Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

WE STOOD TALKING ON THE PLATFORM
FOR A FEW MINUTES.

MY BROTHER'S FRIEND.

A New Serial Story

BY

EGLANTON THORNE

Author of

"The Old Worcester Jug," "In London Fields,"
"The Two Crowns," etc.

The Girl's Own Annual Illustrated

VOL. VII. 1886.

THE LEISURE HOUR OFFICE

56, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER.

I. MABEL'S LIFE BEGINS.

II. IN THE OLD HOUSE.

III. SURPRISES.

IV. MABEL'S WEDDING DAY.

V. BUSINESS WORRIES.

VI. WHAT A DAY BROUGHT FORTH.

VII. MAKING PLANS FOR THE FUTURE.

VIII. A QUIET HOME.

IX. I EXPLORE THE NEIGHBOURHOOD, AND BECOME ACQUAINTED WITH MR. LEONARD GLYNNE.

X. SWEET AND BITTER; FLOWERS AND THORNS.

XI. AT BEECHWOOD.

XII. THE WINTER BRINGS TROUBLE.

XIII. RALPH CLAIMS A FRIEND'S PRIVILEGE.

XIV. "WHERE NATURE'S HEART BEATS STRONG AMID THE HILLS."

XV. REVELATIONS.

XVI. A FAIR, GLAD DAY, AND THE NIGHT THAT FOLLOWED IT.

XVII. MY BROTHER LEAVES ME.

XVIII. I VISIT THE OLD HOUSE AT WEYLEA, BUT MISS THE WONTED WELCOME.

XIX. A WOEFUL MISTAKE.

XX. I BECOME A GUEST AT THE TOWERS.

XXI. A MISAPPREHENSION REMOVED.

XXII. SICKNESS AND SORROW.

XXIII. A PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP.

XXIV. WRITE A LETTER WHICH I AM NOT ALLOWED TO SEND.

MY BROTHER'S FRIEND.

CHAPTER I.

MABEL'S LIFE BEGINS.

The girls at our school were sure that Mabel was Miss Carefull's favourite pupil. How could it be otherwise when she did everything so well—her drawing, her singing, her French, all winning her high commendation from their respective professors; when she wrote such a pretty hand, had such good manners, and moved so gracefully; whilst her dancing was such that the dancing master could hardly speak of it without emotion?

Our dancing lessons were ever occasions of triumph for Mabel and of humiliation for me. She was the one to be first initiated into every new step, and often were we others bidden to stand still and look on while Miss Carmichael showed us what our dancing should be. It was a pretty sight to see Mabel and the old dancing master go through the slow, stately measures of the minuet. As I watched her movements, I felt much pride in my sister's grace and prettiness, and fancied they atoned to some extent for my own awkwardness, which brought upon me frequent exclamations of—

"What are you doing, Miss Dorothy? Do you call that a curtsey? Pray, if you are going to dance like that when you go out, never say that I taught you," from my sorely tried instructor.

Such of the pupils as cared about dancing were eager for the privilege of dancing with Mabel, and sometimes I sought to do so, thinking I should get on better if she gave me a little help.

But seldom would Mabel accept me as a partner.

"It is too dreadful," she would say, "to be dragged round by you, and have you coming down on my toes with your elephantine tread."

And such words, though playfully uttered, wounded me so much that I did not soon renew my request.

But though our sisterly intercourse did not flow with unbroken serenity, owing, as Mabel would say, to my "bad temper," I was, in truth, passionately fond of my pretty sister, and did not at all like the idea of returning to school without her.

"You are quite sure that you will not go back to school?" I asked, in reply to Mabel's remark.

"Of course I shall not," said Mabel. "Father told Miss Carefull that I should probably leave at the end of this term. If he says anything to me about it, I shall tell him it is high time I left. Girls do not go to school after they are nineteen, and I shall be nineteen next month. I might have been allowed to leave at Christmas."

"I wish he would let me leave too," I exclaimed, with a sudden burst of hope; "I am only eighteen months younger than you, and lots of the girls leave at seventeen."

"Perhaps he would if you were as forward in your studies as some girls are at seventeen," said Mabel, quietly; "but you must know, Dorothy, that you have not come out of the examinations well. Father will be vexed when he hears how low your marks are, for you know he is so anxious that we should be well-educated women."

