Gwendoline

SHE LEAPED BOLDLY IN,
STRIKING THE RIGHT SPOT.

She gave him her hand, and he bent his head, with a murmur which sounded like, "God bless you." Then he was gone, and she stood dreamily listening to the sound of his unequal steps passing into the distance. Mr. Halcombe answered the bell.

"Gwen, my child, you are late," he said. "We were growing anxious."

"I could not help it, father. I could not get to Mr. Selwyn's in time, and I have been all the way to his own home. He was very kind, and Mr. Mortimer Selwyn called a cab, and saw me home, and would not let me pay. I don't know whether I ought to have allowed it."

They moved slowly into the deserted dining-room, where the boys had been doing lessons all the evening, and where a tumbler of milk and some bread and butter waited on the table.

"Ruth left these for you. She had to go up-stairs to do some mending for the children; and your mother was knocked up, so we persuaded her to go to bed early. You must want food, Gwen."

"No, I had something. I can't eat, father."

She drank the milk; then put her two arms round him, as he stood beside the mantelpiece, and rested her head on his shoulder.

"Poor worn-out child, always toiling for others," he said sadly. "It grieves me that the burdens of life should come upon you so early. You are not fitted for them yet,—under twenty, my Gwennie. Ten years later I should not mind. I wish I could shelter my darling a little longer."

"It will all come right by and by," murmured Gwen.

"I ought to have gone to Mr. Selwyn's, and not you, my dear."

"Oh no, father; I am glad I went. I know Mr. Selwyn best, and he is always kind to me. But he did not seem very—hopeful."

"He would not wish to pledge himself to anything, of course. And he is a busy man. I hardly see what we can expect from him."

A cold shiver ran through Mr. Halcombe's whole frame, communicating itself to the slight figure which rested against him. The prospect ahead seemed to him so utterly chill and dark. He had almost no private means. Victor received a small salary, and Gwendoline could make a few pounds here or there by painting little pictures; but with the loss of his situation in the bank, all other means of livelihood were swept away.

"Father, something will turn up. We shall be cared for," said Gwendoline.

"I am trying to think so, Gwen, but it is a hard trial of my faith."

"God will not fail us," said Gwendoline, half-unconsciously echoing Mortimer's words.

"He has never failed me yet, but I never came before to such a strait as this. It is utter darkness—utter destitution."

"But God can help us. It isn't too hard for Him," whispered Gwendoline.

Then the poor tired girl burst into tears. "Oh, father, if only I had seen Lady Halcot—if only that had not been prevented! Ruth wouldn't have been so easily hindered in my place. Why did I not go to her the next day? It does seem so terrible that I may have stopped help from coming to you and mother. I don't know how to bear the thought."

"You acted for the best. It is of God's ordering, Gwen."

"Father, why don't you write to Lady Halcot and ask help?"

He shook his head. "No use. I have tried that plan before."

"Then let me write. May I do it? I think my note of excuse was too short. I didn't want to make a fuss, and perhaps I went too far the other way. Honor thought so. May I write, father?"

She grew eager over the idea, and her cheeks flushed. "I know what to say," she went on. "It all seems coming to me, like daylight. Shall I show you the letter, or shall I tell her that no one has seen it."

"I think that would be best," said Mr. Halcombe slowly. "I do not wish to prevent your making the attempt, my dear, as a satisfaction to yourself. But nothing will come of it. I know Lady Halcot better than you, and I have no hope whatever of any favourable result. Better say nothing to your mother or Ruth. It will probably end in disappointment."

"I am not so sure," said Gwendoline softly. "It might be the way God would help us, father. I think I am right just to try. But I will not say a word to anybody. I'll write the letter now, before I go to bed."

CHAPTER IX.

AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL.

THREE days passed, and an answer came from Lady Halcot, addressed to Gwendoline, in her ladyship's bold handwriting. Gwendoline did not know the writing, but crest and postmark told their tale. Tea and mutton-chops were in full swing when the letter arrived, and under cover of the boys' chatter, Gwendoline was able to peruse it almost unnoticed.

   "DEAR GWENDOLINE HALCOMBE,—Your letter has reached me, and I have also heard in other quarters of your late courageous conduct with respect to a drowning child. I like bravery in a woman, and I congratulate you.

   "Your father's present position is only what was to be expected sooner or later, under the circumstances.

   "I am not unwilling to help, but it must be in my own manner, and on my own terms.

   "These terms are as follows:

   "I wish you, Gwendoline Halcombe, to leave your present home, and to reside entirely with me at the Leys. You will then be under my control, occupying the position of my adopted child; and, so long as you submit to my will, I undertake to provide handsomely for your future.

   "At the same time, and as a corollary to this state of things, I consent to settle the sum of £500 per annum upon your father and mother, for the term of their natural lives, the survivor continuing to receive the same until his or her death, after which the annuity will revert to me or my heirs, as I shall appoint.

   "I do not wish to cut you off entirely from your family, but you must understand that I have personally no interest in your relatives. You may keep up a moderate correspondence with your home-circle, and once in two years I shall permit you to go home for a month.

   "I state the matter thus clearly at the beginning, that there may be no mistakes. This is a purely business letter. I may add, however, that if you decide to accept this proposal, my wish will be to make your life a happy one. I like your face, and I believe you would suit me well.

   "You may consider the matter at your leisure, and, if you will, consult my lawyer, Mr. Selwyn. I am informing him of what I propose to do, and I believe him to be an acquaintance of yours.

   "I do not press for a hasty decision, but I do desire you, Gwendoline Halcombe, to understand that your decision either way is to be a permanent decision. You do not come to the Leys on trial for a few months, to grow tired of the plan and throw it up. If you come, you remain.

   "Also you must please to understand that on these terms only will I assist your parents. If you decline my offer for yourself, my offer of aid to them falls to the ground.—I remain, yours truly,—

"H. HALCOT."

"Who is your letter from, Gwen?" asked Victor. "It doesn't look like the handwriting of a young lady friend."

Gwendoline heard the words, but did not gather their meaning. A sensation of being suffocated came over her, and voices buzzed loudly in her ears. She stood up panting.

"Gwen!" said Mrs. Halcombe, while her father watched her anxiously. "My dear, are you ill?"

"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Gwendoline, in an agony, which yet was not all pain. Perplexity and bewilderment had a share in her distress.

"Gwen, don't frighten us all," said Ruth roughly. "What is the matter?"

Gwendoline grew suddenly calm, awaking to the fact that she might not explain hastily before the children. None but Ruth and Victor, beside herself, knew of the impending trouble. She sat down, and spoke quietly, "Never mind just now, Ruth. It is only—something that I must tell mother and father presently."

"Delightfully vague, now you have put us all on the rack of curiosity," said Victor.

"Would you rather come and tell me now, Gwen?" asked her father.

Gwendoline saw that waiting was no easy matter to him. She rose and put the letter into his hands, and, instead of returning to her seat, left the room.

"Gwen is altogether upset by her Riversmouth trip," said Ruth, in a tone of some sharpness. "I don't know what has come over her. Is anything wrong, father?"

