Her kingdom

Louise could hardly believe her ears. That very day, she wrote to her old school friend the art student in London, and before very long, she had arranged to share her small flat with her, and seek for congenial work in that neighbourhood.

Anstice listened to the eager girl's hopes and aspirations. She did not like to quench her ardour, but wrote to her cousins in London and asked them to befriend her, and take her to occasional concerts and entertainments. As to what she was going to do, Louise had very little idea.

"I am not stupid. If other girls can learn shorthand and typewriting, I can, and if I can't get office work, I shall go into some shop or business place. I don't care what I do; I wouldn't mind selling flowers, if only I can be in the middle of life again and in London."

But when the time came for her to leave the Manor, Louise was very tearful. She hugged Anstice in quite a childish way.

"You won't give me up, and forget me? You will write to me and let me write to you?"

"My dear, I don't make friends one day, and give them up the next. Of course, we will write to each other. I am in a way responsible for this London move, but I feel, when we are young, 'oughts' go down under 'wants.' It is of no use eating one's heart out thinking of all the brave things we could do and dare, the best thing is to be given the opportunity of attempting them."

"Yes, I shall be grateful to you all my life for getting me this chance. I hope I shall make good! Though I feel you don't in your heart approve of my going. You think it best for me to buy my experience! I know! But you just wait and see! The hardest thing of all is to go away from you!"

She went back to Ramdale for a week, and then departed to London, and Anstice really missed her, for she had been in and out of the Manor so much.

One day Anstice asked Mrs. Fergusson to stay to lunch when the children's lessons were over.

"This incessant rain is getting upon my nerves," she said to her laughingly. "I did not know I had any till lately. I feel as if I want a good talk with some one to take me out of myself."

So Mrs. Fergusson stayed. Anstice always enjoyed her society. She had read much and been about to many different countries, for she travelled with her Russian pupils a great deal.

Anstice told her about Louise.

"I am so afraid she may fail in London. Can you give any advice about work for a girl of her capabilities?"

"It is difficult. There is such a mad rush of these girls to London now. They are overcrowding each other. If I had a daughter, I would endeavour to keep her away from the offices in town. It is not a healthy life in many ways. I wonder if she would like a secretary's post in a large girls' school at Hampstead? I know the principal of it, and could put in a word for her. She looks a capable girl, but of course there will be about fifty or more trying to get the post, and she wants to have some knowledge of book-keeping."

"That she could soon learn. May I write and suggest it to her?"

"Certainly, and let me know if she would like such a job."

Then Mrs. Fergusson smiled.

"When one chick leaves the shelter of your wing, do you look about for another? Your own small people do not seem enough for your energy."

"Oh, they are, more than enough, but Louise was brought to me. I could not help trying to help her. She seemed so solitary and forlorn away there in the wilds. Even I, in this cheerful house, feel a little bit down with this constant and ceaseless rain. Does it rain all the winter here?"

"Oh no, we have lovely spells. Wait till the snow covers the hills, and we get a rosy sunset! And a cold, bright frosty day with low sunshine lying across the Fells, and the beautiful colouring of the lake, is too exquisite for words! I am never lonely in winter. I have my needlework and books, and sit looking out upon the lake till the moon rises, and then sit on watching that till bedtime."

"Yes, I can fancy you doing it. I am inclined to waste a lot of time gazing out of these windows—so I expect I shall enjoy the winters here."

"You will have your husband home soon?"

"Not till Christmas."

Anstice's tone was a little constrained. She changed the topic, and they plunged into a discussion over a book which had been lent to Anstice by Mrs. Fergusson. It was on "The Coming Race." Mrs. Fergusson was an optimist.

"I think things will right themselves later on. It is the age for the emancipation of the young from parents' rule, from old age principles, from everything sweetly effeminate. You can no more stem the tide of on-rushing youth and high spirits than you could dam Niagara's Falls. And force is never as strong as persuasion—or rather suggestion. We mustn't try to baulk or prevent them from leading the lives they do; we can only stand-by in case of catastrophe, and give them a helping hand when they fall."

"It does seem a strange upheaval to us who look on. The days of tyrannical parents are gone, it is not the young who have their spirits broken, it is their poor parents sitting in desolate homes, and in many cases having no descendants to carry on their name and race. But, in spite of all this, homes and parents will be loved and respected again. Reaction will set in. I heard of a young girl the other day, one of four brothers and sisters, all working and living in town. She came into an unexpected legacy. And how do you think she spent it? She wanted to benefit the others beside herself and she spent it all in establishing herself in a country house, so that the London workers should have one haven of rest and comfort to which they could come. She had the home-making instinct, you say. But what she did, others will do by and by. The restless rush will cease."

"I wish, oh I wish I could think so," said Anstice.

They talked on after lunch in Anstice's pretty morning-room over a blazing log fire, Mrs. Fergusson busily sewing at her pretty needlework, and Anstice embroidering some frocks for the little girls.

"There is one point for which you must be thankful," Mrs. Fergusson said, towards the end of their conversation; "your small stepdaughters have got a deep and adoring love for their home. They will never stay long away from it when they get older. I do not think the lure of town gaiety, and bustle, will have any attraction for them."

"Yes, they are devoted to their home. They consider the lake and Fells as all part of their personal possessions. It's strange; for their mother, I hear, never was happy here; neither is their father."

"But I hear he is very tenacious over his property; he will not let an inch of land go out of his possession. If I may say so, I think the discomforts in his home have driven him out of it. Men are generally selfish as regards their own comfort and ease."

"Perhaps so."

Then, as Mrs. Fergusson rose to go, Anstice said impulsively:

"I am going to try to wean him from his wanderings. Wish me success!"

"I feel positively certain you will have it," said Mrs. Fergusson; "and you certainly will deserve it."

BOOK II

FRIENDS

CHAPTER I

MISSING

SNOW-CAPPED Helvellyn's heights. Butterdale Manor looked out upon white-crested Fells across a dark purple lake. The house itself was shuttered up for the night. Justin Holme, in a thick overcoat, stepped out of a car, and made his way up to his front door. He had sent no word of his arrival in England. It was his fancy to take his family unaware.

The respectable maid who opened the door to him was a stranger to him, and he to her. She asked his name.

He gave a short laugh.

"You need not announce me. I'll announce myself."

He slipped out of his coat, gave directions about his luggage, then made his way across the hall to the drawing-room. The door was ajar, and he saw lights within.

Very softly he opened the door and stood silently looking upon the scene before him.