My hope of leaving school was put to instant death by Mabel's words. I knew that I had been idle and careless in my school work during the half-year, and if my father's attention were drawn to the fact, and Mabel was not likely to hide it from him, he would certainly not be inclined to shorten my schooldays. Besides, I suspected that Mabel would wish me to return to school, leaving her to reign in sole glory at home; and it was part of my sister's general cleverness that she always contrived to gain whatever she wished.

Whilst Mabel spoke, her eyes were studying my appearance, and evidently not with the pleasure with which I surveyed her pretty little person. I was humbly conscious that this was not surprising. I knew it was a trial to Mabel that I was so unlike herself, being as large limbed, awkward, and untidy as she was slight, graceful, and neat.

"Dorothy," she said, leaning forward, and speaking "sotto voce," that the other passengers who shared the compartment might not hear her remarks, "I never saw anything like the state of shabbiness to which you have brought that gown. No one would think that you had it when I had mine. We must really give up dressing alike. It is too dreadful always to see before me a soiled and creased copy of my own gowns."

No doubt such an experience was very trying to Mabel's delicate sense of propriety. My gown had been cut from the same piece as hers; they had been exactly alike, but now mine was dirty and frayed; in some places badly mended, rents were apparent, in others a keen eye could have detected inkstains, and the bodice lacked the stylish shapeliness which Mabel's still retained. But I could not at that moment regard the matter from Mabel's point of view. I was still under the annoyance which her previous words had excited, and I answered snappishly—

"I am sure I should be thankful not to have dresses like yours, for then you could not always be drawing horrid comparisons between them."

"You need not be cross with me about it," said Mabel, complacently; "it is not my fault that your things always get shabby so much more quickly than mine. Oh, Dorothy, your hair is coming down!"

"What a bother my hair is!" I exclaimed, impatiently, as I caught the offending loose end and tried to push it back into its place. "It never will keep up."

"It is very strange," said Mabel, as she put up her hand to pat her own exquisitely neat coil of plaits, "my hair never comes down."

I felt cross, and relapsed into silence. Mabel took a book from her bag and began to read, whilst I sat watching the cornfields and meadows we passed as the train bore us on to Burford, the little Essex town at which we lived.

In a few minutes, my vexation was forgotten and my mind filled with the delightful thought that I was going back to the dear old home, which I loved so well, though it had for me no association with mother love. My mother had died when I was too young to remember her, and my father had not married again. We three children—my brother Edmund, Mabel, and I—had been taken care of in our younger days by a sister of our father's. But some years earlier, our aunt had married, and gone to a distant home of her own, and since then Mabel and I in our holidays had been left pretty much to ourselves, save for the half authoritative oversight of our old servant, Salome, who acted as housekeeper to my father during our absence.

Half of my delight in the prospect of getting home arose from the thought of seeing my brother, who ere this had returned from his college at Cambridge to spend the long vacation at home. I hardly know how to describe the intense love I had ever felt for my brother Edmund. My earliest recollections show me that his kindness to his "little sister" made the sunshine of my young life. I think he was always more to me than my father, who, though goodness itself and failing in no duty towards his children, was more deficient than most men in the knack of soothing and cherishing little children.

Edmund was my hero. Sometimes my heart swelled high with an exultant belief—for which I afterwards blamed myself, because it betokened so mean a spirit—that he loved me better than he loved Mabel. I must do Mabel the justice to say that she never exhibited the least jealousy of Edmund's attachment to me. I do not think she would have minded his loving me best.

Time sped fast as I pondered the delights of the coming holidays, the walks and drives which Edmund and I would have, and the long talks in which he would tell me about his college life and the friends he had made at Cambridge.

As I thought thus, the wonder crossed my mind how I should feel if I, like Mabel, were about to leave school. Was it true, as Mabel had said, that one's real life did not begin till one had one had left school?

My life had not lacked interest hitherto. I loved to remember the sunny days of my childhood. There had been many pleasurable excitements in my schooldays, too, although I had failed to distinguish myself in examinations. What difference would my leaving school make in my life? Only surely that my holidays would lengthen out indefinitely; that I should enjoy more freedom, more leisure to do as I liked. I could not conceive of any greater change.

