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

I sat long by the lesser hole. Frontispiece.

MISS CON

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

AUTHOR OF "SUN, MOON AND STARS," "BERYL AND PEARL,"
"ST. AUSTIN'S LODGE," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY EDGAR GIBERNE

"Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
 Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
      Our hearts in glad surprise
      To higher levels rise."—LONGFELLOW.

NINTH THOUSAND

London

JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED

22 BERNERS STREET, W.

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.

At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh

PREFACE.

I DO not think I need apologise for sending out another tale about girls and for girls—a tale of everyday life, such as numerous everyday girls in this Nineteenth Century have to live. There may be already a legion of books belonging, more or less, to the same class; but the omnivorous appetite of modern girlhood is not yet satisfied.

Nor, perhaps, need I apologise for its being in some measure a story about and for young Authoresses, incipient or developed. So many girls now crowd the lower rungs of literary ladders, that a few general hints for their guidance can hardly fail to be useful in one quarter or another.

It must not, however, be supposed that "All Those Girls" were would-be Authoresses!

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. CRAVEN'S SENTIMENTS

II. AND CONSTANCE CONWAY'S

III. HOW DIAMONDS FLASH

IV. RAILWAY IMAGININGS

V. A "PRICELESS PRIVILEGE" REALISED

VI. A MOTHER'S SWANS

VII. THYRZA'S SANCTUM

VIII. "MILLIE"

IX. THE QUESTION OF ABBREVIATIONS

X. PLENTY OF "ER"

XI. JUVENILE AUTHORSHIP

XII. AND MAGGIE'S EFFORTS

XIII. LETTERS—VARIOUS

XIV. SUBLIMITY AND MAGGIE

XV. THAT PUBLISHER!!

XVI. WHETHER SOMEBODY LIKED SOMEBODY?

XVII. GLADYS HEPBURN'S FIRST SUCCESSES

XVIII. SERIOUS NEWS

XIX. A MOUNTAIN STATION

XX. AND A YORKSHIRE DALE

XXI. THROUGH A STORM

XXII. MYSTERIOUS HOLES

XXIII. "INDEED!"

XXIV. UNPALATABLE ADVICE

XXV. ALONE IN GURGLEPOOL

XXVI. AUTHORSHIP—WHETHER? AND HOW?

XXVII. ELFIE'S CONFESSION

XXVIII. NON-RAPTURES

XXIX. AND YET!

XXX. A REAL FIVE-SHILLING BOOK

XXXI. CROOKED AND STRAIGHT

XXXII. VERY UNEXPECTED

XXXIII. CONFIDENTIAL IN A CAVE

XXXIV. DIFFERENCES OF VIEW

XXXV. ENTIRELY VANISHED

XXXVI. AND HE!

MISS CON.

CHAPTER I.

CRAVEN'S SENTIMENTS.

CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.

February 20.       

"THE very thing for you, Constance. Most satisfactory. Really, if we had—a—if we had hunted all England over, we could not—ahem—could not have hoped to find anything more suitable. Positively, it is, if I may so say—if I may venture to use a somewhat time-worn illustration—the fitting of a round man into a round hole,—a round woman, I should rather say,—ha, ha! Nothing better could be desired."

So Craven declared, about ten days ago, with that oily satisfaction which people are sometimes apt to show about a convenient arrangement for somebody else. If I decided to go to the Romillys, it would be particularly convenient for Craven. I had been a full month in his house, and he was beginning to favour me with plain hints that a month was enough. Albinia never ventures to oppose him.

"Just the very thing," he repeated, rubbing his big flabby hands together. He might be a handsome man, this brother-in-law of mine, if less ponderously rotund, and boasting a smaller allowance of cheek and chin. I could not help thinking that afternoon, as he lounged back in his study-chair, what a huge individual he is for his fifty years. Anybody might take him for sixty.

I have not written in my journal for many months. Time enough now to make a fresh start. The only way is to go straight ahead, letting alone arrears and explanations.

"Precisely the opening for you," he went on. "Really, your course is, if I may so say, plain as daylight. As I say, plain as daylight. I am most happy to have been the means of affording you—ahem—a shelter, until this—a temporary shelter, I should say,—until this opening should appear."

Craven, like many other speech-makers, indulges in broken sentences and needless repetitions.

"Not merely an opening, but a duty,—a positive call to duty. I have always held the opinion—always, I may say,—that you were by nature fitted—peculiarly fitted—for the work of teaching. In fact—a—that you were a first-rate instructress of youth thrown away,—pardon me! And really, after the monotony of your existence—a—with the worthy old lady who has been—ahem—has been so lately removed from our midst,—after the monotony of your existence, as I say, hitherto,—you will find—ahem—will find positive excitement, positive dissipation—a—in the surroundings of your new life with the Romilly circle."

Craven ought to have felt exhausted by this time. If he did not, I did.

"Supposing I go," I answered perversely. Craven always rouses the perverse element in me.

"I was not aware that—ahem—that any other opening had—a—had presented itself, my dear Constance."

"I don't wish to decide in a hurry," I replied, though I knew as well as did Craven, that the matter was already practically settled. "Besides," I added, "it is not generally supposed that a governess' life means too much dissipation. Too much work is more likely."

For I did and do think that Craven might be a little less willing to let me enter on a life of possible or probable drudgery. Not that I want pity, or that I believe in the need for real drudgery in anybody's life. Plenty to do is my delight, and the question of drudgery depends on the spirit in which one does things. Moreover, I have never expected Craven to offer me a home; and if he made the offer, I would not accept it.

Still one does like a man to act a consistent part. Craven has in his own person so ardent a love for ease and non-exertion, that from his standpoint, he ought justly to spare me some grains of pity. My protest only set him off afresh, however.

"There can be no question, my dear Constance,—ahem—that your post will be a light one. At the same time, it will afford you—a—will offer precisely such a sphere for your talents as you—ahem—will offer, in fact, an appropriate sphere for your talents. For I see no harm in admitting—a—no harm in admitting that you are possessed of certain talents. Here, for the first time in your life,—as I say, for the first time in your life,—here is a field for their exercise. Not in mere lesson-giving, but in the exercise of—a—the exercise of—ahem—the exercise of a mild and beneficent and improving influence on all around you."

"Am I to begin by improving Mr. Romilly?" I asked.

The laboured and monotonous utterances sounded so exactly like a third-rate platform speech, that my gravity was upset. I had to say something which might serve as an excuse for a laugh.

Craven did not smile. He lifted one broad hand silencingly.

"In the shaping—ahem—the moulding—ahem—the general improvement, as I say, of those young people who will be in your charge. A more delightful occupation could—a—could scarcely be found. There can be no hesitation whatever—I say, there can be no hesitation whatever in pronouncing that you, my dear little sister, are by nature—a—singularly adapted for the post." Craven always calls me "little" when he wants to give me a set-down, though really I am almost as tall as himself. To be sure, I am not so broad!

"That is the question," I said. "If I could be sure that I really am fitted—But the responsibilities will be immense. If I were a woman of forty, instead of a girl not twenty-three—"

"With the appearance of—a—of thirty at least," asserted Craven.

There might be some truth in this. Twice in the month before, I had been taken for Albinia's twin. But also I had been twice taken for only eighteen years old. So much depends on the mood one is in.

"If I could be sure that I am fitted," I said again, rather rashly inviting a further flow of speech.

"Adapted undoubtedly, I should say," Craven answered. He drummed his right hand solemnly on the chair-arm, by way of emphasis. "Unquestionably! For you have gifts, my dear sister,—I may say that you have gifts. You are clever,—ahem—intellectual,—ahem—and you have cultivated your intellect. You are well-read. You draw and paint,—really quite tolerably. Yes, I may say—a—quite tolerably. Your music is, on the whole—on the whole, above the average."

Craven's knowledge of music is rather less than that of his favourite puppy, but this only makes it the easier for him to pass judgment.

"You have—" he went on—"you have your faults also: who has not? A certain impetuosity; somewhat too good an opinion of yourself; an over-readiness to oppose your views to those of others; these defects have—ahem—have to be subdued. But again there are faults which in your new position—which, I may say, in your new position will be—a— transformed into virtues! For instance! A certain faculty for spying out others' weaknesses—ahem—a somewhat unenviable readiness to set others to rights—pardon the suggestion, my dear little sister! But the adaptability of things is remarkable—is really, I may say, most remarkable. For henceforth the business of your life will be—the leading aim of your existence will be—a—the setting of others to rights a—the correction of others' faults. Thus, as I may say, as in fact I have already observed—a—thus at least one faulty tendency glides into a positive virtue."

My impetuosity came, I suppose, into play here. I felt all at once that I had endured as much as could reasonably be expected.

"Have you done, Craven?" I asked, standing up.

Craven was astonished. Probably he had not done; but my sudden movement disturbed the beautiful orderliness of his ideas, and put the remainder of his speech to flight.

"Because I think our discussion has lasted long enough," I said. "I will write to Mrs. Romilly by this evening's post, and promise to be at Glynde House in a fortnight."

Craven rose slowly and examined the framed almanack. We were together in the library, whither he had summoned me on my return from an afternoon stroll in the park.

"Nothing keeps Con indoors," Albinia is wont to declare, and certainly that day's fog had not sufficed to do so.

"A fortnight from to-day," he said dubiously. "That brings us to—the twenty-fifth. Yes; if I am not mistaken—the twenty-fifth."

"Mrs. Romilly names the twenty-fifth," I said. "I cannot offer to go sooner. It is unfortunate; but she does not leave England for another week; and she wishes me to arrive a week later. I am afraid you will have to put up with me so long."

Without waiting for an answer, I passed out of the luxurious library into the spacious hall.

CHAPTER II.

