant.

"Can you boys undo those straps for me?"

They were down on their knees directly, cuffing each other in their anxiety to prove their respective dexterity and smartness.

"Shall we unpack for you?" asked Toby gravely.

Hope shuddered as she looked at their hands, and thought of all her pretty muslins and delicate silks.

"No, thank you. I will unpack, myself. Find a chair and talk to me."

"Oh, it's awful in England!" ejaculated Toby. "There's no riding, nothing but lessons in stuffy rotten rooms, and fellows who are muffs, and like spending their money in sweet-shops. I say, can you make cakes? Anne can't; she makes sticky dough as tough as boots, and burns it always!"

"And will you get dad to give us pocket-money?"

Hope forgot her woes listening to the grievances and wants of these two youngsters.

When she met her father again, there was brightness in her glance.

The evening meal was not appetising. "'Igh tea," Anne called it.

A dish of greasy burnt chops, rancid butter, stewed tea, and a large rice-pudding adorned the table, but the arrival of Brian, armed with a basket of strawberries, improved the aspect. The grip of Brian's hand and the pleased look in his eyes were like a ray of sunshine to Hope. She exerted herself to talk, and Mr. St. Clair seemed to lose a little of his irritability and gloom.

Afterwards, Brian shut his small brothers into the study with their evening preparation, coaxed his father out into the garden, into a hammock-chair, and then, armed with a watering-pot, proceeded to refresh the dry and thirsty flowers. Hope insisted upon helping him, and as they worked together, they talked.

"What are you doing now?" Hope asked him.

Brian gave a short little laugh.

"Well, I'm earning an honest livelihood; not a very grand billet, but better than nothing, and I can't stand loafing round. I've never been accustomed to it. Don't ask too many questions about it. I wanted to get on a farm. As it is, I'm helping with some horses, which I like better, and I can sleep at home. What do you think of the garden? Looks rather forlorn, doesn't it? I try and do a bit of weeding when I come home, but it wants one always at it this time of year. We haven't the money for a gardener."

"Is—is father very badly off, Brian?" asked Hope hesitatingly.

"Well, you see, he hasn't saved. His private income would be just enough to keep himself in comfort, but the two boys want schooling. I'm thankful now I'm off his hands. I'm able to pay for my keep. It's a pretty tight fit, I can tell you. I think this house is a mistake. We want a cottage in the country where living is cheap, but then again it's a question of the boys' schooling. We can't afford to send them anywhere as boarders."

"You don't pay rent for this!"

"I wish we did. I hate favours!"

Brian's tone was sharp and short.

Hope was silent, then she said:

"What does father do all day?"

"He worries round. Now you're here, you can amuse him. If you could get him out fishing, it would do him a world of good. He sits in the house and mopes. It is so utterly unlike him, for he has always gone in for such an active life. He won't do anything alone. If I was home and took him about, he'd be a lot brighter. I'm hoping great things from you. You see, there's been no one to run the house. And our maid, as you see, is a rough-and-ready sort, and not over-clean. Perhaps you can lick her into shape. She isn't a bad sort, and puts up with father's scoldings, but she is not as good a cook as Toby is. I was cook for the first week, and our meals were a sight more appetising, I can tell you!"

Hope laughed, and he laughed with her.

"I'm a good colonist," he said; "I can turn my hand to most things."

"I wish you would teach me to be useful," said Hope; "I'm afraid I shall be terribly awkward."

He glanced at her white dress, a garment of delicate "crêpe de chine" and costly lace, and shook his head with a little smile.

"You'll have to change your style of dress the first thing," he said.

"Oh, I mean to. I have plain linen gowns for morning wear, and I shall buy some aprons. I mean to work, so you must encourage and not laugh at me!"

After a pause, she asked:

"Do you know any of the people round here? There are some very nice families living outside Kayminster."

"Thank goodness we don't! And I devoutly hope you won't be bringing any of your fashionable acquaintances about the place."

"Why not? I'm sure you would like the Chesneys. You are not going to live like hermits, Brian?"

"With father in his present state, it's essential to keep him quiet," said Brian sternly. "He hates company, and he shan't be inflicted with it."

"But may I not know my friends?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Keep them away from father, and don't bring them to the house."

Hope looked perplexed and dismayed. But she judged it wise to say no more. She wondered to herself if Brian intended to rule her life and take every bit of pleasant intercourse away from her. And then, looking at his stern young face, she smiled.

"He is only a boy," she said to herself, "made old before his time. I shall go my own way in spite of him."

She went over to her father's chair, and sitting down by him, chatted brightly on various topics. Mr. St. Clair at first was inclined to be satirical, but Hope's persistent brightness soon interested him. She was delighted to find that, in spite of his rough colonial life, her father was a man of culture, who loved books; and he in his turn was surprised to find that his daughter's head was not exclusively filled with clothes and gaiety.

When Hope laid her head on her pillow that night, she was bravely resolved not only to make the best of her altered circumstances, but to improve them by any means that lay in her power, and she fell asleep with the cathedral chimes sounding in her ear.

The next day proved to be a very long and perplexing one to her.

She was called early by Anne, who informed her that the breakfast-hour was at eight o'clock, and when Hope, after a hasty toilette, descended the stairs, she met with calamity number one. Jerry, in pushing roughly against Anne, had made her drop a kettle of boiling water over him. Happily it was only his right arm that was badly scalded, but he was frantic with the pain, and refused to let any one see the extent of his hurt. Hope was at her wits' end. She managed to pull off his coat, but it was Anne who was equal to the occasion. She quickly went out to the kitchen, and in a minute had made a poultice of dough, which she clapped on the boy's arm in a peremptory fashion.

Toby looked on with great concern, then his eyes began to twinkle.

"I'm afraid we shall both have to take a holiday," he said; "you'll want me to look after you, Jerry, won't you?"

Jerry paused in his wry contortions of face to consider this aspect of affairs.

"I'm burnt to the bone," he cried, "and I hate you all fussing round me."

"There's master's bell," said Anne, "and I've got no hot water, and he'll be wanting of his breakfast, and I knows as how everything will all go wrong the 'ole livelong day now."

She dashed off to the kitchen with the empty kettle, leaving pools of water on the dining-room carpet. Hope went out to the kitchen to get a cloth, and for the first time in her life went down on her knees to wipe up the water. Then she established Jerry in an armchair and made him as comfortable as she could, after which she insisted upon Toby's coming to the table and having his breakfast.

"Of course you must go to school," she said, "and explain to your master what has happened, and why Jerry is at home. Does father always have his breakfast in his room?"

"Yes, since he has been ill; and it is fun to hear his bell keep ringing."

"And Brian goes off without having any breakfast?"

"Oh, he gets his where he goes," said Toby; "you needn't never bother about Brian. We have our breakfast in the kitchen with Anne, but now you've come, she's brought it in here, and is as flustered as an old turkey-cock."

Hope got some fresh hot water from the kitchen, made the tea, and gave the boys their breakfast, eating very little herself; the thick half-raw rashers of bacon did not induce hunger.

When Toby had departed, very reluctantly, for school, Hope went upstairs to see her father, who promptly handed her several business letters to answer. He did not seem disturbed at his small son's mishap.

"They're always doing something to themselves," he said.

"But had we not better have a doctor?" Hope asked. "It may want dressing; he seems in great pain."

Her father smiled.

"Well, you can dress it, I suppose. How would you like to live a hundred miles from any doctor, as we do out in the colonies? You soon learn to do things for yourself there. If you look in my bookcase over there, you will find a handbook of medicine and surgery, &c. That will tell you how to treat scalds. But don't you forget to answer those letters by return of post. They are important. My head is so bad this morning, I can't write a stroke. I've made the attempt and failed."

So Hope departed with her medical book and batch of correspondence, to find Anne waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

"If you please, miss, Mr. Brian 'e says to me that you would order the dinner, and the butcher 'e's waiting for orders."

Hope went out to the kitchen to inspect the larder and talk over housekeeping generally. In the middle of it, her father's bell rang violently, and there was a simultaneous outcry from Jerry in the dining-room.

She reached Jerry to find that he had left his armchair, and in endeavouring to reach, in a left-handed fashion, a fishing-rod of his father's that was over the mantelpiece, he had brought down two valuable China vases, and smashed them to atoms in the grate.

Mr. St. Clair wanted an alteration made in one of the letters he had told his daughter to write. Hope went from one to the other feeling half-dazed. The rest of her morning passed in struggling to unpack her belongings, keeping Jerry quiet and amused, dusting and tidying the rooms, and arranging some flowers which she picked from the garden.

Mr. St. Clair and Toby both appeared for the one o'clock dinner, and the former asked her if she could not superintend the cooking a little.

"Any woman ought to be able to cook," he asserted. "This girl is a disgrace to her sex."

"I will try to-morrow and see what I can do," said Hope bravely, but her heart sank within her.

The afternoon seemed to bring her endless small duties. She took her father out by the back gate into the buttercup meadows and along the river, and both enjoyed the quiet of it. Then she came home, to hear Toby rampaging through the house, shrieking out for some one to mend a huge hole which he had torn in his coat, and Jerry crying from pain and sheer dulness. She called the boys to her, sat down and mended Toby's jacket, while she told them a story from a humorous book she had in her travelling-trunk.

When Brian came back, he found the boys with clean hands and faces, the table full of bright flowers, and Hope with a very tired but smiling face.

She welcomed him with intense relief. He looked at Jerry's arm and knew exactly what to do with it, and when they sat down to tea, they were a cheerful little party. But Brian had keen eyes, and he was thoughtful beyond his years. He realised that his sister needed rest, and he made her take it out in the garden.

"Sit still with father and I will garden," he said, and Hope obeyed him.

Later on, she took counsel with him.

"I shall get into it, but to-day it seems to have been one long struggle to get things done, and Anne seems to me to have no method, and is a shocking cook; don't you think we might change for the better?"

"I should have thought she could be trained."

"Well, I will do my best. I suppose with a cookery-book, I ought to be able to give her some hints."

That evening when she went to bed, she opened her window and leant out of it, wondering with vague dismay whether she could possibly continue such a life. Her back ached, her feet ached, and her head ached, and she with difficulty suppressed her inclination to tears.

"I am just like an upper servant," she told herself. "A few more days like this will make me ill. And father thinks this is the kind of life for every woman! I think Brian is the only one who shows sympathy."

Then she took herself to task for her selfishness.

"I have been spoiled by luxury. It will do me all the good in the world. I have been wanting to be useful. Now, when I am given the chance, I grumble!"

She took out her Bible, and in her evening reading came to the words:

"'If I, then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet, ye also ought to wash one another's feet.

"'For I have given you an example that ye should do as I have done to you.

"'Verily, verily, I say unto you: The servant is not greater than his Lord, neither he that is sent greater than He that sent him.

"'If ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them.'"

And in thinking of her Master who stooped to such lowly service Himself, Hope's eyes glowed, and she began to catch a glimpse of the glorification of daily drudgery.

Chapter VII

SETTLING DOWN

IT was quite a week before Hope grasped the reins of home government, and as she feared, she made many mistakes. If she taught Anne a few lessons in method and cleanliness, Anne taught her some in economy, for as yet Hope had little idea of the value of money. Mr. St. Clair was curiously punctilious in all business matters; he told his daughter he had never been in debt during the whole of his rough colonial life, and Brian informed her that this trait had made him quite conspicuous amongst his happy-go-lucky neighbours. He insisted now upon having weekly books from the tradesmen; and putting aside a certain sum for housekeeping, would not exceed it by a penny.

Hope was aghast at the end of her first week to find that she had exceeded it by a couple of pounds. She promptly supplied the deficit from her own purse, but determined not to err in like manner again. Her days were very full. She found her mending-basket never empty. Her father made great demands on her time and attention, and she was not sure of half an hour to herself throughout the day. The first Sunday had been pouring wet, and none of the family had gone to church, but one afternoon in the following week, she found that she could attend the cathedral service.

The stillness and coolness of the atmosphere struck her more forcibly than ever, but she was able now to join in the service with all her heart, and her soul was refreshed and strengthened by communion with One whom she had learnt to love.

Coming out, Mrs. Dane stopped her, and as she shook hands, there was something in her firm genial grasp that brought at once a sense of strength and sympathy.

"Are you back again?" she asked. "I am so glad to see you. How is your aunt?"

"She is not with me," said Hope, adding impulsively. "May I walk a part of the way home with you?"

In a few minutes, she made Mrs. Dane aware of her altered circumstances. She touched lightly upon them, but the elder woman looked upon her with quickened interest as she talked.

"Do you remember saying to me that you wanted to turn from a butterfly into a bee?" she asked presently.

"Yes. I was in a kind of transition state then, or wanting to be. But in town I learnt a good deal. I see life so differently now Mrs. Dane."

The tone more than the words conveyed all that Hope wished her friend to know; and Mrs. Dane was quick at comprehension.

"I expect you are having a very uphill time, are you not?"

"Yes, I am. The thing I mind most is that I have so little time to myself. Quiet seems at an end. And quiet peace is what I have longed for so much. The thought of the possibility of it quite reconciled me to leaving all my gaiety."

"But," said Mrs. Dane thoughtfully, "however busy we are, we can carry the sense of peace about with us. Do you know that hymn—

"'Peace, perfect peace, by thronging duties press'd?
To do the will of Jesus, this is rest.'"

Hope's face brightened visibly.

"How strange!" she said. "It was the first verse of that hymn that haunted me so when I came here in the early spring, and now you have given me another verse of it."

"A very beautiful one, as I know from experience. When we realise our thronging duties are all opportunities for carrying out our Lord's will, that it is service for Him as well as for our fellow-creatures, we have rest at once in the midst of them."

"Oh," said Hope; "it will make my days so easy if I remember it."

She said little more, and they soon came to the corner where they had to part.

"May I come and see you?" Mrs. Dane asked.

Hope hesitated for a moment, remembering Brian's words, and then replied:

"Thank you, very much. It will be very kind of you, but if it is one of my father's bad days, and I am with him, you will understand if I do not appear."

"Certainly I will. Shall we waive ceremony, and will you come to tea with me the first day you can manage it?"

"I shall be delighted."

When Hope entered her home, she carried such a radiant face that her father even remarked upon it.

"I suppose it is your good health that makes you so happy," he remarked. "I used to be called at school 'Jolly George.' When I think of myself in those days, and contrast them with myself now, I can hardly believe I am the same being!"

"No, it is something more than health," said Hope, but she could not tell her father all that she was feeling.

She only knew as the days went on, that in the midst of many uncongenial duties, and more real hard work and anxious thought than she had ever before experienced, she had a deep feeling of peace in her heart. The realisation that every bit of her day was just carrying out the will of God for her, brought her more than ease of mind, it brought her keen enjoyment.

And soon the household wheels began to run smoothly. Brian, coming home tired at the end of his day, was conscious of home comforts and brightness. The flowers about the house, the daintiness of the meals, and the sparkling personality of Hope herself, all marked a strong contrast to the struggles and failures of the time before. Hope was naturally of a buoyant nature, and though at first the irksomeness of her duties appalled her, when she realised that even cooking appetising dishes for her father, mending her small brothers' clothes, and dusting and tidying rooms were all distinctly service to the Master she was longing to serve, those very duties became a delight to her. She was not perfect; there were times when impatience and loss of temper gained the day, but she gradually won the affection of all the household, and her reign was a happy one.

One afternoon when her father was lying down with a bad headache, and did not wish to be disturbed, she went over to call upon Mrs. Dane. She found her sitting under the trees in her garden, and whilst she worked, her son Lancelot was reading aloud to her.

"I am so glad to see you, my dear. We are enjoying an idle hour. Do you know my son Lancelot? He is with me again for a short time."

"We have never met, Miss St. Clair, but I feel that I know all about you," Lancelot said, speaking in fresh keen tones. "I think I may say I began to know you when you first came into the cathedral that early spring evening; do you remember?"

"Yes," said Hope, blushing slightly. "I noticed you. I liked your attention to your mother."

They laughed. Mrs. Dane put her hand lightly on her son's broad shoulder.

"I believe," she said, with a humorous twinkle in her eyes, "that his attention to his old mother has sometimes prevented his attention to young people. He is considered a very unsociable being in these parts."

"I am not a society man," Lancelot responded, drawing a lounge chair forward for Hope to occupy.

"Do you know, Miss St. Clair, I fancy I am acquainted with your father. Was he not in Canada some years ago?"

"Yes, he has only just returned home," Hope said. "Did you meet him out there? I thought India was your country."

"There are not many countries that I have not visited," Lancelot replied. "I was then secretary to the Premier over there. But I did not meet your father officially. Ask him if he remembers the buffalo at the Red River."

"I will. He is in such bad health now, so different from what he was."

"Lancelot, will you tell them we will have tea out here?"

Then, as he moved towards the house, Mrs. Dane turned to her young guest.

"My boys are laughed at for their love of home, but I will say in excuse for Lancelot, that he has been away from me for fifteen long years, and he will be going out to India again in the autumn."

"Is he stationed there?" Hope asked.

"Yes, he has a very good Government appointment in Calcutta. Sir Hugh Mowbray got it for him. He was his secretary, as he told you, when he was in Canada. But Lancelot has not had good health lately, and I wish for many reasons that he was not going back. Well, I will not talk only of myself and my family. How are you getting on, dear? I have been thinking a good deal about you lately."

"Things are going better," said Hope cheerfully. "I am daily finding out what an ignoramus I am, and am struggling hard with cookery-books at present. Why do they always leave out the vital point, Mrs. Dane? They tell you that you are to mix ingredients, but never 'how!' I've been stirring things with a spoon instead of my fingers, and 'vice versâ.' But I turned out a delicious pudding yesterday. The only pity was that the boys ate it up so soon!"

Her merry laugh rang out as Lancelot returned.

Mrs. Dane, remembering the past life that she had been leading, could only wonder at her quick adaptability to her altered circumstances, and then conversation took a graver turn. Lancelot began to discuss the book he had been reading to his mother. It was extracts from some of the modern thinkers of the day.

Hope listened with interest. The problem of universal suffering was the topic, that mystery of the human race which to some souls seems the key to all that is noblest and best, to others the knell of bitterness and despair.

"We have been reading that the laws of compensation are not sufficiently grasped," said Lancelot, sitting down and fastening his keen bright eyes on Hope as he spoke. "What do you say, Miss St. Clair? Do you ever think of these things?"

"Yes," said Hope softly, "sometimes. But I would rather hear your opinions than give my own. I take life too lightly, I believe. I have not yet looked much beyond my own immediate circle."

"It is easy to sit down comfortably and theorise upon such a subject," said Lancelot gravely. "To a certain extent I know that a capacity to enjoy as well as to suffer is given to every class and race. The lower races, we know, are not so highly strung as the more civilised. They suffer less in consequence, but I think it is encouraging self-indulgence to wipe out our neighbours' heavy burdens with the reflection that they do not feel them. What do you say, mother?"

"I believe if we all shared each other's burdens, as we should, four-fifths of the misery in the world would be saved."

"But how can you share them?" asked Hope. "I can't go and live in a drunkard's home, for instance, and share the misery and anxieties of a drunkard's wife."

"No, but you can offer her your sympathy and help, and be as anxious and earnest about the reformation of her husband as if he belonged to you," said Mrs. Dane.

"I have never had anything to do with the poor," said Hope, after a moment's silence, "and my time is too full now to take a district."

Then she gave a little laugh.

"You see that I cannot talk broadly on these things; I narrow them down to my own experience."

"Some people think that if they want to help their neighbours, they must begin with the poor," said Lancelot smiling. "I have found in my travels that there are quite as many burdens borne by our own class in life as in any other."

"Yes," said Mrs. Dane, "but how many keep their purses in their pockets, using that plea, 'Charity begins at home.'"

They were interrupted here by the arrival of two visitors, Hester and Minnie Chesney, and Hope was not pleased at the interruption. Minnie pounced upon her at once.

"You little wretch! What do you mean by keeping us in ignorance of your whereabouts? We only heard yesterday that you were in this part again. We have just come home, you know. Now, you must come to our tennis-party to-morrow without fail."

Hope shook her head.

"I can't, Minnie, thank you. I am not with my aunt now."

"Aren't you? But what difference does that make? We heard from May Fosberry that your father had come home and that you were with him."

"Yes, I am. He is in very bad health, and my time is much occupied at home."

"Rubbish! You can come over to Mrs. Dane, and we are only a few miles farther out. We shall take no excuses. Tell your father you must have some recreation. Are you at Wistaria Lodge?"

"Yes, but we are living very economically, and I am cooking and mending and housekeeping all day long."

"I don't believe you!"

Both girls laughed, but Hester regarded Hope with serious eyes.

"You are looking quite thin," she remarked. "What have you been doing to yourself?"

"And, Hope, have you heard May's last fad? She says she is going to give up society and do something with her life. Don't you hate that phrase? She's what the Dissenters would call 'converted,' I believe! Now, Mrs. Dane, don't look at me with shocked eyes. I'm awfully fond of you, but I'm not fond of your religion."

"I wish," said Hope, slowly and emphatically, "that I was as good as May is."

"May is all right," Hester said abruptly; then she turned to talk to Lancelot.

Conversation became general, but Hope soon rose to leave. She cheerfully but decidedly told Minnie that she could not accept her invitation, whereupon that young lady declared that she would swoop down upon her very soon and carry her off by force.

"And have you not a brother? What is he doing? He is sure to like tennis, if you don't. You must bring him with you."

"He is at work."

"What is he doing?"

"I really don't know," and as she spoke, Hope hesitated.

"Something in the City, I expect. That's what most young men say about here," said Minnie, laughing.

As she walked home, Hope began to ponder over Brian. She wondered if he ever wanted relaxation like most young men, or if he were perfectly content to work all day, and come home at night to attend to the wants of his household, and soothe and cheer an irritable sick man.

"I really must make him tell me what he does. He seems so secretive about it. I wonder if the boys know."

Strangely enough, that very evening Jerry mentioned his brother to Hope.

"Toby and me saw Brian in the town to-day. He has a grand time riding about like a gentleman. I wish father would give us a pony."

"But," said Hope, "Brian works very hard. He was only in the town on business, I expect."

Jerry laughed derisively.

"Nice business! He was following an awfully smart young woman on horseback, and enjoying himself, you bet!"

"Hush!" said Hope. "That isn't the way to speak of Brian."

But the boy's words surprised her.

That evening her father retired to bed early. Sitting out with some work in the garden, she told Brian of her visit to Mrs. Dane's. His brows contracted sternly when he heard about the Chesneys.

"You need not include me in any of their parties," he said somewhat bitterly, "for I am not going near them."

"Well, I don't think I shall go," said Hope; "I have not time. But, Brian, I have been thinking about you to-day. I don't think your life is natural or right. You have told me so little of what you are doing that I do not know if you are hardworked or not, but I do know that you never take a holiday, and even on Sunday you are away from us morning and evening. You ought to have some relaxation in the week. Don't you feel the need of it?"

Brian did not answer for a moment; then he said abruptly:

"Have you come to stay, Hope? Because if you have, I almost think I could go back to Canada. I don't believe father would miss me. And you seem to be getting on all right."

Hope's heart sank within her. She hardly knew herself how much she leant upon her younger brother for help and advice, but now the thought of living in Kayminster without him filled her with dismay.

"I'm glad you think I'm getting on all right," she said with her bright laugh, "but I hide up a lot of my delinquencies from you, remember! Are you very anxious to get back to Canada?"

"I would stay, of course, if father really wanted me, but I'd have a chance of getting on if I went back. You must remember Canada is more my home than England—I know the ways of it better."

"And do you dislike your work here very much? Brian, won't you tell me what it is? Trust me. I will let it go no further. I know it is honest work; you have told me so. I imagine it is horse-breeding, is it not, with some big farmer?"

Brian gave a short laugh. He was on his knees weeding a flower-bed. Now he stood up and squared his shoulders, looking at his sister rather defiantly.

"It is for your sake that I have said nothing about it. I am not ashamed of it, but you may be, having your grand friends all round this part. Would you like me to tell you?"

"Yes," said Hope quietly, "I should."

"Then here it is. I am groom in Lord Cotes's stables."

For one moment Hope was petrified. She had met Lord Cotes in town, and though she had not happened to meet him when she had last been in Kayminster, the Chesneys knew him well, and were often over at the Hall. He lived about three miles out of Kayminster.

"Why—why did you not tell me before?" she asked falteringly.

"Because I did not want to see the look on your face that you have at this moment. You, need not be afraid. I have left out the 'Saint' in my name, and he does not associate Brian Clair, the second groom, with Miss Hope St. Clair, a Society beauty!"

"Oh, Brian, don't be so bitter! I am not—not ashamed—but I'm sorry for you, that you should be in such a position. What made you do it?"

"Necessity, and perhaps inclination. I am fond of horses and really understand them. I got the job, remember, before you came to us."

"And you want to give it up?"

"You won't be so loth to let me go now that you know what my billet is!"

"I don't care what it is!" Hope cried impulsively. "I shall miss you immensely, but if it is for your good, I will, of course, try to get on without you. Why, Brian!"—her eyes brightened as she turned them on him—"I admire you intensely for your pluck and unselfishness. I only wish I were half as plucky myself!"

Brian heaved a sigh. He seemed relieved at having made a clean breast of it.

"I could not dangle round doing nothing!" he said. "And father does not know. I don't believe he would mind if he did. But I've been afraid of being recognised by you when I've been riding about. I know what you feel. And, of course, I'm making nothing by my job—only just supporting myself."

"I don't know about that," said Hope. "You have given me a good bit towards the housekeeping."

After further talk, she promised to discuss his leaving for Canada with her father; but when she was alone in her room that night, her courage almost failed her.

Brian did not know the struggle and strain of her daily life. Her very unfitness for it, owing to her lack of training in economy and usefulness, made it much more laborious than it need have been. Brian, returning after the day's work had been done, did not realise how exhausting it was to both mind and body, and Hope prided herself upon not enlightening him.

Yet as she leant out of her window as usual to hear the midnight chimes of the cathedral, she repeated to herself the verse that was her comfort through it all:

"'Peace, perfect peace, by thronging duties press'd?
To do the will of Jesus, this is rest.'"

Chapter VIII

HOPE'S CHOICE

"FATHER, do you remember the buffalo at the Red River?"

Hope was walking the next day with her father through the meadows by the river's bank when she asked this question.

Mr. St. Clair looked at her in astonishment; then gave a short laugh.

"Yes, I shall not forget it. Who has been talking to you about it?"

"Mr. Dane. He was secretary to the Premier of Canada some years ago, and said he met you out there."

"Lance Dane! I'd no idea he was in these parts. A fine fellow. I owe him my life."

"Do tell me about it. He gave me no particulars."

"I was camping out by myself by the river; there was only one bit of beach just where I was. On the opposite side were straight cliffs over a hundred feet in height. And one day a hunted buffalo came right down upon me, crashing through my tent and awakening me from a midday nap. I could not get at my rifle in time, and had to fly. He chased me down to the water's edge. I felt his hot breath on my back, and without a thought plunged into the river to escape him. He did not attempt to follow me, but stood on the bank, stamping and bellowing with fury. And I found pretty soon that I was trapped. I could not swim across, for I could get no foothold the other side; lower down the river were rapids, and there was no landing for miles the upper end. So there I was swimming about, and saw no chance of being released!"

"How dreadful! I wonder you did not get the cramp!"

"I was in the water a pretty long time, and then, as I was at the end of my tether, your friend came on the scene. He had been tracking the buffalo, and put a bullet into him which finished him. I saw the brute drop, but I was so exhausted by my long wait that I couldn't get to shore, so young Dane swam out and towed me in. I should like to see him again. We camped together for a week after that."

"He will be glad to come and see you," said Hope confidently.

She often wished that her father had friends of his own. A few people had called upon them, but had never been asked inside. Mr. St. Clair always said he was not well enough to see visitors.

Then she introduced the topic that was so much in her thoughts.

"Father, would you miss Brian much if he went back to Canada?"

Mr. St. Clair looked genuinely surprised.

"Has he told you he wants to return?" he asked quickly.

"He thinks he would get on better out there, and I expect he would, if we can make up our minds to spare him."

"The question is," said her father slowly, "are you prepared to look after the small boys and stay with me, or will you be wanting to return to your aunt?"

Hope was silent for a moment. In the quietness of her own room the night before, she had seen that Brian's emancipation meant her complete absorption into her father's family. The conflicting claims of aunt and father clashed together, and she seemed unable to decide which claim was to come uppermost. She glanced at her father now; she noted the weary stoop in his shoulders, the nervous, restless hands, and the worn, faded eyes; his hand was leaning heavily on her arm, and his steps as faltering and unsteady as a man ten years his senior. Then she said softly and decidedly:

"I will stay with you, father, as long as you want me."

And she realised, as she said it, that she was renouncing a life of luxury and ease for that of constant anxiety, hard work, and struggle to make both ends meet.

"I must write to Aunt Gertrude and explain it to her," was her inward resolve.

"If that is the case," said Mr. St. Clair, "we can let Brian go. I will have a talk with him to-night. He is a good lad, but a trifle too sedate for his years. When I think of myself at his age, I wonder at him; but he will be better than his father, who is nothing but a failure."

"I won't have you say that," said Hope cheerily. "It is your health that cripples you now, and we are hoping that that will improve."

When they returned home, Hope saw a motor standing outside the gate. Anne met her with a beaming face.

"A gentleman friend of yours, miss," she said, already scenting out romance. "He's in the draw'n'-room, please, and his name is Horrocks."

"It's only Jim, father," said Hope, relief in her tone. "You won't mind him, I am sure; he's a very nice young fellow, and knows Brian and likes him."

"I'll go to my room," her father said irritably; "I don't want your London visitors here, and won't see them. You can send my supper up to me. What does he want here?"

"He has only just called to see me, I expect," said Hope.

And then she went into the drawing-room, feeling her natural pleasure at seeing one of her old friends damped by her father's tone.

Jim Horrocks was seated in her father's easy chair; Jerry and Toby, home from school, were entertaining him.

He sprang up as Hope entered.

"Ah!" he said, as he shook hands with her. "I have been hearing astonishing histories of your ambitious efforts in the domestic line. I'm surprised to see you so like yourself. I expected to find you a Cinderella amongst the cinders."

Hope looked down at her spotlessly clean linen gown, and then up at him with a laugh.

"I'm so glad to see you. You're a bit of such a different life. I hope you have given me a good character, boys!"

Toby grinned.

"We told him what your first cake was like!" he said.

"He's been asking a million questions about you," asserted Jerry eagerly, "and some of them we've answered quite truthfully."

"I wasn't born yesterday, you young ruffian!" said Jim easily. "And I knew Hope long before you did, so have got the advantage of you."

"Go and wash your hands and make yourselves tidy for tea," said Hope.

And as the boys rushed noisily from the room, she turned to meet Jim's gaze fixed critically upon her.

"I'm going to be quite frank," he said. "I am a spy, and a willing one. Your aunt has begged me to look you up and let her know how things are going with you. And I should say, from my informers' remarks, that you have been having a pretty rough time."

"No, not exactly that," replied Hope.

"Aren't you tired of poverty?" said Jim. "You see I'm pretty outspoken. Your aunt is soon returning to town, and she wants to find you there to welcome her."

"Ah!" said Hope, with a quick-drawn breath. "That will never be, I am afraid."

"Your father is not exerting his parental authority to keep you here?"

"No, oh no! I am a free agent, but my place is here, Jim; and for many reasons, though I'm sorry to leave Aunt Gertrude, I'm not sorry to leave society."

"I hate that word 'society,'" said Jim. "What does it mean? You haven't left society, for you can have that here."

"My father will see no one; he refuses to see you, Jim."

"May I say, 'all the better'?"

The door opened, and Anne appeared.

"Please, miss, is the gentleman stoppin' to supper?"

"Of course I am," said Jim promptly, and Anne withdrew giggling.

Hope laughed out her merry laugh of old.

"There!" she said. "Now you see our one treasured domestic. Let us come into the dining-room; you must be longing to have some food if you have motored from town."

"HOPE, YOU ARE CHANGED," JIM SAID, SUDDENLY.

Jim Horrocks made the evening meal a very bright one. But busy as his tongue was, his eyes were busier. He saw Hope in a new light, and contrasting her present homely sphere with the brilliant one in town, he came to the conclusion—man-like—that this was where she shone.

Hope looked after her small brothers, ran up and down stairs to her father, then settled the boys to their lessons, and paced round the garden with Jim.

"Brian will be late home to-night," she said to him. "I should like you to wait and see him. He gets so few chances here of talking to any men."

"Hope, you are changed."

Jim said this suddenly.

"Yes," Hope said quietly; "I am, in my interests and aims."

"What has changed you?"

"Religion—God, I will rather say. I see life quite differently now from what I did."

"Is it a passing phase of sentiment?"

"I hope not—I know it is not."

Jim gave a little sigh.

Hope looked at him.

"Oh, Jim, I wish you would read your Bible!"

He gave a little start, then laughed.

"Are you going to preach?"

"Yes, if you will listen for five minutes."

Jim took out his watch and held it in his hand.

"I'm all attention."

Hope plunged into the subject which was now so absorbing to her.

"Canon FitzRoy made me begin to think. Have you begun, Jim? Life is not given to us to fritter away. We shall be held responsible if we do. We believe in God, but we don't believe that we belong to Him, not only because He created us, but because we have been redeemed from the devil's power by Christ's death on the cross. And when we understand this, when we give up ourselves to God's service, and look to Him for guidance and help and strength through our daily life, it makes everything so different. And it gives one peace. Peace about our past sins which are forgiven, and our present life, and our future in the other world. There, Jim, it doesn't take long to tell, but I mean every word of it, and I'm longing that every one I know should have my experience."

Jim Horrocks shook his head slowly at her as she finished speaking.

"I'm sorry, but your words are perfectly meaningless to me. I've heard them before, a thousand times, but they convey nothing to my mind."

Hope's face fell, then she said slowly:

"You'll never understand till you get a craving for peace. And then when it comes, it is just like a new life."

"I never thought," said Jim irrelevantly, "that you would adapt yourself to this kind of life so easily. Why did you always say that you could never face poverty?"

Hope smiled.

"It isn't half bad," she said. "I'm happy enough, except when I think about Aunt Gertrude. She has still a big bit of my heart."

"She is bringing your substitute to town with her."

"Oh, I'm so glad. I hope she is a nice girl. That will interest Aunt Gertrude, I know!"

Jim did not stay to meet Brian; he said he had to start back for town early. His visit did Hope good. She wondered after he had gone why she felt it so much easier to talk to Jim than to Brian, and she wished the latter was a little less reserved and silent. But this evening, when she told him of the conversation she had had with her father, Brian became quite eager and talkative.

"I have a chance of going back the beginning of next month," he said. "I know the captain of an emigrant ship, and he said he would give me a cabin to myself for half-fare. He's an awfully decent chap. You'll be all right with father, won't you? You see, he's ever so much better now. Not half so cranky and queer as he was when we first arrived in England."

"Yes, I think he is taking more interest in things; he talks of fishing. I wish he would take up something like that."

Hope did not let Brian see that her heart sank at the prospect before her. She felt convinced in her own mind that he was best out in Canada, and perhaps his present employment furthered his cause. It was only natural that Hope should feel a great distaste for the position in which he had put himself. Though she honoured him for being willing to take service in a place near his father, so that he should not be an expense to him and at the same time be able to look after him, yet, girl-like, she dreaded her friends meeting her brother in his guise as groom.

Mr. St. Clair talked over everything with his son that night, and Brian went to bed for the first time with a hopeful heart. His spirits rose at once, and for the next few days he seemed like a different being.

Hope got the following note from Jim Horrocks soon after he had left her:

"MY DEAR HOPE,—The spy has reported the land to your good aunt, and I told her my certain conviction that cart-horses would not drag you away at present from your 'sphere of usefulness.' Have you not heard that expression from the lips of 'good' people? You see how apt I am at catching it from them! Well, if I were your father and brothers rolled into one, I would stick to you like a burr! And I have told your aunt so. I also told her I was quite willing to motor down every now and then and report to her your progress. So expect me to arrive any day!

"Yours,

"JIM."

Hope sat down on the strength of this epistle and wrote a long letter to her aunt.

Mrs. Daubeney was not a good correspondent, so Hope was not disappointed at hearing very seldom from her, but this time her letter was answered by return of post.

"MY DEAREST HOPE,—I am returning to town next week. I quite believe all you say, but Brian has no business to transfer his responsibility to you, and tell him from me I shall be extremely angry if he goes back to Canada and leaves you alone. You are not fit to have charge of that household. We shall be having you ill next. I am glad you have the consolation of religion to cheer you, but I do not think that I need it at present. Eva is being much admired, and I am going to take her on a round of visits in the autumn. We go to the Campbells in Scotland about the first week in September, and we are going to be in the hands of the dressmaker whilst we are in town. Give your father my love, and much to yourself. I am glad he is better in health. Your affectionate aunt,—

"GERTRUDE."

Hope mused over this letter with a little sadness in her eyes. She had poured out her heart to her aunt in her last letter, telling her of the change in her inmost soul, and this was the reply.

"Aunt Gertrude does not really miss me, and I ought to feel glad that she does not. It makes it easier for me."

She repeated this assertion over and over to herself, and went about her household tasks with her usual serenity.

Chapter IX

A HOLIDAY

ONE afternoon Lancelot Dane came to see her father.

Hope was sitting out in the garden reading the "Times" to Mr. St. Clair. She was delighted to see her father welcome his visitor with more warmth of manner than he had ever shown towards any one before. And after a few desultory remarks, she got up and left them together.

Half an hour later, she, assisted by Anne, brought out tea upon the lawn, and she heard with pleasure her father's hearty laugh as he talked with Lancelot. When she joined them, the latter turned at once and included her in the conversation.

"I am going to take your father fishing to-morrow, Miss St. Clair. Will you spare him for the day? Did he tell you that we did a week of camping out together once in Canada?"

"Yes," said Hope; "I have heard how you rescued him from the buffalo. I am sure fishing will do him good."

Mr. St. Clair shook his head doubtfully.

"I will try it, but it will be an experiment," he said.

"Will you join us at lunch, Miss St. Clair?" asked Lancelot in his keen quick tone. "You look as if you want a day out."

Hope seemed for a minute as if she were going to say yes. Then she remembered her small brothers.

"No," she said, stifling a sigh, "I must give the boys their early dinner and see them off to school."

"Let them dine alone for once; it will do them good."

Mr. St. Clair looked at his daughter thoughtfully.

"I think the day out would do you good," he said; "you had better come."

"Perhaps I might. I could trust the boys for once."

The longing in her eyes touched her father.

"You young people want diversion sometimes," he said. "I'm afraid you miss your gaiety now."

Hope turned away. The extraordinary kindness of her father's tone brought the tears to her eyes, and she would not let them be seen.

One quick comprehensive look Lancelot gave her, then he said lightly:

"Very well, we will consider it settled that you come to look after us, Miss St. Clair, and I will call here to-morrow at ten o'clock, if that time will suit."

"It will be delicious," said Hope impulsively; and she told Brian later that she was going "to have her day out."

"I feel like Anne did when she departed last Thursday. She said to me, 'I means to be a lady for the day!'"

The next day was bright and sunny. The boys vowed they would be perfect saints at dinner-time; and at half-past ten Hope, with a radiant face, was walking along the buttercup meadows between her father and Lancelot Dane. She chatted unreservedly to the latter.

Her father was in one of his silent moods, and when they came to the river, soon fixed upon his spot and got out his rod. Lancelot sauntered further on.

"And now I mustn't speak to either of you till lunch-time," said Hope to him. "I know what fishermen are like. And I shall be quite as absorbed in my book that I have brought with me, and my thoughts, as either of you are with your fish. And I think I shall choose that tree for my resting-place."

"Capital! We will have lunch under its shade. You wouldn't like to have a line yourself? I have a second rod with me."

"No, thank you. I have never had sufficient practice to be a good fisherwoman. Besides, I don't like the moment when the fish are wriggling on the hook. I wish violent deaths were not necessary in the world. Why should not everything live its allotted time and die of old age?"

"It would be more cruel in some cases," said Lancelot promptly. "They would die of lingering starvation—no teeth or claws to kill their prey, and no one to attend to their needs."

"But they need have no prey. Could we not live without preying upon each other?"

"We could be vegetarians; but apply that to carnivorous animals, and I fancy their strength and beauty and intelligence would suffer in consequence. We can't turn the world into the millennium before its time, you know."

"Do you believe in a millennium?"

"Do not you?"

"I know so little of these things," said Hope, with a deprecating shake of her head.

"So do most of us, but we get the outlines given to us in the Bible."

"I wish you would tell me some of them. But not now. I shall interrupt your sport."

He smiled, and watched her walk away with her easy grace to the old oak-tree a short distance off. And then he turned to his fishing with a little contraction of brow.

