Gwendoline

CHAPTER XIX.

TO A POINT.

GWENDOLINE'S resolution was quickly taken. A plan of action flashed into her mind, and she unhesitatingly resolved to carry it out. With all her capabilities of passive endurance, and her real sweetness of temper, there was much of underlying force and spirit, and she was now thoroughly aroused. No thought of self came into the question. Her solicitude was entirely for Lady Halcot.

"Will you please to come up-stairs, Mr. Fosbrook?" Miss Withers said, with less than her usual assurance.

Gwendoline advanced a step or two, colourless still, but self-possessed. "Miss Withers, I have been asking Mr. Fosbrook his real opinion of Lady Halcot; and I am very much surprised to find matters far worse than you have given me any reason to suppose."

Miss Withers murmured something about "not liking to distress Miss Halcombe."

"Mr. Fosbrook has also given me full leave to go in and out of Lady Halcot's room," Gwendoline continued.

"Lady Halcot's wishes—" came in answer to this.

"I will find out for myself what Lady Halcot's wishes really are," said Gwendoline. "Mr. Fosbrook, would you please to come up-stairs with me? If you like to make a third, Miss Withers, pray come also."

Miss Withers seemingly did like to make a third, for she followed Mr. Fosbrook, while Gwendoline preceded him. The little fair-haired woman's control of feature was curiously displayed at this juncture. Neither fear nor annoyance showed in her face. She rather appeared to be occupied with cogitations as to her next step. On the first landing a quick and unexpected movement placed her beside Gwendoline, and at the same instant she was saying, in a subdued voice, "I should wish you to understand, Miss Halcombe, that I have acted throughout entirely with Lady Halcot's consent. The responsibility does not rest with me."

Gwendoline was silent, not knowing what answer to make; and the shadow of an incredulous smile was on Mr. Fosbrook's lips. Miss Withers looked steadily from one to the other.

"I assure you it is so. How could it be otherwise? I have acted simply by Lady Halcot's desire,—simply as her mouthpiece."

"I do not think a mouthpiece is required. Lady Halcot will tell me her own wishes," Gwendoline answered coldly.

The trio moved on without more words, till Lady Halcot's bedroom door was reached. Gwendoline there paused, her hand upon it, that Miss Withers might not push in first. "I do not wish to startle Lady Halcot," she said, in a low tone. "No, not you, Miss Withers. Mr. Fosbrook—"

Miss Withers obeyed, drawing back, strange to say, with a still unruffled mien.

The doctor entered alone, greeting his patient cheerfully. "How are you to-day, Lady Halcot? Not very bright, I am afraid. No; I thought so."

"Imprisonment never suits me," Lady Halcot answered, in a thin faint voice. She was on the sofa, built up with cushions and shawls, not dressed, but warmly muffled and covered, her shrunken wan face looking out from manifold wraps. Excessive restlessness had driven her for an hour from her bed, but she had to be lifted like an infant, and summer heat brought no warmth to her chilled frame.

"The days seem long to you up here?" Mr. Fosbrook said half-questioningly.

"Yes,—long and monotonous. I have been an active woman, and time hangs heavily, with no occupations. I have no right to complain, however."

"A little change might do you no harm."

"A change down-stairs? I have no strength."

"No, I could not recommend that. But how would you like to see another face, by way of variety? Miss Halcombe is anxious to pay you a visit."

"Gwendoline!" and there was a pause. "Yes,—if she cares to come."

"She is just outside. Miss Halcombe!" the doctor said; but almost before the words crossed his lips Gwendoline stood by the bedside.

An instant's hesitation on her part, and the old lady would have withdrawn into a shell of icy reserve. Gwendoline did not hesitate. She knelt down beside the couch, and pressed her lips to one of the small withered hands.

"Gwendoline, my dear!"

Lady Halcot's voice shook painfully.

"You will let me be with you now, will you not?" asked Gwendoline beseechingly. "Mr. Fosbrook has given me leave. I have been so longing to see you all these weeks."

"She told me—you—"

Lady Halcot broke off, and her apprehensive glance round the room was not lost upon her companions. Miss Withers had become invisible. Mr. Fosbrook went to the door, and closed it, not quite unconscious of a figure moving away on the other side.

"There has been some misunderstanding," he said, as he came back. "Miss Halcombe has not remained absent by her own will."

"I have wished so much to come. I would have given anything to be with you," Gwendoline repeated earnestly.

Lady Halcot looked at her and at the doctor by turns. "Ah, yes,—a misunderstanding!" she murmured at length. "Only a misunderstanding. Such things will happen. But you will not leave me again, my dear. I have wanted you so much. And I thought you were too busy to care to come,—riding out, and painting, and writing letters home. A little misunderstanding."

Gwendoline had it on her lips to say, "She told me you did not want me." But something seemed to restrain the utterance. The old lady looked so broken and shadowy, that Gwendoline shrank from putting her to pain. She only said, "You will know me better now."

"Yes, my dear,—yes. I have misjudged you," said Lady Halcot sadly. Then, as the doctor felt her pulse,—"I am not well to-day, Mr. Fosbrook. I am very weak."

"Yes, very," he answered. "Is there anything you could fancy in the way of food,—anything fresh?"

"Ah, if only one did not need to eat. I have such a distaste for everything. But perhaps—perhaps, with Gwendoline to sit by me—"

"I am going to be your nurse now," said Gwendoline.

"I shall like that, my dear. And I think—perhaps—a little nearer, Gwendoline; I don't want to be overheard. Is the door shut? Thanks. I think, my dear, if you could manage to arrange it, when you are not here yourself,—if either Spurrell or Frith could take your place,—so as not to leave me quite alone with Miss Withers!" The tones were eager as well as tremulous. "I have no complaints to make. Miss Withers is an excellent nurse,—most painstaking. But sometimes—it tries me a little—if you could manage so—"

"You shall never be without Spurrell or Frith or myself in the room for a single instant," said Gwendoline firmly.

"Don't tell Miss Withers that I have expressed the wish. She has been most attentive, and I should be sorry to hurt her feelings. Indeed, I am quite sure she means everything for the best. But if—if you 'could' arrange it—"

The mastery which Miss Withers had evidently obtained over the old lady in her weakness was strangely and pitifully shown. Gwendoline could hardly control her indignation; but for Lady Halcot's sake she only replied quietly, "I will, indeed. I promise to take care. You shall not be alone with Miss Withers again."

"Then all will be as I could wish. I have no desire for other changes. She means well, and she is very capable. Doctor, I think I will ask you to come again this evening. The sinking is worst then, and perhaps you could do something to relieve it. I want a few words with Gwendoline now, before I am too tired. And perhaps, if you should see Miss Withers,—perhaps you could keep her in conversation down-stairs for a few minutes? You understand I do not wish to blame her,—I am not asking you to find fault with her,—but simply if you could detain her a little—"

The doctor said "Certainly," and took leave at once, fully comprehending.

Gwendoline went outside the door with him, closing it after her, and said, under breath, "Would it not be possible to forbid Miss Withers the room?"