AND CONSTANCE CONWAY'S.

THE SAME—continued.

February 21.       

ALBINIA has a comfortable home,—so far as carpets and curtains are concerned. If only that mountain of human pomposity were not appended! But then she need never have accepted him unless she wished. Albinia went in for the man, with the carpets and curtains, of her own free-will.

Of course it is pleasant to be comfortable. I should be the last to deny that fact. Velvet-piled carpets, into which the foot sinks as into moss, are superior to bare boards; and tapestry at twelve or fifteen shillings the yard is very much nicer than a cheap cretonne at twelve or fifteen pence. Still a good deal depends on how much may be involved in the possession of mossy carpets and rich tapestry.

Sometimes I find myself wondering whether, if ten years ago could come over again, Albinia would say "Yes" a second time. She was only twenty then, and he was by no means so portly as now. But Craven Smyth was Craven Smyth always. He never could be anything else. He managed invariably to excite naughty feelings in me, though I was a child under twelve. Albinia could not understand why. She used to say he was "so nice!"—That delightfully indefinite term which does quite as well for a man as for a cretonne. And her one hesitation seemed to be on the score of his surname. "To think of becoming Mrs. Smyth!" she remarked often.

After leaving the library, I lingered in the hall, thinking. Should I write my letter first, or speak to Albinia first? Time enough for both before I needed to dress for dinner. The latter seemed right, so I passed on into the drawing-room, with its costly furniture and superabundant gilding.

Not four days had gone by since I first heard of this "desirable opening" in the Romilly household. I had answered the earliest appeal by return of post, asking further particulars, and expressing strong doubts as to my own capacity. A letter had now arrived from Mrs. Romilly herself, urging, nay, imploring me to accept the position.

Had the request come from any one else except Mrs. Romilly, I must have unhesitatingly declined. For whatever Craven may say, I am not fitted for the post. I, a girl of twenty-two, unused to teaching, inexperienced in family life,—I to undertake so anomalous and difficult a task! The very idea seems to me wild, even foolish. Humanly speaking, I court only failure by consenting to go!

And yet—what if it is indeed the right thing for me? For all along it has appeared as if that were the one open path; as if all other paths were hedged up and shut. Any one else except Mrs. Romilly! Yes; that would make all the difference. But then, it is Mrs. Romilly! And she is ill, depressed, troubled, in difficulties, and she implores my help. How can I hesitate or think of self?

I have no other friend in the world like Mrs. Romilly. Not that we have been so very much together; but I think I fell in love with her at first sight, and the love has gone on growing ever since, steadily. Three times, at intervals, she has spent a month with an aged relative in Bath,—an acquaintance of Aunt Lavinia's and mine,—and each time we met as often as possible. We walked and drove together; read and sang together; went often to the Abbey Church together. I can talk freely to her, as I have never talked with any other human being; and she is no less free with me. She has often said that I helped her; and this seemed strange, because she has so often helped me.

Sweet Gertrude Romilly! I have never met with any one else quite like her; and I doubt if I ever shall. She is twenty years my senior; yet I do not think we have found disparity of age any bar to friendship. It would be unreasonable to suppose that I am as much to her as she is to me. She is so lovely, so beloved; and she has so many who are very near and dear to her, while I have but few. But, indeed, I find the love that she gives to me very full and satisfying.

I suppose her spirits in girlhood must have been wonderfully high. She has gone through much trouble, and has suffered under it most acutely; and notwithstanding all, she seems often to be just rippling over with happiness and fun. I never quite know whether to count her more winning in her gay or in her pensive moods.

During the three years since our acquaintance first began, Mrs. Romilly and I have corresponded regularly; and she has pressed me often to pay her a visit at Glynde House. But I have never felt that I could rightly leave poor Aunt Lavinia, since she grew so very infirm.

Now that my dear old aunt has been taken from me, things are changed. It did seem strange for a while that no word of sympathy came from Glynde House. The response has always been so quick, if I were in any trouble. But a few lines from the eldest daughter, Nellie, with a dictated message from my friend, soon let me know the cause.

I cannot now understand precisely what is wrong. Mrs. Romilly has broken down in health, though to what extent I do not know. A sudden attack on her chest has revealed a condition of things there, unsuspected before; and she is ordered off in haste to the south of Europe before March winds begin. That is not all, however. Nellie alludes to "the state of her nerves;" and it seems to be expected that she may have to remain many months away,—perhaps a great part of the summer. Nellie goes in charge of the invalid, and Mr. Romilly remains behind.

In the midst of these anxieties, another blow has fallen. The governess, Miss Jackson, who for fifteen years has lived with the Romillys, was summoned home to the bedside of a dying mother just before Mrs. Romilly's illness. After weeks of absence she wrote, unexpectedly, to plead the claims of a widowed father, begging to be if possible at once released. The claim could hardly be disallowed, and no difficulties have been made. But then it was that Mrs. Romilly turned to the thought of me. She knew of my plans for self-support. Would I, she asked, step into the vacant post, and be—not merely governess, but companion, caretaker, elder sister, guide, and friend to her darling girls?

The first letter on this topic was dictated, but the second was in her own hand,—so changed and feeble a hand, that it grieved my very heart,—pleading earnestly. Would I—could I—refuse to set her mind at rest?

No, I could not; and were the moment of decision to come over again, I feel that my reply would be the same. I could not refuse; even though the sense of incapacity weighed then and weighs still most heavily. I am not old enough or experienced enough for the position. Yet it did seem to me then, and it seems so still, that I have no choice.

CHAPTER III.

HOW DIAMONDS FLASH!

THE SAME.

February 24.       

I MUST take up the thread where I left off three days ago. The last evening in Albinia's house has come, and to-morrow I make my plunge into a new life. It is late, and I have been busy; but there is much to think about, and sleep looks impossible at present. As well sit up and write, as toss to and fro in the dark.

Albinia was seated near the drawing-room fire when I went in, reading a little, or working a little, I can't say which. She is always doing a little of something, which ends in nothing. Perhaps she was working, for I noticed the flash of her diamond rings as she moved her hands.

Craven likes his wife to dress richly, and to make a good display of jewellery,—perhaps as an advertisement of his wealth. She is apt to be a little overladen with gems, just as her drawing-room is overladen with gilding. Her natural taste is good, but she conforms to her husband's taste in all such minor matters. Wisely, no doubt. Anything is better than a succession of domestic jars; and when Albinia became Craven's wife, she knew the manner of man who was to be her husband.

"What a dull afternoon we have had," I said.

"Yes," Albinia answered slowly. "Have you been out till now?"

I did not at once respond. Her question fluttered by me, and was forgotten. A reflection of our two figures in a pier-glass, lit up by half-lowered gas and dancing flames, had attracted my attention, and set me cogitating.

Albinia and I are often said to be alike. Though eight years my senior, she looks young for her age, and I—at least when grave—look decidedly old for mine. That brings us nearer together, and makes the mistake as to twinship occasionally possible. If I were to describe Albinia as I saw her in the glass—rather tall, rather thin, with a good figure, long supple limbs, and much natural self-possession; also with grey eyes, dark hair, and tolerably regular features—the description would apply equally well to myself, and probably would give no true impression of either.

For in reality Albinia and I are not alike. It is impossible that we should be. We may be formed on much the same model; eyes and hair may be the same in colouring; but we are not alike. Differences of temperament and character must show in the face. Albinia's torpid easiness of disposition and her willingness to submit, are the precise converse of my untiring energy and troublesome strength of will. Strangers may and sometimes do mistake the one for the other; but those who know us well are apt to deny the fact of any resemblance at all,—which is curious.

I have seen Albinia look very pretty at times,—not always, but under certain circumstances. Generally her fault is a lack of animation; and if this is overcome, she wins a good deal of admiration. Much more than I do. Some indeed tell me that I am far better looking than Albinia, but those are only my particular friends. We always see the best of a face when it is really dear to us. Many, I know, count me not at all attractive; and they are the people for whom I do not care. But I do not know why I should write all this.

The difference of our respective standings in life was well marked, that afternoon, by the blaze of Albinia's diamonds and the lustre of her splendid silk, seen side by side with my plain black serge and jet brooch. I did think she might have worn deeper mourning for the good old aunt to whom in childhood we both owed so much. But—there is Craven!

"Well," Albinia said at length.

"I beg your pardon, Albinia. I went into the park first; and since then I have been in the library, talking,—or rather listening."

"Talking about your plans?"

"I shall go to Glynde House in a fortnight."

A glittering flash of the diamonds showed me that Albinia had stirred suddenly.

"Then you have quite decided?"

"Quite. The Romillys want me, and Craven does not."

"We are expecting visitors soon," she said, rather faintly.

Poor Albinia! It was not her fault. I would not suggest that the house contained eight spare bedrooms.

"Of course I would rather have kept you for a few weeks longer," she went on. "But still—" and a pause. "If Craven—" another break. "And perhaps Mrs. Romilly wants you there before she leaves."

"No; not before. It would be her wish, but the doctors forbid excitement. She starts in a week from to-day; and she wishes me to go a week later,—just allowing the household time to recover a little from the parting. That seems wise, perhaps, as I am not to see her."

"You would have liked to see her."

"One cannot think of one's own wishes in such a matter," I said.

"And you only know Mrs. Romilly,—not the husband or daughters?"

"Except that I have heard so much about them all from Mrs. Romilly,—I can hardly feel myself a stranger."

"Are Mr. and Mrs. Romilly rich?" was the next question.

"Yes,—very comfortably off. And I suppose still more so since the death of a great-uncle of Mrs. Romilly's last autumn. An estate in Yorkshire came to them then. Mrs. Romilly spoke in a letter of their intention to go there every summer: though Glynde House will still be their home for the greater part of the year."