Mr. Halcombe made no reply, and Ruth knew better than to ask again. He perused the letter slowly, and at length looked up to meet his wife's eyes.

"Nellie, you had better take this, and give it back to Gwen yourself, after reading it," he said; and he came round the table to her side. "Tell her there is no need for any haste as to a decision." Mr. Halcombe spoke low, as if not intending others to hear, and as if scarcely conscious that the children's voices had dropped into silence. "Gwen wrote to Lady Halcot, and this is her reply. We thought it best not to trouble you about the matter sooner."

Ruth's face showed pique at not having been taken into confidence. Mrs. Halcombe was not given to feeling pique at imaginary slights; but the sight of the familiar handwriting evidently stirred her keenly. She began to read, sitting still at the head of the table, which was not what her husband had intended. He had wished her to leave the room first.

"Don't you think you had better go to Gwen, dear?" he asked.

She answered dreamily, "Yes, directly," and read on, not slowly, as he had done, but glancing more and more rapidly from sentence to sentence, while a look of dismay gathered over her face.

"Oh no, no, no!—Impossible!" she said at the end, standing up, and fixing a startled gaze on her husband. "Quite impossible! Oh no, we could never consent to it."

Mr. Halcombe did not enter upon the question there and then. He put a hand upon her arm, and only said gently, "Go and tell Gwen what you think about it."

"It could never never be, James. Impossible!"

Mrs. Halcombe went hurriedly away, and Mr. Halcombe returned to his seat. But the last half of his mutton-chop remained uneaten, and his cup of tea stood till it was cold.

Ruth asked at length, "Father, has anything fresh happened?"

Mr. Halcombe said gravely, "You will know in good time, Ruth;" and then his face was hidden in his hands.

Ruth's voice grew somewhat querulous, but a certain awe-struck silence remained upon all the others till the meal was over.

Mrs. Halcombe did not find her daughter in the drawing-room, so she went straight up-stairs to the little bedroom overhead occupied by the three sisters.

"Gwen, may I come in?" she asked; and the door was immediately unlocked.

"Gwennie, it can never never be," said Mrs. Halcombe tremblingly. "It can never be, my child."

That was all that either of them said at first. Gwendoline shut the door again, and went back to the window where she had been standing. Mrs. Halcombe followed her, and for a minute or more they remained silently side by side, looking out into the quiet dingy street, with the dull row of houses opposite. Quiet, dingy, dull—the surroundings were such, undoubtedly. Yet this was Gwendoline's home. It had been her home from infancy. Never till this hour had she known how much she loved it.

But presently the two faces turned as if instinctively away from the street to meet each the other. Mrs. Halcombe was agitated and tearful still. Gwendoline was very quiet and pale, with a certain grave resoluteness in her liquid brown eyes. Mrs. Halcombe saw and was alarmed.

"Gwennie, it can never be," she said again, and she took Gwendoline's hands between her own. "Never, my darling. How could we give you up? Oh no, it is quite impossible! Anything rather than to lose our Gwen. It would break my heart. I could not bear it, darling."

"Anything, mother!"

"I do not say it unsubmissively, Gwen. 'Anything' as a matter of choice, I mean. If it were God's will to take you from us, I could submit—I hope—without murmuring. He would give me power. It would be very terrible, but it would be His will. But to send you away ourselves—for our own personal gain—oh no, no, no—it is out of the question!"

Gwendoline's little hands seemed to turn to ice in Mrs. Halcombe's grasp, yet there was about her no other sign of strong emotion.

"Mother, suppose it is not a question of your doing at all? Suppose it is God's will for me? Suppose He is taking me from you just as plainly as if He did it through death? After all, mother dear, this would not be so bad as that."

"Oh, Gwen—hush!"

"But I don't think I must hush. The matter has to be looked in the face. I felt all in a whirl at the first moment, but since I came up here I have been trying to weigh it quietly."

"Your father told me to say that there must be no hasty decision," said Mrs. Halcombe, in a tone of keen suffering.

"No hasty decision either way. That is what he means. You want to say at once that it cannot be, but I want you to look at both sides of the question. Mother, suppose we turn from this—suppose we say 'No' to Lady Halcot's offer, and refuse her help. What is to become of us all?"

"God will take care of us," faltered Mrs. Halcombe.

"Yes, in His own way. But how if this is His way? If we refuse it, because it is not exactly according to our mind, have we any right to expect more—any right to think He will work a miracle to support us? Think, mother, there will be absolutely almost nothing to live upon. Suppose father finds a clerkship of one or two hundred a year! It would hardly put bread into our mouths—yet he is not likely to do better. It has been hard work enough to drag along upon three hundred and eighty. But fancy what it would be with less than half that—and we don't even know that father would have so much as half. If no alternative had come, I would say with you to the last, that we must trust on, and that God would help us. I know He would, mother. But if the help comes, and we fling it away, how can we still look up, and believe that He will arrange for our needs?"

"It cannot be right to give you up—it cannot be, Gwen!" Mrs. Halcombe murmured in answer.

"If it were a question of my being married, you would not feel so. You would give me up quite happily then. This isn't so very different, after all;" and Gwendoline tried to smile. "You will know that I am well cared for, and that I have a comfortable home. And I shall have the great joy of feeling that you are all getting along in comfort, without the terrible pull that it has been of late. Five hundred a year isn't wealth for a family of twelve, but it is more than we have ever had yet; and you will be one less in number; and Victor will soon be earning more; and father will try to get some work. Only think how well off you will all be. Why, you will grow positively luxurious!—Only not so luxurious as I shall be at the Leys. I Wonder if Lady Halcot will give me a lady's maid all to myself. You see, I am to be her adopted child, not her lady-companion, mother. I shall not know myself, in such a grand position."

Gwendoline's bright manner almost deceived her mother, despite her extreme paleness.

"Gwen, do you really wish to go? I was forgetting that part of the matter. You would have every comfort and luxury, as you say. It may be selfishness on my part to wish to keep you from such a life."

Gwendoline made no answer to this, but her mother, watching steadily the quivering white lips, knew what the silence meant.

"Forgive me, Gwen," she whispered. "I understand now."

"Oh, mother, don't—we must be brave!" half-sobbed Gwendoline. "It has to be—it must be."

"I do not feel so, Gwennie. If you wished to go, I could not wish to keep you back. But I know Lady Halcot, and I cannot believe you would be happy with her; and to send you there merely for our gain is out of the question. Don't be afraid, my darling. We will live on dry bread, and work our fingers to the bone, sooner than part with our Gwen."

Gwendoline allowed herself to be kissed and comforted, and did not attempt immediately to controvert her mother's words. But when her tears were dried the look of resolution had not passed from her eyes.

CHAPTER X.

WHAT HAD TO BE.

RUTH took a different view of the matter, as was perhaps to be expected from her sensible and matter-of-fact nature.

