My brother's friend

My governess kissed me very affectionately when we parted, and I felt touched to think that she could love me in spite of the trouble I had given her.

"I have been a great bother to you, Miss Carefull," I said, with a sudden rush of penitence. "I am sorry for it now; though I suppose you will say I am sorry too late."

"It is too late, certainly, for you to do better at school," she said, rather sadly, "but not too late for you to conquer your careless habits and set about ordering your life in a wise and worthy fashion. Oh, my dear Dorothy, do make up your mind to gain stability of character! What I fear for you is that you will constantly act in a heedless, wayward fashion, and be sorry when it is too late. And there is no greater misery for a human soul than to mourn over sins that cannot be wiped out, and the consequences of which nothing can arrest."

Her words made me look grave, and filled me with secret uneasiness. Surely I should never feel such remorse as she described? And yet, already, how often had I had to deplore the consequences of my foolish, hasty actions!

I listened in silence whilst Miss Careful went on to give me such good advice about the way in which I should order my time when I settled down at home for good, the books which I should read, the needlework which I should do, and so on.

"I say this to you, dear, because I know you have no mother to guide you," she said; "and a girl never more needs a mother's advice and care than during the years which follow her leaving school."

Ah! My heart told me that Miss Carefull spoke truly when she said this, and my eyes suddenly grew dim with tears as I thought that Mabel and I must lack a mother's tender training for the duties and responsibilities of womanhood.

My governess's words made such an impression on me that it was in a more thoughtful mood than usual that I took the well-known journey home. Like Mabel, when she left school, I felt as if my life were only now really beginning, and much I wondered how its course would run. Needless to say, my future was wholly different from anything I pictured to myself in the day-dreams into which I fell as the train bore me towards Burford.

Mabel was at the station to meet me. I saw her upright, graceful, well-dressed little figure as soon as the platform came in sight. I knew that Edmund would not be there, for he was at Beechwood, in Hertfordshire, on a visit to his friend, Ralph Dugdale. Mabel looked just the same as ever, and I forgot that I had undergone a change since we parted, till her startled stare reminded me of the fact.

"Good gracious, Dorothy, what have you done to your hair?"

"I've only had it cut off," I answered, colouring hotly; "it was such a bother, and now I have no trouble in keeping it tidy."

This wholesale sacrifice of my hair, however, was an impulsive act, which had caused me regret when it was too late. Having been sent by Miss Carefull to the hairdresser's under the care of the French governess, I had conceived the grand idea of being completely shorn of my long tresses, which had brought me so many reprimands on the score of untidiness; and, in spite of the remonstrances of mademoiselle, and the warnings of my fellow pupils, who thought it a very daring act on my part, I insisted on having my own way, and quitted the shop with my hair reduced to a short black crop giving me the appearance of a schoolboy.

The indignation of Miss Carefull, who had a strong objection to such a style of coiffure for a young lady, and the punishment to which she condemned me, were easier to bear than the amusement I detected in various eyes as they observed my droll look, and my dread of what Mabel and Edmund would say when they saw the change I had undergone. Mabel's words were not pleasant to hear.

"Tidy!" she repeated, almost scornfully. "Do you call it tidy to have your hair sticking out like a broom your ears? You have done for yourself now, Dorothy. You have destroyed your chief beauty. You could have done anything with that rich mass of hair you possessed."

"Then you might have told me so before," I exclaimed, much exasperated. "You never called it a beauty whilst I had it. You were always telling me what a fright my hair looked."

"Because you never would keep it tidy," said Mabel, calmly. "But it looks worse than ever now. I shall be ashamed for Mr. Steinthorpe or anybody to see you."

"I am sure I do not care what Mr. Steinthorpe or anybody else may think of my hair!" I exclaimed, angrily.

"Oh, well," said Mabel, "don't let us quarrel just as you have come home."

Quarrel! Had it come to that? Was I on the point of quarrelling with the sister whom I loved so dearly, and whom I had been longing to see for weeks? How was it that whilst I loved and admired Mabel, I was never with her long without losing my temper and uttering irritable words?

But if I was quickly made cross, Mabel, as everyone acknowledged, was very sweet-tempered. Though she still regarded my unfortunate hair with disapproving eyes, she chatted to me pleasantly enough as we drove home.

As we neared The Towers, Mabel told me that she and father had lately dined there, and been most charmingly entertained by Mr. Steinthorpe.