But now, as after long years, I look back on my young self, I know that I did enter upon a new stage of experience, and that my real life may be said to have begun at the time of my leaving school. Up to that time, I had simply dreamed and enjoyed, but then I began to make acquaintance with the "changes and chances of this mortal life." Life seems so simple when we are young; it is only when we can look back over the course of many years that we know what a complex thing it is; see how one life blends with another, what trifles affect human destinies, and can weigh the various influences that have entered into our lives and made them what they are.

At that hour I could look forward to the future without a shadow of fear.

Suddenly I startled Mabel by springing up and exclaiming, in the impetuous manner which she thought so unladylike, "Oh, Mab, we are almost there; I can see the castle. And here is the platform and Edmund. Oh, Edmund is here to meet us!"

Mabel quietly put away her book, and gathered her things together. She was never so undignified as to hurry herself.

"Wait till the train stops, Dorothy," she said; "it is hardly worth while to endanger your life for the sake of a few seconds."

The warning was not uncalled for. The train had scarcely come to a standstill when I was on the platform eagerly greeting my brother, a tall, slight youth of twenty, with a long neck and sloping shoulders, and by no means good-looking to any eyes save mine. The girls at Miss Carefull's would have called him ugly, and even Mabel considered him plain, though she qualified the term by admitting that his plainness was of an intellectual description. He was very tall, more than six feet in height, though he hardly looked so tall, because he stooped, the result partly of weakness, partly of his student habits.

"Well, Dottie, how are you? Why, how you have grown! I was quite unprepared to see such a giraffe!" he exclaimed, as he saw me.

"Don't be rude," I said, laughingly. "And you can't talk about growing."

"Well, perhaps not," he said. "Ah, here is Mabel, little and good, as usual."

We stood talking on the platform for a few minutes, till Mabel asked Edmund what was to be done with our luggage.

"Oh, Luke is here with the light cart," he said, "and I've got the dog-cart; I thought you would not care to walk."

"No, indeed; I would much rather drive," said Mabel.

In a few minutes, we had mounted the dog-cart, Mabel sitting up beside Edmund, and I on the seat behind, leaning sideways, so that I could see my brother as he drove.

The station was at New Burford, and our home lay at Old Burford, about a mile distant. We drove through the sleepy town with its few shops and many public houses, crossed the bridge, which had a railed and raised footpath on one side for the benefit of pedestrians when the river flooded the road, a frequent occurrence in winter, and, following the level country road, soon came to the outlying houses of Old Burford.

A conspicuous object as we approached the place was a large, new-looking mansion, with an extinguisher-shaped turret at each extremity, standing back from the road in its own extensive grounds, which were carefully walled in from the public gaze.

This vulgarly ostentatious-looking building, unlike every other dwelling at Burford, and out of harmony with the homely, rural neighbourhood in which it stood, had been built by a Mr. Steinthorpe, the owner of some saw-mills at Burford. The house had been his hobby, and on it he had expended a considerable portion of the fortune he had amassed in his prosperous business. His own ideas had been carried out in its construction, but their outcome, if satisfactory to himself, was not held in admiration by people in general.

The house had been years in building, and when finished was deemed by everyone, save its owner, to be neither beautiful nor convenient. But whatever the advantages or disadvantages of the dwelling he had planned for himself, Mr. Steinthorpe did not enjoy or suffer them long. Within a year of his taking possession of his new abode, he died, leaving his house and property to his only son, with whom he had quarrelled some years earlier, and who had not been seen at Burford since.

"There is that hideous excrescence, 'the Towers!'" I exclaimed, as my eyes fell on "Steinthorpe's Folly," as some people called the place; "I suppose it is still shut up."

"No, indeed; have you not heard? The son, Mr. Howard Steinthorpe, is there now; he is taking the management of the business."

"You don't mean it?" said Mabel. "Why, it was said that the reason he and his father quarrelled was because he refused to have anything to do with the mills."

"Ah, he is wiser now," said Edmund. "He knows that there is money to be made in that business, and he will get the more if he looks into everything for himself. Father says that he seems quite a man of business, wonderfully shrewd and long-sighted."

"Then father has made his acquaintance," said Mabel, quickly.

