My brother's friend

CHAPTER XI.

AT BEECHWOOD.

EARLY in August Edmund came to Weylea. A gentleman visitor had become quite a rarity at Mrs. Lyell's, and I was amused at the fuss which all the household made about his coming and the number of questions that were put to me concerning my brother's tastes and habits. How I counted upon the few days that Edmund would spend with me!

There was a little difficulty in fixing the date, for Ralph Dugdale wanted my brother to pass from Weylea to Beechwood. Beechwood Hall was always full of visitors in the summer, so Edmund had to study the Dugdales' convenience in arranging the time of his visit.

Nothing had given me more pleasure in looking forward to Edmund's coming than the thought that I should be able to make him acquainted with Leonard Glynne, but, to my vexation, circumstances decreed otherwise. The days Edmund finally fixed for his visit were just those during which Leonard would be absent from Weylea, having promised to go to Bournemouth at that time to attend the wedding of a cousin. He seemed no less vexed than I when we found that he would miss Edmund.

Leonard had been very kind to me during the weeks that had passed. He had helped me through many arithmetical difficulties since the evening when he discovered me hopelessly crying over my hard sum, and, thanks to his assistance, I had taken a good place in the examination to which Mr. Oesten subjected his pupils at the close of the term. It used to amuse Mrs. Lyell to see us sitting side by side and working away at our sums. I fancied she was glad we were such good friends. Sweet to me were the hours thus spent. Though subject to fluctuations, the happiness I had gained on that Friday evening remained with me.

It made my heart ache to see how pale and haggard Edmund looked. My anxiety was ever on the look out for signs of ill-health in him, and it needed not Mrs. Lyell's gentle, "My dear, your brother looks far from strong," to set it on the alert.

There was another change I noted in Edmund; he seemed scarcely in his usual spirits. The cheerfulness with which he greeted me had rather a forced appearance.

"Edmund," I said to him, as soon as we were alone, walking round the garden together, "how about the scholarship? Do you think you have a good chance of it?"

"Oh, that is all over," he said, rather impatiently.

"Of course the examination is over," I said, "but you do not yet know the result?"

"Yes, it is known," he said, shortly. "Shrimpton has the scholarship."

"Oh, Edmund! Then you have lost it?" I cried, in dismay.

"Naturally I have lost it since he has gained it. Don't look so amazed, Dorothy; I always told you it was very doubtful if I got it."

"But I had made up my mind that you would; I did not think anyone could beat you. Was it because of the time you lost in the spring?"

"Perhaps; I don't know. Anyhow, I came out below Shrimpton."

"What a pity, to be sure! And after your working so hard!"

"Pooh! I did not work so very hard."

"You worked hard enough to make yourself look very thin and worn. I am distressed to see you looking so."

"Oh, nonsense! Don't bother me about my looks, Dorothy, for goodness' sake!"

I was wounded by the impatience with which he spoke. I had expected my brother to make much of me under the circumstances in which we met, but it was not Edmund's way to be demonstrative. Moreover, I could see that he was out of spirits and absorbed in his own affairs. Alas! Mine was not the self-forgetful love that can give true sympathy. I was annoyed that Edmund asked me no question about my own studies. I wanted to tell him the story of my troubles with my sums and the help Leonard Glynne had given me, but somehow I found it difficult to talk about Leonard. Presently Edmund said, carelessly—

"What sort of a fellow is that nephew of Mrs. Lyell's?"

"He is very nice," I said, in an indifferent tone; but my heart beat mote quickly as I spoke.

Edmund was satisfied with my vague reply. He asked no more about Leonard Glynne.

After a minute, he said, "I tell you what, Dottie, I think I shall walk over to Beechwood to-morrow morning, if you don't mind; I want to see Ralph."

"Very well," I said, rather coldly, for in truth I did mind.

I did not like to lose Edmund's company on the first morning after his arrival. I had thought to have him to myself on the whole of the following day. Happily, I had sufficient good sense to keep my disappointment to myself.

The next morning Edmund asked me if I would not accompany him to Beechwood Hall; but my foolish shyness made me shrink from visiting the Dugdales. I agreed, however, to walk as far as the gates with Edmund. On the way, I told him of my previous walk to Beechwood and my undignified encounter with the little lady in widow's mourning. Edmund seemed much interested in my account.

"That must have been Mrs. West, Ralph's only sister," he said. "Did you notice her particularly? She is a charming little woman, and so good."

"Little she certainly is," I said; "I never saw a smaller, more compact little body. I remember that her eyes struck me; they were so kind, and yet so sad. So she is a widow?"

"Yes," said Edmund, in a low tone, "her husband died when they had been married but a few weeks. She mourned him deeply, Ralph says, and yet she is by no means melancholy. It is wonderful how bright she is—quite the life of the house."