The light came from the big blazing log fire in the grate. Round it was gathered a little group. Anstice was seated in a low chair, clad in a powder-blue velvet gown. The firelight played on her sunny brown head, on her softly flushed cheeks, and dimples, and happy eyes. She was telling a story. Her clear, vibrating voice rang out with happy assurance:

"And so the Prince's troubles were over, his long journeys in search of happiness was a thing of the past. He had found his dear Princess, and never meant to leave her side again."

Ruffie's golden head was resting against her knee; he was sitting amongst his cushions at her feet. Josie and Georgie were sprawling upon the hearth-rug; their tense, eager faces were devouring every word that came from Anstice's mouth. It was a pretty, home-like picture, and Justin's restless eyes softened as he gazed.

Then he swung open the door and strode forward. There were shrieks from the children, and all was babel and confusion. Ruffie was in his arms, and the little girls, hanging on to him, were talking eagerly. No one noticed that there was no greeting between husband and wife. If for a moment Justin's tall head was bent in Anstice's direction, she so quickly moved aside that nothing was possible but a few words of welcome.

"Well, I have taken you all by surprise, have I not? I meant to have been back in time for Christmas, but I dare say you have got on very well without me. We were delayed by storms in the Pacific. Have I brought the parrot? I have, but at present he will only say one word, and that is not a polite one. You will have to teach him to talk properly. He is in the hall by this time; come along and see him."

Carrying Ruffie in his arms, Justin took the little girls into the hall. For the time he was completely absorbed in his children; but when they were summoned to bed by Brenda, he sank down into an easy chair by the drawing-room fire.

"They're rather strenuous, those small people, and I'm dead dog tired! We only got into Liverpool early this afternoon, and we had a rough tossing. All last night I never went to bed at all."

"You'll feel better after dinner," said Anstice cheerfully. She was moving about the room as she spoke, tidying up, and putting cushions into their right places.

"Come and sit down opposite me and let me look at you," said Justin rather abruptly.

Anstice dropped into a chair with her happy easy laugh.

"I think you'll find no change in me. How do you think the children look?"

"Oh, they're all right."

He was regarding her with a slow, direct gaze. Anstice felt her cheek flush, though she was angry with herself for showing any emotion.

"I heard from your Cousin Lucy about a month ago, wanting to know the length of my desertion. She had been up here for a day or two."

"Yes, on her way to some friends in Northumberland. It was just before the first snow came. I made her as comfortable as I could, and quite enjoyed her visit."

"Well, you show no signs of strain; she seemed to think it was all too much for you alone."

"I have been, and am, very happy. Of course difficulties have arisen. Cousin Lucy was here when Bob Falkland was taken ill, and I had to get some one to help about the sheep. Hal Cross has been working over at the farm, for poor Eliza almost collapsed. I knew you must be on your way home, so could not write. Bob has had double pneumonia and nearly died. But he is much better now."

"I could ill spare Bob. He is my right-hand man," said Justin with concern. Then he looked about the room. "I congratulate you on the changes you have made here," he said. "This was an unlovable room when I left it. I suppose I shall find the house much improved?"

"I hope you will."

Then a whimsical sparkle came into his eyes.

"We didn't do so badly for ourselves, did we? Your Cousin Lucy seems to think that I score most. What do you think?"

"I think," said Anstice, rising, "that you had better get ready for dinner. You look as if you need it."

She left the room, and after she had gone, Justin drew a long breath.

"Malcolm is right. She's a beautiful creature. And I have been a selfish brute. She has done wonders for me and mine. I am in my soul grateful. I wonder if I shall have the courage to tell her so?"

Then he too made a move, and went up to his room. Brenda was there unpacking his things.

"It seems like old times to see you here," he said to her; "the house is getting shipshape at last, eh?"

"Oh, sir, it is a happy house now! I never could have believed anybody could have come and put us all to rights in such a lovely way as Mrs. Holme has. The little girls be changed entirely. And there's been no fear or force used—just love and persuasion."

Justin congratulated himself afresh upon the present state of things. He arrived down to dinner in the best of spirits. Anstice faced him from one end of the long table. She had changed her gown and was wearing a soft grey chiffon tea-gown with a bunch of violets on her shoulder. They talked pleasantly together, Anstice giving him all the local news, and he telling of his stormy voyage home.

"I really thought at one time, I should never see the shore," he said. "Would you have cared much, I wonder, if the ocean had claimed me?"

"Ruffie would," responded Anstice lightly; "he never forgets you in his prayers."

"But what would you have felt?" persisted Justin.

"Look here," said Anstice, dimpling, but though smiling, speaking firmly, "I must ask you to keep all personalities out of our talk. You are, as you know, almost a complete stranger to me, and I to you. We can be friendly without bringing in any personal touch. I have faithfully kept to my bargain. I expect you to keep to yours."

Justin's brows contracted, then he smiled.

"I will remember. But I am in my own house, and I don't want to be continually snubbed, and made to feel my place!"

"I have no intention of doing anything of that sort," said Anstice in a shocked voice. "I hope I shall never forget that you are the master of the Manor, and the father of your children."

"And your husband," murmured Justin, but he took care that his words did not reach her.

Justin went into his smoking-room after dinner, and did not join his wife in the drawing-room until she was about to retire for the night. He stood beside her silently for a moment, then suddenly put his hand on her shoulder.

"I have always from a boy found it difficult to express my thanks to anyone, but I would now thank you for all you have done in my absence. It must have cost you a good deal of time and strength and effort—may I say patience?—to have worked such changes amongst my belongings. And I am duly grateful."

His gravity and sincerity of tone touched Anstice.

"It has been happy work," she said. "I want no thanks. In a way I was only carrying out the conditions on which I came here, but I have enjoyed it all, and been far happier than I ever thought possible. Good night."

She held out her hand, and though for a moment Justin made a movement as if he were about to claim more from her, he restrained himself, and went forward to hold open the door for her.

The first few days of Justin's return were rather uncomfortable to Anstice. He seemed to be watching her every movement, regarding her with amused, critical eyes, listening to her talk with the children, to her orders to the servants, and giving her the impression that he was keenly observant of all her actions and words. It made her feel self-conscious at first, and then gradually, as they became more accustomed to be together, they lapsed into easy comradeship, and life seemed difficult no longer.

Justin found that a good deal of superintendence was necessary on his farm. Bob had not yet recovered his strength, and to Anstice's amazement one morning, she saw, from a window, her husband driving the plough across a seven-acre field. He came into breakfast amazingly hungry.

"Yes, it's rather different work to yachting, but I've learnt every branch of farming, and ploughing is interesting," he said to her. "I have had to put my hands to most things. Bob always told me, I would take the prize in any ploughing match. We must take advantage of this mild spell, but our winters aren't severe as a rule up here."

"I want to go over to see the Nixons, if I can," Anstice said, looking out of the window at a very grey lake and dark stormy skies. "Ellen is ill; I must see that she is being looked after properly. I hope some of the Watts at the inn are seeing to her."