"Oh, yes; very soon after he arrived, he came to father for some information respecting local affairs, and now he often drops into the office for a chat with father. He is not half a bad fellow."

"He must be glad to get a chat with anyone," I observed. "How dreary for the poor man to live all alone in that huge place. Whatever possessed Mr. Steinthorpe to build such a house for himself! If his wife had been living and he had had a large family, there would have been some sense in it; but what one man can want with a house like a great public asylum it is beyond me to imagine."

"Oh, he was cracked when he planned that house," said Edmund; "a clever man of business, but insane on that point."

"The house may be better suited to Mr. Howard Steinthorpe than you imagine, Dorothy," said Mabel. "How do you know that he lives there alone? He may be married."

"So he may," I said. "I forgot that he cannot be so very young."

"Well, I can tell you, for your satisfaction, that he is not married," said Edmund, mischievously, "so perhaps, Mab, if you play your cards well, you may be mistress of 'the Tower' some day."

Mabel laughed, and told Edmund not to be absurd.

"Poor Mabel!" I said. "It is to be hoped there is a happier fate in store for you. I would as soon live in a prison as in that great house."

"They say it is lovely inside," said Mabel, her eyes resting gravely on the turreted mansion; "Mr. Steinthorpe spared no expense in furnishing it. There are Turkey carpets, and Persian rugs and curtains, and all sorts of curiosities that he bought on the Continent."

But now we were leaving the Towers behind, and driving past the dear old houses, each one with an individuality of its own that I knew so well. We turned a corner and entered a still quieter road, with a brook running at one side of it, and a long stretch of grass on the other. Two minutes more and Edmund was pulling up his horse before a low, white house pith a small flower garden in front, shut in by white-painted wooden palings. Lower down the road, to the right of the house, a large swing gate gave access to the tan-yard and offices, for my father was a tanner.

I sprang from my seat at the back of the vehicle before Edmund could come to my assistance. Salome had opened the door, and stood there smiling a hearty welcome—a hard-featured, wiry-made woman of more than forty years, with a hard set colour in her cheeks, and a shrewd, keen look in her grey eyes. She was a good, high-principled woman, a very particular, old-fashioned housekeeper, and fairly good tempered, as long as she had her own way. She had always been good to us children, never failing to scold us when she considered that we deserved scolding, and in all respects doing her duty by us according to her lights.

In spite of many a skirmish we had together in me childhood, I had learned to love our faithful old Salome, and now I ran up to her and kissed her as I had always been wont to do, although I knew that Mabel thought it very undignified of me to keep to this childish habit.

Just at that moment, I heard the tan-yard gate swing back, and turning saw my father standing there with a gentleman, who, of course, must have seen me embracing my old nurse.

"What, children, are you here already?" said my father, coming forward is his shabby office coat; a grey-haired, grey-bearded man, stooping somewhat, and looking worn and weary in the bright sunlight. "It seems but a few minutes since I heard the train passing at the bottom of the meadows."

Mabel had already alighted from the dog-cart, and she stepped forward, and in her pretty way asked father how he was, and put up her face to be kissed. I saw the stranger, who, I felt sure, must be Mr. Howard Steinthorpe, look at her with interest as she did so.

Perhaps it was because his companion's exceedingly well-to-do appearance acted as a foil that I thought my father looking so much more grey and worn than usual. Mr. Steinthorpe was a man in the prime of life, with a healthy, vigorous, well-satisfied air, of middle height, and by no means slim of figure, yet hardly to be called stout. He was considered a very handsome man by most persons at Burford, but this was not the impression which his appearance made on me as Mabel and I were now introduced to him, though I gradually became aware that his features were well-cut and regular, that his cold blue eyes were all that could be desired in size and shape, and that his fine auburn moustache was in itself a distinction.

He was irreproachably dressed, in a style quite superior to anything to which we were accustomed at Burford, and was altogether so well groomed, if I may be allowed to use such a horsey expression, that my poor father, always careless of his personal appearance, looked deplorably shabby by his side. His manners, too, had a finish that Burford manners lacked, but which Mabel and I, fresh from our London boarding school, felt to be the correct thing. Mabel actually coloured with gratification as he bowed low before her. I was less elated by his courtesy, for I was not conscious of deserving admiration, and I fancied I detected a sardonic gleam in his eyes as they met mine.

