CHAPTER XI.

"A GOLDEN-HAIRED CIRCE."

"We cannot fight for love as men may do;
We should be woo'd, and were not made to woo."
                                                                            Shakespeare.

When Garth returned from the Quarry that evening, sad and dispirited from his interview with Queenie, he found a letter waiting for him; a messenger had brought it over from Crossgill Vicarage.

"Did you know Dora was at home again?" Langley asked him in a little surprise.

But he answered "No," very briefly, as he opened the envelope.

A curious vexed smile hovered around his lips as he read the note, and then he handed it to his sister.

"Dear Mr. Clayton," it began, "do you know that we have returned from our exile, and are settled at home again? Dear Flo was so well that I ventured on resisting the doctor's orders. Doctors are such old women sometimes; so, as she was quite strong and hearty, and in boisterous spirits, and we were both getting terribly restless, I just wrote to papa and Beattie to expect us, and here we are.

"It is so delicious being at home again, and everything looks so beautiful. Beattie has been a good girl, and has kept things in tolerable order. Tell Langley, with my love, that I shall come over and see her very soon; and now I have a message for you from papa. He wants to consult you again about that troublesome bit of business, about which he talked to you in the summer. No one helps him so well, and he thinks so much of your advice; that is great praise from a man of papa's age and experience, is it not? The girls are longing to see you; they are for ever talking about you. Beattie was always a great friend of yours, was she not? if I remember rightly, you were rather inclined to snub poor Flo. We all have so much to tell you; so if you will pack up your bag and come over and dine with us to-morrow, you will find your old quarters ready for you. Please do not disappoint us, the girls have set their hearts on seeing you.

"Your faithful friend,
            "DORA."

"Shall you go?" asked Langley, very quietly, as she replaced the note in the envelope. "It is rather strange that she has not asked me as well."

"Mr. Cunningham did not want to consult you, you see," returned her brother, with an inscrutable smile. "Yes; I suppose that I shall have to go; there is no getting out of it," and then he sat down and wrote off a brief note, with the gravest possible face, and gave it himself to the messenger.

When he rose the next morning it was with a sense of having to undergo some ordeal. He had to rest his head that night under the roof of Crossgill Vicarage; and before he sought his pillow he might have to encounter some difficult passage of arms with Dora. It was some months since they had met, and he had still a kindly feeling for his old playmate. If friendship would satisfy her he could promise her a tolerable amount; perhaps she had taken him at his word, and there would be no attempt to draw him again under her influence; perhaps she had grown reasonable. Dora was always such a sensible creature, and had begun to understand for herself that they would be better apart. If this were so he would eat his dinner with a light heart, feeling that nothing was expected of him.

Above everything he desired that there might be peace between them; he would never willingly make her his enemy. Perhaps some suspicion that she might prove a dangerous adversary at this time crossed his mind; he had great kindness of heart also, and would have hated to disappoint or grieve any woman, especially one for whom he had once entertained a tenderness. It was with somewhat dubious feelings, therefore, that he drove himself up that evening to the Vicarage.

Dora was not as before in the porch to receive him, but the old nurse met him at the door with a pleasant smile on her wrinkled face as she led him into the hall, dusky and warm with fire-light.

"The young ladies were in the drawing-room," she told him as she helped him off with his overcoat.

Garth stood and warmed himself after his long cold drive and listened, nothing loath, to the old woman's prattle. Nurse was a great favorite of his.

There was quite a ruddy glow when the drawing-room door was opened; the soft, harmonious light of the great white china lamps pervaded the long low room. In spite of his dubious feelings Garth could not help admiring that pretty picture of domestic comfort. Dora was in her favorite carved chair working, with Flo curled up on the rug at her feet; another girlish form was half hidden in the recesses of the Vicar's great easy-chair. The white dresses of the girls quite shone in the fire-light.

As Dora advanced to meet him Garth was driven to confess to himself that he had never seen her to such advantage. The soft velvet gown that she wore set off her golden hair and beautifully fair skin to perfection. As she gave him her hand with her prettiest smile a rose-tint, very like a dawning blush, tinged her cheeks.

"You are very good to come to us to-night," she said in the lowest possible voice. "I was half afraid you would be proud and stay away on purpose to punish me."

"Why should I wish to punish you?" he answered good-humoredly. "So these are your sisters. The question is, which is Beatrix and which is Flo?" and he shook hands with them both with a cordial word or two.

They were both taller than Dora, slim, graceful creatures. Beatrix was the handsomer of the two, with lively dark eyes and an expression of great animation. Flo was plainer, with an odd, piquante face and fair hair like Dora's, which she wore cropped and curly like a boy's.

"Poor Flo has lost all her beautiful hair," observed her sister, passing her hand regretfully over the curls. "Is she not grown? and Beattie too? They make me look such a little thing beside them."

"Beatrix has grown such a fashionable young lady that I shall be half afraid of her," returned Garth, looking at the girl with kindly interest.

Beatrix's dark eyes shone with pleasure as she answered his smile. The two had been great friends in old times, and many a game of romps had been enacted by them in the Vicarage hall and garden. He had always cared less about Flo, who was somewhat spoiled by her sister, and was in consequence rather pert and precocious. He had ever taken a mischievous delight in snubbing her, or putting her down, as he called it; but Flo was grown up now, and wore long dresses, and had the languid air of a ci-devant invalid, and the snubbing must now be a thing of the past.

Garth and Beatrix had so much to say to each other that Dora at last grew dissatisfied, and bid him, with playful peremptoriness, break off his chatter and get ready for dinner. And then he took himself off rather reluctantly to the porch-room, where he found nurse coaxing his fire to a cheerful blaze.

"Isn't Miss Dora looking lovely to-night?" exclaimed the old woman when she caught sight of him; "for all the world like a picture, in her velvet gown. I do think she is the prettiest creature in the county."