"I hardly think so," he answered, equally low. "Lady Halcot could not stand the agitation. Do as she has asked you; and meantime I will give Miss Withers a word of warning. It may be only a question of a few days."

Gwendoline went back to her old position, holding again the withered hand between her own, and wondering badly what might be the import of those words to the old lady herself. Only a few more days, perhaps! What lay beyond?

"That is what I wished," the sunken voice said. "Is the door shut, Gwendoline? No, not locked. I do not care to offend Miss Withers, and perhaps she might not like to come and find it locked. But Mr. Fosbrook will detain her for a few minutes. I have something to say, and I am anxious not to be overheard. My memory seems so weak now; but I think I can recall—presently—what it was."

"It will come back to you by and by. Don't distress yourself with trying to remember now," Gwendoline said tenderly, as she might have spoken to a sick child. This poor little wasted feeble creature seemed utterly unlike the dignified Lady Halcot. "Another time will do as well."

"No, my dear; I cannot tell. The doctor does not say what is the matter with me, and I suppose it is only old age and tiredness; but I shall never be well again. And sometimes everything seems going from me."

She looked steadily into vacancy with a strained expression, as if seeking after wandering ideas.

"Something that you did! What was it, Gwendoline? Did you give me reason to be displeased with you? Or was it—was it your mother? I have so much confusion of memory, I cannot disentangle things."

"Mother displeased you long ago, Lady Halcot; but you have forgiven her now, I am quite sure," said Gwendoline. "And you were displeased with me, but I could not tell why. I think it may have been another misunderstanding,—through Miss Withers."

"Yes, yes; I dare say it was that," said Lady Halcot feebly. "Something that she knew, which you did not tell me. If you had told me, I should not have minded. But we need not go into that now. A misunderstanding!—Yes, another misunderstanding! You are a good girl, Gwendoline. I see it now. I wish—I wish I had not been persuaded to alter my will."

Gwendoline heard this silently.

"I do not think I can alter it again; I am so tired, so very weak and weary," continued Lady Halcot "And I am not quite sure that it would be right. The money left for a hospital and almshouses—once given—I do not think I could rightly take that back now. My conscience would not approve."

"No, indeed; I am sure you could not," said Gwendoline.

"You feel so too? That is a relief to my mind," said Lady Halcot, as if surprised. "I thought perhaps you would be angry. Miss Withers said so sometimes, and wished you not to know. But you do not love riches as some do."

"I think I would rather not have a very great deal of money," said Gwendoline. "Wealth brings danger with it."

"Ah, that sermon!" and a shiver passed over Lady Halcot. "Yes, I remember. It comes back to me often, especially at night. 'Not rich toward God.' I have so often thought since of those words. But, my dear, you will have something, only I cannot recall how much. And I have left four thousand pounds to Miss Withers. It is a large sum. I think she has wanted me lately to make it eight thousand, but I could not feel that to be right. Still, she has worked hard, and she means so well always,—and there are her nieces and nephews too. I think now that I have not acted quite wisely. I ought to have remembered how much stronger your claim upon me was—of the two. But you will not grudge it to her, Gwendoline. I cannot make any further alterations."

"It will be all quite right," said Gwendoline softly. "Don't trouble yourself any more about money. That matters so little."

"I have nearly done with it. But there is the responsibility," said Lady Halcot. Then more faintly she added, "Now I must rest."

Sleep crept over her, and she lay unconscious, with her head supported on Gwendoline's arm. Miss Withers presently came in, wearing precisely her usual expression. Gwendoline could not have told from her face whether or no she realized the changed aspect of affairs. Presently, however, a movement of Lady Halcot set her free, and Miss Withers then made signs of a desire to speak. The two moved noiselessly into the adjoining room.

"I merely wished, Miss Halcombe, to apologize for my unfortunate mistake. It must seem strange now, but I do assure you Lady Halcot has never expressed the slightest desire for your presence."

"It does seem strange," Gwendoline answered.

"If I had understood,—if I could possibly have guessed; but, indeed, she has, on the contrary, appeared to desire nothing so much as quiet. I have felt it my duty to secure it for her. And Mr. Fosbrook said so much about the danger of excitement. If I have misjudged, it has been misjudgment only. You will, I am sure, give me credit for right motives."

Gwendoline thought it as well not to enter upon a discussion about motives. "Lady Halcot wishes to look upon the whole as a misunderstanding," she said; "and I am willing to accept the same view. I need say no more, except that for your own sake I am very sorry for the way in which you have acted."

Miss Withers showed no resentment. "I can quite believe that my conduct may appear singular to you," she said meekly. "You cannot, of course, see the matter as a whole, or know quite all that passed. Lady Halcot is in a feeble state of mind, and says one hour what she unsays the next. On reflection I believe you will regard the matter more leniently."

Gwendoline was silent, fearing to speak too strongly. She found patient listening by no means easy.

"Of course, if it were Lady Halcot's wish that I should not attend upon her any more," Miss Withers suggested, with a mournful intonation,—"if it were her wish, even, that I should leave Riversmouth—" and the little woman's handkerchief went up to her eyes.

"No," Gwendoline answered. "Lady Halcot takes the most indulgent view possible of your conduct, and I am trying to do the same. Mr. Fosbrook forbids all agitation, and there must be no explanations. We can make use of you in the sick-room still; only you must please to understand that all arrangements are entirely in my hands."

"To be sure. I shall not forget," said Miss Withers.

CHAPTER XX.

LINGERING ON.

NOR did she. During many weeks following, the little slim lady neatly accommodated herself to her new position, appealed to Gwendoline on all occasions, came and went as she was desired, did as she was told, and seemed quite as well content to be second as to be first. Truly she showed single-hearted devotion, though to no worthy aim. If the four thousand pounds might not be doubled, Miss Withers was at least determined that there should be no loophole of a further reason for the legacy being halved or done away with altogether.

The motive was a powerful one with Miss Withers, and it acted powerfully on her conduct, as such baser motives not seldom do. Pride and love of managing went down before it. A more submissive and unobtrusive yet useful attendant could hardly have been found.

Gwendoline, in her comparative inexperience, found Miss Withers an assistant of no small value. If Miss Withers felt resentment towards Gwendoline, it was completely veiled. A stranger would have counted her affectionate to the older and the younger lady alike.

Had Lady Halcot passed away, as the doctor with good reason expected, in the course of the next few days or weeks, Miss Withers would have gained the object for which she had so patiently striven.

There came, however, an unlooked-for rally; not real recovery, but a partial return to something more of life and warmth. The chill sinking and exhaustion lessened; and Lady Halcot became able to take an interest in things about her once more. There was no talk of dressing, or of leaving her room, for she was far too feeble for any such exertions, yet there seemed to be an indefinite postponement of the end, once apparently so near. Mr. Fosbrook ascribed this rally in a large measure to the pleasure of the old lady in having Gwendoline with her again.

Days grew into weeks, weeks lengthened into months, and still she lingered on, sometimes better, sometimes worse. Illness had strangely broken the formerly stern and high spirit.