Hope, seated under the shady tree, looked out that summer morning upon the beauties of nature with a keen sense of enjoyment. The murmur of the river in front of her, with all the wonderful lights and shadows from the fleeting clouds above, the rich golden sheen of the cornfield on the slope of the hills, the graceful droop of the willows by the water's edge, and the green meadows around her with the cows lazily munching as they moved to and fro, all combined to form a picture that remained in her memory for years to come. She did not read, but closing her eyes gave herself up to the bliss of meditation, and the rarity of such leisure in the morning intensified the delight she felt at it now.

She was startled at last by her father's voice.

"What! No lunch? Look at my luck!"

He opened his basket and showed a handsome trout weighing quite three pounds, and a few smaller ones besides. Then Lancelot Dane found them, but he had not been so fortunate. He insisted upon helping Hope to unpack the luncheon-basket.

"It is my place to wait on you, not yours to wait on me," he said; "I have nothing to show for my morning's efforts, so ought to work for my lunch."

"I have nothing to show for my morning," said Hope; "for it has only benefited me. How I have enjoyed it!"

Mr. St. Clair had also enjoyed himself. Hope had not seen her father so bright for a long time.

"I have heard a London physician say," said Lancelot, when Mr. St. Clair mentioned his health, "that a few hours spent every day in pure country air would do more for his patients than tons of medicine and special diet."

"Yes, but it is an expensive cure for many," said Mr. St. Clair. "I am talking of breadwinners, of course. That is why the colonies do so much for our young fellows. But there comes a time when fresh air will do nothing for you."

Gloom settled upon his face again, and Hope turned the conversation quickly upon the different species of trout.

Luncheon over, Mr. St. Clair, encouraged by his success, went back to his sport. Lancelot stayed where he was, under the oak-tree, and asked permission to smoke a pipe.

Unconsciously Hope began to tell him a good deal about herself; he invited confidence. And she gave details of her past London life, as well as her present one. They found they had several mutual friends in town, and presently Lancelot said:

"I suppose you have a good many friends, have you not? What do they say to your sudden disappearance from society?"

"I don't know that I have very many real friends," Hope said thoughtfully. "I suppose I could number them on my five fingers. And time and absence will reduce them. It always does."

"Are you given to making sudden friendships?"

"No, I do not think I am. How would you define a friend, Mr. Dane?"

He was silent. For a moment his eyes rested on her with deep thought, then he said:

"A friend is some one who comes into our life to stay there."

"I suppose so. That is what one would wish."

"After such a definition, do you think it premature of me to propose that you and I should become friends?"

If Hope was a little startled, it was only because Lancelot Dane was such a different stamp of man from most of her acquaintances. Such a speech did not seem like him.

She tried to answer lightly.

"We are friends already, I think. I cannot regard you as otherwise, when I know at one time you saved my father's life."

"Friends for all time?"

She looked at him, and for an instant their eyes met. In that moment, with a quick-caught breath, Hope realised that this quiet man, with his resolute face, was going to dominate her being. It was no idle talk with him. He seemed to be weighing every word he spoke. Turning her face away towards the flowing river, she said very gently:

"Yes."

Lancelot rose to his feet, and took a few quick turns up and down the meadow before he spoke again.

"Will you smile if I tell you something? You remember the first time you came into the cathedral? We were perfect strangers. I had never seen you before, but I had an intuition then that I should see you again, that I should speak to you, that I should know one day the cause of the trouble that was upon your face—may I say the tears that you shed in that dark corner of yours?"

Hope looked up genuinely astonished.

"How observant you must be! I was very unhappy that afternoon, but it was a turning-point in my life. And the hymn I heard sung so sweetly was what helped me and stayed with me. Do you remember it—'Peace, perfect peace'? I feel it has woven itself into my life. I am living in the second verse now."

"It is my mother's favourite hymn. I know it well. I learnt it as a boy to please her."

He stood still, looking down upon her, until Hope felt nervous under his gaze, and rather abruptly suggested that she should join her father. Lancelot acquiesced, and accompanied her further down the river. Just before they joined Mr. St. Clair, he said:

"And now, Miss St. Clair, whilst I am in England I want to claim a friend's privileges. Will you send for me when your father wants a cheery chat? If you want help at any time with those youngsters, will you turn to me? If you have any commissions or messages to friends in town, will you let me take them? You see, I mean to prove my genuineness."

"You are very kind. Are you soon returning to India?"

"In another six weeks or so. I must tell you that my mother is very anxious that I should give up my appointment out there. We have a small property in the North of England which has been let for a number of years, but the tenant has just died, and things want looking into. Her great desire is that I should settle there myself, and I know she would love to return to it, for it is the house in which we boys spent our childhood and in which my father died. But I feel I am not old enough yet to retire into such a life of ease. I want to be in the battle of life, not in a backwater. And my mother's reason and judgment are with me in this, if her heart is against the Indian life."

"I suppose it is not a large enough property to employ you there?"

"Not unless I dismiss our agent; and he has been working for us all his life, so I could not."

No more was said. Hope did not leave her father till it was time to return home, but as they separated, Lancelot took her hand in his.

"Goodbye, Miss St. Clair. We have made a covenant of friendship to-day, remember! The future will hold us to it."

He smiled as he spoke, and Hope found it an effort to respond as lightly as she wished.

"A new friend is always welcome," she said, "especially in Kayminster."

But as she turned into the house, she took herself to task with some severity for the rapid beating of her heart.

Chapter X

HESTER'S BEES

"YOU will excuse my coming at this hour of the morning, but I am on my way home from the station, where I have been seeing mother off to town. And I want you to come back and spend the day with me. I have no attractions to offer you except my bees. Minnie is in Scotland. Will you come and keep me company for the day?"

It was Hester Chesney, who spoke from her high dog-cart, and Hope stood on the doorstep looking at her with wistful eyes.

"I can't have too many holidays," she said, with a little laugh. "I spent a day out fishing, only last Wednesday. I'm afraid I can't come. I'm helping my brother pack for Canada. He is going the end of this week."

"He will spare you for a day. You are looking white and fagged. Ask him. I want to talk to you."

If it had been Minnie Chesney, Hope would have found no difficulty in refusing, for she knew the talk would be of the very lightest description, but there was something about Hester that always made Hope want to know her better. She turned back into the house and sought Brian, who was in the dining-room packing a case of books he wanted to take with him.

"Brian, would you mind if I left you to-day? I feel, when you are gone, I shall be absolutely tied to home, so this will be my last chance. Miss Chesney wants me to spend the day with her. I shall not stay late. They will drive me back in time for supper. I won't go if you want me."

"Oh, go," said Brian, trying to speak graciously. "I'm sure you ought to get the chance if you want it. I'll be here all day."

So a short time afterwards Hope was bowling along the country roads in her friend's high dog-cart.

"I wonder if you would mind paying a visit with me," Hester said. "I want to see a Miss Rill, who really started me with my bees. She's an interesting woman, though only a farmer's daughter, and I think you will like to see her little place. It is such a pretty one."

"I shall be delighted. How good it is to get out of the town! Sometimes I wish we lived in the genuine country. Kayminster is neither country nor town."

"You rather interest me," said Hester, in her slow deep voice. "I have been likening you in my mind to a certain foreign lily we had in one of our hothouses, and which I was convinced would do better in the open-air. It was transplanted, and for a time it caused me some anxiety, for though it fought bravely with its changed circumstances, we had some unusual storms and it nearly succumbed. After an awful night of wind and rain, I visited it early in the morning, and to my supreme satisfaction, though it was very battered, it was raising its head cheerfully towards the sun."

There was silence. Hope's lips were smiling, but her eyes were misty. Then she touched Hester's hand caressingly.

"Thank you for your little parable. I will remember it."

"Do you know anything about bees?" Hester said abruptly.

"No, I'm an absolute ignoramus. Tell me about them."

Hester plunged into her hobby, which by her very enthusiasm she made intensely interesting to the town girl beside her.

And by and by, after a drive of some eight miles, they came to their destination. Hester turned up a narrow lane from the highroad, then drove into a field along a rough cart track, and stopped at a white gate the other side of it. Hope uttered an exclamation of delight. There was a red-brick flagged path leading up from the gate to a quaint old-fashioned cottage. On either side of the brick path were low apple-trees interspersed with clumps of dahlias and summer chrysanthemums, forming a border up to the old green wooden porch. The house was of rough stone with a red-tiled roof, now mossy and mellowed with age. A row of beehives was in front of it, and its walls were covered with climbing roses.

Hester left her trap outside, tying her horse to the gatepost, and she and Hope walked up the little path. To the right and left of them was a green orchard, and fowls seemed to be in all directions. A row of fowl-houses and coops ran the whole length of the orchard at the back.

"It is a small poultry-farm," explained Hester. "Miss Rill is wonderfully successful with it, and she has worked it entirely herself, with a farm lad to help. She has made such a success of it that she is going to retire, and is wanting me to buy the whole concern from her. I wish I could. I have visions of moving myself and belongings into it, and having my bees in the orchard. But they're dead against it at home. She will sell the whole for a mere song. I would like to take up poultry."

"What a pity you cannot," said Hope sympathetically. "I should love to live in a little place like this. It looks a perfect haven of rest. What a charming old well by the side of the cottage!"

"Yes, isn't it a picture? And the water is so good. The fact is, Minnie will not be at home much longer. Her affair with Herbie Aubyn is coming on again. I shall be the only one left to look after mother, and you can't fancy her living in an ideal cottage like this!"

They had reached the door, which stood partly open, and Miss Rill came out to greet them. She was a little fresh-faced woman, though her forehead was lined and puckered with many a wrinkle; thick grey hair rolled back from her forehead, and her eyes were full of the most remarkable wistfulness. Her skirts were short; a big blue print apron covered her; but she looked, as Hope remarked afterwards, as if she had stepped out of a bandbox.

She shook hands with them, and ushered them into her sitting-room. Hope looked about her with interested eyes. There was a tiny square space inside the front door and a steep flight of stairs facing it. To the right was the sitting-room, a very fair-sized room with low long window and deep window-seat. I It was plainly furnished. Two old oak cupboards stood on each side of the fireplace, and a round table in the centre of the room. A horsehair sofa against the wall, a glass bookcase, two shelves of china, and a few odd chairs, completed the furniture. But everything was spotlessly clean and bright.

Seeing Hope's admiration in her eyes, Miss Rill asked her if she would like to look over the house. She took her into the kitchen the other side of the passage, and this was the picture of cosy comfort. A beautiful old oak dresser, a grandfather clock, and an old oak bureau were evidently relics of Miss Rill's farmhouse home. There were copper and brass pans which shone like burnished gold. The deal table was scoured as white as if it were new. The red-brick floor, with the coloured rug before the blazing fire, and a row of scarlet geraniums in the window, gave a tone of brightness and colour to the room.

"Oh," exclaimed Hope, "this is where I should like to spend my days!"

"Yes," said Miss Rill, with a smile, "it is a nice room to my liking. But I'm out of doors half my days, and the other half goes in cooking and cleaning. I have a woman twice a week to help me, and my lad is useful, but it is a busy life, when all's said and done."

"You are looking forward to a rest?" said Hester.

Miss Rill gave a dubious smile.

"I'm going to enjoy the 'fruit of my labour,'" she said. "Isn't that Bible words? Now let me show you my dairy, and then my four bedrooms."

The dairy was perfection in Hope's eyes. The bedrooms, though with sloping roofs, were wonderfully light and airy. Then the little woman insisted upon giving them a glass of milk and some of her home-made cake. Hester and she began to talk about bees, and Hope sat still and lapsed into daydreams. Presently she caught the word "London."

"All my life," said Miss Rill, "I've longed to see it. And these five years gone, I feel as I've been linked with it, so to speak, supplying it with eggs and poultry and honey. You know, I send straight to the Army and Navy Stores, Miss Chesney. My brother was one of the foremen there before he died, and he got me the connection. That's how I've done so well. Now I'm going to walk in its streets and live like a lady in it."

"But," said Hope, "how will you be able to adapt yourself to town life after this? How can you leave this? You will feel lost there!"

"Not at all," responded Miss Rill. "I'm an educated woman, and can appreciate all that London has to give me. I will visit picture-galleries, and read the latest books, and have a sitting in Westminster Abbey itself if the sermons there are to my taste."

Hope tried not to smile.

"And," Miss Rill continued, with increased earnestness, "there will be shops, and dressmakers, if I want to be amused; and perhaps a very choice concert, and a sight of the King and Queen. I've thought it all out. It's the dream of my life coming true."

The passionate ring of her tons seemed quite pathetic to Hope.

Then as Hester took her leave, she accompanied them down to the garden gate.

Hester paused there, and looked back at the house.

"It is the dream of my life to come here," she said. "I wonder if I ever will? Have you heard of any purchaser yet?"

"No, not yet. They say it's too far from the station. Smart farmers laugh at my donkey-cart, but it has been quite sufficient for me. I'm in a hurry to get it off my hands before the winter comes on. I'd let it go very cheap, Miss Chesney."

"Yes, I know."

Miss Rill looked up her flagged path to her cottage, then she tapped the bricks gently with her foot.

"It isn't as if I shall be alone in London," she said softly. "And if I can be buried in the London cemetery with him, we'll be close together on the Resurrection Day. You understand, Miss Chesney, don't you?"

"Indeed I do. But you may meet him alive and well."

"No, I'm not desirous of doing so. I can explain in the next world. That will satisfy me."

Hope was mystified. The soft light in Miss Rill's faded blue eyes and the hush of her voice transformed her at once from an ordinary countrywoman into an interesting personality.

When they were in the dog-cart again, Hope turned to her friend.

"I scent a romance. Do tell me."

Hester smiled.

"Poor little woman! It was only the other day she confided in me, and having once broken the ice, she now alludes to it whenever we meet each other. It was many years ago. Quite twenty, I think she told me. A certain Robert Manners, farming with his father, wanted to marry her, and she was foolish. She fancied that another man, a country solicitor, was courting her, and though her heart was with Robert, her ambition told her that the solicitor would raise her in the social scale. So she refused the substance for the shadow. The solicitor never proposed to her, but married some one else; and though Robert remained faithful, her pride would not let her yield to him.

"She explained at some length to me that she would not have him think that she accepted him as a last resource. The poor man was desperately in love with her. He lived only half a mile away, and spent all his leisure time in helping her with her poultry. At last, he grew restless and gave up his farming, going up to London to join an uncle in the bookselling trade.

"The last day he was at home, he spent in planning a surprise for her. She was away at market, and he brought over a load of bricks, and with his own hands flagged that little path for her. She had often complained of the mud and wet in winter time. When she came home, she found it done, and a note on the doorstep with these words only:

"'When you tread your garden path you will be treading on rejected love.'

"The poor thing sobbed as she repeated these words to me. I am sure she expects to meet him in London, but she won't admit it. Her whole life lately has been spent in saving for this object."

"Poor woman! What a pathetic romance! I should not like to tread that path so often." Hope's eyes filled with tenderness.

Hester glanced at her and smiled.

"Ah, well, she has an object in life. No one is really unhappy who has that."

"You are a delightful person to talk to, for you give food for thought," said Hope, in her bright tone. "Is that the reason of so many people's 'ennui,' I wonder?"

"Don't you think it is? A life without an object is so pitiful, so animal, if you understand the expression."

"I am thinking over all my friends and acquaintances—myself included. But I have known some very unhappy people who certainly have had an object in their lives. They have striven for it relentlessly and untiringly, but it has not made them happy."

"But it has given or maintained zest for life, has it not? I think the saddest part of a woman's life is when she sees nothing in front of her, and can only look back. Then she doesn't care if she lives or dies."

Some hidden passion in Hester's tone set Hope wondering. They did not speak much for the rest of the drive. Hester was a good hostess, and Hope took herself to task for the enjoyment she felt at being once again in luxurious surroundings. It seemed so much more natural to sit down to a dainty luncheon, and then to rest in the soft cushioned chairs in the pretty drawing-room, and talk of books and topics of the day, than to be absorbed with Anne's black fingermarks on dinner-plates, the boys' worn stockings, or upon the butcher's or baker's weekly books.

Then Hester took her out to her bees, and here Hope was interested at once.

Hester had been allowed to take possession of one of the old walled kitchen gardens; here in rows against the sunny south wall were her beehives. She had houses for storing and packing the honey, and the old garden was filled with borders of flowers.

"It is such an interesting study to discover the flowers that the bees love best. They don't always go to those we should think the sweetest and the most luscious. They are very fond of blue as a colour, and my mignonette border also is always full of them. You see I have an ideal spot for them. Clover fields outside, and a wild bit of moor upon which they find broom and gorse and heather and pines; then they visit our other kitchen garden for herbs and vegetables. They are fond of turnips and cabbages, borage and wild thyme."

"I always fancied bees visited flowers only."

"Oh no; there are certain trees that they need. The willows by the river are good for them. Now as the autumn begins, I shall have to start feeding them. Did you ever notice that most of our autumn flowers are scentless?"

"I suppose they are," Hope said, running over in her mind's eye the tribes of asters, dahlias, and chrysanthemums, with a variety of them that occurred to her.

"The time for getting honey is over," said Hester, "so the scent is not needed."

"But," said Hope, "I like to think that the sweet-smelling flowers are for us as well as for the bees."

Hester laughed.

"I look at life now from my bees' point of view," she said.

And then she took Hope into her packinghouses and showed her the cases of honey that she had taken quite lately from the hives.

"I send these up to London," she explained. "The sale helps my expenses."

"Oh," said Hope, as they were leaving the garden, "what a wholesome sweet life you lead, Hester, amongst your bees and flowers! How fascinating it must be! And why do so many girls prefer the rush and stir of town life to the rest and peace of the country?"

"Well," said Hester slowly, "I don't know how it will look when the accounts of one's life are jotted up. I shall not rest my head comfortably for the last time on my pillow remembering the total sum of my pounds of honey. It would be rather a poor harvest for a lifetime, would it not?"

"Hester, do you want what I did?"

Hope spoke impulsively, adding quickly:

"Don't stop me,—don't say you don't believe in it!—that it is sentiment, fanaticism, or fancy. It makes life worth living, it gives one a deep undercurrent of peace, and opens up such a wide range of possibilities for a fuller, more abundant life!"

"You little enthusiast!"

Hester stopped by the old garden gate in the wall and stood looking at Hope with a smile upon her face.

"Yes, I know you think it is enthusiasm. Do let me tell you what a difference it has made to me. I have no one to talk to at home. I feel you are sympathetic. I have never forgotten the way you spoke of May Fosberry. 'She is all right,' you said, and if she is, why shouldn't we all be like her?"

"Ah, why?" said Hester, with a twinkle of humour in her eye. "But May is young, and like you, full of enthusiasm. I have lived longer in the world, and seen the end of some phases of life as well as the beginnings."

"I am certain," said Hope stoutly, "that you have never seen the end of any one individual. I'm very ignorant and inexperienced, but I know, like Job, that 'my Redeemer liveth.' It is not a dead Christ we serve, and He will never fail or come to an end if 'phases,' as you call them, will. He came to give life more abundantly, Hester, and I know He has given it to me."

Hester opened the garden gate.

"What a pity your brother is going away," she remarked. "Shall I ever be able to tear you away from your family again?"

"I don't know. Yes, I shall miss Brian dreadfully. Do you know he is the first really unselfish young man that I have seen! I am lost in admiration sometimes. He never seems to think of what he would like or wish, only what others would."

"That sort are rare," remarked Hester.

She kissed Hope upon parting.

"You would shine in any circle," she said, smiling, "for you can fit yourself into any kind of corner."

"But a circle has no corners," said Hope, with her merry laugh. "Goodbye. You must come and see me next, if you will."

Chapter XI

TROUBLE

"IS everything packed, Hope?"

"I think so. Oh, Brian, what shall I do without you? I'm afraid we shall all miss you terribly?"

"You will manage. Father seems ever so much better. He has been quite humorous to-night. I never knew him talk so much before!"

"He is excited about your going away. I thought he looked very flushed at supper-time. Yes, I dare say I shall manage. I ought to be able to. Will you see Aunt Gertrude in town, Brian?"

"Can't. I go straight through to the Great Northern. There's no object in seeing her. She would only begin lamenting about you and your 'lost chances,' as she described it when I saw her last."

Hope and Brian were talking together in the drawing-room. He was leaving early the next morning, and as Hope realised that they might not see each other for a very long time, she prayed for the courage she felt she needed. She was standing at the open window, her hand on a climbing rose outside. Suddenly she turned round and confronted her brother with grave sweet eyes.

"Brian, I want to say something to you. You won't be vexed? You are so silent, so self-contained, that I often wonder what your thoughts are about. I know you have had very few opportunities of going to church, but do you ever honestly think about religion in any shape or form?"

Brian looked at her queerly.

"Well, I won't say I haven't given it a thought since you came to live with us, for I believe it is at the bottom of your content. I rather looked for sulks and tears, when you found you had to forgo all your luxuries and pleasures. I know you don't give me credit for much observation, but if I don't say much, I see the more. As far as I make it out, religion is a very satisfying thing for a woman."

"And not for a man? Oh, Brian, just think of the first disciples! And all the men who have fought and suffered for their faith. I do long that you should realise the reality of having our Lord as your Saviour and Friend. It would make the difficult and hard things in life so different, so sweet."

"Well, I'll think about it."

Brian half-shrugged his shoulders. He had a genuine admiration for his sister, and believed in her, but he could not stand much talking. Hope felt she had said enough.

"I have slipped a small Bible into your portmanteau," she said softly. "Will you read it sometimes? You are such a devoted son, such a good brother, that I can't help thinking what a splendid Christian you would make."

"Oh, I'll read it," said Brian abruptly. "I think I'll be turning in now. Good-night!"

He left the room quickly, and with a little sigh Hope turned out the lamp and followed him upstairs.

She was very tired that night, and fell asleep almost directly her head touched the pillow. But, in the grey dawn of the following morning, she was suddenly aroused by a voice outside her door.

"Hope, I want you!"

It was Brian speaking. In an instant Hope knew from his tone that something had happened. She slipped on her dressing-gown and opened her door.

"Is it father?"

"Yes. He is unconscious. I heard him fall. I'm afraid it is a kind of seizure or stroke. Come at once. I must go for the doctor."

Hope followed him silently and swiftly to her father's room.

She found that Brian had been able to get him on the low couch at the foot of his bed, and there he lay, his heavy breathing the only sign of life about him.

"The doctor told me in town this was to be expected," said Brian. "I rather fancy he has had a touch before, just after mother's death. You can do nothing for him, but just watch him. I won't be long."

He disappeared from the room, and Hope sat down by the side of the couch wondering if it were some dreadful nightmare from which she would soon awake. The dawn deepened into broad daylight, and the sun began to creep in, and the twittering of the birds increased outside, before Brian returned.

The doctor understood at a glance what had happened. He sent Hope away with the words:

"It is a slight seizure, Miss St. Clair; your brother and I will get him into bed. We shall bring him round again; do not be afraid."

She went back to her room and dressed herself hastily. Then she called Anne, told her what had happened, and ordered her to get hot water ready as soon as possible, in case it might be wanted.

Anne was voluble with dismay and importance.

"'Tis a stroke, miss, a parrytic seizure; my uncle lay two months, and couldn't use his hands, nor his feet, nor nothin'! I knows all the symtims, and the master will be long before he can be better, an' if Mr. Brian is away, you and me will have our hands full, I can tell you!"

Hope's heart sank, for she realised the truth of Anne's words. When the doctor did come to her, his news was not very reassuring.

"YOU CAN DO NOTHING FOR HIM,
BUT JUST WATCH HIM."

"This may be a long business, Miss St. Clair. You will need a nurse. Shall I send one in? I shall come in again this afternoon to see if there is any sign of consciousness. Perhaps you and your brother would like to talk it over. He says he is not going to leave your father to-day."

"But," said Hope, with bewildered eyes, "he was sailing for America this evening from Liverpool."

"Was he? I fancy that trip will have to be postponed."

The doctor took his departure. For a moment Hope felt quite dazed, then hearing the boys' voices and the thud of their feet as they ran in and out of the bathroom, she went up to them and broke the news.

They took it calmly. Their father had lately been the one member of their household who spoilt their fun, and enforced the quiet that was so irksome to them.

Jerry pulled a long face.

"Poor dad! Will he die?"

"Oh no," Toby assured him quickly; "he'll be all right soon. If he's unconscious, he won't hear any noise, that's a comfort!"

"You must make no noise," said Hope gravely.

Then she left them and went downstairs and began her usual morning duties.

It was a very long day. Brian never left his father's room, except to come outside and send a telegram to his friend, the captain of the vessel in which he had hoped to sail.

"I can't go," he said shortly to Hope, and she experienced the first sense of relief at his words.

When the doctor came in the afternoon there was little change in Mr. St. Clair's state, but Brian negatived the idea of having a nurse.

"I am home, and I can nurse him," he said shortly. "He never could bear women fussing round him."

"Your father is in good hands," the doctor assured Hope before leaving. "Your brother is wonderfully handy in a sick-room."

"He is handy anywhere," responded Hope. "Can you give me any hope about my father?"

"Oh yes, every hope; but he may be a long time recovering. One side is entirely paralysed at present. I hope he may regain consciousness and speech in a few days."

But weeks passed before Mr. St. Clair's condition improved. He was helplessly bedridden, and when all danger was over, Hope and Brian put their heads together as to ways and means. The illness had been an expensive one. If Mrs. Daubeney had not sent Hope a cheque for twenty pounds, they would not have been able to keep out of debt.

From the first day, Brian had not uttered one word of complaint or regret for the relinquishment of his intentions. He waited on his father with ready cheerfulness and patience, and was seldom absent from the sick-room. When Mr. St. Clair was convalescent, and when he realised that his father would require an attendant always with him, that he would not be able to raise himself from his couch, or even convey food to his lips, he told Hope, with a set smile and a quiet voice, that he would be that attendant.

"He can't afford a nurse, and you could not be with him always. I must stay with him."

"Then, Brian, if you cannot earn money, I must."

Hope spoke resolutely, but the flash in Brian's eyes at her suggestion showed her that hidden fires were beneath his calm exterior.

"I don't intend to be an idler," Brian said hotly.

"What are your plans?"

"I hardly know. We must leave this house and get a cottage in the country, if we can. The doctor advises it. The cathedral chimes are having an irritating effect on father's nerves. If we could find a small place not too far away from here, it would be easy. We could live twice as cheaply; and there would be a chance of getting something out of the soil, perhaps."

"Yes," said Hope eagerly; "and I would be able to help you. Why, could we not live as the country people do? Couldn't we grow vegetables and flowers for market? Oh—I have it! It is an inspiration!"

She was silent for a moment, then said more slowly:

"It is capital that we want. I wonder if Aunt Gertrude would help us? I know of a sweet cottage and small poultry-farm. Hester Chesney took me to it the other day, and the owner would sell it very cheap, the goodwill—isn't that the expression?—included. For she has a contract in town with the Stores, to supply them with poultry and eggs."

She told her brother all the particulars she could remember. After the darkness of their outlook, this seemed like a flash of light and brightness. Brian listened and approved; but shook his head at the amount of capital necessary.

"It sounds all right," he said cautiously; "it would be easy work for us. I know a good bit about poultry; and you and I together could look after father and work the place. There are the boys to be considered. I really don't know what to do with them; but the great difficulty is money."

"I will write to Aunt Gertrude at once. She must help us. She is our nearest relation."

Hope went off at once, and wrote her letter.

But a week passed, and she received no answer.

Meanwhile she had sent Brian one day to see Miss Rill, and he came back with light in his eyes.

"It will do," he said, "if we can buy it outright from her as it stands. And I'll tell you rather a curious thing. I went over to look at the church, and met the Vicar wandering round. He is badly off, it appears, and would willingly take the boys as day-pupils for very little. So that difficulty would be solved."

"Oh, if we only could go there!" sighed Hope. She saw herself in the quaint cottage, tending the fowls and flowers, and her longing after a country life increased.

The very next morning, as she sat at breakfast, a letter arrived for her. Hope took it and read it through with dazed eyes again and again before she could realise the truth. It was from her aunt's godchild, Eva.

"DEAR MISS ST. CLAIR,—I feel you ought to be one of the first to hear the sad news. Mrs. Daubeney died suddenly in her sleep last night. The doctor has just told us that it was failure of her heart's action. I dare say you knew that her heart was not strong. My mother has come to me. It has been a great shock. Please excuse haste. I think Mrs. Daubeney was going to write to you, but I don't know what about. She was always talking about you, and I am sure that you, with me, will feel her loss.

"Yours very sincerely,

"EVA."

Hope was quite stunned by this news. She told Brian of it very quietly, performed her usual housekeeping duties, and then went upstairs to her own room, and with locked door sat down by her window to think it out.

She had taken the trouble of her father's illness very calmly, but this seemed to be overwhelming. Mrs. Daubeney had been like a mother to her. And Hope's heart was with her, though perhaps not with her environments. She had always, though unaware of it, considered that Mrs. Daubeney's home was hers to return to, when her father should need her no longer. Her present life was one of probation. Whatever happened, and however many misfortunes might fall upon her, she had her aunt to whom she could turn, and the half-conscious conviction of this had always been her solace.

Now the very foundation under her feet seemed to have slipped away, and with the despairing feeling of insecurity and loneliness, came real grief at the loss of one she loved.

She bowed her head in her hands and wept passionately.

"It is so sudden. I can't believe it. Shall I never be able to take up my old life with her again? Is it all over? I shall have no one to advise me, to care for me! She was the only one. I am an outsider still to my father and brothers. Aunt Gertrude did love me. We had lived so long together, and oh, how I loved her, how I have missed her! I can't believe I shall never see, never speak to her again! Why has life become so clouded for me? It seems one trouble after another. I feel as if I cannot bear them!"

It was a dark hour, but Hope was not left without comfort. And He who is always ready to heal where He wounds, drew near and spoke to her soul.

Brian was very good to her, and was quite ready to spare her when she said she would like to go up to town.

"I shall manage very well. It is quite impossible for me to attend her funeral, or I would. Are we her nearest relations?" Hope replied slowly.

"I believe we are. But, Brian, I must tell you that Aunt Gertrude would never make her will, though she often talked about it. I can't bear thinking of her money now she is gone, but you must remember it came to her through her husband, and by his will after her death it goes to his only nephew, who is somewhere abroad. I know that, for she told me so."

"I wish she had been able to help us about this small poultry-farm," said Brian rather gloomily. "It seems such a chance!"

Hope was absent for a week. She returned home pale and sad. Brian had been hoping against hope that Mrs. Daubeney had at least left her sister some small sum of money. He had no affection for his aunt, so her death did not affect him as it did Hope. To Hope the time in London had been inexpressibly sad. She had seen some of her old friends, and Jim Horrocks had looked after her like a brother, and had tried to comfort her in his own fashion; but all the accounts of her aunt's last days from Mrs. Daubeney's old maid, and the associations of her house and belongings, had weighed heavily upon her spirits.

As she returned to Kayminster in a third-class railway carriage, the girl felt that she had finished now with all ease and comfort in life. Mrs. Daubeney had died, as she feared, without a will. Her house and furniture were to be sold, and the only legacy Hope received was some valuable pearls that bore her name upon the case. As she leant back in her seat, she tried to realise what it would mean. She would have no allowance in the future, but would be absolutely dependent on her father for every penny she would have to spend.

"I shall have to earn my living," was her inmost thought. And that was followed by another—"How can I be spared? In either case, there is a life of toil before me."

As she put her foot down on Kayminster platform, a voice startled her.

"Good afternoon, Miss St. Clair. May I ask how your father is?"

It was Lancelot Dane. She turned to him, trying to hide her depression; but the look with which Lancelot met her glance brought the tears to her eyes.

"I am in trouble," she said confusedly. "My aunt has died suddenly, and I have been to her funeral. Father is about the same."

"I am so sorry for you. We saw the announcement of Mrs. Daubeney's death. I am afraid it must have been a shock to you!"

"I don't think anything will shock me again," said Hope wearily. "There is nothing that could."

He walked by her side after she had given directions for her small portmanteau to be sent to the house. Then he said presently:

"This summer has been a hard one for you."

"It has all come at once, and I hardly know where I am."

"But however deep the waters are, you are not left to tread through them alone."

Hope flashed a look at him.

"Oh!" she said. "If I could only remember that! If this had happened a year ago, where should I have been!"

The strained look on her face passed away. Lancelot was silent for a moment, then he murmured almost under his breath:

"'Peace, perfect peace, with sorrows surging round?
On Jesu's bosom nought but calm is found.'"

Hope drew a long breath, but not one word did she say.

He left her at Wistaria Lodge, but the grasp of his hand made her blood tingle; and though she parted from him in silence, she felt as she went into the house that his few words had been all that she needed.

Chapter XII

THE NEW HOME

THE next morning she and Brian held a serious consultation together. Brian had been bitterly disappointed that all Mrs. Daubeney's money would pass to her husband's nephew. Looking at his sister's sweet unruffled face, he felt a sudden impatience against her rise within him.

"She has no conception of what it will mean to us," he thought; "she does not know the value of money, for she has always had more than enough for her needs. I hate her complacent composure!"

"I suppose you realise," he said a little roughly, "that this illness of father's is draining our resources to the utmost. If I can't leave him, how are we to live? Your allowance will be stopped; we shall be worse off than ever!"

Hope winced, and Brian, meeting the pained look in her eyes, was ashamed of himself.

"I know," she said; "I lay awake last night thinking of it; but I will not be a burden to you, Brian; I am sure I shall be able to earn something!"

"As if I could let you, a girl, be the breadwinner!" he said scornfully.

"Brian, don't let us meet this trouble bitterly and angrily. The loss of dear Aunt Gertrude is far more to me than the loss of her money; but I know she could not be the same to you as she was to me, and I understand your side. I asked the lawyer if we ought to move out of this house at once. I believe it would be best for us to do so, though he said there was no immediate hurry; and I will tell you what I did. I took my pearls to Aunt Gertrude's jeweller, and he has promised to take them from me; he thought he would be able to give me three hundred pounds for them. He is absolutely trustworthy, and after having them tested, he will let me know definitely.

"Now I have been thinking that this will cover the sum Miss Rill asked for her little cottage. Don't you think we could venture on taking it? I promise you I will do my very best to help you there; and if we can have the help of a woman once or twice a week, I think I could manage to do without a servant. The place is so tiny that it will not be nearly so much trouble as a house of this size. What do you think?"

Brian was walking up and down the dining-room with his hands in his pockets, and his brows knit in thought. He looked up when Hope finished speaking, and with a little shake of his shoulders, tried to smile.

"You make me feel a brute!" he said frankly. "But I own we all seemed in a fair way of going under. I hate the idea of taking your legacy, but if you are determined to stick to us, it's the only thing to be done. I believe I could make that place pay, and look after father into the bargain. Now I must go back to him. It's no good to fight with fate. Yours is the best plan, to accept it calmly, and make the best of it."

But Brian little knew what a conflict had been going on in his sister's soul, and how it was only through the words of her favourite hymn that she had remembered and tested the source of her present peace and quietness of mind.

They were not long in making their plans. Hope received the cheque from the jeweller within the next few days; Brian went out and transacted the necessary business with Miss Rill, and before the end of the month they were packing up.

One afternoon Hope was in her bedroom turning out the contents of her wardrobe. As her pretty evening-dresses came to light, the white satin slippers, fans, lace-handkerchiefs, soiled white kid gloves, and all the many requisites of a young girl in society, she felt as if her youth had entirely slipped away, and a dull, sordid middle age commenced.

"I shall never want them again. I shall never be in a position to require them. That bit of life has gone for ever, and I ought to feel glad that it is so. It never really satisfied me."

Then the light came into her tired eyes.

"Life is worth living, though it be in a cottage. I am still young and strong and able to help others. Perhaps, after all, I am only just beginning my true real life, the one that God meant me to live when He made me?"

This thought cheered her, and stayed with her; and she folded her silks and satins away with a light heart, wondering as she did so how she could turn them to the best account. In the midst of it, Anne came up to her to say that Mrs. Dane had called to see her.

Hope ran downstairs. When she entered the drawing-room, Mrs. Dane drew her towards her, and gave her a kiss.

"I am so sorry, dear, that I have not been able to come before. I have only just come home from town, where I have been staying with a sister of mine for the last month. I could only write and offer my sympathy, and now I find we are going to lose you. Where are you going?"

"Only as far as King's Dell. Isn't it a pretty name? It's right in the country, I'm glad to say, about five miles from the Chesneys. It was Hester who showed the place to me; she wanted it for herself, but she is delighted that we have got it."

"And are you pleased?"

"Yes, I truly am. And father likes the idea of it. Oh, Mrs. Dane, it is so pitiful to see him! He lies quite helpless; Brian waits upon him hand and foot, and of course I do what I can to share the nursing."

"You have no nurse?"

"We can't afford one, and nobody will understand that. I don't mind telling you, for you seem such an old friend already, but the death of our aunt leaves us much poorer, and Brian is not able to go to Canada."

"You are having a lot of trouble."

Mrs. Dane regarded the young girl very tenderly. She looked too dainty and frail for the stress of life, and though her cheeks were flushed and eyes bright, it was hardly a healthy animation. She noted the tired lines round her eyes, and the delicacy of her skin.

"Yes, it seems nothing but trouble, and yet now we see daylight. I am thankful we are going to leave this house; it is too big for us."

"You take your maid with you?"

"No, she wants to come, but just at present we can't manage it. We have discovered a woman at a neighbouring cottage. She says she will be able to come in for a couple of hours every morning, and I shall manage quite well. I am looking forward to it. I feel I can do anything with Brian at hand to help me. You don't know how useful he is in a house."

"My dear child, it will be too much for you. What sized house is it?"

Hope gave her particulars, and Mrs. Dane listened for the most part in silence. Then she asked about her aunt's illness, and Hope broke down a little when talking about her.

"It is my first real loss. I can't tell you how I loved her, though we were beginning to get different interests. And I always hoped I should go back to her one day."

"Well," said Mrs. Dane, after some further talk, "I must not pity you too much, but try to cheer you. And I think with you that life will be much easier and simpler in a labourer's cottage. Such an opportunity is not given to every one as it is given to you, of proving yourself superior to your circumstances. You will find, dear, that you will have all needed strength and wisdom supplied. God's children never lack, if they look up."

But as she walked home, Mrs. Dane felt Hope's bright and undaunted courage was almost beyond her own attainment.

"I am filled with astonishment," she confided to Lancelot that evening. "She is the last girl I should have given credit for such grit. Not one murmur, not a foreboding! I believe if she were cast homeless and penniless into the streets, she would set cheerfully to work to sell matches or flowers, and take it all as a matter of course. She fulfils her name."

"Less strength than spirit," remarked Lancelot. "That old aunt of hers who brought her up must have been very thoughtless and selfish. It is hard lines on a girl."

"I wish we could do something to soften her lot, but it is very difficult."

Lancelot did not respond.

But the day Hope and her family moved to King's Dell, he appeared, and took entire charge of the sick man, sending an invalid carriage for him, and accompanying him to the little cottage.

It was fortunately a bright warm day. Brian had arranged that the downstairs sitting-room should be made into his father's bedroom, and one of the four upstair rooms was given to Hope as her sitting-room. The kitchen was to be the general living-room.

Hope delighted in it all; the sweet surroundings of her new home seemed to fall as balm upon her sorrowing spirit. When Mr. St. Clair was safely settled in a comfortable bed, Hope's last anxiety disappeared. Very white and tired she looked as she spoke her thanks to Lancelot for his ready help, but her eyes were shining with content.

"Don't thank me," he said. "It is in our covenant of friendship that we should help each other. Do you know what I am longing to do now?"

"No."

"To compel you to sit in that easy chair, and let me get you a cup of tea. I say tea, for I believe it is a panacea for women's weariness. My stay in India has unfitted me for seeing ladies toil so. My stay in the colonies before I went there has taught me how to be useful. May I do it?"

He spoke so eagerly, yet so wistfully, that Hope hesitated. Her hesitation gave him the opportunity at once. He drew forward the only easy chair in the kitchen, and Hope found herself in it, with a cushion at her back, before she could remonstrate.

"I forbid you to move," he said. "Direct me if you like. I see the kettle is boiling. Shall I find the tea in that cupboard? Ah, here it is! Now for the teapot! I see it, and I shall forage in the larder for the bread and butter. Sit still and see a man make tea. I assure you it will be a success."

"SIT STILL AND SEE A MAN MAKE TEA."

Hope obeyed him. A strange sense of rest and security filled her heart whilst he was by her. She had been working very hard all day. The little house was in good order. Brian was settling things in his father's room; the boys were still at school, and were to come out in a farmer's trap an hour later. She felt she could with justice enjoy a quiet half-hour, and work the better for it afterwards.