"He took me over the house," she said, "and some of the rooms are lovely, Dorothy. The house is badly planned, certainly, but he means to make a good many improvements before long. At present most of the rooms are unused, and Mr. Steinthorpe lives almost entirely in the west tower, which he has fitted up for himself in most cosy bachelor fashion."

"I hope he won't ask me to go there," I said, with a scowl; "I can't bear that man."

Mabel looked very grave.

"I wish you would not speak so, Dorothy," she said, after a minute; "it is really very wrong of you to take such dislikes to people. And in this case, it is not only wrong but ungrateful. Mr. Steinthorpe is a very good friend to father. There is hardly a day that he does not spend hours in the office with father."

"Is that being a good friend?" I asked. "I should think father would rather have his room than his company."

"You speak so because you do not understand," said Mabel, with an air of patiently bearing with me. "Mr. Steinthorpe is giving father practical help; I believe he has lent him a large sum of money."

I stared at Mabel in amazement.

"Why should he lend him money?" I said. "Father cannot be in want of money."

"I am afraid he is," said Mabel, in a low tone. "I fancy—indeed, I may say I know—that father has got into difficulties in his business. I don't understand it, but I believe there are new methods of tanning now, and father has not gone in for any improvements; he has not kept up with the times, and so the business has gone down, and he has been losing money over it for years. And Mr. Steinthorpe is anxious to help father if he can."

"Oh, dear me," I said, feeling unable to take in all the ideas that Mabel's words suggested. "I never thought that anything could go wrong with the business."

With a flash of new meaning came back to me the words my father had uttered a year ago, when reproving me for my idleness at school. Was this why he had warned me that it was well to be prepared for reverses of fortune?

I longed to question Mabel further concerning the bewildering information she had given me, but we were now at home. As I sprang down from the dog-cart, I wondered that the sound of wheels had not brought Salome to the door to welcome me. I went into the house, and seeing no one about, walked straight to the kitchen in search of Salome. A strange servant in dainty cap and apron stood there, who curtseyed to me in proper country fashion.

"Where is Salome?" I said.

She curtseyed again, but made no reply, probably because she did not understand the question. I went back to the dining-room, where Mabel stood taking off her gloves, and looking about her with her queen-like air. Certainly she had gained considerably in dignity since she left school.

"Where is Salome, Mabel?" I said.

"Salome is not here," said Mabel, looking at me gravely; "she has left us."

"Left us!" I repeated. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Mabel, speaking with a slight tightening of the lips, "that Salome lives with us no longer. I was very sorry to be obliged to do so, but there was no help for it—I had to dismiss her. It was impossible to have two mistresses in the house, and as Salome refused to conform to my wishes and do as I bade her, she had to go."

I could hardly believe my ears. I had seen when I was at home at Christmas how determined Salome was to adhere to her old established methods, and how equally determined Mabel was to have things done in her way. The two wills were constantly clashing, greatly to the disturbance of domestic harmony. I had often wondered what the ultimate issue of their conflicts would be, but I had never dreamed of such a result as this: that Mabel would dismiss our faithful old Salome, our nurse in childhood, and the mainstay of our home comfort ever since.

"Mabel," I cried, "you do not mean that you have sent Salome away? Oh, how could you have the heart to do it?"

"It was Salome's own fault that she left," said Mabel, quickly. "She would not do as I wished her."

"Oh, but you might have overlooked it," I exclaimed. "Our old nurse, who has been almost like a mother to us. I cannot bear to think of missing Salome. Where is she, Mabel, and when did she leave?"

"Oh, she is not far off; she is living in that little three-cornered cottage at the top of the road. I believe she will be very comfortable there. She went away early in the year; only a month after you returned to school."

"And why did you never tell me that she was going away?" I demanded.

"Oh, I did not like to tell you; I was afraid you would be grieved," said Mabel, her colour deepening somewhat; "and it is so difficult to explain things in letters; I thought it would be better to wait and tell you about it when you came home."

"You knew I should try to prevent it," I said. "I should have written to father. Oh, how could he let you send Salome away? It was not right, Mabel; you should have borne with her for the sake of the past. Oh, I can never forgive you for sending the poor old thing away. It was enough to break her heart."

"It is easy for you to say that," said Mabel, coldly; "you have not had to manage the house. But, happily, I do not need that you should approve of what I have done. I am satisfied that I have not failed in my duty towards Salome. If she had behaved as she should, she might be here now."

