"You needn't think you're going to stay here with us," said Blanche Greenwood, hotly. "Because we don't want you. We didn't ask you to come, and you may go away and walk by yourself."

"I've no wish to stay with you, I'm sure," replied Ernestine with equal temper. "I would rather have your room than your company. I've picked all the lilies I want, so you're welcome to any that are left, so far as I'm concerned, if that's why you wish to get rid of me."

And with this parting shot, she took her flowers and walked slowly away in the opposite direction to that in which we had come, by a small path that led from the wood up on to the moor beyond.

"You're terribly wet, Phil; your boots are simply squelching with water. I don't know what Mrs. Marshall will say!" said Cathy, as she hurried me back to the farm as fast as possible, to be dried.

Somewhat to my relief, neither Mrs. Marshall nor any of the teachers was there. Like ourselves they were all trying to make the best of the fine afternoon out-of-doors.

"Deary me! Who'd have thought of you falling into that bit of a brook?" said Mrs. Thompson, aghast, as I walked into the kitchen in my moist skirts. "We must get you out of those wet things, honey. I've some clothes of my Lizzie's as would fit you while your own is at the fire."

Lizzie's skirt was decidedly too short for me, and Lizzie's boots were equally large and roomy; her stockings, moreover, were of thick, home-knitted worsted, very hot and uncomfortable; but I was grateful for anything in the circumstances, and would, I believe, have worn a pair of sabots if they had been offered to me.

"We shall just have time for a walk, Cathy, after all," I said. "It can't be very late yet, and we don't start home until six o'clock. Let us go up that path through the glen that led on to the moors."

"Nay! Don't go there!" called out Mrs. Thompson, who happened to overhear my remark just as we left the house. "There's a bull up on yon moor as isn't safe at all. It do run folks sometimes. I thought ye had been with the rest when I warned ye all. Keep in our own fields, and ye'll be right enough, but don't go roamin' far away."

"Never mind," said Cathy. "We'll go back to the wood, at any rate, and pick some more lilies, if there are any left."

We wandered slowly down the lane, gathering the dog-violets from the banks, and having an unsuccessful hunt for birds' nests in the hedge. The girls were all gone from the glen, only a few dropped flowers remaining to show where they had been, and Cathy and I sauntered to the little bridge to take a look at the scene of my catastrophe.

"You see how the handrail shakes about," I said, as I swung it out with a touch. "And directly Ernestine took hold of it—— Oh, Cathy! I never thought of Ernestine before! Don't you remember she went up the path towards the moors? She can't know that the bull is there, and she's gone quite alone!"

"Let us run after her," said Cathy. "Perhaps, after all, she mayn't have walked very far, and we shall be in time to warn her."

"Quick! quick!" I cried. "Mrs. Thompson said the bull was so dangerous. Oh! we must stop her!"

We raced as fast as my heavy country boots would allow along the narrow path through the wood, and over the stile into the meadow beyond, calling "Ernestine" as we ran, but hearing no reply to our shouts. Among the deep clover and up the steep hill-side we panted, following the plain direction of the path, till, clambering over the irregular steps which led across the high stone wall, we found ourselves on the open moor at last.

"Oh, look! look!" cried Cathy, grasping my arm. "There it is!"

And she pointed as she spoke to the summit of a small hill close by, where, outlined against the blue sky beyond, rose the enormous form of the great black bull, which stood there pawing the ground impatiently, and tossing his giant horns as though he were warning trespassers to beware of venturing upon his domains. Slightly lower down among the furze and the heather, and only about three hundred yards away from us, we could distinguish Ernestine's blue dress, and the flutter of the red ribbon in her hat. She was walking slowly along, stooping every now and then to pick a flower, or pausing to look at the scene around her, and evidently utterly unconscious of the huge monster which was grazing on the hill-side above her. We called wildly to her, but the wind was in the opposite direction, and she could not hear us.

"We must save her, Cathy!" I cried. "Perhaps the bull won't see us. Let us follow her quietly, and tell her to come back before it's too late."