As she sat in her chair, she could look out of the half-open door down the flagged brick path with the borders of dahlias and Michaelmas daisies on either side. The sun was getting low, and its golden rays shot across the old mossy trunks of the apple-trees in the orchard beyond. A blackbird was singing its evening song, and the lowing of some cows in a neighbouring field proclaimed the fact that it was milking-time.

Hope drew a long breath, and wondered if it were a dream. Her thoughts went back to a year ago, and she felt as if this past summer had been a lifetime. With the past came recollections of her aunt, and the shadows gathered in her eyes and left their impress on her face.

When Lancelot came into the room from the dairy, and glanced at her, he saw that rest and quiet thought were proving more painful than incessant action, and a longing seized him to take her into his arms and shield her for ever from care and pain. He was a quiet unemotional man upon the surface, but, when his feelings were deeply stirred, his self-control had hard work in suppressing his passion. From the moment he had seen Hope walk into the cathedral that spring evening, in all her fresh daintiness and grace, his heart had been taken captive.

He would not acknowledge it at first. He had seen many fair women in the East, he had noted many eyes brighten at his approach, and cheeks flush with self-conscious pleasure in his presence; and without undue self-esteem, he knew that he could have married over and over again, if he had so wished. Perhaps it was the strong hold that his mother had of his affections; perhaps her sweet and gracious dignity, her cultivated mind, and her winning personality, overshadowed the shallow, light-hearted Anglo-Indian girls of his acquaintance. He compared them all with his mother, and found them wanting. He may have judged them hardly; he saw them always smiling and gay, and did not realise that their frivolous talk often hid their deeper feelings.

But Hope came before him in a different light. It was not her beauty that attracted him; it was the sad wistful pathos in her grey eyes, the quiver of her sensitive lips, the troubled restless soul that looked out of her sweet girlish face. He had noted her tears, and when he left the cathedral with his mother, he vaguely wondered why he was so interested in her. Later on, he heard more about her, and then, when she visited his mother, he saw that the restlessness had passed out of her eyes, and great peace reigned there. From that time, her personality was ever in his thoughts. Now, though his eyes were keenly conscious of her every look and movement, his words were lightly spoken.

"There now!" he said with pride, as he set out her tea on the table beside her. "Am I not as good as my word? The world will look quite different when you've had some tea! I know the ways of women!"

Hope laughed as she took the cup from his hand, and her sadness vanished.

"The world is a pleasant place as viewed from these cottage walls. What a simple thing life is, after all! You only want shelter and warmth and food. I believe we shall get all that here."

"And rest of mind, and sometimes rest of body."

"Yes, I shall have both, certainly the former."

Hope looked away out of the window as she spoke. Then as her glance came back to Lancelot, her eyes twinkled.

"What would your mother say if she saw you now?"

"She would be glad to see her teaching from early boyhood carried out. She is old-fashioned, Miss St. Clair, and thinks that men ought to wait on women. I should wish your brother had had such a teacher."

"You must not abuse Brian. He is a dear good boy. I can't tell you how I admire him. And oh, Mr. Dane, if you saw his gentleness and patience with my poor father!"

"Yes, but I should also like to see more chivalrous attention to his sister."

Lancelot's voice rang sternly.

Hope hastened to change the subject, and they had an animated discussion upon the "simple life," with its attendant difficulties for educated people. When Brian came in, Lancelot got up to go.

"Look after your sister," he said, "and remember you cannot expect a race-horse to do a cart-horse's work."

"Now what does the fellow mean by that?" said Brian wrathfully, as he watched his retreating figure down the brick walk.

Hope laughed.

"Very impertinent, is he not? Come and sit down, Brian. I will go to father."

"He is asleep. We shall hear him if he wakes."

Brian smothered a quick sigh as he sat down on the old-fashioned window-ledge.

"Well," he said, "you've got it very shipshape here. I think we shall pull through all right. And if you want help in cooking, remember I'm colonial through and through, and can bake bread or cook a joint with any one, not to speak of making rabbit stews, and even an apple-tart!"

"We shall manage famously," said Hope cheerily, "and I shall look to you to make up my deficits."

Her short rest was over, but it had done her good, and when the boys arrived an hour later, she was equal to the task of quieting their high spirits, and getting them comfortably through their evening meal, and to bed in one of the attics.

Then she stood at the open cottage door, looking across the orchard in the waning light, and her heart rested itself on a verse she had read that morning in her Bible:

"When the Lord giveth quietness, who then can make trouble?"

The loss of her aunt, the distressing helplessness of her father, the scarcity of money, and the prospect of daily toil and anxieties, could not seem to touch her with the assurance of God's quietness and peace filling her soul.

She laid her tired head on her pillow that night with a smile upon her lips, and a prayer in her heart for guidance and strength.

In the days that followed, even Brian marvelled at her. Not that she was perfect. She made many and ludicrous mistakes, and the housekeeping did not run smoothly at first. But each day added to her experience, and the sweet air and country surroundings soothed and comforted her. She spent many hours with her father, for Brian's time was necessarily taken up with starting the poultry.

The boys were rather a trial at first. They were delighted with their new home, but Hope found the lack of space for them to play in a great difficulty. However, they soon settled down, and went to the Vicarage regularly morning and afternoon to be taught by the Vicar. Upon the third day of lessons, the Vicar and his daughter called. Mr. Parr was a widower; his eldest daughter, a sweet dreamy-looking girl of about five-and-twenty, managed his house and was an indefatigable worker in the parish, so she hinted to Hope.

"I have not time for many social calls, but we felt we must come and give you a welcome," she said, when her father, a quiet grave man, had gone into Mr. St. Clair's room to see him for a minute or two.

"I think I likewise shall be too busy for calls," responded Hope, smiling, "but I did not think there would be any society about here, not for us, at any rate."

"You see," continued Avice Parr, with an absent look in her eyes, "our parish is a very scattered one, and there is a factory three miles away which swallows up a great many of our young girls. I have special classes for them, and a great deal of work in connection with the factory. My interests are entirely in the parish, so I know little of anything else. Perhaps you may think me narrow, but the spiritual welfare of every soul in our charge is as dear to me as to my father, and that is saying a great deal."

Hope's heart quickened as she listened to this, but she had little opportunity of speaking, for Avice was a fluent talker, and commenced to tell her the histories of several of her girls, with her own difficulties in dealing with them. Before she had half finished her narration, her father came out.

"Is your father perfectly conscious of all that is going on, Miss St. Clair?" he asked.

"Perfectly. It is a comfort, in a way, but oh! so hard for him not to be able to make himself understood!"

"Yes, yes. Well, he seemed pleased to see me. Come, Avice, my dear, we must not keep Miss St. Clair; she will want to return to her father."

"My brother is out, or I would not have to leave you," said Hope, as she opened the porch door and wished her visitors goodbye.

Avice shook hands with her in rather a "distrait" fashion.

"Father," she said, "I have just time to go to Mrs. Jennings before tea. Do not wait for me."

She hurried off, and Hope went back to her father's room. She was not of a critical nature, but somehow or other Avice Parr disappointed her, though she could hardly have given a reason for it.

"She is good; she will help me," she said to herself, for often she longed for sympathy and counsel; and yet she wondered if she would come under the range of Avice's help.

Chapter XIII

KITTY

HOPE went out the next morning to make a few purchases at the village shop. Coming home she passed a wooden gate in the lane, upon which a red-haired girl sat, swinging her heels and whistling merrily.

She was a fresh-faced bonny creature to look at, though beauty had not been given to her. Her skin, which was of that very white texture that generally accompanies red hair, was much freckled. Her eyes were blue and mischievous, and her lips, which were perhaps over-large for the contour of her face, were now set in a merry smile. She jumped down from the gate when she saw Hope, and revealed herself as a tall well-grown girl of about sixteen or seventeen.

"I'm always caught out," she said, addressing Hope confidentially, "when I am doing anything I shouldn't do! How shocked Avice would have been—if she had noticed me—which is a doubtful point. You know father and Avice, so we don't need an introduction, unless you don't know my name."

"I'm afraid I don't," said Hope, with a smile. "I can only conclude you are another of Mr. Parr's daughters."

"The only other one; and that one ought to have been a boy. My name is Kitty, or Kate; but if we're going to be friends, I'll let you call me Kitty. Shall I walk a bit of the way with you? I saw you going up the village, when I was in the cottages, so I came out here and waited for you. I've been quite excited over your coming, so has father, and your small boys are gems! They told me this morning a lot about you. I didn't pump them. You don't mind, do you?"

Hope looked at the eager girl with frank kindly interest.

"No," she said; "of course I don't mind. I like to feel that some one is interested in us. It does not give one such a lonely feeling."

"Then may I come and see you by myself one day, and help you with the poultry? That's one thing I'm really good at. I've managed our poultry-yard ever since I was ten years old, and I know all the tips for getting eggs when no one else has them! I shouldn't be in the way, should I?"

"I shall be delighted. It is most kind of you. I want to relieve my brother of a good part of it; but at present I am a complete ignoramus."

"You see," Kitty went on, in the same friendly easy tone, "I'm no good as an ornament, so I go in for the useful! Avice does all the rest; she can speak like an angel, and most of the villagers think her a saint. I've always been at home, and father has begun and ended my education. He has finished with me now. He's given me a knowledge of the classics, and a thorough boy's training—he was awfully disappointed not to have a son whom he could have 'trained for the ministry,' as he says. The funny thing is that, though he says I've got the head for it, Avice has the soul. So we're a compound of what a son ought to have been. And no good, either of us!"

"Tell me more," said Hope, smiling, as Kitty paused; "I'm most interested."

"It's rather low talking about myself like this, but I'll do it and get it done, and then you'll know the sort I am; and if you don't care to know me further, I'll understand. I hate the idea of being grown up. That's why I keep my hair down, and then people don't ask me about, with Avice. I like to root round and do things, and there are always things want doing.

"We aren't well off, and we only keep our gardener, his wife, and their small daughter to do the work of the house. I'm a kind of general help, and I find enough to do picking up people's beginnings and finishing them. You see, that's all I'm good for. I can carpenter, and I do all the repairs of the house; and I go on errands, and make myself generally useful. So, you see, my offer to help you with your poultry is just what I love doing! Do you like the country? I know it's new to you, from your look."

"I like it immensely," said Hope heartily. "And I am sure you will be able to teach me a lot of things."

Kitty laughed merrily.

"Even to swing on gates and whistle!" she exclaimed.

And then she said goodbye, promising to come to the cottage the next morning.

Hope watched her run along the road like any schoolchild, and came home with a warm feeling in her heart for Kitty Parr.

Meanwhile that young lady had reached the Vicarage and flung herself into the drawing-room with more haste than gracefulness.

"Avice! Father! I've seen her, and I've fallen in love with her! Why didn't you tell me how beautiful she is? She is like a princess in disguise. I'm going to do all I can to be real friends with her."

Mr. Parr was enjoying his afternoon tea. He had just come in from some parochial visits, and Avice had been at the factory. She looked up at her younger sister's vehement entrance.

"Whom are you talking about?" she asked. "And aren't your boots very muddy, Kitty?"

"Oh, bother my boots! Whom should I be talking about but Miss St. Clair? We've never had any one in the parish like her!"

Avice smiled.

"She seemed a quiet nice girl. Rather towny in her dress and style."

"Did she tell you how she liked the cottage? You seem to have got so little out of her. And I'm afraid I only talked about myself to-day. I don't know what she must have thought."

"Father, I met John Clark, and stopped to have a long talk with him." Avice's mind was still upon the parish, as she poured out a cup of tea for Kitty and passed it to her.

"I think too much talking is worse than none in his case," said Mr. Parr gravely. "Did you take his wife the soup?"

"No, I forgot it."

"I'll take it at once," said Kitty, jumping up; and, gulping down her tea, she left the room.

"I promised it yesterday, Avice," said the Vicar, with mild reproach in his tone.

"Yes, I am sorry, father, but soup, after all, is not a matter of vital importance; John's soul is."

"You cannot always separate the body from the soul, Avice. John's excuse for frequenting 'The Crown' is that since his wife's illness, he gets no proper food. Perhaps if he and she had had that good soup to-day, you would not have seen him come out of 'The Crown' in the state he was."

Avice did not reply. She was, indeed, too absorbed in her thoughts to notice her father's mild reproof.

The two motherless girls had sadly missed a mother's training and care. Naturally precocious, Avice had at a very early age taken the lead in all parochial matters. She was earnest and sincere, but lacked the practical common-sense which characterised her younger sister. The parish would have fared badly if it had not been for harum-scarum Kitty. As she said, her sister and she would have made a good compound. Apart, they were lacking sadly in the essentials for a vicar's daughters. Avice was a dreamer; she regarded food, clothes, and housekeeping as necessary evils. Kitty, preternaturally sharp, saw where her sister failed, and filled up the breach. Both were egotistical, and supremely impressed with their own importance, but Kitty was more aware of her own deficiencies.

The next morning she appeared at the cottage before ten o'clock. Hope had been instructing Mrs. Goddles, a fat, cheery little woman, with a fluent tongue; and she was divided between the importance of cleaning out the kitchen and making a batch of bread.

Kitty, seeing Hope's wistful looks over her dirty kitchen, solved the question.

"Let me make the bread. I'm a lovely hand at it, and Mrs. Goddles can clean away as much as she likes without minding me. You've a splendid fire. Do let me do it Miss St. Clair."

"It's very kind of you," said Hope. "I will watch you, for I want to learn how to do it. Only I must run away now and then to my father. My brother is out mending and cleaning up the fowl-houses."

Kitty was in her element. She bustled about, getting the things she wanted, and soon was kneading her dough with all the skill of a born breadmaker. Brian, coming in a little later, was startled to find her the sole occupant of the kitchen, and to hear a brisk conversation being carried on between her and the unseen Mrs. Goddles in the back kitchen.

"I says to him, Miss Kitty—'John,' I says, 'ain't you ashamed to talk over a lady so?' And he says—"

"I don't want to hear what he said, Mrs. Goddles; he's a disgrace to the village, and though you're his sister, I say so!"

"Ay, Miss Kitty, you do be too hard on us; but there, you be young, so you be! And you don't take after your dear sister, bless her sweet face! Her were a-saying to me only yesterday when I were a-carryin' my basket of clothes back from Vicarage, and I were a-sweating up the hill with it—'Mrs. Goddles,' she says, 'do you ever thank the Lord you haven't to carry the burden of your sins?' With that she set to and she preached me one o' the prettiest sermons I've heard tell for many a day. Ah, Miss Kitty, 'tisn't many have the gift of preaching like Miss Avice have! She never says a hard word to a dog, but she be just full o' the goodness and the love of the Almighty, an' if she were chapel born and bred, she couldn't be more supple wi' her tongue!"

Kitty's eyes met Brian's, as he stood in the doorway, and they twinkled as only Kitty's could.

"Miss St. Clair has just gone into your father. I'm Kitty Parr. I saw you when you came to talk to father about the boys, but you didn't see me, for I was peeping through the chink of the door. I'm making bread. It is the weekly batch. Doesn't it look good?"

"Ripping!"

Brian laughed back. He liked this young unconventional girl. It reminded him of his beloved Canada.

When Hope returned a short time later, she found Brian and Kitty the best of friends. Brian was sitting on the window-ledge peeling an apple for the young lady; and he offered it with more courtesy than Hope would have given him credit for.

The bread made, Kitty insisted on inspecting the poultry, and suggested "swapping" a few hens, to which Brian agreed. Hope listened to the merits of the different species with profound respect. It was all unintelligible to her, but she was delighted to see Brian so animated and boyish. Then he went back to his father, and Hope began to get the dinner ready, Kitty helping her, and talking hard all the time.

"It is so delicious to do everything yourself, isn't it?" she said. "And you seem to do it so daintily. How do you keep yourself so clean? I know I have dabs of flour all over my face, and I generally spill an awful lot of water over the place when I move the saucepans! Miss St. Clair, forgive my curiosity, but why do you live in this little cottage? You're not a bit suited to it."

Hope laughed merrily.

"It's the want of money makes it a necessity, Kitty; but I mean to enjoy every bit of it."

"And don't you feel you want to sit down and read a book, or drive out to see your friends, or go off for a long walk, instead of cooking the dinner sometimes?"

"Yes, I do feel that. And the other day I gave way to the feeling, and took up my book while my tarts were in the oven, with the result that the tarts were burnt. I felt a great sympathy with King Alfred, I can assure you!"

"But you had no one to scold you! I think if I had a cottage like this I could be quite, quite happy. It's managing a house for others that is the bother. You are your own mistress."

"Brian is the master," said Hope, with humour lurking in the corners of her lips.

"Brian is your brother? Oh, I should think he was a jolly sort. He looks so good-tempered."

"He is a dear boy."

Hope spoke with emphasis.

Kitty looked at her thoughtfully.

"I believe you are the right compound," she said. "Avice is too soft, and I am too hard, so people tell me. Avice is always looking at the beautiful in life, and I see the mistakes and muddles of it. Now you are perfect, absolutely perfect, and oh, you are so sweet!"

The impulsive girl threw her arms round Hope and gave her a hug, and though they had been only acquainted with each other for twenty-four hours, Hope did not resent it. She could not, for Kitty's bright personality had cheered her immensely. She no longer felt a stranger in a strange land. When she left her that morning, Hope had promised to let her come over on Monday in the same way.

"To-morrow is Sunday," Kitty said in parting. "Avice and father are at it from morning to night. I'm the only one of the family who takes a real Sunday rest. I did try taking a Sunday class, but I can't talk goody, and if the children are naughty, I want to slap them, and that doesn't work in our parish."

Poor Hope did not find that first Sunday morning very restful to her. Jerry and Toby were home all day, and it was wet and stormy. In spite of the rain, she took them to church in the morning, but getting the breakfast herself, preparing the dinner, and leaving the house clean and tidy before she started for church, was rather an exhausting process.

"It's awful fun being really poor," Jerry announced, as he strode sturdily along by her side. "I can't think why people like big houses so much. It's ever so much nicer living in a kitchen."

"Yes," put in Toby, "but I should like to be a little farther away from poor dad. Will he never get better, Hope? Shall you be always hushing us till we grow up?"

"Oh, dad will die before that," said Jerry, solemnly. "I'm sure Brian thinks he will, for I heard him say to that old Doctor he met in the street last week when I was walking with him, 'You'll give him a year, Doctor?' And the old chap shook his head."

Hope looked at Jerry in a startled way.

"There is a chance of father recovering, dear. The doctor told me so himself."

Her little brother's words filled her with uneasiness and dismay, but once inside the quiet little country church, Hope gave her mind up to the service. And Mr. Parr's simple sermon, based on the Twenty-third Psalm, and the reiteration of the opening phrase, "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want," filled her with strength and comfort. Avice played the organ and led the little village choir with great sweetness. Kitty, looking decorum itself in the Vicarage pew, smiled recognition after the service was over; but Hope was in too great a hurry to get home to wait to speak to her.

The rain had settled into a steady downpour; the meadow in front of their cottage was like a sponge to tread upon, and Hope found the process of changing and drying clothes and boots for herself and the boys very trying in the confined space of the kitchen. When dinner was over, she went into her father's room, and Brian told her he would look after the boys for the afternoon.

Hope read the morning's lessons to her father. She saw from his face that he was not averse to it. Then she talked to him about the Vicar and his girls, and a little bit about the sermon. As yet she felt very shy of speaking to her father about the things she loved, and the fact of never being able to elicit a response from him made her the more diffident in what she said.

"I liked his preaching," she said quietly. "It was so straight and simple. He told us if we would only read the Bible and take the sweetness out of it in a practical way, our lives would be very different. And then he said if the Lord was our Shepherd, we should not want. He asked us if we would each take Him for our Shepherd and make this satisfying experience ours. I felt so glad to think that we can all have it."

There was silence in the room. Mr. St. Clair's eyelids flickered. He heard, but he could make no response.

Hope prayed silently for him, then added:

"'I shall not want.' I keep saying it over and over again, father. Nothing upon earth as long as I live, nothing certainly in our home above. We seem to want so much sometimes, and if God cuts it all down to what He considers is sufficient for us, we can be content. That is what Mr. Parr told us."

Mr. St. Clair moved his head restlessly on the pillow. It was a sign that he had heard enough. So Hope sat still, and thought of many things that Sunday afternoon whilst her father dozed. She could hear the boys' voices in the next room, and occasional sharp ejaculations from Brian as he rebuked them. The whiff of smoke that penetrated into the bedroom from the kitchen told her that he was enjoying a pipe. Soon the monotonous sound of his voice, and the sudden silence of the boys, told her that he was reading aloud. She wondered if there were many other young fellows of his age who would spend their Sunday afternoons in such a manner.

Then her thoughts turned suddenly away to the one who had criticised him—to Lancelot Dane. She thought of his words, "A friend comes into one's life to stay there." He had certainly come into hers; would he always stay there? Hope dwelt on his words, on his quiet determined chivalry towards her, and then, with a flush on her cheeks, she shook her head at her wayward thoughts.

"I am not a foolish, inexperienced girl. I have seen enough to know that men can be friendly to women all their lives, and want nothing more than their friendship. That I will give him gladly."

Then she opened her Bible again, and presently her father required her attention, and so the afternoon wore away.

When she came out into the kitchen, she found Brian gravely cutting bread and butter for the boys. The tea was laid, the kettle boiling, and the kitchen looked a picture of cosy comfort.

"What a good boy you are!" Hope exclaimed, as she came to the table. "I feel quite rested. Why, you are better than I am at getting tea!"

"He likes it!" said Toby, grinning. "He's awfully glad that cheeky Anne is out of the way. It feels like home to be in a proper kitchen again, and we've been hearing 'Adventures in the South Pacific.' It's stunning!"

"Well," said Brian, ignoring his small brother, "I fancied you looked pretty fagged this morning, so I hope the rest has done you good."

"Indeed it has."

Hope sat down to tea and chatted cheerfully through it. Then, when Brian went back to Mr. St. Clair, she washed up the tea-things and made the boys help her. It was too wet to go to church again. Finding that Toby and Jerry were getting quarrelsome, she sat down by the fire with them and said she would tell them a story.

"About Indians taking scalps?" said Toby eagerly.

But Hope shook her head. She was always trying to influence for good these young brothers of hers, and seized this opportunity at once.

"I will tell you a story of a giant," she said, and in a few minutes the boys were listening breathlessly to the legend of St. Christoferus.

When she paused, Jerry said with a sigh:

"I should like to have been that chap. Awful fine, taking people over the river on your back! You could give a ducking to those who cheeked you!"

"I wish," said Hope, looking into their bright eyes with great earnestness—"I wish that you two boys would take service with the strongest Master in the world."

There was no reply. The boys looked at each other, then at her.

"You see," Hope went on, "it is always nice to serve the best. No one can lose if Christ is their Master, for He is on the winning side. And He is so strong that He makes His followers strong. They need never fail to conquer if their Master is with them."

"That sounds all right," said Jerry cautiously, "but boys who go in for being 'pi' aren't thought much of!"

"Aren't they?" said Hope, a little drily. "I wonder what the angels and people in heaven think of them, not to speak of their Master who owns all creation?"

"Well, they get laughed at in school."

"They can afford to laugh back if they're on the winning side."

Jerry fidgeted.

"Me and Toby know you're religious, because you smile when things go wrong and are sorry when you are waxy. But we're boys, you see, and they can't be good."

Hope tried to show them the fallacy of this argument, and they talked over the fire till supper-time. When she went to wish them good-night, Toby pulled her head down to his on the pillow. In a fervent whisper he said:

"I'll have a try. I'll tell Christ to-night. I'll take service with Him. What do you think my name will be altered to? Christ-Toby?"

Hope did not know whether to laugh or cry, but the earnestness of the small round face, with the soft cheek pressed to hers, filled her with thankfulness; and she left him with a few more words and came downstairs to Brian, feeling that Sunday had been, in spite of the rain, a truly restful day.

The next morning brought her Kitty, full of enthusiasm about the poultry. She and Brian worked out of doors all the morning, constructing coops and enclosures out of old boxes and odds and ends. Hope, from her father's room, heard their cheerful voices and congratulated herself upon having a young friend who was as acceptable to Brian as to herself. She asked her to stay to the early dinner, but Kitty refused.

"I must be back, for Avice is having a mothers' meeting this afternoon, and I help with the club. How did you like my bread?"

"It's quite delicious. I hope I shall be as successful when I try."

Kitty laughed as she ran away. Brian looked after her with a smile.

"She ought to be in the colonies," he said; "that's the sort we want out there!"

And higher praise than that could not be given by Brian. That afternoon Hope was surprised by a visit from Hester Chesney, who brought Lady May Fosberry with her.

"May is staying with us for a couple of days, so of course wouldn't be satisfied until I brought her over. Now I know you two would enjoy a talk together, so don't mind me. I shall go out and inspect your poultry, and I want to get a plant that Miss Rill told me could be found in her hedges, and which is a great favourite of the bees."

Hester walked off, and Lady May sat down in the one easy chair in the kitchen and looked about her with interest and delight.

"I can't believe it is you, Hope. You were the last girl I should have ever thought would live in a cottage, and yet here you are, looking as dainty as ever, and happier, I think, than in the old times, though you have had such trouble!"

"Yes," said Hope gravely, "I am happier, May, in spite of all, but I have longed for a talk with some one who understands."

"Yes, and so have I, though I have made one or two friends in town who help me. How strange it is, Hope, that your circumstances have all been changed for you, whilst I, who pine for change, can't get it. What a useful life you lead! No ceremony, nothing that would spoil the simplicity of life and come between your soul and God."

"No," said Hope, "I suppose not. But I am thankful that I learnt to take my comfort in the unseen things before all this came upon me. I don't think I could have borne it if I had not been strengthened by God Himself."

"You're an angel!" said impulsive May. "Let me tell you how I have fared. Oh, Hope, I was burning, longing to give myself to the mission-field. I felt I must try to be one of the labourers, if I could manage it. The first blow was my mother's flat refusal to let me go. And our stupid doctor told her I would not be strong enough. Then I begged her to let me do some parish work under our vicar in town. She reluctantly consented. I suppose I worked too hard, for I had a breakdown, and now they've got it into their heads that I have a weak chest, and I am ordered abroad for the winter. Father and mother have taken a villa at Cannes, and I am to be there the whole winter. We leave in a fortnight's time." May's face was lugubrious.

Hope smiled at her.

"If you believe our circumstances are ordered by God, May, it is all right, is it not?"

"Yes, I do believe it," May responded, brightening at once. "But I forget it, and of course the Riviera life is not enticing. It is such an idle one. What can I do there? I don't doubt God means me to go, but I keep thinking that He may have found me unfitted to be one of His messengers—that is what troubles me."

"I expect you will find a good many opportunities of helping those amongst your own friends," observed Hope thoughtfully. "After all, it is only a question of class, isn't it? You want to speak to the lower classes and influence them. God wants you to speak and influence the upper classes. They want the message of life quite as much as the ignorant and uneducated do. You helped me first, remember! You can help other girls in the same way."

May's expressive dark eyes glowed with delight. "Yes, I see it! How clearly you put it, Hope. I am not going to be shut away from all intercourse with my fellow-creatures. And I haven't to pick and choose and settle in my own mind who needs help most. Everybody needs help everywhere. Oh, you have comforted me!"

Hope smiled, but looked somewhat wistful.

"My circle is a very small one," she said. "I almost envy you your opportunities!"

"Oh no, never! You are a perfect heroine. I am not."

Then they talked over their Bibles. May got her little pocket Testament out and gave Hope the rough outlines she had heard of a reading on a chapter in Ephesians. Hope listened breathlessly. It was all so new to her, and she felt she had so much to learn; but their time was limited, and Hester soon sauntered back to them.

"I know I am not welcome," she said; "but I forgot to bring lamps, and it is getting late. I'm afraid you must come, May."

"You're a dear!" said Hope, laying her hand affectionately on Hester's arm. "But come over and see me by yourself when May has gone. I feel we have treated you shabbily this afternoon."

"Oh, I understand! There's a kind of freemasonry between you good people. I suppose May has confided to you her woes. She is not allowed to leave the world at present. Fate has not been as kind to her as to you."

"She doesn't want to leave the world," said Hope quietly.

"No," said May, as she kissed her and wished her goodbye. "I shall be content now wherever I am."

Hester looked at her queerly, but said nothing till they were both in the trap. Then she looked back and nodded to Hope.

"I believe in you," she said, "and I shall believe in May if she takes a leaf out of your book. I hate the cowardly way religious people rush away from their homes and friends to preach sermons to the poor, because they're afraid of tackling their own sort!"

Chapter XIV

THE LITTLE FLAGGED PATH

HOPE was not without visitors, even at King's Dell. Mrs. Dane came to see her very often, and always brought flowers and fruit for the invalid. Hope enjoyed her visits immensely. She could talk freely and unrestrainedly to her, and leant upon her for counsel and advice. Lancelot was called away to see his property in the North, so he did not accompany his mother. Busy as she was, Hope was enjoying her cottage life more than she would have thought possible. Perhaps Brian's increased cheerfulness and energy infected her. He began to turn some of their waste ground into a kitchen garden, with a view to selling vegetables, and was always happy when he was working in the open-air.

The days drew in, and autumn began to verge into winter. Still Mr. St. Clair remained in the same condition, and though they were not quite so tied to the sick-room, he was a great anxiety and care.

Kitty continued her visits. Avice very occasionally came to call, but Hope quickly realised that she was too absorbed in her own interests to become very friendly.

One afternoon Hope was in the act of pumping some water in the yard, when she was startled by the sudden appearance at her side of a thin, wiry old man dressed in a very shabby great-coat and wearing a faded red comforter round his throat.

He took off his hat with an old-fashioned flourish.

"I hear, madam, that Miss Rill has left. She always sold me a dozen pounds of honey at this time of year. I came round to see if you were continuing to keep bees."

"I am sorry," said Hope politely, "but we do not; Miss Rill sold her hives to a friend of mine. We have poultry and eggs to sell, and we hope to have some vegetables later on."

He stroked his chin meditatively and looked at her.

"Are you a farmer's daughter?"

"Well," Hope said slowly, "I suppose I am. My father has farmed in Canada, but is too ill now to do anything of that sort, so my brother is going to farm this small place instead."

"And you are a modern product, then, of a young person taken out of her own station of life and sent to boarding-school to be made a lady."

Hope's eyes twinkled.

"And now I've come back to my proper station of life," she said, "and I find it very enjoyable."

Again he looked at her curiously.

"Look here," he said brusquely. "I live the other side of those woods, and I heard there was a young capable fellow in this place kicking his heels for want of work. If he's your brother, I want to speak to him, and I'll step in and sit down while you fetch him."

"Come in, then," said Hope, wondering at the strangeness of her visitor. "I will call my brother; he is working at the other end of the orchard."

She went off to Brian. "You must come in and speak to him; he evidently doesn't think much of me," she said. "He looks a regular old tramp, but his voice is that of a gentleman."

"I know who he is," said Brian, rolling down his shirt-sleeves and slipping on his coat. He was digging, and looked, as Hope thought, the picture of a young farmer. "The Vicar told me the squire of this place was very queer and miserly, and lived by himself with very few servants. It will be Mr. Spencer, I guess!"

Mr. Spencer it was, and he stayed in Hope's kitchen for one full hour, talking to her and to Brian. In the end, Brian promised to go over the next day and superintend a bit of farming on the old man's place.

"I am not proud," said Brian afterwards. "I know what he wants, and I shall see that his men do it."

"It seems to me you have your hands full as it is," said Hope; but he would not have it so.

The next afternoon he came back chuckling.

"He can't make us out. He's awfully curious about you, asked no end of questions. I like the old chap; he made me come into his room and have a smoke before I left. He's a clever old sort, reads a good bit, and philosophises. He says clothes and food ought never to be luxuries. That is the sin of the age."

"I dare say he is right," said Hope, smiling.

She was glad when a strange friendship was formed between Brian and this old man. Brian always preferred older men to those of his own age; and now very often, when his work was done, he would go over to smoke a pipe with old Mr. Spencer.

As winter came on, Hope began to find her household duties more irksome. The cold and wet depressed them all. The cottage lay low, and the meadow and orchard became almost a swamp. Visitors were few and far between. The Chesneys went away, Mrs. Dane was laid up with a bad attack of rheumatism, and Kitty was the only one who cheered Hope from time to time by her unfailing helpfulness and good spirits. She was helping her bake one afternoon when there was a knock at the door, and without any ceremony Lancelot walked in upon them.

"Well," he said, after he had shaken hands with Hope and been introduced to Kitty, "you have now effectually isolated yourself by barriers of mud and water. May I ask how you reach the highroad?"

"Oh," said Hope, with laughing eyes, "I haven't been beyond our brick path since last Sunday. I never go out in the week, and Brian does the marketing."

"You look like it," he said, regarding her with his keen dark eyes. "Now I shall carry you off this afternoon for a short drive. It is wonderfully mild, and in my trap you won't be conscious of the mud. Miss Kitty might like to come too, but I am going to take no denial."

"Ah, but you must! There is my father; how can I leave him? Brian is out. I cannot run away from my duties like that."

"Let me stay and look after him just for one hour," pleaded Kitty. "The air would take away your headache, and you would come back feeling quite different. So make her go, Mr. Dane. No one ever can make her go out, and I think she is getting quite pale and thin. Just one hour—it's only three o'clock now, and you would be back at four in time for tea, and you really shall go, Miss St. Clair!"

Two resolute pertinacious natures overcame Hope's scruples. She found herself seated in Lancelot's trap before she had time to make any further objections.

"How delicious!" she exclaimed, as the soft air fanned her cheeks. "I have been in the kitchen most of to-day, for as you saw, we are doing our weekly baking, and Kitty and I were nearly overcome with the heat. What made you think of coming?"

"I got home from the north yesterday, so of course I came. Is it not within the limits of friendship to see each other occasionally?"

"I suppose so," was the laughing rejoinder. Then, in a different tone, Hope asked anxiously:

"And how is Mrs. Dane? I have longed to see her, but could not manage it."

"She is better, but still in bed. Tell me what you have been doing."

"Cooking, mending, nursing, cleaning, and enjoying life," said Hope stoutly.

He looked down upon her with humour in his eyes.

"Where does the enjoying come in?"

"It begins in the morning when the robins sing outside my window, and when I first open the door, and get a whiff of the moist air and fallen leaves. Then I go to the pump and look up through the orchard to the woods beyond, with the tall blue pines towering against the sky, and then I come indoors refreshed and strengthened, and as I work on through the day—forgive my self-conceit—I enjoy the feeling that I am really becoming a capable housewife. I can boil milk without burning, black grates without soiling my hands, and turn out a dinner that is not a failure!"

"Admirable accomplishments!"

"Don't scoff! I am learning to enjoy things I never enjoyed before. This drive is ten times more enjoyable from the very rarity of it. Leisure and rest mean so much to me now. But I will not talk of myself. Tell me the news of the day. We only have a weekly newspaper, and I want to hear what has been going on since last Saturday."

He told her; then related some of his experiences in his northern home. Hope listened with interest and attention, and then his tone deepened into gravity as he added:

"My time is nearly up. I shall go out next month. And you will, perhaps, be surprised at my news; but my mother goes with me."

"Oh! Both of you!"

The words escaped her breathlessly.

"Isn't it a very sudden idea?" she asked confusedly.

"Yes. My brother Rufus is going to be married, as I expect you know. Paul has taken chambers in town, so none of us will be at home this winter. We do not like the idea of our mother being alone. She has always had one or the other with her; and she is quite willing to try six months in India with me."

Hope felt dumbfounded; she had difficulty in keeping the tears out of her eyes.

"I shall feel quite lost without your mother," she said, after a pause. "She has been such a friend to me."

Lancelot said nothing. He looked in front of him with a set determined face; and then, without any warning, a tremendous storm of rain burst upon them.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "I might have thought this mild December day would make us pay for it."

He gathered up the rugs round Hope. She was, unfortunately, without a cloak or umbrella, and there was no house or shelter of any kind near them. Seeing how wet she was getting, he drew up the horse, and without a word slipped out of his overcoat and wrapped it round her. It was no good for Hope to protest; his masterful manner won the day, though she assured him that the rest of the drive would be spoilt to her.

"With your Indian constitution, and your tendency to ague, it is cruel to make me the cause of your becoming ill," she assured him.

He laughed, and looked down upon her with such a glance that Hope's eyes fell before his. And then he spoke.

"Don't you know," he said, "that I want to give you something more than a tweed overcoat?"

Hope caught her breath, then gently laid her hand upon his arm.

"Don't say more," she said.

"But I must, though I did not think I should have to do so in the face of such a storm as this. Do you think I am going away to India without a word—without one effort to win you?"

"I cannot listen," said Hope quietly, though her heart was beating painfully. "You know my circumstances. I will never leave my father as long as he lives. It is quite impossible."

"Confound circumstances!" exclaimed Lancelot, for once losing his self-restraint. "My little Hope, tell me—I know you have liked me as a friend—could you care for me as a husband? I want to have the right to shield, to care for you, to take you right away and give you comforts and happiness, and—and—your proper and suitable environment."

"I am in the environment God has chosen for me," said Hope, almost below her breath.

"Yes—forgive me—I should not have said that. You grace it as you could grace a duchess's sphere. You make any surrounding beautiful. But you have not answered me. I know you will not play with me. Speak from your heart, I beseech you, and tell me truly whether you could ever regard me as something more than a friend."

It was a strange time in which to make a proposal. The rain was driving full in their faces, the wind buffeting them at every turn, and Lancelot's horse needed his continual guidance and attention.

Hope was greatly taken by surprise. She had instinctively felt that Lancelot liked her; but had repeatedly told herself that it was only as a friend. She had not thought he would bring matters to a climax so soon. And she hardly knew her own heart, as from the very first she had resisted and crushed any feelings that had exceeded the bounds of friendship.

She took refuge in silence, and was glad that the dusk and wet shielded her from his observation.

"Tell me," he repeated, "that friendship between us must deepen into love. I dare say I have not much to offer you except my love. People say I am a social failure; I am not fond of the gay world, but neither are you, and I honestly believe that I could make you happy."

"You have taken me by surprise," Hope said gently, though her voice trembled in spite of herself. "Will you give me time? I must think it over, but I really feel at present that I have no right to make any ties that will take me away from my father. I can never leave him. I am his only daughter. It would be unfair towards you if I bound you in any way, for I know for a long time that marriage would be out of the question for me."

"I will wait," he said eagerly. "I would not be so selfish as to wish to take you now. Perhaps I ought to have gone off to India without speaking, but I could not. Yes, I will give you time, though it will be suspense to me. But how long will you want? And will you promise me to consult your own heart before you consult either father or brother?"

"Yes, I promise that," said Hope quietly. "Give me till to-morrow afternoon—I will have my answer ready then."

They were approaching King's Dell. Lancelot stifled the hot passionate words that were upon his tongue, and Hope did not misunderstand his quiet self-restraint. She liked him the better for it. When they parted at the cottage gate, he took her hand in his.

"I shall pray God that you may be given me," he said, and then he turned away.

Hope went up the flagged path with throbbing pulse and tearful eyes. She was glad to hear that Kitty was reading aloud to her father, and the quiet moments spent in her own room, whilst she was changing her wet garments, restored her self-possession.

Kitty met her with great concern.

"It is too bad!" she exclaimed, with impatience. "You go out so seldom that you might have been given fine weather. Have you enjoyed yourself?"

"I have and I haven't," said Hope, smiling.

"You look worried. What a nice man Mr. Dane is! I like his eyes so, and he looks a man! He's so keen and quick and decisive in the way he speaks. I hate a man who drawls his words, don't you? But, of course, I don't see many men, only curates!"

"And vicars," said Hope, laughing outright at the inflection of scorn in Kitty's last words.

"Yes, but they're father's friends, not mine. I've only seen two classes of curates about here, the breathlessly energetic ones who begin to turn everything upside down, and quote their former parish until you wonder why they left it, and the drawley, lazy, bored ones, who smile superciliously, and place themselves on pedestals, refusing to come down. I've always told father that I shall never marry a curate—and, of course, Avice thinks there is no one on earth like them! I'm so sorry your drive was spoilt by the weather!"

She took her departure, and Hope found enough to occupy her hands, if not her thoughts, for the rest of the day. It was only when she went to her bedroom at night that she could sit down and give herself up to thought. And this she did. Her little clock on the chimneypiece was pointing to two o'clock before she moved from her chair by the window. And then sleep was long in coming. She was headachy and heavy-eyed when she came down the next morning, and her daily duties seemed to weigh heavily upon her.

The rain had passed and the sun shone out gloriously. It was one of those treasured days in winter that seem like spring in their warmth and buoyancy. Brian had gone in the morning to the railway station with the weekly batch of eggs and poultry. He came home at two o'clock, had his dinner, and then told Hope he would sit for a time with his father.

She was relieved, as, though Lancelot had arranged nothing, she expected him to call. She tidied up the kitchen, put the kettle on to boil for tea, and then opening the door, sat down in the porch with her mending-basket.