We exchanged a few polite commonplaces, and then, gracefully expressing a hope that he should see more of us, Mr. Steinthorpe bowed again and went on his way. We entered the house with our father, I with a lurking sense of irritation, which I could hardly have explained.

"Father, dear, it is time I came home to look after you," Mabel said, as she laid her hand caressingly on his arm. "What a shocking coat! You must hand that over to Luke."

"Oh, it is good enough for me," said my father, wearily, as he hung up his hat in the passage. "But I am glad to have you home again, children."

"So that is Mr. Steinthorpe!" Mabel said to me as we went upstairs together. "What a perfect gentleman he is! But I was vexed that he should see us all dusty and untidy from our journey."

"You mean that you are vexed he saw me so untidy," I said. "You looked most proper, as you always do."

For I had felt some pride in Mabel as she talked to Mr. Steinthorpe. Although I had not taken to him myself, I was pleased that he should see what a charming little lady my sister was. Mabel appeared gratified by my words.

"He is very good-looking," she observed, as she surveyed her neat little person in the glass.

"Oh, I can't bear his looks," I burst out; "I think he has a dreadful expression. Depend upon it, he is not a man to be trusted."

"You don't mean to say that you have taken one of your unreasonable dislikes?" said Mabel, with an air of patiently enduring my perversity. "I never knew anyone like you for jumping to wild conclusions. You always set yourself against nice people."

"Someone else is jumping to conclusions now," I observed. "How do you know that Mr. Steinthorpe is nice?"

But Mabel vouchsafed me no reply to this question.

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

CHAPTER II.

IN THE OLD HOUSE.

To the right of the front door, as one entered the house, was the dining-room—a long, narrow room, furnished with the straightest-backed chairs and sofa in mahogany and horse-hair, and with few ornaments save some black-framed prints on the walls, representing scenes from Scripture, depicted with a liberal breadth of interpretation. Out of this room opened another smaller room, which Mabel liked to call the drawing-room, but which was known by the rest of the household as the summer parlour, because, having a cold aspect, it was little used by us in winter. Even on this July day the air of the room struck chill on me as I entered it, and it had the musty smell rooms are apt to get when they are little used. I liked this apartment the least of any in the house, it had such a stiff, prim appearance, with its spindle-legged chairs ranged against the wall and the round table in the centre, on which Salome had placed at regular distances certain albums and keepsakes supposed to afford entertainment for visitors.

But there was one object in that room on which my eyes loved to rest. It was a miniature portrait of my mother, which hung above the mantelpiece. It represented her as she was at the time of her marriage, a pretty dark girl, with her dark hair falling in long ringlets on her white shoulders. She wore a low-necked, short-waisted gown. The slender neck clasped by the coral necklace, and the delicate "petite" features, reminded me of Mabel; but there was also an odd, indefinable look of Edmund in the portrait, and I had been told that the dark eyes resembled my own.

I looked at the miniature for a few minutes, then turned away with a sigh. It always saddened me to look on that bright, girlish face and think how soon death had claimed it as his own, for my mother had been but five-and-twenty when she died.

I quitted the summer parlour, and passing through the dining-room, went across to the room on the other side of the passage—father's room, we called t, though we children had the freedom of it. To me it was the pleasantest room in the house. It had two windows, one looking on to the road, and one at the side commanding a view of the tan-yard. I liked this room because when sitting here, I could see everyone who went along our country road, or passed to or from the tan-yard.

Mabel disliked the room on account of its proximity to the tan-yard, a place which she desired to ignore, and never willingly entered, for she declared that the smell of the hides made her sick. And certainly on some days the smell of the tanning was stronger than was agreeable, but I was too well used to it for it to trouble me. That somewhat sickly odour had mingled with most of the happy hours of my childhood and made part of the home life which I loved. At this day, I cannot pass near a tannery without the familiar scent of the skins bringing back with a painful rush of memory the dearly loved past, now for ever gone from me.

