Her kingdom

"We aren't going to have governesses, and we hate old women!"

"Mrs. Fergusson is not old. Do you know what turned her hair so white? Do you know that the little girls whom she taught in Russia and loved were all horribly murdered? One of them only escaped, and the horrors that she had seen and experienced sent her mad. She has never recovered her senses."

Interest was aroused at once.

"Ivan never told us that."

"No, and I don't think his mother has told him. You had better say nothing about it, I only tell you to make you feel for Mrs. Fergusson. She loved those little girls, and they loved her. They were little princesses. Don't you think if they liked Mrs. Fergusson so much that you might do the same?"

"It isn't fair to spring lessons on us."

"But didn't we agree that for a month we should try work in the morning and play in the afternoon? We are going to give it a trial."

There was silence.

Then Josie shrugged her shoulders.

"It's no good going to Ruffie to make him decide. You've got him quite over on your side. It isn't fair."

"You come over too," said Anstice, laughing; "then we shall be a very happy family."

"Did Mrs. Fergusson see the Czar being murdered? Did she see the little girls being killed?" asked Georgie breathlessly.

"No, but she heard about it, and she has seen the one poor child who is left alive."

Anstice walked away. She had announced her intentions, and thought the less discussion about it the better.

The very next morning Mrs. Fergusson appeared. She rode on a tricycle which was well known to the little girls, as they had had rides on it themselves when playing with Ivan.

Anstice had made a very comfortable room of the library. Curtains and chair-covers had been renovated, a fresh carpet put down, and the whole room cleaned and polished till everything in it looked spotless and shining. This was to be the schoolroom and only used for lessons.

The first morning of study was an undoubted success. Mrs. Fergusson never doubted for a moment her capacity to interest and teach. Her methods of doing so were entirely new to the children, and they were as clay in her hands. Anstice hardly expected to hear Josie say as she did when she came to luncheon:

"Georgie and me like Mrs. Fergusson. It doesn't seem like lessons when she teaches us."

And she was inexpressibly thankful for the result of her endeavours.

That afternoon she took a ramble over the Fells. The little girls had invited Ruffie to tea in their new sitting-room and had been busy cooking cakes and scones for the occasion.

Fond of children as she was, Anstice was sometimes glad to get away alone. Hercules, the big mastiff, had attached himself to her, and now came bounding after her as she went down the drive. The air, as she mounted higher, exhilarated her. She had a message to leave for Brenda at Hockerdale Farm, and after having a pleasant little chat with Mrs. James, went on her way to call upon an old couple who lived at the extreme end of her husband's property.

It was an isolated bit of country, down at the bottom of a little valley near a very small and picturesque lake. It was a still, warm afternoon, but there was a feeling of thunder in the air, and just before she reached the cottage, rain began to fall.

The woman opened the door to her. She had a slim, upright figure and a very pleasant, smiling face. Anstice soon saw that she and her brother had original personalities. Sister and brother had lived in the little cottage for over thirty years; the man, Tommy Nixon, as he was familiarly called, owned some sheep, a couple of cows, a pony and a sheep-dog; his sister Ellen kept poultry. Their small kitchen with its big stove and oven in the well, the thick oak beams across the low ceiling, and the quantity of treasures in brass and china and lustre on its walls, made quite a picture, and Anstice longed for an artist's pencil and brush to transfer it to paper.

"This will be a noted day for us, Mem," said Ellen, drawing a chair out for Anstice to sit on. "An' will ye be havin' a coop o' tay, fur I'm well able to gie't ye? We ha' mony a visitor t' our wee cottage, frae Americky, an' Scotland an' Ireland. We're not advertisin' nor puttin' 'tays' on a board, but we git weel spoken of frae one to anither. But 'tis not often we see the Squire's leddy nor any belongin' to him."

"I shall be very grateful for some tea," said Anstice. "How lonely you are out here! What do you do with yourselves in the winter?"

"We're never lonely," said Ellen, beaming upon her. "I havna been to a big toon fur ower five year. But there be always a lot to do. An' my hens be raal frens to me. I bake our bread and mak' t' butter, an' Tommy, he be always out aboot wi' the shaap."

"But the long winter evenings: what do you do then?"

"We leet t' lamp, an' I have ma bit sewin', an' Tommy, he has his carvin'; an' we be just very cheery a' the toime."

Then, as she bustled about, putting her kettle on, and cutting bread and butter, the old man showed with pride an old dresser which he had made out of some odd boards given him. It was most wonderfully carved. He told her he had never had a lesson in his life, but "the gift" was in the family. Anstice was shown a bird-cage made in the shape of a Swiss chalet and carved on the surface, also a chair and a box, and then he produced a bundle of walking sticks. The first one he had ever done had a most realistic snake wound round and round it, and was carved entirely with a plain pocketknife. Then he told how a gentleman came along and gave him a few tools. One of the sticks had a fox, a hare, and a rabbit, besides two stags' heads with antlers on one side of it; on the other were the hounds chasing their different quarries. And the handle was a ram's head. He told her, he sold a good many of these sticks to summer visitors crossing the Fells.

Sitting in a window-seat as he talked, Tommy looked a perfect picture of an old Westmorland shepherd, but Anstice was struck with the cheerful philosophy and contentment of the sister.

"I wish every one was as happy and contented as you are."

Her Kingdom      Book I, Chapter VI.

"So long as God be gude enou' to let us bide together, there be nothin' to complain by. Ma brither be turned seventy. If he were taken from me, t'would be a sorro'fu' daay for me, but thaat daay be not coom yet awhile. An' we ha' all we need, an' each ither, which is very pleasant. An' the visitors brighten our summer daays."

Anstice had her tea. A jug full of rich cream, some oat cakes, homemade bread and butter, and homemade jam were put before her.

"You have done me good," she said as she rose to go. "I wish every one was as happy and contented as you are. I must come up to you here, when I feel inclined to grumble."

Then with kindling eyes she added, as she shook hands with them both:

"If we both believe and trust in the Love of God, we ought never to be unhappy or afraid."

And Ellen responded with happy smile:

"Ay, Mem, that be true enow! I ha' found it sae!"

When she left them, she took a meadow path and wandered round the edge of the small lake. It seemed like a sparkling jewel set in a frame of green. On all sides the Fells rose round it, overlapping each other; those against the horizon were now blue and purple against a yellow sky. The rain had ceased, the thunder clouds had rolled away, and the lights and shadows upon the green slopes above kept Anstice gazing at them in sheer delight, till at last she reminded herself that she was a good five miles from home.

By and by she came to an old bridge across a rushing torrent of water. Here she stood for a moment watching some trout leap up, and then suddenly a car came along, and she was accosted by Mrs. Wykeham.

"My dear, what a long way from home! I have been showing my cousin some of our biggest lakes. May I introduce him to you? Colonel Malcolm Dermot. Now we will drive you home. Jump in. Malcolm is allowed to fish in your husband's preserves, so you ought to know each other."