"And you will have the entire education of several girls! Housekeeping too?"

"I really don't know, Albinia. My notions as to what I shall have to do are hazy in the extreme. That is the worst of not seeing Mrs. Romilly. No, not the entire education. There are masters for accomplishments, I believe; and there is a nursery governess for the two youngest. Besides, Maggie must be pretty well out of the schoolroom."

"Oh, then of course she will be housekeeper."

"Craven predicts more need for the exercise of a 'beneficent influence' on my part than of actual teaching."

Albinia opened her eyes non-comprehendingly.

"He expects me to improve the household as a whole,—beginning, as I tell him, with Mr. Romilly. My own fear is that I shall be too much of a girl among girls,—with too little authority."

"It all depends on yourself. You must take a proper stand from the first. I dare say things will fit in well enough."

So easy for her to say and think. Hardly anything is more easy than to be philosophical for somebody else. I do not count that my own feeling in the matter is cowardice. I have never feared work or shrunk from responsibility. But from early childhood, I have been under the dominion of a strong sense of duty; and to half perform a duty has been always a misery to me. And I do feel myself so unfitted, so terribly inadequate, for the duties to which I seem called.

"Called." Yes; there it is. If indeed "called" to them, I shall find help sufficient. God does not place His children in positions of difficulty, to leave them alone afterward. My prayer has been—"If Thy Presence go not with me, carry me not up hence." And if His Presence does go with me, then nothing else can matter very much.

"I never expected you to have to take to governessing," Albinia said suddenly.

"Did you not?" I asked.

"No. Two years ago I had not a doubt that you would be married before this." She looked at me with questioning eyes. "What were you about, Con?"

"About my own business, I hope," I said. "Nearly time to dress for dinner. I must be quick."

"You can just as well write a line afterwards."

"No; I would rather catch an earlier post. I must set Mrs. Romilly's mind at rest, and I want to have the thing settled."

"You can write here," said Albinia.

I acquiesced, going to a davenport, though solitude would have been preferable. The letter seemed to need careful wording. Between my desire to bring repose to Mrs. Romilly, and my conscientious dread of promising more than I might be able to perform, I scarcely knew what to say. And I leant back in my chair, thinking.

"Do you know what o'clock it is, Con?"

Albinia's words roused me from a dream. She was crossing the room, and before me lay a black-edged sheet, with the date written—nothing more. While, fading from the foreground of my mind, was a vivid picture of a scene in a certain small Bath dining-room—a scene nearly two years old, called up by Albinia's utterances—a scene unknown to any living person, except myself and one other. I had forgotten Mrs. Romilly, forgotten my letter, forgotten the need for haste.

For recollections of that scene are apt to involve me in a train of questionings. They come up afresh now as I write.

Had I then known how soon the dear old aunt was to be taken away, how short a time she would claim my care, I think I should have come to a different decision. But I did not know. There seemed no reason why she might not live another ten or twenty years, always ill and helpless, always dependent on me.

What I did, I did for the best, and under a compelling sense of duty. At the moment I had no doubts, no feeling of hesitation. My path seemed clear as daylight. He thought me fearfully cold, and he was wounded and angry. Yet it was for his sake—because I would not bind him to years of waiting.

Was it quite needful—even as things then stood? Should I have been wrong to let him see that my "No" was a "No" of sheer duty, not of choice? Was there not at least the fault of too impulsive action, too rapid decision,—of not delaying to ask and wait for guidance?

"He that believeth shall not make haste." Those words come to me sometimes with a sharp sense of pain. I did believe, but did I act practically upon that belief? If I had not made quite so much haste, I might at least have worded my answer a little differently. And—I cannot be sure, but sometimes I do wonder if he had not almost a right to know that I was not so indifferent as I seemed.

After-regrets are worse than useless. They only unnerve one for daily life. I feel that, yet I cannot always hold these questionings in leash. They gain the mastery over me once in a while, though to no purpose,—worse than none. For he is gone out of reach. He will never know how things really were. Communication between us is at an end,—utterly! He said that he would take very good care never again to trouble me with his unwelcome presence, and I—I let him think it was unwelcome. I said nothing; and he went.

It was from thoughts such as these that Albinia's voice aroused me to the consciousness of my unwritten letter. She was going across the room, and had paused behind my chair.

"No, I have not done," I answered quietly. "One moment, please."

And I dashed off, in a rapid scrawl,—

   "DEAR MRS. ROMILLY,—

   "Yes, I will come—on the 25th inst. I am afraid it will be only to disappoint your expectations; but I cannot refuse. I will at least do my best.

   "This is in haste, to catch the next country post. I want you to hear to-morrow morning. I will write again more fully in a day or two.—Ever yours affectionately—

"CONSTANCE CONWAY."

The letter went, and I was committed to the undertaking.

Now, sitting alone by candle-light in my room,—mine no longer after to-day,—with packed and half-packed trunks around, I find myself doing what I have resolved not to do,—turning back to that closed page of my history, and conning it anew.

I doubt if there be any occupation more vain than reading the past in the light of the present, and breaking one's heart for the things which might have been,—if only one had known! Except indeed that from the blunders of the past, one may gain wisdom for the future.

God knew all the time! That is the one great comfort. He knew—and cared—and guided. Not indeed with the precise and explicit guidance, which would have come, if I had expressly waited and looked out for His hand to point the way. But He makes all things work together in the end for the good of His loved ones,—yes, I do believe, even their very blunders. A mother does not neglect to watch the hasty steps of her most heedless little one; and I know that my Father does not—did not—forget me.

Nor will He. And does not the little one learn from its own stumbles to cling more to the mother's hand? I think so.

Still, I cannot help a feeling of loneliness to-night,—this last night of shelter in my sister's home, before stepping out into an untried and new world. One does crave at times for somebody to come very close, knowing and understanding all that one could say—or would not say. People think me so matter-of-fact and sensible and cheerful, and when they tell me what I am, of course I assent. If I demurred, they would only count their own opinion worth the most. But one cannot be always sensible or always cheerful, and the thirst for human sympathy has me in its grip this evening.

Yet is it not at such times that the human sympathy of Christ our Lord comes home—or ought to come home—to one? If not, the want is in us, not in Him—never in Him!

Now it is close upon midnight, and I must go to bed. What sort of a home shall I be in, twenty-four hours hence?

CHAPTER IV.

RAILWAY IMAGININGS.

THE SAME.

February 25. Evening.       

"SO you leave us—a—to-day, my dear Constance, and—ahem—proceed to your new sphere of work. I am sure I may say—a—that you carry with you our best wishes—my wife's and mine, I should say."

N.B. * I have a great deal to write of first impressions in my new home, but Craven's utterances come up irresistibly, and insist on first attention.

* N. B.—nota bene

"Thanks," I replied. "It is quite a case of speeding the parting guest."

Now this was unkind to Albinia. She never can withstand her husband, but the gratification which beamed from his rotund face was not reflected in hers. I thought her even a little depressed in her apathetic way.

Craven showed no signs of being affected by my sharp utterance, but drawled out his next inquiry, "I believe you—a—start some time this morning—a—my dear Constance."

"The twelve o'clock train. Different lines don't fit in their time-tables well," I said. "It is unkind to passengers. I shall have two changes, and scant time for either."

"No doubt—a—if one train is missed, another runs later," said Craven.

"No doubt," I answered. "But I don't particularly want three or four hours' delay."

"I believe you—a—change trains at—a—at Hurst," said Craven.

"That is my first change," I replied. "The second is at Glynde Junction." But Craven was talking, not listening, so I stopped.

"At Hurst,—yes. Just so,—yes. To be sure,—yes. No doubt you will obtain lunch there,—yes, a very good plan. You will write and inform Albinia soon—inform Albinia as to your welfare—ahem. I may say that—a—I believe—a—that I feel no doubt whatever you will do well—ahem—will do excellently well in your new sphere. Yes, I may say—excellently. You have acted hitherto an exemplary part in the care of—a—your worthy relative,—looking for no return."

This was quite true. Aunt Lavinia cared for me in childish days, and I have cared for her in later years. It was a matter of course that I should do so. She has depended upon me entirely. But I have had no thought of reward. I always knew that the greater part of her income consisted of a life annuity. And it was my friends, not I, who were disappointed when, after her death, it became known that with the exception of one hundred pounds everything at her disposal was left to Albinia, not to me.

"Looking for no return," repeated Craven, with an unctuous little smack of approval peculiar to himself. "Yes, I may say—looking for no return. One reward you have doubtless, my dear little sister,—namely, the satisfactory mandate of your own conscience, and ahem—and a very respectable nest-egg of one hundred pounds, which you will do well to allow to accumulate at—a—at compound interest. The world now lies open to you, and an opportunity has at last arrived—a—has, I may say, at last arrived—for the exercise of your intellectual gifts. As I was about to remark, you—a—you undoubtedly possess—"

"I seem to have heard all this before, Craven," I said, glancing at the clock, which pointed to more than half-past ten. Breakfast in the Smyth household is not inordinately early.

"In a governess, my dear Constance," Craven said slowly, helping himself to fish for the fourth time, "in a governess—a—this fish is very much overboiled, Albinia, very much indeed—a—in a governess, my dear Constance, such impetuosity as yours is, I may say,—"

"Really! I thought I was particularly well adapted for being a governess," I exclaimed.

"Is, I may say,—" pursued the imperturbable Craven, "likely—a—to lead you into serious difficulties—ahem. Remember, my dear sister,—you should—a—remember that your office now is to guide—a—to instruct—a—the young. More than this, you depend—ahem—entirely upon your own exertions; and if—a—if, in a temporary fit of impetuosity, you are led to throw up your situation, you—a—you find yourself homeless—absolutely homeless, my dear Constance."