Lady Halcot became, as time went on, gently affectionate, patient under suffering, grateful for every attention, altogether unlike her former self. Could illness alone have worked such a change?

She was still, as ever, exceedingly reticent on religious topics. Gwendoline wondered often what might be going on below the surface, but she dared not attempt to penetrate this proof-armour of reserve. The day after her return to the sick-room, Lady Halcot had said, with a touch of nervous shyness, "If it will not fatigue you, Gwendoline, I should wish you to read me the Lessons every morning, as my eyes are now so weak."

Gwendoline had thankfully complied, throwing much earnest feeling into her low-voiced utterance of the sacred words. But no conversation on these subjects had yet become possible.

Towards the close of summer there was again a seeming advance, more marked than any preceding; and for several days Lady Halcot was able to dress partially, and to be wheeled into another room on the same floor. Gwendoline spoke of recovery in a hopeful tone, and Lady Halcot moved her head negatively. "No, my dear; it is only for a little while. But I feel stronger just now, and I am glad to feel so. There are one or two things which ought to be done."

"Not things tiring to you, I hope," said Gwendoline.

"One must be tired sometimes," Lady Halcot answered calmly. "My plan throughout life has always been to do what had to be done, and to let bodily consequences take care of themselves. But of late I have been unable to act; there has been such a lack of mental energy. I am more like myself this week."

She lay thinking for some minutes, while Gwendoline worked silently by her side. Many hours each day were spent thus by the two together, and Lady Halcot never seemed so content as when Gwendoline was her attendant. She was not, however, a selfish invalid. Regular walks and drives, and sufficient absence from the sick-room, were constantly enforced; and, despite long nursing, Gwendoline had never appeared to be in better health.

"Gwendoline, I wish you to write to Mr. Selwyn for me. Stay,—is the door shut?"

"Yes,—close."

"I do not wish to be fanciful, but precautions are occasionally needful. Some people have not quite such a delicate sense of honour as others—as one could wish. I suppose early training makes a great difference in these respects. I wish you to write to Mr. Selwyn this morning."

"Shall I at once?" asked Gwendoline.

"No, not here, but in your room,—presently, when Frith takes your place. I should like you to request him to come to me immediately,—to-morrow, if possible. Express yourself in urgent terms. I cannot tell how long this improvement will last, and I am anxious to take advantage of it without delay. Tell him from me that it is a matter of serious importance. Write the letter before you go out, and post it yourself. Say nothing to Miss Withers, if you please."

"I will take great care," Gwendoline answered quietly; no shadow of curiosity appearing in voice or look.

"You are a good girl," the old lady said. "I have entire trust in you, Gwendoline."

Tears flushed quickly into Gwendoline's eyes, and her glance was full of gratitude.

"Yes, entire trust," repeated Lady Halcot. "I know you better now than some months ago; and I would not have you other than you are in all particulars."

"I am so glad you are satisfied," Gwendoline said, in a low voice.

"I am fully satisfied. But sometimes I fear it is a dull life for you. If I were a little stronger,—not so soon shaken—"

"I am not dull now, indeed," said Gwendoline. "Ever since I have been allowed to wait upon you, I have been quite happy."

"Thanks, my dear!" and Lady Halcot's voice spoke of touched feeling. "It was not by my wish that—" Then she paused. "But no need to go into the past. We understand one another now. Yes, I believe you are happy. Yours is a contented spirit. Still, you are young, and you ought to see people sometimes. I could ask some of your friends here to pay you a visit,—Miss Dewhurst, perhaps,—but I do not feel that I could stand the fatigue. You should go home for a few weeks' change, only I hardly can resolve to spare you just now. Do you mind waiting a little longer? It will not be very long, Gwendoline."

"I could not leave you. I could not be easy away," Gwendoline answered earnestly. "Indeed, dear Lady Halcot, I do not want any visitors—except—till you are better."

"Ah, that will not be," Lady Halcot answered.

"Except my mother!" had been the words on Gwendoline's lips. "If only my mother might come!" she longed to say. Yet, somehow, she could not quite resolve to speak out. She had such a dread—perhaps almost a cowardly dread—of disturbing the present calm and placid relations between Lady Halcot and herself. The idea of seeing Mrs. Halcombe again seemed never to occur to the latter; though of late she had occasionally sent a message of remembrance when Gwendoline was writing home. Later in the day Gwendoline blamed herself much for not making better use of what might have been a good opportunity.

The letter was written and posted as Lady Halcot wished, Miss Withers remaining in complete ignorance of the transaction.

Next morning Lady Halcot seemed restless, and was constantly on the look-out. "Do you think he will come?" she asked often of Gwendoline, adding once, "He is a busy man. But I do not think he will disappoint me, unless compelled to do so."

"I am sure he will not," Gwendoline said. "There may be engagements which he cannot set aside."

"Yes; previous engagements. I have thought of them. But you wrote stringently? He will not disappoint me if it can be helped," she said again. "Let me know without delay if he should come."

An immediate response to her letter was more than Gwendoline ventured to expect; though, seeing the old lady's heart bent upon such a response, she was not quite without hope. A telegram, promising an early interview, seemed to her the most likely reply; but soon after midday, to her surprise, Mr. Selwyn himself drove up to the front door. Gwendoline was the first to greet him, and he was evidently gratified by her improved looks. He was soon closeted with Lady Halcot; all others, including Gwendoline, being banished.

The sudden appearance of the lawyer came plainly as a shock to Miss Withers. She looked uneasy and even unhappy the rest of the day, asking no questions, but scrutinizing sharply others' faces. Mr. Selwyn returned to London immediately after his tête-à-tête talk with the old lady, not waiting even for luncheon; and as he went out of the house he was seen to rub his hands with an air of satisfaction.

A few days later he appeared again, and was a second time closeted with Lady Halcot. Moreover, Mr. Fosbrook, and also the clergyman, Mr. Rossiter, who had of late been re-admitted at the Leys and had become a frequent caller on Lady Halcot, were both present during part of this latter interview, evidently by previous arrangement.

"What has Mr. Selwyn come for?" Miss Withers inquired suspiciously of Gwendoline, prudence yielding before stronger motives.

Gwendoline was glad to be able to reply, "I do not know, Miss Withers."

She saw at once that the truthful utterance was not believed. Double people are apt to suspect others of doubleness.

"You mean that you did not expect Mr. Selwyn to come?"

"No, I did not mean that," Gwendoline answered coldly, rather astonished at the little woman's boldness. "I do not know what he has come for."

"Lady Halcot has not informed you?"

"No. If she had, the information could go no farther, Miss Withers."

"Certainly not," Miss Withers answered with an air of would-be indifference. "Still, one is at liberty to conjecture in such cases. I should suppose it to have something to do with the disposal of her property." Miss Withers' pale eyes gave one of their stealthy cat-like glances.

"Very possibly. I really see no need to trouble myself with conjectures," said Gwendoline.

"No. Certainly no need. As you say, it is useless trouble. I am not at all an inquisitive person, Miss Halcombe,—that never was my failing, I am thankful to say. But naturally I am interested in all that concerns our dear Lady Halcot."