But father's room had another attraction for me in the shape of some large, well-stocked book-shelves. For although I did so badly at school, having no clear perception of the benefit that would accrue to me from mastering the rules of the French grammar, solving the knotty questions on all imaginable subjects proposed by Mangnall, or packing my memory with the dates of occurrences in which I felt no kind of interest, I was yet an ardent lover of books, and here were books that excited and gratified my imagination—Scott's novels and poems, Jane Austen's novels, Miss Martineau's and Miss Edgeworth's tales, Shakespeare's works, and those of many a lesser poet whom I had learned to love. There was of course abundance of more serious reading, but I cared more for the lighter literature.

My father was in this room when I entered; he was generally to be found here when not in his office across the yard. Most of his leisure he spent in reading, for he was a man of quiet, studious habits, shy and reserved even with his children. He would not have been a tanner, I believe, had not his father almost forced him to follow in his steps, for he was little fitted to conduct such a business.

He was not reading when I entered, but stood leaning against the mantelshelf, lost in thought, his face wearing an anxious troubled look, as it seemed to me. My entrance roused him from his meditations, whatever they were. He looked at me for a few moments in his grave, gentle way, and then asked a question which was by no means welcome to me.

"Well, Dorothy, have you brought home a prize?"

"No, father," I answered, with a flush of shame, "but Mabel has two, the first French prize and the first English."

"That is well," he said, looking gratified; "but how is it that you have not done so well?"

"I don't know," I replied, feeling very uncomfortable.

"I'm afraid it is the old story," he said, gravely. "You have been idle, Dorothy. My dear, a day may come when you will keenly regret that you have not made the most of the advantages of gaining knowledge which you enjoy at Miss Carefull's. What would you do if you had to earn your own living?"

"Surely there is no fear of that, father?" I said, quickly, for his grave manner stirred some uneasiness within me.

"I cannot tell," he said, almost sadly; "it is well to be prepared for reverses of fortune, my child. I have little doubt that Mabel would do well for herself, but you—what sort of a situation would you be fit for?"

I looked at him blankly. I could hardly believe that my father was speaking seriously. The idea of my ever having to take a situation was most distasteful to my pride, for, in common with the narrow minds of Burford, I imagined that for a young lady of good family to earn money for herself was to descend in the social scale. Vexed with father for uttering such words, I turned from him abruptly and went out to the kitchen, where Salome was busy frying bacon and eggs for our tea, and vigorously scolding Jane, the younger servant, for some act of thoughtlessness.

It was hard for me to entertain the idea my father had suggested, for though we lived simply, there was no stint our household, and I had always believed him to be very well off. Indeed, I had heard it said that my grandfather had left him a large fortune.

I was feeling rather "put out" when I entered the kitchen, but my ill-temper vanished when I saw Salome's generous preparations.

"You dear old thing," I cried. "You've made us some of your delicious teacakes, and oh! There's some of my favourite raspberry jam. It is good to be at home again!"

The old kitchen, with its uneven stone floor, huge fireplace, and its long dresser, bearing such a collection of old china as would have made a connoisseur's mouth water, had been a place dear to me in childhood, and it was dear to me still. It was a large room, having a bow window (not the modern bow) built out into the garden, and a door opening into the same. There was a shelf running round this window holding pots of geraniums and fuchsias, on whose healthy condition Salome prided herself, and the outside of the window was overhung by a climbing rose tree, one shoot of which had managed to push itself through a crevice in the window frame, and was actually flourishing and bearing roses inside the room.

As a child, this large, sunny window had been a place of terror to me in hot weather, on account of the number of bees and wasps which buzzed up and down the panes and revelled amidst Salome's flowers. I remember that one summer the door from the kitchen into the garden was closed for us children as a precaution against our being stung by some vagrant bees who had made their nest outside that door. But I must not linger to describe every nook and corner of my old home. I am apt to forget that the pictures I love to recall can have for no other the interest they have for me.

"Ah! And it is good to see you here," Salome said, in response to my words, whilst I stood looking about the kitchen. "What with the wet summer and everybody grumbling about the crops, and Luke for ever raving about the bad times, it's been as much as I could do sometimes to keep up my spirits. And I doubt not the master's felt the same, for he's been looking most days like as if he had a mountain of care on his shoulders."

"Has he?" I said, wondering if my father could have had anything more than usual to trouble him.