So saying, Mabel took up her gloves and, with an air of calm dignity, walked from the room. She went to the kitchen to give some directions to the servant, and I went up the narrow, tortuous staircase, shut off by a door from the stone passage, to my bedroom above.

There was a long landing upstairs corresponding to the passage beneath, and on to it the bedrooms opened. As is often the case in old houses, the rooms were all connected. I had a little room opening out of Mabel's, but having an independent entrance from the landing.

When I entered it now, I at once closed the door of communication with my sister's room. Throwing off my hat, I sat down on the low, delightful window-seat, and leaned far out of my lattice, which was framed by a monthly rose tree which already showed some buds, for the season was mild. I could look right over the far-spreading garden at the back of our house and mark the beauty of my favourite fruit trees, each now a mass of snowy or pale pink blossoms. I could see the brook which divided the garden into two portions, and the little bridge with its white palings and white gate which gave access to the larger garden to those who did not care for the exertion of leaping the brook, a feat in which I often indulged, notwithstanding its unladylike character. But I looked on it now sadly.

It was so strange neither to see Salome's sturdy form in the open space beneath the window nor to hear her voice in the kitchen below. I missed the hearty welcome she had always given me when I came back from school. My home seemed less home-like than usual.

"It was too bad of Mabel," I said to myself; "she ought not to have sent dear old Salome away."

I felt as if I could never forgive Mabel for what she had done, and I was the more vexed because I knew well that no words of mine would ever make Mabel regard her conduct in any other than the light in which she now saw it. Mabel knew nothing of the keen remorse which too often assailed me when I reviewed my past actions. She never appeared to doubt her own wisdom or to wish undone anything that she had done. Whatever others might say, she could always justify her own conduct, and was always sure that she had acted from right motives.

Presently I heard Mabel moving about in her own room, but I did not open the door which separated us. I went down stairs without exchanging more words with her.

As I roamed about the house, I could not help observing how Mabel had improved its appearance. She had clever fingers, and tokens of their handy-work were to be seen in various directions. Prettily worked covers hid the faded damask of the chairs in the summer parlour; a table cloth here, an antimacassar there, softened the effect of the stiff, ugly furniture; whilst ferns and flowers brightened each sitting-room. Mabel had exquisite taste, and loved to have everything about her as elegant as possible. And whatever she did, whether the looping of a curtain, or the folding of a dinner-napkin, or the arrangement of her own dainty dress, she seemed to impart to it a grace peculiarly her own. Mabel apparently was endowed with a special faculty for ordering a house not only well, but beautifully.

I was going across to the office to seek father when I caught sight of Mr. Steinthorpe standing in the doorway talking to him. I retreated into father's room and stood by the window, which commanded the yard, to watch till Mr. Steinthorpe took his departure.

I had left the door open, and across the passage I could see Mabel moving about in the dining-room, placing flowers upon the tea-table and giving her own finish to the arrangements for the meal. She wore a pretty fawn-coloured gown, set off by a cluster of primroses at the throat, which became her admirably. I had come home as usual with my frocks in the shabbiest state, and I knew that my appearance would contrast vividly and by no means favourably with that of Mabel.

Presently, I startled Mabel out of her usual equanimity by rushing across the passage with the announcement—

"Oh, Mab, what do you think? Father is bringing Mr. Steinthorpe in to tea. It is too bad of him; he might think that we should like to be alone on my first evening. That horrid man!"

To my astonishment, Mabel flushed crimson, and for almost the first time in her life she turned upon me with positive anger flashing in her eyes.

"You should not speak so, Dorothy; it is very wrong of you. You pain me very much."

"Pain you!" I repeated, stupidly. "Are you so very fond of Mr. Steinthorpe?"

Mabel turned a little away from me. She had regained self-control; but her face was still aglow with colour as she said, in a constrained manner—

"I had better tell you at once, Dorothy, that I am engaged to marry Mr. Steinthorpe."

No news could have been less expected by me, nor less welcome.

"Mabel!" I said, and stood staring at her, aghast.

I could hardly believe my ears. Mabel was still mechanically arranging the things on the table, though with hands that trembled a little, and I caught the gleam of a splendid diamond ring, the significance of which did not escape me; yet I tried to put the truth from me.

"Oh, Mabel, it cannot be true!" I gasped. "You are never going to marry that horrid man?"