Gwendoline allowed the dialogue to drop, and turned away in silence. She would have no collisions with Miss Withers which might be avoided.

CHAPTER XXI.

PARTING WORDS.

THE day following was Sunday. Lady Halcot's brief improvement in health seemed to be already on the wane. It was as if she had kept up just long enough for the carrying out of her purposes, whatever they might have been; and then the flickering light went down.

"All is settled now, and my mind is at rest," she said calmly to Gwendoline, after Mr. Selwyn's second visit. "There is nothing to trouble me any more."

And even before night, Gwendoline knew that she was failing.

Early in the morning a marked change for the worse became apparent, and Mr. Fosbrook, called hurriedly in, did not think well of her state. "I have expected this for some time," he said gravely to Gwendoline. "The only marvel is that she has gone on so long."

It had been arranged that Mr. Rossiter should come in after breakfast, to administer the Holy Communion, as he had done occasionally since she had been entirely cut off from attending public worship. Lady Halcot would allow no change of plan; but by the time the short service came to an end, she was almost pulseless with exhaustion.

About five o'clock in the afternoon she revived a little, and seemed to enjoy a cup of tea. Gwendoline, who had not left her all day, was keeping watch beside the couch, Frith being within call.

"It is passing off now," Lady Halcot said. "I thought this morning that the end was very near. Yes,—near, still, it must be. My last earthly Communion is over."

"Oh, not yet," Gwendoline broke out sorrowfully. "Don't talk about leaving me yet."

Lady Halcot's withered hand came softly on hers.

"Will you be a little grieved to lose me, Gwendoline?"

"A little!" Gwendoline's voice failed.

"Yes; you will feel it, I know. You have been very good to me, my dear, and I owe much to you. But you will have your mother and all of them again,—your father,—your brothers and sisters. I am afraid the separation has been hard to bear at times. If I were living the last two years over again, I would arrange differently. Things that are done cannot be undone."

"We can never forget all you have done for us," murmured Gwendoline.

"Not more than is right. Not really much; it has involved no self-denial. But I am thankful to have been able to make these last arrangements—just in time. Now my mind is at rest. I believe your wish would be, Gwendoline, that your mother should be remembered in my will rather than yourself. I have acted on that supposition,—and it will all revert to you later."

"Oh, thank you! I would so much rather!" Gwendoline said earnestly.

"I felt convinced that it would be so. Also, I desired that others should see your mother reinstated in her old position, so far as can be now."

"It will make mother so happy," said Gwendoline. "I know she has always longed to feel that you had quite forgiven her,—I mean, that you felt as you used to feel."

"Yes; you are right to alter your form of expression. It is not a case for forgiveness,—from me towards her. Perhaps rather from her towards me."

Then, after a pause for recollection, "But I was saying something. My wish has been to reinstate her, so far as is now possible. It is possible only in a measure. She would once have inherited all my own property. I do not feel, however, that I can undo the gifts for the building of the hospital and the almshouses. I may be mistaken, but it does not appear to me right,—even though the resolution was taken under mixed motives—under a mistake in some measure; still I cannot think I should act rightly in reversing that decision."

"Oh no; you could not. Mother would feel the same," said Gwendoline.

"Yes; you agreed with me before on that question, and I was glad of it. Your assent helped me through the difficulty. I have not forgotten. And, after all, Mr. Selwyn finds the sum-total at my disposal to be more than he imagined some months ago. You and your mother will not know want. Also, I have esteemed it my duty to lessen the legacy to Miss Withers. My opinion of her has undergone a change. Still, I do not wish to show vexation. It has been too much my way in the past. I wish to forgive entirely any manner of wrongdoing towards me. Miss Withers will not find her name omitted in my remembrances to friends."

Gwendoline was conscious of a slight stir behind the large screen which stood between bed and door. She went to close the latter, and saw a figure passing swiftly down the passage. Gwendoline drew her own conclusions, yet she said nothing.

"Yes; you are right to shut the door. I like my room kept fresh, but it is very cold to-day. We were speaking about your mother just now. I wish her to understand that I feel towards her as of old. All bitterness is at an end. Sometimes, in the last week, I have considered whether to send for her."

Gwendoline's heart gave a bound. "If I only might!" she said beseechingly.

"I think not. I am too weak. I do not feel that I could stand the agitation. Give her my love, and tell her that I regard her as my dear Eleanor. Perhaps, just at last,—but I am not sure. I wish to keep my mind clear now for other matters."

Gwendoline hardly knew whether she might say more. She ventured, after a pause, to suggest, "Mother is such a comfort in illness."

"Yes, my dear; but it would be agitating—would call up distressing memories. I have but one need now, Gwendoline. I want only—Christ."

Lady Halcot seemed striving to break through the chains of her lifelong reserve. She continued, with a manifest effort,—

"I think those lonely weeks were good for me—strangely so. I never knew the feeling of loneliness before; but it came then, when I believed you did not care to come near me, and when all my old confidence was gone. The words of that sermon returned often, and showed me what I was. 'Not rich toward God.' Other riches seemed so worthless. And I used to think you could perhaps have brought comfort. But it was better so. For God Himself helped me."

Another pause followed. Gwendoline asked gently, "Was it that sermon that made you ill?"

"No; the illness was coming on before. I had felt the signs of it without recognising them. But the words of the sermon stayed by me afterwards, and I could not put them away. 'Poverty-stricken,' he had said I was, and I knew it to be true."

Gwendoline's face begged for more; she could not ask it in words.

"Some of those weeks were terribly hopeless," Lady Halcot said, in a weary voice, as if strength were failing. "But I am glad of them now, for I think they taught me much. I had to look to God alone, for there was no other helper. If you had been with me, I might have leant too much upon you."

"I suppose the teaching that comes straight from Him is the best of all," Gwendoline whispered.

"Yes; I think so. Not that one would desire to choose. But He taught me then, and He has been teaching me since—in many ways. Mr. Rossiter's visits have been a help, and your reading too. I cannot talk much on such matters, and I hope I do not deceive myself. I seem to have no fears. Sometimes Christ seems so very near—so very loving. How can I help trusting Him? After all these years of forgetfulness—so much more than I deserve. But I think I am too weak for doctrines and doubts. No doubt it is better so. I know He died for me. I can only just give myself into His keeping,—like a child."

The closing sentence was scarcely audible. Before Gwendoline could resolve what answer to make, she added faintly, "I have wished to say thus much—for your comfort. I cannot talk more. I am very weary."

"You will rest now," Gwendoline said.

"Yes; rest—now. It is over at last. So long—long—tired."

She sank into heavy sleep, and Frith's entrance did not disturb her. It seemed to Gwendoline that there was something unusual about this slumber. Two hours later they had to rouse Lady Halcot, that she might take a little nourishment, and the task proved no easy one. Still, when Gwendoline held a spoon to her lips, she half smiled, and murmured, "Thanks."

"A little more, dear Lady Halcot," Gwendoline entreated.

"No; no more. I cannot swallow. Gwendoline—is it Gwendoline?"

Gwendoline's "Yes" came falteringly.