"I think Miss Beatrix will be far handsomer," returned Garth, with a little spice of malice and contradiction in his voice. "She will play havoc with a few hearts before many years are over, take my word for it."

"Miss Beatrix!" in a tone of shrill scorn. "Dear heart, just to think of comparing her with our Miss Dora! But you young gentlemen will be poking your fun at an old woman. Miss Beatrix indeed!"

"My fire is burning nicely now, Nurse," observed Garth rather hastily. "If you make me too comfortable I shall be afraid of coming here."

"There's some folks would like to see you come oftener, sir; but it is not for me to tell young ladies' secrets," and then nurse dropped her ancient curtsey and took her comely old person out of the room, while Garth, with a shrug and sigh, proceeded to dress himself.

"Oh, my golden-haired Circe!" was his inward ejaculation, and then he wondered how Queenie would look in a velvet gown with some of that fine old lace round her long white throat. "She can have no end of that sort of thing now," he said to himself.

After all the gong sounded before he was ready; but Mr. Cunningham received his excuses with good-humor, and dinner passed off with perfect tranquillity. It struck Garth that Beatrix was rather quiet and a trifle dull, and he had some difficulty in winning a look or response from her, but he soon desisted from his attempts. "Poor child, she has been having a little sisterly lecture on forwardness, I expect. Dora is not likely to allow her to monopolize me," and he bent with some secret amusement over his plate. He was reading his old friend Dora by a clearer light now.

But he soon forgot Beatrix when Dora began to talk in earnest. Dora was very brilliant and picturesque in her conversation when she chose. She gave Garth full descriptions of their places of sojourn in the Pyrenees. Now and then there were hints and touches of a softer character: had he thought of her spending long anxious days and nights in that great white-washed ward in Brussels! why had he answered her letters so curtly, exiles were always so homesick and longing: for news? did he remember her and Flo eating their solitary Christmas dinner in their odd little room, looking out on the snow-capped mountains. They had chestnut soup, and a broiled fowl, and a salad to follow, and Flo was longing all the time for a slice of turkey and some English plum-pudding, and he had never taken the trouble to tell her how they had passed the day at Church-Stile House, and so on.

It was all very graphic and interesting, and Garth took himself to task for a certain feeling of relief when Dora and her sisters had withdrawn, and the Vicar and he had plunged into their business talk.

He was half disposed to prolong it when the coffee was brought in, but, to his surprise, Flo made her appearance. "Dora has sent me to look after the fire while papa takes his nap," remarked Flo very coolly, as she produced her knitting and planted herself comfortably on the rug. "Papa has had rheumatism very badly, and if the fire goes out and he wakes up chilly there is no knowing what will happen," finished Flo, with a toss of her curly head that reminded him of Dora.

"My girls spoil me dreadfully," observed Mr. Cunningham fondly. "Don't let me keep you, Garth, we shall be in to tea presently," and there was nothing but for Garth to withdraw.

But his heart quailed within him when he entered the drawing-room, and found Dora seated alone by the fire, apparently doing nothing but toying with a little screen.

"What has become of Beatrix?" he asked at once, stopping half way and looking round for his favorite.

"Beattie has a letter that she must finish to-night, and will be down presently," returned Dora carelessly; "she is writing in the old school-room. You remember the school-room, do you not, and the cosy teas we have had there? we still keep it for the girls' use. I must get papa to do it up prettily for them next summer."

"Couldn't she have left her letter until to-morrow?" asked Garth, half laughing, but the little subterfuge secretly displeased him. Why should his favorite be banished to that dreary schoolroom? and why should Flo be set to watch her father's slumbers? "I don't like the look of this at all," he muttered to himself, and again that allusion to Circe crossed his mind.

"Come and sit down," exclaimed Dora, with playful petulance. "Never mind Beattie's whim, girls will have their own way, and she does not mean to be rude; and now tell me, sir, why you have been so cool all this time, and treated me so shabbily?"

He was in for it now he saw, but he feigned to misunderstand her.

"How have I treated you shabbily?" he asked, with a tolerable assumption of innocence.

There was an ominous flash in Dora's blue eyes, but she answered him gently and plaintively.

"Why, in your letters, to be sure; they were as brief and cold as possible, not a trace of the old friendship, not even a regret at my long absence. They deserved to be burnt, every one of them, but I hadn't the heart," dropping her voice and looking at him with dangerous sweetness.

"I wish you had," he returned coolly, for he was in no mood for this sort of thing. Another time all this might have pleased and allured him; he might have been faithful in his allegiance to Queenie, and yet have taken a certain pleasure in watching her and listening to her reproaches. She was such a picturesque little creature, and there was something so sweetly seductive in her manners to him, that he would not have been a man and not felt the power of her fascination; but the memory of his past tenderness for her was now a source of regret to him, and he was too much shattered by the storm that had swept over him to amuse himself with aimless love-making. "I wish you would destroy all my letters, Miss Cunningham," he went on, gravely; and then he remembered that he had not yet told her about the failure of his fortunes.

He touched on it now, but lightly, and she listened with the deepest interest.

"Poor Mr. Clayton, how shocking to lose all that money! I am so grieved about it, and you never told me about that either!" with reproachful tenderness, and the mistiness he had before noticed gathered slowly to her eyes.

"There is something else I have not told you," he continued, taking his resolution suddenly, and determined to put a stop, at all risks, to this dangerous softness; "but then, to be sure, I have only just known it myself. Have you heard that our school-mistress, Miss Marriott, has come into a large fortune?"

"Why no!" she returned, very much startled and becoming a little pale.

"It is a whim of hers hiding it from all of us as she has done. Why, she was a rich woman when you first made her acquaintance! I call it a tidy little fortune, five thousand a-year."

"Why has she hidden it? What has been her purpose?" she inquired, with a sudden sharpness in her tone that struck him directly, but he answered her carelessly.

"Oh, I don't know; some girlish nonsense or other, nothing at all to her discredit, rather the otherwise." But he said no word about the loan. It was no business of Dora's; it was a matter simply between themselves, so he told himself.

But Dora's cheek had paled visibly. "I thought you hated money and heiresses," she said at last, very slowly, and looking him full in the face.

Garth flushed uneasily, the inference was too obvious.

"Did I say a word about hating or the reverse, Dora?" he asked, in some displeasure. In his vexation he had called her Dora.

"I feared you had made up your mind never to call me that again," she said, looking at him very gently. "I have thought since," hesitating and dropping her eyes, "that I was wrong and foolish in what I said to you that night, and you were perfectly right in being angry with me. Couldn't you—haven't you forgiven me yet, Mr. Garth?"

Then he jumped up from his seat, and his face was full of pain. She was still his old friend and playmate, and how was he to misunderstand her? Was it forgiveness only for which she was asking, or was it a tacit permission for a renewal of his attentions? Either way, he must set things right between them now and for ever, for her sake, for his, and for Queenie's.

"Why are you so hard to me?" she asked again, and her blue eyes were still misty.

"Dora, my dear girl," he said, and there was a certain warmth and affection in his tone, "I am not hard with you, and I have forgiven you with all my heart. Perhaps I was a little angry with you once, men are such touchy creatures; but you did a very kind and wise thing for us both that night, and I thank you for it most truly, for you have saved us both, Dora, from a very great mistake." And then he walked away from her, and took up his position by the fireplace.

Dora's pale cheeks were flaming now, but she made no attempt to answer him.

"I thought you were never coming, papa," she said petulantly, when her father and Flo at that moment entered the room.

When Beatrix returned from her sojourn in the cold school-room she had a rebuke ready for her tardiness.

"I do not know what Mr. Clayton will think of such manners," she said rather severely; but Beatrix only shrugged her shoulders and exchanged a droll glance with Flo.

"I am nearly starved with cold, and I should like some tea, Dorrie," she said very good-humoredly.

"I cannot have you sit in that cold school-room, my dear," observed her father; "there was my study, or Dora's writing-table in the front drawing-room, why could you not use that?"

"Never mind, this cup of tea will warm me," returned Beatrix, hugging herself and shivering.

Garth stirred the fire unasked, and brought her a low chair, and made her have a second cup of tea, waiting on her himself.

"And in that thin dress, too!" he remonstrated; "you ought to take better care of yourself, Beatrix."

Beatrix looked up at him half grateful and half laughing. She wished she were not grown up, and she might ask him to chafe her cold hands as he used to do when she was a little girl. She remembered even now the comforting warmth of those strong, brown hands.

"Never mind, one day he will be my brother, and that will be nice," thought Beatrix to herself. "I wish he and Dorrie would settle it quickly between themselves, and then there will be no more cold school-rooms."

Garth did not find another opportunity to exchange a word with Dora that night. The girls played some duets, and their sister turned the pages of their music for them, and left her father to entertain their visitor.

Nevertheless, the sense of her displeasure pervaded the atmosphere somehow, and drove all comfort from him. When he said good night to her, she gave him a very fleeting pressure of the fingers, and scarcely lifted her eyes to his, but her mouth looked a little scornful.

But it was not Garth this time that passed a sleepless night. When Dora brushed out her golden hair a pale, set face met her eyes in the glass, with a very decided frown on the brow.

"He thinks to blind me, but I am not to be thrown aside in this sort of way," she said to herself. "He belongs to me, and she shall not have him." And before she slept Dora took her resolution.

CHAPTER XII.

"HE BELONGS TO ME."

    "Lor. You loved and he did love?
    Mar. To say he did
Were to affirm what oft his eyes avouch'd,
What many an action testified, and yet
What wanted confirmation of his tongue."—J. S. Knowles.

A few days after this Queenie was returning from afternoon school when Emmie met her at the door of the cottage with her finger on her lip and a general air of mystery about her.

"What is it, Emmie?" asked her sister somewhat wearily. "Run in out of the cold air, darling, it is making you cough, I see."

"Why is it so dreadfully cold, I wonder?" returned the child shivering. "The winter is over, and yet the wind seems to blow right through one. Who do you think is in there, Queen? actually Miss Cunningham. She has been sitting there nearly an hour, I believe."

"Miss Cunningham!" unable to believe her ears; for Langley, with intentional kindness, had not informed her of her return.

"Yes; Miss Cunningham. Oh!" dropping her voice to a whisper, "she has tired me so. She is nice and pretty, and has blue eyes like our kitten's; but somehow I can't like her. She asked me such lots of questions all about Uncle Andrew and our being rich; but, do you know, I don't think she quite liked your lending Mr. Garth that money."

"Oh, Emmie, you never told her that?" in such a horrified voice that the child looked frightened.

"Was it such a great secret? I didn't know you would mind," faltered Emmie; "and she was saying such nice things about Mr. Garth."

"Yes, it was a secret," returned Queenie more calmly. "Don't you remember we are not to let 'our left hand know what our right hand doeth'? But never mind, it is done now," for Emmie's eyes were already filling with tears at the notion of Queenie's displeasure. "Run and tell Patience to have her kettle boiling; I dare say Miss Cunningham will like some tea."

"May I stay and help Patience? there are some muffins, and I meant to toast them myself," and, as Queenie nodded assent, Emmie stole down the little passage noiselessly and shut herself up safely with Patience.

As Queenie walked into the room very erect and open-eyed she did not fail to notice that Miss Cunningham had already made herself at home. Her sealskin jacket lay on the chair beside her, and her little furred gauntlets also. Her golden hair shone under her beaver hat; the dark close-fitting dress suited her to a nicety. But as she came forward, holding out her hand, it struck Queenie that she looked somewhat pale, and that her smile was a little forced.

"What an age you have been," observed Dora lightly. "I have been sitting with Emmie nearly an hour I believe. I thought you were never coming in, and then my long drive would have been in vain. I suppose Langley told you of my return home?"

"No; I was not aware of it," rejoined Queenie; and now she felt a little surprise at Langley's omission.

Dora's delicate eyebrows arched themselves slightly.

"How very strange! and her brother was dining with us last week. He was our first visitor, of course," with a meaning emphasis. "The girls are so fond of him, and papa can do nothing without him, which makes it very pleasant for me. By-the-bye," her manner changing abruptly, "Mr. Clayton tells me that you have been only playing at schoolmistress all this time, Miss Marriott, and that you are in reality a woman of fortune."

"Mr. Calcott has been good to me and left me all his money. I was poor, very poor, when I met you first," her heart sinking strangely at Dora's words. Why had she begun to talk of Garth?

"When people do eccentric things they must expect to have all sorts of motives imputed to them. What will the world say, by-the-way, of your lending all that money to Mr. Clayton?" fixing her eyes a little too keenly on Queenie's face.

"It may say what it likes," with the proudest possible manner, for she felt her spirit rising at this. What did it matter what the whole world said about her conduct, if only her conscience were clear? "The world does not believe in a disinterested friendship," a faint color coming into her face; "it would sneer at such an improbability."

"I generally find the world is right," returned Dora, with aggravating calmness. "Of course it will say you are in love with Mr. Clayton, you are prepared for that, Miss Marriott."

A painful blush overspread the girl's face.

"Oh, this is too bad," she exclaimed, clasping her hands nervously. "Cannot one do a little kindness in return for so much without having unworthy motives imputed to one? Why do you come and say such things to me?" turning on her tormentor with sudden anger and impatience. "It is no business of yours; it is nothing to you if people will say untrue things of me."

"You are quite wrong there; it is my business," returned Dora quietly. She did not like her work, but, all the same, she must go through with it. "It is just this—that is my business," she repeated, and her face looked worn and irritable in the firelight. "Miss Marriott, you must know—you cannot have been so much with Langley and Cathy and not know that Garth Clayton and I belong to each other."

Then a sudden coldness crept over Queenie.

"You—you are not engaged to him," she said at length, and her voice sounded strange to herself; the horror of such an announcement almost took her breath away. "But it could not be true!" she said to herself, "it could not be true!"

"It is my own fault that we are not engaged," returned Dora, speaking in a tone of plaintive regret. "I have put him off time after time, and would not allow him to settle it; the girls were too young, and I could not leave papa, that was what I told him. Why, just before I went to Brussels last autumn he came to us, and wanted me then to settle it, poor fellow, and I would not listen to him."

"He spoke to you, then?" the numbness creeping over her again.

"Yes; he said it must be yea, yea, or nay, nay, between us, I remember his words quite well; and when I would not give him a positive answer he got angry and left me. He has never been himself with me since, and has made me, oh, so unhappy; but I know the reason for it now, Miss Marriott," fixing her blue eyes piteously on her. "Why have you come between us and tried to steal away his heart from poor me?"

"Miss Cunningham!" her cheeks burning at the accusation.

"Why have you lent him all that money, and tried to decoy his affections? He is not the same to me, and you are the cause. We are two women, and he cannot marry us both; and—and he belongs to me," finished Dora, with a genuine quiver in her voice.

Poor bewildered Queenie could make nothing of it.

"He cannot belong to you if you are not engaged, and if you have sent him from you," she said, looking helplessly at Dora; and indeed she was so heartsick and stupefied that she hardly knew what she said. If he had spoken to Dora, as she averred, how could he have come and looked at her the next night in the way he did, when she knelt on the rug, with the plate of cakes in her hand, in the gloaming?

"It was duty, not I, that sent him away, he owns that," returned Dora, sighing, but her conscience smote her as she uttered this little fib.

Had he not striven to show her that her motives of duty had been overstrained and false in his eyes? "If you send me away you may find it difficult to recall me, Dora," he had said to her. Was not that asserting his right to be free?

"I went too far that time," she went on, "and made him angry and bitter; but that would not have mattered if you had not come between us."

"I—I have done nothing. What do you mean?"

"He was angry with me, and then he came to you; and, to be sure, how can he help seeing that you care for him after all you have done?"

"Hush! I will not hear another word; you are going too far. How dare you?" exclaimed Queenie passionately, moved to sudden anger at this ungenerous thrust. "You have no right to come here and say these things to me."

"No right!" returned Dora meekly; she had quailed a little before the brown fire of Queenie's eyes. "Have I no right when I have known and cared for him all my life? I am nearly eight-and-twenty now, and I was not more than sixteen—Flo's age—when this was first thought of between us; why, we had been meant for each other ever since we were children, and yet, after twelve years of thorough understanding, you say I have no right to speak!"

"I—I do not understand," began Queenie vaguely, and her cheek turned very white.

What if all this were true, and he had grown weary of this youthful entanglement? Might it not be possible that he and Dora had grown apart, that the tie had loosened between them, and that, in reality, his second love was the true one? Alas! the instincts of her own pure heart verified this view of the case; she understood him so thoroughly, she was so sure of his integrity, but what proof or evidence of her belief could she offer Dora? He had never spoken to her, his looks indeed had betrayed his secret, and hitherto their eloquence had sufficed her; but, at a crisis like this, the sense of his silence was dreadful; her faith was involuntarily built up on no foundation. After all Dora was right, and she had no claim to him.

"I was sure you did not understand," returned Dora, watching her, and speaking with the utmost gentleness. "You are too generous to take him from me, who have loved him all these years. I knew I had only to speak to you and all would be right between us."

"Stop!" exclaimed Queenie in an unnatural voice. "You may be mistaken, Mr. Clayton has never spoken to me, it may not be as you think; but, on the other hand," growing whiter still, "I would scorn to deceive you, and I have thought—but I may be wrong—that he has seemed to care for me. I would not have said so much, but you have more than once hinted of my forwardness."

"Yes; but it has been only seeming," replied Dora softly; "he could not really have changed to me, you know. If you would only go away and leave us to come together it would soon be right again."

"You want me to go away?" asked Queenie slowly.

"Not for long—only for a few months, till he has got over his fancy, and come back to me. I don't want to hurt you, dear Miss Marriott, or to make you angry again, but if you knew how soon men find out these sort of things! Of course you thought it was gratitude and friendship, but he was wiser, and knew better than that; and when I made him angry he thought it very likely that you would console him."

"You have said enough," replied Queenie in the same constrained tone. "You will not have long to bear with my presence; I have already made up my mind not to remain in Hepshaw."

"And when shall you leave?" asked Dora eagerly.

"I—I don't know; in another month or two. I suppose there is nothing to keep me here now."

But this vague promise was not sufficient for Dora.

"Why do you not go at once?" she persisted. "You will think I am in a hurry to get rid of you, but that is not the only reason," hesitating.

She was deliberately breaking Queenie's heart, and she knew it, in spite of the girl's assumed quietness; but somehow she shrank from imposing this fresh pain.

"Surely, my dear Miss Marriott, now that you have nothing to bind you here you will not think of exposing that delicate little sister of yours to our March winds?"

"What do you mean?" asked Queenie sharply, "you are talking about yourself, not Emmie, What has Emmie to do with it," shivering again as though some cold air had passed over her. And, strange to say, Dora grew suddenly soft-hearted over the effect of her words, for had she not a young sister too, and had not Flo been given back to her from the very grave itself?

"I wish you would not look so unhappy," she went on. "I have not seen her for some months, and of course the change struck me, growing children often look thin; and then she is still weak from that long illness. Why don't you ask Dr. Stewart about her, he will tell you what to do; but of course you have had some advice?"

"I have had no advice. Emmie is not ill. Why do you come here to make me so miserable?" returned Queenie, fixing her large eyes on her with such a mournful expression that Dora got quite uncomfortable.

"She only wants a tonic perhaps, but I should speak to Dr. Stewart; and, indeed, a cold spring would be very bad for her," repeated Dora, earnestly, as she drew on her furred gloves. Her conscience was very uncomfortable as she stood smoothing down the soft sealskin, trying to find some word that she might say at parting.

Queenie did not help her. She watched her with grave unsmiling eyes as Dora made her little preparations. When Dora again held out her hand to her she touched it rather reluctantly.

"Good-bye; I hope you will not bear me malice, Miss Marriott."

"I never bear any one malice; but you have made me very unhappy about Emmie," returned Queenie, but her voice was quite steady as she spoke. What if her heart were breaking within her, Dora should never know it.

But when the door closed upon her visitor, and Emmie crept softly back into the room, her fortitude suddenly gave way.

"Come to me, Emmie; come here, my darling," and as the child obeyed her wonderingly, she held out her arms with a sudden sob.

"You are not ill, are you, Emmie? What do they mean by making me so unhappy? They say you are thin and weak; but there is nothing the matter, is there?"

"I don't know," faltered the child, resting her fair head on her sister's shoulder. "I think I am only tired, Queenie. Ought people to be so very, very tired, and to have their bones always aching?"

"That is because you are not strong, my precious." But somehow, as Queenie uttered the words, the conviction seized on her that Dora was right, and the child was certainly thinner and lighter; and such an intolerable feeling of agony came over her at the thought that she could not bear it.

"Oh, my darling, forgive me!" she sobbed, kissing the little pale face passionately.

"Forgive you! What do you mean? What makes you cry so bitterly, Queen?"

"Forgive me. I was too wrapped up in myself to notice. I never meant to neglect you, Emmie, never. What does my happiness or unhappiness matter if I can only keep you with me, my blessing?"

"Shall you want to keep me if I get too dreadfully tired?" she asked, languidly. "Don't cry any more, Queen, I will stop just as long as I can." But Queenie only shivered afresh and dried her eyes.

"Sit by the fire, darling," she said, trying to return to her usual manner. "Patience shall give you your tea. I shall not be very long, Emmie."

"Are you going out again?" in a disappointed tone. "The muffins are all ready, and I thought we should be so cosy this evening."

"I shall not be long," repeated her sister, hastily.

She knew she could not have swallowed food in her present state of suspense, and before Emmie could again remonstrate she had left the cottage, and was on the way to Juniper Lodge.

She found Dr. Stewart in his surgery. She fancied he listened a little gravely to her account.

"She has not come under my notice for the last six or seven weeks," he said, as he prepared, at Queenie's urgent request, to accompany her. "In my opinion she has always been a delicate child. Such an illness as you have described may leave its effects for years."

As they entered the parlor they found Emmie stretched on the rug as usual, and this time Queenie's heart sank within her at the sight.

"Oh, Emmie, you are not tired again?" she said, almost impatiently, for she feared that this would impress Dr. Stewart unfavorably; but he apparently took no notice. He watched the child with keen attention as she roused herself somewhat feebly, and came towards them.

"Has Queenie asked you to make me less tired?" she demanded gravely, fixing her blue eyes on his face.

"Young creatures like you ought never to be tired," he answered cheerfully. "Do you often lie down in this fashion, eh?"

"I lie down because my bones ache, and I have such an odd, funny feeling sometimes."

And then, as Dr. Stewart questioned her jokingly about the feelings, she told him in her childish way of all manner of strange fancies and dreams that troubled her, and of the queer faintness that came over her at times; and how her cough began to hurt her: and how she got more tired and good for nothing every day.

Dr. Stewart's face grew graver as he listened. When he had finished a most careful examination of the child he sat for a little while in silence, while Queenie watched him anxiously.

"I am afraid he thinks Emmie very delicate," she said to herself. But she little knew Dr. Stewart's thoughts at that moment.

"If she had called me in earlier I could have done nothing," he thought. "The child is in a rapid decline. I wonder if it would be more merciful to tell her so at once, or to let her find it out gradually for herself?" And being a very tender-hearted man, he inclined to the latter course.

So when Emmie had been sent away on some errand, and Queenie began her anxious questioning, he answered her evasively.

"Do you think her very ill? ought I to have sent for you before, Dr. Stewart?"

"Well, no; I don't see what I could have done. Of course the child is very delicate—in a very bad state of health I should say; she is very fanciful and morbid too, all these imaginative children are. You must rouse her and keep her cheerful."

"But was Miss Cunningham right? will the cold Spring hurt her?"

"Ah, that is just what I was going to say. I don't think our northern climate agrees with her, it is too strong and bracing. You are your own mistress, why don't you take her south? Any watering-place would do—Torquay, or Bournemouth, or even St. Leonards. The change may give her a few more months," he said to himself.

"Sea air! is that what she needs?" asked Queenie, with a sudden dawning of hope in her face.

Dr. Stewart shifted uneasily on his seat, and did not look at her as he answered.

"Well, one should always make use of every possible remedy; and of course another month of these cold winds will kill her, there is no doubt of that."

"I will go at once; we will start immediately," almost gasped Queenie.

"I should do so by all means. If you like, I will speak to Mr. Logan on my way home, and see if he cannot, temporarily at least, fill up your place. There was a young person Faith mentioned who would be very likely to suit. Shall I manage this for you, eh?"

"I shall be greatly obliged if you will," she answered gratefully.

"Then about the place, where will you decide on going? There's a friend of mine, a doctor, a sort of connection of ours, living at St. Leonards; he and his wife are very good people. If you thought of going there I would write to Bennet, and he would look after Miss Emmie."

"I think I would rather go there, then; it will feel less lonely if Dr. Bennet is a friend of yours," a sudden terrible sense of isolation and banishment coming over her.

"Very well, then, we will decide on St. Leonards, and I will ask them to look out some cheerful apartments for you. You are not particular about price, I dare say; and I can rely on his wife's choice. She is a very good homely body, and will be a great comfort to you—when the child gets worse," he added to himself.

"When ought we to go?" she asked in a low voice, feeling all at once as though Fate were too strong for her.

"Humph! well, suppose we say in a week from now. I will talk to Mr. Logan, and I dare say we can find somebody to take the cottage off your hands. The less leave-taking and fuss the better in such a case, don't you think so, eh?"

"If Mr. Logan releases me there will be no difficulty about anything else," she returned quietly, and Dr. Stewart was charmed with her good sense and reasonableness. She forced herself into seeming cheerfulness when the child returned, and they sat down at last to their long-delayed meal. When they had finished she beckoned Emmie to the stool at her feet.

"Darling, are you glad?" she began. "Dr. Stewart says that I must take you away to the sea, nothing else will make you strong."

"Does he say the sea will make me strong?" asked Emmie curiously, "are you sure that he said that, Queen?"

"He said these cold winds will kill you," returned Queenie shuddering, "and that was enough for me. You will not fret at going away, Emmie, we shall be together, and do all sorts of nice things all day long; and when the summer comes, and you are strong again, we can come back here and see all our kind friends."

"I hope the summer will not be too long in coming, then," she returned dubiously. "Oh! I wish we had not to leave this dear place, it will be so sad parting with Langley and dear Mr. Garth, and Captain Fawcett, and Miss Cosie, and every one."

"Yes; but it will only be for a little time," returned her sister, persuasively, for the child's voice was full of sadness. "Don't you remember, darling, that happy summer at Morecombe Bay, when dear father was alive, and how I helped you to erect great castles on the sand; you were such a little child then, but so strong and merry."

"I think I remember a little bit of it, and how the waves used to sing me to sleep."

"Yes; and we shall hear the grand old lullaby again. Now listen to me, Emmie, and I will tell you what we will do, you and I. We will go to a grand hotel in London,—we are rich people now, you know,—and we will send for Cathy, and make her spend a long day with us."

"Oh, that will be nice," exclaimed Emmie, clapping her hands in her old way. "And shall we have a bright sunny room with a great bow-window looking over the sea, like the rich people we noticed at Morecombe Bay? and shall we ever be able to drive out in a pony carriage?"

"I will hire the prettiest pony carriage I can find," returned Queenie, feeling now the value of riches. "You shall have everything you wish for, Emmie—books and toys, and all manner of good things—if only you will be happy with me and not fret."

"Of course I shall be happy with you," exclaimed the child, throwing herself into her sister's arms. "What was it Ruth said? 'Whither thou goest I will go.' I always think of you when I read that. We have been playing at being poor, and now we must play at being rich. Oh, it will be such fun!" finished Emmie rather wearily, and Queenie kissed the heavy eyes and said no more.

CHAPTER XIII.

"WHY DOES HE NOT COME AND SEE US?"

                                                    "'It is not hard to die,'
She said, with that fair smile, 'for God's sweet will
Makes bitter things most sweet. In my bright youth
He calls me to His side. It is not hard
To go to Him.'"—'Ezekiel and other Poems.'

Friends came around Queenie in her trouble. In her letter to Cathy she compared herself, somewhat quaintly, to Job when all his acquaintance comforted him. For after the first few hours of stupefied misery that followed her conversation with Dr. Stewart and Dora, her natural courage had returned; the pain was crushed resolutely into the background. Her every thought must be for Emmie; her one care to retrieve the effects of her unintentional neglect.

The cottage all at once became the centre of interest to all the good Hepshaw folks.

Captain Fawcett could scarcely bear the child out of his sight, and his wife's sorrow at the impending parting was a grievous thing to see; while Miss Cosie trotted in and out perpetually, on all manner of self-invented errands.

And Langley came, saying little, but expressing a whole world of silent tenderness in her face and manner; and Faith Stewart, with her quiet, helpful ways, bringing an atmosphere of rest and peace to poor harassed Queenie.

One day Mr. Chester came, but his visit was a sadly trying one. He wrung Queenie's hand for some moments without speaking, and for a long time he could not bring himself to mention the subject of her departure.

"You were so good to me when my darling died. I wish I could do something to help you," he said huskily; "but then my poor Gertie is dying, and I cannot leave her for more than an hour or two," and the sympathy of this open-hearted man almost broke Queenie down.

One afternoon she went to say good-bye to Miss Charity. Miss Charity looked up at her with her bright sharp eyes very keenly.

"Ah, well, being a rich woman doesn't seem to suit you," she said, not unkindly. "You are not half as blithe and bonny-looking as when you first came to Hepshaw."

"I am so anxious about Emmie," replied Queenie, hastily, for any comment on her changed looks made her uncomfortable. "You see, Emmie is all I have, Miss Charity."

"Ah, well, the widow's mite was worth all the rich men's offerings," returned the invalid with a sigh. "Never hold what you have got with both hands, because then it is harder to let go. I thought I should have died of sheer grief when my back got bad, and poor George had to give me up; but I thought better of it, and here I am, and here I shall be, till my lessons are all done, and I am perfect through patience," finished Miss Charity, with a tear twinkling on her eyelashes.

But the one friend for whose coming she looked daily, for whose voice and presence and sympathy she craved with a longing that surprised herself, never crossed the threshold of the cottage.

For some reason only known to himself Garth Clayton held himself aloof.

It was not until after morning service on Sunday that Queenie found herself face to face with him in the plane-tree walk. He was with Ted and Langley, but after a moment's hesitation he left them and came up to her.

"You are leaving us, I hear," he said, rather abruptly, and Queenie could see he was exceedingly nervous, "and I am much grieved at the cause; but I have great faith in sea air. I hope—at least I trust—that Emmie may benefit by it."

"Dr. Stewart says it is the only thing for her. Have you seen him? Has he given you his opinion about her?" fixing her dark eyes rather searchingly on his face. Dr. Stewart's ambiguity was causing her some uneasiness. "I wish that he—that some one—would speak plainly to me, and tell me what he really thinks about Emmie."

"Well, you see, doctors are rather difficult people to deal with," returned Garth evasively, but his tone was very gentle. "You must not lose heart about it, you know, children are often very ill. This cold wind is making you shiver, I must not keep you now; I will come over to the cottage to bid you and Emmie 'good-bye,'" and then he smiled at her and went back to his sister.

Queenie had arranged to go over to Carlisle the next day to pay a parting visit to Caleb and Molly. All her affairs were now arranged; Mr. Logan had found a temporary mistress in a young widow, a protégée of Faith Stewart's, who was lodging in Hepshaw with her little girl, and was in search of some employment. And Emmie, who had taken a fancy to Mrs. Henfrey's little girl, proposed that they should live in the cottage, "at least take care of it until we come back," to which Queenie, desirous of gratifying the child's most trifling whim, willingly acceded. A bitter disappointment awaited Queenie on her return from Carlisle.

"Oh, dear, you will be so sorry!" Emmie exclaimed, running to her as she entered the parlor, feeling weary and dispirited. "Langley and Mr. Garth have been here, and he has left you a message, because he is going away and will not see you again; and he did seem so sorry about it."

"Going away!" repeated Queenie in a low voice, and then she sat down. She felt all at once so strangely tired.

"Yes; I heard him tell Langley that he must take the seven o'clock train, so he has gone long ago now. Some uncle of theirs is ill, I think they said he lived at Perth; but anyhow he sent for Mr. Garth in a great hurry."

"And what was his message, Emmie?" putting up her hand to her head, as though conscious of some numb pain.

"Well, he told me to say how sorry he was to miss you and not to say good-bye, and that you were not to lose heart about things; and oh—yes, he told me that twice over, that he hoped if you were in any trouble or perplexity that you would write to him or Langley, for they would do anything to help you. And he kissed me half-a-dozen times I am sure!" with a triumphant air; "and then Langley said they must go, and he got up very slowly and went away."

"Oh, it is too hard! it is more than I can bear!" broke from Queenie's pale lips when she was alone with her thoughts that night. "To leave for months, for ever, perhaps, and never to wish him good-bye, not even a word or look to treasure up in my memory." And for a long time she wept bitterly.

But by-and-bye she became more reasonable. "It is wrong of me, I ought not to wish to see him if he belongs to Dora. Perhaps it is better so, after all." But, nevertheless, the bitterness of that disappointment abided with her for many a long day.

When Langley wrote to her brother she spoke very briefly of the leave-taking. "Ted and I saw them off, and Mr. Logan was with us. Emmie clung to us and cried a good deal, but Miss Marriott was very quiet, and scarcely spoke. She begged me to thank you for your message, and regretted that she had not seen you, that was all."

Garth sighed over this brief message, but he understood Queenie's reticence perfectly. "So they are gone, and the happy Brierwood Cottage days are over," he said to himself, as he sat in the dim, sick room, revolving many things in his mind.

Queenie had a dreary journey. Emmie was so exhausted with excitement and emotion that she slept the greater part of the way, and left her sister in perfect freedom to indulge in all manner of sad thoughts.

Queenie never recalled that day without a shudder. A sadness, indescribable but profound, weighed down her spirits—a feeling of intolerable desolation and loneliness as hour after hour passed on, and the distance lengthened between her and the friends whom she had grown to love.

"Who knows if it may not be good-bye for ever to that dear place?" she thought, "for if he marries Dora I will never willingly see his face again."

She was thankful when Emmie at last woke up, to find herself at their journey's end. Emmie, whose imagination had been vividly aroused by the idea of the magnificence that awaited them, was rather disappointed by the quiet, old-fashioned hotel to which Dr. Stewart had recommended them. It was just the reverse of grand, she thought, but the sight of the bright, cheerful-looking room into which the weary travellers were ushered speedily reconciled her, and she was soon comfortably ensconced on the great couch, contentedly watching Queenie as she cut up her chicken.

"Now, Emmie, you must eat that and then go to bed," said her sister decisively, as she carried the tempting tray to the sofa, and Emmie was far too weary and docile to resist.

They were to spend two days in London, but the first few hours hung rather heavily on Queenie's hands. Emmie was fit for nothing but sleep, and could not rouse herself to take interest in anything, and Queenie did not care to leave her or to encounter the crowded streets alone. She spent the greater part of the day sitting idly at the window with her hands on her lap, watching the passers-by with vague, unseeing eyes, and living over every episode of their Hepshaw life.

The next day was better, for Cathy came to them, and the sight of her bright face roused Queenie from her despondency.

"What do you mean by misbehaving like this, Emmie," she said, as she knelt down by the sofa, and took the child in her arms. "Here you are getting ill again and making every one unhappy."

"I couldn't help it, Cathy," returned the child earnestly. "Oh, how good it is to see your dear face again, and how nice you look in that black stuff gown; and do you always wear a funny little close bonnet like that?"

"This is nurse Catherine's costume," replied Cathy, laughing and blushing and looking very handsome. "What do you think Mr. Logan would say to it? and oh, my dear Madam Dignity, how worn and pale you are!"

"It is nothing, I am quite well. Tell me about yourself," returned Queenie, looking fondly at her old chum. "Do you still like your work? does it agree with you?"

"My work is making a woman of me. Did you ever see me look better, Queen?" And indeed Queenie was driven to confess that she had never seen Cathy look more restful and satisfied.

They had a long, quiet-toned conversation while Emmie dozed in the afternoon. Cathy did not talk much about Emmie. "She was delicate and needed the greatest care," that was all she would allow, but she was voluble on the subject of the loan, and almost overwhelmed her friend with her delighted gratitude.

"He will get on now, dear old fellow, and it is all owing to you," exclaimed the affectionate girl, and somehow Queenie's sore heart felt a little lighter. But on her own affairs Cathy was still very reticent. "I don't know what I am going to do, I have not made up my mind. I shall stay on here and work for a time, I suppose," and then, her color deepened, and she broke off rather suddenly.

But later on, as the three sat cosily round the fire and talked of their old feasts in the garret, and Emmie clapped her hands and laughed feebly over many a droll reminiscence, Queenie noticed that now and then the keen grey eyes were full of tears, and that she would look at her and the child rather strangely.

"Good-bye, God bless you both; and keep up a good heart, Queen," was all she said when she left them that night. But when she re-entered the hospital an hour later more than one patient noticed nurse Catherine's eyes were red, as though she had been weeping.

It was somewhat late the following afternoon when they drove into St. Leonards and took possession of their new abode. Emmie uttered an exclamation of delight as she looked round the large luxurious room prepared for their reception. A bright fire burnt cheerily, a trim maid-servant was spreading a snowy cloth over the little round table; the great crimson couch was drawn invitingly near the hearth, outside the pier light twinkled, and a windy flicker flared from the esplanade, while the deep wash and surge of the monotonous waves broke softly on her ears.

"Oh, Queenie, how homelike and delicious it looks! and oh, what beautiful flowers!"

"Mrs. Bennet must have sent these," returned Queenie gratefully, as she carried the delicate spring bouquet of violets and snowdrops to Emmie. "I am so glad you are pleased with our new home, darling. Look, there is the bay-window you wanted, and behind those folding doors is our bed-room. Mrs. Bennet thought it would be quiet and snug, and there would be no tiresome stairs for you to climb."

"I am sure Mrs. Bennet must be very nice," was Emmie's answer, and then, as she seemed exhausted and disposed to close her eyes, Queenie prudently left her to repose.

Emmie's favorable opinion of their new acquaintance was soon verified, for the Bennets called the next day, and quite won the sisters' hearts by their geniality and unobtrusive kindness. Dr. Bennet was a little bluff and hasty in manner at first, but as this wore off he and Emmie became excellent friends. His wife was a quiet, motherly-looking woman, and Emmie took a fancy to her on the spot.

"Isn't she just like dear Miss Cosie, Queen, with those grey curls and that comfortable soft voice; if she would only say 'There, there, poor dear,' as Miss Cosie always does," finished the child with a quaint smile.

It was a strange new life that began for Queenie. The links that united her to the old had been suddenly snapped asunder, and she had drifted away into a quiet changeless existence, which seemed almost as unreal as a dream.

It was as though she had no separate individuality or life of her own; her only existence was Emmie, her one thought from morning to night how to gratify the child's capricious whims.

When Emmie opened her eyes on waking she always saw her sister by her bedside; she would stoop over and touch her lips with the fresh, dewy flowers she had in her hand—violets or primroses, or, later on, lilies of the valley and fragrant tea-roses. Emmie loved the roses best.

"I have been out for my morning walk, and look what I have brought you!" Queenie would say. It was always so, always the same surprise, the same sweet morning greeting, the same loving smile; and so it was through the day.

Strangers began to comment on the tall, graceful girl who drove out her little sister day after day in the pony-carriage, or, as Emmie's strength failed, walked by the side of the Bath chair, where the little frail figure seemed to be lost and hidden. How Emmie loved to watch the ships and the little brown fishing-smacks! The shifting groups on the esplanade pleased and amused her; the music on the pier charmed her. As the daylight faded away, and the waves grew solemn and grey in the twilight, she would lie on her couch contentedly for hours, while Queenie read or sung to her and told her the simple tales of her own production.

"I never dared to think; I just prayed, and so my little stock of daily strength was recruited, like the widow's cruse," Queenie said very simply long afterwards to one who questioned her of that sad summer. "Life just then meant Emmie to me, and nothing else."