Edmund's account of Mrs. West interested me so that I was rather pleased when, on returning from his visit, he said to me—

"The Dugdales have asked me to go to them on Saturday for a week, and they want you to come, too."

"Me! Oh, Edmund!"

"Yes, you. Here, Mrs. Dugdale has written you a note, so you see I am not romancing."

I took the note. It was simple and kind. It made me believe that my company was really desired, and, as Mrs. Lyell urged me to go, I very willingly sat down to write an acceptance.

When Saturday came, Mrs. Lyell sent us over to Beechwood in her carriage. We arrived there about four o'clock on a perfect afternoon. We drove up the long avenue and through the small square garden in front of the house to a flight of stone steps, above which was a heavy oaken door. The door was quickly opened to us by a man-servant in quiet livery; we entered a large, square hall with a polished oaken floor and richly-carved wainscot.

But before I had time to look round, a little figure came out of one of the rooms, and, taking me by both hands, said, in warm tones—

"How do you do, Miss Carmichael? I am so glad you have come. Your brother has often spoken to me of you, and now at last, I have the pleasure of seeing you."

So Edmund spoke of me to people whom I did not know! That was quite a new idea to me, and one for which I was hardly prepared. But I could not be sorry that Mrs. West had heard of me. How kind she was! There was a peculiar intensity in the gaze of her clear, grey eyes, and yet I did not shrink from them. I had never before seen such truthful yet such sweet eyes. It was with a sense of deep satisfaction that I returned the pressure of her hand. I felt that here was a sister woman whom I could thoroughly trust. Since there can hardly be trust without love, I suppose that I loved her from that moment.

"You are very kind; it is a great pleasure for me to come," was all I could manage to say, however.

"Why, surely I have seen you before?" she said, as she looked at me earnestly. "Where have we met?"

"Don't you remember how I ran against you and nearly knocked you down one day just inside your gates? It was the day after my arrival at Weylea, and my curiosity concerning the outside of Beechwood Hall led me to act the part of trespasser, I am sorry to say."

"Oh, yes, I remember perfectly now! I wondered so who you were. But don't say you are sorry. I only wish you had had equal curiosity concerning the inside of our home and it had led you to pay us a visit. I wish I had known sooner that you were in the neighbourhood."

"I should think you had most cause to be sorry," remarked Edmund, drily; "it is no joke to have an ethereal being like Dorothy come blundering up against you."

"For shame, Mr. Carmichael!" she cried, turning upon him with affected indignation. "We'll have no brotherly compliments, if you please. Ah! Here comes Ralph. I consign you to him for correction."

Ralph Dugdale came running down the broad oaken staircase. He carried under his arm a lovely King Charles spaniel, which he hastily deposited on the mat ere he shook hands with me. Then I found myself meeting again the kind, merry eyes that had surprised me weeping in solitude on the eve of Mabel's wedding day. Like his sister's, they had a very searching, earnest glance; but there was no sadness in them, as in hers.

"Well, Miss Carmichael!" he said, gaily. "Are you satisfied with the way in which I have fulfilled my trust?"

"What trust?" I asked, with wonder.

"Can you have forgotten it? And all these months I have been striving so hard to take good care of your brother, as I promised to do!"

"Oh, I remember now!" I said, laughing. "Thank you very much. I am sure you have done all that you could, though I must confess Edmund looked to me wretchedly white and thin when he arrived at Mrs. Lyell's."

"Did he? Well, you see, Cambridge is not the place where a man fattens, as a rule. We take a serious view of life there, and live abstemiously, in order to get as much work as possible out of our brains. Fish and marmalade form the chief items of our diet when we are working for exams. But what has this fellow been doing now? I thought you said something about correction, Grace."

"He has been making rude insinuations respecting his sister," said Mrs. West, mischievously.

"The thankless wretch! He deserves at least 'social ostracism,' to quote an extraordinary phrase I heard a lady use the other day. I have not the least idea what she meant by it, and I don't think she had much, but it must mean something dreadful."

"Ralph, beware! You now are offending against our sex!" said his sister.

"I! Indeed, you mistake me. I have the greatest reverence for all fair ladies. Miss Carmichael, I see you are looking at my dog. Allow me to introduce Master Prince. He is worthy of the honour, although he has rather a capricious temper, and will not always treat my friends with due respect. Ah, I see he is going to take to you."

"He knows that I am fond of dogs," I said, bending to stroke Prince's long, silky ears. "And he is a beauty, a real beauty!"

"Ah, he will be sure to like you if you talk to him like that. Prince is as vain as any—oh! I forgot; it won't do to say woman. Now, Grace, I did not say it."