"I can't desert Hercules," said Anstice, laying her hand on the mastiff's head. "And he is not swift enough on his legs to follow."

"He is too big to come in with us," said Mrs. Wykeham. "Let him find his way home."

"I think I must walk, thank you," said Anstice.

Then Colonel Dermot opened the car door and sprang out.

"I want to stretch my legs," he said to Mrs. Wykeham. "I'll accompany Mrs. Holme across the Fells."

"That is very nasty of you, Malcolm, to prefer Mrs. Holme's company to mine, but I'll forgive you. Good-bye, both of you."

She drove off, and Colonel Dermot turned to Anstice with a smile upon his face. He was a handsome, stalwart, grey-haired man, with energy imprinted upon his features.

"I'm not a car lover," he said; "in a country like this, one ought to walk to appreciate its beauties."

"That is how I feel," said Anstice; "I always have loved walking, and can anything be more perfect than the short springy turf on the Fells?"

They had turned off from the road now; Hercules with delight was bounding on in front of them.

"You and I must be friends," said Colonel Dermot presently; "for your husband and I have been pals for a long time. And I'm sincerely glad to find he has come to his senses at last. I've been dinning the advantages of marriage into his ears for ages, but quite ineffectually so I thought. Did you know I am godfather to his boy?"

"No," said Anstice; "then you must come and see him. Ruffie loves visitors."

She felt a little restraint in talking to this new acquaintance, for she did not want him to discover how little she knew of her husband's ways, or of his friends.

"I'll certainly look in. I'm staying about ten days with Mrs. Wykeham. She tells me that you are working wonders with those knibs of mischief—the small girls. My last experience of them was last autumn. We had a water picnic. Mrs. Wykeham invited them, because she had some grandchildren staying with her, and we all went over to have tea on the big island. We stayed there till dusk; and if you'll believe me, those imps stole down to the boats about an hour before we were leaving, and cut them adrift from their moorings. There was a strong current which took them out beyond our reach. We very nearly had to camp out that night, but we made a big bonfire and sent out signals, and young Ivan Fergusson came over to our rescue."

"I can believe anything of them," said Anstice, laughing; "but I am still hopeful that they will grow up into nice, sensible girls. It is only high spirits, and an extra fund of energy, that makes them so mischievous. And I have often noticed that the children who are pickles when they are small, are much the pleasantest men and women when they grow up."

"Why did you not accompany Justin on his voyage overseas?" said Colonel Dermot a little abruptly.

"We—we thought it better not," said Anstice after a moment's hesitation. "The Manor needs a mistress, does it not? And for the children's sake I came here."

Colonel Dermot stole a quick look at her.

"Uncommonly unselfish of you," he said. "I shall have my knife into Justin for not sending me an invite to your wedding. I always told him I would be his best man!"

"Do you know these Fells well?" Anstice asked, steering away from the difficult topic. "I am sometimes afraid of losing my way, for I have a passion for taking short cuts, and sometimes these paths are like those in 'Alice through the Looking-glass.' They give themselves a wriggle, and a shake, and land me back where I came from!"

"I shouldn't wander from the beaten track if I were you. It's easy to lose oneself, especially if a mist settles down upon you. I'm a North-countryman myself. Was brought up at a place about fifteen miles from here, near Windermere. It's sold now, worse luck; but my wife likes town and is never well anywhere else."

His face had assumed rather a bitter expression. Anstice could read between the lines of his words and felt sorry for him.

"I'm a South-country person," she said happily, "but I love the air and the sweet pungent breezes across these hills. I always feel I could go on walking for ever, and never come back. Now, as you are a native, give me the names of some of the heights in front of us."

Colonel Dermot promptly did so. When they finally reached the turning that led to Butterdale Manor, they parted, feeling that a friendship had been formed between them.

Anstice invited him over to tea the next afternoon to see his little godson, and as Colonel Dermot swung down the road away from her, he muttered to himself:

"Now where did Justin pick her up? To my certain knowledge, he did not know her three months ago, when we were in town together. And how dares he leave his bride, and go off on one of these mad voyages of his! Can't understand it. No wonder Myra Wykeham says it's a mystery. But she's a fascinating girl. I must see more of her."

CHAPTER VII

SLOWLY GAINING GROUND

COLONEL DERMOT turned up punctually at tea-time the next afternoon. It was laid in the drawing-room, and the children were invited down for the occasion. Ruffie was much excited, and when his godfather greeted him, he cried:

"We're all new here, Uncle Morky; we've new clothes, and curtains and carpets, and flowers in the 'servatory. And new servants and new governess—and—"

Here he hesitated for a moment, then added boldly: "A new mother."

"I heartily congratulate you," said Colonel Dermot.

Then he sat down by Ruffie's cushioned chair, and Josie and Georgie edged up beside him. It was easy to see that he and the children were on very friendly terms, so Anstice having a letter to write left them together, till tea was brought in by Brenda.

"What do you think of her?" Josie asked in a piercing whisper, directly Anstice had disappeared.

"I'd rather hear your opinion first," said Colonel Dermot shrewdly.

"Josie keeps saying she may be a witch in disguise," said Ruffie eagerly; "but I say she's a princess in disguise. And do you know me and she are going to make a book, and have it printed so that every one will read it? She's writing the story, and I'm doing the pictures, and she bought a little wooden figure from Penrith, which I can copy for my figures; it moves its joints any way you like to put them."

"She writes a chapter every day, and reads it to us every evening," put in Georgie; "it's ripping! We hate it when she gets up suddenly and says: 'To be continued in our next,' for that means bedtime."

"We're just trying her for a month," said Josie grandly; "if she turns out different, and gets nasty or silly like all the rest, we'll just do to her what we did to the others."

"But, you skallywag, she's not a governess but your father's wife! And now I'll tell you what I think of her. I think your Dad has picked out the most beautiful woman and the most lovable in the whole world. And if I hadn't my own dear little wife at home waiting for me, and if she were not already married to your Dad, I would pick her up and run away with her, and marry her myself before you could say Jack Robinson."

The children looked at him with big eyes. "Uncle Morky," as they always called him, was a prime favourite of theirs, and his opinion had weight in their eyes.

"We shouldn't let you take her," said Ruffie in a bristling tone. "We'd fight for her."

"Hum!" said Josie, considering. "Georgie and me aren't sure about that. We'll see when the end of this month comes."

"You don't know when you're well off! Here's Brenda coming in. What a tea! You never had teas like this when I was here last."

"It's Mrs. Parkins," said Georgie, dancing round the heavily laden tray of cakes and bread and butter which Brenda was carrying. "She sends us hot cakes and scones every day, and you're a visitor, so we have an extra lot. I think Dad would like these teas."

"He ought to be here," said Colonel Dermot emphatically. "I'll write and tell him what I think of him."