"I understand," I said. "I shall not come to you for shelter, Craven," and I stood up. "Will you kindly excuse me, Albinia? It is getting late, and I have not done my packing."

Albinia assented, not reluctantly; and I vanished. But I felt very vexed with myself. After many resolutions to keep calm and smooth to the end, here was I giving vent to irritability, like a pettish school-girl. Apart from the wrong-doing, what was the use? Craven would not understand.

As I turned the key of my travelling bag, Albinia glided into the room.

"The cab has come," she said. "It is rather early, and I meant to send you in the carriage; but—"

"No need for excuses," I said. "You can't help things, Albinia. I am only amazed that I could stoop to be angry with him."

Pretty severe, this; but I do not think the words touched Albinia. She said only, "I have brought you a little packet of sandwiches."

"Thank you," I answered. "Craven's plan of luncheon at Hurst is not quite feasible. I shall have just three minutes there."

"You need not say anything about the sandwiches downstairs," observed Albinia. Craven, with all his wealth, is no "lover of hospitality."

Another hour, or less, and I found myself alone in a second-class carriage, passing swiftly out of London, with nearly two unoccupied hours lying ahead.

The train was not an express, and several stoppages took place. Yet no one came into my compartment; and the solitude was not unwelcome. Between the closed chapter of my past life and the opening chapter of my future, this little pause seemed well. I had a book with me, but I could not read. There is something in the steady rush of a train which always inclines me to steady thought; and I had so much to think about.

It is odd to look back to one's previous imaginings of people or things, and to compare those imaginings with the realities.

I can recall clearly now some of the pictures which floated through my mind as I sat in the train. Probably they would soon fade, if I did not jot them down while fresh.

There was Margaret, the second daughter, "my sweet Maggie," as Mrs. Romilly calls her. I felt that I already knew well this dear girl, just nineteen in age, and of a nature so humble and winning that none could fail to love her. Mrs. Romilly doubtless leans more upon the capable Nellie; but it is around Maggie, her "tender, clinging Maggie," that I have seen her heartstrings to be most closely twined. Poor gentle Maggie! How I pitied the young girl yesterday, picturing her left thus suddenly at the head of a large household. She would indeed need all the help and advice that I might be able to give. I longed for Maggie's sake to have had more experience. She was not naturally a gifted manager like Nellie,—so I had heard,—but had always depended on her mother and elder sister.

Then there was Thyrza, some fourteen months younger than Maggie—"that dear difficult Thyrza," she is termed by her mother. I meant to win Thyrza in time, to gain her confidence by slow degrees. But in the reserved and brusque Thyrza, I could not look for so pleasant a return as in the sweet and lovable Maggie. Unconsciously, perhaps, I was a little prejudiced against Thyrza. Mrs. Romilly had so often spoken of her with a sigh.

The twins, Nona and Elfleda came up next, aged sixteen and a half. "My bright Nona," and "my lovely gipsy Elf!" Mrs. Romilly has called them. I could see in imagination the fair face of the one—"all sunshine, with such clouds of auburn hair and such a complexion!"—and the brilliant merry eyes of the little dark beauty. "Not very fond of study, either of them, but able to do anything they liked,—so quick and clever." Yes; Nona and Elfie could not fail to be favourites.

And the two small children, Popsie and Pet; and their young nursery governess, Miss Millington,—I had to be friends with all. There was also the fifteen year old boy, Denham, "my handsome son," Mrs. Romilly has styled him. I thought he must be dearer to her than the elder son, Eustace, which seemed curious. A mother usually clings most to her firstborn. But I had heard little of Eustace Romilly.

In addition to all these, there was Nellie Romilly's great friend, Gladys Hepburn, living "just round the corner," and closely interwoven with life in Glynde House, beside many others with names more or less familiar. But among all these figures, it was that of Margaret Romilly, "sweet Maggie," which stood out with the most inviting distinctness, forming the centre of my expectations. A purely imaginary figure, of course. I pictured Maggie as a girlish reproduction of my friend,—tall, slender, graceful, with liquid loving brown eyes, and pensive winning smile. Mrs. Romilly had shown me few photographs of her people. She always said they were such failures.

The background in my mind to all these moving figures was a fine country mansion, with extensive gardens and something of park land. I can hardly tell how this idea grew into existence; except that Mrs. Romilly has a way of writing and speaking about "our place," which has perhaps misled me. I am sure she does it with the utmost simplicity. It is habit she has fallen into unconsciously.

Mr. Romilly overshadowed the whole. I had formed a vivid idea of him. I knew him to be many years older than Mrs. Romilly, and she has spoken of him always with true wifely enthusiasm. My mental sketch of him was drawn from recollections of things she has said. There could hardly be such another man in the world. His face, his features, his manners, his self-forgetfulness, his kindness, his indulgence, his generosity,—all these have been painted before me, till I could only feel that he must be a very prince among men, and that to live under the same roof with Mr. Romilly must be a priceless privilege. The only marvel to my mind was that he had not gone abroad with his wife. But doubtless a spirit of self-denial restrained him, and he remained in England for the sake of his girls.

I found myself wondering next what manner of Church and of clergyman I should find. Mrs. Romilly may have described them to me, but I could recall no particulars. In my quiet Bath life, I used to attend many week-day Services in addition to those of Sunday. I found them a help—nay, a positive necessity. But things would be different at Glynde. That which had been a duty as well as a privilege in Bath—a duty because I had the leisure to go, and no prior home-claims to hinder me—might at Glynde cease to be a duty, because of such other claims.

CHAPTER V.

A "PRICELESS PRIVILEGE" REALISED.

THE SAME—continued.

February 26. Early Morning.       

AFTER all, I might have procured my luncheon at Hurst without difficulty: for I missed my train, and had a long waiting time.

It passed, as such intervals do, and I found myself in a crowded compartment on the way to Glynde Junction. This second stage of my journey was a good deal occupied in observation of fellow-passengers. None of them was in any sense remarkable, but all human beings are more or less worth studying.

After a while the compartment began to empty, and I at the same time began to be aware that the train had lagged a good fifteen minutes behind time. No pleasant discovery this, since it probably meant the loss of the next train at Glynde Junction, and another long delay.

One old lady remained alone at the farther end of the carriage, nodding sleepily over a novel. A gentleman had stepped in at the last station, and had taken the corner opposite to me. While busily comparing watch and time-table, I had not noticed him; but a little while before reaching the Junction, I happened to glance up and met his eyes.

Evidently he had been examining me: no doubt from the same general interest in human beings to which I have confessed. He did not snatch away his eyes in the alarmed fashion of some people caught in the act, but met mine frankly. He might be, I supposed, under thirty: a gentleman every inch of him: in manner quiet, steadfast, entirely at his ease, and free from the least suspicion of self-consciousness. Mouth and chin were hidden by the brown moustache and beard, and more of the same soft brown hair receded in waves from the wide forehead. The eyes were singular, large and gentle as a woman's, pale brown in hue, with soft shading lashes, and set in hollowed-out caves, which, together with the delicately outlined temples and the slightness of the ungloved right hand, gave an impression of not very robust health.

I read at once in his look the unspoken question—"Is anything the matter?"

And my answer came involuntarily—

"I was wondering if there is any chance of my catching the train to Glynde."

"At the Junction? Yes; a chance, but a poor one."

"That train does not wait for this?"

"It is not supposed to do so."

"Glynde is new ground to me," I observed. "A pretty place, is it not?"

"There are a few pretty spots in the neighbourhood," he answered; and he mentioned one or two by name, describing briefly.

It is singular that I should have been drawn on to chat with him. As a rule, I am very shy of railway acquaintances. A woman, and especially a young woman, travelling alone, can scarcely act with too much reticence. Somehow I was disposed during those few minutes to make an exception in favour of this particular fellow-traveller, recognising instinctively a man whom one might trust. Not that such instincts may be safely depended on.

Some remark made by him led to the question on my part—

"Can you tell me anything about the Church?"

He asked, "Which Church?"

"The nearest to Glynde House," I answered; and a slight flash or lighting up of his face showed me that he was acquainted with the Romillys.

"The Parish Church is a mile and a half distant," he said. "There is a small Church or Chapel-of-ease not far from Glynde House."

"What kind of Church Services?" I asked next, speaking perhaps with a touch of wistfulness. I did not know it, till I saw the reflection in his face. But indeed the burden of the future and of my own incapacity was weighing on me heavily.

He answered again by a question, "What kind would you wish?"

"I should like—something helpful," I said.

A curious smile came into his face. "Is not the 'something helpful' always there?"

"Always!" I moved my head dissentingly.

"It ought to be."

"But things are so different in different Churches," I urged. "One cannot find the same amount of help, for instance, when the Services are dull and spiritless."

"Perhaps not the same amount," he said slowly. "But sufficient for our need—always that!" After a moment's thought, he went on—"We hear a good deal in our day about Church privileges; and none can value such privileges more highly than I do. Still, one ought not to forget that the greater a man's privileges are, the greater must be his responsibility."

"I suppose so," I said.

"Necessarily. It is an invariable rule—the more given, the more required. If our spiritual advance does not keep pace with the amount of our Church privileges, so much the worse for us."

"Yet there cannot be advance without—" I began, and stopped. For I knew I did not mean that.

"I must differ from you," he said courteously. "Some of God's greatest saints on earth have been by no means the most favoured with outward helps to devotion."

"But still—" I said.

"Still one craves such help. True; and the craving in itself may not be wrong—is not wrong, I should rather say. Though here, too, as with bodily needs, I believe one ought to be content either to 'abound' or to 'suffer need,' as God may appoint for us. Besides," he added, "that which is the greatest help to one, is not always helpful to another. We are differently constituted, and our needs differ. It is a perplexing question sometimes. Our Church Services are meant for the many. I am afraid some among us are, perhaps, a little too much disposed to insist on providing for the many that which only suits the needs of the few."