"I can hardly see," Lady Halcot said, lifting her dim eyes. "Almost dark. Will you kiss me, my dear Gwendoline?"

The tender response brought another smile.

"Yes; a good girl—you have been a good girl. It is almost over now, my dear. And if—if you would like to send—send for your mother—yes—send—"

These were nearly the last words of Lady Halcot. She fell immediately into a state of unconsciousness bordering on coma. The doctor came, but he found her beyond reach of remedies. A telegram had been already sent to Mrs. Halcombe. Gwendoline had, however, small hope that she could arrive in time.

Once only Lady Halcot partially revived. A little before midnight Gwendoline tried to give her some medicine, and it was refused. "Oh, do, please," she said anxiously. "Do, dear Lady Halcot. Mother will be here soon."

But Lady Halcot clasped slowly her faded hands, and murmured, "No, no; none but Christ—none but Christ now!" Then deep sleep again had her in its keeping, and within an hour she passed away.

CHAPTER XXII.

COMING.

GWENDOLINE, numb and bewildered, could shed no tears. Frith persuaded her to go to bed, and she lay tossing to and fro, with intervals of stupefied stillness, sometimes journeying again through the scenes of the last few days, sometimes recalling the events of the past two years, sometimes unable to think at all. Sleep proved an impossibility.

Her mind was in a state of restless distraction—oppressed with genuine grief, yet by no means altogether sorrowful. While distressed for Lady Halcot's death, and sincerely feeling the loss of a real friend, she yet turned ever and anon with a sense of positive joy to the thought of "home." Gwendoline almost hated herself for the joy, but she could not do away with it. Life at the Leys had been at its best much shadowed. The commingling of sorrow and of pleasurable anticipation amounted to pain and strain, gradually resolving itself into a definite present longing for her mother. The aching of heart took refuge here.

By six o'clock she was up and dressed, unable any longer to lie still. Her first move was to steal softly into the library for a "time-table," and to look-out London trains. Mrs. Halcombe might possibly arrive a little before eight; not sooner. Gwendoline was sure she would come then, if possible.

Two whole hours, or nearly so, of waiting. Gwendoline did not know what to do with herself in the interim. She returned to her bedroom, and endeavoured there to read her Bible, and to kneel for her usual morning devotions. The Bible-reading was almost a failure. With the utmost effort of will, she could not fix attention upon two consecutive verses. Prayer proved a different matter. A succession of definite petitions was beyond her power, but she could and did spend a time in submissive wordless waiting at the Divine footstool, looking for such help as she needed. Nor did the help fail her. When she rose, much of the restless heart-pain was stilled.

A thought flashed into her mind, to be acted upon unhesitatingly. Gwendoline took a hat from the wardrobe, found a light flower-basket, and went quietly down-stairs into the garden. Servants were not yet about, and no one saw her. She made her exit through the conservatory, unlocking the inner and outer doors.

It was an exquisite morning, sunshine flooding the air. Birds sang exuberantly, and flowers, breaking into bloom, lifted their faces to the blue sky. The house behind, with its closed shutters, was a contrast to this abounding life and brightness. Gwendoline looked back sorrowfully, and thought of the small still form lying within, calmly at rest, after nearly eighty years of life.

"Yes, real rest," murmured Gwendoline, as she passed among the rosebushes, gathering here and there a blossom of surpassing beauty. "How could one wish to keep her? If I were so old and weary, I should not wish to be kept. Dear Lady Halcot! How good she has been to me! Oh, I am thankful she was not taken four or five months ago, before we really knew one another. I must not give way to wrong feelings about Miss Withers. After all, no lasting harm has been done—thanks to Mr. Fosbrook; and perhaps she did not deliberately intend mischief. People sometimes act worse than they really mean. And it is all over now—quite at an end. I don't want to think of her with any bitterness."

The basket was quickly filled from the profusion of roses around, and Gwendoline turned homewards, entering again through the conservatory, and leaving sunshine behind. The darkness of the silent house weighed upon her heavily. Half-past six sounded from the hall clock, and still she appeared to be the only person stirring. Gwendoline went slowly up the broad staircase, and paused at Lady Halcot's door, turning the key gently.

Nobody within—except the placid figure which "had" been Lady Halcot, now only a marble and lifeless image. No, not only; for that same form, though "ashes to ashes, dust to dust," was its present verdict, should yet be raised again, in new and glorious beauty, "at the Resurrection, in the Last Day."

A shiver crept over Gwendoline, not so much of fear as of sorrow. She had been in the presence of death before, and she had no feelings of terror. Yet, standing face to face with the cold image, she realized what she had lost—and realized not yet what Lady Halcot had gained.

Gwendoline roused herself with an effort, and began placing her flowers, laying a crimson rose here, or a creamy bloom there, with tender and loving fingers. The work was absorbing, and drew her out of herself. When the basket was empty, she gave one long look, bent to kiss the chill brow, and went quietly back into her own room.

Nothing now remained but to await patiently her mother's arrival. Once or twice the thought struck her—what if Mrs. Halcombe did not come by this particular train? But that conjecture was put aside at once. Gwendoline did not feel as if she could endure longer delay. After half-past seven she took her station at the window, watching with concentrated attention of eye and ear.

Eight o'clock was not far distant, when a sound of wheels became audible. Gwendoline caught one glimpse, through the trees, of an approaching fly, and before it could reach the front door she was standing there on the doorstep, in a suppressed tumult of feeling. A little worn woman descended, and for three seconds the two held one another in a voiceless embrace.

"Gwen,—am I in time?"

"No, mother; oh, mother!"

"Hush, my darling, hush!"—For Gwendoline was clinging to her in a passion of sobs, which were yet by no means all sorrow.

The joy of reunion had at least an equal share in her feelings. She was, however, overstrained by long watching, and nervous excitement was not to be at once mastered; while the very relief of finding herself again a child under a parent's care made self-command the more difficult.

"Hush, Gwennie," Mrs. Halcombe repeated. "Don't cry so, dear."

"Oh, mother, if you could have been in time. But it was impossible."

Mrs. Halcombe asked, "When?" in a low voice.

"Last night, about half-past twelve."

They went slowly up the broad staircase, Mrs. Halcombe gathering at every step fresh recollections of her girlish days spent under this roof. Gwendoline indicated by a gesture the room in which Lady Halcot lay.

"I will go there by and by," Mrs. Halcombe said in a low voice, which trembled somewhat.

Then they reached Gwendoline's pretty boudoir. Mrs. Halcombe removed her cloak and sat down, Gwendoline kneeling at her side, to cling anew and shed more tears.

"Oh, mother, it has been so long, so sad," she said, with a sigh of mingled pain and relief. "I hardly know how the last few weeks have gone. I love Lady Halcot dearly now, and I do miss her; but—oh, mother, I have not known how to get on without you."

"Yes; it has been very long," Mrs. Halcombe echoed. "Two whole years."

"I have wondered sometimes if they ever would end, mother. It isn't as if I had been used before to living long away from you. We were so seldom parted. Still, I could have come back here happily now; it has been so different of late, since dear Lady Halcot has really understood me, and has been so gentle and loving."