And when he got back to Mrs. Wykeham's that evening, he wrote the following letter before he retired to bed:

   "DEAR JUSTIN,—

   "I'm going to give you a thorough drubbing with my pen. What do you mean by keeping your marriage a secret from me? I've just come back from a visit to my small godson. And I can tell you the change in your place makes one sit up. You've flung a young and charming bride into our midst, as you would your line into the lake, and then you've run off and left her! Give me the key to such an enigma! She has such a dignity about her that I daren't ask inquisitive questions, but I've gathered that you met her at your Aunt Lucy's; that you must have fallen suddenly and violently in love with her, and married her on the hop. But why you've deserted her as quickly as you married her is past my comprehension! Enlighten your old pal a bit! I can tell you that she's too good a sort to be served such a shabby trick, and though she carries it off with a high hand, you're placing her in a false position. Come back, you villain, or justify yourself in the sight of—

"Yours,
"J. D."

And by the same post went Anstice's first letter to her husband. She sat for a long time at her open window with her writing pad on her knee. She had a strange shrinking from the effort, and yet she steeled herself to do it, for she felt that it was her duty to cement the band between them, and not loosen it.

She tore up three attempts.

The first was a bald statement of facts, the second an apologetic justification of all the changes which she had seen fit to make in the house, and the third an account solely and wholly of his children.

Then she tried again, and this time let her pen run on easily and pleasantly as was natural and unpremeditated.

   "DEAR JUSTIN,—

   "I promised to write to you, so I must not forget to do so. I hardly know how to begin. But I will ease your mind first about your small people. I find them quite delightful, naughtiness and all. I am still on probation as far as Josie and Georgie go, but Ruffie has surrendered absolutely, and he and I are real chums. I discovered that he was the instigator of most of his sister's pranks. His the master brain, they his willing tools. He would concoct schemes to annoy and distress the poor governesses, depict them in his wonderful notebook and the girls would carry them out with alacrity. In turning over the pages of his book and admiring his genius, I came upon several premeditated plots against myself. I laughed till I cried at some of them. I have managed to turn his genius in another direction, and he and I are going to produce a book together which will surprise you one day.

   "I have secured Mrs. Fergusson as governess. What a charming and interesting woman she is! I feel I should like to do lessons myself with her. She has asked me if she cannot have Ruffie as a third pupil. Have you any objection to this? As you cannot answer quickly, and perhaps may feel rather bored at being asked to do it at all, I think I shall make the experiment. She is too wise a teacher to overwork so fragile and precocious a brain as Ruffie's. He does remind me so much of little Paul Dombey. But as his brain is so active, I think a little schoolroom knowledge and discipline would be good for him. He is wild with delight at the prospect. If any headaches come, I will stop the lessons at once. Josie and Georgie are all the better for hard work. They have been suffering from too many idle hours. I mean to keep them both busy and happy; so busy and interested in useful occupation, that they will have no time for mischief. Their energy or dynamic force has, I hope, been directed into the right channels. I feel this is rather à la governess; but if I'm not their governess, I have come here to give them the training they need, have I not?

   "Perhaps this is enough about the children. I am revelling in your wild Fells, and sweet luscious pasture lands, they are so intermingled that one cannot separate them, and it is the combination that I find so fascinating. What has surprised me is the number of people residing round the lake. I pictured your home in the wilds; but it is nothing of the sort. They say our neighbours are mostly summer visitors, and that in the winter they shut up their houses and go South, but I have come across several who do not do this. I have been to lunch with your old friend Mrs. Wykeham; I have made acquaintance with Colonel Dermot, who naturally is very curious over our marriage. I shall become a very good dissembler, for I have to parry and evade many an awkward question.

   "At present, I am content to be out of society. The Fells and lake when I want quiet meditation; the children when I want active recreation; and the house and its needs when I want work, are enough for me. And for friends, I have Mrs. Fergusson, whom I think a most charming personality; and lastly, but not least, our Rector, Mr. Bolland. I went to see his wife yesterday. They are new-comers, so you do not know them. She reminds me of a robin. Very small, very cheerful, with bright dark eyes and a small brown head. She is quite an invalid, and is on her back for years, if not for life. She is full of schemes for the good of the parishioners, and has enlisted me as her ally. But to the Rector, I owe a deep debt of gratitude, for without turning myself inside out, I may tell you that the whole pivot of my life has been changed since I came here, and it is through words of his that it has been done. I was beginning to worry over the training of your small people. Now I feel I need never worry again over anything!

   "Is this a very egoistical letter? I hope not, for I must realize that my private life is of no moment to you. I have asked Bob Falkland if he has any message to send you, but all is going well. Eliza gives us a couple of hours help every morning. This may not be necessary when I get our full staff of domestics. Ruffie encloses one of his latest pictures. It represents us down by the lakeside on Sunday afternoon. Admire his colouring of water and Fells! He is a born artist, and if spared to grow up, should be able to do something really good. Now have I given you all the news you desire? And how am I to sign myself?

"Just
"ANSTICE HOLME."

*      *      *      *      *

Colonel Dermot was a constant visitor at the Manor during his short stay at the lakes.

One day he took Anstice and the children on the lake in a small motor launch belonging to the Wykehams; another day he went off for a nine-mile walk over the Fells with Anstice; he came to lunch; he came to tea; and when he finally left the neighbourhood, he paid his farewell visit after dinner.

It was a most lovely evening, and he and Anstice strolled down to the lake and sat beside it.

"I can't picture you here in the winter," he said, "but I suppose Justin will be back before then."

"He went for a six months' cruise. That will bring him back in time for Christmas," said Anstice.

"You must cure him of his restlessness."

"Well, I don't know," said Anstice thoughtfully; "it is not much of a life for him here. The farm is too small to give him occupation, the estate is not much bigger. He is not old enough to settle down here for good and all, and the love of the sea is not easily eradicated."

"Up to now he has not had much to keep him here. His house has not been his home."

"Perhaps not."

Anstice was sitting, gazing out dreamily over the lake. And Colonel Dermot, peculiarly susceptible to woman's charm, again wondered at Justin's desertion.

Anstice's grace and beauty, and her strong personality, had made a very deep impression on him.

He suddenly said:

"How much, how well do you know each other, I wonder?"

Anstice laughed.

"Ah! That's our secret," she said. "I am not going to dissect my husband's character. But I agree with you that he has had a miserable home here for years."

"And it has warped and twisted his whole being," said Colonel Dermot. "As a youngster, he was a radiant specimen of youth and high spirits. Marriage in his case was his undoing. I was abroad for three years, and could not believe when I saw him that such a transformation in character could be effected in so short a time."

"Perhaps it was only on the surface," said Anstice.

"No, the bitterness had gone deeper than that. You women have much to answer for. But I knew his wife as a girl, and was not surprised. I'm telling you this for old Justin's sake, as he's not such a bad chap at heart."

"I'm quite aware of that."

The amusement in Anstice's eyes drove Colonel Dermot to an apology.