She had not been there long before the click of the garden gate made her raise her head. It was Lancelot. As he came steadily and swiftly up the red-brick path, Hope felt a strong inclination to turn into the house away from him.

"I have come," he said, as he shook hands with her, "for my answer."

She looked desperately round her, then rose from her seat. "Let us take a walk in the orchard," she suggested.

She led the way, and Lancelot followed her in silence. Brian had cut a path right round the orchard, and it was along this that Hope led her lover.

Presently she turned and faced him.

"I thank you," she said, "for giving me time for thought; but I feel much as I did yesterday, that I cannot bind myself at all to what would eventually lead me away from my father and brothers."

"But," said Lancelot, paling under the intensity of his feelings, "I don't want such cautious, calculating sentiments; I want to know if you love me."

He took both her hands in his, and drew her gently but firmly towards him. "Now, Hope, you are not going to wreck and spoil our lives by dismissing me so lightly. I am the last one to say that you should forsake your family in the present dilemma. I honour you for your devotion to them. But you will not always have them with you. You cannot consign yourself to a single existence for the rest of your life because just at present you feel they need you. I am not going to argue with you, but I am going to have a straight and truthful answer, and it is within my rights to demand it. I don't ask you whether you think we ought to marry at present. I ask you if you care for me? Please look at me. You could not be anything but true."

And then Hope's grey eyes were raised to his, but though for a second he thought he had gauged their depths, though the glowing light and love seemed to be dawning in them, in a moment she had turned her face away.

"I want to be true. I want to do right, and I feel I am absolutely right in saying 'No.'"

"This is your final answer?"

The words were quickly, almost curtly, uttered.

"Yes."

He dropped her hands, then took them again and, with old-fashioned courtesy, lifted them to his lips and kissed them.

His sudden silent acquiescence frightened Hope. Without a word they retraced their steps to the cottage.

Hope had argued the whole thing out to herself the night before. She called to mind more than one man in her London life who had asked her to love him. She remembered Jim Horrocks. At one time she felt she could have done it so easily, and yet now, though always glad to meet him as a friend, she felt thankful that she had never been anything more.

"I feel now," she assured herself, "that I could love Lancelot Dane; he has, as he said, come into my life to stay there, but time will show me in the same way that my love for him is only friendship. I ought to be free and unfettered. My father may live for years—God has shown me my sphere of usefulness. It would be wrong to take the first chance offered me of freeing myself from a life of self-denial and hardship, a life in which I am really needed. It is very hard to refuse him. I could—I know I could love him if I let myself. He is so thoughtful, so kind and courteous, so clever and cultured, so delightful in his quick decisions and humorous rallies, so protective in his manner. I will not think of him, for I must not. I have refused other men before, I must be firm now. I can't be spared; it would be unfair to bind him, and it is not too late to nip in the bud any feeling that I have about him. I am sure I am right. May Fosberry envied me my circumstances. I will not run away from them. I will not relapse into a life of ease again. And I feel if I were to say 'Yes' to Lancelot, he would be trying to make life easier for all of us. My pride could not stand that. It would rasp and irritate me. I could not accept favours from him nor allow any of my belongings to do so. I don't think I am wrong. I am penniless. My family depend upon me. I am not the wife for Lancelot!"

She repeated this over and over to herself, she entrenched herself behind a bulwark of arguments, and fancied herself strong and secure in her position. Yet when her answer had been given, when he had bowed his head and accepted it as final and irrevocable, for the first time panic and desolation gripped hold of her soul. If he had only known what was passing through her mind as they retraced their steps across the orchard, he would not have so silently acquiesced in her decision. He was hurt and sore at her refusal, and the stern lines about his eyes and lips told that he was putting a strong restraint upon his emotions.

He spoke when they reached the cottage.

"This is goodbye," he said. "I will not trouble you again; but you have my good wishes, and perhaps you may find time to see my mother before she sails. We do not leave London till the week after next."

"Will Mrs. Dane be well enough to go?"

"She thinks so. This is only a temporary ailment."

Raising his hat, he left her.

She stood in the porch and watched him stride away down the flagged path, and then, with a sudden rush of memory, she seemed to see Miss Rill standing in that same porch and watching the departure of her rejected suitor. That flagged path stared her in the face with earnest protest. "The offering of rejected love." Imagination gave it voice. Hope seemed to hear it say:

"You are sending him away for ever; he will never come back; your life will be empty without him. One woman lived here, and found no rest, only bitterness and disappointment without the one who could have made her happy. You are acting in the same way. You are young now, and do not feel your need of him; the day will come when you will be old, and lonely, and friendless. Then you will discover your mistake."

She saw Miss Rill with her puckered face, her pathetic yearning to die in the same place as her old lover, and the tears rushed to her eyes.

With an impulse that she hardly understood, she walked rapidly down the path. Would he look round? Could she call to him? A lump rose in her throat and prevented speech. If he did not look round, her life would be spoiled. That was the thought which flashed through her brain. He had reached the gate. One moment more and he would have gone. The blood rushed to her temples, then ebbed away as suddenly as it came, leaving her as white as a sheet. And then he turned with a grim set face to see for the last time the little spot that held the one he loved.

When he saw her, he did not show surprise.

"WHAT IS IT?" HE INQUIRED.
"CAN I DO ANYTHING FOR YOU?"

But her white strained face convinced him that she was in trouble. He fancied that perhaps her father might be taken worse, and immediately he put his own trouble in the background and sought to help her.

"What is it?" he inquired. "Can I do anything for you?"

Then the realisation of what she was doing came over Hope, and again her cheeks flushed with emotion and shame.

"You must wait," she said breathlessly. "It is this flagged walk that has made me act so. Do you know its story? Will you listen to it?"

He bowed assent, and stood leaning against the gate and wondering what was passing through her mind.

"It was made by a man for the woman he loved."

Hope was speaking quickly, with nervously-clasped hands. Her eyes were on the path with the history.

"She was a little old maid who lived here before we came. She sent away the man who wanted to marry her, and she never ceased to regret it. Her remorse drove her up to London, away from her sweet home in which she could take no pleasure. I believe she thinks she may yet meet him there, but I expect he has married long ago."

"And the path?"

Light was slowly creeping into Lancelot's eyes.

"The path was bricked for her by him before he went. He left a note with just these words,—

"'When you tread this path, you will be treading on rejected love.'

"It was the path that drove her away; it is the path that has made me follow you, that has made me doubt my own decision!"

"What a blessed little path!"

Lancelot's face was alight and aglow in a moment, but Hope stood still, and put out her hand as if to keep him back.

"Wait! You are a good man; you will not make me act wrongly. You know my circumstances. I am going to trust you. I did not speak quite truly. If I let myself, I could so willingly give myself to you—"

She could say no more. Her faltering words were stopped by Lancelot, who, with his arms around her, sealed her capitulation with a kiss.

"I will prove myself worthy of your trust," he said. "My darling, how could you treat me so!"

"Oh," said Hope, with a long-drawn sigh, as she let her dark head rest on his broad shoulder, "I have been fighting against myself all the time, and now I can't fight any longer!"

It was one of the sweetest moments of her life, but it quickly came to an end. With a whoop and a shout Jerry and Toby made their appearance. They were startled when they saw their sister and Lancelot in such close proximity.

"Lessons over?" Hope asked quietly. "Run in, both of you. I will follow you."

Then she looked up sweetly and shyly into Lancelot's face.

"I have no more time," she said, "but you must advise me. I have cast prudence and forethought to the winds; but in spite of it all, you know I cannot leave my father."

"I will wait seven years if needs be," said Lancelot passionately. "I will come to-morrow. Oh, Hope, you have made life so different! And what joy it will give my mother! May I tell her?"

"Yes," said Hope recklessly; "I don't care who knows it. Forgive me for not knowing my own mind before."

She smiled upon him with all the warmth of her heart in her eyes, then went up the red-bricked walk to the cottage, where the boys awaited her.

Late that night she slipped out of doors in the moonlight with a shawl over her head. And then, deliberately, she went down on her knees and kissed the flagged path.

"You blessed little path!" she repeated, in a whisper. "I thank you with all my heart!"

Chapter XV

A SPEEDY PARTING

HOPE could not confide in Brian till the next morning, and then she broke the news awkwardly to him.

He was just going out to the poultry, and he stood in the doorway looking at her, with a tinge of amusement in his eyes.

"I'm not quite a fool," he said; "I knew we should not keep you long, only I thought that London chap was to be the happy man. Does he want to take you out to India with him?"

"As if I would go! I have told him I will never leave father, as long as he wants me."

"That won't be very long," said Brian soberly. "I doubt if he will live a year."

"Oh, Brian!"

"Well, we'll see!"

He went off to his work without another word, and Hope, relieved that he took it so quietly, went in to tell her father. She knew that he could not object. Just for a moment, the frown that crossed his face troubled her, but she immediately assured him that she was not going to leave him, and his brows relaxed, and his face assumed its ordinary tranquillity.

When Lancelot came later in the day, Brian met him with a manly grip of the hand.

"She'll make any chap a good wife; but I understand you are not going to take her away at once."

It was another wet afternoon. Lancelot came into the kitchen, and Hope and he had it to themselves.

But Hope could not be idle. It was ironing afternoon, and she went on steadily with her work whilst he sat in the window and chafed at it.

"I hate to be idle, whilst you are working. It is a miserable life for you."

"It is a useful and a happy one."

Hope looked across the table at him a little defiantly. He smiled at her, and the gloom disappeared from his eyes.

"Ah!" she said. "That is better. Now talk to me; let me hear your plans. We have such a short time left together."

"I feel," he said, "as if I cannot go to India and leave you like this. It makes me inclined to chuck it up, and take possession of the old place in the North."

"But what good would that do? I could not come to you. No, our circumstances fit in very well. I have my work and you have yours. We will leave the future."

"I shall be feeling that you may be ill from overwork. You have no one who looks after you, or who cares whether you are well or ill."

"I could write," suggested Hope softly.

"Your letters will be my life," Lancelot exclaimed.

She shook her head.

"They will be very unsatisfactory. I am not given to letter-writing. I don't understand the art."

"Will you promise to wire to me if you are in any difficulty?"

"Yes."

Then she gave a happy little laugh.

"It's delicious to feel I have some one to whom I can turn!" she said.

"And," went on Lancelot, looking at her intently, "I want, or my mother wants you to do her a favour. She has a useful maid who can turn her hand to anything. She has arranged to leave her in England, giving her board-wages, as she wants to keep her. Could you possibly fit her in here? You would find her invaluable. She is a country girl and enjoys the idea of it. It would be such a relief to my mother if you could take her in."

The colour mounted into Hope's cheeks. She went on ironing one of the boys' shirts, and she seemed entirely absorbed in it. Then, after a minute's silence, she looked up.

"It is very kind of you; I can't help seeing through it, you know! But it wouldn't work at all! You must let me go my own way, and believe that I am happy and well in it."

"Don't be proud."

"There is a certain kind of pride that is justifiable!"

"Not this kind. My mother will talk to you. Can you come to see her to-morrow? She is not well enough to come out, but she is longing to have you with her."

"I will see if I can manage it."

There was silence; then, as Hope put her iron back on the stove and prepared to take up another, he came swiftly round the table and prevented her.

"You are unapproachable with that table between yourself and me. Come and sit down, and drop your pride and your virtuous industry. I want you for myself. I want you to show me your heart. I will teach you how to do it. I am wholly and entirely selfish this morning, and your work must stop."

The loving mastery in his tone overcame her scruples.

For the next half-hour they sat together in the deep window-seat, and talked as only lovers can.

"I knew that we should come together the very first time I saw you," he assured her.

"But we very nearly did not," said Hope, a troubled light coming into her eyes. "I sacrificed my pride when I ran after you. I don't know how I could have done it! What did you honestly think of me? Tell me now."

"I thought you an angel of goodness in turning my dark hour into a paradise!"

"You will never bring it up against me? It is curious that, though I was so full of doubts and fears before, now I wonder that I could have ever thought it possible to send you away. Oh, Lancelot, I hope I shall never disappoint you! I feel so full of thanksgiving, so sure that God Himself has brought us together. You will help me in so many things. I suppose it is having to arrange so much myself that makes me long to have some one to arrange for me."

"That I will gladly undertake," said Lancelot, in such a keen tone that Hope laughed at him.

"Have your way with me now, for I know that my tractable mood will not last. I shall soon rebel, I warn you."

Their time came to an end. Mr. St. Clair wanted his daughter, and Lancelot drove home, wondering how he could sail for India, when he would be obliged to leave Hope behind.

It was three or four days afterwards that Hope got over to see Mrs. Dane. Their meeting was very quiet, but Mrs. Dane embraced her, with tears in her eyes.

"I have always coveted you for a daughter," she said, "and now I have you."

"But not for long," said Hope pathetically. "You are going to leave me as well as Lancelot. I shall have no friends left."

"Do you know what I have been thinking?" said Mrs. Dane. "I wondered if you would like to bring your father to this house for the rest of the winter. Your brother would get on very well where he is. I shall be obliged to leave some of my servants here doing nothing. It is so bad for them, and it would be a charity if you came here and looked after them. And my housemaid is such a nice woman; she was a hospital nurse once, and she would be so delighted to attend on your father."

"Dear Mrs. Dane, your plans are overwhelming!" Hope tried to laugh, but she was profoundly touched by the Danes' efforts to leave her in greater comfort. "It couldn't be," she said. "Father needs Brian more than he does me, otherwise Brian would have gone to Canada; and we settled, after our experience in Aunt Gertrude's house, that big houses were a mistake for us. We have very small needs, and a very small place suits us best. But I can't thank you enough for such kindness of thought."

"I wish you could be married at once," said Mrs. Dane, looking at her wistfully. "I don't like leaving you where you are!"

Hope blushed and laughed again.

"I should be frightened by such a sudden proceeding. I don't know Lancelot very well yet, and sometimes, when he adopts a very masterful tone with me, I feel a little afraid of him."

"Ah, you need never feel that. A good son makes a good husband. He is so wonderfully tender and considerate with women. His only fault is a little hardness of judgment which he shows towards those who have not the same high code of principles as he has himself. He wants the softening influence of a wife. I have often told him so."

"Tell me more about him."

Hope sat and listened with glowing eyes to a mother's description of a son.

And when she had left, Mrs. Dane turned round and delighted her son's heart by her talk about Hope.

The engagement was soon known. Kitty Parr was only half-pleased about it.

"You are too good to last!" she exclaimed. "I might have known you would soon get married and go away. My theory is, that some women have sufficient qualities in themselves to be better and happier without husbands than with them. And I hoped and thought that you were one of them. Silly, feeble-minded, diffident and irresolute women ought to marry. They want the balance of a strong decided character to live with them. And a very strong-minded, hard and brusque woman ought to marry a nice, gentle, meek little man. Every house wants the balance well adjusted. Don't laugh at me; I talked it over with our old doctor here. He understood, for he makes up mixtures, and he puts in one thing to counteract the effect of the other. We have a good mixture in our house. Avice is soft and sweet; I am brusque and hard. Father is a blending of both of us. I go to one extreme, Avice goes to the other, and he keeps us together in the middle.

"But you're sweet and gentle, and yet I've seen you turn upon those imps of boys and be as firm as a rock, and as hard. You're gay and grave by turns. You're dainty and fragile-looking, and at the same time have as much go as I have. You don't really want a husband at all. Your character is complete in itself."

"Thank you, Kitty, but women don't take husbands to complete their characters."

"Well, they ought, if they want happy homes," said Kitty stoutly.

Jim Horrocks turned up in person to hear about it. He had always threatened Hope that he would come down one day when she least expected him, and carry her off from her "treadmill," as he termed it.

He arrived one afternoon when Hope was busy baking, and she did not welcome him effusively.

"Why didn't you let me know you were coming?" she asked him.

"Because you would have fussed round and done the idle lady, and I wanted to catch you as the slavey!" he retorted.

"I am not ashamed of what I do," she said, a little hotly. "But I would have done my baking this morning, and so would have had more time with you. Now you must sit still in this hot kitchen and talk to me, for I can't stop making bread."

"You're very fetching in the way you do it," he said, regarding her critically with his head on one side. "I've come down to congratulate you, I suppose; but upon my honour, I don't know what this fellow is like. And I feel I should like to advise caution. He may have worked upon your mind in these wilds, and unless he's an out of the way good sort, he isn't the man for you. When I think of the men you have scorned to look at (your humble servant amongst them), I do feel rather grousy with this immaculate hero, who has stepped in and won so easily!"

Hope laughed and flushed a little.

"Don't be an old grandfather, Jim! Lancelot is one in a thousand; you need not be at all uneasy. And I am not going to run away from my life here at present. I like it too well. I am useful at last. You know how often I wished to be in my old life. My heart's desire has been granted to me!"

"Oh!" groaned Jim, with a doleful face. "Of course, if his name is Lancelot, that explains all. There never was a woman yet who didn't fall down and worship any Lancelot! I wish I knew my Tennyson better, and could spout the praises of King Arthur's beloved knight! But I suppose you endue your hero with all the virtues of the other chap!"

"If you are going to sneer, Jim, you had better have kept away!"

"Oh, don't be angry! I beg pardon humbly. And I honestly am thankful you will be coming back to a proper state of life soon. This is an unnatural and shocking environment; that is the way science would put it."

"I don't find you half so nice as you used to be, Jim."

He looked at her half-wistfully, half-comically.

"I am getting older," he said. "Life is not managed as it should be. I'm finding fault with it. Now don't preach. There's a look in your eyes that says you want to be at me. I came down prepared to be nasty. Truth will out. You want me to be glad that you're engaged to this charming knight of yours. I don't know him, so I don't like him. I should have preferred you to marry some one I knew and liked. And I hear he is going to take you to India. That's a rotten country for women; they go to pieces, physically and morally, and they come home with yellow skins and a liver!"

"You ridiculous boy!"

Then Jim laughed. He had had his say, and felt the better for it.

Hope finished her baking, then made him help her to get tea, and he quite enjoyed himself. When he departed, he said to her:

"I suppose I shall have to send you a wedding-present, but I shall be hard up for the next two years, so take pity on me and don't get spliced before that!"

It seemed to Hope that the days flew by, only giving her snatches of time to see her lover. And then the last day came, and in his arms she gave way to tears.

"I am only getting to know you now! What shall I do without you? Life will not be worth living!"

"Shall I give my post up and stay? But you would despise me if I did, and I should despise myself!"

"Of course you must go. I am ashamed of myself."

Hope pulled herself together, and smiles took the place of tears.

He was white to his lips when he kissed her for the last time.

"Think of me and pray for me, and may God watch over you and keep you till we meet again."

Hope watched him down the red-bricked walk, feeling that he was taking the best part of her with him. She would have liked to go up to town and see them sail, but she could not be spared. He left her about five o'clock in the afternoon.

The next morning she received her first letter from him.

It was but a pencil note, but the contents filled her heart with rest and quiet:

"MY OWN DARLING,—Just a line. Mother and I are comfortably settled in our cabins and they're going to take the letters ashore. What can I say! I think I will give you a verse of your favourite hymn. May it comfort you as it is comforting me.

"'Peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away?
In Jesus' keeping we are safe, and they.'

"Yours always,
LANCELOT."

The words of the hymn rang in her ears for many a day after, and the peace was given to her.

Kitty looked at her and marvelled. She had a young girl's quick insight; and she knew that Hope's very quietness, as she went about her work, was a sign that she suffered.

"It is so stupid when women get engaged," she confided to Brian, as she was helping him feed the poultry one afternoon.

"Is it?" he said, amused. "They don't seem to think so."

"Perhaps not, but everybody round them does. I don't see the use of being engaged. It's rotten. Don't laugh. If I liked a man, I would either marry him or not marry him; I would have no stupid waiting-time, it only makes everybody miserable."

"I don't think that would answer always," said Brian, looking at her reflectively. "Half a loaf is better than no bread! And if people can't marry, at all events they're booked for it, and that's a comfort to them."

"But it isn't! You watch any couple who are booked, as you call it. They're always absent and uncomfortable unless they're together. They can think of nothing else; they lose all their enjoyments if they're away from each other, and are quite different altogether."

"Well, when your time comes, you can set an example of a speedy marriage," said Brian, laughing.

"Oh, I shan't marry at all. I'm not the stuff for it. I shall be a strong-minded old maid, and live in a house like this, with plenty of animals. I shall be quite content."

But Brian nodded his head knowingly.

"Your day will come," he said.

"Rubbish!" Kitty retorted. "Don't let us talk of such things. If I say anything about marriage, Avice looks quite shocked. 'You're too young, Kitty, to discuss such matters.' As if there is a matter I can't discuss at my age! And I love talking. I have such a torrent of thoughts that it's quite a relief to let some out."

"Go ahead, then," said Brian. "I'll be your safety-valve."

"Let us discuss Hope. She is such a darling! I look at her sometimes as she moves about her kitchen, and I picture her in white satin and diamonds moving about a ballroom. Isn't it funny the difference between people? I honestly don't care for good people. There's a Miss Baker who lives two miles from us. You will have seen her in church. She sits under the pulpit, with a black bonnet and a mauve feather. She really belongs to another parish, but she quarrelled with her vicar, and has come over to us. She talks to father like the mediæval saints in the stained-glass windows, with her eyes rolled up, her elbows close to her sides, and her hands clasped. Father says she may not be interesting, but she's thoroughly good and worthy! I can't bear her. Now, Hope is really good. I've had lots of little sermons from her, and I've really enjoyed them. I think it is because she has such a way of smiling at you with her eyes, as if she loved you."

"Hope's all right," said Brian gruffly.

"Yes," went on the warm-hearted girl. "I feel as if I should really like to be like her. She makes you feel that serving God is not only intensely interesting, but awfully jolly—well, perhaps that's not quite the expression, but you know—quite the very nicest way of living! Now Avice never makes me feel that, with all her goodness! Oh, Hope's much too good to go out to India, or to marry!"

Brian laughed out. Kitty always amused him. She would toss her red hair over her shoulder, and her eyes would blaze and quiver with light and earnestness. Her whole body seemed to vibrate with feeling as she talked, and her moods were always intense and passionate.

Her father wondered why she spent so many hours at the cottage, but was quite content that she should do so; and Kitty had always one answer to make to any objections raised.

"I want to make myself useful, and I love to be with Miss St. Clair. She does me good."

"I THINK YOUR NAME OUGHT TO
HAVE BEEN PEACE," SAID KITTY.

Chapter XVI

A LONG NIGHT

TO Hope, the brief time she had had with Lancelot before he sailed, now seemed like a dream. But she could write to him; she had some one to whom she could unbosom herself, and she no longer felt her loneliness. In spite of his absence, she was able to go about her daily duties with a shining radiant face. Kitty said to her one day:

"I think your name ought to have been Peace, there's such a look of that in your eyes. But perhaps hope brings peace, does it?"

"I think a certain hope does," rejoined Hope, looking at Kitty thoughtfully.

"Now how can hope be certain?" Kitty enjoyed an argument. "Hope always seems to me," she went on, "to necessitate doubt. Otherwise, you would do more than hope."

"What is the dictionary definition?" said Hope. "Isn't it anticipation, a desire or expectation? I always think our hope as Christians is anticipation, and certain anticipation of the future fills one with peace."

"I shall never, never be filled with peace," asserted Kitty. "You are like a sweet clear lake, and I am a hot mineral spring, always bubbling, fizzing, and spouting, when I ought to be quiet. I am in a perpetual fizz, and unless I can work off my energy I explode, as you know."

"But, dear Kitty, the peace is for you as well as for me."

"Yes, but our natures are different."

"And our circumstances," added Hope.

Yet in thought she looked back, and saw herself rushing through her London seasons, always gay, always ready for everything, and yet always painfully restless in her spirit. She began to wonder at herself, then she said:

"My quiet life here helps me, Kitty. I have no one to worry me."

"Not the imps, as I call them? You wait till their holidays begin, and that will be in three days' time, now!"

"Well, perhaps I shall find their element very disturbing, but I don't know; nothing really touches your inner life, if it is given up to Him Who is our peace."

But Hope found that her serenity was sadly tried that Christmas, and not being perfect by any means, it broke down more than once. The boys were in rollicking spirits, and the tiny cottage could not contain them sometimes. Brian set them to work sawing wood, and taking the poultry to the railway station. He had bought the little donkey and donkey-cart from Miss Rill, and nothing delighted the boys more than to drive it about. But they could not be doing that every day, and Hope counted each day, as it went by, to the end of the holidays.

Christmas was a very quiet time at the cottage. Hope had no money to spend on luxuries, and told the boys that they must expect no presents. However, on Christmas Eve, to their astonishment, a neighbour informed them that a hamper for them had arrived at the station, and was waiting there to be fetched. The boys were frantic with excitement, and Brian being away with the cart, they started off at once, and arrived an hour later breathless and exhausted, having carried the hamper between them the whole of the way.

"It's directed to us, Hope!" they screamed, as soon as they saw her. "And we couldn't wait, and we've opened it; and there's nothing but parcels of all sorts in it."

"You had better unpack it at once," suggested their sister; "perhaps you will find a note from some one in it."

But there was no clue. It had been sent from the Army and Navy Stores. There were books and games for the boys, preserved fruits, chocolates, a large iced cake, a thick soft rug for Mr. St. Clair, a book for Brian, and in a small box a gold bracelet for Hope. The names were printed on the respective gifts.

Hope took her bracelet and walked to the window to look at it. And then the words engraved inside told her what she had already guessed. They were these:

"Num. vi. 24, 25, 26."

Only Lancelot could have sent her that. She went out of the room and got hold of her Bible, and she read the words with tears dimming her eyes.

"The Lord bless thee and keep thee.
The Lord make His face shine upon thee, and be gracious
unto thee.
The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee and give
thee peace."

When she told the boys who had sent the hamper, they wondered if it had come all the way from India. Hope explained that he must have ordered it before he left London; and his thoughtfulness in the rush of his last day in town was very sweet to her. The hamper was a great success. And the Christmas Day that followed, though quietly spent, was a very happy one.

Peace, the great Christmas gift, reigned in Hope's heart, and through her was reflected on those around her. She was able to go to church in the morning, and Kitty, who had been like a bit of quicksilver all the week, met her outside and pressed a packet into her hand.

"I'm very poor, but I sat up last night and made it for you, after we had finished the decorations in the church. I wish it was a better offering."

It was a dainty work-bag, with her initials worked in holly-berries across it. Kitty's clever fingers had made a great success of it, and Hope came home feeling that she was rich in friends.

After Christmas, there was a long spell of wet. Mr. St. Clair, who had seemed to be improving in health, flagged again, and a doctor had to be summoned. He looked grave, enjoined great quiet, and informed Brian that he feared another seizure.

Of course Brian carried this verdict to his sister, and some anxious days and nights followed.

Hope's spirits sank a little; the weather outside and her cares within proved hard to combat. She watched her father anxiously, and spent the greater part of her days in his room. Their orchard became swamped with water, and Brian had hard work to keep his fowl-houses dry.

One afternoon, Kitty arrived in great excitement. It was streaming with rain, but she seemed impervious to weather.

"Isn't this rain awful?" she said. "We have had three weeks on end; and do you know the river is rising so high that people are afraid of it flooding? Father can remember a flood twenty years ago. The weir burst and overflowed. Isn't it exciting! I can't help hoping it will do it again."

"You dreadful child!" said Hope, with a smile. "You don't realise what it would be, or you would not talk so. We should fare very badly here, for we are close to the weir, and below the level of it."

"I suppose you are. I shouldn't like you to be inconvenienced, but I wouldn't mind our old Vicarage being flooded. We ought to get some boats ready. There's one cottage much lower than you, and that's old Mrs. Pitman's. She's right in a hole, and the water would be sure to flood her. I've been up to the weir. All the village boys are watching it, and old John Strong told me that the river has never been so high since the last flood."

"You are making me quite anxious," said Hope.

Brian, standing by, laughed.

"Well," he said, "time enough when it comes to be that; but this long spell of wet is bad for everything, and the wind is getting up. There'll be a good storm to-night. I don't think you'll be troubled at the Vicarage, Miss Kitty. You're too high up."

"No," said Kitty, sadly, "I'm afraid we are. I do love a fresh sensation. Old people talk of the flood of seventy-three. I should like to have one to talk about when I get old!"

"You won't suffer from lack of subjects to talk about!" said Brian, looking at her with twinkling eyes.

"No, life is so full. I must be going home. I just thought I would run down and warn you. They're actually going to have a watchman by the river to-night. Father thought it wise."

Kitty disappeared, and Hope, as evening drew on, felt strangely nervous.

"Do you really think there is danger?" she asked her brother, when he came in from his evening round.

He did not answer for a moment, then he said, "I've just been to the river to have a look. If it rises a few inches higher, it will be over its banks. I'm afraid it will be awfully serious for us. I'm thinking of the fowls. We can't afford to lose them. And I'm more than half-inclined to move father upstairs. I wander if we could manage it!"

"Oh, Brian!"

Hope's tone was full of dismay.

"The doctor said he must be kept so very quiet, and he has been so restless and excited to-day. I believe it would be the finishing stroke. And how could we get him up those narrow stairs?"

"We could take him up in a blanket. Well, we can wait; Joe Garth is watching. You'll be amused; he has got an old huntsman's horn, and if he blows it, we shall know the weir has burst!"

"I think it is quite dreadful!" said Hope. "I feel that nothing could amuse me at this crisis."

At this juncture the boys burst into the cottage. They were half an hour late.

"We've been watching the river!" Jerry cried excitedly. "The weir is like Niagara; the water is rushing and swirling like mad. We're going to have a flood. Everybody says so. Isn't it jolly!"

"Hurrah!" shouted Toby, dancing round the kitchen. "And Joe says we'd better look out, for the water will come straight down to us!"

"Hush, boys, be quiet, because of father! I wouldn't let him hear of this for worlds!"

The little party sat down to supper, but Hope's ears were strained to listen to the tempest that increased in violence every moment. And when she thought of her sick helpless father, she shuddered. Brian also was ill at ease. At last he got up from the table.

"Come, youngsters," he said to his small brothers; "I'm going to move the fowls up to the loft above the old barn at the back of us. Bring the lantern and help me!"

The boys were delighted. Hope said nothing. At another time she would have thought of the streaming clothes she would have to dry, now she did not seem to care. She went back to her father's room, and was glad to find him half-asleep. The wind and rain did not disturb him. She sat down by the window and prayed that they might be kept safely through it all, and then she listened with beating heart to the rush of the river in the distance. An hour had passed before Brian returned, and then he called to Hope.

She came out quickly.

"We've got all the poultry safe. What do you think about father?"

"He is sleeping. Don't let us disturb him unless it is absolutely necessary."

"It seems," said Brian, "that the Vicar wanted to keep the boys there to-night. Shall we send them up? It would be a relief to get rid of them: They're so excited that they'll never go to bed."

"It would be a good thing," said Hope, "except that they are wet through."

"Oh, that doesn't matter; they would get wet again going up there. It's coming down in torrents!"

The boys had overheard this whispered discussion, and met it with a howl of indignation. "We won't go! We shall miss all the fun; besides, we can be so useful helping to take the furniture out!"

"There'll be none of that, if there is a flood," rejoined Brian sharply. "Give them what they want for the night, Hope, and let them go at once!"

With many protests, the boys were packed off.

Hope made up the kitchen fire. Nine o'clock, ten o'clock came, and then Brian suggested her going to bed.

"I think the rain is stopping," he said. "Lie down somewhere at any rate. I'll call you if anything happens. I shall be sitting with father!"

"I would rather be here. You see, we should have so little time. Do you think we should be safe upstairs, Brian, if we were flooded?"

"Oh yes, it wouldn't be so bad as all that. At all events, we could try it. They say they have boats ready if it comes to the worst."

"It would kill father!" said Hope quietly.

"I fancy it must be going down, or we should have heard the alarm before this."

Hope settled herself in the easy chair by the fire. She tried not to think. Brian went to his father, and the cottage settled down into perfect quiet. The ticking of the kitchen clock was the only thing that broke the monotony of silence; occasionally a coal fell on the hearth, and Hope found herself starting as if a pistol had been going off in her ear. Eleven o'clock struck. Hope began to feel sleepy. Her head nodded, and then suddenly she sprang to her feet. The horn was sounding!

"Oh, God help us!" was her prayer.

Hanging on a chair by the fire was a blanket which she had thoughtfully placed there. She was at the door of her father's room with it on her arm, as Brian opened it.

"That's right!" he said in a whisper. "Keep cool and steady, Hope, and we shall manage it."

They went into the sick-room. Mr. St. Clair opened his eyes wonderingly at Hope.

"We're going to move you upstairs to-night, father, dear," she said, steadying her trembling voice. "We think it will be better for you."

Mr. St. Clair shook his head violently. Hope was beginning to explain when Brian stopped her.

"Act, don't talk!" he said. "We haven't a moment to lose."

In an incredibly short time Brian, as deftly as any woman, had rolled his father up in a blanket, and instructed Hope how to hold one corner of it. It was a breathless task. The invalid got very excited, and began to babble incoherently. The narrow staircase made it very difficult to carry him up, but Brian seemed to have the strength of a Hercules, and it was done at last, and Mr. St. Clair was laid upon Hope's bed. Brian had thought it all out; he did not say so to his sister, but her room had the biggest window, in case of the need of an exit through it.

And then, while Hope was trying to make her father comfortable, Brian dragged upstairs all the food he could find, and a good deal of the furniture from below. When Hope could stop to listen, she had hard work to repress the shiver that ran through her.

The roar and rush of water seemed to come nearer and nearer. She looked out of the window, and saw by the light that came through the clouds from the moon, a silver stream coming down a narrow lane that led up from their orchard to the road above.

And then resolutely she turned away from the sight, and gave all her attention to her father, who was needing it. Brian was on his knees now lighting up the fire with some kindling he had brought from the kitchen.

"You'll be all right here, Hope, for a bit. You won't mind if I leave you? I want to find out the extent of the mischief outside, and my help may be needed."

Hope's heart sank.

"You won't leave us here to drown?" she said, and then she was ashamed of herself. "We shall be all right. You will not be very long. Go by all means."

"I want to find out if a boat could be had. Of course we may not need it, but it is well to be prepared."

He went downstairs and out into the stormy night.

Hope wished for a moment that she were a man.

"They always have the easiest part to play, the active part," she said to herself. "It is much harder to sit still in suspense and wait."

There was a loud outburst of wind and water, Mr. St. Clair opened his eyes, then suddenly called out:

"Hope, where am I?"

Hope bent over him, startled. He had not spoken for months; now she wondered if it were a good or bad sign that he had recovered his speech.

"We have moved you upstairs, father."

"Why? Am I dying? Is that the rush of water I hear? Put me back in my own bed again. At once, at once!"

He spoke quickly and excitedly, and struggled to move himself.

Hope tried to soothe him.

"You hear the river, father; it is a stormy night. We were afraid of the damp coming in downstairs; that was why we moved you. You are quite comfortable, are you not? Brian will be here soon. He has just gone out."

"Is it night or day? Why'sh—all a muddle—ish oughtn't to be dark'sh—"

His voice thickened and died away. He seemed to be falling asleep. Hope did not try to rouse him, but she watched him anxiously. She did not like the sound of his heavy breathing. And meanwhile the water was creeping nearer and nearer; it had filtered down through the orchard, it had reached the cottage door, and was washing and lapping against the doorposts like the waves of the sea. Hope opened the casement window cautiously, but only the roar of the wind and the rush of the water met her ears. She shut it hastily, then leaving her father for a moment, went down the narrow stairs into the kitchen.

She stared, candle in hand, at the threshold. The water was pouring in, the swirling, sucking sound of it as it found its way under the door made her shudder. She snatched up a few of her books that were lying on the window-sill and went upstairs again.

"It's a gruesome experience!" she thought. "I wonder if we were wise to move father up here! What shall I do if the water rises to us! It is so dreadful to be tied here, and yet, of course, father was unfit to be carried further."

She peered out of the window again, but the clouds had obscured the moon, and she could see nothing. Then she heard the bleating of sheep, and fancied she could distinguish men's voices above the raging storm. She paced her bedroom softly, praying for quietness of spirit, and every moment or two she would listen to the lap and splash of the water below. Soon she went out to the staircase again, and to her horror found the water had filled the kitchen and was slowly but surely mounting the stairs. Then she set herself the task of timing its rise. There were twelve steps. She found it took ten minutes to cover one of them. If it went on rising at that same rate, the water would reach them in two hours' time. Then if Brian were not back, what should she do?

THE WATER WAS SLOWLY BUT SURELY
MOUNTING THE STAIRS.

Would he never return? She felt angry with him for deserting her at such a crisis.

Again Mr. St. Clair spoke, and this time she had to bend her head and listen, though his words were perfectly clear.

"Read me the Bible."

Thankfully she sat down and obeyed. She turned to the Psalms for the evening. Was it merely a coincidence that she should have to read the 121st Psalm?

"'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence
cometh my help.
My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and
earth.
He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: He that keepeth
thee will not slumber.'"

And so on to the end. As she repeated the last verse—

"'The Lord shall preserve thy going out, and thy coming
in, from this time forth, and even for evermore,'"

her father repeated drowsily:

"'Even for evermore.'"

Hope bent over him, a little anxious at his tone. He was lying back peacefully, but when she asked him if she could do anything for him, he did not reply. She hoped from his breathing that he was settling off to sleep again, and once more she went to the top of the stairs.

The rise of the water fascinated her. She went into the boys' room, and flung the window wide open. Here she had a more extensive view than in her own room, but it was not a reassuring one. Everywhere round the cottage was a shining expanse of water, the apple-trees looked ghostly as they reared their gnarled trunks and leafless boughs out of the water. Hope almost imagined they were human creatures raising their limbs and crying out for help. The cottage was so much in a hollow that no other house was in sight; she looked in vain for a twinkling light that might tell her of a lantern approaching. At last she closed the window with a weary sigh, but as she did so, a sudden rift in the clouds disclosed the silver moon, and Hope took it as an omen for good. Looking upwards she repeated:

"'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord.'"

And she went back to her father with a smile upon her lips, and peace in her heart.

Chapter XVII

HOMELESS

STILL the water mounted. Would Brian never come, and would the night never end? After a time, Hope began to fear lest something had happened to her brother. She eyed the window nervously and apprehensively. That, and that only, was their means of exit now, unless the water sank as quickly as it had risen. She went once more to the stairs, and found it was nearly to the top. Then she feared that the old walls of the cottage might be so undermined with the water that it would all collapse. She shook the casement window. Brian had brought up his toolbox, so she very deliberately began to loosen the hinges and the frame. She was thankful the wood was so old and rotten that it gave away under her blows. Her father seemed unconscious of the noise, and indeed the storm of wind and rain that still shrieked down the chimneys and round the cottage drowned everything else.

"They must come to our rescue," she repeated to herself; and then, as she raised her eyes for the hundredth time, she saw lanterns flashing in the distance. She caught her breath in suspense.

Were they coming towards the cottage? Would they pass her by? And then with relief and thankfulness she heard Brian's shout, and the splash of oars. They were coming along the road in a boat. Every now and then obstacles got in their way, and they were caught in trees and bushes; but once she was convinced that rescue was near, she began to make her preparations. When they eventually reached the window, Brian looked up.

"I have been delayed, but I never thought the water would rise so rapidly. Are you ready? We have a ladder; I will come up."

It seemed only a few minutes now before Brian and the two men with him accomplished the rescue. It was a difficult task carrying Mr. St. Clair down, and when he was in the boat, Brian bent over him anxiously.

"He is bad!" he said shortly to Hope.

"I am afraid he is. I don't like his breathing. He seems quite unconscious; but he has spoken quite plainly twice."

No more was said. It was as much as the men could do to steer the boat safely along. Hope looked back at the cottage.

"Are we leaving it to its fate?" she asked.

"We must till the morning. This will mean ruin to a good many besides ourselves."

"Where can we go?"

"Mrs. Goddles' cottage is safe, being above the level of the river. She is prepared to take you in."

Half an hour later, Mr. St. Clair was comfortably settled in bed in Mrs. Goddles' best bedroom.

The good woman seemed too scared to be garrulous. But when she had done all that was required of her, and brought Hope a cup of tea, her tongue was unloosed.

"'Tis an awful visitation, miss! My 'usband, 'e be up at the weir diggin' and workin' hisself to death. There be five cottages, bottom end of village, covered right up; 'The Crown' be crowded out with the women and children; an' Mr. Brian have covered 'imself with glory this night. He have saved life after life! He swims like a fish, and is so hard an' strong. Why, the men have bin takin' his orders right through. Dr. Rush come along an hour gone. 'Doctor,' says I, 'the work be nearly done, an' the waters, accordin' to Scripture, be abatin'.' 'E says—"

"Stop!" cried Hope. "Is Doctor Rush in the village? Can we find him? He ought to see my father."