"You don't walk over there?"

"Indeed I do. I shall start in an hour's time and take a bit of lunch with me in case I may be delayed. Don't wait lunch for me—I shall be back before dark."

"It's a pity you don't ride."

"But I can ride, only there is no horse, is there? I am too heavy for our poor little pony."

"Would you ride if I got you one? Why haven't you used my mare? I did not know you could ride."

"Do you think now that Bob would have let me lay a finger on your darling Sheba?"

Anstice laughed at the very idea.

"No—I love walking, and enjoy the Fells at any time. I am only too glad of any excuse to get up amongst them. You will be busy with your ploughing. I shall be home for tea, perhaps long before."

Justin came in for a hurried lunch; he would not allow to himself how much he missed Anstice, and what a blank there was in the house when she was out of it. He went out to his ploughing again in the afternoon, but came in before dusk to inquire if Anstice were home. A thick mist and fine drizzling rain was already obscuring the Fells from view. He paced up and down the hall uneasily, then called to Brenda. The children were all making a great deal of noise in the nursery, so she did not come at once. He spoke to her very sharply.

"Why don't you come when you are called? Is your mistress accustomed to the Fells? Can she find her way about? She is not back yet, and there's a thick mist coming on. Is she out as late as this generally?"

"Maybe she's dropped in to Hockerdale. 'Tis on the way to the Nixons. She's always in by dusk. But 'tis a goodish step from Rutherswater."

An anxious look came into Brenda's face. Justin waited for twenty minutes longer, then he went off to the farm, saddled his mare and set off up into the Fells. He carried an electric torch with him and flashed it here and there in the hope of attracting attention. The mist grew thicker, until at last, even he found it difficult to follow the track. But he managed to find Hockerdale; there, the James' were sitting down to tea. The farmer sprang to his feet.

"The missus out on the Fells such an afternoon like this! May God save her! She'll never find her way. I met her this marnin' an' warned her not to kaap out an' about too lang."

"Have you a lantern, man? Come on with me. We must find her. I think I'll put up my mare here and go on foot. She's not good at finding her way in a mist."

Together they pushed on, shouting as they went, and then Frank James brought slight ease of mind to Justin by reminding him that Anstice had Hercules with her. Justin, after that, whistled a peculiar whistle of his, which Hercules would hear and answer if he were anywhere within reach. A fruitless hour passed, and then the two separated, going in different directions. Justin determined to reach Rutherswater, if he could. Anstice, he argued to himself, might still be taking refuge with the old Nixons. So he pushed on, missing his track continually, retracing his steps to find it again, and all the time shouting and whistling to Hercules.

At last, there was a thudding of feet, a big form sprang upon him with a low whimper of recognition. It was the mastiff. He heaved a deep sigh of relief. He was on the right track.

"All right, old fellow. Take me to her! Fetch her!"

Hercules understood; but as he was bounding away Justin gripped him by the collar.

"Not so fast, my man! I don't mean to lose you again if I can help it."

He took off a muffler he had round his throat, and slipped one end of it through the mastiff's collar. Then suffered himself to be led along at breakneck speed. But he believed in Hercules, and did not expect to be dashed over the edge of some crag.

After a quarter of an hour's hard walking, they came right off the path amongst rough blocks of granite. Here Justin stumbled again and again, but Hercules led steadily on, and then—was it fancy? He thought he heard a faint cry in the distance. They were descending now a steep, precipitous path. It was dangerous going. But they rounded a sharp corner and came upon a flat grassy plateau. And here, dimly through the moving mist, he saw, under the shadow of a sharp overhanging crag, a figure.

"Anstice!" he shouted.

And her voice, clear as a bell, answered him:

"I am here. This way!"

"He must have fallen down here from above."

Her Kingdom      Book II, Chapter I.

He had found her! Crouched down over another figure lying on the ground beside her.

"What are you doing? Are you hurt?"

"It is poor old Tommy Nixon."

She rose slowly to her feet.

He gripped her by the arm, but she shrank from his touch.

"Can you lift him up? Poor old man, he is seriously injured. He must have fallen down here from above. I'll tell you all about it afterwards, but how can we get him home? I haven't the least notion where we are. I heard his dog barking. Take care, don't step on him; he resents anyone touching his master. Is anyone with you?"

"James may be round about!" He sent a loud halloa out amongst the Fells. Echoes resounded from the rocky crags, and a faint shout that was not his came to them.

Then Justin flashed his torch to and fro. There was an answering gleam in the mist, and in ten minutes' time, the farmer had joined them. Just before he came up, Justin spoke almost roughly:

"Why the deuce didn't you come home and send some one out to this poor fellow? I've been hunting for you for hours."

"And I have been waiting for hours," was the quiet reply. "I could not leave him; he begged me not to do so. He was in terrible suffering. Now he's unconscious, but I was able to give him some brandy, and he is living still. Listen to his breathing!"

She was bending over him again. Her whole soul was with the poor old man. She seemed indifferent to herself or to Justin. Then James came up. But it was Justin who slipped out of his heavy coat, and lifting the old man into it, used it as a stretcher, James taking one end of it, and he the other.

"How far are we from his house?"

"A goodish way," said James. "We had best carry him to th' house and let my wife tend to him."

"Yes," assented Anstice at once. "His sister is too ill to nurse him. She wants a nurse herself. We will go to Hockerdale."

They started. Victory, the sheep-dog, after a little growling at Hercules, followed the procession. Anstice seemed to have difficulty in keeping up with them. More than once Justin stopped, and then said in softened tone:

"You seem tired. Take hold of my arm."

"Oh no, you want all your strength to carry him over this rough ground. Look! The mist is rolling away, and the moon's coming out! Thank God!"

It was indeed rolling away like great clouds from their feet. It seemed a long time before they reached Hockerdale, but they were there at last, and Mrs. James rose to the occasion. The old man was put in her best bed in the big spare room. A fire was lighted and hot bottles applied to his feet. A farm lad was sent off for the nearest doctor.

Justin stayed up in the bedroom helping, as Mrs. James said afterwards, "in all the world like a sick nurse, turnin' 'im so deft like, and knowin' how to get some hot drink down his throat!"

And when Justin was assured that he was as comfortable as possible, he came down to the farm kitchen. There he found Anstice in a half-fainting condition. She was sitting in the big chair by the fire, her soaked clothes steaming from the heat; round one arm she had a blood-soaked bandage, and to his horror, Justin saw that she had seriously hurt herself.

"Oh, these women!" he ejaculated.

He called sharply to James, who had gone out to his cows in the farm, for Mrs. James was still caring for old Nixon.