"I'm so confoundedly glad that you and he came together that I'm letting my tongue run away with me. But you mustn't shut yourself away from people as you do. It's cruel on them. We haven't too many charming acquaintances round. And housekeeping and nursery talk can't satisfy a woman with such gifts as yours."

"Oh, come! What gifts have I? I can talk and laugh, and listen, not much else."

"Do you want the truth from me?"

Something in his tone and look made Anstice say hastily:

"No, I think not. And I know my own limitations. I feel friendly disposed towards every one, but I've a certain amount of home duties which cannot be neglected. I came here to do certain things in my husband's absence. I do not want to be hindered from carrying out my plans."

"Don't be too conscientious," advised Colonel Dermot. "Let your natural impulses have a chance."

They talked on together. He found her elusive directly he tried to get to close quarters, and when he got up to go, he sighed heavily.

"I think I must come down in the autumn and have some more rambles over the Fells with you. Perhaps when you have tasted real loneliness, you will be kinder to me."

"I could not be kinder than I feel at present," replied Anstice with her frank, sweet smile; "as my husband's old friend, and Ruffie's godfather, I look upon you as my friend also, and shall always be glad to see you when you are in our neighbourhood. Good-bye."

She gave him her hand, which he deliberately raised to his lips, and as he strode away, he murmured to himself:

"I wish I had the power to penetrate her outer crust. She is too warm-blooded a creature to be so sweetly indifferent. If Justin does not appreciate her, he will find that others do."

When Anstice met Mrs. Wykeham a few days later, she was chaffed lightly upon her friendship with the Colonel.

"He has spent most of his time with you, and if you were not both suitably married, I should say you were made for one another."

"He is my husband's friend," protested Anstice, "and my husband's friends will always, I hope, be mine."

Her quiet dignity and ease of manner stopped Mrs. Wykeham's banter.

"Well, my dear, I consider myself one of your husband's oldest friends, so I expect to see more of you than I have done already. I am giving a garden-party next Thursday. Don't give me any excuses, but come."

"Thank you. I will."

But when the day came, Anstice felt loath to meet her neighbours. One or two had already called, and each visit had been somewhat of a strain. She was really delighted to see the heavy clouds roll up from the Fells, and come down in a steady downpour at three o'clock and onwards. Loneliness had no terror for her. She was perfectly content with her simple, lonely life. And for the present she much preferred being out of all social festivities.

A little later she agreed to play the organ for the Sunday services. Josie and Georgie were quite willing to sit by her side. Josie especially took the greatest interest in the organ, and even asked to attend the choir practices. She was passionately fond of music, and was getting on splendidly under Mrs. Fergusson's tuition. Their behaviour was blameless for the first two Sundays, and then Josie's love of mischief got the better of her. In the middle of the Venite, she got behind Anstice, put out her hand, and pulled out a very loud stop. The result was an awful blast of sound, and a shocked congregation.

Anstice's face was really stern as she turned to Josie when the service was over.

"Did you think it fine to disgrace yourself and me by such a feat?" she asked her when they were walking home.

Josie grinned.

"She'd better not go to church any more," said Georgie with alacrity, "and I'll keep her company at home."

"I think her disgrace would be then complete," said Anstice gravely. "A girl of ten years old who does not know how to behave in church, and has to stay at home lest she should prove a nuisance to the congregation, is indeed to be pitied."

Not a word more did she say. But for the rest of the day she ignored Josie, never speaking to her at all. And this was such a new procedure that Josie was first indignant and then repentant. At bedtime, it was Anstice's custom to visit them each in turn for a good night kiss. The little girls slept together in two small beds. On this Sunday night Anstice went to Georgie's bed as usual, but having wished her good night, she looked as if she were going to walk straight out of the room without noticing Josie at all. And then she seemed to alter her mind, and came to the foot of the child's bed. For a moment Josie raised a defiant head from her pillow.

"Have you anything to say to me?" Anstice asked.

"You're in a temper with me. I don't care!"

Down went the dark curly head under the clothes.

Anstice turned away, and left the room, but her heart was aching for the rebellious child, and later on she visited the bedroom again. Georgie was fast asleep, and so at first she thought was Josie; but when she gently removed some of the bedclothes, she found a hot, tear-stained face pressed close against the pillow.

Very gently she caressed the dark hair.

"My darling," she said, "do tell me what I want to hear."

And then Josie sprang up and surprised her by clasping her tightly round the neck.

"Don't be against me! I'm sorry. I'll never do it again."

Anstice held her in her arms and her kiss of forgiveness was very tender.

"We will forget all about it. But don't be mischievous in God's House again. You would not play tricks if you were taken inside Buckingham Palace to see the King and Queen. And church is a more important place than any king's palace. It belongs to God, who is the King of Kings."

Then she kissed her, and left her, but there was no fear of Josie behaving badly in church again.

Anstice was slowly but surely winning the children's love, and her displeasure was already more to be feared in their eyes than any punishment.

CHAPTER VIII

A LONELY GIRL

ONE day Anstice took one of her long rambles over the Fells. Rain had kept her in the house for over a week. She felt that mentally and physically she needed a change of environment. Holidays were coming soon, and then she knew that she would be much less free to absent herself for hours from her household.

The clear air and fresh mountain breezes braced and refreshed her. Hercules accompanied her, and with him as companion, she never felt lonely. She wanted to reach a certain remote lake which she had been told was very picturesque, so she started early in the morning and took a packet of sandwiches with her. She had to get across to the other side of the lake before she started up the Fells. Stephen rowed her across in the boat, and promised to come over again to row her back about three o'clock in the afternoon.

It was a grey day, but the glass was high, and Anstice preferred a cool day to a sunny one. Now as she trod the soft, springy turf and mounted higher and higher, she felt as if all her difficulties and household cares had flown away. Curlews wheeled about above her head, but save for the bleating of the sheep across the Fells, no other sounds disturbed her. She crossed a high ridge, then descended into a valley. Her path wound in and out at the bottom, under the shadow of high crags above her, and as she went on and on, it seemed to get wilder and more desolate. Once or twice, pedestrians crossed her path. Two youths with knapsacks on their backs directed her towards the lake of which she was in quest. The Fells on each side of her seemed to be gradually narrowing the valley, and then a sudden turn brought her in sight of her goal.

There the water lay, surrounded by green walls of wooded heights; behind were the purple mountains. A small white farm-house on one side and two cottages on the other were all the signs of human habitation. Then as she went on down a green lane arched over by hanging trees, she came upon a tiny grey rough-stoned house, and about ten minutes farther on, a minute stone church, nestling amid splendid old yews. She had heard of the quaint mediæval church, so went inside. The plain dark oak roof and walls, and the massive oak beams supporting the roof—trunks of large trees rough-hewn into shape, and the cushioned seats circling round the altar rails, all delighted her artist's soul.

She wondered how many of the scattered homesteads on the Fells and in the valley congregated within it on Sundays.