"Dorothy, I will not have it!" cried Mabel, imperiously. "You shall not call him a 'horrid man' to me!"

I was dimly aware that I was behaving very badly, but I could not help it. My first sensations were entirely of dismay.

"How can you like to think of it?" I said, foolishly. "You can't love him, surely, Mabel?"

Mabel flushed again; then she conquered her indignation and gave a little laugh.

"You certainly are the most extraordinary girl, Dorothy. Do you think I should have promised to marry him if I did not love him? I can tell you I am proud and happy to think of being Howard Steinthorpe's wife."

And the air of elation with which she spoke showed that her words were perfectly sincere.

"Shall you have to live at The Towers, Mabel?" I asked, mournfully.

"Of course, I shall live in my husband's house when I am married," said Mabel. "Why, Dorothy, I declare there are tears in your eyes! How odd you are! One would think you might be glad that I am going to be so happy, and that you might say something nice and kind."

"I am sure I hope you will be happy," I faltered. "Forgive me if I seem stupid, but I feel as of I could not believe it. And I can't like the thought of giving you up to Mr. Steinthorpe."

So saying, I put my arms round Mabel and kissed her with mournful tenderness. I could not help regarding her as somewhat of a victim; it was so difficult for me to connect the idea of happiness with her marriage to Mr. Steinthorpe.

Whilst we talked, the voices of the gentlemen were heard in the passage, and now their steps approached the dining-room. I had but time to dash the tears from my eyes and make a desperate attempt to look as usual when my father entered, followed by Mr. Steinthorpe. I felt far from ready to receive the latter as my future brother-in-law.

CHAPTER IV.

MABEL'S WEDDING DAY.

MR. STEINTHORPE looked, if possible, sleeker, handsomer, and better dressed than ever that evening. I could find no fault with him as a lover. He was evidently fascinated with Mabel, and the delicate homage his manner to her displayed must have been very flattering to her vanity. Nor did his manner towards my father and me leave anything to be desired.

Father was more than satisfied with his future son-in-law; he thought the engagement a most fortunate one for Mabel. That he was very pleased I could tell by the unusual animation he displayed; the cloud of melancholy that so often hung over him had disappeared. I could at least feel thankful to Mr. Steinthorpe for having rendered my father more cheerful.

Mr. Steinthorpe treated me with a courtesy into which he tried to infuse somewhat of brotherly kindness. I showed myself so amazed when first he addressed me by my Christian name that he apologised, and humbly asked if I would allow him to use it.

"Of course you must call her 'Dorothy,'" said Mabel; "she is your sister now as well as mine."

I tried hard to look as if this idea were pleasant to me, but scarcely succeeded. Indeed, I endeavoured to think kindly of Howard Steinthorpe, but a secret distrust of him still lurked within my heart. However, it seemed to Mabel that we were getting on nicely, and she was satisfied.

When tea was over, I left Mabel to enjoy her lover's company, and putting on my hat hurried off to find Salome.

It was but a few steps to the little white cottage at the top of the road. The three-cornered cottage, we called it, because a large slice had been taken off it for the enlargement of the neighbouring house, and the one room on the ground floor, on to which the house door opened, and the bedroom above it, were alike of a triangular form.

I think Salome was expecting me, for there was something rather too dramatic in the start and exclamation of surprise with which she greeted my appearance. But I could see that she was very pleased that I had come to her so soon after my arrival at home.

Her cottage was a cosy little place, and, of course, it looked the picture of neatness. The carpet, curtains, and certain pieces of furniture were recognised by me as having once done service in my home. Clearly Mabel had had a hand in the arrangement of things.

Salome was ironing when I entered, and I saw to my surprise that a frock of Mabel's lay on the ironing-board. When I remarked on this, she explained to me that my sister, knowing her liking for laundry work, had arranged that she should undertake the getting up of our family linen, having a woman to help her with the rougher work. She said, too, that by Mabel's recommendation, she had gained other employers, and was thus able to earn a nice little sum weekly.

What a manager Mabel was! How cleverly she had contrived to rid herself of Salome's presence in the house when she found it inconvenient, yet in such a way that no one could say she had treated our old servant ill!

Yet I could see that her retirement from our service was a sore subject with Salome. When I told her how sorry I was to miss her from our home, and that I hoped she would come back to me when Mabel was married, she shook her head, and refused to think of such a thing.