"Of course I have nothing to do with deciding," she said, when called into consultation that same evening by her father and mother and sister; "but if I am to give my opinion honestly, I certainly do think that to throw aside such an opening would be the height of absurdity—almost a sort of madness. It is not as if we should lose Gwendoline. Mother talks about 'giving her up,' but there is no 'giving up' in the question, that I can see. She will belong to us still, just as much as ever, and we shall see her now and then."

"Once in two years, Ruth," Mrs. Halcombe said mournfully.

"Of course that is rather seldom," admitted Ruth. "But very likely Lady Halcot will make it once a year, as soon as she sees that we do not pester her in any way. Meantime we shall know that Gwen has every imaginable comfort and pleasure, and Gwen will know that we are all getting along, with enough to eat and to wear. Surely that is better than our all being reduced to a miserable struggle for bread. Mother talks about our working our fingers to the bone for the sake of keeping Gwen with us. I am willing enough to do my share, but Gwen would be the last to like to do her share."

"Ruth!" her father said reproachfully. He had said little yet, apparently preferring to hear others' opinions before giving his own.

"I mean her share of needlework, father. Gwen has certainly no gift in that direction, and she detests it with all her heart. Besides, to think of supporting a family of twelve by needlework is absurd. And as for keeping Gwen with us by any amount of work, it is just an impossibility. If she does not go to Lady Halcot's, we shall both have to go out as governesses. I had quite made up my mind to that, before Lady Halcot's letter came. But if the offer had come to me, I would very much rather live at the Leys than be a governess, even though I might not be free to come home quite so often."

Ruth's severe common sense was taking effect, and she saw this in the expression of her mother's face.

"Besides," she added, after a little pause, "I do think that poor old lady must be dreadfully lonely in her big house, with nobody belonging to her. It is her own fault, of course. Still, if mother is as fond of Lady Halcot as we have always thought, I should think she would like Gwen to be there particularly."

Mrs. Halcombe received this little fling meekly. "Yes, Ruthie," she said; "for Lady Halcot's own sake I could like nothing better. But I must think about Gwen first. I do not know whether Gwen could be happy there. Lady Halcot is very stern and sharp—and the matter, once done, cannot be undone."

"Mother, I think one may be happy anywhere, if God has put one there," Gwendoline said softly. "And I think I should make Lady Halcot fond of me."

"As to happiness," quoth Ruth, "isn't it the very kind of life that Gwen has often wished for—away from London crowds, and near sea and country, with plenty of money and leisure, and no children?"

Gwendoline's eyes were blinded with tears. "Oh, Ruth, you need not have thrown that at me just now."

"Why? I don't mean anything unkind," said Ruth, her rather obtuse sensibilities stirred by Gwendoline's look of pain. "I am sure you have often said you wished it."

Mr. Halcombe drew his chair a little nearer, and leant forward gravely.

"Ruth has had her say. Now listen to me," he said. "I have tried from the first to take a dispassionate view of the question, praying to be guided into a right decision. We must not be swayed by mere feelings. The thought of parting with our Gwen is a very painful one, but, as Ruth truly says, the parting probably must take place, one way or another. My first impulse was like yours, Nellie, that we could not send our child away for our own advantage. But remember two things. First, it is not for our advantage only. Gwen is one of ten, and the good of the other nine has to be considered. Would it be lawful to sacrifice the prospects of those nine for our own selfish gratification in keeping Gwen, even if we could hope to keep her ultimately? Secondly, we have to think of Gwen herself. This is an opening which probably means a life of ease and of comparative wealth, in place of long years of struggling in poverty as an artist. Putting altogether on one side other questions involved, could we rightly refuse this for her? Gwen may shrink from leaving us; but I, her father, should shrink yet more from keeping her, under the circumstances."

Gwendoline broke into his words suddenly. "Father, it isn't for my own sake that I want to go."

"I know it, dear; but my thought has been for you at least as much as for the others. There is yet another view of the matter, which I believe Gwen has already considered. Nellie, we have had for days past a heavy trouble impending—a very terrible perplexity as to our future. We have pleaded in prayer with our God that He would show us where to walk—would supply us with some means of livelihood. Here is, or here seems to be, the response. A way is plainly opened. Shall we dare to refuse it?"

Mrs. Halcombe was weeping quietly, but she shook her head; and all knew that the matter was decided.

"Still," Mr. Halcombe said, after a pause, as if with a sudden sense of reluctance, "still—if Gwennie were doubtful or unwilling, we would hesitate—would consult others. Mr. Selwyn, for instance."

But Gwendoline lifted her head, and looked straight at him with bright clear eyes.

"I am not doubtful, and I am quite willing," she said. "I have known from the first moment that it must be—'must' be, father. How could we decide otherwise? I don't think it is for my own sake that I wish to go, though of course I know it will be a life of ease. I know I have complained sometimes—at least, I suppose I have,—but indeed my choice could never be to live away from you all—and from mother." Gwendoline's voice grew husky. "But this is not choice. I don't see that any choice at all is left me. Nothing short of your positive command could make it right for me to refuse to go. How could I deliberately drag you all down to such miserable poverty?"

There was no more discussion about the manner of answer to be sent to Lady Halcot, though by common consent the letter itself was deferred till the next day. "I am not sure that it would not be wise for you to have a few words with Mr. Selwyn before writing," Mr. Halcombe said.

Half an hour later the "few words" became unexpectedly an immediate possibility. A caller's knock was followed by the entrance of Mr. Selwyn himself, in so hearty a mood of pleasure and satisfaction, that Mr. and Mrs. Halcombe began to wake up to the fact of something good having really happened. He had received a letter from Lady Halcot that afternoon, stating her intentions with respect to Gwendoline.

"I could not have wished anything better," the kindhearted lawyer said. "My wife is delighted, and she would let me have no peace till I came off to congratulate you all. It is rather late for a call, but to-morrow I shall not have a spare moment. Of course there can be no question about acceptance of the offer. It does away with all your most pressing anxieties, and places Gwendoline at once in a position of positive affluence."

He quite forgot at the moment that he always called her "Miss Halcombe" to her face. "As for the future, though Lady Halcot will not exactly pledge herself to anything, she evidently wishes it to be understood that Gwendoline will be well provided for."

"'Handsomely,' she says," observed Mr. Halcombe.

And Gwendoline gave her letter to Mr. Selwyn. He read it deliberately.

"Ah yes—just so. Better keep that letter, Mr. Halcombe. Yes—just so—exactly. There is merely the little condition of implicit obedience."

"I shall always do what Lady Halcot tells me, if it is not wrong," said Gwendoline.

"Precisely so," repeated the lawyer, with a slightly dubious expression. "That is all that you can say—of course. Your mother has no doubt told you that Lady Halcot is an old lady of peculiar temperament. It is well to avoid little differences."

"Gwen is not argumentative," said Mr. Halcombe, with a fond look at her.

CHAPTER XI.

AMID NEW SCENES.

"THE sore part of the matter is that it seems to be sent upon me as a sort of judgment, Honor."

"What can you possibly mean, Gwen?" Honora Dewhurst asked, with an accent of astonishment.