Mrs. Halcombe repeated the two adjectives, as if surprised, adding, "She must have been much altered at the last. Then she did not understand you earlier, my Gwen?"

"Things were different, mother. Not so much at first as later. I could not tell you all in letters, and it seemed useless to worry you; but now you must hear everything. The worst was over some time ago. It has been all right lately."

"Then you really were not quite happy at one time, my dear. I felt sure of it; yet there was nothing in your letters to take hold of."

"I used to be lonely, with no one to care for me, and Lady Halcot so changed and cold."

"But, Gwen, what made her cold?"

"Miss Withers came between," said Gwendoline quietly. "I could not unravel the tangle then, but it is plain enough now. I don't like to let myself think that she meant it all deliberately,—still—it 'was' her doing. When Lady Halcot first fell ill, Miss Withers kept me out of the room for weeks; and Lady Halcot had been so cold before that I did not dare to act,—I could not tell whether she wished to see me. I did so long for you then, mother. There was nobody to speak a kind word to me, unless I happened to meet Mr. Rossiter or Mr. Fosbrook out of doors; but that only happened once or twice, quite early in the illness."

"If I had known the state of things, Gwen—"

"Ah, but I could not bear to trouble you, mother, when I knew you could do nothing. Mr. Fosbrook managed at last to see me alone, and to let me know that he did not think I was shut out of the room by Lady Halcot's own wish. Things soon came right then. I'll tell you all about it another time; but I found that Lady Halcot had been under quite a false impression, supposing me to keep away of my own free will. You cannot think how happy she was to have me again. From that time she has always seemed to trust me thoroughly. But she never would quite believe the worst of Miss Withers; and I am trying not to feel harshly about her. I suppose it was a great temptation to get everything into her own hands. But here comes the tea, and you must need it."

Frith herself bore the little tray. Mrs. Halcombe kept her for a few minutes in conversation.

"Lady Halcot has been a good mistress to me," Frith said, with tears in her eyes. "I would never ask a better. There are those who counted my lady stern; but she was always just,—always the same. I don't know what I shall do now she is gone."

Both mother and daughter felt better for a little refreshment.

When Frith was gone, Mrs. Halcombe could venture at last to put the question,—"Gwen, was there no message for me at the last?"

Gwendoline told all that had passed, finding comfort in the narration. She had not known such freedom of speech for a long while as during this hour. Even at the best there had been always a measure of constraint between herself and Lady Halcot, owing in part to the intense constitutional reserve of the latter. Now she could say what she liked, and could say it as she liked.

"I shall begin to think I am a child again," she said. "It is so wonderful to be with you, and to feel quite free, with no fear of blundering and doing the wrong thing. Do tell me now about father and all of them. I am thirsting for home-news. How is father?"

"Quite well,—much better than he used to be; the pressure has been so lessened of late. If it had not been for your absence,—but even in spite of that I have sometimes thought him looking ten years younger."

"If I had not come here when Lady Halcot asked me—" Gwendoline said, half to herself.

"Ah, our position would be different indeed. I see that now. You and he were quite right, Gwennie. It would have been a positive sin to throw aside such an offer; and you are none the worse for it, my darling, though I am afraid you have had much more to go through than we ever imagined. But the parting has been hard to bear at times,—the feeling that we were so completely cut off from you, and might never venture to come to Riversmouth. I used to lie at night and wonder how it would be if you were taken ill,—whether Lady Halcot would relent then. Now I see how faithless I have been. Everything has been arranged for us so wonderfully,—so lovingly."

"And I thought at one time that the plan was a punishment to me for discontent," said Gwendoline.

"You don't think so now?"

"Oh no, mother." Then in a half-bewildered voice Gwendoline broke out—"Home!—Am I really going home,—to live there?"

"Will you be sorry, my dear?"

"Sorry! Mother, how can you ask?"

Mrs. Halcombe glanced round the room. "I am afraid our house will look very small and shabby to you after this,—not quite so crowded, certainly, since the three have been at school,—but still—"

"It is home," said Gwendoline simply. "I don't want more than that." With a sigh she added, "Mother, it is such rest to have you here! But go on, please,—tell me more about them all."

CHAPTER XXIII.

LADY HALCOT'S WILL.

"IT is such rest to have you here," Gwendoline said repeatedly to her mother; and the sense of rest grew upon her hour by hour.

There was necessarily much to be done and much to be heard, mournful in kind; but Mrs. Halcombe took things into her own hands, sparing her child in every possible way. When the first excitement of their meeting was over, Gwendoline proved to be temporarily unwell enough, from all she had gone through, to need being spared.

Miss Withers did not appear at breakfast that morning, and an encounter between her and Mrs. Halcombe was thus delayed until near luncheon. When the said encounter took place, it was quiet, not to say prosaic in kind. Mrs. Halcombe said politely, "How do you do?" And, after a return of the utterance, "I hope you are well. This has been a very trying week for you all."

Miss Withers assented, with downcast eyes, and a murmur of "Thanks, yes,—exceedingly trying," and appeared anxious to get away as soon as possible.

During the next few days she studiously shunned both mother and daughter, and looked unhappy.

The funeral was conducted with heavy solemn grandeur, according to Halcot and Riversmouth traditions.

Afterward came the reading of the will; a singular document, with its weighty addenda in the shape of long codicils carefully undoing previous arrangements.

Mrs. Halcombe and Gwendoline were, of course, present; as also were Miss Withers, Mr. Rossiter, and Mr. Fosbrook. Mr. Selwyn had come down from London for the occasion. The nephew, known to be the heir-at-law, had made his appearance in time for the funeral; and there were also three or four distant relatives, elderly gentlemen, all more or less grave, embarrassed, and expectant. Gwendoline, treated by all as in a sense the daughter of the house, was thankful for the help of her mother's presence. Mrs. Halcombe quietly took the lead, and, by Mr. Selwyn's advice, acted as temporary hostess.

The Riversmouth estate, together with the title, descended as a matter of course to the said nephew, a gentlemanly young man, Philip Halcot by name. Most of the later alterations in the will were in respect of Lady Halcot's disposable property, inherited chiefly from her mother.

The large sums set apart for hospital and almshouses had been left untouched; as, too, were legacies to the amount of nearly twenty thousand pounds, left to numerous friends and distant relatives, including the three or four present on this occasion. Old servants and family retainers also were not forgotten. In place of four thousand pounds to Miss Withers, five hundred pounds were left to her, and five hundred to each of her two nieces and to Conrad.

Mrs. Halcombe found herself the possessor of thirteen thousand pounds, in addition to the yearly five hundred already given, both to be held in trust; the thirteen thousand pounds to revert to Gwendoline on her own death; the annual five hundred to become Gwendoline's on either her own or her husband's death, whichever was the survivor. To Gwendoline immediately was left the bulk of Lady Halcot's personal possessions,—jewellery, plate, books, pictures, many valuable knickknacks, and numerous articles of furniture.

"No inconsiderable legacy," the lawyer remarked in an undertone.