Then she returned to the lake, and sitting down on a green bank, determined to have a good rest before she returned home. She ate her sandwiches and gazed about her. The extreme solitude of the place struck her afresh, and then suddenly she was aware of some one in her proximity. A young girl was sitting amongst the bracken a short way from her, with her back against an old gnarled oak. Anstice afterwards wondered what had made her speak to her. But an impulse for which she could not account made her rise and walk over to her.

"Excuse me, but do you know where I could get a glass of milk?"

The girl started and jumped up. She was a slim, dark-haired maiden, with fresh colouring, but with refined and delicate features. Her shabby gown and rather untidy hair made Anstice at first take her for some farmer's daughter, but directly she spoke, Anstice discovered her mistake.

"I think I can give you some milk, if you will follow me. The farm is the other side of the lake, but it is only a quarter of an hour's walk round the head of it."

She led the way to the small stone house near the church.

"This is the vicarage. My uncle is the vicar. Will you come in?"

"It's very good of you, but I did not mean to trouble you like this."

The vicarage inside was dark, and to Anstice seemed depressing. The small sitting-room into which she was ushered was almost monastically furnished. A narrow oaken refectory table was in the centre, and three or four straight-backed chairs were against the wall. A sideboard and two bookshelves in a recess were all the furniture that was in it. The walls were grey, the matting underfoot was a dingy brown. A churchman's almanac was hung against the wall, and one sacred picture depicting the Crucifixion was over the fireplace. The girl had left the room, but soon returned with a glass of milk upon a tray, and a slice of plain currant cake.

"How kind of you! What a beautiful spot you live in!"

The girl gave a short bitter laugh, and her thick dark brows contracted fiercely.

"Beautiful! It's prison to me! I hate it. I was wishing just now I could slip into the lake and get away from it for ever."

Anstice was startled.

"I don't know which I dislike most," the girl went on impetuously, "the lake, or the mountains, or this house. Visitors come and spout poetry, and rave about the beauty of it all. I wish they knew what it was to live here year in and year out, away from civilization, at the back of beyond."

"Tell me about yourself," said Anstice gently. "Shall we come outside again? Have you the time to spare?"

"I have time," the girl responded. "I have nothing to do. I sit outside in the summer-time and watch the visitors come and go. I used to offer to show them the church, but some of them spoke to me so rudely and seemed to think I was dogging their steps to get tipped, that I gave it up. Yes, let us come out, this house is too awful!"

"It seems a dear, quaint little dwelling," said Anstice, hardly knowing what to say; "and as for your church, the age of it alone is entrancing. It is like a nest of tranquillity amongst the trees."

"I believe it's one of the smallest churches in England," said the girl indifferently, "and the vicarage suits it. There isn't room to swing a cat in it! But it's big enough for my uncle. He lives in his study all day."

"And do you live alone with him? It must be dreary for you in the winter."

"I came here when I was seventeen, with my mother. My father was killed in the War just before Armistice Day, and we had very little money, and she was delicate and did not like the London fogs. I was at school at St. Paul's; I meant to teach, but my mother needed me, and I could not leave her. She was all I had, and we loved each other. She liked the quiet and peace of this, but she only lived two years after we came, and then I felt desperate, but I did not like leaving uncle. He is old and not very strong and very absent-minded."

"And now he relies upon me for everything, but it is stagnation! I don't know why I'm telling all this to a stranger. It's your face which encourages me. I never talk to people of my own class. I'm sick of the tourists. And I know no one—only the farmers and a few of the cottagers, and I've used them up long ago. I'm getting desperate, for the summer soon goes, and the rain begins, and the mist and the gales and I'm stifled! Shut into that little hole of a vicarage, without any hope or chance of escape!"

They were walking towards the lake as they talked, and the girl waved her hand towards the mountains that seemed to tower above them.

"Those are my enemies," she said; "I have learnt to hate them. They're grim sentinels between me and the world. They're crushing the life out of me. I rebelled at first, but I am past caring now."

"But this is all wrong," said Anstice; "if you feel like this, surely your uncle won't wish to keep you?"

"I am his housekeeper. We have only a rough girl to do the charing. Mother made me promise not to leave him. I think she did not know how utterly lonely it would be for me without her. He was her only brother. As long as he lives, I must live here with him. It's a gloomy, eerie place, this head of the lake! Only the yews seem to flourish, and they're trees of death, that's what I call them. Let me grumble on, it does me good. You will go your way and forget all about me."

"No, I can't do that," said Anstice firmly; "we have been drawn together for some good purpose. Are you a good walker?"

"Yes, I have to be. We keep no car—no trap, not even a boat. Uncle Edgar is quite content to trot round to his parishioners on his own feet. He is writing some theological book which will never be published, but it keeps him busy and content."

"Then you will have to walk over to me at Butterdale Manor. You must come early to lunch, and have a good rest and talk. Not to-morrow, for I shall have to go out to tea, but the next day. Will that suit you?"

The girl stood still, and regarded her with astonishment.

"But we don't even know each other's names," she said. "And you can't want to continue this scraped up acquaintance."

"My name is Anstice Holme," said Anstice, smiling at her. "My husband is away just now, and I and the children are alone. I do want to know you and be your friend, if you will let me. You are too young to be so unhappy and so bitter."

"I have had cause," the girl answered. "Perhaps I will tell you one day. My name is Louise Repton. I should of course like to come and see you. I would walk twenty miles to have another talk like this. The very pouring out of my troubles has done me good. I expect you will be disgusted at my want of reticence, but you came across me at one of my worst times, and I have just let myself go! It has all been I—I—I! But I have no larger circle than my own to think of!"

Then she added eagerly:

"Could you not come back and have tea with me? Don't leave me just yet."

"But I am afraid I must. It is a long walk back, and my chicks would wonder where I was. We will resume our talk the day after to-morrow, and see if we cannot snatch a few golden gleams out of your monotonous life. Good-bye."

She laid her hand affectionately on the girl's shoulder.

"Cheer up! After all, you have youth and health and strength, and intellect. Those are all precious gifts. But I won't preach. Do you think you will find your way across the Fells to Butterdale?"

"Yes, I have been there once. There was a grand Fête for church schools, and my uncle and I both attended it. It was held at Helvellyn Towers."

"At Mrs. Wykeham's. That is eight miles from us. We are on the lake about five miles this side of Helvellyn Towers. You never walked there surely?"

"No, we went in a char-à-banc. But I shall find my way all right."

They parted, and Anstice, with her faithful attendant Hercules, set off homewards. She felt as if her steps had been directed to that lonely little spot in the Fells where a young life was being crushed by the isolation of her environment.

Anstice was a born helper of all the unhappy and helpless. From a child, she had loved anything that was weak or sick, from animals upwards. Her heart was big, and her sympathy unfailing. She mused upon the difference of characters.