"Yes," continued Salome, "I thought for sure that when Master Edmund came home, the master would brighten up a bit, so proud of Master Edmund's cleverness as he is, and well may be, I suppose, for Luke he says that Master Edmund's quite a 'generus.' But lor! It's poor work being clever when ones so thin and delicate as Master Edmund. I expect it was that grieved the master to see him so like his poor, dear mother."

"What do you mean, Salome?" I said, half inclined to laugh, yet not without a thrill of fear lest Salome's words should not be so foolish as I thought them. "Edmund is not delicate."

"Oh, is he not!" said Salome, rather huffed. "You were not here when he went fishing in the river—how I do hate that fishing—and caught such a cold as kept him in bed for a couple of days, coughing fit to kill himself, and his breath so hard and fast, as I could not but think of my poor young mistress."

I felt myself grow white as she spoke. Such a horrible, horrible dread clutched my heart at that moment.

"How is it that I never heard of this?" I exclaimed, with sudden anger. "Why did no one tell me?"

"That is more than I can say," returned Salome, her manner showing that she considered it none of her business.

"How long is it since he was ill?" I demanded.

"Oh, a fortnight or, maybe, three weeks," she said.

"He could not have been very bad or I should have heard of it," I said, and I threw the dark idea from me as something too dreadful to be borne.

In those days, my heart rebelled against the very thought of sorrow. But though I refused to let my mind dwell on it, I could not forget the fear Salome's words had suggested. I went back to the dining-room where the table was being laid for tea, feeling as if everyone were conspiring to rob my return home of its usual joyousness.

Mabel stood within the room looking very charming and pretty in contrast to her sombre surroundings. But her face wore a discontented expression as she stood rearranging the things on the tea-table according to her own taste.

"What notions Jane has! Do you see how she has put those salt-cellars? Oh dear!" said Mabel, drawing a long breath. "How shabby and 'outré' everything looks at home."

"What does it matter?" I said, feeling that Mabel's vexations were slight compared with the terrible dread that had assailed me.

"Oh! Of course you would not care how hugger-mugger a style we lived in," Mabel said.

Her words stung me, and I was about to retort sharply, when my father entered the room, followed by Edmund, and I forgot my irritation as I anxiously studied my brother's appearance.

"Edmund," I said, as we seated ourselves at the table, "Salome says that you were ill a fortnight ago. Why did you not let me know?"

"Ill! Pooh, it was nothing but a cold—not worth making a fuss about; but of course Salome must croak over it. You know what she is. If a fellow cuts his little finger, she thinks he will die from loss of blood."

I laughed, and felt reassured as I looked at Edmund. There was a glow of vivid colour in his checks, and his eyes were so bright and merry that it seemed absurd to talk of his being delicate.

He chatted away in the most lively fashion as we took our meal, telling us stories of his college life, in which father seemed as much interested as we girls were.

Salome was right in saying that father was very proud of his son. From his earliest days, Edmund's quickness and cleverness had been surprising. Mother herself had taught him to read by the time he was four years old, and he could do rule of three in "fractions" at an age when most boys have hardly gained insight into the processes of addition and subtraction. My father expected great things from my brother's college course, and it seemed to me that he might well hope to gain honour from Edmund's scholarly attainments.

Though Edmund spoke of himself very modestly, it was evident that he had done well during his first year at Cambridge. But he extolled with real enthusiasm the intellectual power of his friend Ralph Dugdale, of whom I now heard mention for the first time.

"A splendid fellow he is," he said, "one of those long-headed fellows whose brain never seems to tire. If only I had his strength—"

"But you are strong, Ted," I put in, anxiously.

"Oh, yes, I am strong enough," he said, carelessly, "but I sometimes envy that fellow his power of application. If I mistake not, we shall see him 'senior wrangler' one of these days. Dugdale is A 1 in mathematics, and yet altogether as jolly a fellow as you could wish to know."

"Is he one of the Hertfordshire Dugdales?" Mabel asked.

"Why yes, he comes from Hertfordshire. But what do you know about him?" asked Edmund, with an air of surprise.

"Is his home at Beechwood, near Weylea?"

"You are right; but how do you know so much about him?" demanded Edmund.

"I have seen the house in which he lives," said Mabel, looking a little important. "I drove past it once with Mrs. Lyell, and she told me a good deal about the Dugdales. She knows them."