"You dare not, sir. You know well that masculine vanity is a far heavier and more dangerous quality than woman's. Come, Miss Carmichael, shall we go upstairs?"

I followed her as she led the way to my room. In doing so, I noted that there was nothing to betoken widowhood in her indoor dress. Her black gown was of some thin, gauzy material, suitable to the warm day, and devoid of crape, whilst no cap hid the abundant coils of her bright, chestnut hair. Observing these things, I came to the conclusion that some years had passed since her husband died.

I was not long in my room, for having only driven from Weylea, it was not necessary to make any change in my dress. When I was ready, Mrs. West took me into the garden, where, on a long, narrow lawn, overhung by some splendid beeches, sat Mr. and Mrs. Dugdale, surrounded by what seemed to me at first to be a large party of guests. Mrs. Dugdale looked very picturesque sitting there. She had an abundance of snowy hair gracefully arranged under a lace cap, which gave her a charming appearance. I thought at first that she must be very old, but when I approached her, I saw that her face was that of a woman hardly more than fifty, and her eyes were as clear and bright as her daughter's.

She welcomed me with a motherly warmth, which set me at once at my ease. Ralph placed a chair for me in the shade, and hastened to fetch me some of the tea which the servants were dispensing. He stood beside me whilst I drank it, protecting me from Prince's importunities, he said, for Prince showed a great desire to share my piece of cake, and his master held him in check, partly by homilies on the sin of greediness, delivered with a sternness of manner and, solemnity of tone, which made the dog slink off a few paces with his tail significantly lowered, and partly by liberal largess of cake.

Afterwards, Ralph and I had a walk round the garden—such a quaint, delightful garden, not straight and orderly, like Mrs. Lyell's, but with shaded walks, where the trees met overhead, hidden alcoves, and a winding maze-like rosary, with which I was charmed. When we went indoors, Mrs. West took me all round the house that I might feel at home in it, she said. It was a fine old house, dating from early in the seventeenth century, and I enjoyed making the tour of it, and was especially interested in the long left corridor, where the traditional ghost was said to perambulate.

"Your room is not far off. I hope you will not be afraid of seeing the ghost," said Mrs. West.

"Oh, no," I said, "I should never be afraid of ghosts here. The atmosphere of your home is too cheerful for such gloomy visitants. You are all too good and kind."

Grace, for so I soon learned to call her, smiled and looked pleased at my impulsive speech.

"You are right," she said; "love and cheerfulness make a good prescription for laying ghosts. It is the melancholy and conscience-stricken who see them."

When the dinner hour approached, there was quite a large party gathered in the drawing-room—a wide and lofty apartment with a painted ceiling, and on the walls many ram pictures by old masters.

I was glad it was Ralph Dugdale who took me down to dinner, for I felt rather shy of the guests, although they had received me very pleasantly. They seemed to be highly-cultivated people, some of them literary and scientific workers, and the tone of their conversation was rather beyond me. But though I could not take part in it, I enjoyed listening to the bright, clever talk, which, although not lacking humour, never degenerated into mere trivialities or personal gossip.

And when I needed a word of explanation, Ralph Dugdale never failed to give it. His pleasant little "asides" kept me from experiencing any sense of isolation. Whilst I was made conscious of my ignorance, Edmund was in his element. I was proud of the part my brother sustained in the conversation. He spoke modestly, yet decidedly, and so to the point that the older men seemed to listen to him with satisfaction.

A subject was introduced which gave rise to considerable discussion. I remember well the side Edmund took. He supported certain views expressed by Mrs. West, and argued for them with such feeling and earnestness that I saw her face light up with pleasure as she listened to him. My brother wore a new aspect to me that evening. I had always admired him and believed in him with all my heart, but now I perceived in him a power, a goodness which I had not suspected.

The next day was Sunday—a quiet, peaceful Sunday. Morning and evening we attended the picturesque old church standing in a bend of the beech-shaded road, with the green churchyard about it, through which a common footpath made a short cut to the village. Many of the tombstones within the enclosure were grey and moss-grown, but as we walked up the path to the porch, I saw to the right a handsome slab of polished granite, which could not have been erected many years. On the well-turfed mound below lay a wreath exquisitely wrought with white roses and jessamine. "Arthur West" was the name upon the stone. As it met my eye, I knew why Grace had started for church some time before the rest of us.

My thoughts often wandered to Weylea during the course of that day. Leonard Glynne was expected to return on the previous evening. I pictured him pacing the garden alone on this Sunday afternoon, and smiled to myself with a delightful consciousness that he would miss me and desire my presence.

I did not regret my absence; I liked the idea of his missing me. I had passed many long and lonely hours, vainly wishing that he would come; it pleased me to fancy that perhaps he would now experience the same.