"Get me a basin of warm water," he said. "My wife wants seeing to now."

He forced her to swallow a little brandy, and then she slowly opened her eyes. For an instant she looked at him vaguely.

"I am sorry," she murmured. "I had a tumble in finding Tommy, and cut my arm. It bled a good bit, and makes me feel queer. I bandaged it as tight as I could."

She closed her eyes again, whilst Justin set to work, and his touch was as gentle as any woman's. He undid the bandage, bathed the wounded arm, which was badly cut above the elbow, bandaged it up with fresh linen again, and settled her back into the chair, arranging the cushions behind her to his satisfaction and also to hers. She smiled at him; she had winced when he had touched her arm, but otherwise had borne the bandaging silently.

"Who taught you 'first aid'?" she asked.

"I taught myself," he said a little shortly; "have had plenty of experience on my boat. You ought to have your wet clothes off."

"Oh no, I must get home. They have really dried on me. I can't stay here, you know. One disabled person is quite enough."

"You'll stay here till I come back. I'll ride off and get a car. This is a time when I regret not owning one. Ah! Here is Mrs. James. She'll see to you."

He explained matters. Mrs. James soon had Anstice's wet clothes off her and gave her some of her own to wear, whilst she set about drying hers. Justin went off, and the farmer went upstairs to sit by old Nixon.

"I can't think," said Anstice in a quavering voice, "why I feel so shaky. I suppose I must have lost more blood than I thought. I felt my arm dripping as I walked. I nearly collapsed on the way."

"You look awful, ma'am. Don't ye talk; the doctor will be here and he'd best look at your arm."

"I am thinking of poor Ellen Nixon. She is so bad, Mrs. James. One of the Watts girls has promised to sit up with her to-night. How can we get her a nurse? She must have one. It's severe bronchitis, she can hardly breathe. She's so bad that I doubt if she will notice her brother's absence, but of course she'll have to be told. Can you send her a message early in the morning to say where he is?"

"Don't you worry, ma'am; we'll do that the first thing."

"Ellen thought her brother had been detained in Penrith, but Watts at the inn told me he had left Penrith at twelve o'clock in the morning, and ought to have been back before he was. He said he was afraid he was having a business collecting his sheep. That was how—when I heard the insistent barking of his dog, that I knew something was wrong."

"I wouldn't talk if I were you," advised Mrs. James, noting the feverish flush coming into Anstice's cheeks. "Just you try and have a wink or two of sleep, afore the Squire coom back."

Anstice subsided. The doctor arrived before her husband. He was a long time with old Nixon. He had broken two ribs and dislocated his left wrist, otherwise he was sound. Then he examined Anstice, and had to put four stitches into her gashed arm.

"It's a nasty cut," he said, "but I'll give the Squire a certificate for bandaging. I'll look up at the Manor to-morrow and see how you are."

He met Justin as he was going out at the gate.

"Take good care of your wife, Squire; she's very weak from loss of blood. Keep her in bed till I see her again. I expect she has taken a chill; she has a temperature. Have you got a closed car?"

"Yes."

"She'll be better off at home, so I suppose she must be moved. Otherwise, she'd be wise to stay where she is. I've told her I'll look in to-morrow."

Justin went in. Anstice struggled to her feet when she saw him.

"I am ready. In my own clothes again! Mrs. James has been wonderful."

But she staggered as she spoke, and Justin put his arm round her, and when they got outside, he lifted her right up in his arms and deposited her in the car, as he might have done a child.

"Well," she murmured, "I never realized you were so strong."

He smiled. Nothing could have been more protective and tender than his care of her during that drive home. They spoke but little. Once Anstice tried to explain her long absence, but he stopped her.

"You can tell me later. I only regret one thing, that you did not tell me at once how hurt your arm was."

"You could have done nothing. Poor old Nixon was the injured one. He had to be carried." Then she leant her head back and closed her eyes.

When they reached home, she went straight to bed, but her husband came to the door of her room the last thing at night.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

She tried to speak lightly.

"A little top-heavy and giddy, but I shall be all right in the morning."

"Brenda had better sleep in your room."

"Oh no, indeed, I do not want her."

He went down the passage and called to Brenda. "Your mistress ought not to be left to-night. She's very feverish. Take your mattress in and sleep on the floor, or there's a couch there—you can sleep on that, if you take your bedding in. Keep up the fire, and give her some milk in the night if she wants anything. That can't hurt her."

Brenda meekly obeyed. When Anstice remonstrated, she said it was the master's orders.

It was a week before Anstice left her bed. She had taken a violent chill, and had a good deal of fever with it. She was also weakened by exposure and by the loss of blood, and when sitting up in a cushioned chair, looked the shadow of her former self.

Justin was extraordinarily concerned about her, and the children were miserable.

"Nothing goes right when Steppie is away from us," said Georgie to her father in a miserable voice. She had been having rather a severe fight with Josie out on the terrace, and her father had come upon the scene and scolded them well.

"Josie tries to boss, and I won't be bossed," said Georgie, gulping down a sob.

"She's been opening the door of the aviary and letting out the birds into the drawing-room, Dad. And we can't find 'Cluckatoo,' the love bird! Steppie made us promise we'd never let the birds out!"

"And you're a tell-tale and I hate you!"

Georgie was aiming a kick at her sister, when her father took hold of her by the shoulder and marched her upstairs to a room at the end of the passage which had always been called by the children the "Bogy Hole." It was small and dark with one tiny window rather high up, and had originally been known as the still room. He pushed her in and locked the door upon her, telling Brenda to leave her there for a good hour. And then he went off to the farm, feeling irritated with every one.

CHAPTER II

THE "BEST OF THE BARGAIN"

IT was snowing heavily, the Fells were covered, the roads were blocked. Outside was a grey cold world. But inside the Manor, the log-fires were blazing and sputtering, the thick curtains were drawn to keep off draughts, and in the drawing-room, Anstice was back in her big chair, and the children clustered around her.

It was her first day downstairs. Only three o'clock, and yet it seemed almost dark. Justin was in his study, checking his estate accounts.

The children were eagerly relating to Anstice all the small details of their lives since she had been upstairs. How Hercules had lain down in the passage outside Anstice's door with his nose against the mat, how Dad had tumbled over him and then sworn and then begged his pardon! How Ruffie's white mouse had run away and then appeared one morning climbing up the ivy on to his window ledge, and scratched at the pane till he was let in! How Mrs. Wykeham had come round to call, and burst into the library whilst lessons were going on, to say that she had heard that "Steppie" had smashed her ribs and been lost all night on the Fells! And lastly, what a lovely holiday they were having, for while the snow was so deep Mrs. Fergusson would not be able to come over to them.