At the moment Gwendoline did not at all realize the worth of that which had fallen to her share.

"Mother, how good Lady Halcot has been to us! I am glad it is not more," she breathed to Mrs. Halcombe in an undertone, as the party present filed slowly out of the room, leaving only herself and her mother with Mr. Selwyn.

One pale-faced disappointed woman, passing out among the rest, could not have echoed these words.

"I am glad it is as much," Mr. Selwyn said, rising and coming nearer. "There was a time when I feared matters would have a different ending. Accept my sincere congratulations, Mrs. Halcombe. I only wish it were more."

"Don't wish that," Mrs. Halcombe answered, with a rather tremulous smile. "Gwen and I do not. This will be wealth to us."

"The jewels are a property in themselves," remarked Mr. Selwyn. "There are some, handed down from the Halcots, which Lady Halcot did not think she could rightly alienate from the estate. The larger proportion of her jewellery was, however, inherited from her mother; and the bulk of this is left to Miss Halcombe."

"Lady Halcot showed me some of her jewels once," said Gwendoline. "I thought them very pretty."

Mr. Selwyn could not resist a smile. He repeated the word "Pretty!" and stroked his chin. "Yes, undoubtedly. There are many more than you have seen, however. The value of the jewellery alone, which now belongs to you, amounts at the lowest estimate to several thousand pounds. They are a property in themselves," he repeated complacently. "The diamonds are particularly fine,—and there are good turquoises."

"I shall hardly know what to do with them," said Gwendoline.

"You will, of course, have them in a place of safety, my dear Miss Halcombe."

"I suppose I may keep out a brooch or two for use," said Gwendoline. "And I should like to have by me the ones that Lady Halcot used commonly. May I give something to Ruth,—a brooch and a bracelet, I mean?" She looked eagerly now at the lawyer.

"They are your own, and you are of age," said Mr. Selwyn. "But I would advise you not to act too hastily,—not to part with anything that you might regret later."

"Oh, I shall not regret. The best part of having more is to be able to give away," said Gwendoline. "Mother, there is a beautiful little ruby brooch which would just do for Ruth; she does so admire rubies. And I should like to take Honor a gold bracelet,—quite a plain one."

"There are the pictures also," observed Mr. Selwyn, after a rather dissatisfied pause; "not to speak of a very handsome supply of plate."

Gwendoline seemed rather bewildered. "The plate will be useful, of course," she said. "I know we are always short of spoons and forks. But the pictures,—we have so little room at home."

"The number of pictures is not great, but they are of very considerable value. Possibly you may not always remain in your present home," said Mr. Selwyn.

"No; I have had that in my mind," said Mrs. Halcombe. "We have so often wished to move, and have not felt Justified in going to the expense. But things will be different now. I am sure my husband will agree with me in thinking that the right time has come."

"A house in the country," suggested the lawyer, "within reasonable distance of London, so that the boys could run in and out by train. The pictures and furniture would prove no slight assistance in the event of such a move; until, of course, Miss Halcombe finds a home of her own."

"No fear of 'that' for a long while to come," Gwendoline answered, smiling and not blushing.

Somewhat later, when alone with her mother, Gwendoline asked, "Mother, did you notice Miss Withers' face while the will was being read?"

"Yes, I saw. I was sorry for her."

"I wish one could say something to her, mother."

"Something of what sort?"

"Why, to help her. She looks so unhappy."

"I don't quite know what could be said. We have our suspicions—more than suspicions—as to her share in the alterations which were made in the will. But it would hardly do to allude to those suspicions, Gwen."

"No, of course not. Only, if one could gain her confidence, mother!"

"If one could! There is not much hope, I am afraid. She rebuffs most decidedly all approaches on my part."

"And on mine too. Yes, that is the difficulty. I have hardly had a dozen words from her for days."

Nor was Gwendoline to have many more. Two hours later, a closed fly stood before the door, and some large boxes were carried out. Miss Withers presently entered the drawing-room, wearing her bonnet, and carrying a small travelling-bag. She seemed composed as usual, except that her under lip twitched nervously.

"I have come to say good-bye to your daughter, Mrs. Halcombe," the smooth voice said.

"Are you going already?" asked Gwendoline in surprise.

"There is no object in my remaining longer. I believe you and Mrs. Halcombe leave to-morrow?"

"The day after," Mrs. Halcombe answered, for she found much still to be arranged.

"There is no object in my remaining," Miss Withers said again, with the slight twitch of her lip. "I—I had a letter yesterday from one of my nieces, deciding me to hasten away."

"You will have tea before starting?" said Gwendoline kindly.

"Thanks,—no; I do not require anything, and the journey is not long."

"Perhaps some day you will write and tell me how you are getting on," said Gwendoline.

"Thanks. You are very good;" and Miss Withers extended a limp hand. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye. I hope you will have a pleasant journey," Gwendoline said, kindly still, though with an effort.

"Good-bye," added Mrs. Halcombe.

Miss Withers passed out of the room, and speedily drove away, dropping thus in a moment, as it were, out of Gwendoline's life.

Miss Withers went to reside in the same town with her nieces, bitter in spirit at her failure; and Lady Halcot's legacies sowed dissension between them and herself.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE OLD HOME.

TWO days later there was a stir of excitement in the dingy London home from which Gwendoline Halcombe had been so long absent. James, the second lad, opportunely had a half-holiday; and with the two younger boys, Willie and Robert, he was all the afternoon exceedingly busy, putting up an arch of welcome inside the front door. It was not an artistically beautiful erection. Green things are by no means easily obtained in London, and a scanty supply of leaves had to be eked out with much coloured paper. But none the less would the arch speak eloquently to Gwendoline's heart.

The three intermediate boys, Edmund, Frederick, and Arthur, had been for a year past, boarders in a large school, only coming home for the holidays. James' school-days were now drawing to a close, a good opening in a mercantile house having been recently found for him. He was a pleasant sensible lad, plain-featured, but warmhearted.

Ruth, staidly working in the shabby little drawing-room, presently overheard a low-voiced discussion outside her door, between seven-years-old Bob and little fair-haired Nell, the latter being as much as ever the family pet and plaything.

"I think I shall be just a scrap afraid of Gwen," Bob said confidentially. "She is such a grand lady, you know, Nell,—not like mother and Ruth. Willie says there's a drawing-room at the Leys as big as this whole house almost; and he says Gwen will be quite different, and will always wear silk frocks, and won't like us to come too near."

Ruth could picture Nell's troubled eyes, as the little voice said tenderly, "Won't she? I'm sorry, Bob. I thought she'd want me to get up in her lap and kiss her, because she's sorry."

"Well, she won't," said Bob decidedly. "And I don't see what she has got to be sorry for. She is a grand lady now, with lots of things belonging to her; and she won't care, of course, to play with a little wee thing like you."

"Is mother going to be grand too?" asked Nell.

"Oh, mother is different! I don't think anything would make mother grand. But you'll see about Gwen! You'll see!"

Bob and Nell called Ruth suddenly; and they ran in.