"Miss Carmichael," said Ralph Dugdale to me the next morning, soon after breakfast, "are you fond of riding?"

The question took me by surprise somehow, and I felt myself colouring as I answered that there was nothing I enjoyed more.

"But you must not suppose that Dorothy is much of a horse-woman," my brother felt himself called upon to say. "She has never ridden anything better than a lazy old pony."

"So much for your knowledge, Ted," I retorted. "Since I came to Weylea, I have mounted a far different sort of steed."

"Why, what do you mean? You have not ridden since you left home?"

"Indeed I have. You remember the lovely horse I showed you in Mrs. Lyell's stables? I have ridden him. Mr. Glynne took me for a ride one day."

"What! Have you ridden that highbred creature? I did not think you were capable of it, Dottie. You are more accomplished than I gave you credit for. Why have you not told me of this before?"

"I don't know," I replied, colouring hopelessly, and lowering my eyes with a dreadful feeling that I had betrayed my secret to everyone present.

But I don't think anyone but Grace noticed my confusion.

When I looked up again, I caught her eyes scanning my countenance with an inquiring expression. Edmund had too often laughed at me for my trick of blushing on the least provocation to attach any importance to my blushes now.

"If you have ridden that splendid animal of Glynne's, Miss Carmichael, I fear you will not think much of any mount our stables can afford," said Ralph Dugdale; "but if you are willing to try an inferior beast, we might have a ride to-day. What do you say, Grace?"

"Oh, I shall be delighted, if Dorothy would like it," was her reply.

Of course, I could make but one response to that. The morning threatened to be very hot, so it was settled that we should not start for our ride before four o'clock.

Though Ralph depreciated its merits, it was a very good horse that I rode, and the ride was very pleasant, though I did not, of course, enjoy it as I had enjoyed the first ride I took along that road.

We had made a long round, and were returning by the London road, Ralph and I leading, Grace and Edmund a few paces behind, when I saw coming towards us from the direction of Weylea a solitary rider. Not for an instant did I wonder who it was who rode with such graceful ease, nor fail to recognise the steed which was advancing with such swift, splendid action.

A thrill passed through me from head to foot, my heart fluttered strangely, my hand nervously jerked the bridle, making my horse sway to one side. Then an evil spirit of coquetry awoke within me. I would show Leonard that he was not the only gentleman who was pleased to ride with me and with whom I could enjoy a ride; so I turned to Ralph with a playful remark. He replied to it laughingly, his merry eyes flashing their fun into mine. We continued our bantering talk, I appearing unaware of Leonard's approach till Leonard was close upon us. Then Ralph said, "Why, here is your friend, Mr. Glynne."

"My friend!" The word thrilled me with a sense of its deep truth. I looked then. Leonard reined in his horse slightly as he approached us. I saw his face flush as he recognised me; but the next moment it grew pale and hard. He did not smile as he lifted his hat; at the same instant, he touched his horse with his spurs, and Ariel flew past us like the wind.

"Mr. Glynne must have wanted you to observe his horse's speed," remarked Ralph Dugdale. "I meant to speak to him, but he evidently did not think it worth while to spoil his canter for the sake of greeting us."

I made a careless reply, but in truth I was deeply wounded. The enjoyment of the ride was over. I wished I had not come out. It seemed more than I could bear, this cruel indifference from one who had made me believe that at least he was my friend.

Then I remembered my refusal to ride with him, and my tacit assent to Mrs. Lyell's assertion that riding was not a desirable accomplishment for women. Since that day, Leonard had not asked me to ride. No doubt he was annoyed to find how hollow an excuse I had framed, as it appeared that I had no objection to riding with Ralph Dugdale. He was angry with me. My spirits revived at the thought. His anger was easier to bear than his indifference.

But I did not recover the good spirits with which I had started for the ride. I was so quiet that evening that Grace asked me if I were not very tired.

"I am afraid we took you too far," she said; "we forgot you were not used to such exercise."

I was not sorry she should think I was tired. Pleasant as it was to be with the Dugdales, I found myself longing for the end of the week to come when I should return to Weylea. I wanted to see Leonard again, and assure myself that his anger was only momentary.

When our visit to Beechwood ended, Edmund was going to Burford to be Mabel's guest during the remainder of his vacation. Mabel had invited me to accompany him, but I had refused, although Edmund wished me to go. It was seldom I could resist my brother's persuasions, but on this occasion I firmly, I may say stubbornly, refused to stay at The Towers.

"You may be that man's guest if you like, Edmund," I said, "but I will not. I cannot forget, if you can, how he cheated us out of our share in the business."

"Cheating is rather a strong word, Dottie," said Edmund; "Steinthorpe did nothing illegal. After all, there is a good deal to be said for him."