"Nay, nay, Miss Dorothy, I'd better bide here. I like my cottage, and I've no mind to give it up. Old folks and young folks don't often think alike, and maybe I shouldn't fall in with your ideas any better than with Miss Mabel's."

I was silent, feeling that there was perhaps some truth in Salome's words.

"But I tell you what, Miss Dorothy, my dear," my old nurse went on; "if ever you find yourself at a loss and want a helping hand, I'll come to you; whether it's pickling the hams, or boiling the jam, or the house cleaning, you may rely on me. It's not likely that you, fresh from school, can know how these things should be done, though Miss Mabel was mighty clever at them, for all her fine education; but you're not just like Miss Mabel, and p'raps I do know better than you, and living so near, I can always run in when you want me."

"Which will be very often," I said, "for I have not Mabel's genius for housekeeping, and I shall get into the most fearful muddles if you do not look after me. And I like the old ways best; I'm not a fashionable person, you know."

Salome's eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

"That's true," she said; "you're no-ways so particular as Miss Mabel. And if there's any making or mending I can do for you, Miss Dorothy, I'd be only too glad to do it. Or for Miss Mabel either; I'd help her with her wedding clothes if she'd let me, but I doubt I'm not a fine enough needlewoman for her."

"You sew beautifully," I said, though I was not sure that Mabel would agree with me, "and I will find you plenty to do, whether Mabel does or not; you know how I hate needlework."

Salome laughed. I think she liked me the better for my careless, improper ways, shocking as they were to her sense of propriety. They made her feel that I needed her, and it is pleasant to a true woman's heart to know that she is necessary to the well-being of another.

I felt happier after I had had that talk with Salome, and when I went home, I told Mabel how much I liked Salome's cottage, and how comfortable she seemed. I hoped thus to make amends to my sister for my hasty, cross words, and especially for the improper way in which I had spoken of Mr. Steinthorpe. Mabel received my overtures graciously, and complacently remarked that she had been sure I should soon feel that I had passed too hasty a judgment upon her conduct with regard to Salome, since she had no right to complain of the way in which she had been treated.

A few days later, Edmund came home. I welcomed him with rapture. His company would be more precious to me than ever, since Mabel was much occupied with her "fiancé" and the preparations for her wedding, which was to take place ere long.

But I had the mortification of seeing Edmund on his arrival eye me with astonishment, not unmixed with disgust, pretty much as Mabel had done.

"What have you done to yourself, Dorothy?"

"Don't you like my short hair?" I faltered.

"Like it! Why, you look just like a hairdresser's apprentice who has been practising on himself with the curling-'tongs!"

For I had been trying to make my unruly hair curl, and the result was not happy.

"Was she not silly to have it cut off?" said Mabel.

"Infatuated," returned Edmund. "I hate to see a girl with short hair; it looks so unwomanly."

"Unwomanly!" I could hardly keep the tears from rising to my eyes when I heard him speak so.

Little as I strove to acquire certain womanly virtues, I hated the idea of being thought unwomanly. I had often enough wished that I were a boy, but I had no admiration for girls who affected mannish airs and a mannish style of dress. It seemed to me that such were as little deserving of respect as men who show themselves weak and effeminate.

"I am sure I wish enough I had not cut it off," I said, impatiently; "everyone goes on at me so about it, and I can't make it grow, anyhow. It gets thicker and thicker, but it won't grow long."

"Try Mrs. Allen's hair restorer, warranted to make the hair grow to any length, and we shall soon see you like the fair damsel on the advertisement sheets with her silken tresses sweeping to her feet. Shall I get you a bottle?" said Edmond, mischievously.

"No, thank you," I returned, unable to relish the joke.

Edmund chose another topic that was hardly more agreeable to me.

"By the bye, Dottie," he began, (he would persist in calling me by this childish name, given to me in my baby-days, though I often begged him to drop it, seeing it was most ridiculous applied to a tall being like myself), "I suppose you have now done with school. Miss Carefull has put the last touch of her superfine polish upon you and labelled you 'finished.' What trophies have you brought home in the form of prizes to witness to the solemn fact?"

"What is the good of asking me about prizes!" I sail, pettishly. "You know very well that I am the dunce of the family."

"Are you a follower of Duns Scotus, who, by the way, was a very clever fellow, and by no means deserved to have all the blockheads called after him?" said Edmund, coolly.