The two stood side by side upon a broad platform, near the train which was soon to bear Gwendoline Halcombe to her new home. They were early, for Mr. Halcombe was a nervous man as to journeys, and he always insisted on a start being made about twenty minutes sooner than was necessary. Neither he nor Victor were free to accompany Gwendoline to the station, and Ruth had a cold, and Gwendoline had implored her mother not to come. She could not bear the thought of "that" parting being in public. So Honora Dewhurst undertook to see her off.

The leave-takings were thus over, and Gwendoline had borne herself bravely through them. Now she only looked white and quiet, with a glitter of unshed tears in her brown eyes, which had a fixed look, as if hardly seeing anything around. She had stood about absently, while Honora saw to her luggage.

"You will not care to take your seat yet," Honora said, when the little business was done. "Shall we go into the waiting-room, or stay here?"

And Gwendoline, instead of answering, broke out with her remark about "the sore part of the matter."

"What can you possibly mean, Gwen?"

"I mean just what I say. It is like a sort of judgment upon me. I don't know whether I have complained in words often,—I think not,—but in my heart I have often wanted to have things different. I have been so tired of the crowd and the noise and the worry, and sometimes I have so longed to be quiet, and to have freedom of leisure and thought for my painting—not to be incessantly driven along to do my utmost, and still to feel that our heads were really never quite above water. Sometimes out of doors I have looked at others driving past, in their comfort and ease, and wondered over the difference between their lives and mine. Not enviously, exactly—for I have never really wished to choose for myself, or to have what was not God's will for me. But it has been cloudiness and murmuring. It hasn't been a spirit of perfect content."

"I wonder how many of us have attained to 'perfect content,' my dear child," Honora said.

"You have, for one. But don't you see what I mean? I 'have' murmured, Honor. It is of no use to deny the fact. I have not loved God's will for me. And now it seems so terribly as if He had taken me at my word, and had given me what I craved—in displeasure. I can't talk about this to anybody except you; but it presses on me constantly."

LADY HALCOT'S KEEN BLACK EYES
RAN SWIFTLY OVER GWENDOLINE.

"A child can't always read his father's motives. Don't be too sure as to the 'displeasure.'"

"But if it were—"

"If it were,—plead at His feet for more grace for the future, and cling the closer to Christ. Don't echo Peter's cry of 'Depart from me.' The more sinful we are, the more we need Him."

"But if He should have sent this in anger, without His blessing!"

Honora slipped an arm through her friend's, and spoke slowly—"Gwen, you are overwrought and upset to-day, and this is temptation to unworthy thoughts of your loving God. Suppose it were sent in displeasure for the past,—what does it mean but that He wills to draw you through chastening nearer to Himself? But I don't feel at all sure that it is so. You have been overworked and tried, and trouble has pressed heavily, and you have all prayed that help might come, and here is the answer. Surely it is not all chastening, Gwen. You are to have a happy home, and the joy of knowing that those dearest to you will be living a life of comparative ease,—through your going away. Some pain comes with the joy, of course, but isn't that what one always has to expect?"

"Yes,—if I have not brought it on myself," murmured Gwendoline.

"Suppose you have,—since you are bent upon that view of the matter,—what then? If you have yielded to temptation, He will forgive you for the past, and will strengthen you for the future. I can't understand that sort of suspicious spirit in one of His children,—always fancying that He is acting in displeasure. Of course there are times when He must do so, and I don't deny it; but I do say we don't know one-hundredth part of His pitying tenderness towards us. David's way of looking at things was very different: 'He will not be always chiding,'—that is the Prayer-Book version, and I love it, Gwen. 'He crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies.' 'The Lord is gracious and full of compassion; slow to anger, and of great mercy.' Try for more of that trusting spirit."

Gwendoline's face changed, and two large tears fell heavily.

"Yes—now you will feel better. It is of no use trying to persuade yourself that pain is not pain. You cannot but feel the parting."

"It is my mother—chiefly," said Gwendoline sorrowfully. "If Ruth were different! Mother and I have always been one. Ruth is very good, and she will do anything for anybody, but she does not understand. Honor, you will go in sometimes, to cheer my mother."

"By talking about you. Yes, certainly. I must say a word to you now about something else. Our time is nearly up. You know I generally run down to Riversmouth for a night or more, at least once or twice a year."

"Oh, Honor, when you do, be sure to let me know beforehand."

"I'll see. But one word, Gwen. Remember, you will be Lady Halcot's adopted child, a very 'grand young person' indeed, as my good old uncle would say; and I shall only be a poor artist, niece of a retired tradesman."

"Honor! As if that could make any difference in my love for you," cried Gwendoline indignantly.

"My dear child, I quite understand. It will make no difference in your love. But you will not be your own mistress, and it may not be in your power to see anything of me. For it will be your plain duty to obey Lady Halcot in everything—short of what is wrong."

Gwendoline's cheeks were burning. "That would be wrong—to forsake a friend, my best and dearest friend."

"You will not forsake me. You and I are friends for life—for more than merely this lower life, I hope. We will love and trust one another to the last. That is just what I want you to understand. If you never come near me, never write to me, and pass me in the street without a smile or bow, I shall not be pained, for I shall trust you still. I shall know you are not acting by your own choice, but only in obedience to Lady Halcot. Mind, darling, I mean it. Now don't!"

For Gwendoline, brave through all the partings, burst into a passion of tears.

"Gwennie, don't break your heart over so small a matter. I tell you I shall not be even pained. If ever you come and say to me with your own lips that you have changed, and that you love me no longer, then I shall be bitterly grieved. Short of that, I will never fail to trust you. Remember, you owe Lady Halcot a great deal. And, apart from gratitude, you have to keep things smooth for your mother's sake. You may or may not be allowed to keep up a correspondence with me. I am pretty sure you will not be allowed to call upon me at Gladiolus Cottage. But I shall hear all about you from your mother, and that will content me."

"Oh, Honor! Honor!"

"Hush, hush!" Honor said, as to a troubled child. "I am only anticipating what will be perfectly natural on her ladyship's part. Now you have to be good and cheery. Don't let me have to take back a tale of tears at the last, and don't arrive at the Leys with red eyes on any account. Come—there is the bell, and you must get in. First class!—you 'grand young person.' Good-bye, my own Gwen."

Others were pressing into the same compartment, and Honora had to step back. Further conversation was impossible. Gwendoline gazed and kissed her hand to the last, and Honora walked rapidly away, drawing down her veil to conceal something which till that moment she had resolutely restrained. For Honora's was a lonely life. She had no near relatives, and few friends; and Gwendoline had been her one sunbeam of earthly delight.

Gwendoline shed no more tears. It was by no means her usual fashion to yield to strong feeling in public. She sat quietly in her corner, pale and sad, looking out upon the rushing landscape, thinking much upon the faces she had left, and speculating somewhat on the new phase of existence which lay before her.

"I shall need to live very near to God, if I am to keep straight at Riversmouth," was the conclusion to which she came. "I think there must be great danger in ease and wealth—especially for me. I shall want so much 'keeping,' not to grow cold or careless. But mother and father and Honor will pray for me."