"Then please do not say it, for I would rather not hear it," said I, perversely.

Naturally my refusal to go to her house offended Mabel. It was clear, she wrote, that I had ceased to care much for her, and took little interest in my baby nephew, who was growing such a lovely boy. I scarcely troubled to contradict this statement, and so the breach between me and my sister widened. Perhaps, without knowing it, I was growing indifferent towards Mabel, for my own life and the possibilities of my future had a very absorbing interest for me just then, making me forget the claims of the past upon me.

It happened on the last day of my stay at Beechwood Hall that some acquaintances living at Weylea drove over to make a morning call on the Dugdales. Mrs. Dugdale was out, and Grace and I were about to start for a walk when they arrived, so she took me with her into the drawing-room to receive Mrs. Vaughan and her two daughters. The girls were about my age, and two of the greatest chatterboxes I ever met with. Although I was a stranger to them, they rattled away as fast as possible, saying, as it seemed to me, the first thing that came uppermost, retailing all the gossip of the neighbourhood without the least doubt of its being acceptable, and not seldom both speaking at once.

For a while I listened to them with much amusement, till suddenly the elder one turned to Grace, interrupting her conversation with Mrs. Vaughan by the question—

"Oh, Mrs. West! Can you tell me when Rose Carsdale is coming home?"

"I am sorry I cannot," said Grace, smiling; "I have but the slightest acquaintance with Miss Carsdale."

"Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed the girl. "She is so nice—most lovely, I call her. With that exquisite golden hair of hers, she looks quite a picture."

"Everyone admires her," chimed in the sister.

"Yes, and she always dresses so beautifully," continued the first speaker. "She seems to know by instinct just what will suit her, or is it that she looks lovely in anything? I don't know, I am sure. Some people call her a flirt, but I don't think she is. Of course, she can't help gentlemen admiring her. And some say she is affected, but then people are so ill-natured. You would not call her affected, would you?"

"It would be most impertinent of me if I did," said Grace, to whom the question appeared to be addressed, "for I know so little of her."

"It is wonderful that she is not yet engaged," began the younger Miss Vaughan; "it cannot be for want of offers. Fanny, who was that gentleman we used to see with her so much last summer? I wondered if that meant anything. You know who I mean; you met him at the Fosters."

"Oh, Mr. Glynne," said her sister. "He is a neighbour of theirs, you know."

I felt myself growing pale. Did Grace observe it? Whether or not, she said, quickly—

"I must tell you that Mr. Glynne is a friend of Miss Carmichael's."

"Is he? Then we beg your pardon if we have said anything about him that we ought not," exclaimed the girls in chorus.

And the elder girl, making her voice heard above her sister's, added, "Mr. Glynne is very nice. I met him at the Fosters, and liked him so much! And he is very good-looking, too, don't you think?"

What a relief it was to me when Mrs. Vaughan rose to depart! When they had driven away, Grace, turning to me with a laugh, said—

"Did you ever know such talkers? Yet they are kind-hearted, although, as you have had proof, rather vulgar-minded. I often think it is a mercy they are so good-natured, for they might do much harm with their tongues if they were malicious. As it is, I have never heard them speak ill of anyone."

But though they had no hurtful intention, those girls, by their thoughtless words, had inflicted on me cruel suffering. They had not only destroyed my tranquillity for the time, but they had dropped into my mind a bitter seed, which, as I even then foresaw, would poison my happiness for many a day.

====================

CHAPTER XII.

THE WINTER BRINGS TROUBLE.

MY kind friends at Beechwood did not forget me after I had quitted their house. A fortnight later, Grace drove over to call upon Mrs. Lyell, and stayed for some time with us. The visit was a great pleasure to me.

The more I saw of Grace, the better I loved her. So kind and strong and loving she ever was. Her friendship knew no variations of mood. She was always ready to listen, always to be relied upon to help in any difficulty or trouble to the utmost extent of her power. I have known no other woman who manifested such strong, deep sympathy. It came natural to her to rejoice with the rejoicing and weep with the weeping. She had not to make the joys and sorrows of others her own; they were her own.

It need not be said that this keen susceptibility brought her suffering. There were times when her spirit was sorely oppressed by the burdens she bore for others. To her sympathy and that sister-grace, the charity that "taketh no account of evil," was due the attraction that drew to her persons of all descriptions, and made her influence so powerful in the neighbourhood, where her good works, neither few nor simple, were best known. Her humility was as remarkable as her unselfishness.

I think I never came so near vexing her as when I said to her, impulsively, one day, "Oh, I wish I were good, like you!"

She flushed, and a look of positive pain came to her face as she said, gravely, "Please do not speak so, Dorothy; you do not know how it hurts one. No one was ever good save Jesus Christ. Let us pray to be made like Him."