"What I was loving so, she was hating," she murmured to herself. "But even I, fond as I am of the still, tranquil solitudes of these valleys amongst the Fells, would get hipped and depressed, if I had to be shut up in them through the long wet winters here, and youth and age living together do not make for congeniality. I must concoct some plans for her welfare."

She was rather tired when she reached home. Brenda exclaimed when she told her where she had been.

"'Tis too far for you, ma'am, 'deed 'tis. And I always think that Ramdale be a terrible gloomy place. I had a nephew who was courting with a farmer's daughter over yon, and he said most o' the folk seemed asleep, and only concerned wi' their own selves."

"That's not uncommon in busy towns, Brenda; we're all apt to get like that."

She made quite a story of her wanderings to the children that evening. Ruffie insisted upon being taken to the window to see the Fells over which she had climbed. And then gazing ecstatically at the purple mountains, he said softly:

"I should like, oh I should like to be lifted up to the top of one. Perhaps when I'm a man I can go in an aeroplane. Dad said I might. I've never, never been higher than the ground by the lake."

"We've climbed a part of Helvellyn once," said Georgie proudly; "Dad took us in his car, and we were out the whole day."

"I don't see why," said Anstice slowly, "Ruffie should not go up into the Fells one day. I shall try and think of a way."

Ruffie's eyes sparkled.

"You can do anything, Steppie; you're like a magic fairy. You see, I'm too big to be carried a long way now. People get tired."

But his wistful voice remained in Anstice's mind, and the very next morning she was writing to a certain firm in town, asking them to send her down two large wicker panthers suitable for a pony to carry young children in.

Louise turned up in two days' time about half an hour before lunch. Anstice took her into the drawing-room, which was now a most charming spot. The conservatory was full of flowers, and a small aviary at one side of it was the children's constant joy. A pair of doves, two lovebirds, four canaries, and various small foreign birds were at present the happy family in it.

Louise drew a long breath as she stood in the middle of the room.

"This is a perfect Paradise," she said. "If I had such a room to live in, I suppose I should not be so susceptible to the outside scenery."

"I have had a considerable amount of effort and work over this," said Anstice. "I do believe in having a bright atmosphere inside a house wherever you are, especially with children. But you could do a good deal with your vicarage if you chose. Are you fond of flowers?"

"I suppose I am not. I never have any in the house. They are too much bother. I have just let everything go. I am glad you did not see the other room where I sit. It has a piano, a round table and three chairs. There are three pictures on the walls which are colour-washed like those in the dining-room. I have about half a dozen books, and my work-basket. My uncle has never had any money to spend on knick-knacks or comforts. He would be happy in a monk's cell, and I have given up asking for things that I know the house requires."

"I have a lot of suggestions to make to you, but we will wait till after lunch."

Louise felt as if she were in a dream. The dainty lunch, the little girls' chatter at it, and Anstice's happy charm in making all feel pleased with themselves, made her long to stay in such an atmosphere for ever.

When the meal was over, Anstice took her to her private sitting-room. It had been a very dull apartment before Anstice had taken it in hand. Now it was perfectly charming, with its fresh chintzes and soft cream-papered walls. Flowers and potpourri pots and some delicate old china adorned the mantelshelf, and the top of a low book-case in a recess by the fireplace. A work-table and writing-desk showed that the room was for use as well as for rest. A couch was drawn up under one window, two easy chairs were in the other, and Anstice, now gently putting Louise in the most comfortable chair, seated herself opposite her. From the open window in front of them was wafted in the scent of the new-mown hay in the park, whilst the children's happy voices, as they played about in it, brought a smile to Anstice's face.

Louise's lips quivered, then suddenly she lowered her head, and began to sob.

"I wish I was a child again. I wish I had a mother living. I am so utterly alone."

"I suppose your uncle is wrapped up in his books?" asked Anstice gently. "But has he no visitors? My experience of country vicarages is that there are always people coming and going."

"We never have any visitors. Our church and parish seem so far away from any others that we are completely forgotten and ignored."

Then, as she talked on, Anstice soon learnt the real cause of the girl's bitterness. In the sorrow of her soul she poured it into her ears. It was a pitiful little love story. One day, as she had been polishing the brasses in the tiny church, a stranger with a camera had walked in. He had asked questions about the neighbourhood which Louise had been able to answer. They had walked about together, had become very friendly, and then as he was lodging at a farm near, and had fishing rights in the lake, they met again the next day. He was handsome and plausible; he amused himself by flattering her and drawing out her best qualities. She, simple girl as she was, fell headlong in love with him. And after three weeks of love-making, she considered herself engaged to him. He was going back to London; they had a mutual friend there, a school friend of hers, a fellow art student with him. He seemed to be a dabbler in many things. He did a little journalism, a little painting, sent his photos to a Black and White Magazine, and was author of a small book of poems. When he had gone, she felt her life a blank, but looked forward to his letters. She received one, and then no more. After two months of agonized waiting, she heard through her friend that he was engaged to another girl, and had alluded to his time down at the Lake end as an "amusing episode." Then the iron entered into her soul, and Anstice saw that even now, after four years had passed, the blow was still heavy.

She put her arms in a motherly fashion round the girl.

"Oh, Louise," she said, "life is bigger than you think it. The time will come when you too will look back, and treat the past as only an episode. You have done nothing dishonourable; we women often love and trust too much. Put it from you, dear. And now listen! I have a dozen schemes for your good. How would it be to advertise for a paying guest? Londoners would revel in your quiet, tranquil little nook, and many a hard-worked girl would love the seclusion of your life. It would be an interest to you for all the summer months. You might even find some one who would like to stay the winter with you."

"Oh no, that would be impossible. And uncle will not have visitors. Indeed, they would not stay a day. We are very poor, and our food is the very simplest. I have not the means to make them comfortable. I did think of it once, but Uncle Edgar would not hear of it."

"Well, if you are badly off, could you not have 'Teas' for visitors? The hotel farther on is being shut up, I hear. It would be rather fun for you, and teas are quite easy to manage. Let me tell you of an old couple who live in another lonely part of the Fells. The sister told me she was never lonely nor unhappy. That the visitors who came for her teas brightened her life."

Anstice went on, giving an account of old Tommy Nixon and his sister.

Louise listened, but her face did not lighten; she only shook her head.

"Uncle Edgar wouldn't allow it—I know he would not."

"Then I shall try and get you a wireless set, that will amuse and interest you during the winter; and you must come over to me as often as you can. I wish you would take up gardening; that would occupy and interest you all the summer. I am quite certain that a busy life is what you want."

"I might try flowers," said Louise doubtfully; "but the truth is, I don't care about anything enough to take trouble over it."

"No, I suppose you don't. And my suggestions are only surface ones. They don't touch your depths. Will you let me do a little probing? You see, we are comparative strangers. I want to help you, if I can. I know what you really need, at least I think I do. I know what would give you a fresh start and new vision of life. For I have only lately got it myself, and I am longing for every one I know to have it."

Louise looked at her with interest, Anstice put her hand on her shoulder.