"And suppose," I said, "that the many insist on having what is no help at all to the few, but only a hindrance?"

"It should not be a hindrance."

"But if it is—"

"It need not be. The question as to a man's spiritual advance does not hinge there. Wine of heaven may be as freely given in a cup of earthenware as in a cup of porcelain, if only one is willing."

I repeated to myself, "If one is willing!"

"The gist of the matter lies there," he said.

The old lady at the other end woke up, looked round, and moved promptly down the seat to our vicinity, putting out a hand and a rubbed kid glove.

"How do you do, Sir Keith—how do you do?" she said, in brisk cordial tones. "Quite well, I hope; and Lady Denham too? Are you going home to her? No? I can't quite hear what you say—the train does make such a noise, and I'm getting just a little deaf."

There was no difficulty whatever in hearing the lady's own utterances, as she shouted in shrill tones at Sir Keith's left ear.

"Not going home till later! Oh, that's it, is it? Ah, you're such a busy man, I know—always hard at work about something or other. Well,—and so poor Mrs. Romilly is really off. Very sad about her, isn't it? I was sure you'd feel it, knowing them so well! And all those girls left behind,—really, it's a thousand pities. Just when they need a mother most! Nice girls too!"

She scanned him with quick inquisitive glances, as he listened, calmly attentive. "I wonder which is your favourite, now! I like Nellie best—not that I know them intimately. The Romillys are difficult people to get hold of. But I always do say they are nice ladylike looking girls, if only they weren't quite so much wrapped up in one another, and in their own concerns. A very attached family, I'm sure, and it's quite pretty to see them all so devoted to their father, dear man! Oh, Mr. Romilly is an immense favourite of mine. But as for Mrs. Romilly,—why, there's no doubt she does keep people at a distance, and holds herself as if she was a duchess. So very exclusive and all that! I hate exclusiveness, and I can't endure airs and graces. Still, Mrs. Romilly is nice enough in her own way, when one gets used—Are you going to get out here?"

It was a marvel to me that the old lady could keep on so long, with her twinkling black eyes fixed on that face of grave disapproval. I had begun to wonder whether I ought to announce myself openly as the new Glynde House governess, for fear something might be said before me which I had no business to hear. But as I hesitated, the train slackened speed, and Sir Keith stood up to lift down my roll of shawls.

"It is just possible that you may be in time," he said. "Ha! There is a man who will do his best." He threw open the door, handed my shawls to the porter answering his summons, then stepped out himself to assist me. Plainly all this came as a matter of course.

"Glynde train off yet?" he asked.

"No, sir." The porter had touched his cap, with evident recognition and as evident pleasure. "Just going, sir."

"See this lady in, if you please. The luggage will be behind. No time to get a ticket, I fear."

"Thank you very much," I said, and he lifted his hat before returning to his seat. Then followed a rush along the platform, a frantic hauling out of my trunks, a breathless scamper upstairs, over the bridge, down the other side, and I found myself in a first-class compartment with two gentlemen. There had been no leisure to choose. My trunks were flung in, unlabelled; and we were off.

Recovering from the flurry of my chase, I became aware of a gentle little piping masculine voice opposite—

"No, I—I could not possibly hesitate,—such very apparent need—er. Poor thing! It is a great gratification to be able to help those in need—er. My dear boy, it is very cold—very chilly—er. I am quite distressed to think of the girls driving to the station—er—in the open chaise. I really wish I had given different directions—er."

I could not help thinking of Craven; though this speaker, with something of the same cautious hesitation in bringing out his words, and even more of a tendency to linger on concluding syllables, had nothing whatever of Craven's grandiloquent pomposity. He was short, and of narrow small-boned make, with sunken cheeks, and delicate girlish hands. Grey hair, in the prettiest silken curls, peeped from under his most dainty travelling cap, partly hiding the defects of a narrow and unintellectual forehead; and a pair of deep-blue eyes, full of anxious appeal, wandered to and fro beseechingly. The mouth was anxious too—a really beautiful mouth in its classic curves, only so tremulously nervous and troubled.

Side by side with this little elderly personage was a young man, not at all resembling him. For the young man was tall, broad-shouldered, and powerfully made, with no pretensions to good looks. It seemed to me a good sensible face, however—that plain sunburnt face of his—though not handsome; and I admired the deferential kindness of his manner towards the older gentleman. Could they be father and son?

"If I had guessed—er—that it would be so chilly—er—I think it would have been advisable to procure hot-water cans for the journey—er. My feet are so very cold—er—quite suffering. I hope you do not feel the cold—er—very much, my dear boy."

He feel the cold! I could have laughed at the question. But the young man answered, without a smile, "Not at all, thanks. I wish I had thought of the hot-water tin for you, though."

"No consequence, my dear boy,—not of the very least consequence—er. And we shall be there directly, so it really does not—er—does not matter. But I am very chilly. I almost think—er—if you could get out a shawl for me, I should like it over my shoulders—er. Thanks—no, not that one. The Scotch tartan. Not there, do you say? Very strange, very strange indeed—er. I must speak to Phipps, I must speak to him quite seriously. He knows so well—er—I always use that shawl in travelling—er—quite invariably. No, nothing else, my dear boy,—nothing else will do. If the tartan shawl is not here, I must endure the chill."

Poor gentleman,—he shivered and looked quite blue. But the young man made no attempt to persuade him, only rolling up submissively the rejected wraps.

"Very cold indeed for the girls," went on the elder gentleman. "I am so afraid they will suffer—er. If only I had desired them to have a closed cab, instead of driving in the open chaise—er—it would have been safer. But perhaps they may think of it. Perhaps when we arrive, we could arrange—er—don't you think, my dear boy?"

"Yes, father," said the young man. He spoke very gravely, with no relaxing in the set of his strong plain face. Was he always so serious? It struck me as singular; for I should not have guessed him to be more than three or four and twenty at the most.

"I think we might arrange—er—if it should be very cold indeed at the station—er—perhaps—but I really do not know. It is very distressing to have had to send away the brougham just now. I shall ask you to see about that, my dear boy,—to get matters pushed forward—er. I have been really too shaken myself to attend—er—to attend to anything."

"Yes, father."

"I should hardly have ventured—er—on this little trip to-day,—if I had not hoped to meet you. It was very thoughtful of you to arrange things so,—very thoughtful. And I am sure that poor lady was most grateful—er. One is glad to be able to do a kindness, even at the cost of personal discomfort."

He shivered dolorously again. I leant forward, and asked, "Would you like me to put up this window?"

An immediate bow was the response. Plainly this little sickly elderly person was a thorough gentleman,—quite as much so, after his own fashion, as my former fellow-traveller, though a very different stamp of man.

"Thanks—er—I am very much obliged. But pray, do not inconvenience yourself—er. It is a chilly day!—" another shudder, accompanied by a suffering smile. "Very chilly, and I—er—am not robust. But pray do not,—unless you prefer it."

I did not prefer it, being a devoted lover of fresh air; nevertheless, I would have pulled up the glass promptly, if the younger man had not started forward to forestall me. I congratulated myself that it was not to be a case of prolonged suffocation. Five minutes more would bring us to Glynde.

The two fast-shut windows thickened rapidly with breath-mist; but the elderly gentleman seemed more at his ease, and shivered in leas deplorable style.

"Glynde at last," he said, as a whistle sounded. "Eustace, my dear boy, pray collect the parcels. And I think we should have the window open—er. Thanks. Ah, there are the girls. Maggie has not thought of a fly. Only the open carriage,—and such a cold afternoon. Thyrza not there—how strange! Pray secure a porter at once, my dear boy, to carry these parcels—er. And I think, as soon as we are out,—I think you should inquire whether Miss Conway has arrived—er—or whether she is expected now."

The train stood still. I had not at once noted the name "Eustace," but the more familiar "Maggie" and "Thyrza" could not be passed by, and what followed settled the business. I turned to the speaker, and said—

"I beg your pardon! I am Constance Conway!"

But could that be Mr. Romilly?

CHAPTER VI.

A MOTHER'S SWANS.

THE SAME.

February 26. Thursday.       

I AM writing at odd times to-day, as I find leisure. A hot fit of journalism is on me just now; perhaps as a relief to certain nameless feelings; and I have a fancy to note down early impressions fully. The first two or three days amid new surroundings are often the future life there in miniature. Lessons do not begin till Monday; and the girls seem very busy in various ways, leaving me more to myself than I should have expected. Also I had a good spell of writing before breakfast. But—to continue!

I found myself on the platform, in the midst of a family gathering. A few other passengers alighted and vanished. There seemed small chance of our speedily vanishing likewise. My trunks were tossed out of the luggage-van, and the train passed on.

We were near the door of the general waiting-room, with a projecting roof over our heads. The roof ended a few paces farther on, and a white paling bounded the uncovered portion of the platform. I could see an open chaise beyond, with a fat brown pony hanging its sleepy head, and a boy lounging on the small box where was only room for one.

Mr. Romilly formed the centre of an eager group; and I, standing slightly apart, had leisure for a few observations. The grave young man, Eustace, stood also apart, and the immobility of his face struck me anew. I could not understand his receiving so moderate a welcome from his sisters. All eyes were bent upon Mr. Romilly, and the girls hovered about their father, with the devotion of satellites round a sun.

Vainly I looked for the "sweet Maggie" of my expectations, vainly also for the Nona and Elfleda of Mrs. Romilly's painting. Thyrza I knew had not appeared, and the boy in charge of the pony I guessed to be Denham. But Maggie, Nona, Elfie, the two little ones, the nursery governess,—enough were present to stand for all these. The two little ones I could of course distinguish. The rest at first sight I could not.