Nor did Ralph Dugdale forget me. More than once he walked over from Beechwood to bring me a book or magazine which he thought I would like to see. His visits were as acceptable to Mrs. Lyell as they were to me. His kindliness and cheerfulness quite won her heart.

One day Ralph and his sister appeared on horseback, accompanied by a groom leading another horse prepared for me to mount. Thus invited, I could not refuse to ride with them; but it was not with unmixed pleasure that I accepted their kindness. My heart misgave me as I thought of Leonard. He would be sure to hear of the ride, and it would deepen the shadow which had fallen between us.

For Leonard had been different towards me since my return from Beechwood. He came less frequently to the house, and often spent Sunday elsewhere. When he was with us, I was conscious of a feeling of constraint which I vainly endeavoured to overcome. His coldness wounded me sorely. It made me resolve to steel my heart against him; but, alas for this resolve! Just when I thought it most strong, some flash of his old kindness would break down the barrier I had striven to erect, and the sweet folly sweep over me again.

Thus things went on, till, in October, Ralph Dugdale and my brother returned to college. Each was looking forward to a term of hard work. Ralph had to prepare for the examination for the mathematical tripos, which took place at the beginning of the year, and Edmund for that of the classical tripos, which fell a few weeks later. I knew that my brother was very anxious to take a high place in his examination, since he hoped, on taking his degree, to get a tutorship in some public school. The scholastic profession seemed the only one open to him now.

One afternoon in October, I was at the East Weylea station, having just returned from town, whither I had been to take my lessons, when my attention was attracted by two ladies who were alighting from the train by which I had travelled. One saw at a glance that they were mother and daughter. The elder lady was perhaps about fifty, slight and fragile in form, with refined and delicate features, the effect of which was marred by the nervous, fretful expression her countenance wore. Apparently she was an invalid, for she leaned heavily on her daughter's arm as they crossed the platform, and the maid who followed them was burdened with wraps and cushions.

The daughter was very pretty. She resembled her mother; but nature had cast her face in a stronger mould. Decision and self-reliance were expressed by the small, delicate mouth and pointed chin, and the blue eyes looked forth with a steady, fearless gaze. She had beautiful hair of the genuine golden hue which is so rare. Surmounting its rich coils, she wore a quaint little turban of dark blue velvet, not unlike a Turkish fez, which set off admirably her bright, piquant face.

"The air strikes very chill," I heard her mother say, "and see, Rose, although it is yet early there is a fog rising. Oh, I hope I have not made a mistake in coming back to England at the beginning of winter!"

"You had better keep your mouth shut, mamma, if you fancy there is fog," said the girl, in a clear, musical voice, "and do not imagine you have made a mistake; you will be as glad as possible by-and-by to find yourself surrounded by the comforts of your own home once more."

So saying, the young lady turned to give a porter some directions concerning their luggage. I passed out of the station, and walked towards Mrs. Lyell's. As I approached her gate, the ladies drove by in a fly loaded with luggage. It was no surprise to me to see the vehicle draw up before the gate of the Gothic villa on the other side of the way. I had already decided that these ladies were Mrs. and Miss Carsdale.

But my heart was heavy as I went indoors. Whether or not Mrs. Carsdale had made a mistake in returning to Weylea for the winter, it was with no satisfaction that I contemplated the idea of having her and that pretty Rose for neighbours.

"Mrs. Carsdale and her daughter have come home," said Sarah, when she brought candles into the dining-room that evening. She addressed her mistress; but she gave a side-long glance at me, as if she suspected that I should not be pleased to hear the news.

Sarah still continued to watch me closely. I had an uncomfortable feeling that she suspected how deep an interest I felt in Leonard Glynne, and took a pleasure in saying anything respecting him that would annoy me.

I was thankful that, being already aware of the Carsdales' return, I was able to receive the news with an air of indifference.

"I hope Mrs. Carsdale is better for her change," said Mrs. Lyell, quietly, and then she asked me to get the book containing records of missionary enterprise which I was reading to her.

Leonard did not come in that evening nor the next. I wondered whether he knew that the Carsdales had come home. Oh the afternoon of the third day, I was standing at the landing window, looking across the garden, when I saw him coming along the road. He was on the other side of the way, and I fancied that my eyes must be deceiving me, for it was seldom he returned from the city so early. But doubt gave place to a distressing certainty when I saw him pause at the gate of the villa. Yes; he lifted the latch, and passed up the short path to the door. I watched for a minute, and saw him admitted.

I knew now why he had quitted business early. Ah, it was that house, not this, which had an attraction for him! I turned from the window with a horrible pain at my heart. It was mine at that hour to experience the sharpest stings of jealousy. I paced my room for a while, tortured by thoughts which were well-nigh unendurable.