"I'm not so sure of that being a blessing," said Anstice, smiling at them; "if there are no lessons there will be mischief brewing, I am afraid, and mischief means trouble for some one."

"When the snow stops, we mean to make a snowman," said Josie, "and we'll try and make him tall enough to peep into the nursery and say good morning to Ruffie."

Ruffie was on Anstice's lap. He was leaning his golden head against her shoulder with a look of deepest content.

"You hold me like Dad," he said to her once; "I never get pains in my legs with either of you."

Now he looked up at her.

"Now tell us about the rain and the mist on the Fells and how you and Hercules got lost."

The door had opened and Justin came in.

"I thought tea might be ready," he said, coming up and slipping into the other big chair close to the fire. "Don't move, any of you. I heard Ruffie asking about a point that wants to be made clear, so now you are well enough to tell us—how was it that you did not send Hercules home for help sooner? If he had not heard my whistle, he would not have come! He ought to have found his way, surely!"

"Let her make it into a story, Dad."

Ruffie was very gently slipping off Anstice's lap. His mute appeal to his father made Justin hold out his arms, and he was transferred to his father's keeping. Here he nestled into those strong arms, with his bright eyes fixed on Anstice.

"She does tell stories so ripping!"

"I'm afraid there is not much of a story about it, but it was a funny jealousy between the two dogs. I heard Victory howling, and he was standing over his master when I arrived. Hercules went forward sniffing, and Victory flew at him. I managed to calm them; but when I had helped poor old Tommy as much as I could, Victory lay down at his feet and glared at Hercules, and then Hercules lay down at my feet and glared at him! I tried to send Hercules off for help, but he wouldn't leave me. He said to Victory—'Think I'm going to leave my missus in your charge! Never! You're so full of your old master that you'd let anything happen to her! Not if I know it.'"

"And then I tried my hand on Victory. 'Home!' I said. 'Fetch help, good fellow. Go on!' But I knew it was hopeless. He just winked his eye at me, and said: 'Think I'm going to leave my master to your charge, to that great blunderbuss of a dog, who doesn't know one sheep from another! Here I stay, and no one shall move me!' We were a funny quartette, weren't we?"

Ruffie laughed out merrily:

"Go on; make the dogs talk to each other. What happened next?"

"Then we heard Dad's whistle, and Hercules went bounding away, but Victory never stirred. And then we were all found, and the mist got tired of misting, and ran away, and the rain stopped, and then the moon came out and smiled upon us, and we all got back to the farm."

She stopped in her recital, for Brenda appeared to say that the nursery tea was ready. She carried Ruffie off, and the little girls followed, but Justin stayed where he was. He stretched out his long legs before the fire, and leant his head back in the cushioned chair with a short sigh.

"Don't you get very tired of always talking down to children?" he asked.

"Sometimes," said Anstice frankly; "but I have not had many other people to talk to. Mrs. Fergusson is charming, but I can get her but seldom—"

"She's improving those imps of girls: they're not half so wild as they were six months ago."

"They're all right. They want plenty of occupation. I believe they'll grow up into delightful young women."

A little silence fell between them. It was not often that Justin settled down to talk. He seemed to elude his opportunities, and somehow or other Anstice felt tongue-tied. She broke the silence by saying:

"As soon as the snow has cleared, I must get over and see poor Ellen Nixon. She does so love to see anyone."

"She will have to go without seeing you," said Justin a little sharply. "You must not think of wandering over the Fells again by yourself."

"But I have Hercules with me."

"He was not much good the other afternoon. In the summer-time, it is different, but in the winter, the mists descend very rapidly. You must confine your walks nearer home."

"I will choose a fine day."

"You will choose no day with my permission—you must postpone your long walks on the Fells till the spring."

Anstice laughed her low laugh of amusement, her dimples coming into play.

"That is the tone you use towards Josie or Georgie. I am unaccustomed to be given orders."

"If you are a reasonable woman, you will respect my wishes. It is for your own sake, though perhaps you'll credit me with the selfish desire of saving myself from anxiety and a long tramp to bring you back again."

"That is altogether unnecessary."

"It was not unnecessary the other afternoon."

"No," said Anstice gently, "I am very grateful to you for all you did for me. Well, if I must forgo visiting the poor old Nixons all the winter, who is going to do it? The Rector is not strong enough. I am more fit to do it than he."

"I may get over myself from time to time."

Tea appeared at this juncture. Justin roused himself. He waited upon his wife assiduously, insisted upon pouring out the tea himself, as her right arm was still in a sling, and left the subject of the Fells in winter time alone. Anstice, wishing to interest him in other people, began telling him about Louise.

He listened with a semblance of interest, but in reality was rather bored.

When she told him that Louise was now happy working as secretary in the school which Mrs. Fergusson had recommended, he said:

"That's what my girls will be wanting to do, I suppose, later on. This craze for work in towns clears the country of all the young. If it wasn't for the boy, I sometimes think I would sell this place. But he loves it, and he will never be fit for anything but a quiet, retiring life."

"And your girls love it too. Don't take away their home from them, if you can help it. I doubt if they're the kind who will thrive in town. I hope they will marry happily, and, till that event, be useful daughters at home."

"Oh, marriage! That's a farce nowadays."

The bitter sneering tone escaped him; then he pulled himself up, changing the conversation hastily.

"I saw our parson this morning; he called to inquire for you, but you were not out of your room. He was rather in a fuss over the Sunday Services. I told him you would not be able to touch the organ for some considerable time, so he's arranging that the schoolmaster should try his hand at it again."

"It's a torture to hear him," said Anstice with a little sigh. "He was playing when I first came."

"Then why go to church to be inflicted with it? Stay at home as I do."

"Have you never been to church?" Anstice's tone was grave and soft.

"On rare occasions. As a boy of course I did. We had a racy old parson then, who was always fox-hunting, and used to use hunt language in his sermons. Then we had a very different sort of man. I had an earnest fit as a young man. I got it at Oxford, and when I came down for vacation, he and I chummed up, and I was going to do wonders with my life. He inspired me for the time being. He was drowned one summer—was going over the lake on a stormy day to visit some sick parishioner, and the boat capsized, and he got a knock in the head which stunned him. I married not long after that."

"I think Mr. Bolland would inspire you afresh, if you were to hear him," Anstice said quietly. "He has altered my life for me since I came here—has made me see and understand as I have never done before."

Justin looked at her, then shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.

Presently he rose to his feet.

"I must go back to my work," he said. "This snow has a very sleepy effect on me. I feel inclined to laze by a fire and do nothing."

Anstice was left alone. She could not work owing to her hurt arm, so she gave herself up to thought. Her husband loomed large in the vision of her mind.