I could not help laughing at the brotherly indifference with which Edmund accepted the fact of my being a blockhead, and in the laugh my vexation melted away.

"How about your friend, Ralph Dugdale?" I inquired. "Have you seen much of him lately?"

"Oh, yes, only he has been working so tremendously hard. He talks of coming into this neighbourhood for the vacation, so perhaps you will see him, Dottie. He has an uncle living near Braintree."

"Oh, that will be nice! You must ask him to come here," I cried, whilst Mabel made haste to inquire what was his uncle's name.

"Beavis, I believe," said Edmund, indifferently.

"Oh, Sir John Beavis, of Cotsford Manor!" said Mabel, with some eagerness. "Howard knows him, I believe. You must bring your friend to The Towers some day, Edmund."

"Perhaps," said Edmund, drily; "but, you know, Mab, you are not at The Towers yet."

His remark brought a flush of indignation to Mabel's cheek.

I soon learned what Edmund thought of Mabel's engagement. It was not a bad thing for her, he said. No doubt she would enjoy doing the grand at The Towers, but he could not say that he was charmed with his future brother-in-law; he did not find that he improved upon acquaintance.

"Why, Ted," I said, with some surprise, "I thought you liked him. And Mabel says that he has been very good to father. He has lent him money and helped him in his business."

Edmund gave an odd smile.

"Have you not heard of the disinterested cormorant who went to the assistance of the fishes when they were threatened with death? Depend upon it, Steinthorpe will be no loser by any help he has given father. If he has advanced money, it has been upon good security, and he will get capital interest for his money. Father told me as much himself. Steinthorpe is not the fellow to give, hoping for nothing again."

"But, Edmund," I said, "the cormorant carried the fishes to a secure little pool and devoured them at his ease. You don't mean to suggest that Mr. Steinthorpe intends to devour father?" And I laughed at the absurd notion.

"Oh, I don't think father is in any bodily peril," said Edmund, laughing, too; "Steinthorpe is not a man of large appetite."

"Then what do you mean, Edmund?" I persisted.

"Better not ask, Dottie," he replied. "After all, perhaps, I wrong the fellow by my suspicions."

I felt lonely after Edmund had gone back to college. Mabel was so very busy and important over the preparations for her wedding that she could give little time to me.

I went once or twice with her to The Towers, now delivered over to workmen, to see the improvements that were being made there, or to decide concerning carpets or furniture. Not that my advice was ever wanted, or the least respect paid to my opinions, only Mabel thought it right that I should go with her.

As I wandered through the large rooms, I wondered rather sadly whether Mabel would be happy there. The prospect of the wedding gave me no pleasure. Mabel and I had been together all our lives, and I could not bear to think of parting with my sister. Sometimes I was pained to see how little she minded leaving me and the old home. The large rooms and elegant furniture at The Towers seemed to promise her ample compensation for all that she would leave.

Mabel was married early in June. Her wedding day was a miserable day to me; it rained fast all day, and was so chilly that we were glad to have fires. Edmund came home the evening before with such a bad cold on his chest that he could hardly speak, and he should have been in bed instead of making one of the party that went to church. What with anxiety about him and general excitement, I was hardly in a state of mind to give Mabel the attention and service she had a right to expect.

But Mabel's equanimity did not fail her, much as it was tried. She felt it disappointing that the sun refused to shine on her in her bridal white; but with her usual common sense, she resigned herself to the inevitable. The only time her serenity was seriously disturbed was when we discovered that the dressmaker had deceived herself as to my height, and made the skirt of my gown outrageously short. Then, indeed, Mabel's pretty face fell, and her brows were puckered in distress.

"How dreadfully tall you are, Dorothy!" she said, as if I could help it.

But presently her quick mind and nimble fingers contrived a way of remedying this defect; our toilets were completed to our satisfaction, and we went downstairs. I was the only bridesmaid, for it was a very simple wedding; father had stipulated for that. He had no money to waste on finery, he said.

I did not deport myself well as a bridesmaid, for when Edmund was seized with a violent fit of coughing in the middle of the service, I became so absorbed in anxiety about him that I was not ready to take the bride's bouquet when she looked to me for assistance.

The church was crammed with spectators, for Mr. Steinthorpe was a great man in the neighbourhood, and many people were interested in his wedding. He had given his men a holiday, and my father's tan-yard, too, was closed for the day, so in spite of the rain, there was quite a crowd of workmen with their wives and children gathered in the churchyard to see the bride arrive.