Brian had gone out again. Dawn was breaking, and there was plenty of work for him, for the damage to cattle and crops was great, and the farmers and villagers were working hard, trying to save all they could.

"He be gone to old Squire Spencer. My 'usband 'ave been in an' told me it all. T' old Squire went down to his stables, an' the river bursted an' caught him betwixt the stable an' the house; an' he climbed a tree, the Squire did; but 'e hollers, an' no one heard 'im, an' then 'e lost his 'old an' tumbled into the water, an' 'e hollered agen an' Mr. Brian heard 'im, an' he run along an' dashed in the water, an' took 'im on his back, an' got 'im safe 'ome; but the old man have broke his leg, an' Doctor Rush be with 'im now a-putting it together agen."

"Oh!" said Hope. "Could any one go and tell him we want him? Could you go, Mrs. Goddles?"

"If so be the water will keep out of my way. 'Usband, 'e says we be ten foot out o' danger, but what the road will be like I can't reckon. Any-ways, I'll have a try, for I be likely to get the news, an' that be worth 'earin'!"

She put on her bonnet and cloak and departed.

Again it was Hope's duty to watch by her father's bedside. It seemed to her as if the past night had been one long nightmare; she even now felt as if she might wake up and find it all a dream.

A man presently ran by in the road.

"'Tis over, the river be easin' down," he said, as he saw Hope's head at the window.

She heaved a sigh of relief.

Before very long Mrs. Goddles returned with the doctor. He came straight in, and without a word went to Mr. St. Clair's bedside.

"I can't rouse him," said Hope; "he has been in this stupor for quite two hours. I'm afraid the move was too much for him."

"I expect it was," Dr. Rush said gravely. Then he looked at Hope in silence for a minute.

"You never will rouse him now," he said, "he is sinking fast!"

Hope's heart nearly stopped beating; she could not believe it.

"He spoke to me in the night twice! Surely he cannot be dying, Doctor? Oh, where is Brian?"

"I will try to find him, and send him to you. There is nothing to be done. I will come in again shortly. It has been a terrible business, this flood!"

"But surely you will do something?" Hope asked desperately.

"There is nothing to be done," was the quiet reply. "He does not suffer, and the end will be peaceful."

Hope put her head into her hands and burst into tears. The suspense of the long night had thoroughly unnerved her.

"I will send your brother to you," Dr. Rush repeated, and he left the cottage.

Poor Hope struggled for composure. She felt as if an end had come to everything. Mrs. Goddles stood looking at her as if she hardly knew what to say.

"The poor dear gentleman!" she ejaculated at last. "Well, I ain't one o' those who object to corpses in the house; the last one—"

Hope broke away from her, shuddering, and locked herself into the bedroom with her dying father. She opened the door a little later to Brian. He was wet to the skin, his clothes saturated and heavy with water, and his whole appearance dishevelled and weary.

"I must change," he whispered, "if I can get a dry suit of clothes from Mrs. Goddles, and then I will come to you."

He stood for a second looking down upon his father with tender pitying eyes. Then he disappeared, and when he came in again he was attired in Bob Goddles' black broadcloth Sunday suit. Hope could have laughed, if she had not been so sad, at the comical figure he cut.

Together brother and sister watched by the inanimate form of their father. Occasionally a whispered word passed between them. Hope told Brian of her father's last words.

"I so little thought they would be his last. I suppose he knew more than I did that he was going to pass so soon from us, 'Even for evermore.'"

Two hours afterwards Mr. St. Clair quietly drew his last breath, and Brian persuaded Hope to go into another room and take a rest. "Mrs. Goddles and I will do everything that is necessary. You have been up all night. Try to get some sleep."

"The boys?" said Hope wearily.

"I will go to the Vicarage. They will have to stay there for the present. I'm sure the Vicar will keep them."

Hope said no more. She was physically and mentally worn out. She threw herself upon a small iron bed in the little attic room, and sleep came mercifully to her at once. It was late in the afternoon when she awoke, and then there was much to decide and arrange with her brother.

The village, though still inundated in its low parts, was rapidly recovering from the excitement into which it had been thrown. The water was ebbing fast away, for a band of willing workers had cut channels through the low-lying fields that took the water back to the river lower down. Only one death had occurred besides Mr. St. Clair's, and that was a baby of a few weeks old, who had been dropped by its mother in her frantic flight, and had in falling struck its head against a stone and expired instantly. But numbers of sheep had been drowned, and several young bullocks.

In a day or two, all signs of the flood had disappeared. But King's Dell Cottage was too damp to live in. Hope and Brian found lodgings with Mrs. Goddles, whilst the boys were made at home in the Vicarage. Mr. St. Clair's funeral was a very quiet one. After it was over, Hope and Brian began to discuss the future. Their father's lawyer came down from town, and he read the will that Mr. St. Clair had made the first week he landed in England. To Hope's dismay, there was absolutely no mention of her in it. Everything was left to Brian to be equally divided between himself and his brothers. It was but a very small sum, something under £3,000, and when Brian turned apologetically to his sister, saying:

"You see, father was entirely persuaded that Aunt Gertrude would provide for you."

She smiled and said:

"It is not enough to divide at all, Brian. I am so glad you have it."

"Well," he said, "of course you'll be going out to India soon."

"And will you go back to Canada?"

"Yes, I think so. Our cottage is such a wreck, and it's such hard work in England, that I'll sell it cheap to any one who wants it."

"Oh," said Hope, "don't give it up yet. I feel it will be a harbour of refuge for me. There is no rent to pay, and we have the furniture, and we have still the poultry."

The lawyer went back to town, and the next morning Hope went over to the cottage. Brian had received a summons to go to Mr. Spencer, so she went alone.

It was a sad sight. The orchard was a sea of mud and water; the fowl-houses had all been swept away. Several apple-trees had been rooted up. All Brian's careful tilling of the soil for vegetables had come to nothing; the kitchen smelt and reeked with damp, tables and chairs had become unglued and lay about the floor in bits, bedding and small knick-knacks had been washed out of the windows upon the grass; the red-bricked path was the only thing that seemed to have stood the raging flood.

Hope stood, feeling the desolation of it keenly. And then a fresh young voice sounded in her ear. "Miss St. Clair, please don't look so sad! I haven't had any talk with you alone yet since that dreadful flood! May I stay with you a little, or would you rather be alone?"

Hope turned and kissed Kitty affectionately.

"We have been in such trouble, dear. I'm afraid I have been selfish. I can't tell you how good it is of you to keep the boys at the Vicarage. I hope they give no trouble."

"No, I see they don't. They're awfully frightened of me, I can tell you. I locked the imps in that night. Oh, how splendid your brother was! Did you know all he did?"

"I was too much engrossed with—"

"Yes, I forgot. Forgive me, and though I can't spout sympathy like Avice, I really am awfully sorry for you. I little thought what tragedy would be mixed up with my time of excitement. And death is so dreadful, it seems so horribly unnatural; and of course you're missing him awfully, only I suppose he is having a much better time where he is, isn't he? I can't talk religion, but you'll remember all that, of course. Oh, you dear, do let me give you a hug; and be sure to send me off if I worry you!"

Hope was smiling through her tears. She drew Kitty's arm in hers, and walked up and down the path, the only dry spot for their feet.

"You're doing me good already. I won't be miserable. Death is not horrible when you have hope through it for others."

"Do you know that it was just a chance I'm not dead?" said Kitty solemnly. "Do let me tell you. Of course I didn't go to bed that night, and I slipped out of the house directly I heard the horn. You see, I was dreadfully uneasy about old Mrs. Pitman, for I knew if the dam burst by the weir, she would be flooded at once. So I tore off to her, and sure enough the water was rushing into her little garden and all round her house. She was in bed and asleep, poor old thing. You've no idea what a business it was to wake her and dress her. She wouldn't understand, and when the water at last came into her kitchen, then she insisted upon being dressed in her very best.

"'And my boots, me dear,' she said—'my Sunday 'lastic boots, they wants a deal o' pulling. I gen'elly allows half-hour to that, for me feet are so tender!'

"When I'd got her out, we had to wade through the water up to our knees. And then the poor old thing tumbled down, and a rush and swirl of water carried her clean away from me. I saw her being washed away in the current; I was so thankful I could swim, for I followed her and caught hold of her, and then managed to get her up on the top of a hayrick, which was half under water.

"We sat on the top and shouted for help, and the water got higher and higher. Then I heard your brother's voice. He told me to hold on, for he was coming, but he couldn't get his boat very near us, for there was a huge hedge between. So he got out and swam to us, and took old Mrs. Pitman on his back in safety to his boat. Then he came back for me, but before he could reach me, a great rushing wave swept me off and carried me with the current just like Mrs. Pitman had gone. I struggled, but it was no good, and then I felt I was drowning, and then in the nick of time your brother gripped hold of me. I was so thankful, and so grateful to him, for I made quite sure I was going to die. They say in the village he saved quite a dozen people altogether, Mr. Spencer included. He is quite a hero!"

"I wish I had known," said Hope regretfully; "I had hard thoughts of him when he left me."

"He didn't forget you, for he kept saying, 'I must get back to Hope.' Oh, dear, when it comes, I don't think a flood at all nice. The mud and wet everywhere is awful, and what a ruin your pretty little cottage is! Don't you feel inclined to cry over it? Shall we light some fires and try to dry it up?"

"I thought of doing that, but there are no dry sticks anywhere. Everything is soaked with the water."

"When are you coming back to it?"

"I don't know our plans," Hope said sadly. "Now my father has gone, Brian wants to go back to Canada. We shall stay on with Mrs. Goddles for the present."

Kitty was singularly silent. She seemed quite dismayed with such tidings.

"I thought you would be here always," she said at last. "It's too bad, for I do like you all so much."

They did not stay much longer at the cottage, and when they parted, Hope said:

"Don't look so unhappy, Kitty. We have not gone yet; and I do not mean to go out to Canada, it is only Brian."

"Only Brian!" repeated Kitty to herself, as she walked disconsolately home. "But then he isn't 'only Brian' to me!"

That same evening Hope and her brother sat in Mrs. Goddles' best parlour over the fire, and discussed their plans for the future.

"That old Spencer is a rum chap," said Brian. "What do you think he wants me to do? To live with him and manage his farms. Be a kind of bailiff, in fact."

"But that would be a good thing, would it not?"

Brian shook his head.

"No, his farms are going to pieces; he's so miserly that he won't spend one penny unless it is forced from him by law. His bailiff is to be pitied, I can tell you! He said he would treat me like a son. I concluded I should make my home with him and receive no wages. That wouldn't suit me. I told him I wanted to be independent."

"Poor old man!" said Hope pityingly. "I believe he has taken a fancy to you. I hope you refused his offer nicely."

"Oh, it isn't me upon whom he has fixed his fancy. It is you. He can do nothing but talk about you. He wants you to go and see him to-morrow. It struck me that if I and the boys go back to Canada, you will not want to come with us, for I suppose you will go out to India to be married very soon."

"I don't know," said Hope, quietly, "what I shall do."

"Well, if you had only a month or two to wait, perhaps you could listen to his proposal. I was made to promise I would say nothing till he had seen you himself."

"I am afraid I would not agree to any proposal," said Hope proudly. "Mr. Spencer is a complete stranger to me."

Then she was ashamed of herself.

"Tell me," she said gently, "what you think of doing with the boys. Father was so anxious they should have an English training."

"I know, but how can we give it to them? There's no money to spare. As it is, I shall have hard work to get sufficient for our passages. If you had not been going to be married—"

He paused.

"Well, in that case what would you have done?"

"I think I should have struggled on with our poultry for a bit."

"And why are you in such a hurry to leave it?"

"Because it will be so expensive to put all the outbuildings together again. And as none of us mean to live there eventually, the sooner we clear out the better. Have you written to Dane?"

"No," Hope said. "The mail does not go till to-morrow, and I am expecting to hear from him."

"Can you go round to the old Squire to-morrow?"

"Yes; if he really expects me, I must."

Silence fell between them, which Hope broke by getting up from her seat.

"I am very tired, Brian, so I think I will go to bed. Good-night!"

She went upstairs to her tiny attic room, then bolted her door and gave way to tears.

"I don't know what I shall do! Brian evidently wants to do nothing for me. I am absolutely penniless, and I cannot rush off to Lancelot at a moment's notice. I can't bear Brian's eagerness for me to see Mr. Spencer. I will not accept any favour from him. If only I could do something to earn my living! How helpless and forlorn I feel! And what would I not give for Lancelot at this moment!"

Then her eyes fell upon her Bible. She took it up, and in reading her evening portion and in pouring out her troubles to the One who was ordering all things for her, she was comforted. She fell asleep repeating to herself:

"'Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown?
Jesus we know, and He is on the throne.'"

Chapter XVIII

AN UNCERTAIN FUTURE

HOPE'S Indian letter came to her the next morning, but the contents filled her with dismay.

Lancelot told her that he had just been appointed to another district. It was only a temporary appointment, to take the place of a man who had been granted a year's sick-leave, but he had no choice in the matter.

"It is very trying," he said, "for the climate is an unhealthy one, and there are only three months out of the year that my mother can be with me. She has fortunately fallen in with very old friends of hers, who have invited her to stay with them for the present. They are delighted to have her, but she and I are disappointed at our necessary separation."

Hope sat with the letter before her in absolute despair.

"Every one is failing me. Of course he does not know how I am situated, and I will not let him know how I was depending upon soon going out to him. What can I do? I must rouse myself and settle something. I must, when writing, be able to tell him that I am comfortably settled somewhere!"

She felt at present she could not read this to Brian. Her nerves were on edge; she dreaded lest he should think she would be a burden on his hands.

"I have indeed fallen between two stools," she thought. "No money from my aunt; no money from my father. I suppose there are other women in my plight. And I am young and strong. There must be some way of earning my living. It is evident that Lancelot will not think of marriage for at least a year, and I would do anything rather than force his hand. How I wish I had some friend to advise me!"

She ran over in her mind's eye her different friends.

May Fosberry was abroad with her parents. Jim Horrocks was not the person to take into her confidence. The Chesneys, with the exception of Hester, had rather cooled off in their friendship since she had been at King's Dell. Kitty Parr was very dear and nice, but a thorough child; and poor Hope came to the conclusion that her pride would not let her ask any one's help and advice. When she was in society with her aunt, she had had many friends; now she was in seclusion and poverty they had most of them disappeared.

She roused herself at last.

"I will go and see Mr. Spencer. I promised Brian that I would."

It was a bright sunny morning, with a touch of frost in the air. After the long, wet and relaxing, humid atmosphere, it was delicious to feel the keen bracing wind that met her as she walked along. She had never been to Mr. Spencer's house before. He had, in his eccentric fashion, altered the name of it from "The Hall" to "The Retreat." He told Brian that the very name of "The Hall" made people consider him richer than he was, and much less would be expected from him if he did away with the name. As she walked in at the rusty iron gates and noted the empty half-ruined lodge, the moss-grown drive, and the unkempt shrubberies, a sudden chill foreboding seemed to overshadow her.

Then she looked up to the blue sky, and into her eyes crept an indescribable peace.

"'Jesus I know, and He is on the throne,'" she repeated softly to herself; "He rules me and my future. I will trust myself to Him."

"The Retreat" was an ugly, square, ivy-covered building. Half the windows were shuttered. When she rang the bell, it seemed to echo through empty passages, and for a long time she stood on the doorstep waiting to be admitted. At last, an old woman appeared, who regarded her curiously.

"Yes, we knows the master wants to see you. This way, mum!"

She led her along a dark and dusty oak-panelled hall. At the extreme end was a curtained door, and the next minute she was ushered into the old Squire's study and living-room.

It presented a very comfortless and untidy aspect. The square table in the middle of the room was covered with books and papers; a tray of whisky-and-water and some medicine-bottles were also upon it.

Guns, a few sporting prints, and foxes' brushes hung upon the walls. In an easy chair by the fire, with his bandaged leg upon a bench, sat Mr. Spencer. He had a red silk handkerchief round his throat instead of a collar. An old corduroy shooting-coat, patched tweed breeches, and coarse blue woollen stockings, with carpet slippers on his feet, completed his attire.

Hope's dainty taste felt repulsion at the sight of him and his surroundings.

He looked at her with kindliness dawning in his eyes.

"The farmer's daughter!" he said, with a smile. "Ay, you humoured me that day, but I've learnt more about you since. You seem to have been in a peck of troubles, and I dare say you feel they couldn't be much worse. The young always think they're at the end of everything when trouble comes. The old look upon it as a necessary routine through which to pass. I've as much to put up with as you, at present. For a broken leg at my time of life means a long period of incapacity. You, at least, have health and strength left to you."

Hope's feelings underwent a change, and her smile was bright as she replied:

"Yes, and I'm thankful for my mercies."

"That brother of yours did me a good turn," the old man went on, "so I'm anxious to do you one. If it hadn't been for him, I should be in my grave at present. Perhaps I was meant to be. I may have cheated Death of his rights, and many would say I would be as well out of the world as in it. It's astonishing how one clings to life, though it has treated one shabbily."

Hope looked sympathetic, but she did not speak.

He regarded her earnestly.

"Would you like to hear my experience of life?"

"Indeed I should."

"Some folk envy me my wealth. Wealth, God pity them! But there was a time when I thought a bit of property a fine thing. I was very young then, the youngest of four brothers and three sisters. My father was a country parson with a family too big for his stipend. My mother stinted and screwed and kept us out of debt, but died from the exertion of it, and then we all went to pot, as the boys would say—you know the style. Living as we liked, and having a reckoning-day occasionally, when things would be sold to pay the pressing creditors. My father died before I was out of my teens, and then we scattered; I went up to a bank in London. I was a bit of a prig, but I never could forget my mother's deathbed.

"'Alan,' she said to me—I was her Benjamin—'never live beyond your income. Debt is to be feared worse than death!'

"And I acted up to my light accordingly. I did not make friends in consequence. A young fellow who has no money to spend, and is careful, is always rated low. I had a favourite sister, an invalid. I saved enough out of my second year's salary to send her to the South of France. Then I got engaged to a girl—a doctor's daughter, and as sweet a creature as they're made. I saved up for our marriage, and I worked hard for four years; then she grew tired of waiting and threw me over for a wine-merchant's son—married him at once.

"Even then my mother's words were my salvation. I didn't go to the dogs, but I chucked up my berth and went out to America. I worked on a ranch, and when all my brothers died, this old house came to me. I took possession of it, and I hadn't a soul who cared enough for me to live with me."

"Are all your relations dead?"

"There's one of my sisters somewhere, but I've lost sight of her, and don't know her whereabouts. Why am I telling you this? Simply to show you that a careful abstemious life is second nature to me. I've saved all my life, and I try to save now. I'm not a rich man, and won't fling my money about. So folks hate me."

"Oh no!"

Hope's tone was soft and pitiful.

"I'm a miserable, lonely, old man," he went on; "I sit here all day long without a soul to speak to. Hadley and his wife talk me over in the kitchen together in the evening. I've heard them. They think that by sticking to me they'll come in for a legacy. The liking that any one professes to have for me is due to their expectations. Can any one be in a worse plight than that? To be thought an encumbrance whilst one lives, and one's death the greatest blessing of all! I tell you, I'm a miserable old man, and I sit here all day and think about it!"

Hope did not speak for a moment; then she said gently:

"I suppose money itself can never be a blessing; it is only in the spending of it!"

Mr. Spencer's brows contracted, and he glared at her.

"Are you a spendthrift?" he said. "I thought you otherwise!"

"I haven't had much to spend," said Hope, smiling. "At least, I have not—lately. A year ago, I spent carelessly. You see I have looked at life from both ends, and I know that you can be happy in any circumstances."

"You could not be happy in mine."

"I don't know that I could not."

"I suppose you're like all the rest, you think you'd love to have the handling of my poor income."

"No," said Hope, decidedly. "My happiness is independent of that. I dare say you can guess—my brother has told you—that we are not exactly in an enviable position at present. We have no home, and no means to provide one, and yet—may I say the little verse that keeps ringing in my head:

"'Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown?
Jesus we know, and He is on the throne.'"

"Oh, religion!"

His tone was scoffing. "I want none of that."

"Then you'll live and die miserable," said Hope.

There was silence.

Then he spoke in a different tone.

"Look here. You say you could be happy in my circumstances. I've sent for you to-day to come and teach me how to be. I told your brother that I would treat you like a daughter. You've no home. I offer you one. I only want you to talk to me; to brighten up the house; to see that Mrs. Hadley does her duty. And I'll give you a little pocket-money. All girls need that. Will you come?"

Hope's first inclination was to laugh, then vexation took the place of amusement. So this was what Brian meant when he seemed so eager for her visit. How could she best decline his proposal without offending him? she wondered. The very idea of living with him was repellent to her, much as she pitied him.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Spencer. It is kind of you to make me such an offer. But I could not accept it; for if I go anywhere, it must be where I can earn my living."

He glanced at her quickly and sharply, with eyes of suspicion.

"You are mercenary! My offer is not good enough. I said I would give you pocket-money. I will give you fifteen pounds a year. I consider that a handsome allowance, for you will have no expenses, and I remember when I was a young bank clerk in London I dressed on that myself."

Hope rose from her seat. She was but human, and the old man's tone was offensive.

"No," she said, a little haughtily. "I am afraid I must decline your handsome offer. Good morning."

She made her exit swiftly, and as she went down the mossy drive, her heart was in a tumult and tears were in her eyes.

"It is dreadful to be poor, to be in such a position that a man of that sort can patronise one! Oh, I would rather beg in the streets than accept his bounty! Fifteen pounds a year! Doled out in shillings, perhaps. Why, I used to give fifteen pounds for a single dress in town! What shall I do? I must have another talk to Brian."

On the way back to Mrs. Goddles' cottage, she thought she would like to look in at what had been her home. She fancied she might, perhaps, find Brian there, and she was not disappointed.

Going up the garden path she saw him talking to a stranger in the porch. He looked relieved when he saw her.

"Here you are!" he called out to her. "You're just the person to give some information. This gentleman wants to know how long it is since Miss Rill departed, and where she is now."

Hope looked at the stranger.

He was a tall thin man, with stooping shoulders and grey hair. Spectacles hid his eyes, but he seemed nervous and ill at ease. He was clad in a shabby frock-coat and a tall hat. For a moment Hope wondered if she could classify him. He was something between a scholar and a chapel dignitary, she decided.

He turned towards her and lifted his hat politely.

"I read an account in the papers of the flood in this part," he said. "I used to live here, and I came down to have a look at the old neighbourhood again. It seemed to bring a good deal back to me. I was afraid the lady who lived here might be incommoded, possibly turned out by the water, but I find my fears were groundless. She no longer resides here."

"No," said Hope, the quick colour coming to her checks as she instantly guessed the stranger's identity.

"Miss Rill sold the place to us. She did not seem able to settle down; she was restless. I fancy she was very lonely here. She went up to London."

The stranger looked about him, and patted the red-brick path nervously with his foot.

"It is a peaceful little spot," he said. "I hear you are giving it up. Would you let me buy it from you? I am looking about for a cottage to settle down in. I should like this for—for I have associations with it!"

"We should be very glad to sell," said Brian, in his most business-like tone. "You will see what damage the water has done; but I think a very little expenditure would put it all right again. Would you like to go over the house?"

"Yes—yes, I should."

He followed Brian indoors. Hope stood where she was, wondering if he were the maker of the path, and if the end of a romance was being unfolded before her eyes.

The stranger gave Brian his name as Robert Manners, and Hope instantly remembered it.

She watched him walk round the orchard afterwards with her brother, and when eventually they came back to her, she spoke.

"I expect you knew Miss Rill, Mr. Manners?"

"Yes," he replied quietly, "I did."

"I suppose you have not come across her in London? It seemed such a strange step for her to take at her time of life, and I am not sure whether it will prove a wise one. I should not like to think of her as being cheated by sharp landladies, and perhaps neglected. She has no knowledge of town life and its ways, and has no friends to help her."

SHE GAVE HIM MISS RILL'S ADDRESS.

"Where is she staying?"

He asked it a little indifferently. Hope began to think he had forgotten his old love, and was vexed with him in consequence. But she gave him Miss Rill's address, and felt she could do no more. Then, when he had left them, she turned to her brother eagerly.

"Have you sold it to him?"

"I fancy so, though he hasn't actually clinched the bargain. He has offered me two hundred for it."

"Has he really? I suppose we must not refuse his offer. It will pay your passage-money, Brian."

"It belongs to you. Your pearls bought the place."

"Ah, but I cannot take it back. You said this morning that you did not know what to do, as the capital of father's money is all tied up, and you can't get the interest of it at present."

"No, worse luck! Hope, have you seen old Spencer?"

"Yes, but I really cannot do what he wants?"

"Why not? I thought it would be the very thing—just till you go out to India."

"But I heard this morning that I cannot go out for a year."

"Good gracious!"

Brian's tone was full of genuine dismay.

"You need not trouble about me," she said reassuringly. "I had thought of asking you to let me live on in the cottage. I believe by this time I could manage the poultry. Kitty has taught me a lot. But I suppose we ought not to refuse such a good offer for it."

"No, the money will be more useful to you than the cottage."

"I cannot take it."

"You must."

"Let us halve it."

And at last it was settled that they should do so.

"One hundred pounds," said Hope to herself. "Well, that will surely keep me from want for a twelvemonth."

Chapter XIX

BOY AND GIRL

MR. MANNERS paid Brian the two hundred pounds, and took possession of the cottage. Hope thought it was all strangely pathetic. He looked like a fish out of water in his surroundings, for he had been so long in London that he had lost his country ways.

She passed by one day, and found him working in the garden in his tall silk hat; but she also noticed that his way of handling the plants was that of a garden-lover; and once she saw him raise a little piece of yellow jasmine upon the porch to his lips.

She turned away, afraid that he might see her.

"He has not outgrown his sentiment," she thought; and amidst all her intense anxiety about her own future, Miss Rill and her old lover occupied a big place in her thoughts.

Brian and she had a long discussion over Mr. Spencer's proposal.

"I can't think why, as a woman, you don't humour him."

"You refused to stay with him."

"That is different. Your stay would be only a temporary one. I pity the old fellow from the bottom of my heart. Nobody cares a rap about him, and he knows it. I should have thought your woman's heart would have been touched by him."

"So it was, but I cannot see that it is my duty to be his housekeeper."

Brian shrugged his shoulders, and Hope began to feel uncomfortable. As she had the hundred pounds, she could well afford to go to him for simply her board and lodging. She began to turn it over in her mind. Was she right to refuse an opportunity of brightening his life and befriending him, perhaps influencing him for good for the rest of his life? She pondered, and prayed about it. She knew that if Brian took his two small brothers out to Canada with him, he and they would want every penny of the small sum of money they had in hand. She asked him if he was certain that he could provide a home for Jerry and Toby.

"Won't they cripple you, when you first go out there? How can you provide for them when you do not know for certain where you are going?"

"Ah, but I know a woman who will look after them and send them to school with her boys. She wanted to keep them altogether when we were coming home, only father wouldn't hear of it. We have a lot of friends out there, and every one gives one a helping hand. It is so different here."

Hope sadly thought of the few friends she possessed who would offer her a helping hand at this juncture. Brian suggested her coming with them for a year, but she could not consent to do that. Her passage-money alone would be more than she could afford. For a week she thought over Mr. Spencer's offer; and then one morning she told Brian that she was going to accept it.

"I know you will be relieved," she said. "I can but leave if I find it is an impossible life; but I think I shall be doing right to give it a trial."

Brian went up to "The Retreat" with a light heart, to carry the news to the old Squire.

"He's a queer old chap," he said to Hope; "he seemed quite upset to think you were coming to him—had tears in his eyes. I think you'll do him a world of good. I shall hear of him giving tea-parties, when once you're settled there."

The days slipped quickly by. Hope was very busy mending and making clothes for the two small boys, in which task Kitty participated. She was delighted that she would not lose her friend, but told Hope frankly that she would be miserable with Mr. Spencer.

"He will starve you. He only has two pounds of meat for the whole week. Our butcher told me so; and he has no fires in winter, and no blankets on the beds. Oh, I've heard all about his establishment from a village girl who went up there to help Mrs. Hadley when she had been ill. Why do you go to him? You are too good to live! Why don't you come and stay with us? We should be proud to have you!"

Hope laughed at her. And then, whilst they were still discussing Mr. Spencer's "ménage," Brian came into the room.

Kitty appealed to him.

"Does Hope look as if she is fit to live on a quarter of a pound of meat a week? Why, I can almost see through her now!"

"Ah, well," said Brian, "we don't always have meat in the colonies."

"What do you live upon?"

"Bacon, porridge, potatoes, Indian corn."

"Lovely!"

Kitty's face was quite radiant.

"I know you do yourselves very well, and when you kill a sheep, you have meat five times a day, to make up for your vegetarian time."

Hope went out of the room to fetch something. Brian sat down in her chair, and looked at Kitty across the table.

"You think a colonial life play," he said.

"Do I? I know it is hard work, but it's healthy happy work, and makes men of good-for-nothing-boys who go out there."

"What would it make of you, if you came out there?"

Brian's eyes were twinkling, but there was purpose in his tone.

"Oh, I'm ready made," retorted Kitty, laughingly; "I don't want any more training."

Brian looked at her steadily for a moment or two, then he said:

"Kitty, if I get a home together in a year or so, will you come out and share it with me?"

Kitty flushed a deep red, then she looked up and laughed.

"Do you know that I haven't my hair up yet? Are you chaffing?"

"I'm in sober earnest."

Brian looked it.

"But I don't know what to say. Is it really and truly a proposal of marriage? You honestly want me to marry you?"

"I honestly want you to marry me. It isn't in my line to play the fool!"

"Oh, please don't be angry. I always say the wrong thing."

Kitty was frightened at the vehement flashing in Brian's brown eyes. She was silent for a moment. Then Brian said in a softened tone:

"I know I'm rough and dull. I seem as if all my life I have had no time to play. People tell me I'm old before my time, but I would be good to you, Kitty. I don't think you'd have a bad time with me."

"You're just altogether perfect!" said Kitty impulsively. "It's I who would be the stupid. I'm always getting into hot water at home for the things I say and do. I wonder if I really would make you a good wife. You deserve one, for you never think of yourself at all."

"I'm thinking of myself now," said Brian. "I suppose your father will say I have no right to speak to you. I haven't a penny at present to bless myself with, but I know I shall get work, and I know I shall get on out there. And you're a born colonist's wife, Kitty. We shouldn't have to wait very long."

"But," said Kitty, "you know I don't approve of engagements. You must say nothing to me till you're ready to marry me, and then I'll come out by the next boat."

Her eyes sparkled, then she said demurely:

"So we'll change the subject, please. Them's my sentiments!"

But Brian got up from his seat and went round to her.

"You'll have to seal your promise with a kiss."

"Oh, I couldn't!"

"You must."

He was holding her hands now, and Kitty, half-laughing, half-frightened, tried to get away from him.

"I shall be gone in two days' time," he said. "It is my right. I, shan't believe in you unless you give it to me."

He got what he wanted, and it was at this inopportune moment that Hope surprised them. She did not retire, for she was too astonished and perplexed to do so.

"Oh, Brian!" she exclaimed, with a world of reproach in her tone.

But Kitty held herself up bravely, and a little defiantly.

"It's all right. We've settled to marry each other one day," she said; "but we aren't going to talk any more about it. Have you brought the flannel, Hope?"

Her tone was too elaborately indifferent to be real. Hope could hardly help laughing. She was only a girl herself, and after the first shock of discovery, she was rather pleased than otherwise.

"You are both ridiculously young," she said, looking from Kitty's flushed cheeks and bright eyes to Brian's rather shamefaced demeanour; "but I would rather have you for a little sister, Kitty, than any one else in the world. And Brian and you will suit each other down to the ground. Only what will your father say? And when will Brian be able to offer you a home? Not for a long while, I fear."

"Oh, father will let me do exactly as I like. I know he will."

"Once I am out in Canada, I shall see my way," said Brian. "Good-night, Kitty. I consider that we are engaged to each other, and I shall go round to your father now, and tell him so."

Before she could offer any remonstrance, he was gone, and the mixture of feelings portrayed in Kitty's face as she turned to Hope in a helpless appealing sort of way, was almost comical.

"It's rather fun!" she said. "But it frightens one rather! Only Brian is such a splendid fellow, isn't he? Why, he's much too good for me—I never dreamt he did more than like me! Oh, it's quite delicious to think of going out to Canada and have a house of my own to keep tidy for him, and make him comfortable when he comes home tired!"

Hope shook her head with a smile.

"You make me feel so old, Kitty, to hear you talk! But I'm sure your father will say you are much too young for such things!"

"I'll put up my hair to-morrow, and let down my dresses. What will Avice say? Oh, Hope, I'm so excited that I could dance round the room."

Then she grew grave.

"But I won't be engaged to him. It's against my principles. People ought to be as free as air until they marry."

"You are a ridiculous child!" said Hope.

She wondered, as Kitty chattered on, if she felt any real love for Brian, or whether it was the Canadian home that fascinated her. But when the girl got up to go, she threw her arms round Hope's neck, and whispered in her ear:

"I will try to be good like you; I want to make him a good wife, I want to be steadier. Will you pray for me?"

And Hope answered:

"My darling Kitty, indeed I will. But I hope you won't take me as your pattern, for I am a poor specimen of what I ought to be."

Mr. Parr was too dumbfounded to speak when Brian told him, and Brian himself felt ashamed of his haste when he thought of his prospects.

"I ought to have gone away without speaking to her, but I shan't be home again for a good long time, and Kitty is so bright and attractive that I was afraid some one else would get a successful innings when I was away."

"I can't hear of an engagement at present between you," said Mr. Parr, with a troubled face. "Why, Kitty is a mere chit of a girl, with no character formed—a regular little harum-scarum—"

"She will be eighteen in two months' time, and has twice as much character as most girls of her age," said Brian.

The result of his talk was that Mr. Parr told him that he must not bind Kitty in any way. If he could offer her a comfortable home eventually, then was the time to make her a proposal, and then he would have no objection to the match.

Brian left the Vicarage downheartedly, and on the way back to his lodgings met Kitty. He repeated to her Mr. Parr's views on the subject, but she took it very lightheartedly.

"That's just what I told you myself. When you're ready to marry me, wire home and tell me so. Until then we'll go on as we are. You needn't be afraid of my marrying any one else. If a duke came along and asked me to, I wouldn't! And I'm no beauty, and nobody but you would care a rap for me!"

"But," said Brian gloomily, "I wanted you to write to me."

"Well, perhaps I shall. I'm not a good hand at writing. It always seems such waste of time, and as to love-letters, I couldn't send one to save my life! The more I feel, the less I can say, and father would object to any nonsense of that sort. But I do sometimes write to friends, and you shall be one of them."

"I don't believe you have any heart or care a bit!" Poor Brian was beside himself with excitement and disappointment.

Kitty looked at him with twinkling eyes, then she laid her hand gently on his arm.

"Don't you say those kind of things to me. I shall feel quite lost without you, and you know I shall. But we shall not be worth much if we can't wait for each other. You will have the easiest part to play, for you will be working, and every bit of work you do will be like a nail in our house. I shall be waiting in idleness, so I have by far the hardest part. Only—" here eagerness again took the place of tenderness in her tone—"I think I shall set to work to earn money, and start a chest, like the foreign girls, for our household linen. It will be great fun. I like plain work."

It was impossible for Kitty to be pensive; her active brain always provided so many fresh ideas that she was in a breathless state to carry them out before she forgot them.

Brian's gloom disappeared under her breezy practical common-sense.

And Hope, as she watched him packing up and making all his preparations for departure, with a smile on his lips, began to feel that she was wrong in doubting the wisdom of his untimely proposal.

"It will give him an object in life, and a hope for the future. And it will make Kitty into a woman, and take away much of her giddiness."

The last day came; the small boys clung to Hope in parting, and she recognised then that she had made an impression upon their lives. Brian wrung her hand.

"I can't thank you enough for all you've done for us. If old Spencer fails you, or Dane doesn't have you out as soon as you think, wire to me."

Hope smiled, but before she could reply, Jerry chimed in, "You come out to us, Hope! Come as a stowaway, if you find the passage too expensive. It's awful fun to hide yourself till the middle of the voyage, as the captain can't throw you overboard. He's bound to keep you and land you."

"Yes, and he wouldn't make a lady scrub and clean the decks," said Toby thoughtfully. "He would have to be polite to you!"

The boys' speeches took them away with a laugh instead of a cry, and then Hope bravely packed her boxes, and went off to "The Retreat." She found old Mr. Spencer really glad to see her. He had ineffectively attempted to have the house cleaned and tidied for her, and the consequence was that Mrs. Hadley met her with black lowering looks. But Hope refused to let herself be disheartened. She said at once to the old woman:

"I am afraid you will not like the idea of my coming here; but I assure you I shall not give any trouble. You must have your hands full with such a big house to look after, and I am sure that I shall be able to help you in many ways."

She only got a grunt as a response, but she did not despair of winning her. Mr. Spencer sat down to a cold supper with her at eight o'clock.

"I dine in the middle of the day," he informed Hope; "Mrs. Hadley does not like any cooking later."

Hope soon found that he was in abject bondage to his old servants. She talked to the old man after supper in his study as cheerfully as she could, but when she retired to her cold and cheerless bedroom, and heard the wind howl down the old chimney, and shake the loose casements of her window, sending chilly blasts across the room—when she saw the dust lying thick on every article of furniture, and noted the grey colour of her blankets and the cold damp of her sheets, she wondered if she could ever bring a cosy comfortable atmosphere into the old house.

Her first day was like a long nightmare to her. In the morning Mr. Spencer insisted upon her keeping him company in his study, whilst he talked to her of the iniquities of his tenants, the insolence of his bailiff, and the tyranny of his servants. The afternoon was a rainy one; she got away to her room, and borrowing brush and duster, gave it a thorough clean out. Mrs. Hadley surprised her in the middle of it.

"I'm sorry the room is not to your liking, miss. Folks that are so partic'lar had best have their own maids to attend to 'em. 'Tis more than Hadley and me can manage, though we did spend two blessed hours in cleaning the filthiest room I ever seed in my life, and which, in course with the rest, was locked up and the key in master's pocket!"

"I'm sure you did all the worst of the cleaning, Mrs. Hadley, and I'm much obliged to you. I'm so accustomed to dust my own rooms that I shall be quite lost without occupation. You mustn't mind my doing some house-work—I love it."

And house-work Hope certainly did. She found that Mr. Spencer disliked innovations as much as his old servants did, but she quietly and determinedly set to work to brighten up the few rooms that were used, and she succeeded in spite of all obstacles placed in her way. She arranged flowers, she cleaned up old bits of silver, she polished brass, and all the time she was doing it she kept asking herself, "Is this to be my vocation in life?"

The old Squire watched her, first with amusement, then with vexation, finally with resignation.

"I wasn't mistaken in her capabilities for work," he would chuckle to himself; but the time he really liked her best, was when she was sitting sewing in his study, and listening to his talk.

Mr. Spencer was a profound egotist and he found her an attentive and sympathetic listener.

Sometimes she would turn the tables upon him, and in her turn would oblige him to listen to her.

"I know you don't think much of women's opinions," she would say to him; "but it is good to hear both sides of every question. You have been telling me of your troubles with the world at large; you think it has not benefited you as it should, and I suppose we all look at life like that. But don't you think it is good sometimes to ask ourselves how we have benefited the world? We may be the centre of our own circle; but there are others. I remember hearing some one say once that the big I of one's self was a mere atom in the universe, and the majority ought to be always considered before the minority."

"So you can preach?"

Hope laughed and said no more, until the next opportunity came.

Chapter XX

A VISIT TO LONDON

A FEW days after Hope had gone to "The Retreat," Avice Parr called upon her.

Hope received her in the drawing-room—a room shrouded in holland coverings, and seldom used.

"I have come," Avice said hesitatingly, "because my father thought I ought. I have not seen you since we heard about Kitty. I could hardly believe it, but as it has come to nothing, perhaps I ought not to mention it."

"Oh, please do," said Hope. "I want to know your feelings about it. I am so very fond of Kitty, you know."

"Kitty is a careless child still," said Avice, in a tone of severity. "I can't think how your brother could have filled her head with such nonsense."

"He doesn't think it nonsense. I own it was premature, but he was going away, and I suppose for once the impulse of the moment overcame his caution."

"And here is Kitty fastening up her hair and lengthening her skirts, and talking as if she were really going to marry him. I think if you had known how things were going, you ought to have stopped it. We did think she was safe with you."

"But," said Hope, feeling taken aback by Avice's calm disapproval, "I hadn't an idea how things were going. Brian is such a quiet reserved boy. He never took me into his confidence. And I don't think the experience will do Kitty harm. She has no silliness about her, as many girls have. You have lamented over her carelessness and heedlessness. I expect you will find this will make her more serious and thoughtful."

"It is all ridiculous!"