But the bull had seen her already, and with a low roaring noise it began to move slowly down the side of the hill, snuffing the air as it went. Roused at last by the sound, Ernestine turned round. For one moment she stood almost fixed to the spot with horror, then with a wild shriek of fear she flung down her flowers, and ran back as fast as she could in the direction of the stile over the wall.

"Stop! Stop! Don't run! It will be sure to follow you!" shouted Cathy; but even if Ernestine heard her, I doubt if she would have had the self-control to stay her flying footsteps. It was too late, for with a loud bellow the great animal was rushing madly after her down the slope. It seemed impossible that she could reach the wall in time. There was only a moment in which to save her, but I had read in books that a bull always charges blindly, and quick as thought I pulled off my jacket, and dashed forward.

"Run, Ernestine! Run!" I cried. "Run, Cathy! The stile! The stile!"

It was almost upon her, but even as it put down its head to charge, I flung my jacket over its horns, and, taking advantage of the few seconds of delay thus gained, I fled on wings of terror after the others to the stile. How I scrambled over, I can never remember; I know I fell on Cathy and Ernestine at the bottom. We all lay there for a few moments nearly dead with fright, imagining that the bull would leap after us, but the wall was high, and the stile very steep, and though we could hear its angry mutterings within a few feet of us, it was not able to clear so great an obstacle.

"Let us get away!" cried Ernestine. "Oh! it's terrible, terrible to think that dreadful beast is still so near us!"

She made an effort to rise; then, groaning with pain, she sank back on to the ground, and buried her face in her hands.

"I can't walk!" she moaned, "I've broken my foot. Go, girls, and leave me! If I have to die, I must."

"What nonsense!" said Cathy. "You're not going to die yet. I expect you twisted your ankle when you fell. You're quite safe here, for the bull can't leap a six-foot wall, or climb up crooked stone steps. We'll go for help, and Mr. Thompson and one of the men must come to carry you back to the farm."

"You go, Cathy," I said, "and I'll stay with Ernestine. She'd feel dreadfully frightened to be left here all alone, with the bull close by, although it can't get at us now. If you run all the way, you'll very soon be back with help."

Cathy started off at once at a brisk trot, and we watched her as she hurried down the clover-field and the meadow, and disappeared into the wood below.

I turned to Ernestine, who still sat under the wall where she had fallen, white to the lips, and trembling all over with pain.

"I'm afraid your foot's hurting you very much," I said. "Let me take your boot off, and I'll get some water to bathe it for you."

I was obliged to cut both her boot-lace and her stocking with my penknife, for her ankle was already so swollen that she could scarcely bear to have it touched. I soaked my handkerchief in a little pool of water, and bound up the foot as carefully as I could.

"Don't cry!" I said. "They'll soon be here with help, and you can lie on the carriage-seat and keep your foot up all the way home. Does it hurt you very dreadfully?"

"It does hurt, but it isn't that!" sobbed Ernestine. "You've saved my life, Philippa, and—I've been so horribly nasty to you, ever since you came to school! I meant to shake that handrail to-day, and send you into the brook; it wasn't an accident at all!"

I stroked her hand softly.

"I don't think you'd do it again," I said. "It's all right about the bull. Don't let us talk of it now. I want to put another bandage on your poor foot."

"But I will talk of it!" she said. "I've been most disgustingly mean. I'll be very different to you afterwards, if you'll be friends with me. Will you?"

"Of course I will," I said heartily; and I put my arms round her neck, and kissed her.

Mr. Thompson soon arrived with a couple of strong farm-men, and between them they carried my poor groaning school-mate back to the farm, where Mrs. Marshall was waiting, full of alarm at the chapter of accidents which had happened. It was a painful journey home for Ernestine, and it was many weeks before her sprained ankle would allow her to walk, or take any part in our school games again. I think I was able to make the dull hours she had perforce to spend on her sofa pass a little more brightly for her, and she was grateful to me beyond words.

"No, don't!" I said, when she tried once to stammer out her thanks. "We've forgotten all that old time. It's no use remembering bygones. We're going to start afresh now, and we'll all give you ever such a jolly welcome when you're well enough to come into school again."

And so my last trouble at The Hollies had passed away, for Miss Percy's hard discipline had resolved itself into the genial sway of Miss Hope, and Ernestine Salt, who had been the one stormy element in my class, now wrote herself upon the list of my friends.

CHAPTER XI

AT MARSHLANDS AGAIN

"Well, Miss Humming-bird, you have grown out of all knowledge!" said the squire. "The gray pony is still at your service, and there's a nice light little rod-and-line we could soon teach you to whip the stream with. We'll make a sportswoman of you yet, I declare!"

Mrs. Winstanley welcomed me home equally with Cathy.

"I'm longing to see your Nature Note-Book," she said. "You must have made many additions since last we met. The wild daffodils are out in the Wyngates meadows, the herons are building in the wood by Carnton Fell, and I have found the remains of another stone circle on the moors, so we shall have plenty of objects for our walks."

To revisit all our old haunts was an immense delight. The rose-tree which I had planted by Edward's arbour had grown into quite a large bush, the tempestuous poodle puppies had settled down into sober, steady-going, well-conducted dogs, which regarded with much disfavour the harum-scarum ways of a youthful Skye terrier, which was the latest favourite. Cathy had a fresh pony, a beautiful little chestnut called Selim, which ran with Lady in the new phaeton, and the rock garden which we had made at the end of the shrubbery was flourishing in the most satisfactory manner.

I found the boys much changed. Edward was very tall, and had begun to speak meditatively of Oxford. He still drawled a little, and fussed over his clothes, but he had taken keenly to politics, and aired socialistic theories which he argued hotly with the squire. Dick had grown quite polite, comparatively speaking, and offered to teach me golf, but we had so many other occupations on hand that I never found time to learn. George had got over the stage of keeping white mice in his pockets, and talked mostly about cricket; he was still at his preparatory school, but he was to leave soon for a training-college for the Navy. They were all as full of fun and chaff as ever, and laughed yet over the remembrance of our joke with the burglar.

Marshlands looked beautiful in the spring-time. The cherry orchards were in full blossom, the woods were tinged with the faintest of tender greens, and we found violets in every hedgerow. It was early April, and the distant fells were capped with snow, while the air had enough of a northern chill in it to make quick walking a pleasure. We were close to the lake country, on the borders of that mountain district where crag and moorland, pine-wood and tarn combine to make some of the most glorious scenery in the British Isles. I have always had an extreme love for the hills, whether they were the rocky sierras of my childhood, or the rugged peaks of Cumberland. Once up on the slopes, with the fresh wind blowing on your cheek, and the valley spread out like a map below, you feel as if you had left the cares of the world behind, and were in a different moral as well as physical atmosphere. If it is true that our surroundings really have an effect upon our characters, I think that those who live on a mountain can never be quite so petty and mean-minded as the dwellers in the plain beneath; something in the majesty of those peaks must surely draw them up, and lift their thoughts towards that other world that is higher than ours.

The days were not half long enough for all our delightful projects. Mr. Winstanley had fulfilled his promise of teaching me to fish, and, armed with the light rod-and-line, I industriously and laboriously whipped the stream; but I fear I was anything but a "compleat angler", for very few of my contributions went to fill the baskets of silvery trout which the boys seemed to catch so cleverly.

"I'm afraid a fisherman is something like a poet, 'born, not made'," I sighed, as I watched Dick choose a fresh fly and secure a catch in the very pool where I had tried for half an hour in vain.

"Oh, it's partly practice!" said Dick, "you'll get into it in time. It's rather slow work, though, and I'm jolly savage myself, sometimes, when I can't get a bite, and feel inclined to agree with Dr. Johnson that a fisherman is 'a worm at one end, and a fool at the other'. That old chap knew life! I'll tell you what; if the governor's willing, we'll get him to take us over for a day to Craigdale, and we'll have a boat and try some sea-fishing. I dare say you'll get on better with the flukes and haddock."

Good-natured Mr. Winstanley proved to be more than willing, so one sunny morning we packed ourselves into the phaeton and dog-cart, and started off on the nine-mile drive to the little fishing-village which was our nearest point on the sea-coast. Craigdale seemed to be a mere handful of whitewashed cottages set in the midst of a sandy marsh, where hardy sea-flowers were springing up and blooming on the wind-swept ridges, and terns and sand-pipers were darting here and there at the edge of the waves, in chase of some detached limpet or scuttling crab. We put up the traps at a small inn called the "Mermaid Arms", the sign-board of which was adorned with a most remarkable painting of a sea-maiden with fish's tail, comb and looking-glass, all complete, ready no doubt to bewitch too venturesome sailors to their doom. The stout, bustling landlady readily agreed to provide us with the best she could muster at so short a notice, and in a very brief time she had produced a smoking dish of ham and eggs, which with brown bread and Cumberland cream cheese we thought a fare not at all to be despised. We made quick work of our lunch, however, being anxious to start off in the boat which was waiting for us down by the jetty, where a bluff, jolly old fisherman was ready with bait and sea-lines. Strange to say, it was the first time I had ever been out in a rowing-boat. Although I had paid several visits to the sea-side with Aunt Agatha and my cousins, we had generally kept to the pier and promenade, and had never ventured upon the briny deep in anything of less size than an Isle of Wight steamer. It was a delightful novelty to find myself so close to the waves that I could hold my hand in the rushing water, and could almost catch the long trails of sea-weed and the great jelly-fishes which floated every now and then past our boat. We rowed out a short distance into the bay, and then cast anchor, as our boatmen assured us that it was a good spot to let down the lines, and we should be certain of having plenty of bites. There was a stiff breeze blowing, and the white caps on the distant waves looked like wild sea-horses chasing each other over the foam; the tide was coming in fast, and our boat swayed to and fro like a cork upon the heavy swell.

"Isn't it jolly?" said George; "I like to be 'rocked in the cradle of the deep'. I mean to be a sailor when I grow up; there's no life like 'a life on the ocean wave'. Hullo, Phil! You don't seem as though you were enjoying yourself! Just look at her, Mater! Her face is the colour of a boiled turnip!"

I certainly was not enjoying myself, for the horrible swinging motion had brought on that peculiar complaint which the French call "mal de mer", and I could only gasp out an entreaty to be taken back anywhere so that I might find my feet upon dry land again.

"Bless the child! I didn't think such a little would upset her!" said the squire, whose own family were all excellent sailors. "Wind up the lines, and we'll row back to the jetty and land her. She'll have to amuse herself on the beach as best she can."

"You'll never make a fisherwoman after all!" laughed Dick, as he helped me to jump out on to the narrow landing-place. "I vowed you should catch at least ten flukes this afternoon, and you've given in before you've had a single bite!"

"I don't care if I never see a fish again!" I said. "You're welcome to my share of them all, and can eat them too, if you like. I'm only too glad to be on terra firma once more, and I wouldn't stay in that little wobbling cockle-shell any longer if you were to offer me a five-pound note for every fish I caught."

But though my fishing efforts had turned out such a disastrous failure, I found I got on much better with riding. Sometimes Cathy and I would go out on Selim and Lady, with the squire or one of the boys on Captain, and then I thought nothing could equal the joy of the brisk canter over the moors, with the dogs racing behind us, and the screaming sea-birds flying away in front. It was delightful to feel the quick motion of the pony under me, as we rapidly covered the ground; and I improved so much that Mr. Winstanley declared he would make a horsewoman of me in the end, and that I should follow the hounds next time I came in the hunting season.

Perhaps of all our expeditions I enjoyed our walks the most. To ramble about the lanes and fields in search of nests or wild flowers was to me always an endless pleasure. Finding that I had never picked wild daffodils before, Cathy suggested one morning that we should walk to Wyngates, where they grew so lavishly that the marshy meadows were literally yellow with them. So with our baskets on our arms, and the new Skye terrier for company, we started off in high spirits. Our way led up a steep lane, the sloping banks of which were spangled with primroses and celandine, while the rough-built walls at the top gave a hold to trailing honeysuckle, ivy, and hazel bushes. It was a grand place for birds' nests, and we made very slow progress as we poked about, peering into every likely-looking spot. Cathy, through long experience, was much more clever at discovering them than I, and while she found three thrushes', a wren's, and two chaffinches', my efforts were only rewarded by a solitary hedge-sparrow's. I had had a kodak for my last birthday present, and I was very anxious to take some snap-shots of the young birds in their nests, fired thereto by the beautiful nature photographs I had seen in the illustrated papers. With a good deal of climbing and difficulty I managed to secure various views of Mrs. Thrush at home, Mrs. Chaffinch's nursery, and the five Miss Hedge-sparrows clamouring for a meal. I used a whole spool of films over them, only to find, when with Dick's assistance I developed them afterwards, that my little camera was not intended for such near distances, and my pictures were so hopelessly out of focus that they were utterly spoilt.

"It's an awful sell, and you've wasted a dozen films," said Dick. "I believe you ought to have a special lens for these nature dodges. Your kodak won't take nearer than seven feet off. Never mind, the ones of the Mater and the house and the village are stunning, and you'll get some good snap-shots when we go over Carnton Fell to the sheep-counting."

But to return to our walk. Leaving the lane and the birds' nests behind, we were soon on the open moor, with the brown of last year's heather around us, and the gorse in brilliant patches of gold scenting the air with its faint peachy smell. Innumerable little mountain springs crossed our path, cutting channels through the peat, and overhung with lady-fern and sedges, and here and there among the furze the shoots of the young bracken were springing green. We cut down a deep gorge into the valley, following the course of a swift stream which was descending with much noise to join the river, and found ourselves at last on a kind of rushy marshland, where deep dykes and high banks told a tale of flooded meadows in winter. It might aptly have been called "The Field of the Cloth of Gold", for the daffodils were growing in such endless profusion that one could have picked for a week without stopping. I filled my basket with infinite satisfaction, and sat down on an old poplar stump to wait for Cathy, who thought she had discovered some new snail-shells in the brook.

"What's that house up there?" I asked, pointing to a gray old Tudor building which stood on the side of the crag above, looking down over the valley towards the dim line of the distant sea.

"Oh, that's Wyngates," said Cathy, pulling herself up the bank with her hands full of treasures. "It's such a dear old place! Would you like to go and see it? Nobody lives there now, and I know the care-taker. I always think it is such fun to explore an empty house."

I had not been over an untenanted home before, so I jumped at the opportunity, and we climbed up the hill-side again to a little iron gate which opened through the hedge from the fields. We found ourselves in an old-world garden such as I had never even imagined. The tall yew hedges had been clipped smooth, with here and there a small window cut in them through which the distant landscape appeared like a picture set in a frame. At either end the trees were fashioned into quaint shapes—peacocks with spreading tails, cocked hats, or ramping lions, all getting a little straggling and untended, but adding a very picturesque feature to the scene. There was a long flagged terrace, with dandelions pushing up between the stones, and roses, grown almost wild, climbing in glorious profusion over the balustrade, while a flight of steps led down to the ladies' pleasaunce, where the narrow grass walks were bordered with box-edgings, and pink daisies and forget-me-nots were trying to struggle through the weeds in the neglected beds. In the centre was a sun-dial with twisted shaft, and an inscription round the capital. We rubbed away the moss which covered the worn letters, and spelt out the words, written in old English characters:

"NESCIES + QUA + HORA + VIGILA",

which we were not Latin scholars enough at the time to be able to translate, but which I afterwards learnt meant "Thou knowest not at what hour. Watch!" I wondered, as I looked, how many footsteps, in the centuries that had fled, had passed up and down that terraced walk, and how many quaint little maidens as young and gay as we, had come to tell the time by that dial, and had read that same motto, "wrought in dead days by men a long while dead". The blossom from the almond-tree above fell on us like pink snow, and a thrush in the lilac bush was ruffling every feather on his little throat in the rapture of his spring song.

"If I could choose any spot in the world I wished, I think I should come to live here," I said, with a long sigh of content as I looked over the sweet-brier fence down the valley to where in the distance gleamed the bay, a faint gray streak against a patch of yellow sand, with the outline of the fells rising up misty and blue behind. Cathy smiled.

"You haven't seen the house yet," she said. "You couldn't live only in a garden."

"I should like to," I replied. "I'd any time rather have a cottage with a beautiful garden, than the most splendid mansion without one. I think out-of-doors is so much nicer than indoors. Perhaps it's my bringing up. In San Carlos we lived mostly in the verandah and on the terrace."

The house proved to be a quaint old stone manor, not large, and quite unpretentious, the kind of dwelling that was built in days gone by for the younger sons of gentry, who farmed a little land, and rode to hounds. Cathy begged the key from the care-taker at the lodge, and we wandered round the panelled rooms, wondering at the black oak beams of the ceilings, and the delightful ingle-nooks of the wide old-fashioned fireplaces.

"How splendid they would look full of blazing logs!" said Cathy. "These old walls ought to be hung with garlands of holly and mistletoe. It would just be the place for a Christmas party."

One room especially fascinated me. It was a small chamber half-way up the stairs, built above the porch, with a large mullioned window from which one looked out over the garden to the very limit of the horizon. The chimney-piece was richly carved, and panelled with coats of arms, but the central panel was occupied by a small oil-painting of a laughing girl, with lace ruffles and flowered bodice, whose fair hair fell in loose curls over her neck and shoulders. So lifelike was the portrait, that for a moment I felt as if the parted red lips were about to speak, and almost waited for the words, while the bright eyes seemed to look out from the wall as if they were following us round the room. In the extreme right-hand corner of the picture was painted the name: "Philippa Lovell".

"Who is she?" said Cathy, in response to my eager enquiries. "Why, the Lovells were a very old family who lived here in the time of the civil wars. Her father was for the King, but her only brother had declared for Cromwell and the Parliament. They met in battle at Naseby, and both fell, each fighting bravely for his own opinions. So the girl was the last of the race. She was a ward of Charles II, and he married her to one of his favourites, who cared for nothing but her lands and her money. She was miserable and ill at the London court, and at last she got leave to return to Cumberland; but it was too late, for she only came home to die. You can see her monument in the church, next to that of her father and brother; the Lovell coat of arms hangs over them all, and the words 'Sic transit gloria mundi'."

So this was the story of my poor little namesake. Her smiles had indeed soon been changed into tears, and very sad eyes must have looked out from the mullioned window to the distant sea. I felt as if the room were still occupied by her memory, and I closed the door almost reverently as I went out, murmuring to myself those lines from Longfellow:—

CHAPTER XII

THE IGNACIA

MY long separation from my father was at length drawing to a close. He spoke hopefully of his return to England, and even named the vessel in which he intended to take his passage. "Shall I find my girl much altered, I wonder?" he wrote. "Taller, no doubt, and I hope wiser, but in heart just the same as when she left me, and with as tender a corner as ever for her poor old dad." I made so many plans for Father's return. All my best sketches and collections were put by to show to him, and I toiled hard at music, so that he might not be disappointed with my playing. I thought how I would introduce Cathy to him, and how much he would admire her, and how perhaps we could go and stay somewhere near Marshlands in the holidays, so that he could see all the Winstanleys together. I imagined him coming to our Mid-summer breaking-up party, and how proud and happy I should be to have him there. It was an annual occasion to which the parents and friends of the girls were invited, and I had often felt, with a little pang, when I saw the warm greetings between others, that it seemed hard to have no one there to love me specially above everyone else. At last I was to have my own dear one all to myself, and I counted the days till his return, crossing each off on the calendar when I went to bed at night, and thinking that I was one day nearer to our meeting. Now that his arrival seemed so close, I was full of impatience, and felt that the time would scarcely pass, and I wondered sometimes how I had managed to live through those five long years without him.

He was to sail in the Ignacia, a Spanish vessel bound for London, and the steamer was cabled to have started on her voyage. Each night I thought of Father tossing on the ocean, and each morning when I awoke, I pictured him a little nearer to me than when I had fallen asleep. I was so excited I could scarcely attend to my lessons, and the teachers, knowing my story, did not press me too hard. And so the weeks passed by, and the great day of my happiness drew near.

I was sitting one afternoon at my drawing class. It was early June, and the windows were wide open, letting in the fragrant scent of the lilac and hawthorn from the garden below, and the imperative song of a chaffinch to his mate in the elm-tree close by. Sometimes, in memory of greater events, little incidents make a great impression upon one's mind. I can recall every line of the Italian boy's head which I was copying, and the sound of the scratch of Janet's pencil, as she laboriously shaded a chalk study. I felt unusually restless and disinclined to apply myself to my work. The air was heavy and still, there was a grumble of thunder in the distance, and the silence of the room broken only by an occasional criticism from the master, as he corrected our drawings, grew almost unbearable. Gathering clouds were already darkening the sky, and threatened a storm, and a vague foreboding of evil seemed to come over my mind, dulling the keen edge of my happiness. Does some subtle instinct, as yet neither known nor understood, warn us when those we hold dear are in peril? Does our love set in motion unseen waves of sympathy, so that the heart feels the message which has not yet been told in words? I think so; for when the door opened and Miss Wilton entered, I knew before she spoke that she had come for me. There was an unwonted pity and kindness in her voice as she quietly ordered me to leave my drawing, and come to Mrs. Marshall. With trembling fingers I put away my pencils and obeyed. She took my hand, and led me silently downstairs. There was a sound of voices in the drawing-room, and Aunt Agatha was there, seated on the sofa. She had been crying, and she rose quickly when I entered. Mrs. Marshall put her arm round my neck and kissed me, but said nothing.

"Philippa dear," said my aunt, with more tenderness than I had ever given her credit for, "can you bear me to tell you some very bad news?"

I could not speak. A great fear rose in my heart, and almost choked me. My speechless lips framed the one question: "Father?"

"He is not come yet. He will be a long time coming. Oh! my poor child, he will never come! The Ignacia has gone down with all hands on board."

I would pass over the first outbreak of my grief, for it is so black a remembrance, such a thickness of utter darkness and despair, that the very memory of it hurts. I begged to be allowed to remain at school. Many kind friends wished me to visit them, but I felt that to plunge myself more than ever into my lessons and the coming examinations was the only way to dull the keen edge of the sorrow that was wounding me so sorely. Mrs. Marshall agreed with me, and by keeping my time most fully occupied did me the truest kindness that in the circumstances she was able to perform. A kind of dull passiveness came over me, which they mistook for resignation. They thought I was beginning to forget, but there are some sorrows which never really die, however deeply we may seek to bury them, and every now and then my grief would awaken with renewed force. The summer term dragged on towards its close. How I dreaded the breaking-up party, with all its festivities! I wished I could go away before it, though I did not like to ask to do so. The examinations were over, and I stood high in my class, but my success gave me no pleasure. What was the use of doing well, I thought bitterly, when my father was not there to rejoice over it! I felt so unutterably solitary and alone in the world, and even Cathy's love and the many thoughtful kindnesses of my friends could not make up to me for that greatest of all losses.

The day of the party at last arrived. How different from anything I had planned! I set out my white dress and black sash with a sigh. Cathy, who was watching me with anxious eyes, tried to talk about home, for I was returning to Marshlands with her for part of the holidays, and Janet, too, did her best to give the conversation a hopeful turn.

"This visitor's arriving early," said Millicent, who was leaning out of my window, looking down the drive, as a cab drew up at the front-door. "It's a gentleman," she announced, standing back a little behind the curtain, so as not to be seen, "I don't know who he is. One of Mrs. Marshall's friends, I suppose. Do you want to peep, Phil?"

I felt no interest in the guests of the evening, however, and I had not even the curiosity to look out. We heard a slight bustle of arrival downstairs, and I did not give the matter another thought. But a short time afterwards Lucy came running into our bedroom with a look of peculiar excitement on her face.

"You're wanted, Philippa, in the drawing-room," she said. Then, putting her hand over her mouth, as though to stop herself from saying more, she darted suddenly away. It was so unusual, and so utterly unlike Lucy's ordinary behaviour, that I was completely puzzled. I went down to the drawing-room with a beating heart. It somehow made me think of that other time when I had been summoned there. Mrs. Marshall was standing near the window with a newspaper in her hand. She looked strangely moved.

"Philippa," she said slowly, "the newspapers are not always correct, after all. We should be very careful before we believe everything they tell us." I looked full into her eyes, to learn the sequel. "Sometimes," she continued, "they give us good news which is never fulfilled, and sometimes they tell us of bad news which has not really occurred. It occasionally happens that when a ship goes down, all do not perish. A few manage to escape in boats, and are picked up by chance steamers, and then they come home again to those who love them. There was a vessel called the Ignacia——"

But here my patience broke down, and I gasped out: "Oh, Mrs. Marshall, tell me quick! quick! Is he——?" I did not dare to ask the question outright. My very life seemed to depend upon the reply.

The door of the conservatory suddenly opened, a tall bronzed figure rushed into the room, and the next moment I was clasped close in my father's arms. Mrs. Marshall went out very softly, and left us together.

Father told me his story afterwards. How a terrible storm had driven the Ignacia many hundreds of miles north of her course; how the ship had sprung a leak, and how he and a few others had escaped in one of the boats. What a fearful time they had had tossing for days and days on a rough sea, without food and water; and how, just when they were giving up hope, they had been rescued by a whaling vessel, bound for the north of Greenland, which had been obliged to continue its voyage, and had not touched at any port where he could telegraph until it finally arrived at Glasgow! Then he had come straight to The Hollies, to bring me the good news himself.

Oh, what a breaking-up party it was for me! With what a different heart I put on the white dress (with a pink sash instead of a black one), and stood by Father's side in the reception-room! He kissed Lucy and Mary and my dear Cathy, who was nearly crying for joy, and had a hearty hand-shake for each of my companions.

"I know them all from your letters," he said. "And I should like to thank them for being so good to my little girl. We're very happy and grateful to-night, and not the least part of it is to see so many friends ready to share in our rejoicing."

The visitors soon learned the story, and nearly every one had a kind word for me, even Miss Percy, who had come as a guest, kissed me warmly on the cheek, and wished me joy.

As I write these last lines I look out through the mullioned window over the quaint old-world garden to a line of golden sand and a distant streak of silver sea, for my wildest dreams are realized: Father has taken Wyngates, and the deserted house, where Cathy and I wandered on that spring morning, is now my home. The large fireplaces blaze with the most hospitable of log fires; the clipped yew hedges are neatly trimmed; the beds are gay with flowers, and I have planted a border of white lilies round the sun-dial in the ladies' pleasaunce. Philippa Lovell's room is my special sanctum, where I keep my books and my work, and her laughing face smiles down upon me as if she were glad that young life has returned to the old place once more. The Winstanleys are our dearest friends, and very few days pass without a meeting between us. Cathy and I have just left school, and I am settling down in dead earnest to master the mysteries of housekeeping, and to supply to my father that dear place which my mother left empty long ago. We do not want to fritter away our lives in that aimless fashion which girls sometimes do when school-days are over, and we have many plans for our own and the village improvement. Strange to say, Edward, just through college, is here at one with us. He has forgotten his dandy ways, and his drawl, and is the foremost in organizing a Boys' Brigade, or running a reading-room, qualifying, as Dick irreverently puts it, for a "thorough-going out-and-out kind of a parson chap". George is at sea, and, from the accounts of his adventures, the ringleader of a lively crew of harum-scarum middies, whose escapades outrival even the pranks which he and Dick played long ago. His great desire seems to be that a war should break out to give him an opportunity of displaying his courage.

I love Wyngates with my whole heart; no spot on earth seems more beautiful to me, and I would not change its hills and its fresh breezes for all the brightness of southern skies. Our old home and all its associations are not forgotten, however, for Juanita, now married to Pedro, sends us kindly messages from her orange-farm on the sierras, and Tasso, whose devotion to my father led him to follow him over the seas, is with us now, the most faithful of servants and the staunchest of friends.

With those I hold dearest near me, my cup of happiness seems full, and my father says that the little foreign plant which he sent over so long ago to harden in our gray northern clime has taken root, and changed from a tropical blossom into an English rose.