The Burford brass band was there, and played "Oh, haste to the wedding" in the most inspiriting style, as we walked up the churchyard path, breaking forth with still more vigour into "See, the conquering hero comes" when we quitted the church at the conclusion of the service; whilst the children scattered flowers for the bride to step on, ruthlessly casting down the sweet summer blossoms to be trampled into the wet earth.

There was to be a great dinner for Mr. Steinthorpe's and my father's workpeople at The Swan later in the day, so it was a gala occasion for most of the Burford people; but for me, as I have said, it was an unhappy day. Mabel was not long at home after our return from church. She had but time to partake rather hastily of the excellent breakfast which Salome had helped to prepare, and at which she waited in a new lavender gown, and with white satin ribbons in her cap.

Then I helped Mabel to change her dress; our farewells were said, and she and her bridegroom drove off to the nearest station at which they could catch the London express, which disdained to stop at so unimportant a place as New Burford. They were going to spend their honeymoon amidst the enchanting scenery of Switzerland.

How dismal everything seemed when the day's excitement was over! Father felt the parting with Mabel as much as I did, no doubt, but he was never wont to confide his feelings to his children, and he did not on this occasion. He only kissed me more warmly than usual, saying,—

"You and I must take care of each other now, Dorothy."

And then he slipped on his old coat with an air of relief, and went across to his office, where he busied himself for the remainder of the day.

Edmund could no longer conceal that he was feeling quite ill with his cold. I made up a fire in father's room, and drawing an easy chair to it, persuaded Edmund to rest there. Salome would have liked to poultice him; but he would not hear of that, and we had hard work to get him to drink some of the linseed tea which she held to be a sovereign remedy for coughs.

I sat by his side all the afternoon, feeling dull and heavy-hearted. He, too, hardly cared to speak; his good spirits had deserted him, a sure sign that he was feeling far from well. After a while, he fell into a dose. I wished I could do the same, but anxious thoughts would not let me rest. They soon brought tears to my eyes, and finding myself on the point of sobbing aloud, I rose and slipped quietly from the room.

I went into the dining-room. Salome had restored everything here to its usual order, and, save some vases filled with hothouse flowers, there was nothing to remind me of the great event of the day. I did not need reminding, however. I made up the fire, and then sitting down on the hearthrug, leaned my head on a chair and indulged in a good cry.

I had ceased to sob, but my cheeks were still wet with tears, when I heard a vehicle drawing up outside the house. I did not disturb myself, however, supposing that it had only brought someone on business to the tan-yard. There must have followed a knock at the door, but I did not hear it. I was lost in a sad reverie when Martha, our servant, startled me by opening the door and ushering a gentleman into the room.

She could not see me where I crouched by the fire. I started up immediately, but she had closed the door and was gone.

To my dismay, I found myself confronting a dark, bearded man, with very pleasant eyes, violet-blue in hue, which had a merry twinkle in them when I started up in confusion, but grew grave and earnest as they saw the tears upon my cheeks.

I bowed with a dreadful consciousness of the ludicrous appearance I must present.

"I beg your pardon for disturbing you thus," he said, and his voice was as pleasant as his eyes, "the servant made a mistake, I fear. I am Ralph Dugdale; you may have heard your brother speak of me, for I presume I am addressing Miss Carmichael."

Ralph Dugdale, my brother's friend, whose acquaintance I had longed to make! It was too provoking that he should surprise me with tear-stained face and tumbled hair. I was so overwhelmed by confusion that I could only murmur an affirmative.

"Excuse me," he said, and his tones were now grave and concerned; "I fear I have come at the wrong time. You are in trouble, and my visit is an intrusion, but I thought I should find Carmichael—"

"Oh, yes, he is here," I said, recovering myself; "he will be glad to see you. There is no trouble, only this has been rather an eventful day with us—my sister was married this morning."

"Indeed!" he returned, with a smile. "That is not generally regarded as a mournful event."

"No; but I am very silly," I said, able to smile now, and feeling constrained to account for my tears, "and I have been worrying about Edmund. He has got one of his bad colds, and seems so far from well that I cannot help being anxious."

I paused, finding myself once more on the verge of tears.

"Of course not," he replied, in the most sympathising manner. "I am very sorry that he has caught cold again."