"How could one woman spoil a man's life?" she pondered. "How could she destroy his faith in God, and trust in his fellow-creatures? How could she develop such concentrated bitterness of soul? And yet with it all, how tenderness and courteousness creeps out! He's a strange mixture. I wonder if I shall ever get to know him?"

The very next morning, Anstice received an urgent invitation from Lady Lucy to come and spend a week or ten days in town with her. She said she was not very well herself, and wanted companionship.

"I know your passion for helping those in need," she wrote; "so I expect you to respond at once to my appeal. Tell Justin that he cannot keep you shut up in that outlandish part of the world all the year round, with no change at all. Now he is at home, he can take charge, and you can have a holiday. Don't dare to refuse my invitation!"

Anstice read this through at breakfast time; then handed it to him.

"You know your aunt and her ways. What am I to say?"

He read it through with a frown upon his brow.

"Do you want to go?" he asked curtly.

Anstice considered.

"I think I should like to do so. I should not stay longer than ten days. You would be here. Brenda can look after the children. The other maids all know their work. I should not be missed."

He said nothing.

Anstice gave a little laugh.

"Don't look so funereal; it is nothing to ask you for. Ten days' complete change—I won't say rest—for I know Cousin Lucy, and I am rather sceptical about her ill-health. She wants some one to racket round with her. You must remember that I have not stirred out of this house since the beginning of last June."

"There is no question of asking me about it. You know you are your own mistress, and if you like to stay away a month, you can do so without any reference to me. As you are rather hors de combat, it will be a good opportunity to go."

"Thank you. Then I will. I will resign my kingdom for the time being."

"I don't know that I shan't run up to town too, at the same time," said Justin suddenly.

Anstice looked at him with twinkling eyes.

"My dear man, that isn't playing the game! You are wanted here in my absence: you know you are! And Bob is not well yet, and there's nobody you can trust to superintend the lads over at the farm. You can go off when I come back."

Justin gazed back at her, and a glimmer of a smile came to his lips.

"I funk being snowed up here alone with these imps of children. I remember them of old."

"But you will not have them riotous now. The snow is disappearing. Mrs. Fergusson wrote to me that she hopes to be here to-morrow. They will be at lessons all the morning, and their little den occupies them, and keeps them well away from your vicinity."

"All right. You had better go. I won't make any promises, one way or the other."

So Anstice made preparations to go. The children were rather dismayed.

"You're sure you're not going to run away from us, and leave us altogether?"

Josie asked this question at the luncheon table.

"She dare not do that," said Justin.

"Why? When she gets away, she can do what she likes."

"She's made me a promise. Promises must be kept."

Anstice nodded brightly at Josie.

"Yes, I mean to come back," she said; "I told you long ago, didn't I, that nothing would drive me away."

"We don't want to drive you away, now," said Georgie; "it's much nicer when you're here. It was horrid when you were up in your bedroom."

"Thank you, Georgie."

Before she went, Anstice had a long and confidential talk with Josie.

"I'm going to make you responsible for good behaviour," she said; "but I don't want you to boss Georgie too much. Coax her; don't scold her when she wants to do anything she ought not. I want you to act as the eldest daughter of the house should. You must come down to the dining-room for breakfast whilst I am away, and pour out your father's coffee, and sit at one end of the table. Look after him, and do little things for him."

Josie giggled, but she adopted an important air.

"Oh, I'll look after things," she said airily.

Anstice gave her one or two special small duties to do in her absence, such as feeding the birds in the aviary and watering the plants, and arranging flowers for the dining-room table.

She had a good many last words to say. To Mrs. Parkin, to Brenda, to Georgie and Ruffie.

The evening before she went away, Ruffie was sitting on his father's knee in the smoking-room. She went in to tell him it was bedtime.

"Come here, Steppie," Ruffie said; "Dad is going to teach me chess. I'll be able to play when you come back."

"That will be splendid. I haven't played chess for many years, but I remember I used to be fond of it."

Ruffie held out his hand to her, and she went down on her knees at his side.

"What is it, darling?" she asked.

He had one small arm tightly round his father's neck; with an impish look in his eyes, he suddenly shot out his other arm and encircled her neck with it. Then with a swift jerk, he brought their heads close together.

"Now kiss each other," he said with his mischievous chuckle. "Why don't grown-up people kiss each other? You must. I shan't let you go till you've done it."

Justin promptly took advantage of the occasion. But Anstice, with burning cheeks, broke away from Ruffie's clutch.

The child sank back, and leaning his head on his father's shoulder said:

"Rather as'hausting that was! When I bring Josie's and Georgie's heads together, I give them a crack!"

"You're a veritable Puck," said his father, laughing.

And Anstice joined in the laugh, she could not help it.

She departed the next morning; and Justin insisted upon accompanying her in the car to Penrith Station. He got her papers, wrapped a travelling rug round her knees in a first-class compartment, and stood leaning his elbow on the window as if he were loath to let her go.

"We shall miss you," he said gravely. "You have a way with you that makes for every one's comfort. You can tell my aunt that we're very good friends, eh?"

"Yes, I think we are," said Anstice, with one of her frank sweet glances; "and if anything goes wrong, and you want me back, wire to me."

He got into the carriage for a moment before the guard came along to shut the door. And, taking both her hands in his, he bent and gave her a kiss.

"Some time I shall claim the same from you," he said; "we must show Ruffie that grown-up people do kiss sometimes."

"Dear little Ruffie," said Anstice tenderly, steering away from the topic of herself, "don't spoil him, Justin. Now, just a last word! Will you, for the sake of your little girls, go to church with them next Sunday morning? They will play truant, if you don't, and I want them to attend church regularly, to get into the habit of it whilst they are young."

"I'll see."

"I hope you will. Good-bye."

The train was off, and Justin strode away, got into the car and as he drove home was conscious of a strangely desolate feeling. Was it possible, he asked himself angrily, that this woman, whom he had only married for the good of his children and household, was stealing her way into his heart? He could honestly assure himself that he had given her no encouragement, but neither had she put forth any effort to attract him. She was always her happy natural self, and seemed as happy—perhaps happier—without him as with him.

"I've got the best of our bargain," he muttered to himself. "And I believe I have found a woman who is truly sincere."

CHAPTER III

AWAY FROM HOME

ANSTICE found her cousin, as she expected, much in her usual health. She had had a bad cold, but was getting over it, and had come up to London for the purpose of shopping combined with amusement. Anstice was taken everywhere; she found opportunity of seeing her cousins in town, who had been much astonished by the secrecy and suddenness of her marriage, and very much hurt that they had not been asked to it. She shopped a little for herself, and a great deal for Lady Lucy, and it was not till a week had passed that she got any time for a quiet talk with her old cousin.