"Tell me, dear, is your religion a real joy and comfort to you, or is it only an empty form?"

"An empty, unsatisfying form," said Louise with bitter emphasis. "Church bores me; uncle's sermons bore me. I sometimes wish I had been born a heathen, for I should be free then to do as I like and to live as I like, without any compunction."

Anstice was silent for a moment, then she said:

"I wonder if I can say anything to help you. Every one is helped in a different way. Tell me, does this verse convey anything to you? 'Have I been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not known Me?'"

"I know it as a Bible verse," said Louise slowly.

"I heard a sermon on it the first Sunday I was here," Anstice said; "and it came home to me with great force. So much so that it has altered my whole life. My inside life I mean—though I hope that affects my outward one. I had grown-up with the love of God surrounding me and mine, but I never knew Him; least of all had I any love and real personal knowledge of our Saviour—I think if you were to get real peace and happiness in your soul, you would not find your lonely, monotonous life so irksome."

Louise seemed impressed for a moment, then she shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't think I want real religion to seize hold of me. I am matter-of-fact—not visionary! I don't want to be content with my stagnant life. You can only be young once, and I feel the years are slipping away. I want to live, to enjoy, even if I have to work for enjoyment."

"But does fretting and chafing against your circumstances remedy them? Does it make you happier?"

"No one has such an awful life as I have!"

Anstice laughed, but it was a tender laugh.

"Oh, you dear child!" she said. "If only you knew how many girls spend their youth toiling and slaving for others! Some, nursing invalid parents, taking care of brothers and sisters, never able to have a bit of enjoyment themselves. There are hundreds of brave, unselfish girls in the world, they are heroines, though the world is unconscious of their courage and patience and self-denial."

"Look at poor little Ruffie here! I often marvel at his patience and cheerfulness. Doomed to be crippled and helpless all his life, and if he is spared to manhood, deprived of all the powers that make manhood desirable. How would you like to be stretched on your back, and know that you would have to lie there till you die?"

Louise shuddered, then she put out her hand protestingly.

"Be kind to me! Be a little sorry for me! I suppose I have an entirely selfish outlook, and you are disgusted with my grumbles. I am not one of those unselfish, uncomplaining heroines you talk about. I never could be. But if I was in different circumstances, I should be a much pleasanter person. I know I should. Happiness is like the sun amongst the flowers; it would make me open my heart to others, but I've had so little of it, and I want to be happy! I want to be happy!"

Anstice was silent for a moment, then she said slowly:

"That is the cry of all of us. We are made to be happy. We are meant to be happy even in this world of sorrow and sin. But we don't know what will give us real happiness. Outside prosperity—we'll call it happiness—is so fluctuating and fleeting. I think you'll live to see this come true in your experience, Louise. But I have preached enough to you. Now shall we have a row on the lake?"

"I must be getting back. Uncle will think I have run away. Don't think me a selfish, ungrateful pig; don't give me up as hopeless because I don't want to turn religious! You've done me such a lot of good. It is heaven to sit here with you, and talk!"

"My dear Louise—you see I'm calling you by your Christian name in a very familiar way—I don't intend to let go of you. I can tell you that! If you really must go, I will take you down to the other end of the lake, we will row there together. It will save you a good bit of walking. And I'm going to give you a big bunch of roses, if you can carry them. I want you to put them in your sitting-room. I am sure they will do you good. If you don't find the long walk too fatiguing, come over to me next Thursday, will you? And if you will get a little bit of ground ready in your garden, I can give you ever so many plants. We are weeding out our herbaceous borders. Will you start a little flower garden? You don't know how fond you may get of it!"

For the rest of her visit, they only talked of pleasant things. Anstice lent her a book and she took away a lovely bunch of roses.

They had a delicious row on the lake, and when Anstice returned after seeing her well on her way home, she did not feel altogether dissatisfied with the visit. She knew that fresh interests would be a great boon to the lonely girl. She was content to wait and pray for the deeper change, which she wanted to bring into her life.

CHAPTER IX

LOUISE'S DEPARTURE

   "DEAR ANSTICE,—

   "Many thanks for your letter and all your news. I don't doubt that you're working wonders in my household. I shall be duly grateful on my next visit home. Out here, my house and estate, and children all seem vague and shadowy. But I like to hear of you all, so keep me posted with details. You seem pretty experienced with children, so I'll leave you to deal with Ruffie's education. I'm sure the little scamp won't be too industrious. I have had the misfortune to damage my boat rather seriously in a storm we came into two days ago, so we're going on shore for repairs. This will delay me. I am glad you have made Malcolm Dermot's acquaintance. He and I have been pals for many a long year. I really don't understand why any awkward question may crop up. You have married a rover—and you knew it when you did it. I have known other married men who are both travellers and big game hunters. It is not unusual. Perhaps our speedy marriage was unusual—I even acknowledge a good bit of selfishness on my side; but you seem to be getting some degree of comfort and enjoyment out of it, and I hope you'll continue to do so.

   "And tell the kind friends who ask inquisitive questions, that you have a selfish brute of a husband who is not over-fond of children's racket, and doesn't take to domesticity, but that you are not pining for his society, and prefer to be without him. Isn't this the plain truth? Let them swallow it, and say no more. Tell the youngsters, I'll bring them back a parrot according to Ruffie's request, but as to whether it will talk or not is at present unknown to me.

"Yours,
"JUSTIN H."

Anstice read this first letter from her husband, and drew a little sigh. She had not expected more from him; and yet it left her with the feeling that he was farther away than ever. Then she folded up the letter and put it into her Davenport. Her occupation for the day crowded out all thoughts of an indifferent husband. She had at last got a satisfactory wicker chair made for Ruffie, and this was going to be strapped on to the steady old cob, who was a mountain pony, bred and born amongst the Fells, and consequently surefooted.

Ruffie's delight and astonishment when the cob was brought round to the door for his inspection was very great. Brenda carried him down, and then soft cushions were put into the little chair, and he took his first ride down the drive. He declared it did not shake him at all and wanted to go up the Fells then and there, but Anstice would not allow that.

A week later, when he was found to be no worse for the motion, she and the little girls took him up the lane at the back of the house and up the nearest Fell.

The little boy's joy was unbounded, and when he finally reached the summit of rather a small height, he sat looking out at the views below him with rapturous eyes.

"I've never been above the earth before," he said. "What a lot you can see! I s'pose in Heaven they can see all the world at once. That's why God can see everybody."

"Isn't he ridic'lus!" laughed Georgie.

But Anstice did not think him so, and Ruffie was totally indifferent to his sister's opinion of him.

Two days later, Anstice reminded them that the month was up. She told the little girls this at the luncheon table.

Josie nodded gravely.

"Yes, me and Georgie made a tick in our calendar. Ruffie said we weren't to say anything about it, but we meant to. We aren't going to do what Ruffie says."

"Well, is it necessary to have another pow-wow?"