"Bob, you are putting very silly ideas into Nell's head,—Very silly indeed," said Ruth, with sharpness. "Gwen is not a grand lady at all. She is our own sister. Living in a large house and having pretty clothes has not made her any less our sister."

"And will Gwen love us, Ruth?" asked little Nell.

"Of course she will," answered Ruth.

"And will she like to have me kiss her?"

"Of course she will. Bob has been talking great nonsense."

"Willie told me," Bob said, prompt to throw off blame.

"Then Willie was very absurd," said Ruth.

Probably her words would have been more convincing had they been less rough. The children exchanged glances, and did not seem greatly reassured.

"Willie was very absurd indeed to say anything of the kind," repeated Ruth more energetically. "And you are silly children to believe him. If you seem frightened of Gwen when she comes in, you will just make her unhappy, that's all!"

The two little listeners took this for a dismissal, and they went back into the hall, looking subdued.

"Nell, you don't remember Gwen?" Bob said softly.

"No," Nell answered, shaking her small head. "Not one bit."

"I don't either,—hardly at all," said Bob. "But Willie does, and he says she is ever so much nicer than Ruth."

"Does he?" asked Nell rather wonderingly, as if she found this report of Willie's opinion at variance with the last.

"Ruth speaks so 'cross,'" said Bob. "Willie says Gwen never used to speak so cross as Ruth does, and he likes her ever so much the best. Only you mustn't tell Ruth, you know, because that would make her crosser."

Ruth heard the words, and, strange to say, she was not angry. With a naturally impatient and angular disposition, she could yet bear to learn her faults. Bob's words caused a thoughtful half-hour following.

Then Mr. Halcombe came home, and Victor a little later, just in time.

Almost immediately the front bell rang sharply, and Gwendoline ran lightly up the steps, to find herself in the midst of welcomes. Not quite such eager and enthusiastic welcomes as everybody had expected, for the boys seemed suddenly seized with shyness. Two years had altered Gwendoline, and they were sensible of the alteration, without knowing wherein it consisted. Gwen had been a pretty girl at nineteen, but at twenty-one the prettiness was matured and developed; her bearing had gained much in ease and grace; and the short hair had grown long enough to be turned up in a coil of plaits. Also, though her new mourning was studiously simple in kind, there was about the make of her dress and about the manner of wearing it a certain style and finish, marking her out as apart from the other members of the family.

The boys fell into silence, and Ruth for once appeared tongue-tied.

Gwendoline was somehow ushered into the drawing-room, and there she stood dreamily, her arm linked in Mr. Halcombe's, as she glanced wistfully from one to another. "Dear old home!" she said at length. "Oh, dear old home!"

"It must look awfully shabby after the Leys," remarked Victor, plucking up courage.

"It looks small," Gwendoline admitted, smiling. "Dear old place! Oh, father!"

She turned and clung to him.

"My own dear child!" he said repeatedly. "My good self-forgetting Gwen!"

"No, no! Not that. But it is all over now. And indeed she was very very good to me, and I 'did' love her very much. But this is home. Father, kiss me again! I can hardly believe I am really here."

"Gwen, did you see our triumphal arch?" asked Jem bashfully.

No; Gwen had seen nothing, on first coming in, beyond the familiar faces. She proposed to inspect it immediately, and her bright frank gratification went far towards reinstating her in her old position with the boys. Coming back into the drawing-room, they clustered round, chattering in eager tones, while Nell clung to her hand confidingly.

"The tea will be ready in ten minutes," said Ruth. "Would you like to take off your bonnet, Gwen? Mother has gone to get ready."

"Yes, if you please. The same room, I suppose?"

"No, not the same. I'll show you," Ruth said, moving towards the staircase. "Mother thought you would like a room to yourself; and we are not quite so crowded now except in the holidays."

Gwendoline followed Ruth to her new domicile, and stood there for a few seconds in silence, looking round.

She was conscious at once of two things,—how eagerly all had done their best to make the little room comfortable, and how very meagre was the result after her late surroundings. But no sign of the latter consciousness showed in her face.

"Ruth, are you sure this can be spared to me?"

"Of course. Quite sure. The only difficulty will be in the holidays, and they are only just over." After a pause, Ruth added bluntly, "Everything must seem wretched to you here at the best."

"Not 'wretched,'" said Gwendoline gently.

"Well, shabby and poor and disagreeable. I should hate it all, in your place."

"Oh no, you would not. It is home; and the other never seemed like home."

"Home isn't always necessarily the very best thing that can be in life," said Ruth rather wearily. "At least, I don't find it so. One may have too much of it."

Gwendoline looked at her sister doubtfully. "Why, Ruth—" she began, and stopped.

"You have been away for two years, so of course you are no judge," said Ruth. "And you used to feel the same."

"But I thought—" Gwen hesitated again, recalling Ruth's sharp lectures to herself, in past days, upon discontent, yet hardly liking to allude to them.

"Never mind me. I am only cross," said Ruth, recurring in mind to Bob's words. "It's of no consequence."

"I would rather know what really is the matter," said Gwendoline.

"Nothing is the matter. I tell you I am only cross. One must grumble sometimes. It is such a tread-mill of a life,—always going on the same,—nothing but doing things for other people, and never having any gratitude in return. Not one of the boys cares for me as they all do for you. And I have not had a night out of this house for four years."

"No. I have thought of that, Ruth dear. Mother and I were talking about it only yesterday. We want to arrange for you to have a holiday."

"There is nowhere to go. Nobody wants me."

"There is Riversmouth," Gwendoline said, with rather a sad smile. "I should like you to see the place where I have been so long. How would you like two or three weeks there?"

Ruth's eyes brightened, but she only said, "I can't go alone. Don't talk nonsense, Gwen. I shall do very well."

"I don't think you will. Mother told me she did not believe you were quite strong, and now I can see it for myself. You want a little change, I am sure."

"Anybody would in this stuffy London atmosphere, after four years," Ruth said rather gruffly. "But it is no matter to anybody except myself."

"Well, we shall all have a change, by and by, if we take another house," said Gwen.

"Do you suppose we really shall?" Ruth looked eager as she put the question. "We seem such fixtures here, like limpets grown to a rock."

"Mother seems to have no doubt about the matter. Of course she cannot speak decidedly till she has talked things over with father, but she knows beforehand what he will say. A nice little house with a garden, in the country, but near enough to London by train for the boys to run in and out. Don't you think that sounds tempting, Ruth?"

Ruth's "Yes" was listless. "If I could really believe it!" she added.

"You will not be so sceptical soon," said Gwendoline brightly. "But of course that cannot take place directly, and mother and I want you to have a change the very first thing. I don't know exactly how it is to be arranged—"

"Ruth! Gwen! Ruth! Tea is getting cold!" shouted Victor, from down-stairs. "And something is waiting for Gwen!"

"Something!" repeated Gwendoline. She opened the door to call, "Yes, we are coming, Victor," and then drew hastily from her bag a tiny cardboard box. "Ruth, I want just to give you this first. I should have liked to bring several things, but mother would not let me do more in a hurry. I hope you will think it pretty."