All the voices talked together. Broken scraps reached me, in tones not loud but excited.

"O father! We've had the jolliest day! We went such a walk!"

"And Millie was so tired!"

"And Gladys went with us."

"Oh, and father, only think—"

"Father, I'm going to have a canary-bird,—Pet and me, I mean."

"Yes, father, isn't it lovely? Mrs. Hepburn is going to give a canary to Popsie and me for our very own."

"Isn't Mrs. Hepburn a dear, father?"

"And it's a green canary."

"I thought canaries were yellow."

"So they are, Pops! But, father, only think, Gladys has heard—"

"O Nona! You might let me tell father that! Gladys has heard—"

"About her book—"

"Her story that she wrote—"

"From the Society where she sent it, father, and he says—"

"Nonsense, Nona: a society is it, not he."

"Well, it says, father, that they'll bring it out—"

"Because she's made the little girl that died get well again instead—"

"Yes, because there are such lots of cripples in stories, you know, father."

"And of course Gladys didn't mind doing that, and now it's really taken and going to be printed."

"And Maggie means to write stories too, father, like Gladys. Won't that be awfully nice?"

"My dears, I really don't—er—quite understand."

"Of course you don't, father, when Nona and Elfie tell you in such a ridiculous way."

"Oh, you don't understand, of course, father, because nobody has known a single word about it till to-day."

"Except Mrs. Hepburn and all of them."

"Anybody out of their house, I mean. At least Nellie might, but Maggie didn't."

"I knew Gladys wrote stories, Nona."

"Yes; but not about her trying to get them printed."

"Father, did you see that poor lady, and give her a lot of money?"

"And Thyrza not here, my dears-er! I don't understand Thyrza's absence."

"Oh, she meant to come in time, father,—if she could."

"Father, who is to walk and who is to drive? Millie thought—"

"Nonsense, Nona. I don't wish to be quoted on all occasions."

"But, Millie dear, I was only going to say—"

"Now, children—er—I think we have talked long enough. Miss Conway is waiting all this time—er—quite neglected. Pray do excuse us, Miss Conway. I fear you will think the children sadly uncivilised. My dears, this is Miss Conway—your beloved mother's dear friend—er—and you will give her a very warm welcome. This is Maggie, Miss Conway, our eldest now at home,—and this is Nona, and this Elfleda. Thyrza, I regret to say, is not here. Our little ones—er—Popsie and Pet—and—er—Miss Millington. My second boy, Denham, is with the pony."

One after another came forward to shake hands, showing more or less of shyness, and no particular warmth.

My first view of Margaret Romilly brought disappointment. For she proved to be in no wise a reproduction of Mrs. Romilly. She is short instead of tall, plump instead of slender; and the only prettiness of which her round innocent face could at that moment boast, lay in the possession of a peach-bloom complexion, and a pair of dark-grey eyes with long curved black lashes. Neither figure nor carriage is good, and the rosy childish hand put into mine might have been years younger than the long fingers of the tall Nona, her more than two years' junior,—both having pulled off their gloves.

Where were Nona's "clouds of auburn hair?" I saw only a knotted coil of decided "carrots" under the brown hat which sheltered Nona's face. A bright face enough, with ordinary features, and with a really transparent skin, which however is a good deal marred by the brown cloudiness resulting from abundant summer freckles.

Elfleda, my friend's "lovely gipsy," I might have recognised earlier, despite the fact that to my critical eyes the loveliness was lacking. I saw only a slim creature, very small in make for sixteen years and a half, with sharp tiny features, elfishly old and quaint, a pair of dusky orbs which neither flashed nor sparkled, a pale sallow complexion, and minute brown hands. Apparently the elf had less to say than anybody. Her little shut-up button of a mouth opened rarely during those few minutes of general talk.

The two youngest girls, Popsie and Pet, or more correctly Mary and Jean, aged eight and seven years old, struck me as rather pretty. They stood hand in hand, under the guardianship of Miss Millington, a young lady perhaps one or two years older than Maggie, and scarcely over Maggie in height, but with greater confidence of bearing, a compact figure, and a neat "pussy-cat" face, by no means intellectual.

A sudden silence fell upon the party with my introduction. Miss Millington's eyes travelled over me from head to foot, taking an inventory of my dress. I made some remark upon the journey, and Mr. Romilly chimed in nervously, repeating my words and enlarging on them.

Then we moved towards the pony-carriage, and the boy in charge descended to greet us. His manner towards me was both more frank and more indifferent than that of the girls. Like Elfleda, he is small in make; and his delicate sharp features are his father's over again, but the slim figure is well-knit, and the blue eyes contain possibilities of unbounded mischief. The silky grey curls of the father are silken brown curls in the son, dropping over a forehead neither high nor broad, but white as alabaster. I have heard much about the singular beauty of this boy, and for the first time I could recall my friend's description with no sense of disparagement.

Mr. Romilly was talking, talking, in his little thin slow voice, about the weather, and about the danger of a chill, and about the need for a closed fly, and most of all about Thyrza's non-appearance. He was fretted and worried, and nothing could be arranged quite to his liking. Eustace offered to go for a fly, but Mr. Romilly could not possibly wait. Denham suggested a hunt for the missing Thyrza, but Mr. Romilly could not think of it. "If Thyrza did not care to come—er!" &c.

Then the question rose anew, who should drive and who should walk. My luggage was to be sent, and it was taken for granted that I must drive, a decision against which I protested vainly. Nobody so much as listened. Maggie stepped in after me, as a matter of course; and Mr. Romilly dallied long, with one little patent-leather boot on the step. He wanted Popsie and Pet with him; and he thought it unkind to permit Miss Millington to walk; and he was quite sure dear Elfie must be overdone; and he was so very sorry not to feel equal to the exertion himself. And everybody waited to know his decision, with, I am afraid, much more patience than I could feel.

Suddenly a girlish figure came swiftly round the corner of the station,—taller than Maggie, taller even than Nona, and thinner than either, with a grave set face, troubled, as it seemed to me, in a vexed fashion. I knew in a moment that this was Thyrza, even before her name was uttered by one after another of the group in varying accents of reproach. She walked straight up to us, bent her head to kiss the father who was shorter than herself, lifted it in like matter-of-fact wise to kiss the tall elder brother, and stood still.

I could hardly have told then what there was in this "dear difficult Thyrza" which interested me at first sight more than all the others. It was not beauty though my own immediate impression was that Thyrza would one day be the best-looking of the sisters. It was not attractiveness of manner, for she made no effort to seem agreeable. I think it must rather have been a certain indefinable something which spoke the presence of character—of that which even more than power of intellect, and far more than mere beauty of form or feature, stamps an individual as standing apart from the throng of his or her fellow-men.

Whatever Thyrza's faults might be, I knew at once that in her I should at least not meet with inanity or weakness. There might be misdirected force, but force there was. While these impressions swept through my mind, others were speaking.

"Thyrza, you never came after all, and father was so disappointed," complained Maggie.

"And you promised," put in Nona.

"Oh, Thyrza's promises are pie-crust," said Denham.

"Made to be broken," added Nona.

Thyrza had said nothing thus far. She stood near Eustace, her slender upright figure shown well by a closely-fitting cloth jacket. Unlike the rest, she has her mother's figure, though not her mother's grace. There was something a little rigid in her attitude, and the two arms hung flat, with no suspicion of a curve. Neither has she Mrs. Romilly's face. The straight thin features, the heavy thick black hair, the dark serious eyes, are Thyrza's own. I could see no resemblance in them to any other member of the family. So, too, are the resolute and beautifully-moulded lips: for if in outline they are Mr. Romilly's, in character they belong exclusively to herself.

Those closed lips parted suddenly. "I did not promise, Nona. I said I would come if I could."

"Oh yes, we quite understand," retorted Nona, with a touch of good-humoured pertness.

"Thyrza, my dear, this is Miss Conway," Mr. Romilly said, in a fretted distressed tone, as if he were restraining serious displeasure. I could not see, for my part, what there was so very heinous in her non-appearance to welcome a father who had been absent only one night. Eustace was evidently left out of the question.

Thyrza stepped forward, and gave me her hand abruptly. I do not know whether she read in my face anything of what I thought. Our eyes met, and some look in mine must have touched her—how, I do not know. Her face did not relax, but a sudden softness came into the black eyes; and as she was in the very act of snatching her hand away, the fingers closed round mine in a sharp awkward fashion, as if from an afterthought.

"Now—er—I think we should decide—er," hesitated Mr. Romilly. He seems to me always at a loss what words to employ next. "So very chilly here. I really think—if anybody has no objection to the walk—er—"

He looked round helplessly, and Thyrza responded—

"Why can't Nona and Elfie and I walk with Eustace? Maggie likes driving best, and Miss Millington says she is tired. There's room enough for the children too, if nobody minds crowding."

She had hit the mark, though no precise explanation of the state of affairs had been tendered for her benefit. I noted a slight stress on the "says," and a slight toss of Miss Millington's head, which revealed to me a condition of something like chronic war in one direction. I thought, too, that I could detect more signs of real fatigue in the little thin face of Elfie than on the "pussy-cat" features of Miss Millington. The timely suggestions were followed, however. Neither Nona nor Elfie objected. The four pedestrians started off briskly, and the well-laden pony-carriage soon followed at a moderate pace, suited to the inclinations of the fat and drowsy pony.

I was rather astonished to find that all this delay and discussion had been with reference to a fifteen minutes' walk. The drive proved to occupy quite as long a time, since we had to take a considerable tour in place of a short-cut, and the ground sloped upwards continuously.