But at last, I gained a respite. I could not strangle my pain; but, struggling desperately, I succeeded in subduing it, at least for a time. I was able to return to Mrs. Lyell, and, taking up our missionary narrative, read with an energy which convinced her that I was as much interested in the adventures of her hero as she was.

After we had taken tea, I resumed the reading, and read several chapters. It was easier to read than to talk. But I received but the vaguest notion of the course of the narrative. Whilst I read, my ears were on the alert to catch the sound of horse's hoofs on the carriage drive; for it was a clear, moonlight night, and on such Leonard loved to take a ride. But no sound broke the stillness. Ariel kicked restlessly in his box all the evening; his master did not come to saddle him. Ah, how long and dreary seemed the hours to me till bedtime came!

Two days later, on Saturday afternoon, I saw Leonard. I was coming in from a walk, and found him in the front garden, selecting and cutting chrysanthemums with the air of a connoisseur. He had a large bunch in his hand, and I saw that he had despoiled the greenhouse of some of the gardener's most choice specimens. His face brightened as I approached, and he greeted me so warmly that, for a moment, I forgot every shadow that had fallen on my heart.

"What lovely chrysanthemums!" I said. "Stubbs will hardly thank you for gathering them; I hope Mrs. Lyell commissioned you to do so."

"No, she did not," he said, laughing unconcernedly; "but I know I am welcome to them, as far as she is concerned. They are for Miss Carsdale; there are none in their garden."

"Oh, indeed!" I returned, and my heart seemed to freeze. I moved towards the house; I had no wish to exchange more words with him.

But Leonard stayed me by a question.

"You do not know Miss Carsdale, do you?" he asked.

"No, I have not that honour," I answered, coldly.

"She would be very pleased if you would call on her. She has been asking me about you, for she has noticed you going in and out."

"I am much obliged to her," I returned, in anything but a grateful tone.

"I think you would like her," he said, gently; "it would perhaps make it less dull for you being here, if you became friendly with her."

"Oh, I like the dulness, as you call it," I replied perversely; "it keeps me from temptation to neglect my work. And I have really no time to cultivate new acquaintances."

"That is a pity," he said, lightly; he was hunting as he spoke amongst the bushes by the side of the path, and now he held out to me a small, pale rose. "See, what I have found—'the last rose of summer!' It is not a bad one either, though it is almost scentless. Will you have it?"

"No, thank you," I said, coldly; "you had better give it to Miss Carsdale."

My words must have stung him, for he flushed a deep crimson, and turning, pitched the rose over the high wall behind the shrubs which screened the stable-yard. Without another word, I left him and went indoors. Whatever satisfaction there was in knowing that I had made him angry was mine.

Ere many hours were past, I bitterly regretted my hasty speech. But it was impossible to unsay it, and equally impossible to check its influence. There was a marked change in Leonard's manner towards me when next we met, and the distance between us seemed to widen as the weeks went on.

What secret torture I endured in those days! I ceased to struggle with my sorrow. I blamed fate rather than myself for the misery that overwhelmed me. I did not pray for the strength and wisdom I needed in this peculiar trial. I had not learned in all my ways to acknowledge God. Not that I was irreligious, but my religion somehow lay apart from my daily life. Far different would my experience have been had I possessed the childlike faith of Mrs. Lyell, who, in everything, sought the guidance of the Lord, and submitted all her desires to His will.

At last, an event occurred which suddenly arrested the fever of passionate, selfish emotion in which I lived. I came down one cold December morning to find a letter lying on the breakfast-table addressed to me in a handwriting which I seemed to know yet could not identify. When I saw that the envelope bore the Cambridge postmark, my heart misgave me, and I tore open the letter with trembling fingers. It was written by Ralph Dugdale, and did indeed bring me bad news.

   "Dear Miss Carmichael," he wrote.

   "You will think I have sadly failed in my trust when I tell you that your brother is very ill. It grieves me to send such bad news, but I dare not hide from you that he has a sharp attack of inflammation of the lungs, though as yet the doctor thinks there is no positive danger. At the same time, I must beg that you will not alarm yourself unduly. You may rely upon my doing all in my power for Edmund; he is dear to me as if he were my brother—dearer I may say, for a friend is sometimes more than a brother. You will doubtless desire to come to your brother; but for the present, I must persuade you not to think of so doing. He is in a state of high fever, and the doctor, in whom I have the greatest confidence, insists on my keeping him as quiet as possible. You shall hear every day of his condition, and I will summon you immediately your presence seems desirable. May I ask you to acquiesce in this arrangement till you hear from me again? With much sympathy, your sincere friend,—

"RALPH DUGDALE."