With this thought in her mind, she reached the station nearest to Riversmouth. Her first instinctive move, as she descended, was to seek her luggage; but a drab-liveried footman of deferential manners presented himself, in readiness to take all trouble off her hands.

"Miss Halcombe?" he said inquiringly; and then, "Her ladyship is waiting. How many boxes, if you please?"

Gwendoline began to wake up to the change in her manner of life. She was vaguely conscious that her single trunk, even with the addition of a small packing-case containing her paintings, appeared to the tall footman a most moderate amount of luggage; but he was far too well-bred to show his thoughts, and Gwendoline had little of the shallow pride which troubles itself unnecessarily about appearances. She was quite aware also, and equally without distress, that her scanty wardrobe would prove by no means in keeping with her new position. But Lady Halcot, when sending money for her journey, had written,—

   "You need not mind about dress. I will see to that. Come just as you are."

And Gwendoline had obeyed this injunction literally. She only had two dresses, and she wore the best of the two, a simple costume of navy-blue serge, together with what was really a very neat and quite attractive hat.

The handsome landau, with two thoroughbred bays, stood outside the station; and Lady Halcot sat alone in it, muffled up in furs still, despite the mild spring weather, and seeming half-buried beneath the piles of the ponderous scarlet-lined rug. She scanned the station-door persistently, till a girlish figure came quietly out and stood beside the carriage, waiting, as if for a welcome. Lady Halcot's keen black eyes ran swiftly over Gwendoline from head to foot, and Gwendoline's pale face flushed brightly, as she lifted her eyes with a look of wistful anxiety.

Those who knew her ladyship's turns of expression would have judged her to be well satisfied with the brief inspection. But it was not Lady Halcot's way to show her feelings. She merely said, "How do you do?" putting out two fingers of a kid-clothed bony hand. "I hope you have had a comfortable journey."

The footman held open the carriage-door, and, in obedience to a slight gesture from Lady Halcot, Gwendoline stepped in.

"You have given orders about Miss Halcombe's luggage?" Lady Halcot said.

"I have, my lady. It will be sent immediately."

"That will do."

And they were off, passing first a few streets of the little country town, then bowling with smooth rapidity through high roads and narrow lanes, between green hedgerows. Gwendoline leant back against the soft cushions—with the heavy rug over her knees, and the upright drab backs of coachman and footman rising, square and motionless, in front, and the little old lady, with Roman nose and severe lips, seated silently by her side.

"What would mother feel to see me now?" she thought. "This is very comfortable. How lazy I shall grow!" And a half-smile broke unconsciously over her face.

"Are you always called Gwendoline at home?" asked Lady Halcot suddenly.

The smile faded. "No,—'Gwen' generally," was the answer.

"You will be Gwendoline in future. I object to abbreviations."

Gwendoline wondered what would come next.

"Whom are you supposed to resemble among your relatives?" Lady Halcot inquired after a pause, in the same abrupt fashion.

"My father," Gwendoline said at once.

"Quite a mistake. You are not in the least like him—like what he was as a young man."

Gwendoline was surprised, for she had never before heard the fact of this resemblance questioned.

"My mother always seems to think so," she said.

"Entirely a mistake," repeated Lady Halcot; and there was another break.

"However, it does not signify. Likeness is very often a matter of expression, sometimes a matter of fancy. You are a very pretty girl, Gwendoline. Of course you know this, so I shall not make you vain by telling you so."

The old lady looked hard at Gwendoline to see the effect of her words. She could not understand the expression that came over those brown eyes, an expression certainly more sorrowful than gratified.

Gwendoline said gently, after a moment's thought, "I suppose I am, Lady Halcot; but sometimes I wish people would not tell me so."

"Why not?"

"It would be better for me. I don't want to be made to think about myself."

For full five minutes Lady Halcot was dumb. Then the silence was broken by the two simultaneously, a remark breaking from each at exactly the same instant. Lady Halcot had been turning over Gwendoline's words in her mind; and Gwendoline's gaze had been roving about the landscape.

"Gwendoline, are you a very religious person?"

"The sea! Oh, Lady Halcot,—the sea!"

Lady Halcot's expression relaxed, and she put aside her own question, following it up by another in a different tone: "You admire the sea?"

"I love it dearly. For years I have had a dream of living near the sea. It always looked like perfect happiness."

Lady Halcot was certainly pleased. She said with positive cordiality, "I hope you will be happy;" and began pointing out whatever was worth noting in the views.

Her question remained unanswered, and at the time Gwendoline scarcely took in the meaning of it; yet the words afterwards haunted her a good deal.

CHAPTER XII.

GWEN'S POSSESSIONS.

"NONE of these are fit to wear. They can be given away at once," said Lady Halcot decisively.

Gwendoline had passed a night in her new home, and had risen refreshed, despite some wakeful periods of restless thought. It seemed to her already a very long time since she had come to this place. That less than twenty hours of her residence at the Leys had yet elapsed was inconceivable.

She had made acquaintance with the massive building, reared in far back days by Lady Halcot's forefathers, passing through rooms and ante-chambers and corridors, till mind and memory became confused. She had gone the round of the stiff ancestral portraits in the state dining-room, privately wondering which might be termed the ugliest; for the Halcots were by no means a handsome race. She had stood in the library, examining the rows of calf-bound volumes, hoping to be allowed free access to the same. She had had a glimpse of the wide-spreading gardens and extensive hothouses, and had paced one of the broad terraces, in full view of the blue ocean.

Also, Gwendoline had already won the hearts of two or three of the servants by her gentle manner of speaking, more especially the heart of Spurrell, the maid appointed to wait upon herself. She had made acquaintance with the pallid and mild-mannered Miss Withers, and had taken herself severely to task for an irresistible sense of distrust and almost aversion towards that placid individual. Miss Withers treated her with such marked and humble politeness! Why could not she like Miss Withers better? Moreover, she had seen the unfortunate Conrad, as usual spending half his day at the Leys, and as usual in difficulties. Conrad Withers did not live in the house, but he was expected to occupy a certain room during certain hours, and he received liberal remuneration for a small amount of toil. Miss Withers had set her heart on seeing him reside at the Leys, in the capacity of confidential secretary to her ladyship; but this aim was as yet far from being attained to. Lady Halcot endured him, and no more. Gwendoline had exchanged a few sentences with the young man, pitying his bashfulness, and Conrad's head was already turned.

Breakfast had been long ended, when Gwendoline Was summoned to her own room, there to find Lady Halcot and Spurrell, the whole of her small wardrobe having been spread out for inspection.

This room was one of the pleasantest parts of Gwendoline's new life, being large, yet not too large, with a sunshiny aspect, flowers without and within, choice engravings upon the walls, and abundant comfort in furniture and fittings-up. Opening into the bedroom was a small and pretty boudoir, with a davenport and easy-chair near the fireplace, and an easel in the bow-window. Gwendoline could not but be delighted with these surroundings, and grateful for the thoughtful care thus evidenced. She had passed on the whole a very pleasant morning. But it was something of a shock to her now to hear the decisive order, "All these may be given away."