Most of our way lay along a dull road, with a hedge on one side and a wall on the other: an occasional house in a garden alternating with small fields.

Mr. Romilly kept up a diminutive flow of talk with Popsie and Pet, addressing a remark now and then to me; but conversation generally was limited in extent. Miss Millington studied me persistently, with eyes which noted every fold and button in my dress, and had power to see very little beyond the folds and buttons. Maggie's pretty eyes studied me too at intervals, in a girlish and interested though not penetrative fashion. I could not feel sure whether or no Maggie were disposed to like me, but I could be very sure that Miss Millington was not.

Reaching Glynde House, my visions of a possible park died a sudden death. For it was evidently just a good-sized "family mansion," so an agent would term it, roomy and comfortable, and standing in a good-sized garden; nothing more and nothing less. Thyrza stood at the front door to welcome us; if her silent reception could be called a welcome. The three others had vanished. She took possession of my bag and shawl, and held them resolutely, while Mr. Romilly insisted on leading me from room to room on the ground-floor, that I might at once know my whereabouts.

So we walked into the large drawing-room, through a kind of ante-chamber or small drawing-room; then into the capacious dining-room; then into the study, the morning-room, and the schoolroom. I was glad to find the latter nicely furnished, with two windows and plenty of book-shelves.

"The morning sun comes in this side," remarked Maggie, who accompanied us, while Thyrza waited at each door in turn. "It would be very cold with only that north-east window. Millie—I mean, Miss Millington—teaches the little ones in the nursery," she added. "Except that she has to give them their music on this piano, because there is no piano upstairs. And, of course, she sits here a good deal. At least she always has. Jackie—I mean, Miss Jackson—was so fond of Millie, and never minded. And they all three come to schoolroom tea and supper here. It saves trouble for the servants."

"This is, of course—er—your special property, Miss Conway," explained Mr. Romilly. "But I hope—er—I trust you will not confine yourself to the schoolroom. My dear wife is counting on your companionship for our dear girls—er—for Maggie especially,—apart from the teaching. Pray consider yourself as our guest—er—as here in every respect as our friend—er—and pray remember that the more we see of you in the drawing-room—er—I am sure you understand."

I did quite, and I wished people would not make speeches, though of course he meant it most kindly. Maggie's expression struck me as a little curious. I could not make it out, for the simple reason, I suspect, that she did not herself know exactly what to think. Maggie's position is almost as new to her as mine to me. She glanced at us both in a kind of puzzled fashion; and when he went on to talk of her inexperience as a housekeeper, and to suggest the benefits of my advice, a look of dissent came.

Some people in my place would have taken her hand affectionately, and said a few words of just the right sort about the mother whom we both loved, and about my readiness to help if asked. But I never am able to manage these little gushes of appropriate feeling at the correct moment. I have often wished that I could. One loses so much time, waiting for others to take the initiative.

I ventured soon to ask after Mrs. Romilly; and her husband entered into a long and sighing dissertation on her state of health, saying much but telling little, and presently diverging to his own condition. Such a comfort it was that they had such a dear girl as their dear Nellie, to undertake the charge of the beloved invalid, he hardly knew what they could have done but for Nellie. He was really so feeble himself, and travelling always affected him so painfully. But dear Nellie was quite invaluable; and everything had been arranged for the comfort of his precious wife. Such a mercy, too, that this very chilly weather had not set in just before they started. And everybody had been so kind, the amount of sympathy from friends under these exceptionally trying circumstances had been really past his power to describe. And then the unutterable consolation to himself and his dear Gertrude, that her chosen friend should be able to come and take her place with the dear girls,—to act, in short, a mother's part to them,—he felt that he might almost lay aside the burden of responsibility, otherwise so heavy in her absence. He had indeed very much to be thankful for, notwithstanding the deep trial of such a prolonged separation.

All this and much more, uttered in a dolefully pathetic minor key hardly expressive of thankfulness, I heard with less of inward than of outward patience. My stock of patience is not, I fear, very large. And the idea of my "acting a mother's part" to these girls struck me as a little too ludicrous. Why, I am but a girl myself, not four years older than Maggie! But perhaps on first arrival I had my thirty-years-old look, which I must certainly endeavour to cultivate.

At length I was taken to my room, and Thyrza offered to help me in the unpacking of my trunks. Maggie lingered about, coming in and going out, with a certain embarrassed persistency, as if unable to decide on her proper line of action. Then she took me downstairs to afternoon tea in the drawing-room; and different members of the family appeared and disappeared, all seeming more or less constrained because of me. I am afraid I have not the gift of putting people at their ease.

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed slowly. We all dined together at seven, even Miss Millington and the little ones, which seems to be regarded as an unusual occurrence. In the drawing-room, later, I was treated as a visitor. The girls played or sang, as they could, and Mr. Romilly kept the talk going laboriously.

I do not yet know what will be the ordinary course of household events. Information is not readily tendered, and I have a dislike to asking many questions. Maggie, being so young a manager, seems to expect things to take a straight course, without effort on her part.

All the evening I had a feeling of perplexity as to my own real position here. It seems to me an anomalous one,—half guest, half governess. Can that work well?

I thought it over late at night, feeling harassed and lonely. No distinct light on the actual perplexity came, but only one short sentence, running through and through my head, as I lay awake:—

"Be of good cheer: IT IS I!"

No more than this; and what more could I need? Whatever comes or may come in my life—still, IT IS JESUS! Harassing perplexities, loneliness, difficulties, uncertainties, what are they all but the pressure of His Hand, drawing me nearer to Himself?

The restlessness and the craving for human comfort died away into a wonderful peace,—such a sense of my Master's loving sympathy, such a readiness to have all exactly as God my Father should will, such a feeling of being upheld and guarded by the Divine Spirit, as I have never in my life known before. And I fell asleep, quite satisfied.

CHAPTER VII.

THYRZA'S SANCTUM.

THE SAME.

February 27. Friday.       

THE country round Glynde seems to be tolerably pretty, of the English semi-rural description, with fields and hedges, farmsteads and cottages, and enough undulating ground to obviate flatness.

Glynde itself is a sleepy country town, of ordinary type, possessing its two Churches, its clergy, its doctors, its lawyers, its necessary array of second-hand shops, its town-hall and markets, its occasional small concerts and other entertainments, its local business on a limited scale, and its local gossip on a scale unlimited. So much I gather already, from observation and passing remarks.

I have always said that I should detest above all things life in a retired country town,—Bath being a city of too much character and history to come under that appellation. Having declared which, it is not surprising that I find myself now stranded on just such a spot.

For if one is so rash as to assert positively that one will not do a certain thing in life, one is pretty sure to be called on some day to do that thing.

The geography of Glynde House is not difficult to learn. In shape the building is a square substantial block, with a large conservatory jutting out on one side, and kitchen offices protruding behind.

On the ground-floor a broad passage or hall runs from the front door to the storeroom and lavatory, beyond which lie kitchen-premises. To the right of the hall, as one enters, is first, the ante-chamber or small drawing-room, the large drawing-room and the conservatory; next, a small passage and side-door into the garden; and behind these, the schoolroom. To the left of the hall are the dining-room, the study, and the morning-room.

On the first-floor, a broad corridor traverses the house from front to back, ending in a bath-room. To the right are, first, Mr. and Mrs. Romilly's very large bedroom and dressing-room; then a small room occupied by the twins; and lastly, a two-windowed room over the schoolroom, apportioned to me. On the other side, over the dining-room, is the spare-room with its dressing-room; behind that a spacious room belonging to Nellie and Maggie; behind that a room for Eustace and Denham.

On the second floor the left half is entirely set apart for the servants, being divided off by a wall running the whole length of the corridor, which thus becomes two separate passages. To the right are, first, and in front, a big low-roofed nursery, transformed of late into a secondary schoolroom; behind that a locked-up room containing household linen; then a bedroom for Popsie and Pet, and opening into that another for Miss Millington. Behind Miss Millington's again is a narrow strip of a room, appropriated by Thyrza.

It is Thyrza's own choice to sleep there, and she told me so frankly. At one time she shared the elder girls' really luxurious quarters; but about a year ago she entreated that the little box-room might be fitted up for her exclusive use; and the request was granted.

"Anything to have a corner to myself!" she said yesterday afternoon, when explaining this. I was a long time alone in the morning, the girls having promised to walk some distance with friends. They asked dubiously whether I would not like to go also, but I begged off, with thanks. I had unpacking to do, I said, and letters to write. After all, the unpacking and letters resolved themselves into journalising.

Luncheon over, Maggie proposed to drive me out in the pony-carriage, "to see the place;" and the twins accompanied us. Conversation did not flow very easily, I am afraid; and I could not feel that I was making great way as yet. Nona chattered a good deal about nothing; and Elfie scarcely spoke at all. Her little brown impassive face puzzles me. Is she always like this? Maggie seemed to like talking about the Hepburns; and I was interested in what she said, though it did not amount to much.

"This is Glynde Park," Maggie said, as we passed through iron gates. "It belongs to a great friend of ours—Sir Keith Denham."

"There was a gentleman in the train with me yesterday," I said. "Somebody called him 'Sir Keith,' and asked after 'Lady Denham.'"

"Oh, that was the same, of course. How funny!" Maggie said, in her half-childish style. "Lady Denham is his mother. We don't like her so much as we like him, she is so odd. Everybody likes Sir Keith."

She blushed up in her quick way. I could not tell whether it meant anything. Some girls blush at everything, just as others never blush at all.

Nona chimed in, "Oh, everybody! He's the very nicest man that ever was. Eustace is going to dine at the Park to-night. He and Sir Keith are immense friends, aren't they, Maggie?"

I did not admire the little giggle which followed this speech. It sounded foolish, though all else seemed simple and natural enough.