"Oh yes, that's fun! May we have it to-night?"

"Certainly. At six o'clock."

"I don't mean to paint up so much," Georgie announced. "It hurts scraping it off!"

So that evening the pow-wow was held, and the fire was lighted in the library, and three earnest-faced children sat round it with Anstice.

Josie was the first one to speak.

"We don't want to fight you," she said; "and you've given us a lot of nice things. Ruffie has got his chair, and Georgie and me our sitting-room, and our lessons aren't half bad now. I think we'll go on as we are."

"Yes," nodded Georgie. "You aren't always running after us like the governesses used to do. You let us get away from you sometimes. But we want you to promise us that in the holidays we can do exactly as we like."

"What does Ruffie say?" Anstice asked.

For answer, Ruffie wriggled closer to her and laid his head on her shoulder.

"I love you," he said; "and I don't care if all the world knows it! I don't want you ever to leave us."

Anstice felt tears rising to her eyes.

"My darlings!" she said. "Yes, I call you all darlings, because you are. I don't mean to leave you. I want you to be as happy as children can be. I shan't be hard on you in the holidays, Georgie. If you get into scrapes, you must learn by experience that scrapes mean trouble to you or to others. Tell me if you can what you want to do, and I'll meet you as far as I can. And I'll try and make the holidays a really jolly time."

After the pow-wow was over Josie got Georgie into a corner.

"It's no good," she said, "trying to go against her. And the funny thing is that I don't want to. When did you first begin to like her, Georgie?"

"It was one day when I called out to her, and she said: 'What is it, darling?' Nobody had ever called me 'darling' before. I felt I could hug her when she said it!"

"Yes, I s'pose it's because we feel she really likes us, and loves a bit of fun."

As for Anstice, she was inexpressibly thankful that she had managed to win the liking if not love of these troublesome children. Her Sunday readings and talks she felt was an opportunity for sowing seed in the soft ground of childish hearts, and though she never expected to turn them into perfect children, she did seem to see a softening impression upon their characters.

She found her time fully occupied through these long summer days. Louise was a regular weekly visitor. She had taken a violent, almost schoolgirl adoration for Anstice, and though she was not willing at present to discuss religious matters with her, she was, in other respects, as clay in her hands.

She had started a garden, and it was taking hold of her: she was reading with avidity all the books that Anstice could lend her, and her outlook on life was happier. She had been to see old Tommy Nixon and his sister, and confessed that their cheery content did her good.

"But," she said, "they are old, and I am young. And the woman has outgrown all restlessness."

One day she invited Anstice over to lunch. Her uncle smartened himself up for the occasion, and struck Anstice as being a courteous scholar of the old school. He and she discussed books together, for Anstice had always been a great reader, and Louise said afterwards that her uncle had talked more that day in an hour than he had done for a year when only with her.

Anstice was gradually increasing her circle of acquaintances. Colonel and Mrs. McInnes, who were regular church-goers, were very friendly. Their daughters for a time held aloof; then, when they found Anstice a good tennis player, persuaded her to come over sometimes to play with them. There were a certain amount of summer visitors who were making the neighbourhood quite gay. Anstice went to one or two garden-parties and some local Fêtes and Flower-shows, but she preferred being quiet at home.

When the holidays began, she had a tennis-court marked out on the smooth level lawn, and instituted tennis as a pastime for the little girls. They took to it at once, and it kept them out of mischief. Picnics on the Fells, and on the lake; expeditions with the pony taking Ruffie, ending up with farm-house teas, and occasional children's parties at home—these all filled up the holiday time, and made life enjoyable.

So the summer passed, lessons began again, and then came a wet spell of autumn mists and rain.

Louise did not appear for three weeks, then Anstice heard she was ill, and one day when the rain seemed to have cleared, she tramped over the Fells herself to see how she was.

She found her in bed with bronchitis; she had narrowly escaped pneumonia, and was lying very weak and dispirited. When she saw Anstice come into the room, she looked up with real interest. For days, her uncle said she had lain, saying nothing, and only taking food from the little maid, Mary, who waited upon her.

"Oh," she said in a weak voice; "I have wanted you so much. I thought I was going to die, and I was almost glad, and then I began to get frightened and I prayed that I might be given another chance. But I have been so lonely and miserable, and the rain has beaten against my windows and the wind howled in the chimneys, and I felt as bad as I did before you came!"

"My poor child!"

Anstice laid her hand caressingly against her cheek.

"If you did not live so far off, I would bring our trap over and drive you home with me. I think I must get a car to come over for you. Wrapped up, you would not hurt. That is if your uncle can spare you. But you are not much good to him tucked away up here. I think I must go down and consult with him."

A hot flush came into Louise's pale cheeks. Such a vista opening out before her, as a visit to Butterdale Manor, was enough to fill her with fresh hope and courage. She lay patiently in her small bed, awaiting Anstice's return. She was a good half-hour away, and when she came up, she smiled at the invalid in a very reassuring way.

"You have to be very good now, and take your medicine and food regularly and get up your strength. This is Friday. On Monday, I shall come myself in a car and bring you back to Butterdale with me. I am going to nurse you back to health. And your uncle is quite willing. He and I have had a very nice talk together. I think it is a pity you have not confided in him more. He cares about you much more than you think."

"Will he really let me come to you?"

"Of course he will. I mustn't stay, for it is nearly dusk now. We will meet again if all is well on Monday. I shall come over in the morning for you."

And on Monday, Louise came to the Manor, and was put in a sweet little room near Anstice. It was a haven of rest to her. The little girls were delighted to visit her, and their light-hearted chatter brightened her up. When she was quite convalescent, she walked up and down the terrace outside in the sun, and Anstice and she had many a serious talk together. One day, Anstice went over to Ramdale again to see her uncle about her return. She came back to Louise with smiling face.

"I have wonderful news for you. I don't know whether it will be for your true welfare or not, but the desire of your heart has been granted."

"Oh, tell me quick, quick! Has uncle got another living? Is he going to leave Ramdale?"

"No, but he is perfectly willing for you to go up to London and there carve out your own life—and earn your living if you can."

"Back to London?"

Such light and colour came into Louise's pale face that it made her absolutely beautiful. Then she faltered out:

"But how can I be spared? Who will look after him and the parish? I haven't done much, I know, but I've just managed to keep things together."

"Well, it is rather strange, but I happen to know a woman who would be glad to go to your uncle as housekeeper. She used to be a cook at my old home, but she is a most superior woman, and she loves the country. I have not said anything to you, but I have been corresponding with her about the post for some time. When you were ill and I had that talk with your uncle, he said that he had often thought it was much too lonely a life for a girl of your age, but he would not dream of turning you out to earn your own living. I told him that was what you were longing to do, and he said he wished that you had talked to him about it. So then I set to work. Now when you are quite strong, you can go anywhere you like. He will be able to give you a small allowance to keep you from starving. What will you do, I wonder?"