Gwendoline said nothing, but her face protested eloquently. Lady Halcot gave her a careless glance, and continued, "The dress and bonnet that Miss Halcombe travelled in will do until she has others. These shoes can be made presentable with good rosettes, but really there is nothing else. You have the Halcot foot, I see, Gwendoline,—high-instepped. No evening dress, is there?"

"Mother said I ought to get one, but you told me to come exactly as I was," said Gwendoline.

"Quite right," said Lady Halcot. "Spurrell, you may fetch the hats and bonnets to try on."

Then, when the maid was gone, she repeated, "Quite right. I did not realize that you would not possess a single evening dress, but you did as I told you. That is simply what I expect, and what I shall expect."

The tone was not hard, but it lacked tenderness. Lady Halcot stood near the bed, a little shrunken figure, scarcely up to Gwendoline's shoulder, yet with an indefinable air of dignity and command about her small person. Gwendoline debated quickly in her mind what to say, and ended by saying nothing.

"That is what I expect of you," repeated Lady Halcot gravely. "Precisely the same implicit obedience that I would expect from a child of my own."

"I should be very sorry to go against your will in anything," Gwendoline said, her voice trembling slightly. "I will try to please you, indeed."

"Yes. I believe you are a good girl. If I had not thought so, I should not have been so ready to adopt you."

"A good girl," in Lady Halcot's phraseology, meant "a girl who will do as she is bidden." Gwendoline understood it so.

Lady Halcot turned as Spurrell re-entered, having an armful of bonnet-boxes. "I had these sent in readiness," she said. "There is a chip hat with an ostrich feather, which I believe will become you very well, Gwendoline. Spurrell will find it immediately. I am not so sure about the bonnets. You must try them on. The dressmaker will be here in an hour to take orders. I should wish you to have two evening dresses, one of a soft blue material, which will suit you nicely, and another of white, trimmed with pink. The blue will be for home evening wear, ordinarily. I had some idea of a black velvet and crimson walking-costume, but it is becoming too warm. I have chosen a pretty brown stuff for every-day wear, and you must have jacket and hat to match. The second walking-dress I have not yet decided on, but I am rather thinking of grey,—silk and other material mixed. When you are thoroughly well set up, I shall consider about giving you an allowance, but it is better that you should first learn something of my tastes. That is the hat, Spurrell. Put it on. Now look at yourself in the glass, Gwendoline. My foresight has proved true, I think. How do you like it?"

"It is very pretty, thank you," Gwendoline said.

"We will decide upon that, without hesitation. I don't like these bonnets, Spurrell. I fancied there were others."

"I may have overlooked a box, my lady. I will go and see."

Lady Halcot moved towards the bed. "Your little writing-case and work-bag are very shabby, Gwendoline. I will supply you with fresh ones immediately, and these can be sent away."

Gwendoline was startled. "If you please, may I not keep them?" she asked. "I have had them so long."

"That is the very thing. They are worn-out."

"But, Lady Halcot, my mother gave me the writing-case, and Ruth made the bag. May I keep them, please?"

"No," Lady Halcot said quietly; and she took both into her own hands.

"I will put them out of sight," pleaded Gwendoline.

Lady Halcot looked steadily at her, and repeated, "No."

"But they are mine!"

"That may be. And you are mine now."

Gwendoline had a hard struggle. Not sorrow only, but passion too rose high, for this seemed to her unnecessary and tyrannical. The cry of "Oh, help me, help me!" went up from her heart, and help came.

Lady Halcot, watching, saw the flush subside, and the face grow calm.

"Well?" she said.

"It must be as you wish," said Gwendoline, in a low voice. "One moment, please."

Lady Halcot yielded both into Gwendoline's outstretched hands. She would not have done so ordinarily. Gwendoline held them lovingly, pressed them to her lips, and then gave them back to Lady Halcot, two bright drops having fallen on the rubbed leather of the case.

"You are a silly child," Lady Halcot said, not in a tone of displeasure.

She left the room, and returned almost immediately, bearing a silk-lined work-basket and a beautiful little Russian leather writing-case, both furnished with silver and polished steel fittings.

"These were already waiting for you," she said.

Gwendoline received them with mingled pain and pleasure, touched, yet not quite comforted.

CHAPTER XIII.

TO AND ABOUT HONORA.

"THE LEYS, Thursday.

   "MY OWN DEAR HONOR,—Just a week since I came,—and it seems like three months at least!

   "I would not write sooner. It seemed better to wait, and not to give you mere first impressions too hastily. Mother promised to let you hear of my safe arrival. Lady Halcot has given me leave to write home regularly once a week; and I suppose this is as much as I could expect under the circumstances. Nothing has been said yet about correspondence with friends. I do not know whether I am to expect restrictions there.

   "My new residence—I cannot quite call it 'home' yet—is very beautiful, Honor. How you would delight in the garden and conservatories! Sometimes the whole seems like a dream to me, and I find myself expecting to wake up in the dear old London house, and I do not quite know how to bear the pain of separation,—and then again it comes over me with a rush of joy that things will be so different there now. I had a letter from my mother this morning, and she says they feel quite rich. Of course my father has his full income until Midsummer; and the first quarter from Lady Halcot's settlement had just come in; and also, dear father had heard of something for himself after Midsummer, which will bring in enough to be a real additional help, though very far from enough for us all if I had stayed at home. I know all this is safe with you.

   "So I have a great deal to make me happy and thankful, have I not?

   "Lady Halcot is very good and kind. She is not loving in manner, like my own dear mother, and of course I miss that. But she has lavished gifts upon me,—everything that I can possibly want in the way of clothes and knickknacks. It seems quite wrong that so much should be spent on my single self. One of my new hats had a ticket hanging to it, and I saw £3. 10s. marked. I felt positively guilty, remembering all the home needs. Yet I dare not protest.

   "Sometimes I think Lady Halcot is already growing fond of me. People show fondness so differently. She never kisses me except once coldly night and morning, and never puts on an affectionate manner; yet she shows constant interest in everything that I do, and overlooks me incessantly. I have to get up exactly at half-past seven, and to be in bed precisely at half-past ten; and I am made to read one hour, to work another hour, to walk a third hour, as she thinks desirable; while, if I am half an hour absent, without being sent away, she always inquires what I have been doing. She even chooses books for me, and prescribes the order in which I am to read them.

   "This sort of supervision seems of course a little strange, after my London independence. The eldest of ten naturally learns to stand alone early; and I seem now to have gone suddenly into leading-strings. But I know it is all meant kindly; and I shall grow used to it in time.

   "I have not seen much of Riversmouth yet. Lady Halcot sends me into the grounds for an hour every morning; but I do not go beyond them. She does not like me to walk about alone; and I don't think she quite understands my love for the shore, or the delight that a wander there has for a Londoner. In the afternoon we either go out in the pony-carriage, or else we have a state-drive in the large carriage, paying calls, and sometimes seeing very pretty gardens and pleasant people. She introduces me everywhere as 'my young cousin,' occasionally adding, 'and adopted child;' so I am most kindly received.