Then one wet afternoon they sat over a blazing fire together in Lady Lucy's comfortable Early Victorian drawing-room.

"I am afraid," Lady Lucy began, "that you have been having a lonely time of it shut away with those naughty children all the lovely summer months, but now in the winter it must be worse. I do not like the country in winter. I always leave Norfolk, as you know, every October, and don't go back to it till May or June. Of course now Justin is home, it will be better. My dear, you and he must entertain a little. Have you not done so? He has some rough shooting and there's good hunting, and you could have quite a nice little house-party."

"I don't think he cares for society any more than I do."

"You are greatly mistaken. Justin has a good many friends, especially men friends, and now he is married, they will expect to be offered hospitality."

"I don't know him," admitted Anstice. Then she added impulsively: "I wish you would tell me a little more about him. We are almost strangers, remember! He has only been home for a few weeks, and we each live our own lives independently of each other."

"But that will not last. It must not, my dear."

Anstice smiled, but there was a wistful look in her blue eyes.

"There is a very hard and bitter strain in him, Cousin Lucy, which cannot be touched or broken. I feel every now and then, as if I am up against a stone wall. I agree with you that he has a heart, and has nice feelings, but they are encrusted over with this bitterness."

"He is North-country. You must remember that. They're hard and dour, something like their Scotch neighbours, very slow at showing affection or liking, but staunch and true and deep when they once let themselves go. And when they meet with disillusion or injury, unforgiving and unforgetting. That is the character of the Fell people. His father—my husband's brother—was a North-country man to the core; he was a hard, stern father, with little show of affection, and yet he idolized his son. Justin fell head over ears in love with a pretty, heartless minx, and disillusionment after marriage was his portion. He always had high ideals of womanhood and of marriage. His wife smashed these ideals to bits, and he has not yet recovered from his crash."

"Tell me more about him," said Anstice as she came to a pause.

"He has had a lonely life. Since he quarrelled with his only sister, he has had no woman to give him any help or sympathy."

"His sister? You don't mean to say he had a sister living? This is the first word I have heard of it."

"I wonder you have not come across her. Mrs. Wykeham knows her. She lives up there not so very far away. In the neighbourhood of Windermere. It's another instance of the North-country pride and rankling resentment. She was mistress of the Manor till he married. Brother and sister lived together, and she stupidly tried to stay on after the wife came. You can imagine the result. And before long, she was so rude and insulting to the bride that Justin literally turned her out of the house. She has never spoken to him since. I believe in justice. I must say that he has tried to make it up, but she is adamant. I fancy the bride was more to blame than Justin thought at the time. These family quarrels are very sad. It all accounts for the bitterness you complain of in Justin."

"I don't believe the children know that they have an aunt," said Anstice slowly. "This is all astonishing news to me."

"I rather think they have heard her name, but imagine she is dead. Of course their father would never mention her to them."

"No, I suppose not. It seems dreadful to me. I almost wish you had not told me."

"You are bound to know sooner or later. You might even come across her at some friend's house. I am not a Holme, I am glad to say. I can't understand bearing anyone a lifelong grudge. I only saw her once, a very handsome woman, pride and power in every line of her face."

"I have seen a portrait of her with him as a little girl. I always thought she must have died in infancy."

"Well, that's that, and now to talk of yourselves. You must soften him, Anstice, win him! He must be made of stone to withstand you!"

"We are very good friends," said Anstice with dignity; "he told me I could tell you that. I want nothing more at present. And when the weather gets warmer and finer, he will be off again yachting."

"I wish his yacht was at the bottom of the ocean," said Lady Lucy with warmth, "and I hope your absence now will make him see what a treasure he is despising."

"I am sure he does not despise me," said Anstice, laughing, and then she switched the conversation off to other topics.

But she thought a great deal of Justin, now that she was away from him, and wondered if she would ever be able to make him a really happy man.

One day she asked if she might have Louise over from Hampstead to tea. Lady Lucy suggested Sunday afternoon.

"I have nobody coming and you can have your protégée to yourself. I am old enough now to like to retire to my room, and have a thorough good sleep between lunch and tea."

So Louise came over. She was bright and animated, and overjoyed to see Anstice again.

"I never can thank you enough for getting me out of that hole. I think I should have gone melancholy mad had I stayed there much longer."

"I thought you might have come back to your uncle at Christmas time," said Anstice; "did you get holidays?"

"Oh yes, but winter in the Fells—at Ramdale! It is so awful! I went down to Bournemouth with my friend and thoroughly enjoyed it. How is my uncle? Do you know?"

"I wondered if you ever thought about him," said Anstice. "He is one of the pleasant surprises in the Fells. An unselfish old man who gives up his young niece for her good, and exchanges her bright society for a sad, weary, elderly person not his equal in birth, and therefore hardly a companion for him."

"I was never bright," said Louise with a shamed face; "I grumbled and glowered all the time. But I will go back at Easter, and in the summer, if he will have me; and I will try to be nice to him. Then I shall see you again, I hope."

She chatted on then about her work, and Anstice listened and sympathized. Lady Lucy appeared for tea, and then Anstice carried off Louise to evening church, to hear a noted preacher near there.

She had rather a nice little talk with her on the way home; Louise told her that she went to a very nice church at Hampstead.

"The Vicar there really makes me think, as you say your parson at Butterdale does you. I have never forgotten what you said to me and the verse you quoted, about not knowing Christ though He had been with us all our lives. And the principal of the school, Miss Jarrett, is what would be called a real earnest Christian, so you see I am being pulled towards heaven in several different ways."

Anstice talked to her in her happy natural way, and felt really thankful to find her not swallowed up in her work, or in the amusement of town life, to the exclusion of better things.

When the ten days were over, Anstice received a letter from Justin.

   "MY DEAR ANSTICE,—

   "Let us know if you arrive by the five o'clock train or the later one, and the day you come. We are all well. The small people are very fairly good—Josie had a lapse yesterday, but I must not tell tales. You will be glad to hear that we spent our Sunday in the orthodox fashion. Three of us went to church in the morning. In the afternoon, Ruffie took command, and ordered me in your chair with the Sunday Book. I was not to read it, but to tell the story as it came. I was a hopeless failure, so after struggling through a chapter of Christian's misadventures, I shut it up and told them some of my own adventures in the South Seas. I had so much domesticity on Sunday, that on Monday, I took my mare out in the morning and never came home till dusk.