"Oh, to be sure, I forgot that you had stayed at Weylea," said Edmund. "So Mrs. Lyell knows the Dugdales."

"Yes, though she is not very intimate with them, I believe. Indeed, she visits no one. I found it rather dull staying with her," said Mabel. "But the Dugdales have a lovely old house; it stands in a sort of park, and there is an avenue of trees leading up to the house. I am sure from what I saw of it, that it must be a charming place. I am glad you have become acquainted with this Ralph Dugdale, Edmund; he will be a nice friend for you."

"Why? Because his parents live in a lovely old house with an avenue of trees leading up to it?" asked Edmund, satirically.

Mabel reddened.

"You know I did not mean that, Edmund," she said, with dignity.

Somehow we none of us seemed quite at our ease on this the first evening of our reunion. It was as if there was a mischievous spirit moving amongst us, which constantly excited discord. Even the servants came under its influence, for already Mabel had begun to tell Jane how she meant to have things done in future, and to assume the air of being mistress of the house in a way that Salome found it hard to endure.

But the clouds passed with that evening, or if not, I forgot them during the pleasures of the coming days, for the long delayed warm weather set in at last, and Edmund and I made the most of the summer's glowing hours. Again I went fishing with my brother, a favourite amusement of mine ever since the childish days when, toddling by Edmund's side, I tried to fish in the little brook which ran through the large old garden at the back of our house—a sport we persisted in regardless of prohibition, though it not seldom ended with a tumble into the brook, and results sadly destructive of Salome's peace of mind.

Once more we rambled about the old castle, and went for long walks in the pleasant summer evenings. My brother's year at Cambridge had but made him the more interesting companion; there was such a freshness and brightness in his talk. My ideas of men and things enlarged considerably as I listened to him, and I felt my own ignorance as I had never done before. Of course I often heard mention of Ralph Dugdale. I liked all I heard of him. I made a mental picture of my brother's friend, and felt sure that if ever we met, I should like him.

Mabel seldom accompanied us on our walks; she was not fond of walking. She preferred to drive with father to Halstead or Braintree, if business called him to either place, or to call on friends at New Burford, or to sit at home doing the delicate point lace work in which she excelled, or reading the improving books which she had been told that every young lady should read. Our home life was very quiet and uneventful, but it was wonderful how well Mabel adapted herself to it. She was always engaged in some becoming occupation, and never complained of feeling dull.

It was different with me. If Edmund went away for a few days, as he did occasionally, the hours hung heavily on my hands, and I could find no outlet for my energy save by taking solitary walks accompanied by Rough. Mr. Steinthorpe came frequently to see father during my holidays, but his visits were made in the office, and I seldom exchanged any words with him. Once or twice, though, it happened that he called late in the afternoon, and father brought him in to take tea with us.

I remember what trouble Mabel took in arranging the table and getting everything as nice as possible on those occasions, and how pretty she looked as, with slightly-flushed cheeks but without embarrassment, she presided at the meal in her graceful way. I have no doubt that Mr. Steinthorpe admired her as much as I did. I know he never seemed to care to look or speak to me when Mabel was near, but then I gave him no encouragement to pay me attention, for I did not like him better on fuller acquaintance.

It was dreadful how swiftly my six weeks of holidays sped by. Father was willing that Mabel should remain at home, but he would not hear of my doing so.

"It was very important that my education should not be deficient," he said.

And he begged me so earnestly not to waste my opportunities that I with tears promised that I really would work hard, and, if possible, make a better appearance in the next examinations.

I cried, too, though from a different cause, when I said good-bye to Mabel. We had never been parted before, and I felt as if I could not bear to go back to school without her. But Mabel, though she embraced me tenderly, did not give way to emotion when we parted. She had always more self-control than I. Besides, she had much pleasure in the prospect that lay before her. She thoroughly enjoyed her position as mistress of father's house, for it had not yet lost its novelty, and her mind was full of the changes and improvements which she meant to effect in the ways of the household. I felt sure that these changes would bring her into collision with Salome, with whom she had already had more than one passage of arms, and I doubted whether she would be able to carry out all her plans. But I need not have doubted.

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CHAPTER III.

SURPRISES.