Avice seemed so perturbed that her usual politeness forsook her.

Hope could not sympathise with her. She knew how much of Avice's unfulfilled duties Kitty continually undertook, and that in many ways she had more practical common-sense than her elder sister. She wondered if a little jealousy had crept into Avice's heart.

"Well," Hope said pleasantly, "they are not properly engaged, we won't think any more about it. Perhaps it will come to nothing. I am sorry it has vexed you so, but I have had nothing to do with it."

With an effort Avice tried to talk of other matters. She began telling Hope of a young factory-girl whom she had dissuaded from marrying, and was evidently elated at her success.

"She is only seventeen, and he is twenty. It is dreadful to see them rushing into married life with so little money to keep a home together."

"Yes," assented Hope, "but sometimes marriage is better for them; it saves worse troubles, and very often steadies a young fellow."

And then, after a little more desultory talk, Avice departed, and Hope said to herself after she had left:

"I know why I do not like her—she is never interested in me, so my dislike is a purely selfish one. She never asked me a question about myself, whether I was comfortable here, or how I liked it. She is only interested in her special 'protégées,' and I am not one of them. And yet she is really good."

Hope had no other visitors except Kitty, who ran in to see her very often; but Mr. Spencer did not care for her entertaining any one. His attitude towards her grew daily more exacting and capricious, and Hope began to find that she had very little time to herself. Mrs. Hadley preserved a sullen silence, and in many little ways which were in her power, she made Hope extremely uncomfortable. If it had not been for her Indian letter, which came to her regularly once a week, Hope would have been very unhappy. As it was, she tried to live in the future; and in writing to Lancelot she said nothing of her discomforts, so that he was unaware of her exact position.

One day, in talking to Mr. Spencer, she happened to mention her coming marriage.

He looked up, quite vexed.

"Pshaw! Don't talk to me of your marriage! Girls don't know when they are well off. If you stay with me, and continue to please me, I can promise you at my death a nice little fortune. I have no kith or kin, and I can leave my money to whom I will. You will be an independent woman then, and will be thankful you took my advice. Marriage is very well for some, but it would be a mistake for you. You would expect too much from your husband, and then when disillusion came, your life would be spoilt. Stay with me, and you will not regret it."

"But," said Hope, "I thought I made you understand that this is only a temporary arrangement. I am very grateful to you for the interest you take in me, but I might hear by any mail from Mr. Dane or his mother that they would like me to go out to them. If Mrs. Dane comes back in June, I shall most likely go to her. I believe she will want me to do so. It is very good of you to have me at all, but I cannot stay with you long."

"Then why did you come to me at all?"

Mr. Spencer's eyes blazed, and he fell into a towering passion. "Do you think I took the trouble to alter my household for a passing visitor? Do you think I put up with Mrs. Hadley's insolence when she heard of your coming, and actually was forced to increase her wages—do you think I did this to have you come in and turn my house upside down, and then leave me in a few months' time?"

"Oh, why do we talk of the future?" said Hope. "I am sorry I mentioned my plans. It is all uncertain. I may be able to stay with you a year, should you wish it. I can't tell. I had no idea I had made such difficulties; perhaps I had better leave you at once?"

The old Squire's temper passed as quickly as it had come.

"No, no, we will say no more. You wouldn't have the heart to leave me. I am a miserable old man, I never see a soul; I have almost lost the art of conversation. Forget what I have said, and stay on with me. Those Danes do not need you as I do."

Hope thought it best to say no more. She tried to make the most of her surroundings, and succeeded in bringing both cleanliness and brightness into the old house.

She endeavoured to make Mr. Spencer take an interest in his tenants, and would come back after one of her rambles, describing the dilapidated state of some of the farms, and the anxiety of the hard-working tenants themselves that something should be done; but he would only shake his head impatiently.

"I know what I can afford, and what I can't. They will never be satisfied. The more I do for them, the more they want."

One morning she went to him in his study, and found him deep in a letter that he had received. Hope was feeling a little depressed that morning. For two weeks now she had received no letter from India, and the one she was expecting from Lancelot would be that in reply to hers, telling him of her father's death. She began to wonder whether the bad climate of his district was affecting him, or whether he had by any chance missed receiving her letter. She knew that when he heard her news, he would write to her at once. It was not like him to miss the mail at such a time.

As a rule she breakfasted alone. Since Mr. Spencer had broken his leg, he did not leave his room till eleven o'clock, and Hope was glad to have the first few hours in the morning to herself. She dusted the rooms, arranged flowers, and did many little household duties that were necessary.

Now as she entered his room, she saw that he was disturbed in mind.

"Come here," he said nervously; "shut the door and sit down, and listen to this. All these years we have never corresponded; why should she find me out now, and what does she want?"

He then proceeded to read his letter out.

"'DEAR ALAN,—I wonder if you have ever troubled to find out whether I am dead or alive! In the accounts of the floods in your part a short time ago, I saw mention of your name—I will not say that I had forgotten your existence, but it revived the memories of past years. I am alone in the world like you. My husband died five years ago. Would you like me to pay you a visit? I am living in London now, and could come down and see you any day.

"'Your affectionate sister

"'ELLEN.'"

"Oh," remarked Hope, "I think that very nice. Are you not glad to hear from her?"

"Ellen was the youngest of us," said Mr. Spencer slowly and cautiously. "She married a man in the navy—Harper was his name. Those service men are always badly off unless they have private means, and Ellen was a regular spendthrift. Most likely she has run heavily into debt since she was a widow—perhaps she is going to be sold up—she wouldn't write to me without a purpose, and she is too clever to hint that it is my money she is after!"

Speeches like this always jarred on Hope.

"She is your sister. Why do you not take her letter as it reads? I have always thought you ought to find your sister, and now she asks you to let her come and see you. I don't see how you can refuse her."

"There is nothing easier than a refusal," said Mr. Spencer promptly. "If I thought she might be of any service to me, I—I think I might ask her from Saturday to Monday. But a woman's tongue can be a great trial, and Ellen never minced her words."

"If she is badly off, you could give her a home," said Hope decidedly.

"That is just what I should never do. What would her pension be, I wonder? She could not be penniless."

"What was her husband?"

"A captain. He retired as that. Now will you kindly sit still, and let me think out a plan in my head. Ellen is a very obstinate woman. She may come down upon me without any invitation on my part."

Silence fell upon them. Hope despaired of making Mr. Spencer take an unselfish interest in others. At last he looked up with a gleam of humour in his eye.

"I am going to appoint you a part to play in this little drama. I will pay your return fare to London if you will go up quietly and find out exactly where my sister is living, and what her sentiments are about me. Find out if she is in a house of her own, or in lodgings, or in a boardinghouse. You have plenty of friends in town. Can you not stay with them for a few days?"

Hope was too astonished to speak for a moment.

"I could not act as a spy," she said, a little indignantly. "And as to my friends—I have lost sight of them all for the past year. I—I—am not in a position now to go visiting."

Poor Hope thought of her scanty wardrobe, and realised with a little bitterness that none of her aunt's old friends would care to receive a shabbily dressed, penniless girl into their fashionable homes. Only Hester Chesney and Lady May Fosberry had stood by her through her adversity, and neither of them was in town. Jim Horrocks was, but he lived as a bachelor in chambers; and there was no one else to whom she could turn. After some further talk, thinking that she might be the means of uniting brother and sister together again, she assented to Mr. Spencer's proposal.

"But," she stipulated, "if I go, I go in a straightforward way. I shall call upon Mrs. Harper, and tell her about you. I shall not betray you. I will not let her know of your unworthy suspicions. I shall be careful not to commit you. That is all I can promise."

Mr. Spencer was beginning to have a respectful regard for Hope's good taste and judgment. He was full of excitement, and launched into a long dissertation on the follies of blood ties and family sentiments, but concluded with saying that he would like her to go the very next day.

"And don't tell the Hadleys where you are going," he added. "It is none of their business. They don't know that I have a sister."

"I was thinking," said Hope thoughtfully, "that I might go to Miss Rill's lodgings. When last I heard from her, she said she had found some nice rooms, and not expensive ones. It would be cheaper than a hotel."

"Yes, certainly. Hotels are ruinous."

Hope was enough of a girl to enjoy this little trip to town. Her life was grey and monotonous; she welcomed any change that brought a break into her life.

The next morning she started early. It was a bright frosty day, and though it was three miles to the station, she thoroughly enjoyed every step of the walk. A small boy from a neighbouring farm carried her bag, and being always fond of boys, Hope began to chat with him. He presently, to her great amusement, asked:

"Be you sent away, miss? 'Ave you lost your place?"

"No," she said laughing; "why do you ask such a question?"

"Mother says that Missus Hadley says it'll have to be her or you to leave t'old Squire, and her thinks as 'ow it'll be you, please, miss!"

"Mrs. Hadley talks a great deal of nonsense!"

Hope's tone was lofty, but she was vexed that the village gossip should touch on her position, and she relapsed into silence for the rest of the way.

Her journey to town only took three hours. When she arrived at Paddington Station, she found herself in a thick yellow fog. But Hope was thoroughly at home in London; she took an omnibus to the address Miss Rill had given her, and though she had to find the quiet little street quite a distance from where the omnibus put her down, she lost no time in arriving there.

A respectable-looking woman opened the door.

"A friend of Miss Rill's, do you say, ma'am? Well, to be sure! 'Tis a pity you didn't come two weeks further back, for she's left me without a word as to where she were a-fixing herself, and me a good friend to her, believe me, ma'am. And there's a letter been a-waitin' her these ten days or more, and one I giv' back to the postman four days ago. No, I ain't the least notion where she is! Fact is—but will you come in and take a seat?"

Hope obeyed, and in a dingy back sitting-room heard a sad account of poor Miss Rill.

"She were hard up, poor thing, and if it 'adn't been that I'm a hard-working widow woman myself with four children to eddicate, and feed and clothe, all under twelve years, and a young man—a medical—a-wantin' the room, and I havin' waited two weeks for her rent, and then not 'aving the heart to take it, and seein' her go starving, why, I won't say as I mightn't have let things run on, but she says to me herself very quiet like:

"'Mrs. Edgar,' she says, 'I must find cheaper rooms in a cheaper locality, and not having received as much as I expected this quarter, will you kindly accept the gift of my books till I can settle up properly,' which offer I took, seein' there were no better forthcoming.

"You see, ma'am, the poor lady had a book craze, and the books she brought 'ome every blessed day were really enough to fill a cellar! She 'ad a craze for book-shops, an' yet she would never say why, for I'm certain sure she never read the books.

"She says to me one day, 'Mrs. Edgar,' she says, 'I mean to visit every book-shop in London, but,' she says, 'it takes a lot of money, Mrs. Edgar,' she says, and with that the poor lady gives a big sigh. 'I walk,' she says to me, 'all I can, but I wear out so many boots; and the 'bus does take so many pennies!'

"'Then why,' says I to her, 'don't you give of it up, ma'am?'

"'Ah!' she says, with a shake of her head, 'I came to London to do it!'

"And I'll make bold enough to say, ma'am, that she'll bring herself to the workhouse, if she goes on with it much longer."

Hope felt puzzled and perplexed.

Then she asked Mrs. Edgar if she could give her a bedroom for the night.

"I will, ma'am; I know a lady when I see one; and though it is only a top front room, I think it will suit you, and for a trifle extry you can have meals served in this very room we're in, being my own parlour, which I keeps to myself."

So Hope conveyed her bag up two flights of steep stairs, and found the room comfortable and fairly clean, for London. Then Mrs. Edgar showed her Miss Rill's former rooms, and in the corner, stacked up against the wall, was a goodly array of books. Hope looked at these curiously. She wondered if it was a system of self-education, but the variety and uselessness of many of them convinced her of the contrary.

There were children's toy-books, diaries, textbooks upon every conceivable subject, from the management of racing-stables to babies and mushroom-growing, novels in French and English, histories, books on architecture, geology, and political economy.

As Hope looked at them, she wondered if Miss Rill's experience of London life was turning her brain. And she determined to do her utmost to trace her whereabouts before she returned to Mr. Spencer.

As soon as she had settled with Mrs. Edgar about her room, she went out again, and half an hour after was knocking at the door of 1, Radford Square, the address given by Mr. Spencer's sister.

Chapter XXI

A SUCCESSFUL SEARCH

"IS Mrs. Harper at home?"

"Yes. Please walk this way."

Hope felt a little nervous as she mounted the carpeted stairs. It was a lodging-house, but a very superior one; and when she was ushered into the big front drawing-room, with a blazing fire, sweet-scented flowers, and every token of comfort in it, she began to wish herself away.

From the depths of a soft cushioned chair by the fire, a lady rose to greet her. She was a tall fair woman, rather plump in face, and dressed in thorough good taste. No greater contrast could be found than between her and her brother.

"I must introduce myself," Hope said in her pretty gracious way. "I have been staying with Mr. Spencer lately, and he asked me to come and see you. I am in town for one or two days. He is not up to travelling, or I daresay would have come to town himself. I thought perhaps you would like to hear about him from me. He was very much surprised when he heard from you. He told me he had lost sight of you for many years."

"I hope it was a pleasant surprise," said Mrs. Harper, with a gleam of amusement in her eyes. "Do come near the fire, and tell me all you know about my brother."

She drew another easy chair forward, and reseated herself. If she was curious about Hope, she concealed her curiosity well.

Hope very simply stated her position at "The Retreat."

Mrs. Harper listened very quietly to all she said. But nothing escaped her.

"Well," she said at last, "I suppose people do not change for the better as they grow older. Our faults become follies, our fancies eccentricities, and every bad habit is accentuated, this is what the preachers say. Poor dear Alan always was a prig and a screw. I don't expect him to be anything else. Still he is my brother, and it will be his privilege to help me, should I need his help. I must certainly go down to see him. Did he send no message to me?"

"Yes, he said he would write soon."

"After he had heard about me from you?" Mrs. Harper spoke a little sharply, and Hope winced at her plain speaking.

"I know Alan of old, and, from what I hear of his establishment, I should not think there is much comfort in it. I think I shall wait till this cold weather is over, before I venture down. Now, Miss St. Clair, you can tell him that you have seen me; that you cannot make me out; that I look as if I do not need pecuniary aid from him, but that I have told you very little about myself, except that I consider it is his privilege to help me."

"Yes," assented Hope quickly; "I will tell him all that."

"Now tell me honestly if you think my visit will benefit him or myself most?"

Hope looked at her gravely. She would not join this lady in laughing at her brother.

"I think you may benefit him most," she replied. "I shall be going abroad soon. His housekeeper is a tyrant, and does not make him as comfortable as she should. The house needs a mistress badly. He is old and lonely and unhappy, Mrs. Harper. He wants care and affection, and there is no one to give it to him."

Mrs. Harper gazed into the fire without speaking.

"I shall not be the one to give it to him," she said at last. "I am lonely too, but he and I are as far as the North Pole from the South in our tastes and feelings. When do you return to him?"

"Perhaps to-morrow," said Hope. "I am anxious to find a friend of mine first, if I can; but I feel that it is like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"Man or woman?"

Hope briefly told her. Mrs. Harper was interested at once.

"It is quite a romance. Do tell me if you're successful. But London swallows up plenty of little women like that."

Hope was pressed to stay to tea, but she declined. She parted from Mrs. Harper feeling she would like to meet her again. Then she went off to several book-shops to try to glean any information about Miss Rill. At one shop only, one of the assistants remembered her.

"She called late one evening," he said, "and didn't seem to know what book she wanted. She asked me several strange questions, as to how long I had been employed here, whether there were many changes amongst us, and whether I had ever come across a man called Robert Manners. Then she took up a small book hastily, paid for it, and walked out of the shop."

"And you have never seen her since?" questioned Hope eagerly.

"Not that I know of, madam."

It was not a clue, and yet the revelation seemed infinitely pathetic to Hope.

Miss Rill was evidently searching London in a quiet way for traces of her old lover. She knew he was in the bookselling trade, and was visiting every bookseller in turn, buying books that she did not want, and impoverishing herself by so doing.

When dark set in, Hope turned towards her lodgings. Over her tea, she cross-questioned her landlady again, and discovered that Miss Rill was very fond of attending evening church at a certain St. Mark's, not very far away.

"She always used to go of a Friday," Mrs. Edgar said. "And I shouldn't wonder if she went there still. As it's Friday to-night, miss, would you like to go there?"

Hope was feeling very tired. The day had seemed a long one to her. She could hardly believe that it was only that morning that she had taken her three-mile walk through sunny frosty fields. But the desire to find Miss Rill overcame all her fatigue. She felt as if she were personally responsible for her safety, and, refreshed by her tea, she set out again, to attend the half-past six service at St. Mark's.

It was one of those dingy town churches that do not attract the upper classes; indeed as she entered it, there were not more than half a dozen people in it. When the service began, there were about twenty in the congregation; and not one of them bore any resemblance to Miss Rill.

But Hope found rest and refreshment from the beautiful old liturgy which was simply and reverently rendered, and when the Vicar came forward to the lectern and preached one of a series of sermons on the miracles of our Lord, Hope listened with delight. She could well understand now why Miss Rill had found her way here.

It was not an eloquent sermon, but it was an earnest forcible one, and the Saviour's love and power were brought straight down through the ages to bear upon the lives of those who were in the church that night.

"What wilt thou that I should do unto thee?" was the question reiterated again and again. And before Hope left the church she bowed her knee in humble supplication:

"Increase my faith and love."

As she came out, she stopped to speak to the old verger, and, describing Miss Rill as well as she could, asked him if he could remember having seen her.

He responded at once:

"Yes, only last Friday. I thought she'd been rather ill from the look of her. She come in and was took bad in her seat. 'Twas just on closin', after the sermon, and I got her to the vestry; and the Vicar and me had her in a dead faint for over twenty minutes. The Vicar he fetched in a doctor, and he brought her round and took her in a keb. Would you like to speak to the Vicar, miss? We hain't set eyes on her since."

Elope went to the vestry with relief in her heart, for she realised that she was on the right track at last. The Vicar was courteous, and willing to give her all the information in his power.

"I'm afraid," he said, "it was a case of starvation and exhaustion; the doctor seemed to think so. We have many of these cases every winter, and they are very difficult to relieve. I have her address, but when I went to see her, I found she had been removed to St. Thomas's Hospital. Her landlady had done it, I fear, because she did not want to be troubled with her. She was suffering from a severe chill with fever, the landlady told me. But she will have every care in the hospital."

"Thank you," said Hope. "I must see her to-morrow, poor thing! I little thought she was in want of money."

She walked back to the lodgings, hearing again Miss Rill's eager voice when describing her ideas of London life:

"'I'm going to walk in the streets and live like a lady in it. It's the dream of my life coming true!'

"And now her landlady has turned her out of her house, to die perhaps in a hospital. Oh, it is pitiful!"

Hope did not sleep very well that night. Miss Rill's pathetic story was in her heart and brain. "Perhaps I may have been brought up to town to save her," she repeated to herself; "but what can I do? My own future is very insecure and uncertain!"

Early the next morning, she went off to the hospital. Though it was not in the visiting hours, a friendly sister allowed her to go into the ward.

"If you are a friend of hers, it would be a kindness to take her home. We cannot keep her here, for she has no organic disease; it is simply a case of weakness and exhaustion."

Hope could not reply. She hardly knew how to act. She followed her guide into the big cheerful-looking ward. In one corner of it was Miss Rill's bed. Hope started as she came up and looked down upon her. Was this hollow-cheeked white-faced woman the little hardy roundabout Miss Rill? She could for a moment scarcely believe it. But slowly Miss Rill opened her eyes, and then with a start she raised herself to a sitting position, stretching out her hands like a little child.

"Am I dreaming? Are you Miss St. Clair? I think I'm dying."

"Oh no, you are going to get quite well. It is I myself in the flesh, and I've been hunting high and low for you. I came up to London and meant to take you by surprise. Then I found you had left your nice lodgings. I am sadly afraid you have not been taking care of yourself."

Hope talked on, so as to put her at her ease.

The tears began to trickle down the sick woman's cheeks.

"Oh," she said, with a weary sigh; "how I have longed to see the face of a friend! And my sweet cottage? Tell me how it is looking."

Hope did not want to excite her, so she said nothing of the change of hands that had taken place.

"The daffodils are just coming up," she said gently, "and there will be a fine show of apple-blossoms soon. You must come back to the country, Miss Rill. London does not suit you."

"It is rather an expensive place," said Miss Rill. "I think I have missed the country air."

"Do you think you are well enough to come out in a cab with me? I should like to take you back to your old lodgings."

A nervous shrunken look came into Miss Rill's face.

"My dear, I'm afraid I'd better not. If these good people will keep me a little longer, it would—it would be advisable. I do feel so rested and comfortable. And I really have found London lodgings so expensive, that, between ourselves, my savings have fast melted away. I have thought it all out, and if they will keep me a few days longer, I mean then to apply to a very good registry office that was recommended to me. There are posts of caretaker that are often vacant in town, and I am sure that such an office would suit me. Oh, sister, is that you? What? Food again?"

"Yes," said the sister cheerfully. "It is a cup of nice hot soup, and you must take it before you venture out with your friend. I am so glad she has come for you. The fact is, we shall be overcrowded to-night, and your bed will be wanted. I am sure the rest and food has worked wonders for you, has it not? You must look after yourself a little more carefully in the future."

Miss Rill's lips quivered, but she made no reply. Hope hastened to say:

"I will look after her, sister, I can assure you. Can we have a cab in an hour's time?"

"Yes, I will see to it."

Miss Rill seemed almost stunned by this sudden decision. She said nothing till she was in the cab, driving away from the hospital. Then she laid a trembling hand on Hope's arm.

"My dear, you had better tell the cabman to drive to the nearest workhouse. I will struggle no longer against the fate that is driving me there. I have exactly five shillings left of all my savings. I hoped before I saw you that I should die in the hospital. I don't seem able to die like other people do. I suppose I must be extraordinarily strong."

The tears were quietly trickling down her cheeks.

Hope impulsively put her arms round her and cried too.

"You shall not go to the workhouse. I believe God sent me up to London to save you from it. I'm going to take you back to your old lodgings with me. Not to the last place at which you were, but to Mrs. Edgar's. I will make it right with the landlady. I mean to feed you up and nurse you; and when you are quite well and strong again, it will be time enough to talk of earning money. Two letters have come for you since you have left. One unfortunately was given back to the postman, but the other one was forgotten, and is waiting for you. Perhaps a friend or relation has died and left you a fortune! You never know what a letter may bring."

Hope spoke cheerily, but she was feeling painfully perplexed and troubled.

When the lodgings were reached, Mrs. Edgar received Miss Rill back with every expression of kindness. She was put to bed in her old room, a fire lighted, and everything done to make her comfortable. Then Hope telegraphed to Mr. Spencer, saying that she could not well return to him that day, but would write explanation; and a good long letter followed, telling him all she had discovered and done.

"If you could spare me for a few days longer," she wrote, "I should be very glad. Poor Miss Rill is in a very exhausted state, and I do not want to leave her until she is better. Of course, I need hardly say that I am paying my own expenses up here."

Having written this, she sent a note to Mrs. Harper, telling her of the result of her search, and then she went upstairs to Miss Rill again.

"Could I have my letter?" the poor woman asked directly she saw her.

Hope gave it to her, but she could not read it.

"I'm afraid my eyes are rather weak. Will you kindly read it to me?"

So Hope read slowly and clearly as follows:—

"'DEAR JANE,—Even after all these years I cannot call you anything else. I hear you are living in London in comfortable circumstances. Strange that you should wish to end your days in the bustle of a city, and I in the quiet and peace of the country. I was surprised, when I came down to look you up, to find you gone. Memories tugged hard, when I trod your cottage path. But we have learnt to live without each other. I found your cottage wanting an owner, and for auld lang syne I took it, and am living in it now. Why am I writing to you, you will ask! I hardly know myself, except that your presence seems to wander round here, and I wonder if I had managed things better, whether the two of us might not have kept each other company in this snug nest? I should like to hear your experiences in London. I managed to save, and have now a small annuity, enough to keep me from want for the rest of my days.

"'Very truly yours,

"'ROBERT MANNERS.'"

Miss Rill sat up in bed with flushed cheeks.

"Wonderful! Wonderful!" she exclaimed. "So I have been searching all this time in vain. Tell me, Miss St. Clair, all about it. Why have you left my cottage? How did he come to take it? He above all others in this wide world!"

Hope told her everything. She could not quite make out if she were glad or sorry at receiving such a letter. The pitifulness of it all did not seem to strike Miss Rill. She sank back upon her pillow soon, and with a wistful smile asked Hope to put the letter into her hand.

"I will answer it when I feel a little stronger," she said.

But Hope was determined that Robert Manners should know as soon as possible why Miss Rill had not answered his letter before; and that same evening she wrote to him herself, telling him of Miss Rill's weak state of health.

"If he has a heart at all, he will come and see her," she said to herself.

The next day Miss Rill was sufficiently strong to tell Hope her late experiences in town.

"I know you will think me sentimental and foolish," she said. "But though I enjoyed my first few weeks in London very much, I could not rest until I knew whether Robert—Mr. Manners—was still living. I only wanted to know; I did not want to see him; but he was the only old friend I had in London, and so I began my search. I knew he was a bookseller, so I went to every bookseller's in turn, trying to find him, and the consequence was I had to buy a good many books. Oh! I know it was foolish, but I felt I could not take up their time for nothing, and I did not want to be pushing with my inquiries; they were so much more civil when they knew I meant to buy.

"I don't like London; it is a cruel place for the poor and weak. The only nice people in it are the policemen, and I've never had anything but civility from them. They've conducted me across streets times without number—and that without my paying them a penny! Ah, well, God has punished me for my restlessness and faithlessness! I could not wait for His time. What an event it would have been if I had stayed on in my cottage and seen Bob—Mr. Manners—walking up the path one day! I never dreamt he would come back to those parts again! It seems so strange, so sweet that he should be living there now. Well—he says we have learnt to live without each other—I suppose we have, and I shall be happy if I am taken before I have to go to the workhouse. It is my own foolish fault. I saved, and then I spent, and the sooner my life ends, the better."

Hope gently remonstrated with her.

"If you had not been wanted in this world a little longer, God would not have sent me up to London at this identical time when you were needing a friend."

Miss Rill seized hold of her hand, and a hot tear fell on it.

"Ah! I am ungrateful. And God is good, though I had to come to London to find it out. It was all so quiet and peaceful in my cottage. I went to church once on a Sunday, but there my religion began and ended. When I was lonely and forlorn here, I went one evening to St. Mark's. I can't tell you, Miss St. Clair, what comfort came to me through the Vicar's addresses. I got to know the Lord as my personal Friend and Saviour. I believe He is taking care of me, though I am so faithless; but I can't help thinking the loss of my savings is the natural consequence of my own folly."

"We won't talk any more about it," said Hope cheerfully. "You have found a Friend who will undertake for you, Miss Rill, and if your loneliness drove you to Him, you will bless that bit of loneliness through all eternity."

Chapter XXII

ALONE

"'MY DEAR MISS ST. CLAIR,—You ought never to have left me. I can't think why you have been worrying yourself over the poultry-woman. I note what you say about my sister, Mrs. Harper. I have written to her saying it is not convenient for me to receive her at present, but that I hope to see her later on. If you had come back the first thing on Wednesday morning, things would have been better. As it is, you have been away three days, and now I cannot see my way to having you back. Mrs. Hadley says if you return, she will leave me. I cannot lose the Hadleys; they know my ways, and have been with me ten years. I should be lost without them. It is very tiresome that you and Mrs. Hadley do not get on together. I am a miserable old man, and realise more and more that I am never meant to have a friend. Mrs. Hadley is improving in her cooking again. She seems to manage for me better when you are not here. She says you fuss her.

"'I do not think I owe you anything, for I paid you the morning you left me. If there are a few shillings over from what I gave you for your fare, you may keep them. I do not think it will be wise for you to return here. Mrs. Hadley says you left nothing about your room, but packed everything in your trunk, and took the keys with you. She was hurt at your want of confidence in her, and said she would not touch a hairpin of yours. But this makes it easy to send your trunk by rail to you. I will leave you to pay the carriage of it at your end, as it is always safer doing so. Hadley says he can ask the baker to take it in his cart to the station to-day. I do seem unfortunate in having no one of my own class to associate with, but I cannot lose the Hadleys. Why do women always disagree?

"'Yours truly,

"'A. T. SPENCER.'"

This was the letter that awaited Hope one morning. She was thunderstruck at its contents. Mr. Spencer's callousness and selfishness did not vex her, for she had a great compassion for him. But after thinking matters over, she went straight to Mrs. Harper and read the letter aloud.

That lady lay back in her cushions, and laughed at it.

"It's simply delicious," she said. "I can see Alan writing it!"

"Ah! But it is no laughing matter. Those Hadleys are not faithful servants. They are cheating him right and left, and he does not see it. It is pitiful to me. He is lonely and miserable, and they want to keep him so. I do not mind for myself at all. I am quite willing not to go back, but I cannot bear to think of him. Mrs. Harper, could you not go down and release him from his tyrants? You could replace them with better servants. You are his sister, and you can do what I cannot do."

"But what thanks should I get for it? It would be a most difficult and unpleasant business, and I always shirk unpleasant things. You see I am as selfish in my way as Alan is in his. Why should I trouble myself about him, and his rascally servants?"

Hope looked at her a little wistfully for a moment.

"I can't help thinking that your heart is kinder than your words," she said, smiling.

Mrs. Harper shook her head.

"My heart is a mere mechanical engine for pumping blood into my arteries. I always say exactly what I think. The only thing that would make me go to him would be the fun of routing round that insolent old woman, and making her wait on me. I do think my brother has treated you rather shabbily. What are you going to do?"

"I shall stay where I am for the present and try to nurse Miss Rill back to health and strength again."

"It seems your vocation to attend upon the poor and needy."

After a little further talk, Mrs. Harper declared she would go down and take her brother by surprise.

"I shall find out how things are, and if I see the smallest inclination upon my brother's part to be friends with me, I shall settle that worthy couple of his in no time."

Hope went back to Miss Rill. She was too occupied in attending to her, and in thinking about the poor unhappy Squire, to give her own future much thought, but she did vaguely wonder if her money would be sufficient for her needs, or if she might, like Miss Rill, lose her little all in London. It was a distinct shock to receive her large trunk the next day, and to realise that her connection with King's Dell was severed for the present. That same afternoon she was told that a gentleman wished to see her, and going into the sitting-room, found Mr. Robert Manners awaiting her.

He met her with an embarrassed air.

"I—I thought I had better perhaps call. I had business that brought me to town. I—I hope that Miss Rill is better. It was kind of you to write. I—I suppose she would not like to see me?"

"Are you sleeping in town to-night?"

"Yes."

"Then I think she might be able to see you to-morrow. She is very weak still. I'm afraid she has not much desire to live, and that tells against her. You see, she has no friends, and she has been unfortunate up here. Her savings have nearly melted away. Perhaps I ought not to tell you this, but you are an old friend, and so you will treat it in confidence."

To herself she mentally soliloquised:

"He shall not think she has anything to offer him; if he cares for her, he will take her as she is."

Hope wisely said nothing of this visit to Miss Rill that night. She did not want to excite her. But the next morning, she persuaded her to get up a little earlier, and sit in an easy chair by the sitting-room fire. And then, with a reckless regard for her scanty purse, Hope went out and bought some violets and sweet-scented narcissus, which she brought in to brighten up the dingy little room.

"Ah!" said poor Miss Rill, when she saw them. "I had violets behind the water-butt. I wonder if Ro—Mr. Manners—has discovered them?"

"You must ask him," said Hope quietly. "He has come up to town on business, and means to come and see you this morning, I think. Perhaps he wants some advice about the garden."

A red flush appeared on Miss Rill's thin cheeks.

"Is he really coming to see me?" she asked. "My dear, am I tidy? Don't you think perhaps my best cap—"

"You are looking awfully nice," said Hope, relieved that she took it so calmly.

Mr. Manners arrived very shortly.

Hope longed to witness the meeting, but with her usual tact she absented herself. Sitting in her bedroom, she prayed for their happiness. There was nothing incongruous to her in the thought of their courtship. The man might be bowed and bent with the weight of cares and of time, the woman faded and weakened from her recent illness, but love was a real thing to both of them, and she had no fears as to the result of their meeting.

It seemed a long time before the door opened, but he came into the passage at last. His eyes were bright, and he held himself like a man awakened from sleep.

"Thank you for this," he said, turning to her with an old-fashioned bow. "Please God, we will finish our lives together now. I tell her we must have a quiet wedding up here, and go home next week. I will see about it at once."

He paused, then said solemnly:

"Ah, Miss St. Clair, it's a pity a woman doesn't always know her own mind. There's that dear little soul in there has nearly killed herself in trying to undo a bit of her past. And I have been haunted night and day by her presence ever since I took her house. She'll be pleased to see her garden again!"

He turned abruptly away, but Hope saw him draw his coat-sleeve across his eyes; and was not surprised to find Miss Rill in tears. She stretched out her hands to Hope directly she saw her.

"Oh, my dear, it seems so wonderful. He wants me still—has always wanted me, and I'm going back to King's Dell with him. Will people think us very silly? We are both so old, but we shouldn't be younger if we had married fifty years ago, should we? And there are lots of Darbys and Joans in the world. I really do think I don't deserve such joy. I told him I hadn't one penny, but he says he has enough for us both. We shall not be rich, you know, but we shall be more comfortable doing our own work together than lots of these grand folk in town. I feel as if it must be a dream. Do you think it is?"

"I think it plain solid fact," said Hope. "And now it is time for our dinner. I hope you have a good appetite."

She brought Miss Rill down to earth by her practical talk. A little later they looked over her scanty wardrobe, and Hope went out shopping, determined to spend a little on smartening up the poor bride. As soon as it was possible, the ceremony was performed at St. Mark's.

And Hope said goodbye to bride and bridegroom at Paddington station that same afternoon. She returned to her lodgings, feeling, for the first time, lonely and depressed. Lancelot Dane had been filling her thoughts; the sight of Miss Rill and her old lover together brought an aching longing to her heart for the one who belonged to her. She had written to the country post-office, asking them to forward her letters, and now she was awaiting her Indian mail.

As she sat over her tea, her outlook was not inspiriting.

"My money seems melting away. I suppose I shall hear something soon. If Mrs. Dane comes back, it will be all right, but if she does not—oh, I hope I shall not be a repetition of poor Miss Rill!"

In the ensuing days, she practised the strictest economy, often going without a midday meal, and making the excuse to her landlady that she would be out at that time. She was glad that the spring weather made it possible to go without a fire, but often she would be so cold and hungry that she would go to bed at eight o'clock. In spite of all her care, her little store decreased rapidly, and if it had not been for her unswerving faith in God, she would have lost heart. As it was, she went about with gay words on her lips and a smile for every one.

She applied to various registries, hoping that perhaps she might find some temporary engagement. But she realised that the competition, without interest, was too great for her to be likely to succeed. Her landlady could not make her out. Her weekly accounts were settled promptly, and Hope's cheerfulness deceived her.

"You do eat next to nothing, miss; I can't make out how you live!"

"I'm very strong, Mrs. Edgar, and plain food suits me. I am not rolling in riches, you know!"

"Yet how much you did for that poor dear lady: nothing seemed too good for her, and I know for certain that she couldn't pay for all them dainties you gave her when she was sick."

"But, you see, I had to get her well to be married," said Hope laughing. "I take credit to myself for getting her well so quickly."

"Well, I hopes you won't starve yourself," said Mrs. Edgar gloomily. "There's a lot of that amongst gentlefolks in London. We sees a deal of it in these kind of streets. Mrs. Smith next door had a lady—"

But Hope cut Mrs. Edgar's reminiscences short.

"I don't want to be frightened," she said, and she went out of doors for a walk.

That was her sole relaxation—a brisk walk across the parks, and the spring flowers and sunshine cheered her.

"It must be all right," she would say to herself. "I shall not be left forsaken."

And she would repeat to herself her favourite verse:

"'Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown?
Jesus we know, and He is on the throne.'"

She got to know a good many of the inhabitants of her quiet street through just giving them a cheerful greeting as she passed along. The children soon began to smile at her, and looked for a bright word, though they knew it would not be followed by pennies. And Hope began to feel less lonely as she knew more of her neighbours' affairs. Mrs. Edgar was always willing to give her any information, and though it was generally tempered a little with gloomy philosophy, Hope learnt to extract the sweet out of the bitter, and help with her cheery talk if not with her purse.

It had been a new experience to her to have no one to look after. She had not been so situated since she had left her aunt in London, and hardly knew whether she liked such an experience or not.

One morning she felt unusually depressed. Sitting in her room after breakfast, she did not know what to do with her day.

"I think I must look up my friends. I wonder if, in these times, it would be improper to ask Jim Horrocks to come and see me? He would tell me if the Fosberrys are in town again, and where the Chesneys are."

She walked out an hour later, and then, strangely enough, met Jim in the street.

He was, of course, delighted.

"Fancy your being up in town. This is luck! Where are you staying? I've been away for the last month in Scotland."

"In lodgings by myself. I can't explain all in a minute. Are you busy?"

"Of course I am, but I shall be busy with you to-day. Walk along with me to the nearest post-office, so that I can send a wire to somebody."

"No, Jim. Don't break an engagement. I am not going to run away."

"You look more like dying away!" retorted Jim. "What on earth have you been doing with yourself? You're a wraith! This comes of forsaking your best friends, and turning yourself into a domestic servant! Now look here, we'll enjoy ourselves; we'll lunch and dine at the 'Criterion,' and I'll take you for a motor spin this afternoon, and we'll do a theatre to-night. You needn't be prudish. Young women don't need chaperons nowadays. Besides, you are your own mistress."

Hope shook her head.

"WHAT ON EARTH HAVE YOU BEEN DOING
WITH YOURSELF? YOU'RE A WRAITH!"

"You're very kind, Jim, but that kind of thing isn't my style now. I doubt if in the old days I would have done it. If you can spare me an hour, I shall be delighted to have a chat. But this afternoon will suit me quite as well."

"No time like the present. It's a nice day; wait till I have sent my wire, and then we'll go across the park."

Hope acquiesced. She was soon telling Jim of the change in her circumstances, but though she made very light of her perplexities, Jim read between the lines and understood.

"It's enough to raise your aunt's ghost!" he said. "But you're altogether too quixotic to be wise. Now what news have I to tell you? Minnie Chesney is getting married. Have you not received an invitation? They're in your part of the world."

"It may have gone to King's Dell, and not been forwarded. But in any case, I would not have gone."

"The Fosberrys are still abroad. I fancy they mean to cure Lady May's infatuation for slumming. The Murrays are in town, and the Sclaters, and Barrys, and the Ismore-Jones—and the De Waldrons and—"

"Oh, spare me!" cried Hope. "I don't want to see one of them."

"Are you a vegetarian?" Jim demanded suddenly.

Hope laughed.

"It isn't bad fare, but I'm not one by principle."

"But by practice. Hope, you shall, for old acquaintance' sake, come and have a rattling good lunch with me. And I know where we will go. I have an old aunt; I believe you met her once. She is staying at the Grosvenor—Mrs. Dalby-Popples—sounds like a character in Dickens, doesn't it? She's delighted if I look her up; you and I will lunch with her, and we'll go there now. Hansom!"

He had hailed one, and Hope found herself in it, driving away to the Grosvenor Hotel, before she could remonstrate.

"What will she say, Jim?"

"You wait and see."

"I hope you won't tell her you found me starving in the street; your insinuations are rather that way?"

"Ah! There's a spark of the old Hope left! I began to think your circumstances had crushed the spirit out of you! I shall tell her what I like, and you are not to be cantankerous!"

"I believe I do remember your aunt. Her name is quite familiar. Didn't you bring her to the Academy one day when we were there?"

"Yes; she comes up to town about once in seven years. Here we are!"

Hope was soon shaking hands with Mrs. Dalby-Popples, who was a stout old lady with a placid smile and great simplicity of nature. "This is Miss St. Clair, an old friend of yours, aunt—at least, she ought to be if she's not, for she and I have been chums for over twenty years. You know Mrs. Daubeney. She was Hope's aunt."

"Really? Very glad to see you, Miss St. Clair. You must stay to luncheon. I always lunch in my private sitting-room, and it will be delightful to have visitors. I know very few people in town, and I suppose I am not attractive in myself. I don't entertain, and I'm not very rich; I assure you I spend a month here, and see perhaps six people. I don't count Jim. He comes and goes as he likes. Are you a special friend of his, my dear?"

She asked this so meaningly that the colour rose in Hope's cheeks. Jim looked at her and laughed.

"Oh, we ought to have been married long ago," he said. "And even now the wheel of fate may turn in my favour. But another man is the lucky chap at present."

"We have only met each other by chance to-day in the street," said Hope, regaining her composure. "Jim brought me straight here."