   "I must confess I do sometimes long to jump out of our stately chariot, and to have a good scramble up the banks and over the fields! But I try not to give way to such feelings. Yesterday we passed a lovely bank of wildflowers, and I could not help exclaiming. Lady Halcot asked if I wanted some, and she actually had the carriage stopped, and made the footman gather me a handful. It was nice to have them, only of course not quite like getting them for myself.

   "Is it not strange that I should have so often thirsted for a life of more freedom, with plenty of room, and plenty of air, and plenty of money, and absence of noise and crowd, and not to feel always obliged to toil on, whatever my mood might be; and now these have all come to me, and yet they are not freedom! My London life was a life of greater liberty.

   "You would not let me say, Honor dear, that God had taken me at my word, and sent me my will in displeasure. But I do think I must be meant to learn a lesson from all this,—a lesson against the sin of murmuring. I have been looking out in my Bible, the last morning or two, all about the different murmurings and complainings of the children of Israel; and it does seem to me as if there was almost no sin of which they were so often guilty, or which had to be more sharply punished. One is apt to think that grumbling at little things in every-day life is a small matter, but I am sure it is not a small sin in God's sight. I am praying hard now for the great gift of a contented spirit, and you must pray for it with me, Honor,—for myself, I mean. I know now that God can see exactly what is best for me, and I do not want to have any longer even a wish to choose for myself. He can tell exactly the discipline that I need; and I would not, if I could, lift a finger to keep it off. I have found out more this week of my own pride and wilfulness than I ever found out before, and yet I have been so happy the last two or three days, in the thought that He is training me, and that He loves me too well to let any foolish shrinking on my part hinder the training. And I want not even to shrink; I want to have those things sent which will draw me nearer and nearer to Christ.

   "Forgive all this talk about self. It is only what I would say if we were together. I cannot write so freely to anybody else. Mother would be distressed, fancying me unhappy; but you will understand exactly what I mean.

   "I had a real treat this morning. Lady Halcot took me in the pony-carriage to the Phillips' cottage, to see little Arthur. He is looking quite rosy and well, and his sister is such a nice respectable girl, very lame, but a capital needlewoman. Lady Halcot has promised to give her some work, and she has given me leave to pay for little Arthur's schooling. I am to have 'such' an allowance for my clothes,—it quite frightens me.

   "I should have liked to kiss the dear little boy as he came creeping up close to me,—his sister saying, 'Artie's always talking about you, miss, and how you saved his life,'—but I did not quite dare, with Lady Halcot sitting there. She is kind to the poor on her estate, but she never unbends in manner.

   "I must not forget to tell you that I have received a medal from the Humane Society—partly Mr. Fosbrook's doing, I suspect. He came in yesterday, and was very pleasant; but he said something to Lady Halcot about my not looking strong, and directly he was gone, she desired me to go to my room and lie down for an hour. So you see your Gwen is well taken care of.

   "Not a word so far about Miss Withers, the companion. The truth is, I am rather at a loss what to say. She is a sort of neutral-tinted individual, with an air of humble politeness, and an apparent forgetfulness of her own existence, which, if genuine, would be—perhaps I ought to be able to say are—positively beautiful. Yet I do not like her; I cannot tell why. She seems invaluable to Lady Halcot. Sometimes I wish she would not be quite so invaluable. I should so like to be useful to Lady Halcot, but not a loophole is left to me. Watch as may for opportunities, Miss Withers invariably glides in between and does what is needed. I have an instinct—perhaps only a fancy—that she dislikes me, notwithstanding her cordiality. Her nephew is Lady Halcot's secretary—about as fit for the post as our little Bob. I do pity him.

   "Only think; I have not touched my painting all this week. The packing-case is not even opened. An odd sort of laziness has taken possession of me, and steady work seems impossible. I must try to get out of this.

   "I am writing to you in my own boudoir, a lovely little room, fit for a princess. You would not know your Gwen here! Yet I do not feel that I myself am different. It is only the surroundings that are changed,—the same stone in a fresh setting. Will it be so when we get to heaven, Honor? Our very same selves, actually and consciously, only with all the evil that is in us utterly gone, and with radiant new surroundings! What a beautiful thought, if one follows it out!"

A slight rustle made Gwendoline raise her eyes, and she involuntarily stood up. Lady Halcot had entered the room unperceived.

"You seem very much absorbed," her ladyship said.

"I am only writing to a friend," Gwendoline answered, not without an inward tremor. Would Lady Halcot demand to see the letter? She wished she had not written so freely.

"To what friend?"

"Honora Dewhurst."

Lady Halcot waited for more, her little crooked figure in black velvet standing motionless in the middle of the room, and her black eyes requesting information.

"She was a fellow-student of mine in London,—an artist," said Gwendoline. "We worked side by side very often. I have known her for years, and she is my dearest friend. She is an orphan, and quite alone in the world, and she is—oh, so good! I never knew anybody like Honor!"

The black eyes did not stir from Gwendoline's face. Lady Halcot was never guilty of staring; but her power of gazing steadily, without a blink, was remarkable.

"A young person?" she asked, with a stress on the adjective.

"Honor is four or five years older than I am."

"A lady in mind and manners?"

"Oh, quite—quite!" said Gwendoline.

"And in family?"

"I believe her father was of a very good family. I never asked her much about that. And her mother too—only one of her mother's sisters married a tradesman." Gwendoline hesitated a moment, flushing brightly. "I ought to tell you that the aunt lives in Riversmouth, with her husband. Honor and I came down together to see them."

Lady Halcot's face showed a mixture of gratification and dissatisfaction. "You are thoroughly honest, I see," she said. "Then you are acquainted with these people?"

"With Mr. and Mrs. Widrington,—yes."

"The acquaintance cannot be continued, in your present position."

"Honor told me that it would be so," said Gwendoline, in a low voice. "But may I—please may I write to Honor? She is my oldest and dearest friend."

The moment's pause was terrible to Gwendoline. Then the answer came: "Yes—in moderation; if I find no cause later to rescind this permission."

"Thank you," was all Gwendoline could say. Her limbs shook with agitation.

"Had you acted towards me with less transparent openness, my decision might have been different. As it is, you may write occasionally—once a month or so."

Gwendoline murmured her thanks anew.

"I see you intend to conform to my wishes in these matters," Lady Halcot continued, in her calmly impassive manner. "This is precisely what I have desired, and I am extremely pleased with you, Gwendoline. You are a very pretty girl; your manners are thoroughly ladylike; and you have thus far shown yourself entirely submissive. Continue as you have begun, and I shall have no fault to find with you."

Gwendoline broke out suddenly with unpremeditated words. "I can't thank you for all your kindness, Lady Halcot. I wish I could."

"There is no need. Gratitude is best shown in the conduct."

"If only I could feel that I was of any use!" half-whispered Gwendoline. "If I could be any help or comfort to you! My mother did so wish—"

Lady Halcot's glance was checking. "It is a pleasure to me to have you in the house," she said. "That should be sufficient. I do not forbid you to speak of your mother, Gwendoline, but the less frequently you do so the better."