Here was a terrible and unlooked-for blow. Edmund ill with inflammation of the lungs! The worst fears awoke in me at the thought. My heart sickened with despair. It seemed as if this came as a punishment, for of late I had felt no anxiety concerning my brother—had given few thoughts to him, in fact.

Suddenly I started up with a rebellious impulse. I must, I would go to my brother, let Ralph Dugdale say what he liked. I should have rushed to Mrs. Lyell's room, although to disturb her at this hour would have been an unpardonable enormity in Sarah's opinion, had I not at that moment caught sight of Leonard in the garden.

With a quick change of purpose, I opened the glass door and ran down the steps into the garden. Leonard looked amazed, as well he might when I rushed up to him and exclaimed impetuously, "Oh, such a dreadful thing has happened! Edmund is very ill at Cambridge. Ralph Dugdale has written to tell me. He says I had better not go; but I must, I will go."

I have not forgotten how Leonard's look softened when he heard my news, nor how tenderly he held my hand in his as he said, "I am so sorry; your brother is very dear to you, I know."

"Dear!" I cried, without pausing to weigh my words. "He is more to me than anyone else in the world; we are everything to each other. Oh, do help me; do say that I must go to him!"

"Of course I will help you," he said, gravely; "there is nothing I would not do for you. But you must come indoors, it is far too cold for you to stand here."

With that he led me indoors. I was soothed and comforted by his kindness, though when he had read Ralph Dugdale's letter, he was of opinion that I ought not rashly to hasten to Cambridge. He reasoned with me very gently, and presently, seeing the untouched dishes on the table, he asked me if I would not give him some breakfast. Of course I could not refuse, and thus I was obliged to take some food myself, little as I craved it. I was happier after Leonard had gone, although I sat crying by the fire.

Later in the morning, Grace West arrived. I was not surprised to see her, for I knew that if her brother sent her the news, she would be sure to come to me at once. She, too, persuaded me to remain where I was for the present. She was very kind; I knew that I had her warmest sympathy, although once or twice she reproved me for the wild, passionate words I uttered.

"Dear Dorothy," she said, "you must not say that you could not live without your brother. It is not right, dear. We should ever remember that our loved ones are God's. For them, as well as for ourselves, we must say, 'Thy will be done.'"

"I could never say that if Edmund were taken from me," I cried, shivering at the very thought; "I am not one of those cold-blooded people who can resign themselves to anything. Those whom I love, I love with all my heart."

"Do you think that no other loves as well?" asked Grace, not offended, though my words were cruel in their thoughtlessness. "We cannot love anyone too much; but you know, dear, that there is a wrong as well as a right way of loving."

"Is there?" I asked, almost scornfully. "I cannot understand such fine distinctions."

Grace said no more, probably seeing that I was in no mood to be argued with.

Anxious days followed. On the morrow I learned that Edmund continued the same. On the next he was a shade better, and so on, till at last came the news that the doctor had pronounced him out of danger, though still needing the greatest care. Not yet, however, was I to be permitted to go to him. Christmas was close at hand ere the summons came.

Christmas Day fell on a Monday that year. On the Friday afternoon preceding it, when I came in from a walk, Mrs. Lyell greeted me with the words, "Have you seen Leonard?"

"No," I said, with a blank sense of disappointment, for I knew that Leonard was to start for Bournemouth that evening to spend Christmas there.

"What a pity! He hoped he should see you; he wanted to say good-bye. I wonder you did not meet him! He has hardly been gone three minutes, has he, Sarah?"

"Not more than five, certainly, ma'am," said Sarah, who was laying the cloth for tea; "but I think he was going into Mrs. Carsdale's; that would account for Miss Carmichael's not meeting him."

"Ah, to be sure! He could not have cared much about seeing me, or he would have foregone that visit to Mrs. Carsdale."

"Well, he will not be away long," said Mrs. Lyell, composedly; "he says he shall be back in town on Wednesday morning at the latest."

But for all that, I was grieved that I had missed the chance of saying good-bye to him. I remembered that I had lingered at the corner of the road to speak to an old crossing-sweeper. If only I had known what those few words would cost me!

"A letter for you, miss," said the housemaid, entering, salver in hand.

I saw that the letter was from Cambridge, and tore it open hurriedly. It brought good news. Edmund was making progress; he hoped to sit up in a day or two. Should I be willing to spend Christmas in his sick-room?

Of course I was willing; I was glad and thankful to go, and no one now attempted to dissuade me. Not at once did the thought come, but when it did, it smote me painfully that it would now be many days ere I saw Leonard again, and it was even possible that I might never return to live with Mrs. Lyell. Ah, how I wished that I had spent the afternoon at home!

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CHAPTER XIII.

RALPH CLAIMS A FRIEND'S PRIVILEGE.