"You look rather delicate, my dear. I wonder if you ever take Parish's Food; I have given it to several of my young friends with most marked success. Are you engaged to be married? I wonder if I know the young fellow?"

Hope gave Lancelot's name, and Mrs. Dalby-Poppies chatted pleasantly on, till lunch was ready. Hope enjoyed every moment of that visit. She seemed to shake off a little of her tiredness and gravity, and determining to live in the present only, she proved a very cheerful and entertaining visitor to the old lady.

When she left her, it was with the promise that she would come and see her again. Jim escorted her to her lodgings, and frowned disapproval at her street.

"It's respectable, but sordid," he said. "How long do you mean to stay here?"

"It suits my purse," said Hope. "I am thinking of getting some employment, Jim. What do you think I could do?"

"Pretty nearly anything you turned your hand to," responded Jim. "Hasn't that always been the case with you? You were always good at games, I remember, beat me hollow at tennis more than once; golf, hockey, whatever it was, you always shone in it!"

"Thank you. But I want to earn money, so games would do me no good. Will you come in?"

"You know you don't want me to!"

"Well, I must thank you for introducing me to your aunt, and for a very pleasant day."

"It is only 'au revoir,'" said Jim, as he shook hands with her.

Hope went upstairs to her room to find two letters awaiting her; one from Kitty, the other was her Indian mail.

Chapter XXIII

WAITING

LANCELOT'S letter was written from a sick bed. He had had a bad attack of fever, and had been unable to write. He was in great concern over Hope, and told her that circumstances were guiding him to return home at once.

"My bailiff in the North has died very suddenly," he wrote, "and I am wanted to look into things. And now you are free, I am impatient to get to you. I cannot bear to think of you as housekeeping companion to that penurious old Squire. I was very doubtful, as I told you, whether I ought to have returned to India, and the doctors say I've been here long enough. I should not think of my health if I were really needed out here, but everything points to my returning. As soon as I can travel, I shall get back to my mother, and see what she thinks. Meanwhile, will you promise to take the greatest care of yourself for my sake? I know you will not do it for yours."

This, and much more, brought the colour to Hope's cheeks and the light to her eyes.

"He is coming back. I need have no anxiety now."

And then she wondered if his health was really bad, and when she could hear again, for he had told her that he might send a cablegram, if he decided to come home at once.

For a long time she sat in happy dreams over her letter, then she took up Kitty's.

"MY DARLING HOPE,—HOW I hate Mr. Spencer! I was in such a fury when I heard how he treated you that I dashed out of the house determined to have it out with him, and then I tumbled downstairs in my furious haste, and wrenched my ankle, and had to lie up a whole week. Of course this is his fault, not mine! Well, yesterday I managed to get to him; but I encountered a very grand lady in the hall, who said she was his sister. Directly she spoke of you, we were the greatest friends, for I told her what an angel you were, and she seemed to agree so thoroughly. I couldn't help laughing when we went in to Mr. Spencer, and I felt rather sorry for him too!

"Mrs. Harper said, 'Miss Parr has come to ask why Miss St. Clair is not here.'

"He was sitting at his study table pretending to read the newspaper, and he turned round with a half-shamed look on his face.

"'You women plague my life out!' he growled.

"Then I spoke up. 'That Mrs. Hadley does, and you ought to get rid of her!'

"'Oh,' said Mrs. Harper coolly, 'she's going this afternoon, both she and her husband—I have arranged that. This house is not fit for pigs to live in.'

"Then Mr. Spencer broke into a kind of sobbing fury; he seemed quite helpless, and yet as angry as he could be.

"'You're turning my house inside out, and when you've cleared out my servants, you'll leave me to be ruined and cheated by extravagant worthless creatures, who will make my life a misery!'

"'I'm going to see that you live in comfort, as a gentleman should,' said Mrs. Harper, 'and I shall not leave you till it's done.'

"I chuckled. Then I wondered how she would manage, and suggested that Mrs. Goddles and a niece of hers should come in till proper servants could be found. I went off at once and settled that; and to-day Mrs. Harper came up to us to say that the Squire wanted you back, and that when the Hadleys had really left, he seemed quite relieved in his mind. She is such a capable woman that I believe she will alter the whole of Mr. Spencer's house, and make him live like other people. She says she will stay till she does it, and the Squire seems quite helpless in her hands.

"I've had a jolly letter from Brian, and I'm going to write every month to him. Dad says I'm not to write oftener. Mr. and Mrs. Manners are a great joke. I passed by to-day and found them following each other all over the garden. They come to church and sit close together like two love-birds, and she walks home leaning on his arm and looking quite pretty! She has started the poultry again, and they're full of business as well as love. When I marry, I shall never take Brian's arm, and never follow him about or wait upon him; but I'm sure he wouldn't expect it. The only time I shall be really affectionate to him will be when he is very ill, or when he's just going away on a long journey. You'll have to come back to us. Every one misses you so. Tons of love.

"Your affectionate

"KITTY."

Hope smiled and sighed over this letter. She was not surprised when the next post brought her a letter from the Squire.

It was as follows:—

"DEAR MISS ST. CLAIR,—As the Hadleys have gone, will you come back? My sister, Mrs. Harper, is bewildering me by her rapid movements. I am humouring her by letting her act as she likes, but I am master of my own house, and mean to be. I tell her she need have no expectations from me. If you come back, it must be for good and all, I am too old for these changes. They are most upsetting. As I have hinted before, you will not be the loser at my death by pleasing me in my lifetime. My sister is behaving as if I am a millionaire. I tell her she must pay for all luxuries herself. Food and clothes are what she considers the chief ends in life. If she kept under her body a little more, it might give her brain a chance of making itself apparent.

"Yours truly,

"ALAN T. SPENCER.

"P.S.—I should hope that foolish entanglement of yours has come to a conclusion. I can do better for you than he."

"Poor old man!" said Hope, with real pity and concern. "After all my efforts, he is as closely wrapped up in self and money as ever he was! Oh, how I wish his heart could be reached and touched!"

She debated within herself as to whether she should return to him or not. And then that same evening, she got a cablegram forwarded from King's Dell post-office.

"Coming home by 'Malabar.'—DANE."

The next day Jim appeared, with a message from his aunt. She wanted Hope to drive down to Richmond that afternoon with her.

Hope assented, and walking to the Grosvenor with Jim, told him of her letters.

"I want advice. I think I had better wait in town till the 'Malabar' arrives. I suppose Mrs. Dane is returning with her son. I should not like them to find me at Mr. Spencer's. And he would be furious if I left him again so soon."

"Of course, you mustn't go near that old screw. He treated you abominably. I'll find out when the 'Malabar' is due."

"But I feel so sorry for the old man."

"He has his sister with him. Don't you see that if you go down, you'll only oust her, and she's the proper person to look after him!"

"I did hope," said Hope, a little wistfully, "that I could have got him to view life in a different way. We used to have some very nice talks sometimes."

"Oh, rot, my dear girl! You can't expect an old fellow like that to change the habits of a lifetime after a few talks with you. Leave him alone. Now don't put on a long face!"

"But, Jim, isn't it awful? What a master habit can become! You see, since he met with a disappointment, the Squire has lived all his life for himself alone. He doesn't reckon other people at all. It has made him genuinely and perfectly miserable. I can't help thinking of the end of his life. How sorry he will be then, that he has wasted it so."

"Ah, well, we don't all look at things so seriously," said Jim. "And what man or woman does not live for self? It's the natural thing to do! Good people are quite as selfish as profligate sinners; it's a mere matter of fancy. It pleases some to amuse themselves one way, it pleases others to amuse themselves another. Churchgoing, philanthropy, politics, racing, and gambling are only favourite pursuits of various natures."

"But, Jim, do you think we are meant to live utterly irresponsible? We are not heathen."

"We are not all devotees of religion. How would the world go on if we were?"

"It would be heaven," said Hope.

Jim laughed.

"I like to hear you talk," he said. "I do admire you for holding tight to your faith through all your buffetings of fate, but I couldn't do it myself."

"You don't want to."

"I am content as I am."

"Oh, Jim, if you only knew what a difference it makes when God is inside our lives instead of outside! You're not an infidel; you go to church. Why don't you believe properly what you pretend to believe?"

Jim looked at her gravely.

"You're hitting hard. That is the weak point of my religion, I own. We English are not as religious as the Hindus or Mohammedans. They aren't ashamed of their religion—we are. That is one of the results of excessive civilisation."

"I hope I am not ashamed of mine," said Hope thoughtfully. "I find it difficult to talk to people about it. I wish I did not."

"Well, you've talked to me about it, and now we'll talk of something else."

It was always the way with Jim. He could never be serious long. Hope sighed inwardly. She wanted every one she liked to have the same happiness that she had, and she knew there was only the one source from which it could come.

For the next few days she felt rather undecided as to what she had better do. Then she heard that the 'Malabar' would arrive in a fortnight's time, and that decided her. She wrote kindly to Mr. Spencer, telling him exactly how she was situated. She also wrote to his sister.

And a few days afterwards, she had a visit from her.

"I am up in town again for a few days. I am really going to take up my abode for the present at 'The Retreat.' I have found a capital man and his wife. I am taking down a maid for myself, and I mean to have a village girl in by the day. A very small household for such a house, but I have to go gently. My dear Miss St. Clair, you have bewitched my poor brother. He quotes you to me on every occasion, and is really heartbroken that you won't return. I have had a dreadful time with him, but his age tells upon him, and I think that if he finds he can rely upon me to manage his household without any trouble to him, he will be willing to leave it in my hands. Those Hadleys, were rogues. They simply cheated and stole right and left. I think with my additional two maids I shall manage more economically than with them. I have given my brother a very straight talk.

"'You are selfish, and I am selfish,' I said to him. 'Unless we both prepare to exercise a little unselfishness, we shall never pull together!'

"He didn't like it at first, but I believe he is afraid of being left alone again, and I am almost inclined to think that some of your words are sticking to him. He said to me a night or two ago, when we were sitting over the fire in his smoking-room,—

"'It's a wonderful thing to stand by and live by one's creed as that girl does!'

"You are always 'that girl,' let me say. I listened, but said nothing. Presently he said again,—

"'If she had come back to me, I meant to have had a regular turn round amongst my tenants. She would so have enjoyed putting things a bit straight!'

"'Well,' I said, 'I shall enjoy that, and I'll help you to do it!'

"And I mean to keep him up to it, Miss St. Clair. His property is a disgrace to him!"

"Yes," assented Hope. "I think he has drifted into doing nothing, and finds it difficult to start now. I am so thankful you are going to live with him."

Mrs. Harper looked at her with twinkling eyes.

"You are a strange young woman. Why do you take such an interest in him? Is it your way to befriend everybody you come across? I never do."

"No," said Hope slowly, "I don't think I am quick to make friends, but I can't help being interested in people with whom I am brought into touch."

"Are you interested in me?"

"I think I am a little. I felt you had it in your power to make him happy, and you are going to do it."

Mrs. Harper laughed.

"When are you going to be married? And where are you going to settle? I don't want to lose sight of you."

Hope promised to write and let her know, when she knew herself, and Mrs. Harper departed to collect her belongings in town and convey them down to her brother's. Hope was very busy that fortnight. She had not much money left, but she felt more satisfied with her wardrobe when she had been able to give it some consideration. Her heart danced within her as the 'Malabar' drew nearer to the shores of England. She counted every day, and was so full of the future that her landlady declared she imagined she could live on air. And then the eventful day came at last, and faithful Jim came round in the morning to know if he could be of any service to her.

"They will think I am at King's Dell," said Hope. "I should like you to meet them and tell them where I am. Is it asking too much of you, Jim? I would rather not meet them myself at the docks. I know they will come to Claridge's. Mrs. Dane always stays there."

Jim made a wry face. "Hasn't he any brothers? I thought one was a barrister in town. Why don't you write to him?"

"Paul has been ill and gone abroad. Rufus is in the North somewhere, and cannot leave his wife who is in delicate health. I know it is asking a good deal."

"Oh, I'm your man! But I never did like taking a back seat, so after to-day, I'll make myself scarce. If there's anything shady about him, or you want a man on your side, a wire will always bring me to you. I think I'll say goodbye."

"Jim, you're a dear!"

Hope shook hands with him with tears in her eyes. She knew this was a parting that would last; for Jim would be as good as his word. He would come to her if she wanted him, but he could not stand seeing another man have the first right to her.

He went, and Hope endeavoured to occupy herself and keep herself from becoming impatient for the hours to pass. She tried to improve the look of her sitting-room, and was delighted when her landlady brought her in a bunch of daffodils.

"A man called with a basketful, miss. I took the liberty of getting some. I know you're expecting visitors!"

Mrs. Edgar nodded her head mysteriously, and then added that she was getting a very nice tea ready in case the gentleman would like it when he arrived. Though Hope begged her not to do it, nothing would stop her. And presently the round table was covered with Mrs. Edgar's best white cloth, a plate of shrimps, some watercress, a currant cake, two pots of jam, and a large plate of cut bread and butter.

Hope smiled to herself, but gave up remonstrating.

"And I've a couple of muffins a-toasting downstairs, and the kettle is biling, so all you've got to do, miss, is to ring the bell when you want to make the tea."

With that Mrs. Edgar departed, and then as Hope sat by her window, sudden fear overtook her.

Supposing the "Malabar" arrived without him? He might have been taken worse. He might be on board very ill. Perhaps Jim would miss seeing them. They might have landed at Plymouth. Trouble and doubt crept into her eyes as the time went by and there were no signs of any arrival.

It was a bright spring afternoon, a tempting opportunity for many to venture out of doors. On the opposite side crept an old man, on crutches, with a violent cough. Every now and then he paused to cough, and the attacks left him weak and breathless. Further up the street was an organ-grinder with a circle of dancing children round him. Not many cabs or carriages passed through the street; a few tradesmen's carts were standing at different houses; the servant-maids, and in some cases the mistresses, were many of them standing on the doorstep enjoying a chat in the sunshine.

Hope looked and noted every detail. How would her surroundings strike her lover? Would he come to her this afternoon or not? She left the window with a little shiver, and turned to stir the fire. It was extravagant having one, with her slender purse, but she had been anxious to make her room look as comfortable as possible. Then at last she heard the sound of wheels, a sharp ring at the door, and two minutes later, as she stood in the middle of the room breathless with expectancy, the door opened and Lancelot came towards her.

She had only time to note that he looked brown, and thin, but with his arms round her, his voice sounding in her ears, her surroundings seemed to melt away, she was wafted into a little paradise. At last she found words, and came back to the practical world.

"Is your mother with you?"

"At Claridge's. I am to bring you to her at once. Now, my darling, let me look at you. How I have hungered for this moment! You are thin and fragile-looking; have you been ill?"

"No, I am always very strong."

Lancelot looked round the room. His keen, quick eye took note of everything. As his glance fell upon the table, he said:

"A London landlady's tea! But have you been living on shrimps and bread and butter?"

"You are not to laugh at it. It has been spread in honour of you. Will you delight her heart and have some tea?"

HER SURROUNDINGS SEEMED TO MELT AWAY,
SHE WAS WAFTED INTO A LITTLE PARADISE.

"I ask for nothing better than this—with you!"

Hope's checks were pink with excitement, her eyes shone. She rang the bell, and had the kettle and the muffins brought in. Lancelot sat down, but though he tasted of the fare Mrs. Edgar had provided, his eyes never left Hope's face.

"I liked your cottage better than this," he said; "why are you here?"

"I have a lot to tell you. But my news will wait. Are you well again? I have been so anxious."

"I picked up, as I always do, on the voyage home. It was unfortunate that I should have been sent to an unhealthy station. I was very vexed with myself for not being able to stand it better, but as you know I came home on sick-leave a year ago, and I don't think I had a fair start. Hope, you must have your belongings sent to Claridge's. You shall not sleep here another night. My mother expects you."

"Oh, but you take my breath away! I am very comfortable here."

"This will be your last meal here, I can tell you!"

He said it with a smile, but Hope recognised the masterful tone. She did not resent it. She had taken care of others for so long, that it was delicious to her to feel that it was now her turn to be managed and cared for.

"I don't know that I can leave so suddenly," she said gently.

"I will arrange it. Leave your luggage here till to-morrow, if you like, but my mother is expecting you to dine and sleep."

"Did Jim meet you at the docks?"

"Yes, and it was good news to me to find you in town. Now I am impatient to take you to more comfortable quarters. Will you get ready, and I will tell your landlady?"

Hope meekly obeyed. It was in the hansom, driving to Claridge's, that she told Lancelot how it was she was in town. But to him she made light of her previous anxieties and shortness of money. Yet his brows were knitted more than once, and just before they reached the hotel, he took her hand in his, and said in a quiet tense tone:

"It will be my business now to see that those kind of worries never touch you."

The tears rushed into Hope's eyes.

Then she said, trying to smile:

"Well, through it all, Lancelot, I think I can say I have had—

"'Peace, perfect peace.'"

Chapter XXIV

WEDDING BELLS

WHEN Hope found Mrs. Dane's welcoming arms round her, she clung to her almost hysterically. The relief and rest, after her anxious life lately, were too much for her.

"Oh," she said, with a sob in her throat, "I have longed for you so! I really believe I have longed as much for you as for Lancelot; only don't tell him so. I feel as if I am twenty years younger at this moment than I was this time yesterday. Girls talk of independence and freedom! I am longing to be dependent on some one, to let myself go without any more thought or contrivance, knowing that I have people at the back of me. Am I getting incoherent? I feel quite unnerved."

"You look strained to pieces," said Mrs. Dane, placing her hand in a motherly fashion under Hope's chin, and turning her face upwards with tender solicitude. "Your life has been too hard, too rough, dear; what could your brother have been thinking about, to let you get so thin and worn!"

"Brian? Oh, it is ages since I have been with him. I am not ill; I am very strong, you know, but I missed the boys when they left me. I think I have been quite homesick for them."

"I shall not let you leave me till you are married," said Mrs. Dane, in her quiet decisive manner. "There is no one in England to dispute my claim, is there?"

"No one," said Hope, with a smile and a sigh.

Mrs. Dane seemed as if she could not do enough for Hope that evening. She took her to a comfortable bedroom next to her own, which she had had prepared for her. And there, in a big easy chair by a blazing fire, she made her sit and talk to her.

"We will have our tea brought to us. Lancelot has had to go to the station about some of our luggage. He can have his turn with you after dinner; this is my opportunity. I want to hear everything, Hope, dearest. Treat me like a mother, tell me everything about yourself. How little I thought when I left you that you would want me so soon! Tell me about that terrible flood."

So, leaning back amongst her cushions, with a laughing protest at being considered an invalid, Hope began her story. She told Mrs. Dane everything; her love and sympathy seemed to demand full confidence.

She described in detail the terrible time when the cottage was inundated, the last hours of her father's life, and the consequent breaking up of the home. She told of Kitty's engagement to Brian—for Hope would always consider it such—and then of her life with the old Squire, and her subsequent visit to London. The story of Miss Rill's discovery and of her marriage interested Mrs. Dane greatly. But when Hope came to speak of her life in lodgings since that event, there was more hesitation in her tone, Mrs. Dane's quick intuition solved the cause.

"Hope, dearest, confide in me. There need be no secrets. You told me long ago that you were entirely dependent on your father. You have said that your brother handed you over a small sum, and I am positively certain that Miss Rill's expenses swallowed up the greater part of it. Have you been starving yourself? You look like it. Have you found it difficult to make both ends meet? No, don't answer me. I see that you have."

And then Hope put her face in her hands and sobbed aloud.

HOPE PUT HER FACE IN HER HANDS
AND SOBBED ALOUD.

"My pride has long ago departed, Mrs. Dane. It has been a bitter thought that your son is taking a penniless girl for his wife. I have struggled and struggled to keep a little in hand. I have tried hard to earn something, but here I am, as you see, absolutely homeless and penniless. What would you feel like if you were in my shoes? I suppose God sees it to be good for me, otherwise He would have ordered it differently. I can only feel grateful that it is myself that Lancelot wants, for he knows I will bring him nothing else!"

Mrs. Dane's thoughts went back to that first evening when she saw Hope enter Kayminster Cathedral. She remembered the dainty, richly-dressed girl, who looked as if wealth and luxury had always been her portion, and she glanced at that same girl now. What she saw brought a smile to her lips and eyes. She laid her hand tenderly on Hope's soft brown head.

"We must not have tears, Hope, dearest. I know which daughter-in-law I prefer. I have seen you in prosperity, and I see you now, and the cares and privation and loss of all that makes life dear to most girls, has only refined and strengthened and beautified your soul. I am not flattering you. Thank God that He has been your Teacher, and thank Him for helping you to learn your lessons so well."

Hope was ashamed of her loss of self-control.

"I am unnerved to-day," she said looking up with a smile. "It is good of you to speak so. I wish I deserved such praise. I have been selfishly taking up all this time in talking of my own affairs. Now tell me about yourself and Lancelot."

They sat by the fire, talking till nearly dinner-time. Lancelot returned in time for it, and it was served in their private sitting-room. And then afterwards Mrs. Dane retired to her room, giving the young couple an opportunity of being alone together.

They had a great deal to tell each other, though perhaps Lancelot did most of the talking. Hope was too happy to say much, and she was tired, feeling the strain of the past few weeks more, now that it was over, than she had done at the time. She sat still in her easy chair, and when Lancelot was not by her side, he was standing on the rug, looking down upon her. She caught one of his intent glances, and laughed up at him.

"I am nothing much to look at; I don't believe you have listened to my last remark."

"If you knew how I had hungered for this moment, you would understand what a feast you are to my eyes," he replied gravely. Then he sat down by her side, and took her hand in his. "I am brimful of plans," he said, "and want your assistance. First of all, when are we going to be married? I should like it to be to-morrow. You do not want a show ceremony, Hope?"

"No," she said, a little startled by his eager haste. "But you must give me breathing space."

"I want you to come straight to the North with me. I think you will like Brunsworthy Hall. I am due there at once. Why should we not go down as man and wife?"

Hope remained silent for a moment, then she looked up sweetly.

"Let me talk to your mother about it. I will not keep you waiting long. Tell me about your country home."

So Lancelot told her all he knew, and described the old stone house near the Yorkshire moors, and the tenants upon his property, and the neighbours round, and then he and Hope began to make plans for improving the moral state of the poor.

"We are five miles from church, and the Vicar is old and feeble, there is no one to visit in the village, and the state of some of the families there is not much better than that of the heathen. The properties are large, and our friends will be few and far between, but I am certain that you will not feel lonely, for you will have many to help and comfort."

"You amongst them," said Hope, with a flush on her cheek and light in her eye. "Oh, Lancelot, I am a very happy woman to-night!"

The time went very quickly. Mrs. Dane came into the room at last, to advise Hope going to bed, and as she laid her head on her pillow that night, she felt like a battered storm-tossed craft landed safely in a quiet haven.

The next few days seemed like a dream to her. There was a great deal of shopping to be done. Hope went to her lodgings to pack up all her belongings and to say goodbye to her landlady.

Mrs. Edgar was sincerely sorry to lose her.

"But marriage be in the air, and Mrs. Green next door she says to me,—

"'Why, Mrs. Edgar,' she says; 'how you do marry hoff your ladies. 'Twill advertise your house surely!'

"Mrs. Green she were uncommon struck with Miss Rill a-coming back to me to be married, and now 'tis you, miss; but the minute I saw you I says to myself, 'My house won't be long for her.' You had it in your own air, miss, that though you were alone and not—excuse me—over-smartly dressed, yet there was that about you told you were of the quality, and I knew from the look of you that you were too good to be one of these poor single women that crowds the hoffices in the city. I'm sure I've never had such a lodger for cheerin' of me hup. 'Tis generally the ways of lodgers to think their landladies just a servant; but to credit them with hearts and feelin's like themselves—no, never!"

It was a fortnight afterwards that Hope went quietly to church one morning with Mrs. Dane in a private brougham, and was married. Paul Dane was present, but no one else—Jim Horrocks had fortunately gone out of town; Hope had seen him once since she had been at Claridge's, and had thanked him gratefully for all his services.

"I mean to be one of your friends still," he said to her, "when I have recovered from the shock of your approaching marriage, for I think it great nonsense when a husband tries to cut his wife's old acquaintances."

"Lancelot will never do that," said Hope, with assurance.

"I'm thankful for your sake that you have some one to look after you at last," said Jim. "And don't you stay up in that cold 'North countree' too long! Make your husband bring you up to town, so that your old friends can see something of you."

Hope smiled; with very few exceptions she felt as if she never cared to see any of her London friends again. They had dropped her when she had left her aunt's. She did not wish to renew their acquaintance now. But she had the pleasure of a flying visit from Hester Chesney before her wedding-day.

Hester was passing through town, and had accidentally heard of Hope's whereabouts. She kissed her most affectionately.

"I thought I had lost you altogether," she said. "We have been away so much, and since Minnie's marriage, I am a great deal tied to my mother. But I managed to get over and see Mrs. Manners the other day. How you have figured in her little romance! I think it is quite delightful to see the quaint old couple in their cottage. And now your turn is coming. I don't know that I don't envy you."

"Oh, Hester!"

Something in her friend's tone touched Hope. Hester looked very worn and tired in spirit. She laughed a little constrainedly.

"Your eyes are big with sympathy at once! It is only that my life is going through a process of fresh adjustment. I told you, when Minnie left us, that I should have to go the social rounds with my mother. My bees and flowers are consequently suffering. You know your Bible. I feel I have been like Moses, in the back side of the desert, and how I have enjoyed it! Now—"

"Now," interrupted Hope eagerly, "you are going to help your brethren in the land of bondage, to rid them of their burdens. Oh, you can, Hester! Much better than I ever could! Let us carry on the parable. Aren't there many who feel the burden of a society life, of keeping up appearances when they have not the means, of laughing when their hearts are aching, and entertaining and making life pleasant for others, when they themselves are full of bitterness and disappointment? You know their ways. You can help them."

"How?" cried Hester, a little fiercely. "You are always so visionary, Hope! I am not such a success myself that they would be attracted by my influence! I see the hollowness of most of it, but I don't see any cure."

"You will if you go to the right Physician, and read His Book," said Hope softly.

Hester turned abruptly away.

Hope tactfully spoke of other things, but when they wished each other goodbye, Hester said, in her abrupt way:

"I always told you that you had found the right path in life, and if you have found it, there is no earthly reason why I should not do so, too. I will follow your clue, and will tell you the result—when I arrive at it."

Hope's wedding-day was a bright sunny one in the middle of May. The service seemed like a dream to her; she returned to the hotel, where they had a substantial luncheon, and then they left by a midday train for Yorkshire.

Mrs. Dane came to the station to see them off, accompanied by Paul.

"It will not be goodbye for long," Hope said to her; "for you are coming to stay with us very soon."

And Mrs. Dane promised that she would do so.

"I have not lost a son," she said; "only gained a daughter."

When they were off, Lancelot turned to Hope with a sigh of infinite relief.

They were comfortably established in a first-class carriage.

"We shall be alone at last," he said. "I don't think a wedding is an enjoyable performance, do you?"

Hope laughed a little shyly.

"It is the feeling that it is such a tremendous thing that paralyses one, I believe. I can't make myself clear, but I am only now realising that we are man and wife."

Lancelot responded as only a lover can. He showered every attention on her, and as they swiftly passed through the lovely English country, noting the lambs in the meadows, the hedges of white hawthorn, and the snowy fruit-blossoms in the orchards, she exclaimed:

"I would like this journey to last for ever, just you and I, with no outsiders to distract us. The end of it will bring business and thought to you. Now we are selfishly engrossed with ourselves. Our circle is very small, but—"

"It is intense," put in Lancelot, "like the focus of a magnifying glass in the sun, the smaller the circle, the more force and power there are existing."

Hope took time to think this out.

"It doesn't sound right," she said, laughing; "for the smallest circle one can have is round oneself, and that is stagnation."

"Yes, one absolutely comes to a standstill in that case, but we revolve round each other, do we not? Oh, Hope, little woman, we will not talk wisely to-day! I feel I have no words. I only want to have you close to me, and remember that you are mine. I am thanking God for such a gift!"

Hope rested her head against his shoulder in supreme content.

"I am much afraid," she said, after a pause, "that I am a very weak-minded old-fashioned woman. My greatest comfort and solace now is thinking that I shall never have to think for myself again. I shall lean hard on you, dearest, and I feel that you will never fail me. The strength of a man mentally and physically is such a comfort and rest to me. I never can understand why women fight for supremacy!"

"Equality, is it not?" said Lancelot, smiling.

"Perhaps so. But why should they want to take up the burden and cares of responsibility? It is what brings grey hair and wrinkles to many a single woman before her time!"

"You are a little philosopher. I am ready to ease you of all that I can in the future."

"No, you must not make me selfish. I shall wish to share with you where I can."

Then, after a few minutes' silence, she said:

"I feel half afraid of happiness now, Lancelot—I mean such happiness as ours at present. For a long time I have felt that I have needed discipline. You see, I had such an easy self-indulgent life so long, and then, when I really began to serve God, it seemed as if I needed so much teaching that He changed all my circumstances, and He has been leading me step by step ever since, teaching me to trust when I can't see. I wonder if I have learnt my lesson properly, and whether He thinks a little green pasture and rest good for me now?"

Lancelot looked down upon Hope's sweet face with great tenderness.

"It will be green pastures for me, too. Don't let us question our happiness, but take it with thankful hearts, my darling."

The express sped on; day was deepening into dusk. The young couple relapsed into silence. Both were in rapt and dreamy enjoyment of the present moment, when suddenly, without any warning, there was a shriek of the whistle, a momentary slacking of the terrific pace at which they were going, a grinding crash, an awful shock—and then oblivion, dark and total!

Chapter XXV

IN THE BORDERLAND

HOPE came to her senses very gradually.

First she thought she was in bed, just waking up, and for a moment she began to wonder where she was. Then she was conscious of voices, and then of some one touching her. She opened her eyes. A strange man was bending over her.

"Do not be anxious. You have no bones broken, and I have dressed your only wound. You were stunned. How do you feel?"

"What is the matter with me?"

Hope's voice was feeble and weak.

"You had a nasty cut on your head, but it was not very deep."

"I—I feel so stupid and dizzy—oh, I was in the train—where is Lancelot—my husband?"

There was silence. In a moment she had sprung up from a sofa on which she had been lying. She found herself in the first-class waiting-room of a railway station. The doctor who had been attending to her was already turning away, and a hospital nurse came forward.

"Please keep still," she said. "It will be better for you. The doctor is so busy; so many are needing him. It has been a terrible accident. Happily you were only outside our station, and we were wired for at once. A great many have already been moved to the hospital here."

Hope hardly heard her. In agony she pushed her aside, stumbling across several other women in reclining positions on the floor, and rapidly made her way along the platform. It was crowded. Impromptu litters had been made, and were being carried along the line; cabs were taking off inanimate forms; everywhere men and women were hurrying to and fro, and women's voices were raised in shrill cries for their belongings.

"He is dead!" Hope said in her heart.

In silence she went from one to the other, peering into the face of every wounded man. At last, some one touched her on the arm.

"Are you looking for any one?" It was an elderly porter who spoke.

"My husband. Where are those who are dead?"

"'Tis hard to say. They've taken the worst cases to the hospital. What kind of gent was he?"

Hope did not answer. She flew to a cab.

"Take me to the hospital," she exclaimed. "Quick! I must find my husband."

It was not very far. In the entrance-hall a sister met her. She had already received many distracted relatives.

"Yes," she said, "I will help you, if you describe your husband to me."

"Tall," said Hope, a quick sob escaping her; "thin, a brown moustache, a dark tweed suit, a buff covert coat, and violets in his buttonhole."

She had placed the violets there herself. Was it a year ago?

"Ah," said the sister gently, "he is here. I remember noting the violets. Come in and wait. I will make inquiries."

Hope was shown into a small waiting-room. Dizzy and weak, with an aching throbbing head, she tried to calm herself, and prepare for the worst. Her lips moved in prayer.

"O God, we were so happy! Oh! I cannot bear it! Let him be alive! Let him be alive!"

It seemed hours before the sister returned, and she was accompanied by one of the doctors.

"I am sorry, madam," he said slowly, "but is your husband's name Lancelot Dane?"

"Yes. Is he dead?"

Hope was surprised at the quietness of her own voice.

"No—but I can hardly give you hope of his recovery. We discovered his visiting-card in his pocket. That is how I know his name. He has been badly crushed, and we fear injury to his spine."

"Where is he? Take me to him."

"You cannot see him just at present. He has not recovered consciousness."

"Take me to him. I am his wife."

Hope's tone was peremptory.

The sister laid her hand on her arm.

"The doctors are attending to him now. You must wait, I am afraid. Are you near home?"

"I don't know where we are."

"This is York. You were just coming into the station when the accident occurred. But I am afraid your husband cannot be moved."

She looked questioningly at the doctor as she spoke. He answered:

"If Mrs.—Mrs. Dane had quiet rooms to which she could move him at once, it might be done. Later it would be impossible."

"I am a stranger. Sister, do you not know of any place I could take him to? Our home is at Brunsworthy Hall, and that is thirty miles from York."

The sister hastily conferred with the doctor.

Hope caught the words:

"No room—such small accommodation—better with a private nurse."

And then the sister spoke to her again.

"I do know of some very nice rooms. The landlady is most reliable. We think Mr. Dane might be moved in an hour's time."

"He is very ill," said the doctor, looking at Hope gravely. "Have you any friends who had better be told?"

"Oh," cried Hope; "we were only married this morning!"

He murmured something which she could not catch, and left the room.

"I will give you the address of rooms," said the sister. "Would you not like to go to them now, so that you could be ready for your husband when we send him?"

Hope turned away with a nod of assent. She could not trust herself to speak.

It was a good thing for her that she was forced to act. She went out into the street and soon found the rooms. The landlady rose to the occasion. A bed was prepared in a large bedroom on the ground floor, and two hours later Hope was face to face with her husband. Alas, she could hardly recognise him! He seemed to her to be in bandages from head to foot. A nurse came with him and a doctor. Hope could only stand by in agony of soul, and see them doing all that was necessary. Then she overheard her landlady speaking to the doctor in the hall; and she heard his reply given in quick decided tones.

"He has not the slightest chance. He may linger some days. We have done all we can for him, and he has a capital nurse. If he lives beyond to-morrow, I will send a night nurse. It is too critical a case to leave to his wife."

Hope wondered vaguely why there was need of nurses, if he were dying.

She seemed now almost stupefied, and when her landlady came into the room, and asked her if she would like some food before she went to bed, she was powerless to make reply. In a vague misty way she found herself drinking some hot soup in bed, and then she fell into a troubled sleep, and did not wake till the morning dawned.

Mrs. Forsett, her landlady, told her afterwards that she had, with the help of the nurse, undressed her and got her to bed.

"'Twas your poor hurt head, ma'am, and the shock of it all, that seemed to have stunned you."

But when Hope woke the next day, her head was painfully clear. She was very soon in her husband's room, but he lay in a stupor from which it was impossible to rouse him.

It was now that she sent off telegrams to Mrs. Dane and to Lancelot's housekeeper, and reproached herself with not having done so the night before.

Then, not being able to help in the sick-room, for the nurse was getting her patient ready to see the doctors, she went out to get a few more necessaries for the invalid.

And it was in walking along the streets in the bright sunshine that Hope went through her darkest time.

"I cannot be resigned! Why should I be singled out for such misfortunes? Oh, I might have been given a little happiness after all I have gone through this past year! It seems so cruel, so unnecessary! I cannot live without him! Why need it have happened? Why should I be left to bear the desolation of life without him? What have I done to be treated so? I have tried to be patient through all my troubles, but not one of them really touched me like this one! The more I bear, the more I have to bear!"

She clenched her hands in the impotency of her despair. She knew she was murmuring against God; she felt she was allowing the full tide of rebellion and resentment against His chastening to rush in and flood her soul; she remembered His sustaining power in times past, in the peace that had been hers during all the stress of anxiety and trouble, yet now nothing seemed to help her.

"Shall I never have one word, one look from him? Has he drifted away from me already? Oh! If only I had been allowed to suffer instead of him!"

She walked on; she gave her orders mechanically at the shops, and then she retraced her steps homewards. She went straight to the sick-room.

"Nurse," she said, "I am his wife. My place is by his side. I will not be shut out of this room till—till the end comes."

The nurse drew a chair up to the bedside.

"Will you sit there, ma'am? I do not think you will disturb him."

Hope sat there with a white still face.

Doctors came and went. Lancelot's injuries had been very severe. A broken collar-bone, concussion of the brain, broken ribs, and a bruised body were not all the doctors feared. How Hope had escaped with so little hurt was the marvel, for their carriage had been one of the worst to suffer! Lancelot had evidently thrown himself upon her to shield her, for he had been found on the top of her, and the roof of the carriage was splintered over him.

All that day and night she watched by the bedside, hoping in vain to catch a spark of consciousness or of recognition. Early the next morning Mrs. Dane arrived, white and worn with anxiety. Hope met her with the same stony calm. She, for the first time since she had known Mrs. Dane, shrank from being with her, and Mrs. Dane's quick intuition perceived and understood it.

"I will not come between you and him, my poor child, but you must remember I am his mother."

Then Hope's calm forsook her, and the bitterness of her tone appalled her mother-in-law.

"You have had him all his life, I have only had him for a few short hours. I have been given a cup to raise to my lips, and then it has been dashed away from me!"

"Nothing is impossible with God," said Mrs. Dane gently. "Shall we pray together that his life may be spared?"

"I have not prayed since the accident. I cannot. I think my soul is dead. I can only feel how cruel it is!"

She went to the sick-room as she spoke, and did not see Mrs. Dane again alone till they were lunching together.

"Hope, dear, I think I realise how you feel; but you are not helping yourself or poor Lancelot by keeping away from the One who alone can help you."

Hope looked at her mother-in-law with dull heavy eyes.

"I think my faith has gone altogether," she said.

"Then ask for it to be given back to you. Let me say your favourite hymn. I keep repeating it to myself."

Mrs. Dane repeated verse after verse of the hymn that had been Hope's greatest comfort. Then in faltering tones she uttered the last verse but one:

"'Peace, perfect peace, death shadowing us and ours?
Jesus has vanquish'd death and all its powers.'

"There is all eternity coming, Hope, darling, for you and for him. This life will seem such a little bit, looking back."

Hope was silent for a moment. Then she murmured:

"If Christ would vanquish death now, and give him back to me for a few short years, I feel I—oh, I can't say it! I believe the devil has taken possession of me!"

She quitted the room hastily. She felt such a tumult rising within her that she could not return to the sick-room. She went to her own room and paced it like a wild animal in a cage. Never could she have believed that the passion of an earthly love could have shaken the very foundation of her creed. And in the depths of her heart was the ceaseless voice: "You are sinning wilfully. You are harbouring and encouraging unbelief and rebellion!"

She saw her Bible on her dressing-table. She had not opened it since her marriage. And then, almost mechanically, she sat down, and, turning over its pages, began reading the Gospels. She read, without taking it in, and then suddenly one single sentence before her seemed to stand out above all the other:

"Is it not lawful for Me to do what I will with Mine own?"

It came as the direct voice of God, and pierced the crust of bitter rebellion and unbelief.

She sank down on her knees and burst into a passion of tears.

The voice of tender, loving, pitying rebuke again repeated in her soul:

"Is it not lawful for Me to do what I will with Mine own?"

She felt much as she imagined Peter must have done when his Master turned and looked at him.

"Yes, Lord," she said brokenly. "It is Thy right; he is Thine own to kill, to make alive; he is Thine, and I am Thine, and Thou hast the right to do what Thou wilt. Oh, do it! Do it! I am Thine. I would not take myself away from Thee. I thank Thee for this word. Who am I that I dare to question Thy right over us both? Oh, forgive me, forgive me! Cast the devil out. Lancelot is Thine own. I am Thine own. Thou hast Thy plans for us both. I will not pray for his life. I will not ask Thee to alter Thy plans. Take me back to Thyself. Do Thou help and comfort us. Thou hast him in Thine eternal arms. I leave him there."

An hour passed before she came out of her room, and then she met Mrs. Dane in the narrow passage. Such light and peace were upon her face that her mother-in-law almost started. The change was marvellous.

"Yes," she said. "It is wonderful—God's mercy and love—but I am forgiven, and I am resigned."

She passed in to sit with her husband, and though her face was white and worn with the conflict that had been raging within her, in her eyes was the "peace that passes understanding."

Very quiet she was, and very silent even to Mrs. Dane.

"I feel," she said to her once, "that I am waiting for death."

The days slowly went by, but there was no change in Lancelot's condition.

"He may slip away from us any moment," said the doctor. "I do not think he will recover consciousness."

Hope sat and waited. She could repeat to herself now the lines of her hymn:

"'Peace, perfect peace, death shadowing us and ours?
Jesus has vanquish'd death and all its powers.'"