But ere he could say more the door opened, and, to my relief, Edmund appeared to give account of himself.

"Welcome, old fellow! I did not hope to see you so soon, but I'm awfully glad. You're a brick to come on such a day as this, though I know you never stand for weather," he said, hoarsely but heartily. "Come into the other room, it's snugger there."

"What have you been about to get knocked up again?" Dugdale inquired, as he followed him.

"Oh, it's nothing," Edmund said; "I'm a bit seedy to-day, but I shall be all right in a day or two."

I allowed Edmund to enjoy his friend's society alone for a time. Indeed, I rather shrank from further acquaintance with Ralph Dugdale. I devoutly hoped that he would not tell my brother that he had found me in tears, for Edmund would be sure to tease me most unmercifully if he knew of it.

Presently, however, Edmund called to me that Dugdale was about to go. I went to them then, and succeeded in persuading Mr. Dugdale to stay long enough to take a cup of tea with us. My father came in, and we had tea together in his room.

Ralph Dugdale did not in the least resemble my preconceived ideas of Edmund's friend. In the first place, he was several years older than my brother, and I had always thought of him as about Edmund's age, forgetting that others besides youths of twenty can study at Cambridge. There was a wonderful gaiety, too, in his demeanour, such as I had never associated with the clever, mathematical student Edmund had described him to be. He was just the man one would wish to arrive on a wet day, he brought so much sunshine with him. There was no affectation or flippancy in his mirth. He gave me the impression that day of a man of large heart and noble nature, kind-hearted and generous, whose friendship would be a precious thing.

I took little part in the conversation that went on round the tea-table, though every now and then Mr. Dugdale made an effort by word or glance to draw me into it, but I enjoyed listening to his bright, ready talk. So did Edmund; he had brightened wonderfully since his friend's arrival. I think we were all sorry when he rose to take leave of us, saying that he had left himself only just time to get back to Cotsford by his uncle's dinner hour.

"Now, stay where you are, Carmichael," he said, imperatively, as Edmund made a movement as though he would accompany him to the front door.

Edmund went back to the fireside and Dugdale closed the door upon him, and stood leaning against it in order to secure his safe custody. Father had gone out to see if Luke had put Mr. Dugdale's horse into the gig, so he and I were alone in the passage.

"Don't you fret any more about your brother, Miss Carmichael," he said, as he held my hand in his, and looked at me with a merry yet kindly light in his eyes; "he will soon get over this attack, if he is careful."

"Ah, that is it," I said, with a sigh, "Edmund never will take proper care of himself."

"No, I know he is not so prudent as he should be," he replied; "but he has a prudent man for his friend, and I promise you I will take good care of him at Cambridge. Don't you worry about him when he is there. I'll look after him."

Father was calling to him that the gig was ready. With a kind, assuring smile, he bade me good evening, and hastened out into the pouring rain. In a few moments, he drove off, nodding gaily to Edmund, who was watching him from the window.

"He is a nice fellow," said father, as he came in.

I thought so too. I was feeling very grateful to Ralph Dugdale. His words had cheered me, as he meant that they should. It was good to know that Edmund would have such a friend to look after him at Cambridge.

CHAPTER V.

BUSINESS WORRIES.

EDMUND did not throw off his cold so quickly as I had hoped he would. It clung to him for weeks, for when I fancied it was about to depart, he would be sure to increase it by some act of imprudence. I do not think I was more anxious than other girls would have been, but I remember well how, sometimes, when I heard his cough sounding through the house in the stillness of the night, my heart would almost stand still in my agony of dread as I asked myself, was it possible that Salome's fears could be well-found, and my brother be consumptive?

But these fears always vanished with the night. When Edmund came down to breakfast, and I saw the merry light in his eyes, and listened to his droll talk, it was easy to persuade myself that there was nothing much the matter with him. My fears seemed absurd and fanciful then, and I forgot them as easily as we forget the ridiculous things we dream.

Why should I be anxious when no one, excepting Salome, who was given to croaking, seemed to have any notion that there was cause for fear on Edmund's account? Once, when I hinted at my fears to Mabel, she laughed at me, and declared that Edmund was as strong as possible; it was absurd to talk of consumption in connection with a tall, manly fellow like him. Tall and manly Edmund certainly was, but as for his being strong, I could not feel so sure of that. However, in the warm days of August, he ceased to cough, and my heart was comforted.