   "Hunting is beginning, for the frost has gone, and I shall go out to-morrow. Old Tommy Nixon is making good, he will soon be on his feet again, and Ellen is sitting up and thanking her God for leaving her on the earth a little longer. I was over there yesterday. Now, is there anything else you want to know? Don't you let my aunt make you discontented with the Fells. They suit you down to the ground. You might bring the youngsters a table game from Gamages. Isn't there parlour croquet or some such game, which requires hands and no feet? I don't want anything in which the boy cannot join. He has now sent down the enclosed for your perusal. I am sure it will interest you more than this, so no more.

"Yours,
"JUSTIN."

This was Ruffie's letter:

   "MY DEAR STEPPIE,—

   "Come back this week. You have gone for two long, and Dad goes out and forgets us at six, so we pray you come the very day the posman givs you this letter. Josie is a beest so is Georgie, they would not dare be onceevil if I had legs to katsh them. I made them look under my chare for the new kiten wich never went ther, and then I priked ther legs with my sharpest pensil wich serve them wright, and this is telling tales wich is not a gentilman's duty, but we have all been wicket and loanley till you come back. I draw your face all over my new book, but I can not remember your exack smile. I want it badly, and I luv you next to Dad who does not tell stories like you, and the ake in my head is becorse you are not here.

"Your loving,
"RUFFIE."

Anstice replied to both these by return of post.

   "DEAR JUSTIN,—

   "I have been having a hectic time, but will keep my promise and return on the tenth day, which will be next Tuesday. Cousin Lucy is well, and we have long talks now just as we are thinking of going to bed, which is a fashion with most women, I believe.

   "I shall turn my face homewards with gladness. I have always known that I own a country soul, a soul that would soon get parched and wearied in the bustle and crush of London life. And sometimes now with the distant sound of traffic—for I'm thankful we're in a quiet square—I shut my eyes for a moment and see purple Fells against a lemon sky, and that delicious stretch of calm, cool water below them. So you see, I shall return with no laggard steps—I hope to arrive by that five o'clock train—and am bringing parcels of joy for the chicks. I am so thankful you have been over to the old Nixons. I hope you told them that, directly the weather improves, I shall be coming to see them. You will be interested to hear that I ran across Colonel Malcolm Dermot the other day, and I lunched with him and his wife at Claridges'. Now I must close—au revoir.

"Yours,
"ANSTICE."

   "MY LITTLE DARLING,—

   "What a long letter, and how tired the poor fingers must have been with holding the pen, and what a business it must have been to think of the spelling, and choose the right words, and guide the tiresome pen to put them down in proper order and without any blots!

   "I'm coming back, Ruffie, as fast as the train will take me, on Tuesday next, and I hope to arrive before bedtime. I will try to have my 'exack' smile to greet you. I am sorry there have been ructions of sorts between you young people, and that you have been both wicked and lonely, but I'll tell you a secret! I have felt lonely here, without any little head leaning against my shoulder, and eager voices shouting in my ear, 'Tell us more.' And as for wickedness, our hearts are much alike, and I'm afraid I know what it is to be wicked sometimes! We must all pray hard, and fight hard, mustn't we? How sorry I am that the little head still aches. But you have Dad with you; ask him to stroke the pain away as I try to do.

   "And now good-bye, my sweet. And give Josie and Georgie my love. I shall soon be with my dear little people again.

"Your loving,
"STEPPIE."

When Tuesday came, Anstice said good-bye to her old cousin with a light heart. Lady Lucy was not satisfied with her short visit.

"It is no time at all. Justin ought to be made to feel your absence. I hope he has been thoroughly miserable without you, but I'm afraid you left him too comfortable for that."

Anstice could not help laughing.

"Justin and I are very happy together," she said.

"I will write and tell you if he has missed me much, but I expect he has been too busy to give me a thought."

As she journeyed up North, her thoughts naturally went back to her marriage day, and to the mingled feelings of doubt and dread with which she travelled then to an unknown country and an unknown life. How different was it now! She was assured a loving welcome from the children who had tried to drive her from them; and as to her husband, she had an instinctive conviction that he was no longer indifferent to her. Whether he merely liked her because of the comfort and ease which she had brought to his home and because of her easy companionship and friendliness, remained to be seen.

When she arrived at Penrith, Justin was on the platform; he led her out to a beautiful car.

"I've just bought it," he said. "It only arrived from London yesterday. It was one I had seen with a view to purchase before I went abroad. You'll be able to use it when I am away."

"And when may that be?" Anstice asked lightly.

And he responded as lightly:

"When the fit takes me."

"All the small fry wanted to come and meet you," he went on; "but I refused to bring them. They're too much about one in the house. I like to be free of them when I can."

"Your house would be very dull without the children," said Anstice, a sparkle in her eyes.

"To you; I think I could dispense with them—perhaps not the boy."

"How is he?"

"Fairly well. His spirit never flags."

Then, as he neared the house, he put his hand on Anstice's shoulder.

"We're glad to have you back," he said. "I suppose I need hardly tell you this."

"Oh, I like to hear it," said Anstice with her soft laugh. "It's a nice welcome."

She got a very warm one from the two little girls, who dashed out on to the terrace as the car drove up.

Ruffie was in his wheeled chair by the hall fire, for it was a cold, windy evening. His tiny arms were flung round her neck.

"Have mercy, sweetest, you're throttling me," she cried, but quick tears had sprung to her eyes as she returned his eager kisses. It was nice to be loved like this, she thought.

Brenda came forward smiling to take her wraps, but Josie insisted upon accompanying her to her room, and when she got there, shut her door in Brenda's face.

"I want to speak to Steppie. You'll have to wait."

"What is it, darling?" asked Anstice, sitting down by her bedroom fire and putting her arm round the child as she drew her near to her.

Josie clasped her hands nervously.

"Has Dad told you? It was Georgie's fault. I was late one morning. I went to the aviary and was teaching Damon to say 'good morning,' and then when I went into the dining-room, there was that sneak of a Georgie sitting in my place and pouring out Dad's coffee! I told her to get out, and Dad said, 'Oh, let her stay, you were late.' So then I knocked her off her chair. I was furious, and she hit her head against the leg of the table and it bled, and Dad was furious then, and he said he would have his breakfast alone in the future and have neither of us. I told him I hated him, and so I did. But we made it up the next day, only for punishment I've never had breakfast with him again. Don't you think he's a very hard kind of father? You wouldn't have punished me like that. I was only wicked for a minute or two. I felt I would like to have kicked Georgie, but we were all right the next day, only the punishment went on for days. That isn't fair."

"Josie dear, whatever your father does is right. You don't remember that men don't like children fussing round them at breakfast time. And when you fight with Georgie, and nearly kill her—for a blow like that might have killed her—I think the punishment must be hard enough and long enough to make you remember it for the rest of your life. I am sorry for you, and sorry for Georgie, and still more sorry for your father. I hoped he would have found his eldest daughter a success whilst I was away."