And sitting in the Shadow of the Borderland, she seemed to get strange and glorious glimpses of the life beyond.

Mrs. Dane looked after her physical wants, and took it in turn to watch with her. If Hope had been by herself, she would have been oblivious of food and rest. When once she said something a little impatiently about her own health being a matter of indifference to her, Mrs. Dane said:

"Dear Hope, however much you may want to follow him, you must not try to do so. For his sake, his property, his household will need your attention and care. You will be his representative, and you must look upon his possessions as a trust from him."

Which view of the case gave Hope much food for thought. She herself marvelled at Mrs. Dane's calmness and fortitude. The elder woman had learnt life's lesson in a way that the younger one had not, and Mrs. Dane was a selfless woman. She loved her eldest son passionately; his very nature appealed to her in a way that neither of his brothers' did. But she had gladly and willingly given him up to the girl whom he loved, quietly taking the second place in his thoughts and affections, and now she was as ready to give him up to the Master who loved him, and was calling him.

At last, one morning, Hope spoke straightforwardly to the doctor.

"Why does my husband linger so long, if he cannot get better? He takes nourishment. Have you no hope that he may yet pull through?"

"I am just beginning to hope," was the answer.

Then, as a flood of colour swept up into Hope's white cheeks, the doctor put out his hand as if to stop any premature rejoicing.

"I think we must have another opinion," he said. "I can be quite frank with you, Mrs. Dane. Life will not necessarily mean health. I fear paralysis of the brain."

Hope's heart sank very low again. Could she wish her husband a living death? She could not.

A physician came down from London, and after a long consultation, Hope was called into the room to hear the result.

"We think that he might possibly be roused. Will you try to do this? If he will respond to any one, it will be to you. Can you make the attempt?"

So with a beating heart Hope went back to her husband's bedside, and bending over the unconscious form, she called in a clear steady voice close to his ear:

"Lancelot! Lancelot, darling, I want you."

There was no movement. The doctors and nurse watched anxiously. Mrs. Dane in the background also watched and prayed.

"Put your heart into it," whispered the doctor. "Remind yourself that this is his last chance. Make him hear you!"

Hope did not need this stimulant. Her whole soul rose into her agonised cry.

"Lancelot, it is Hope who wants you. Come to me—help me—help!"

There was a slight quiver of the still eyelashes, a slight motion of his head. The word "help" seemed to have reached him at last.

She put her mouth close to his ear, and the intense yearning in her cry brought a moisture into the old physician's eyes.

"Lancelot, my husband, come to your wife! Help me, I want you. Help!"

His eyelids flickered, and then in the smallest weakest voice possible these words were clearly heard.

"I am—trying—to—come."

"Then look up! I am here, darling. Hope is here; look at me—look!"

The soul that seemed so far away, in that mysterious border region between life and death, had returned to the world. Lancelot opened his eyes, and as they fell on Hope's sweet eager face so close to his, there was recognition in his glance.

"Hope—my darling—kiss me."

Hope put her lips to his.

The tense moment had passed. The doctors seemed to draw breath.

"Give him stimulant, nurse, at once."

The physician spoke, and in a few moments the sick man murmured:

"I am afraid I am ill, Hope; can you tell me?"

"I will tell you everything soon, dear. You have been very ill, and now you're getting better."

Hope's eyes were full of happy tears. The doctors left the room.

"Let him sleep now. His brain is uninjured. He will pull round."

And then, leaving her husband in a quiet peaceful sleep, Hope flung herself into Mrs. Dane's motherly arms.

"Oh, mother—let me call you so! How good you have been to me, and oh, how good of God! After all my unbelief and rebellion! Can we—will you thank Him for me?"

Together they knelt in prayer, and Hope's face, when she rose from her knees, was a study in rapt contentment and delight, but her bright brown hair was streaked with grey.

Chapter XXVI

A YORKSHIRE HOME

IT was an exquisite summer afternoon. Brunsworthy Hall lay bathed in the still golden sunshine. It was a substantial old brown stone building, with creeper-clad walls. In front of the principal entrance was a sloping green lawn, a group of beech-trees at the farther end cast some welcome shade upon it; old-fashioned flowering beds bordered the lawn on one side, the other was flanked by a rhododendron shrubbery. In the distance, between a broken line of pines and larches, stretched a wide heather and bracken-covered moor. Further still, blue hills bordered the horizon, and this was the scene that Hope, shading her eyes with her hand, looked out upon, as she stood at the open door. Behind her was a cool, fragrant, oak-wainscoted hall. Roses in bowls seemed to predominate over everything else.

Hope, in her white dress, looked singularly sweet and girlish. But she had gained in grace and dignity during these last few months as mistress of Brunsworthy Hall. For three months she had divided her time between managing her husband's property, and nursing him back to convalescence.

Mrs. Dane had helped much in the latter occupation, but Hope had come alone to Brunsworthy to interview agents, look into farm accounts, and order the household generally. She had been much helped by her husband's lawyer, who lived close by, and Mrs. Stern, the old housekeeper, who had lived at The Hall for the previous twenty years. Now she was expecting the arrival of her husband. She had been into his room many times that day. She had filled it with flowers, she had arranged cushions and couches with a view to rest his tired limbs, she had chosen books and papers that would entertain and amuse him, and now she stood waiting for the carriage that was to bring him to her.

HOPE RAN DOWN TO MEET THEM.

When it eventually appeared, and her husband with his mother came up the broad steps, she ran down to meet them.

Lancelot's eyes were twinkling with some of his old humour, though his smile was a little sad, as he said:

"The irony of fate, that the wife should be receiving the husband, and welcoming him to his home."

"Ah," she said, linking her arm in his, and so entering the house with him, "but think what it might have been!"

The servants were gathered in the hall to welcome their master, and he said a few words to them before he mounted the old oak stairs.

When he saw his wife's arrangements for his comfort, he turned to her again.

"I was wondering whether I was not the woman, and you the man a few moments ago; now I see that no man could have produced a room like this!"

"Do you like it?"

Hope's eyes were anxious. Her husband simply took her in his arms and kissed her.

"My darling little wife, you have a fairy's touch. Everything you have done is absolutely perfect."

Hope put her arms round her husband's neck, and laid her head on his breast. Her eyes were fast filling with tears.

"Oh, how I have longed for you! I can hardly believe you are here at last! You must get well and strong. Are you very tired?"

"I feel a Hercules."

He did not look it, but his figure had something of its old alertness and uprightness, his voice the old keen ring in it; and though his face was worn and hollow-cheeked, there was vigour and energy in every line of it.

His hand caressed Hope's hair.

"This is a happy day for both of us," he said softly.

"They married, and lived happily ever after," said Hope, laughter taking the place of tears. "We have had a break between those two statements, but it will make the happiness all the sweeter now."

Then she thought of her mother-in-law, and leaving her husband, went to see if she was comfortable.

Later that day, after dinner was over, and the garden lay in the evening shadows, the three of them walked round the garden paths.

Mrs. Dane was going back to London the next day.

"This must be your honeymoon," she said. "I am not going to spoil it."

And no amount of persuasion would induce her to stay.

As they walked and talked, Hope began to give an account to her husband of all the business she had tried to perform for him.

"I have told the 'pro tem.' bailiff to come up to-morrow morning for you to see him. I hope you will like him. We had three applications, and Mr. Judd helped me in the choice. And, Lancelot, I have been round with Mr. Judd to every farm on the estate. I know where repairs are needed, and who are the best farmers. I feel so full of information about your property that I shall be rather glad to air my knowledge.

"The only thing that I do not quite understand is Yorkshire manners. I have always heard that the lower classes are very independent, and in all my rounds I only got one nice welcome, and that was from an old woman who had been cook here many years ago. Now I come to think of it, she was a Somersetshire woman. She showed me her dairy, which was a picture of neatness and cleanliness; she said it was an honour to show it to me, and that I had the look of a lady who could 'put her hand to things without a thought of soiling her fingers.' I nearly told her what I could do in the way of house-work, only little Mr. Judd looked so important and dignified by my side that I was afraid of shocking him. Then she mentioned your mother, and when I found out that she had known you here many years ago, I could have talked all day."

"That must be Ann Sockett," said Mrs. Dane thoughtfully. "She married one of the farmers here, I remember."

"She is Mrs. Talbot now."

"I wonder how soon I shall be able to look into things myself," said Lancelot. "I suppose I must let this man—what is his name, Hope?—Mathews?—I suppose he must have a chance first."

"Yes," said Hope decidedly. "The doctor said you must have a very easy life for the next two months, and then you would be quite yourself again. Mr. Mathews will take all the business part from you. You and I are going to enjoy ourselves in a selfish fashion for two whole months. Then you can be engrossed in your farms and fields and coverts. I shall be engrossed in my housekeeping, and garden, and perhaps my poultry-yard. But for the present we are going to be engrossed with each other."

"I am sure," he said, "you deserve a rest and holiday if any one does, and I shall see that you get it."

Mrs. Dane had wandered away from them. This old house and garden were full of memories to her—some happy ones, some sad. She had spent all her young married life in it, had buried the one she loved best in the little churchyard a few miles away, and there was not a corner or spot that she did not know and love.

Hope took her husband indoors soon, fearing he would be fatigued, and then, wrapping a shawl round her, she went out again to look for her mother-in-law.

She found her on the stone terrace on the west side of the house. It was a spot which overlooked most of the country round. First there was the old walled kitchen garden below, then beyond it the small village, a stretch of grass meadows, then almost on the horizon a little turreted church standing on the edge of the heather moor. It was towards this that Mrs. Dane was looking. She was resting her arms on the stone balustrade, and it was not till Hope gently touched her that she was aware of her presence.

Were there tears in her eyes as she looked round? Hope almost thought so.

"Am I disturbing you?" she asked, with a little hesitation.

Mrs. Dane put her arm round her, and drew her to herself.

"Dear child, you must not think of me. Is Lancelot very tired?"

"He says not. Oh, mother, I wish you were not leaving us. Since I have been here by myself and heard the people talk about you, I feel that you ought to be here and not I. Was it not a great trial leaving it when you did?"

"Yes, it was. But I had my boys to think of. I wanted to give them a good education, and I wanted to keep in touch with them. Also I was hard pressed for money at the time of my dear husband's death, so I was advised to let the place."

"But you always hoped to come back one day?"

Mrs. Dane did not answer.

Hope clasped her hands caressingly round her arm.

"My happiness makes your disappointment, mother. Oh, why did you let me meet Lancelot? And why won't you live with us altogether, and let me take the place of a daughter?"

Mrs. Dane smiled.

"Don't you think it is a happiness for me to feel that I have a daughter-in-law who will always give me a warm welcome here? I have been picturing your life here in the future, dear. And I hope that, as years go on, you will find that the same God who brought you together, will bless you increasingly. Married life brings cares and responsibilities, but it also brings much happiness. And I can safely say that I believe Lancelot will never disappoint you. I know what he has been as a son. I know what he will be as a husband."

Hope did not answer. She looked dreamily away to the little church in the distance. At last she said slowly:

"And perhaps one day I shall stand where you do, and feel that all my hopes are in that churchyard. Then I wonder if I shall be able to live my life as nobly and sweetly as you do. I wonder if I shall ever have as big a heart of sympathy and love, as firm and unclouded a faith—"

"Hush, hush!"

Mrs. Dane was shaking her head most disapprovingly.

"I hope you will be a far better woman than I ever shall be. Now, don't you think it is time we were returning to the house?"

"Ah, well," said Hope, as she took her mother-in-law's hint, and walked back with her into the drawing-room. "I shall never be able to say that I was without an example of what a wife and mother should be!"

Nothing would induce Mrs. Dane to prolong her stay. She was determined that the young couple should be left alone, and she departed the next day, promising to pay them a visit in the autumn before the winter set in.

Hope always looked back to those summer months as a time of exquisite rest and delight.

She had much to do. It was not an idle life. There were a great many necessary alterations and repairs in the house itself, for the furniture was old and shabby, and wanted considerable renewing; and there was a good bit of outdoor and estate business with which Hope helped her husband. But the very contact with a keen vigorous intellect like Lancelot's, the sense of his love and care in every detail of her life, was both soothing and invigorating. And she loved the country around her. The moor fascinated her; she would go up to it in the cool of the evening, and baring her head, would inhale long breaths of the fresh, sweet, heather-scented air. Wandering knee-deep in the bracken, she would gather armfuls of the heather and ferns, and come home laden with spoils, astonishing the servants, who could not understand the pleasure of seeing "rubbish" preferred to the choice flowers produced by the garden and hothouses.

Lancelot smiled and understood.

"Ah!" he said to her one day. "Wait till I get a little stronger, and we can ride over the moors together!"

"Perhaps it's as well we don't get all our pleasures at once," said Hope. "We have so many things to look forward to, have we not? But I am not a very accomplished horsewoman. I have had so little chance of riding. My aunt never encouraged it, though I had riding-lessons at school."

"You will soon pick it up again."

One day Hope received a letter from Kitty Parr, giving her the sad news of her father's sudden death from heart failure. Kitty wrote in great trouble.

"How I long that you were here! I have no one to help in things. Avice seems quite stunned, and she is no good at business, as you know! We have just been talking to father's lawyer. We shall have to sell most of our things and get out of this old Rectory as fast as we can. I don't mind much for myself, but I'm awfully sorry for Avice. She has no 'Brian'! I'm up to my eyes with bothers, getting father's accounts right, writing letters (Avice answers all the condoling ones), and roaring with crying at intervals. Death is so awful! And father was such a dear. But I get quite bewildered over our future. Brian won't be ready for me for ages yet, and I think Avice and I will have only £100 between us yearly. Is that worse or better than you were? We mean to go into lodgings at Kayminster. That is the nearest town, and every night I frantically count up my accomplishments, and wonder how I am to earn money. I mean to do something, and no one shall prevent me.

"Of course a country life suits me best, but Avice will go to a town, and I must keep with her. I think I shall turn into a shop-girl or servant if I can do nothing else. But I would love to be a farm labourer! I went down to Miss Rill—Mrs. Manners, I mean—and talked to her about myself.

"She said, 'My dear, don't go to London. It isn't the place for poor people.'

"Then I asked her if I opened a dairy in Kayminster whether she could provide me with the stuff to sell. (You know they keep two cows now.) But she didn't rise to it. I believe she doubted my business capacity. Oh, Hope, dear, I want you badly! Do you think I could get something to do if I went to Canada? Then Avice could have the £100 all to herself and be quite comfortable. I never thought we should be quite so badly off. I do think clergy might have pensions for their widows. Father worked hard for fifty years and at the end of it left us almost penniless. I tell Avice that the organisation of the Church of England leaves a lot to be desired. She of course disagrees. If only some nice rector would come forward and marry her. She'll never be any good in the world except as a clergyman's wife, and I rather pity her household! You see my pen is running away as fast as my tongue does! But I'm writing to take the ache and misery away. I am absolutely miserable, Hope—do comfort me.

"Your loving

"Kitty."

Hope took counsel with her husband over this letter.

"Why not ask her up here a little later? Would you not like to have her?"

"Very much. But what about Avice? I honestly don't like her, Lancelot, though she is so good. She is so lofty and superior in her manner, that she rubs me the wrong way!"

"This trouble may soften her."

"I am sorry—very sorry—for both of them. And I think Kitty will adapt herself better to her new surroundings than Avice. I think Avice has always run in a very narrow groove. I expect she will feel quite lost without a parish."

"I should let them settle down somewhere together before I asked Kitty up here."

"I dare say you are right. Poor little Kitty! I will write to her at once. She was her father's right hand."

So Hope wrote a very loving sympathetic letter to Kitty, and by the same post wrote out to Brian, asking him if there was any chance of his being able to marry at the end of the year, or whether there was any opening for Kitty out there as a mother's help or companion to any young married woman.

"She is so happy in the country," wrote Hope, "and has so many faculties for a farm life, that it seems waste of good material for her to drift into a town, and do nothing."

And after she had written her letter, she went into her husband's study to talk to him.

"I feel that Kitty is a repetition of myself, and the position is such a dreadful one. If you had not married me, Lancelot, what would have become of me? The want of money is a great trial to a girl who has not been brought up to earn her own living!"

Lancelot would not allow this.

"There are plenty of men in the world to look after them. Personally, I hate a moneyed woman. She is so supremely selfish."

Hope laughed merrily.

"And what about men?"

"I dare say they are not much better. Superabundance of wealth seldom improves a fellow-creature."

"But it is no good for you to say in a grand masculine tone that there are plenty of men to look after helpless penniless girls. That is just what there is not. Every one knows that women outnumber the men, and they are quick at recognising this themselves, and are fast learning to be independent. I think you old-fashioned men who make such an outcry against the modern women don't realise that they are the natural result of the modern life. And you must admit that the modern young man does not rush into marriage as his ancestors did. They weigh the pros and cons much more carefully."

"Yes, I think the modern youngster quite as odious as the hoyden girl. I hope that little Kitty is not rushing into wedded life too soon."

"You don't like Brian. You never did."

"I can't say he was an attractive character. He did not look after you as he should have done."

"Oh, Lancelot, what a foolish old thing you are!"

And then the conversation ended, as it often did, by lover-like demonstrations between husband and wife.

Chapter XXVII

VISITORS

IT was not till the autumn came that Kitty and Avice came together to pay Hope a visit.

She met them at the station herself, and was struck by the change in both of them. Kitty had lost her childish look; she was slighter in figure and taller, was as impetuous and eager as ever, but not so thoughtless in her speech, and seemed to have learnt self-control. Avice, from being a fresh complacent-looking girl, had become a nervous fretful invalid, full of her own aches and pains and sensitive feelings. Hope was quite shocked to see her.

She talked cheerfully to them both, took them to their comfortable bedrooms, and then as usual poured out her disappointment into her husband's ears.

"I must tell you a private little idea of my own," she said to him. "You know how difficult I find it to visit as much as I should like amongst our villagers here. I thought that perhaps when Kitty goes out to Canada, Avice could come here and be a kind of district nurse and visitor. If she liked to be independent, she could lodge in the village. It is what she loved doing—visiting the poor, and having classes and meetings for them. Our Rector would be only too delighted. But now I have seen Avice, my castle has tumbled to the ground. She seems quite crushed by her father's death, as if she has no spirit left, and such a discontented whining voice! I am quite astonished at the change in her."

"Don't be hard on the girl. It's just the sudden cessation, I expect, of all interest in others that has brought about a reaction."

"Yes, perhaps you are right. She has lost more by her father's death than Kitty has."

At dinner that night Kitty chattered away in her old style; but though Lancelot did his very best to entertain and interest Avice, he could hardly win a word from her. He had to attend a village meeting that evening, so Hope was left with the two girls. Conversation became very heavy in the drawing-room. Avice seemed to be a dead weight upon the atmosphere. At last she said she would like to go to bed, and it was with a sense of relief that Hope accompanied her upstairs. When she was in her bedroom with her, she stooped down and kissed her.

"Good-night, Avice," she said tenderly. "I can't tell you how I feel for you. I have gone through the same trouble myself so recently, that I know a little of the blank that there must be in your life."

"Thank you," was the uncivil reply. "Everybody tells me the same, but I don't know that it alters my feelings much to be told that my loss is one common to all."

For one moment Hope felt quite vexed, then she replied:

"No, it does not alter the fact of your grief, of course. You must tell me, when you are more at home with me, what your plans are for the future. I hope you will sleep well. Good-night."

She would have been astonished could she have seen Avice, when the door was closed, fling herself upon her bed in a tempest of sobs.

"I wish I had never come. I never cared for her. She was always so uninteresting, and now she seems to glory in her position here, and gloats over my misfortunes. I know she never liked me. I hate her pity and patronage. Oh, I wish I were dead! I have nothing to live for. Everything has been taken from me. No one understands me, and no one cares what becomes of me!"

Poor Avice was going through a very bitter experience. From being the centre of a circle of admiring and devoted people, she was suddenly displaced from her pedestal, and became a mere unit, and a very insignificant one, in Kayminster.

"YOU MUST TELL ME WHAT YOUR PLANS ARE
FOR THE FUTURE."

She had never cared for making friends with her equals. She had always posed as a saintly benefactor to her inferiors, and their homage was her chief delight in life. Now that was swept away from her, she felt like a rudderless boat; she had no goal in life, no purpose, no hope. Her work had come first and not her God. Hope would have pitied her much more if she had known the real misery of soul that was hers.

When she reached the drawing-room again, she found that Kitty had drawn up two low chairs to the wood-fire, and was anxiously waiting for her appearance.

"Why, Kitty, aren't you thinking of going to bed, too?"

"Indeed I'm not! I'm simply thirsting to have you to myself! Now come and sit here, and let me pour out, or I shall explode! I'm so thankful your thoughtful husband has taken himself of to-night. It is too good an opportunity to lose. Oh, Hope, what a darling you are! First let me give you a hug, if I dare. You're so regal in your satin gown. I've never seen you in evening-dress before. You look so queenly! Doesn't Mr. Dane sometimes long to give you a good squeeze when you look so lovely? I do!"

Hope laughed merrily as she submitted herself to one of Kitty's "hugs."

Then the girl seated herself beside her, and began her confidence in eager excitement.

"I've heard from Brian that he is building a house in his spare time. He has a grant of land of his own, and he is going to work at this house all the winter. Then in the spring—next spring—I'm to go out to him, and I've been sending him plans for all the rooms. We shall have to work awfully hard, he says, but I shall love it. I wriggle with delight when I think of it! Now that's my tit-bit of news, the bit that keeps my spirits up. And I'm collecting—oh, you'll laugh, but I know what it takes to stock a kitchen—I'm collecting with any odd pence that I can save, such a medley of articles, which I keep in what I call my kist. A tin toasting-fork, a cake-tin, a pepper-box, a tin spoon, an egg-whisk—all a penny each. Then I have bits of flannel and odd dusters—you've no idea what a lot you can get with a few coppers. Avice looks on and laughs at me—metaphorically, I mean—I wish she did in truth, for she's so depressingly dismal that I don't know what to do with her.

"Oh, Hope, you have no idea what our life is like in lodgings! Avice hardly ever speaks to me. She sits and mopes. I made her come to the cathedral services once or twice, but she says it makes her too miserable to go there. I wonder if it would have been better to have stayed on in our village in lodgings; but the fact was, that we heard almost directly who was going to have the living. The Vicar of Nutton, about ten miles off, was offered it, and his wife is one of the most energetic and managing of women! Avice never liked her, when she used to meet her at the clerical meeting, because she always tried to give her good advice, and we both felt we had better be gone before she arrived. And if you don't breathe a word, I believe a certain curate has made Avice very unhappy. He was always consulting with her and kind of carrying on—you know the style, paying her great attention, &c.—and now since father's death, he hasn't come near us, or sent her one line. I believe she was really fond of him, but he can't afford to marry. Anyhow, he's behaved like a brute, and I hate him!"

Kitty paused for breath.

"I wish," said Hope wistfully, "that I could get at your sister's heart. I feel so dreadfully sorry for her."

"She hasn't a little idea about money," went on Kitty. "She thinks we ought to be just as comfortable in lodgings as we were at home, and is quite cross with me because I won't let her buy chickens for dinner at three shillings each! I asked her if she would like to be a kind of deaconess, or join a sisterhood. I thought that would just suit her, but do you know, she hates women of her own class, and said she would be miserable with a lot of old maids! She made me laugh, I couldn't help it; and then, of course, she gets cross. She thinks I'm as hard as stone, because I get up a laugh now and then; but I'm sure it would be a black world if everybody who lost a relative never laughed again! Besides, I tell her that laughing keeps you in health, some doctor told me that once; and if you're poor, the great thing is to keep well, for doctors and drugs are so expensive!"

So Kitty talked away, sometimes showing real earnestness of feeling, sometimes as nonsensical as a child. When she went to bed at last, she gave Hope another squeeze.

"There's no one like you in all the world, I know there isn't! And if I had only been a man, I would have walked in and snapped you up in front of Mr. Dane's nose. Is he really as good as he ought to be to you? I shall watch him very closely, and if he isn't, I shall let him know it!"

Before many days were over, Kitty was like one of the house. She knew every human being and every animal for a couple of miles round, and was on friendly terms with them all. Her fresh young voice, and cheery whistle and laugh, was heard the first thing in the morning and the last at night. She was delighted when Lancelot gave her a quiet cob to ride, and in spite of very little previous experience, tenaciously kept her seat in various experiments, which filled Hope with fears for her safety.

When she remonstrated with her for attempting to leap a gate, Kitty retorted:

"My dear Hope, a colonist's wife must know how to jump anything! I'm training myself for the future, and I want to swim a river with him, if your husband will let me. You see, I want to be an all round sort of wife to Brian. I know you won't be shocked, but I'm going to take a lesson to-morrow in felling trees. Your woodman is going to show me. They're cutting down trees in your big wood. Dan Murphy is an Irishman, and his wife's name is Kitty, so he's the greatest friends with me. He says Yorkshire breeds the stoniest lot of men and women in the world, but they're real good sort if they take a fancy to you! His wife is a Yorkshire girl, so of course he knows. He has got a small axe that he says will just suit me, but I mean to have a try with a big one. I've plenty of muscle—always had! I want to be able to take a hand in anything with Brian. We're not going to be a pair in tandem, but abreast in everything!"

Whilst Kitty was thoroughly enjoying herself, Hope tried hard to win Avice's confidence. She drove her out. She sat under the trees upon the lawn, and read and worked with her. She took her to visit some of the cottagers in the village, and did all she could to awaken her interest in things around her. But it was all in vain. Avice responded civilly but listlessly to all that was said, and relapsed into gloomy thought when left alone. She announced one morning that their visit must come to an end; and though Hope would have liked to keep them longer for Kitty's sake, she did not like to press them to stay, when she saw that Avice was not happy with her.

Lancelot suggested that Avice should go, but that Kitty should stay on. He genuinely liked the latter, and told his wife that they had better offer her a home till she was married. But Kitty herself would not hear of this.

"I am bound to stay with Avice. She can't get on alone. I don't know how it is, but she seems to have lost her backbone."

The last evening of their stay, Hope went to Avice's room after she had retired for the night. She sat down and talked about Kitty and the future, and was glad to find that Avice was more responsive than usual. She was just on the point of leaving her, when the girl turned abruptly to her.

"You have been very kind to us," she said, with a little choke in her voice. "I should like to thank you. I feel this is a judgment upon me for never trying to do anything for you, when you lived near us. I have been brought myself to poverty and—and I know how bitter it is, perhaps even more than you did! You must have always realised that it would be only for a time until you married, and of course that is what comforts Kitty. For me—"

She stopped, then astounded Hope by bursting into tears.

In a moment, warm-hearted Hope had thrown her arms round her, and was almost crying in sympathy.

"Oh," sobbed Avice, "everything has gone from me. Home, father, and work; every one I know and care for, all swept away! What is the good of living! I wish I were dead!"

Hope did not reprove her for this outburst; she was delighted that the icy reserve had melted at last.

"You feel exactly as I did when I thought my husband was dead. Oh, Avice, I was so wretched and so wickedly rebellious; I do know, indeed, how you feel. But I don't believe God will leave you like this. He will send you comfort. It is just a very dark rough bit of road, and it is going to lead you out into brighter sunshine than you had before! God is testing you as He tested me. I failed miserably, but you must not. Look up, and take courage, and believe that God is leading you on to better things. I know He is."

Hope's voice rang with such confident assurance that Avice's sobs ceased.

"Ah," she said, hiding her face in her hands, "I don't love or believe in God, as I should. That is the trouble. I have been a hypocrite all my life, and have only just found it out. I always taught others beyond my own experience, and preached lessons of resignation and submission to them when I had never learnt them myself. I feel God has cast me off in disgust, and will have nothing more to do with me."

Kitty impatiently waited for Hope to come and wish her good-night. But she waited a good hour before Hope appeared.

When she stooped over her in bed, her eyes were full of tears.

"Why, Hope, what's the matter? You're looking so happy, and yet you're crying! What has happened? Tell me!"

"I can't tell you all, Kitty. It would not be right. I have been having a long talk with Avice. Poor girl, she has opened her heart to me at last. And, Kitty, I'm not going to let you go to-morrow. We'll wire to your landlady. I've been making plans in my head. If you live in lodgings, why should you not both live near me? I know a delightful farm close by, where the good woman would make you both thoroughly comfortable, and do you much cheaper than any landlady in Kayminster. Then Avice could help me in the village. I want to start a mothers' meeting, and a band of hope, and coal and clothing-clubs. She could teach me all this, and I should profit by her experience, and we should be all working together."

"Oh," said Kitty, sitting up and thumping her pillow in excitement, "how delicious it sounds! But first, Avice will never agree; and then I must be earning my own living."

"Go to sleep. I mean to carry my plan out. It's all nonsense about your earning your own living. You and Avice can live in this way for next to nothing."

She would not discuss the matter further with Kitty then, and she never told her what had passed between herself and Avice; but the next day the telegram was sent, and Avice herself, with a smile upon her lips, went to the farm which Hope had mentioned, and made arrangements for herself and Kitty to board there.

"Hope, you're a marvel!" Kitty exclaimed. "You have bewitched Avice. She is not herself at all. I'm quite frightened at the sudden change in her. I hope she isn't going to die!"

"You see," she further explained to Lancelot, when he and she happened to be alone in the library that afternoon, "I ought not to be so astonished, for Hope is what I call a very contagious person; but Avice always seemed proof against her, and now she has simply been knocked down flat by Hope's wiles, straightened out, and built up again on totally different lines. Fancy Avice saying to me, as she did this morning,—

"'Oh, Kitty, I've been all wrong all my life; I wonder if I can begin over again!'

"And this from the pink of perfection, the 'angel' of the village! You know, Mr. Dane, when first I saw Hope, I knew she was born to fascinate. There was something in her eyes when she looked at you, and I suppose some people are just like the sun—they can't help warming you through, whether you like it or not. Brian told me Hope's face, when he came into his tea tired out, was better than a tonic, and if Avice hadn't purposely kept out of her way at King's Dell, she would have been different long ago!"

"You credit Hope with a great deal," said Lancelot, with mirthful eyes. "Go on; tell me more of her wiles."

"Of course, you are as pleased as punch with my discernment," said Kitty audaciously. "Hope is bound to do people good all along the line, because she is so happy. Why, that old Squire Spencer, as they call him, is waking up to take interest in his property at last! Of course, people say it is his sister's doing, but he would never have had her to live with him if it hadn't been for Hope. He told me so when I went to wish him goodbye. He said,—

"'That Hope St. Clair is making a great mistake by marrying that Indian fellow. She had missed an opportunity of being a wealthy woman.'

"'Ah,' I said, 'she doesn't believe in money much.'

"'I know she does not,' and he spoke quite sadly. 'Well, we shall see one day if she is right or not. Anyhow, I believe in her enough to follow some of her advice, else I would never have got rid of those Hadleys and invited my sister down.'"

Kitty paused, for Hope had entered the room.

"We're talking about you. I'm just telling Mr. Dane how you take people in hand. The Manners consider all their happiness due to you!"

"Oh, Kitty, don't be so foolish," Hope shut her up promptly.

But Kitty said in a loud aside to Lancelot:

"You wait till she leaves us together again, and I'll tell you a few things about her. Things that Brian had told me, and he ought to know the truth about her if any one does."

Chapter XXVIII

A CONFESSION

AVICE and Kitty were soon comfortably settled in the farm, and Avice was fast regaining her health and spirits. But, as Kitty said, there was a change in her. She was gentler, more diffident of herself, and wholly devoted to Hope. She threw herself into the village interests with all her heart, and soon proved a welcome visitor to those she went to see. Avice was at her very best with the poor. Her gentle consideration, great tact, and ready sympathy, made her a general favourite. She confided to Hope that she could never have believed that she could feel so happy again as she did now.

"It is not that I don't miss dear father. I am always conscious of the blank, but there are so many others even in this country village who have worse troubles than I have, and I do enjoy my work amongst them. Only, Hope, will you pray for me? I don't want to put my work first before God. I hope I have learnt my lesson. But I feel it will always be a snare to me."

Autumn went, and the cold North-country winter set in. Mrs. Dane came to spend Christmas, and in the New Year, Hope went back with her for a short stay in London. Mrs. Dane had taken a flat there for the winter, and her youngest son was living with her.

In town, Hope saw many of her old friends again. She smiled as she realised how many of them were anxious to renew their acquaintance with her. Minnie Chesney—now Mrs. Aubyn—begged her to come and stay with her in her town house in Park Lane.

"I always liked you, Hope, and I am very much alone. My husband owns a racing-stable, and you know how that engrosses a man! Of course I have plenty of visitors always coming and going, but they're not the same as old friends. You can't think how delighted I was to hear of your marriage! That was an awful poky little hole in which you buried yourself away after your aunt's death. I was thankful when you were out of it. How is that queer step-brother of yours—the one who tried to farm? Oh, he is abroad again? What a relief for you! I always think those kind of young men are so much better in the colonies. It makes it so uncomfortable for their friends when they come home. And now tell me about your Yorkshire home and your good husband. I hear Brunsworthy Hall is a delightful old place. Some one was talking of it the other day. Is Mr. Dane all right after his accident? I hope it didn't affect his head in any way. We were so sorry for you, when we heard of it. You really seemed one of those unfortunate people who have one trouble after another all their life. I think you've done so wisely in leaving Mr. Dane at home and coming up to town alone; men are such a nuisance hanging round with nothing to do, and making rows if any other man dares to have a word to say to you! And those kind of men who are keen on their country places are much better left there, I say. They never seem to want a change, as we poor wives do!"

Hope listened to her, and tried to respond in a friendly manner. She asked after Hester.

"Oh, she is abroad with mother. They have gone to the Riviera. Poor old Hester! She would rather be back amongst her bees and flowers any day. But she's a real good sort—is determined to do her duty, and mother bullies her accordingly. She'll never be a social success now; she has had her day, and it's a shame to trot her out so."

Hope gave a sigh of relief when Minnie Aubyn took her departure.

The one visit she did enjoy was that of Lady May, who promised she would shortly pay her a visit in Yorkshire.

"I have such a lot to tell you," she said to her. "It seems such ages since we met, and I long for one of our old talks."

"And so do I, May. I have often thought of you."

"I am really happy at home; not doing anything great, you know, as I used to wish I could, but just the little every-day things as they come, and taking opportunities as they're given me. I have some nice things to tell you, and several girls I met abroad are my greatest friends now."

"I shall hear all about it when you come to stay with me," responded Hope, "and I hope that day will be soon."

Jim Horrocks of course came to see Hope, and amused Mrs. Dane with his frank speech and brotherly solicitude for her daughter-in-law.

"There isn't a bit of harm in me," he assured her. "I'm not one of those who make hash of a married woman's life. I really take a brotherly interest in Hope, and I'm as safe as—as you are! All I want is that your son should duly appreciate her, for he's a lucky man and ought to know it! And I'm not going to give up a life friendship because she's married. He'll have to include me in his shooting-parties, and he'll soon see whether he'll keep me on his guest list. Hope will, I know. She never could forget me! And really, you know, Mrs. Dane, if any soul on earth could make me into a religious man, Hope could! I believe in her religion. I knew her before she got it, and I've known her ever since, and she has had some stiff reverses, but she's been as sure and steady as a rock all through, and as happy as a sand-boy! That's the kind of religion a man admires, not a go to church at six o'clock in the morning after a carousal all night, and a long face one part of the season and a short face the other. For steady consistence and real grit, give me Hope, and I wish I was like her!"

But much as Hope enjoyed seeing many of her friends, her heart was with her home and husband, and she counted each day to her return. When she eventually turned her face northwards, she resolved that the next visit to town should be made with her husband, and not without him. And when she reached their country station and found him awaiting her on the platform, she sprang towards him with impulsive eagerness.

"Oh, Lancelot, how glad I am to be home again!"

"I have been like a lost dog without you," he rejoined; "I have worked hard to make the time pass, and have got through a tremendous lot of business. Now I mean to take a short holiday. We'll have a second sort of honeymoon."

"Lovely! Now tell me all the news."

She was tucked up in warm rugs, driving in the high dog-cart, which she and her husband loved.

"OH, LANCELOT, HOW GLAD I AM TO BE HOME AGAIN!"

"News? We don't move as fast as London does in these parts, you know."

"Have you had any visitors?"

"Sir Thomas and Lady Melton have come home, and called the other day. They knew my father well. You will like them, but they're quite characters. They both hunt still, though they have turned seventy, and they do everything together."

"As we shall, when we're their age, I hope," said Hope laughing—"not the hunting, but being together, I mean."

"Kitty is in a state of excitement and longing to see you. I told her that she must not bother you to-night, but that she might come up the first thing to-morrow morning. She has heard from Brian, and he wants her to go out next month. I believe she went off to buy her wedding-dress to-day."

"Oh, Lancelot, you shall not laugh at her. Dear little Kitty! I can fancy how happy she is!"

Hope enjoyed every bit of that drive home, and when she entered the house, she went from room to room like a child, to see how nice everything was looking.

After dinner, she went into the library, and there, over a wood-fire, she and Lancelot talked together as if they had been separated a year, instead of a month.

"It feels so airless in town," Hope said; "when I get home again, the air is life-giving. Do we get the sea breezes here, Lancelot? It feels like it to me. How far off are we from the sea?"

"Too far for that," he said, smiling, "though my forefathers are supposed to have come across here from Denmark. They landed in their vessel at Flamborough Head, and journeyed across the wolds till they lighted on this spot. The house is not identically the same, for it was burnt down in the sixteenth century; I suppose we were called Danes by the English, and our name stuck to us."

"How interesting! Do tell me some more."

"I will look up our pedigree. It is in this room somewhere."

"I should like to know the origin of a good many surnames," said Hope reflectively. "My own, for instance; do you think one of my forefathers was a saint?"

"I expect so. What constitutes a saint?"

"Generally some special act of grace, or a lifetime of self-denial, does it not? I am sure I have not inherited the saintliness, nor have any of my family."

"I won't agree to that. Since I have known you, self-denial has been your characteristic."

"Don't flatter me, Lancelot. I had such a terrible tumble last year. I have never told you yet, but when I thought that you were dying, I lost my faith and rebelled, and behaved in an altogether awful way for a Christian! I look back to it now as a kind of nightmare. I simply raged in my soul against God's will. I feel as if I can never atone for those days of bitter black rebellion."

"My poor little wife!"

Lancelot laid his hand tenderly on hers, and added:

"I was only conscious when I came to life again, as it were, of your face bending over me. And if ever peace and serenity was stamped on a face, it was upon yours."

"Yes, it was all right then. I had seen my wickedness, and—and had confessed it. You must remember, Lancelot, that I had had no real test in my life before; I had had troubles and disagreeables, but nothing touching my inmost soul. I was reading about Abraham's test to-day. He never faltered even when the apple of his eye was the sacrifice demanded. I was tested, and found wanting. It ought to make me walk humbly for the rest of my days. I think I will make a full confession to you whilst I am about it. It was only a few days before we were married that I was reading that hymn over to myself:

"'Peace, perfect peace'

"And I thought then that I had been carried triumphantly through it, from first verse to last, that I had found it quite true. Peace of forgiven sin through the blood of Jesus. Peace in 'thronging duties pressed,' 'with sorrows surging round,' 'with loved ones far away,' 'our future all unknown,' 'death shadowing us and ours.' Of course I was thinking of my dear father's death then. And though I knew the peace was none of my making, there was a kind of self-satisfied self-righteous feeling in my heart.

"Then came the real test, and I believe it was sent to me to make me realise that I was not the perfect being I imagined myself. Why, Lancelot, you've no idea of the desperate wicked thoughts, that assailed me when I thought God was taking you from me! I felt almost inclined to sell my soul to have you restored to me."

Lancelot drew his wife to him.

"Sweetheart, forget that time. God forgets when He forgives."

"Oh," said Hope, with a little shudder, "how near we are to evil, Lancelot! I could not have believed I would have so utterly lost faith as I did. I shall never feel sure of myself again."

"I suppose we are meant to see that we must always watch and struggle against temptation. How does the hymn end?"

Hope, with her head resting on her husband's shoulder, repeated softly:

"'It is enough: earth's struggles soon shall cease,
And Jesus call us to Heaven's perfect peace.'"

Printed in Great Britain by
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON

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Table of Contents

- A Bit of Rough Road
- Chapter I
- Chapter II
- Chapter III
- Chapter IV
- Chapter V
- Chapter VI
- Chapter VII
- Chapter VIII
- Chapter IX
- Chapter X
- Chapter XI
- Chapter XII
- Chapter XIII
- Chapter XIV
- Chapter XV
- Chapter XVI
- Chapter XVII
- Chapter XVIII
- Chapter XIX
- Chapter XX
- Chapter XXI
- Chapter XXII
- Chapter XXIII
- Chapter XXIV
- Chapter XXV
- Chapter XXVI
- Chapter XXVII
- Chapter XXVIII
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE