CHAPTER VII.

WEAVING IN THE SUNSET.

    "Where waitest thou,
Lady I am to love? Thou comest not;
Thou knowest of my sad and lonely lot;
    I look'd for thee ere now!

    "It is the May!
And each sweet sister soul hath found its brother;
Only we two seek fondly each the other,
    And, seeking, still delay."—Arnold.

Queenie entered upon her new duties with an ardor that would have surprised any one acquainted with the real state of the case. If a feeling of amusement sometimes crossed her mind at the incongruity between her present position and the heiress-ship she had refused to take up, it only added zest and flavor to her work.

Queenie Marriott was one of those women whose zeal was according to knowledge. She loved her work for its own sake. In her eyes it was invested with a meaning and dignity that redeemed it from its so-called drudgery, and placed it high in the ranks of honorable labor.

Her youthful enthusiasm anointed everything with a sort of moral chrism. The little barnlike structure, with its half-moon windows, and rough forms and desks, was a species of temple wherein she enshrined all manner of precious things. When she looked round on the children's faces they seemed to appeal to her with all sorts of involved meanings, demanding patience and sympathy, and all such goodly things at her hands.

Queenie knew the royal road to learning lay through her pupils' hearts. She must love them, and teach them to love her; obedience would follow as a matter of course. All children were dear to her, for Emmie's sake. Now and then, through the buzz of voices droning through the repetition lessons, there would come before her a certain vivid memory, stabbing her with sudden, sharp pain—a dark garret haunted with shadows; a pale-faced child crouched on the window-seat, wrapped in an old red shawl, with great blue eyes dim with fear; of a little figure stricken down, and lying amongst them as one that was dead; of a sick-room where a child-martyr went down into the very valley of the shadow of death, where a fight so long and terrible was carried on that the weary watcher only covered her face with her trembling hands, and prayed for merciful death to come as a deliverer.

And so for the sake of that childish sufferer, and that great miracle of healing—Queenie clave with very love to all children. There was one child, Prissy Atkinson, the sister of the very Patience whom Langley had selected as her little maid, to whom she showed especial kindness.

She was the plainest and most uninteresting girl in the school, slightly lame, and with an odd drawl and lisp in her voice, ungainly in manner, and with no particular cleverness to recommend her; yet, by some undefinable feeling, Queenie singled out this child as an object of her interest.

The little rough head often felt a tender hand laid upon it. The gentlest voice Prissy had ever heard would accost her now and then; difficult tasks were smoothed by magic; pleasant smiles would reward her diligence. When her head once ached, a resting-place was found for it on teacher's own shoulder. "Oh, teacher! I love you! I do love you so!" cried Prissy, out of the fulness of her heart, throwing her thin arms round Queenie's neck. Was the warm kiss that answered her given in reality to Prissy or to Emmie?

Emmie would come sometimes and look in at the open door, with round blue eyes, very wide open with pleasure and astonishment. The little girls would look up from their tasks and nod at her; the sisters would interchange fond, satisfied looks. Sometimes a tall figure would pause for a moment behind Emmie; then a strong arm would draw the child from the threshold.

"Naughty Emmie! infringing the rules in school-hours. Do you know I shall have you put on a form as an example for disobedient children? Why has Langley allowed you to play truant in this way?"

"I ran away from Cathy, down the lane," Emmie answered, clinging to his hand, and looking up coaxingly into his face. "I do love to see Queenie amongst them all. Did she not look nice, Mr. Clayton?"

"Very nice," returned Garth absently. In reality he was pondering over the little scene he had just witnessed. "It would make a picture," he thought; "the slim, girlish figure in the black dress, the bent brown head, the children's eager faces, the bowl of white narcissus on the desk, the sunshine streaming in at the open door." She had looked up at him, and smiled as he stood there, such a bright smile; somehow it haunted him. "What a brave, true heart it is," he thought, as he went down the village with Emmie still clinging closely to him. "She looked as proud of herself and her work as ever Princess Ida amongst her golden-haired girl-graduates. That is what I like about her; she is superior to the nonsense and conventionality of the present day. Most women would have felt themselves humiliated in her position; but she seems to have grasped the real meaning of her work and purpose. If it were not selfish I could find it in my heart to be half sorry about that legacy. I wanted to see if the bare crust she talked about would have set her teeth on edge in the eating. I had a notion that it would have been pleasant to see her working up her way alone; and then one would have a faint chance of helping her. She is beyond this now; Cathy says he has left her a hundred a-year. Why, with her salary and what she has they will have close upon two hundred. They will do capitally on that; and, after all, one would not like to see them pinch. Well, it is none of my business," finished Garth, rousing himself from his cogitations. "I wish Dora could have seen her just now, giving that object lesson; I fancy she would have changed her opinion altogether. How strange it was that they did not seem to take to each other; but then women are strange creatures, and difficult to understand."

It was an odd coincidence that made Garth think of Dora; for at that moment her little pony-carriage turned the corner of the lane. She waved her whip and her little gloved hand as she saw him; and Garth crossed the road with a slight flush on his face.

"I wanted to see Miss Marriott. I promised to call upon her; but I find the cottage is still unoccupied," said Miss Cunningham, leaning a little towards him, and fixing her calm blue eyes on his face. Not a look or gesture escaped her scrutiny. His slight confusion at her unexpected appearance was perfectly transparent to her. "Things are going on as they ought to go on," she said to herself; "but there is no need to hurry it;" and though her pulses quickened a little at his obvious pleasure at seeing her she would have scorned to betray her interest.

"They do not go in until Tuesday; we shall keep them until then," returned Garth, stroking the pony's neck absently. Dora was looking prettier than ever this morning, he thought. She wore a hat with a long, white curling feather; the golden hair shone under it; she patted it nonchalantly with her little gloved hand as she talked. Emmie interrupted them presently.

"School is over! there are the girls coming out. Prissy is last, of course. Ah! there is Queenie!" and she darted across the road, and almost threw herself on her sister. Queenie did not quicken her steps when she saw them. She came up a little reluctantly when she recognized the occupant of the pony-carriage.

Dora greeted her with her usual good-humor.

"Ah, there you are, Miss Marriott! how cool you look in that nice, broad-brimmed hat. But I am sorry to see you in black. You have lost a friend, Mr. Clayton tells me. Well, I told you that I should call and have a chat about the school and all manner of things. Will you jump in and let me drive you up the lane. Langley has promised me some luncheon."

"Emmie and I will be at the house as soon as you," returned Queenie, taking the child's hand and walking on swiftly. Miss Cunningham meant to be kind, she was sure of that; why was it that her manner always irritated her? There was a flavor of patronage in it that galled her sensitiveness. "Perhaps if she knew I had five thousand a-year she might change her tone," thought Queenie, a little wrathfully. "I never find it difficult to get on with people; and yet in my heart I cannot like her. Why will she make it her business to poach on other people's manor? The Hepshaw school is my affair, and has nothing to do with Crossbill Vicarage."

Miss Cunningham seemed to think otherwise. She cross-examined Queenie all through luncheon on a hundred petty details. Queenie, to her surprise, found she was acquainted with many of the girls' names and histories. She put the new mistress right on one or two points with much shrewdness and cleverness. She could talk, and talk well, on most subjects. By-and-bye, when the school was exhausted, she turned to Garth, and argued quite a knotty point of politics with him, elucidating her view with a clear-headedness and force of words that surprised her feminine hearers.

Garth had much ado to hold his own against her, but the consciousness of being in the right gave him the advantage.

"Now, Miss Dora, I think you must yield this once," he said, looking at her triumphantly. Dora measured him with her glance before she answered.

"I never yield to papa, but I suppose I must to you," she said in the quietest manner possible, and there was a slight stress on the last word that made Garth redden as though he had received an unexpected concession.

He placed himself at her side when they went into the garden after luncheon, and appeared determined to monopolize her attention; but this did not seem to suit Miss Cunningham, for she called Cathy to her, and the two commenced a conversation in which he soon found himself excluded. Once or twice, when he turned restive under this treatment, and seemed to incline to seek conversation in a little talk with Queenie, a soft glance from Dora's blue eyes recalled and kept him stationary.

"All this is so uninteresting to you gentlemen, you like politics better," she said presently in a low voice, as though appealing for pardon; "if you will gather me a few flowers, Mr. Clayton, I shall soon have finished my talk with Cathy, and then we will take a turn down the plane-tree walk; it looks so cool and shady." But when the flowers were tastefully arranged, and Garth, with a little look of triumph, threw open the gate for her to pass through, Dora still held Cathy's arm. It was not quite as enjoyable as Garth had fancied it would be. Dora was all amiability and sweetness; she had the roses in her hands, and touched them tenderly from time to time. She tripped beside him, holding up her long white dress with one hand, the other rested lightly on Cathy's arm. Her blue eyes looked yearningly at him and the sunset together.

"How calm and still everything looks. I think I love this old walk better than any place in the world. It reminds me of old days, Mr. Clayton, when you and I and Cathy used to walk here."

"When we were children we used to say that two were company and three none," responded Garth sulkily. The hint was so obvious that Cathy would at once have made her escape, but Dora tightened her grasp on her arm with a slightly heightened color.

"That depends on one's company. One could never find Cathy in the way," she said, with a little infusion of tenderness in her voice.

"Never! can you imagine no possible circumstances in which a duet would be preferable?" questioned Garth, turning on her so abruptly that Dora, for all her coolness, was non-plussed for the moment. What was he going to say? With all her prudence she felt alarmed and fluttered, but the thought of her girls calmed her into soberness again.

"I never was good at guessing riddles," she returned, not perusing the gravel at her feet as some girls would have done in her place, but looking full at him with unblenching eyes. "Just now a trio suits me best, that is all I meant."

"Pshaw," he muttered, turning angrily away. Was she fooling him after all? He was not a man who would ever understand coquetry or caprice; such things would have simply disgusted him; but then he knew Dora was no coquette. "She is trying to manage me for some purpose of her own; she wants me to come to a certain point and no further; she is showing me very plainly what she means," he said to himself, repulsed and yet attracted in spite of himself by this strange conduct. After all the plane-tree walk and the sunset, now he had them, were failures. He had not once this evening called her Dora. How could he, with Cathy walking there beside them, and noting his discomfiture with her keen girlish eyes. True, he had not known what he would have said to her if they had been alone; sentiment was only just waking up in Garth's nature. A week or two ago he would have pronounced himself heart-whole, would have laughed at the notion of his being in love. Why had a sudden fancy come to him for golden hair and sunsets, and quiet evening strolls? Was he feeling dimly after something? was this restlessness, this indefinable longing after some visionary ideal, a part of the disease?

Garth could not have answered these questions if his life depended on it. He had ceased to be satisfied with his sister's company. A craving after some new excitement made itself very plainly felt at this time. His pulses were throbbing with fresh life; the world was before him, the young man's world; he had only to look round him and choose. Strong, keen-eyed, vigorous, with dominant will and sober judgment, what obstacle need he dread? what impediments could he not overcome?

Hitherto freedom, and the mystery obscuring his future fate, had had a strange charm in Garth's eyes. It had pleased him to know that such things were for him when he should stoop and open his hand to receive the best gift of heaven. "I suppose I shall fall in love some day, every one does; but there is plenty of time for that sort of thing," he often said to his sisters, and there had been an amused look upon his face, as though the notion pleased him.

But, in spite of his young man's conceit, Garth had an old-fashioned reverence in speaking on such subjects. It would not be too much to say that he stood, as it were, bare-headed on holy ground. One evening, shortly after Queenie's return from Carlisle, Cathy had been repeating to them scraps of poetry as they sat round the open window in the twilight, and by-and-bye she commenced in a low voice reciting some quaint old lines of Arnold, in which this craving for an unknown love is most touchingly depicted.

    "Thou art as I—
Thy soul doth wait for mine, as mine for thee;
We cannot live apart must meeting be
    Never before we die?

    "Dear soul, not so!
That time doth keep for us some happy years,
That God hath portion'd out our smiles and tears,
    Thou knowest, and I know.

    "Yes, we shall meet!
And therefore let our searching be the stronger:
Dark days of life shall not divide us longer.
    Nor doubt, nor danger, sweet!

    "Therefore I bear
This winter-tide as bravely as I may,
Patiently waiting for the bright spring-day
    That cometh with thee, dear."

"How beautiful!" sighed Langley. "I have always been so fond of those lines. Your new song, 'My Queen.' embodies the same meaning, Cathy." But Garth said nothing; he only sat for a long time shading his eyes with his hand, and there was a certain moved look on his face when he uncovered it as though he had been strongly affected.

But ever since that evening the restlessness had grown upon him, and there had been a certain carping fastidiousness in his manner to his sisters; and once or twice he had used Dora's name as a sort of reproach. "If you were only as good a manager as Miss Cunningham, Langley;" or "I wish you would read more, and choose your books as sensibly as Miss Dora does, Cathy."

Langley took her rebuke meekly and in silence; but Cathy treated her brother to a contemptuous shrug and a disdainful look.

"Dora; I am sick of Dora. Every one sees how that will end," she said in a vexed voice, when they had come in from the garden, and she had followed her friend up-stairs. "When that happens I suppose we shall all be managed into our graves."

"Oh don't!" exclaimed Queenie, with a sudden accent of pain, and becoming somewhat pale over her words. "She is not good enough for him—for your brother."

"She is too good, you mean. I hate such faultless people. Dora is never in the wrong; she is a pattern daughter, a pattern sister, a model housekeeper, and unexceptionable in all parochial and social duties; the work she gets through would astonish your weak mind."

"And then she is so clever."

"Clever! she is a perfect paragon of learning. She educated her sisters until they went to Brussels. Then she is no mean musician; she works beautifully too, and copies out all her father's sermons. I am not sure she does not write them as well."

"Ah! now I can see you are joking."

"My dear, Dora is no joking matter, I can assure you; she and her goodness together are very ponderous affairs. Do you think Garth does not know all this? Why he and Dora have been friends ever since they were children."

"I can see that he respects her most thoroughly."

"Not more than she respects him; she is always telling how excellent he is, and what a model to other young men. When I am in a very good humor with Garth, I sometimes repeat these little speeches, only I have come lately to doubt the wisdom of adding fuel to the fire."

"Surely such perfection must satisfy you as well as him, or you must be difficult to please," returned Queenie a little sarcastically. A numb, undefinable sort of pain seemed taking possession of her. Would Hepshaw be quite so desirable a place of residence when Dora was mistress of Church-Stile House? this was the question she asked herself. And for the first time the thought of her fortune gave her a positive feeling of pleasure.

"Oh, as to that, I am very fond of Dora," replied Cathy carelessly; "she amuses me, and she is very good-natured; and then one must like one's future sister-in-law for the sake of dear old Garth. I only hope she will have the good sense not to try and manage him, for he will never stand it."

This conversation depressed Queenie somehow, and kept her wakeful and restless; it did not add to her tranquillity to hear Garth's footsteps under her window, crunching the gravel walk, for long after they had retired. It was contrary to his usual habit; it argued disturbance or preoccupation of mind.

Garth's soliloquy would have perplexed both her and Cathy if they had heard it.

"I wonder if I am in love with Dora after all?" he was asking himself, as he lighted himself a fresh cigar, and then stood leaning against the little gate, looking down the plane-tree walk. It was moonlight now, and the monuments glimmered in the white light; there were faint, eerie shadows under the dark trees; now and then a night-bird called, or a dog barked from the village, and then stillness gathered over everything again.

"I wonder if I am really in love, or if I am only arguing myself into it. Now I come to think of it, when I imagined my future wife I always thought of Dora; we have grown up together, and it seems natural somehow; and then I had always a boyish fancy for golden hair. What a pretty little head it is, as well as a wise one. I wish she were not quite so independent, and would lean on a fellow more. I suppose it is the fault of circumstances. Every one depends on her—her father and her sisters. She never had the chance of being helpless like other women. I always think of that and make allowance for her faults.

"Sometimes," soliloquized the young philosopher as his cigar went out, and he calmly relighted it, "sometimes I'm afraid that if we ever came together I might find her a little masterful and opinionated; that is the danger with capable women, they have their own notions and stick to them. I confess I should like my wife to follow my ideas, and not to be lady paramount in everything; not that even Dora would find it easy to manage me," continued Garth, with an amused curl of the lip.

"What a nice, sensible little companion she would be for a man," he resumed presently, after the firm even footsteps had crunched the gravel awhile. "That is the best of her, she never bores or wearies one; she is always fresh and good-humored, and ready to take interest in everything, even in the schools, and Miss Marriott, only Miss Marriott repulses her somehow. Her manner vexed me this afternoon; there was a stand-offishness and a reserve in it, as though Dora's interest offended her. She never appears at her best advantage when Dora is with us. Why am I always comparing those two? somehow I can't help it. Dora interests me most, of course; and yet men who are in love seldom study the pros and cons of character as I have been doing for the last half-hour. Certainly some of the symptoms are still lacking, or else I am too matter-of-fact a fellow to have them. And yet I don't know. What were those lines Cathy repeated the other night? How well the little puss recited them; with such feeling too.

'Thy soul doth wait for mine, as mine for thee;
    We cannot live apart.'

Humph! I am not in love so much as all that, and I don't think Dora is either. I have a doubt whether the 'open sesame' has been said to either of us yet; if so, 'where waitest thou, lady I am to love?' Well, it is a rare old poem, and touches a fellow up in an extraordinary sort of way. I have got it by heart now, and it haunts me to a droll extent. There, my cigar is out, confound it, so I may as well get rid of all this moonshine and go in. How runs the last verse—

    'Tis the May-light
That crimsons all the quiet college gloom.
May it shine softly in thy sleeping room;
    And so, dear wife, good night.'"

CHAPTER VIII.

THE MISTRESS OF BRIERWOOD COTTAGE.

"By night we lingered on the lawn,
    For underfoot the herb was dry;
    And genial warmth; and o'er the sky
The silvery haze of summer dawn;

"And calm that let the tapers burn
    Unwavering: not a cricket chirr'd:
    The brook alone far off was heard,
And on the board the fluttering urn."
                                                                        Tennyson.

"A penny for your thoughts, little Emmie," cried Garth gaily, a few evenings afterwards, when his abrupt entrance had broken up a somewhat silent group. The child, who was sitting at Langley's feet as usual, with her head in her lap, held up her hand warningly.

"Hush! I was counting them; now I have lost one."

"Counting what, you small elf?"

"The angels, of course; we have had ever so many passing through the room this evening. Just now Langley sighed and disturbed one. They never come when we talk and laugh, you know," continued Emmie, with a child's beautiful unreasoning faith in what would seem to older minds a piece of fond superstition. "I do love a real long silence, when people are all thinking together; the angels have such a good time of it then."

"What a queer little thinking machine that is," muttered Ted, drowsily; but Garth only patted her head kindly.

It was never his way to laugh at a child's fancies. "The real germ is hidden in the bud; a mere infant will sometimes turn our wisdom into foolishness," he had observed more than once in his graver moments. "Well, my white May-flower," he continued, using his pet name for her; "so the angels were having it all to themselves this evening, eh?"

"I did not know we were assisting at a séance," growled Ted, stretching himself; "we have got a precious small medium, it strikes me. What sort of spirits were they, Emmie, black, white, or grey? I fancied my own familiar, in the shape of an elongated cat, with yellow sparks for eyes, grinned at me with feline and whiskered face from behind the sofa corner. 'Avaunt thee, witch,' I cried, and with diabolic stare and hiss it vanished."

"A truce with your nonsense, Ted; you will scare the child."

"I think we have all been very stupid and silent this evening," interposed Langley. "I fancy that we are all sorry to lose Queenie and Emmie from our circle to-morrow."

"The sofa-cushion is drenched with my tears," continued Ted, the incorrigible. "The drip, drip of them was mistaken by Langley for rain. 'A wet evening,' quoth she; but my sobs prevented me from undeceiving her."

"Isn't Mr. Ted wicked to tell so many stories in play?" interrupted Emmie, in a shocked tone.

"Play!" reiterated that remorseless youth, "is that how you stigmatize an honest grief, and mistaken though blighted devotion? is it nothing to this lacerated heart to know that the beloved heads of the Marriott sisters will rest for the last time to-night beneath our roof? 'Quoth the raven, nevermore, rests sweet Marriott at thy door.'"

"Oh, shut up, you young idiot," exclaimed his brother in a tone of deep disgust.

"He has been so tiresome all day," observed Cathy; "he has not left Queenie and me a moment in peace."

"Only a lock of hair, and that was refused; even a hair-pin would have been prized, or the frayed end of a ribbon; all, all denied.

'Oh stay, the Clayton said; and yield
A withered rose, or weed of field.
Indignant glared her bright brown eye,
And with a frown she made reply,
                                    You botherer.'"

Ted, in another moment—"

"You have the heart of a barbarian, Garth; the softer passion is unknown to you—the 'pills and paradise' of a man's existence. Look at me, like Etna half consumed, a mighty ruin—all thy work, oh woman! Ah, as the soothing bard, the glorious Will of immortal memory, once wrote—

'He never told his love; no, never;
No more did she, but did you ever'—

She gave him one long glance, and then"—but Ted never finished his ridiculous effusion, for in another moment Garth had pinned him in his powerful grasp, and stretched him prone and struggling on the floor. "And there shall you lie until you have promised not to spout any more nonsense," was the inexorable mandate of his tyrant.

"Floored by fate, and crushed by the gigantic hoof of destiny, I submit. 'More kicks than half-pence,' quoth he, under the healing (heeling) process; but what boots such trifles to the stalwart heart of a young Briton. Alas, thy sole is open and clear to me, my brother, and the footprint of ignoble passion is stamped upon it."

"Pax, pax," groaned Garth.

"Oh, leave him alone, you are only making him worse," laughed Queenie; "if he sees nobody heeds his nonsense he will soon leave off."

"I feel like the gladiator, butchered to make a Clayton holiday; my breast-bone is staved in by the barbarian. 'Dying, we salute thee, Caesar.' Well, it is of 'no consequence,' as Toots remarks."

"There, get up and behave yourself," interrupted Garth, with a final kick; "and now, to get rid of this foolish fellow, I vote that some of us take a turn in the plane-tree walk. Come, Miss Marriott, you and Cathy put on your hats." But Cathy, who was in a curious mood to-night, and had done nothing but sigh and interlace her fingers restlessly in the twilight, muttered something about Miss Cosie and the Vicarage, and vanished from the room; and so it came to pass that Queenie found herself gravely pacing up and down the plane-tree walk by Garth's side.

Naturally as it had come about—for no one else had volunteered to accompany them—the novelty of the circumstance caused them both a little embarrassment; and, by some curious physiological coincidence, each fell to thinking of Dora Cunningham. Garth smoked his cigar meditatively, and cast curious side-long glances at the slender black figure beside him. Visions of a white dress and golden hair still haunted him. Why was he shy and silent all at once? had he anything in common with this grave, brown-eyed girl? He was wondering, if she were Dora would he have found anything to say to her? He was sorry to think that this was Miss Marriott's last night. Sorry! yes; it made him feel all at once as though the old house had grown suddenly dull and empty; and yet if it had been Dora—

"Miss Marriott, how is it that you and Miss Cunningham don't hit it off better?" he said, so abruptly that Queenie started and changed color. She was feeling very heavy-hearted, poor little soul, to think it was her last night at Church-Stile House; and how she would miss the slow, even tramp of Garth's footsteps under her windows, and the red end of his cigar emerging from the trees every ten minutes. She had often sat and watched it with unconscious interest even to herself; she was loath to part with that, and his cheery good morning when she looked out to smell the roses.

She was just wondering how much he would miss her, and whether her absence would leave any perceptible gap in the family circle; and this question jarred upon her with sudden discord.

"What do you mean?" she asked faintly, conscious all at once of a certain chilliness round the region of the heart. She had hoped for a few words of friendly interest and advice on her own affairs to-night. Had he only brought her out there to talk of Dora Cunningham?

"Why don't you two girls get on better together?" pursued Garth, inexorably. He was quite aware of the reluctance of Queenie's tone as she answered him, but the opportunity was a good one, and he thought he would have it out with her. She was indebted to him for much kindness, he told himself; his sisters and he had taken her by the hand, and found her occupation, and a roof to cover her head; he had a right to ask, as a return, that she should show a little consideration for him and his friends; and her manner to Dora somehow galled him. Perhaps he was a little curious on the subject as well; anyway, he would have his answer.

"How do you know that we do not?" she replied, fencing in her turn. "I have not seen Miss Cunningham more than three or four times; we are comparative strangers to each other."

"You know her as well as you know Mrs. Fawcett or Miss Faith Palmer; they are all comparative strangers to you, but to them your manner is always so bright and genial."

"Ah; one cannot help getting on with them."

"I should have said the same of Miss Cunningham. There, you shake your head; how impossible it is to understand you women. Miss Dora seems so willing to be friendly on her side. She has driven over twice to see you, and tender her advice and help; but one cannot help seeing how these overtures have been repelled."

"Mr. Clayton, pray don't speak as though you were hurt with me."

"I do feel a little hurt about this," he replied, gravely; "at least it disappoints me. You see Dora, I mean Miss Cunningham, has been intimate with us ever since we were children together, and we think so much of her opinion in things. When you came among us, and decided on taking up this new work, I thought at once what a valuable friend you would secure in her."

"You were very kind," stammered poor Queenie with downcast eyes.

"Confess that my kindness was thrown away though," he continued in a lighter tone, for her distress was not lost on him. "You are such an iceberg in her presence that even her good nature has failed to thaw you. You are never proud with Langley or Cathy, and yet Cathy can say rude things sometimes."

"I am never proud with those I love."

"Then you don't mean to love Miss Cunningham."

"No," reluctantly; "but I do not dislike her. There is simply no sympathy between us, and her manner jars and irritates me somehow. It seems as though, she were trying to keep me down in my place, and make me remember that I am only the poor school-mistress in Hepshaw, when, when you all try to make me forget it," continued the girl, and now the tears rushed to her eyes. Garth had never seen her so moved, but her frankness did not displease him. It might be his duty to give her a little wholesome advice, and to bid her curb that troublesome pride of hers; but, on the whole, he felt sorry for her.

"I think we ought to be very patient with a person that displeases us, and ask ourselves whether the fault may not lie on our side," continued her young Mentor gravely. He rather liked the right he had assumed of lecturing this girl; the occupation was piquant and interesting, and then she took his rebukes so meekly. "Miss Cunningham is a very superior person, you cannot fail to own that, I am sure; so many people rely upon her. She is the mainstay at home; her father's right hand in every thing; and then her sisters idolize her. She must be truly lovable, or they would not be so fond of her."

"Mr. Clayton, what does it matter whether we get on together or not?" exclaimed Queenie at this point, stung by all this praise, and sore almost to unhappiness. "It cannot matter to her, or to you either, whether I like her or not."

"It matters a good deal to me whether my friends are appreciated. I am disappointed about it, because I wanted to secure you a valuable ally, that is all; but I suppose it cannot be helped. Women are unaccountable beings; it is best, after all, to leave them alone," and Garth's voice was so full of kindness and regret that Queenie's soreness vanished in a sudden effort of magnanimity.

"I dare say it was my fault; I am sure Miss Cunningham meant to be kind," she faltered out hurriedly. "Only when one is poor, one is proud and sensitive over little things. Don't say anything more about it, Mr. Clayton; I mean to like her. I will like her, and you shall not have reason to complain of my disagreeable manner again."

"No; not disagreeable, only cold," he returned, with a smile of genuine content, for this admission pleased him well. They had stopped simultaneously at the little gate, and Queenie made a movement as though to go in, but he would not suffer it. "No; you shall not leave me in this way, we will have another turn," he said cheerfully. "Let us talk of something else—of yourself and your plans. Do you know, I feel quite dull at the thought of losing you and Emmie to-morrow. I wonder how much you intend to miss us."

"More than I ever missed any one in my whole life before," was the answer on Queenie's lips, but she prudently forbore to utter it, as she moved again by his side in the darkness. Did no warning monitor within her whisper that this man was growing dangerously dear to her; that the snare was already spread for her unconscious feet?

"He means to marry Dora; but I have a right to claim him still as my friend. No one shall steal his friendship from me. I will have what belongs to me," she had said to herself, almost fiercely; but the falseness of the sophistry was glossed over and hidden from her eyes. For the last few days a great sadness had crept over her. Since the evening Dora had passed through the little gate, and had walked with him up and down in the sunset, some visionary hope, baseless and unsubstantial as a dream, had vanished from her heart.

Of what avail was her idle whim now? Would it not have been better, so she told herself, to have shaken off the dust of Hepshaw from her feet? Whose blame was it if she had tangled her own life? Some impulse, some undefinable influence, had drawn her to weave these strange plans of hers; more than a girl's fancy and love of mystery and adventure were wrapped up in them. But might it not be that bitter failure and remorse should be her portion hereafter?

Would there not have been greater peace and safety for her in that house in Carlisle? Queenie asked herself these questions with a sigh long after she had left Garth, and retired to her own room, where Emmie was slumbering peacefully. She kissed the child, and placed herself under the shadow of the window-curtain, and watched, for the last time, the tiny red spark emerging every now and then from under the trees.

"Miss him! he little knows how I shall miss him!" she said to herself, bitterly. "Right or wrong, he has got into my life, and I cannot get him out. Does he love Dora, I wonder? I cannot make up my mind; but he will marry her, for all that; and then, then, if I find it very hard to bear, if she will not let me keep him as a friend, we will go away, Emmie and I, somewhere a long way off, where I can have plenty of work, and forget, and begin afresh."

But when Queenie came to this point she suddenly broke down; an oppressive sense of loneliness, as new as it was terrible, crushed on her with overwhelming force. For the first time Queenie's brave spirit seemed utterly broken, and some of the bitterest tears she ever shed wetted the child's pillow.

As for Garth, he strolled on for a long time, placidly enjoying his cigar. He had delivered his little lecture, and had then sent the girl in soothed and comforted; so he told himself. It is true a sad and wistful glance from two large dark eyes somewhat haunted him at intervals, but he drove it persistently away.

"She is a sweet girl, a very sweet girl; but she has her faults, like all of us," he said to himself. "I am glad I put her right about Dora. If Dora ever comes here, it would not do for Miss Marriott not to be friendly with her. Dora would have a right to expect then that the others should give way to her, if she ever comes here as my wife;" and here the young man's pulses quickened a little, and in the darkness the hot blood rushed to his face. "Dora my wife! how strange it sounds! Well, I suppose it will come to that some day; things seem shaping themselves that way. She will expect it, and her father too, after what has passed. I fancy there is a kind of understanding between us. I wonder what sort of feeling she has for me? She keeps a fellow at such a distance, there is no finding out; but I'll master her yet. She will soon find out, if I once make up my mind, that I am not one to bear any shilly-shallying. I don't think I could stand nonsense from any woman, not even from Dora. Her father told me once that if he died Dora would not have a penny, though the other girls have tidy little sums, each of them. I like her all the better for that. Well, after all there is no hurry. Being in love is all very well, but it is better to take life easily, and digest matters a little;" and with a conscious laugh that sounded oddly to him in the darkness, Garth swung back the little gate, and walked towards the house.

It was arranged that the sisters' modest luggage should be sent over to the cottage in the course of the morning, and that Queenie should take possession of her new abode as soon as her afternoon duties were discharged, and that Cathy and Emmie should be there to receive her.

"I am to pour out tea my own self, and Cathy has promised to make some of her delicious cakes," exclaimed Emmie, rapturously. "Langley will not come, though I have begged her over and over again; she says we three will be so much cosier together."

Queenie nodded and smiled as she bade her little sister good-bye, and trudged down the lane. The sun was shining brightly; a rose-laden wind blew freshly in her face; with the morning light courage and hope had returned; she felt half ashamed of her last night's sadness. Queenie was young, and life was strong within her. In youth happiness is a necessity, a second nature. When the heart is young it rebels fiercely against sorrow. To exist is to hope; to hope is to believe.

In youth we believe in miracles; utterly impossible combinations would not surprise us; the sun must stand still in our firmament, the stars in their course fight against Sisera; what has happened to others cannot happen to us.

It is only bitter experience that tears down this fairy glamor, the thin, gossamer film through which we so long looked. How barren and loveless life appears then! Our fairest hopes are shipwrecked; a moral earthquake has shattered our little world. We look up at the heavens, and they are as brass, and the earth under our feet as wrought iron; while beyond, and in the dim horizon, hollow voices seem to whisper a perpetual dirge.

It is a terrible subject, this awful mystery of pain, this dim and inscrutable decree, that man is born to trouble. Ah, well for those who, like that tired wanderer in that far-off land, can discern in their darkness and loneliness the ladder that reaches from earth to heaven, and feel the fanning of invisible wings even in their heaviest stupor.

Queenie's healthy young nature recoiled and shuddered at the first touch of probable pain; it lay folded like a troublesome nightmare far back among her thoughts. It had mastered her last night in the darkness; this morning the sunshine had chased it away.

"How do I know? how does any one know?" she said to herself, somewhat ambiguously, as she sat among her children that morning. "I may be wrong; it may never happen; and if it does, what is, is best, I suppose," and here she sighed. "I am thinking of him, of them both, too much. After all, what is he to me? a dear friend, a very dear friend; but my friendship must not cost me too much. I will be good and reasonable, and not ask more than a fair amount of happiness; it is only children who cry for the moon."

If you want to be happy, be good; it is a very safe maxim. Queenie felt quite bright as she walked through the little town. True, she had a slight qualm as she passed the turning that led to Church-Stile House; but she bravely stifled the feeling, and hummed an air as she opened her own little gate.

How fresh and bright it all looked. The walk was new gravelled, the little lawn looked trim and green; roses and geraniums bloomed under the windows; a honeysuckle was nicely trained round the porch. Emmie met her on the threshold, and dragged her in with both hands.

"Oh, Queen, it is all so lovely; just like a bit out of a story-book. To think of you and me living alone together in our own little cottage; only you and me!"

"I am so glad you are happy, darling, because that makes me happy," returned her sister, affectionately. "Ah, there is our little maid Patience," as the girl stood curtseying and smoothing down her clean apron, with a pleased, excited face. "Cathy—oh, Mr. Clayton, are you here too?" as Garth's dark handsome face suddenly beamed on her from the little parlor.

"I could not resist the pleasure of showing you the transformation," he returned, gaily. "You hardly know the place, do you? Langley and Cathy have done wonders. It is a pretty little home after all, and quite big enough for you two, and I hope you will be as happy as the day is long."

"Oh, what have you all done!" exclaimed Queenie, in a stifled voice. Her heart began to beat more quickly, an odd, choking feeling was in her throat. Was this their thought for her? She could not for her life have spoken another word as she followed Garth and Cathy into the parlor.

"We have only put a table and some chairs into the front room; it will be handy for Emmie to learn her lessons and play there. Langley knew we must not put you to any unnecessary expense," went on Garth, cheerfully. "This is very snug, is it not?"

Snug! Queenie looked round her half dazed. Had she ever seen this room before? Though it was summer, a little fire burnt in the grate. There was a crimson carpet; a grey rug was spread invitingly; a couch stood by the open window. There was a bird-cage, and a stand of flowers. A pretty print hung over the mantel-piece. Some book-shelves with some tempting-looking volumes had been fitted up over the corner cupboard. A gay little pink and white tea-service was on the round table. Some low basket-work chairs gave an air of comfort.

Outside the transformation was still more marked. Instead of the green wilderness, all docks and nettles, there was a long green lawn. A broad gravel path bordered the window; a few flower-beds had been cut in the turf.

"It is too late to do much this season; we shall have it very pretty next summer," observed Garth, in a cool, matter-of-fact tone, as he followed her to the window. "We have cut away a good deal of the turf, as it made the house so damp; the gravel path is far better. Cathy wants you to have a rockery and some ferns in one corner."

"It will look very nice," returned Queenie, absently.

She had a misty vision after that of a bright little kitchen that reminded her of a doll-house that she had had as a child, and then of two bed-rooms, one for herself, and one for Emmie, with a small room for Patience, all as fresh as white dimity could make them. There were flowers on the toilet-table; the little painted chest of drawers had a sweet perfume of lavender. Everything was simple and well chosen, and testified to thoughtful and loving hands.

"Oh, Cathy, what am I to say to him? what am I to say to you all?" exclaimed poor Queenie, feeling ready to throw her arms round her friend's neck and burst into tears. They were standing in the little entry, and Garth was watching them.

"Aren't you going to give me tea after all this?" he interposed, in a droll voice. "Here I have been gardening and carpentering and acting as odd man to the establishment for I do not know how long."

"Tea! oh, I forgot," returned Queenie, dashing the tears from her eyes, and hurrying to her place.

Garth stood near her a moment as he brought her one of the basket chairs.

"Does our work satisfy you? have we given you pleasure?" he asked, looking into her downcast face rather anxiously. "Do you think you will be happy here, you and Emmie, in your own little home?"

"It will be my own fault if I am not," she faltered, holding out her hand; and such a look of pure childish gratitude lit her dark eyes that the young man reddened and turned aside. "Oh, Mr. Clayton, what can I do to repay you and Langley?"

"Hush," he replied, lightly, and trying to turn it off with a laugh; "there is no talk of payment between friends; it is all understood between us. You are only in our debt a little while; besides, you are a rich woman now."

"Oh, I forgot," she exclaimed in such a tone of dismay that the others looked quite startled. "I mean—ah, yes, it will all be right soon," endeavouring to recover herself.

It was a cosy little meal after all. Garth, who saw that Queenie's fluctuating spirits needed tranquillizing, set himself to reassure and soothe her; and when he had succeeded, the three had one of their long thoughtful talks. By-and-bye Langley came, and then Ted, and filled the little room to overflowing, so that they betook themselves to the porch and the lawn.

It was quite late when they separated, and Queenie went up to her new little room. The glimmering lights in the village had been extinguished. The roads looked white and still in the moonlight; only a faint barking from a dog in the distance broke the stillness.

"How wrong and wicked I was last night!" thought the girl humbly, as she stood by the table, touching Langley's roses with caressing fingers. "I was lonely and sad; I wanted I cannot tell what. But to-night it is so different; it is so sweet to feel he has done all this for me; that it is his thought for me as well as theirs; that, whatever happens, he will be my friend, always my friend."

CHAPTER IX.

FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM.

"She prayed me not to judge their cause from her,
That wrong'd it, sought far less for truth than power
In knowledge; something wild within her breast,
A greater than all knowledge, beat her down."
                                                                    Tennyson's 'Princess.'

The days passed very tranquilly and pleasantly after this for the inhabitants of the cottage.

Queenie had regained her brightness in a great measure. In spite of a certain dim fear that haunted the background of her memory, her life seemed full of a strange, sweet excitement. The buoyancy of youth was strong within her; the knowledge of her secret wealth gave an intoxicating flavor to everything. As she walked to and fro to her daily work, she felt like a disguised princess, like the heroine of some fairy story she had read once, spinning in her woollen garments among the simple peasant folk. "I like being a rich woman after all," she said to herself, "it is so amusing. I feel just like Cinderella before the pumpkin coach arrives; it is a story-book sort of life I am leading. Fancy teaching in a village school when one has five thousand a-year. What shall I do with it all, I wonder; I wish I might give some to Langley and Cathy."

Queenie used to build all sorts of impossible castles in the air when she was by herself or with Emmie.

"What would you say if we were to be rich one day, very, very rich?" she would ask sometimes; but Emmie only shook her fair head.

"Rich, so that we should be obliged to leave this dear cottage! Oh no, Queen, I should not like it at all. I think it is so lovely, we two living all alone together. I never, never, never was so happy in all my life before," finishing with a prolonged hug.

"Thank God for that," murmured her sister, fervently, passing her hands gently over the child's upturned face.

The sharp outlines were filling out and rounding daily; a soft bloom tinged the thin cheeks; but there was still the same solemn, unchildlike look in the large blue eyes. Their expression used to trouble Queenie sometimes. "Would the shadow of past woe never die out of them?"

"Emmie, your eyes never smile," she said once, "and yet you say you are so happy, darling."

They were sitting alone in the porch; Cathy had just left them, Garth had fetched her away. Emmie was in her favorite position, with her head resting on her crossed arms on her sister's lap. They had sat for a long time so without speaking, only Queenie's fingers every now and then twined in the child's golden hair. "Why don't you teach your eyes to smile too?" she went on, half seriously.

Emmie wrinkled her brows thoughtfully. "I wish they would look like yours, Queen; but then I never saw any eyes like yours, even Cathy says so. When you laugh they seem full of brown sunshine, only so deep, deep down; and when a great thought comes to you, one seems to see it, somehow."

"Oh, hush, you little flatterer;" but Queenie blushed, well pleased, over the praise.

"You do not know half how beautiful I think you," continued the child, earnestly; "it makes me feel happy and good only to be near you. Do sisters always feel like that, I wonder?"

"No, darling, not always."

"It must be because we love each other so. There never was a time when your voice was not like music to me. Sometimes I love you so that I ache all over with it; that was in the dreadful old days, when I thought I must die and leave you. Oh, Queen, that would have been so very, very miserable."

"Miserable to lose you, Emmie! don't speak of it; I can't bear to think of it even now," pressing the child's slight figure closer in her arms.

"It would not be so dreadful now; I should not feel that you were quite so lonely, I mean. No, I will not talk any more about it," catching sight of Queenie's averted face; "we will never be sad, you and I, never."

"I wonder if we shall always live alone," she went on, while Queenie dried her eyes. "Perhaps one day you will marry—people do, you know. How strange that will be!"

"Should you dislike that idea very much, Emmie?"

"I—I don't know," in a reluctant tone. "It will spoil things rather; but if you like it, Queen——"

"Hush," kissing her, "I think we are talking dreadful nonsense. Don't you know that I have told you that we are leading a story-book life, Emmie; first in that dreadful old garret, and now in our pretty cottage? By-and-bye it may turn into a palace; who knows?"

"Ah, then the prince will come; he always does in fairy stories."

"No; he will ride away with the golden-haired princess; they will disappear into the forest together, and never come back. We will have Caleb and Molly to live with us instead."

"Ah, that would be nice," returned the child, clapping her hands. "Only keep it the cottage; we don't want the palace, Queen. Is the prince never to come back then?"

"Of course not; would you have him leave his fair one with the golden locks? Fie, Emmie; what a perfidious prince! They will go riding on and on for ever in the enchanted forest, while you and I are walking hand in hand down the long white road that people call life."

"What a funny idea! I like the wood best, Queenie."

"Ah, so do most people," she returned, rising with a sigh; "but perhaps we do not know what is best for us. Don't you recollect the story we once read of the child who wanted the star, and missed all the flowers that grew under its feet, and so pined away, and died of unfulfilled longing? You and I will be wiser than that, little one; we will leave the star to move in its own particular orbit, and gather all the sweet homely flowers that grow in our way;" and Queenie heaved another little sigh, for she was moralizing to herself as well as to Emmie.

It was not often that the sisters were alone. Cathy spent all her leisure hours at the cottage, and even Langley would often bring her work and sit with them in the porch of an evening. Garth too was a frequent visitor; he would come down the lane of an evening, and lean against the little gate for half an hour at a time. Sometimes he would come in and help the sisters with their gardening, and bring them little gifts of fruit and flowers.

When Langley or Cathy were there he would join the little group in the porch, and linger beside them for hours, but never when they were alone. Often Ted would saunter in and trail his lazy length in one of the basket-work chairs. On these occasions Queenie would whisper to her little sister, and by-and-bye there would be a dainty repast set out for them of milk and fruit and cakes. How pretty and home-like their little parlor looked then, with its soft shaded lamp and bowl of roses! Sometimes the moonlight would stream in at the uncurtained window; one or two large grey moths would wheel round their heads. Garth would go and smoke his cigar on the broad gravel walk outside, while the girls talked softly within! Sometimes Mr. Logan would walk across and assist at these simple festivities, or Miss Cosie trip down the road with a grey shawl pinned over her curls; for the cottage was decidedly popular.

"Cathy, what makes you so quiet with Mr. Logan now?" Queenie asked her one afternoon when they were sitting together.

Emmie was spending the evening with the Fawcetts. Captain Fawcett had called for her, and the two had gone off as usual hand in hand, the Captain glancing over his stiff stock at his little companion.

Mr. Logan had looked in on them on his way to the school, and had brought them a message from Miss Cosie.

"Charlotte wants you both to come over to tea with her; she has a present of fine fruit from the Abbey farm, and she wants our friends to enjoy it with her. Miss Faith is coming, and so is Langley, and Garth has promised to look in by-and-bye."

Queenie assented cheerfully; she had a warm liking for Mr. Logan, and a great affection for Miss Cosie, and nothing pleased her better than an evening spent in their company. It struck her that Cathy acquiesced rather unwillingly in the arrangement; she made one or two excuses rather ungraciously, but Mr. Logan would take no denial.

"Never mind all that; Charlotte and I will quite expect you, Miss Catherine," was his tranquil answer.

Cathy flushed in a displeased manner, but she offered no more objections. A cloud settled on her brow now as Queenie spoke.

"You and he used to be such friends," she continued. "Don't you remember our talks in the garret? You used to call him your Mentor, and write such long letters to him sometimes; a word from him always seemed to influence you, and now it seems to me as though you tried to avoid him."

Cathy bit her lip and remained silent.

"Dear Cathy, it is so strange, so unlike you to quarrel with your best friend. The more I see Mr. Logan, the more I honor and revere him, Such intellect, and yet the simplicity and guilelessness of a child. I believe he lives only to do good; he reminds one of those olden saints of whom one reads."

Cathy's dark eyes flashed, and then grew humid with repressed feeling.

"Ah, that is just it; one cannot breathe in such a rarefied atmosphere."

"Do you mean that you find his goodness so oppressive? I am not like you then; a really good man rests me somehow. I feel in looking at one as if I were in the presence of God's highest work, as though even He could do nothing better—the best and finished work before the seventh day's rest, when 'God saw that it was good.' Think of that, Cathy. I suppose," continued Queenie, reverently, "He saw the one Divine likeness stamped on the face of humanity, the one Man shining through the ages of men. Oh, there is nothing grander in all creation than a really good man."

"Don't, Queenie; I am not in a mood for your great thoughts to-night; you must come down and meet me on my own level. You don't know how inconceivably little and mean and insignificant he makes me feel. I begin," enunciating her words with an effort, "to feel afraid of myself and him."

"Afraid of Mr. Logan! what nonsense, Catherina mia. Why a child, the very poorest and most miserable child, would slip its little hand in his fearlessly, and be soothed and comforted by the mere contact."

"A child, ah, yes; but I am a woman," returned Cathy, almost inaudibly.

"You are a girl, and so am I, which means we are faulty, imperfect creatures, full of fads and fancies, and brimful of mischief I dare say. Do you think a man like Mr. Logan, who knows human nature, expects us to be perfection?"

"No; but he expects us to grow up to him, and live and breathe in his atmosphere. But I can't, Queenie; I have tried, I have tried so hard to be good, but it stifles me; I feel just as I do when I am teaching the children in one of those close cottages, as though I must rush out and get some air, or I shall be suffocated."

"Why do you undervalue yourself so?" returned her friend, looking at her affectionately. "You have got into the habit; it is such a pity, and it spoils you so. I think you good, and you are good." But Cathy only pushed the dark locks back from her face, and looked disconsolate.

"What constitutes goodness, I wonder?" continued Queenie, reflectively. "We are simple every-day folk; we cannot all be saints. In every age there will be giants in the land. You and I, dear old Cath, must be content with being 'the little ones.'

"Ah, you are nearer his standard than I," in a low, bitter voice.

"It must be a painfully low one then. For shame, when you know all my faults as well as you know your own. I for one will always believe in you. You have such a great heart, Cathy; you would lay down your life for those you love."

"You are right there."

"Is unselfishness so common a virtue in this world that one can afford to despise it? How often have I admired your thorough honesty, your hatred of anything crooked and mean. There is nothing little about you, that is why I care for you so much."

"All pagan virtues," with a faint smile.

"Cathy, your self-depreciation is incorrigible."

"I tell you what I mean to do," rousing herself, but speaking in the same suppressed voice. "I want to go away from here; this little corner of the world stifles me. I get so tired of it all, the trying to be good and keep down my restlessness, I mean. I have so few home duties; Langley and Garth do not really want me. I should not be much missed."

"You would leave me and Emmie!" incredulously.

"Poor old Madam Dignity. It does seem hard, I know. Never mind, I should come back to you all the better and the happier for having worked off my superfluous steam. One must have a safety-valve somewhere."

"But, Cathy, you are surely not serious. I cannot see any reason for this absurd restlessness; you must throw it off, fight against it, as other women do."

"My dear oracle, there are women and women. I really believe there is a little of the savage about me; I do so object to be tamed down, and made submissive to mere conventionality. Perhaps my great grandmother was a Pawnee or a Zingaree; I must ask Garth. I don't feel completely Saxon or Celtic."

"How can you talk so wildly?"

"Grandmamma Wolf, what great eyes you have got. Don't eat me up in your fiery indignation. Seriously, Queen, don't you think it would be good for me to go away for a time?"

"Are you so anxious to leave us all?" regretfully, but moved by a certain passionate pain in the girl's face.

"I think I am. Yes, though I shall half break my heart over it. I think I am. You see, I am not like other girls. I cannot lead a quiet, humdrum life that means nothing and leads to nowhere—that is just it. I want to see the world, to rub up against other folk, and study their characters and idiosyncrasies; to have a life of my own to live, not tagged on to other people."

"But women cannot choose their own life. It always seems to me that their fate is decided for them," interrupted Queenie, in a puzzled tone.

"Not for my sort of women. Thank Heaven I am still myself enough to decide my own fate. No, I am not crazy, Queen," as her friend looked at her with a sorely perplexed countenance; "my plan is a very reasonable and sensible one. I have an idea that my vocation is nursing; not stupid sort of illnesses, but downright hard hospital nursing—broken limbs, and accidents, and horrible fever cases; real horrors, not imaginary, mind. Nervous or hypochondriacal patients, no, thank you; Catherine Clayton will have nothing to say to them."

"Go on," was the injunction, in a resigned voice, as Cathy paused to collect her breath.

"Miss Faith and I have had a long talk about it; she is not sceptical like you, she knows too well how bad this sort of restlessness is to bear; besides, she has tried it herself, and loves the work."

"Yes, I can understand such a life suiting Miss Faith; she is one of those ministering women born to smooth sick pillows. But you, Cathy," trying hard to repress a smile.

"I grant you that I might deal the aforesaid pillow an occasional thump if my patient should prove refractory; but all the same, I feel as though bandages and blisters were my vocation. I have theories about nursing that would astonish your weak mind. I believe a nurse requires as thorough an education, as careful a training, as any medical student. Miss Faith is quite of my opinion; she advises me to go to London."

"I did not know Miss Faith was your confidant," in a slightly hurt voice.

"Only in this one thing, my dear Madam Dignity," with a penitent squeeze. "She said London, and I said 'Amen.' Garth knows the house surgeon at St. George's, and the matron is a great friend of Langley's; that makes it so easy to carry out my plan."

"Cathy, I do believe that you are serious."

"I am glad you have spoken a sensible word at last."

"The work will be most revolting."

"Do you think that will daunt me? Are not women sent into the world to minister and relieve pain?"

"The labor will be excessive, and trying in the extreme," persisted Queenie. "Have you ever seen the wards of a hospital? I believe you will soon sicken and droop for your northern home."

"Pshaw! I should scorn to be such a coward; half-measures are not to my taste."

"That is all very well now; but when you are weak and unnerved by watching."

"Thank heavens I don't know what nerves are, my dear. A healthy mind and body are the first requisites for a good nurse. Just as indecision is fatal to a general's success, so would nervousness ruin the best trained nurse. Even Garth owns that as far as that goes my physique is perfect."

"Do you mean that you have already spoken to him?" in aghast voice.

"Yes; and to Langley too. They were surprised of course, and rather incredulous, but they do not thoroughly oppose my project. Langley has told Garth more than once that our quiet home life will never suit me. Langley is a wise woman, Queen."

"And you have communicated your plan to all but me," very sadly. "What has become of our old confidence, Cathy?"

"Hush! there speaks jealousy, not my Queen. If I did not tell you, it was because I would not harass you with half-digested plans. I could do nothing without Garth's and Langley's consent."

"They have given it then?"

"Not yet; but I know they will. You see, my demands were very moderate. I told Garth my views: that every woman should have a definite work or trade, and that it should, if possible, be self-supporting; that teaching was not to my taste, but that nursing was. And then I asked his permission to go up to London for a six months' trial. Could there be anything more sensible?"

"But did they not question you about your reason? No, Cathy, do not turn away from me; am I not your friend? can I not see that you are unhappy?"

"I shall not be unhappy if I can once get away from here and taste freedom; when I am no longer straitened, thralled, in bondage. No, Queenie dear, indeed I have told you all that I know about myself; there is nothing more to tell. Hush! here comes Miss Faith; not a word of this before her. I am tired of the subject; your scepticism has quite exhausted me."

"Cathy, Cathy, what an incomprehensible being you are!" sighed Queenie, as she ran off to fetch her broad-brimmed hat.

Miss Faith had come to fetch them to the Vicarage. Her quiet face brightened at the sight of the girls. An evening's pleasure, a simple tea-drinking with her friends, was an unwonted event in her colorless life.

"It was so good of Cara to spare her a whole evening, just when they were finishing the last chapter of 'Trench's Parables,' and she wanted her to begin Bossuet's life. It was very unselfish of Cara," she went on, smoothing down the soft grey merino, with its fresh lace ruffles; for Miss Faith was not without her pet vanities, and fine lace ruffles round the neck and wrists were her special weakness.

As they crossed the road Garth emerged from the lane that led to Church-Stile House. A gleam of pleasure overspread his face as he greeted them.