Gwendoline's cheeks were crimson, and her eyes overflowed. "If you did but know my mother now!" she said almost passionately. "Such a mother she has been to us! Oh, Lady Halcot, if you could but forgive—could but feel as you once did!"

"The two things are not synonymous," said Lady Halcot. "I have long forgiven Eleanor Halcombe; but I certainly do not feel towards her as I once did. That is enough on the subject. I wish you now to show me your paintings. You have brought some specimens, I hope, as I desired you to do."

"The packing-case is down-stairs. It has not been opened yet," Gwendoline said huskily.

"We will send for it. Ring the bell."

Gwendoline obeyed, and before long she was kneeling on the ground, tenderly lifting out one after another of her later studies and sketches. Memories of the life which lay behind thronged upon her as she did so, but she would not be again overcome. Lady Halcot stood near, with an air of keen interest, receiving each in turn from Gwendoline's hands, placing it in a good position, examining, criticising minor points, but as yet giving no general verdict. Gwendoline knew that the verdict would be one of weight when it did come. Lady Halcot was a connoisseur of no common order.

"These are all I have brought," Gwendoline said at length.

Lady Halcot stood gazing still. "That head is very carefully executed," she said. "You are painstaking, I perceive. But there is not a second study of the kind. You seem to have done most in the way of landscapes."

"I never thought I had any gift for heads."

Lady Halcot went over the whole set again, plainly making up her mind as to their merits, with an air of quiet competence.

"Stay,—I see one more in the bottom of the box. You have overlooked it. Yes, that is the best of all,—by far the best. There is a vigour of outline here, and a force of colouring, which I miss in the rest. It will be worth your while to continue painting as something more than a mere pastime. I began to have doubts on that head."

Gwendoline hardly knew whether pleasure or pain weighed heaviest. She said simply, "That is not mine. It is Honora Dewhurst's."

"Indeed. She has unusual artistic power."

"I always knew her pictures to be better than mine," said Gwendoline.

"It is not merely a question of their being 'better.' That, in a sense, one would expect, from her age and her longer practice. This picture bears the stamp of genius—not merely of talent. Your sketches are very pretty, and they do great credit to your perseverance. Painting will be a pleasant occupation and a graceful accomplishment, in your present sphere. But you could never have made your livelihood as an artist."

Possibly Lady Halcot found more satisfaction in this thought than Gwendoline did.

"And you think Honora may?" asked Gwendoline.

"I do not say she will ever find herself in the first rank of living artists; time alone can decide that. But undoubtedly she has a gift worth cultivating to the utmost of her opportunity, a gift by which she may make her way. Are you disappointed, Gwendoline?"

Gwendoline was looking strangely pale, but she tried to smile. "I ought to be thankful it is Honor, and not I—"

"Why?"

"She needs it most—now."

"True. But do not misunderstand me. I have no wish to discourage your efforts. You have a marked talent for painting, and it is a talent which ought not to be neglected. All I say is that I do not find tokens of original genius."

"Not in mine, but in Honor's?"

"Yes, there is that difference," said Lady Halcot, looking rather curiously at Gwendoline. "Would it be a pleasure to you to request Miss Dewhurst to paint me a picture to order? I am willing to give twenty guineas for it."

"Oh, thank you! How kind!"

"You may keep your letter open till to-morrow, and I will consider what subject I should prefer. I think—" Lady Halcot paused, and then asked again, "Are you very much disappointed?"

"I ought not to be."

"Why 'ought not'?"

"It was conceited of me to expect anything else. And nobody ought to wish for genius, where God has not given it."

"I am not so sure about that," Lady Halcot said. "I am sorry for your disappointment, Gwendoline; but you are not one to wish for other than an honest opinion, even if I were capable of giving any other."

"Oh no, indeed!" said Gwendoline. "It is just what I have wished to have, for years past, from someone who could really know."

"Have your paintings never been seen by a competent critic?"

Gwendoline moved her head negatively. "I have had a great many kind things said to me, by fellow-students and others," she said. "I never knew how much it was all worth."

"Miss Dewhurst's estimate ought to be worth something."

"She is my friend," said Gwendoline simply; and Lady Halcot's face relaxed into a smile.

"You show some knowledge of human nature," she said. "But that biassing of one's opinion by one's affection is to me a thing inconceivable—for myself! My judgment would be altogether the same in the case of friend or foe. It is a matter apart from personal feeling."

"With you, but not with most people," Gwendoline said.

"I believe you are right. Nearly half-past four. We will go down and have our tea."

"In a few minutes—if you please—"

"Very well—you will follow me when you are ready."

Lady Halcot disappeared, and Gwendoline went slowly into her bedroom, feeling strangely weary, as if all life and power had died out of her. She rejoiced for Honor, and she did not for a moment question the justness of the sentence passed; but this only made pain the more acute. It was the fading of many bright girlish dreams. Gwendoline knelt beside the bed, and hid her face, a cloud of deep depression weighing her down. She was rather given to such moods, but she had seldom known a darker hour than this.

Everything seemed going from her,—all the dear old life, with its trials and hopes, its toils and aspirations. What had she now to live for? Was it to be with her thenceforward a mere dead level of self-satisfying, a mere easy existence; without work for others; without high hopes for the future; without consolation, except in the knowledge that by her presence at the Leys she was indirectly keeping the home-circle in comfort?

"What had she now to live for?" Simply, as before, to carry out the will of her God in whatever sphere she might be placed.

"Without high hopes for the future!" But what of the glorious future beyond and above the present life, where all her highest hopes were centred? That remained untouched.

These thoughts came first, followed by a recollection of her late struggles for submission. Here was a new test. If this were the will of God, should it not be her will also? Who was Gwendoline Halcombe, to chafe and fret because He had not seen fit to endow her with great gifts? Whatever her gifts might be, she had but to lay them at her Master's feet. Whatever her appointed manner of life, she had still to honour His Name. What need for other and more selfish aims?

How time passed Gwendoline did not know. She forgot all about Lady Halcot and afternoon tea. Victory came to her slowly, and calmness with it; but the battle, following upon sharp disappointment, had been exhausting. A sense of nerveless languor seemed to enchain her faculties, and she knelt on still, from sheer lack of energy to rise. Kneeling thus, she fell heavily asleep.

A hand on her shoulder broke into a dream of old days. Gwendoline sprang up from her crouching posture with a startled exclamation of "Mother!"

"Gwendoline!" said Lady Halcot in astonishment.

Gwendoline was for a moment utterly dazed and colourless. She stood silently, gathering up her scattered recollections.

"What made you go to sleep?" inquired Lady Halcot.

"Was I asleep?" Gwendoline asked in reply.

"Yes. Sit down there," said Lady Halcot, motioning her to the sofa. "Miss Withers knocked at your door and could obtain no answer."

"I am sorry you have had trouble," murmured Gwendoline, not yet quite coherently.

Lady Halcot stood looking, with her manner of unimpassioned interest.

"I'll come down now. Please do not let me keep you," said Gwendoline anxiously.