Drizzling rain came on, and our drive was cut short. As I went upstairs I met Thyrza, and she said, "You haven't seen my room yet?"

"No," I answered. "Will you show it to me now?"

Thyrza followed me into my own room, where I removed bonnet and jacket. Then it was that she explained the sleeping arrangements of the family, ending with the ejaculation, "Anything to have a corner to myself!"

"I can understand your wish," I said.

"Can you? Nobody else does. Mother gave way; but she doesn't like my wanting it."

"You have a cosy corner, at all events!" I said, as we entered, glancing round upon the variety of odd knick-knacks and curiosities which adorned the walls of the narrow chamber, or were crowded upon shelves and brackets. Framed photographs and unframed paintings alternated with porcelain figures, china plates, and Japanese fans; and every available space seemed to be filled up with an assortment of quaint cups and teapots, stuffed birds, nursery toys, geologic specimens, everlasting flowers, dried grasses, bulrushes, strings of beads, draped scarves, Swiss sabots, German carvings, and what not! Such a heterogeneous collection in so small a space I had never come across before. The little iron bed was at one end, the fireplace at the other, the window on one side between, looking towards the north-east.

One corner, near the fireplace, seemed to be given up to sacred subjects. Two framed illuminated texts flanked an exquisite engraving of Holman Hunt's "Light of the World;" around the simple Oxford frame of which was entwined a spray of ivy. Beneath the engraving stood a small table; and on the table lay a Bible, a Church Service, a handsome copy of "The Christian Year," Thomas à Kempis' "Imitation," and two or three other volumes.

"Do you like the room?" asked Thyrza.

"I like anything characteristic," I answered. "Some day you must let me into all the secrets of your curiosity-shop."

"Would you care? That will be nice."

The first three words came with quite a flash of pleasure. After a pause, she added, in her abrupt style, "Nobody else likes it."

"Why?" I asked.

"Except Eustace, I mean, and he only because it pleases me. Oh, I don't know why. Tastes differ, I suppose. Father thinks it all nonsense. And mother says that corner is so incongruous with the rest."

We were near the small table already mentioned, and I turned to look upon the kingly Figure depicted above,—the Figure of One waiting with Divine patience at a barred and moss-grown door, and with a wondrous light of loving pity in His glorious Eyes. A hush crept over me as I gazed.

"Isn't it beautiful?" murmured Thyrza. "If only I could see the original painting!"

"I have seen it," I said.

"And you enjoy this—after that?"

"The more, for having seen that."

"It is so beautiful," she said again.

"More than beautiful," I answered. "One seems to gain a fresh insight into His character from studying that Face. There is such a mingling of majesty and tenderness."

I did not expect a sudden little clutch of my hand, and a quick, "Oh, I am so glad you feel that. It's just what I feel, and can't put into words."

"Of course," I added, "it is only a human conception of what He is; and one knows that every human conception of Him must fall infinitely short of the reality."

Thyrza's dark eyes were fixed on me intently. "And you don't think this corner of my room incongruous with the rest," she asked. "I do so like to have all my pet things about me; and I have nowhere to put them except on the walls. Is there any harm?"

"I can understand your mother's feeling," I said cautiously. "And if there were any touch of the really comic, frankly, I should not like that, side by side with the sacred. But the room does not strike me as comic. It is only singular and natural, a putting forth of your mind and tastes. To me, it seems rather to mean the coming of religion into the common little things of everyday life. If our religion doesn't do that, it is not worth much. Perhaps a good deal depends on how one looks upon a question."

CHAPTER VIII.

"MILLIE."

THE SAME—continued.

February 27. Friday Evening.       

"THANK you," Thyrza said earnestly.

She led me to the tiny mantelpiece, over which hung numerous photographs. Brothers and sisters grouped round the parents were easily recognisable; most of them having been recently taken.

Somewhat apart from the central family collection, I noted two of cabinet size, placed close together. One was the likeness of a remarkably handsome youth, almost a young man, standing in an attitude of careless and smiling ease. The other represented a lad, perhaps two or three years younger, plain-featured, but brimming over with so irresistible a look of fun and merriment, that I fairly laughed aloud, as I looked into the mischievous eyes.

"Who are those?" I asked, smiling still, and turning to Thyrza.

No answering smile met mine. "Keith and Eustace," she said.

I looked again. "Not your brother Eustace, of course. You have a cousin of the same name, perhaps," I suggested. For the one was far too handsome; and there seemed no possible connection between that other radiantly merry face and the grave young man downstairs.

"Yes, my brothers, Keith and Eustace." She spoke in a curt, even hard tone. "The photos were taken six years ago, just before it all happened. Nobody else can bear to see them together like this. But I think—"

Thyrza stopped abruptly.

"I did not know you had had another brother," I said. There had been the loss of one little girl, I was aware, between the twins and Popsie; but of any older son than Eustace I had not heard.

"Then mother never told you. I wonder at that. She can't speak of Keith generally; but you are her friend!"

"I cannot recall any mention of him," I said.

"And you don't know how it all happened?"

"No." Thyrza was silent, and I repeated the name "Keith! That is the same as your friend at the Park."

"Yes; he was named after his godfather, the old Sir Keith."

I looked at the photograph and asked, "What was his age then?"

"Eighteen, and Eustace was sixteen."

"And you were quite a child."

"Yes, not twelve." She gazed fixedly on the ground, as if thinking. "Everybody knows," she said at length; "and you must too. I would rather you should not say that I told you; but of course you will have to know. It was just before Christmas, and they had come home for the holidays. And the ice on the pond was not safe. Eustace persisted in skating, against orders. Only Keith and I were there, and we begged him not, but it was of no use. He was always so high-spirited, and he liked his own way; and father being so nervous about everything, Eustace thought it nonsense. And he went on; and the ice broke; and Keith plunged in to help him."

"And was Keith drowned?" I asked, in a low voice.

"No; not drowned. But the ice kept breaking, and they couldn't get out, and I ran to call some men to bring a rope. Eustace was saved first, and then Keith sank before he could be reached, and he was insensible for hours after, much worse than Eustace. It was a dreadful time. Eustace soon came all right again; but Keith had never been really strong. He caught a very bad chill, and inflammation of the lungs set in. He died in a fortnight."

"How terrible!" I said.

"Yes. Oh, and if you had known him, such a dear fellow. I can't tell you what he was to us all. Everybody thought so much of Keith, and he never seemed the least conceited. They call Denham like him; and I suppose he is in a way. Father and mother think so, and that is why they can't bear to deny Denham anything he wants. But he is so different. Keith was tall, not little like Denham, and so much more clever and hard-working, and so really good! And he and Eustace were so fond of one another. Don't you think it was worst of all for Eustace, much worse than for anybody else?"

Thyrza's dark eyes looked again earnestly into mine, deepening and dilating with the strength of her own feelings. "Keith did so beg and beseech, before he died, that no difference might be made to Eustace. He said we were never to think of it as Eustace's doing. But—there is a difference. Nobody ever forgets; and nobody ever seems quite to forgive—except—"

"Six years!" I said involuntarily, as she paused.

"Six years and a few weeks! It is a long long while to keep the feeling up. And Eustace meant no harm, Miss Conway. He was just a reckless boy,—in wild spirits. Of course he was wrong to disobey,—very wrong. But still, it wasn't worse that time than fifty other times, I suppose. It does seem such a dreadful punishment to have come upon him."

"I suppose one ought rather to put it the opposite way," I said; "that the fifty other times were really no better than that time."

"Yes—perhaps—but such, a punishment to follow upon that once!" she repeated.

"Hardly upon that once alone," I said. "If he had not disobeyed fifty times before, more or less, he would not have disobeyed then. Don't think me hard upon your brother, Thyrza, for indeed I do feel for him. But I believe we are all a little apt to forget how every single step in life is part of a steady working onward towards some good or some terrible goal. No one deed can be weighed by itself, detached from others."

She gave me a startled glance, and said, "Every single step!"

"It must be," I said. "Everything that we do strengthens either the good or the evil in us; and no one thing done can ever be undone."

Thyrza drew a long breath. "Ah, that is the worst!" she said. After a moment's hesitation she went on, "Eustace has never been the same since. He never speaks of Keith, or of that time. Some don't understand, and think him unfeeling. I have heard him called 'callous.' As if people could not see for themselves!"

"I should have thought it would be enough to compare that photograph with his face now," I said.

"Then you understand," responded Thyrza abruptly.

"And your mother so bright still," I said, with surprised recollection.

"Mother! Oh yes, she is bright by fits and starts. I don't think she can help having a bright manner with strangers, it is her way. But she perfectly worshipped Keith. They thought mother wouldn't have lived through it, when he died."

We did not carry on the conversation farther. I had more unpacking to do, and I went to my room, inviting Thyrza to accompany me. She acquiesced with evident pleasure. Five minutes later there came a tap at the door, and Rouse, the upper housemaid, entered, glancing at my half-empty trunks. She is very staid and superior in look, with the pleasant noiseless manner of a really good servant. "Would you like any help this afternoon, Miss?" she asked.

"Oh no, Rouse, I am going to unpack for Miss Conway," said Thyrza.

Rouse's face showed some lurking amusement. I thanked her, and she withdrew, begging me to ring if I wanted anything.

"What a nice person she seems!" I said.

"Rouse has been with us seven years, and always thinks of everything. Fortunate that she does, for Maggie remembers nothing, and she won't be reminded," said Thyrza.

"People cannot learn housekeeping in a day," I observed; and as I lifted out a dress, Thyrza standing by in a rather helpless attitude of would-be helpfulness, I inquired about the daily arrangements as to meals.

"Breakfast is always at eight, like this morning," she answered. "Father isn't often down till half-past, as you saw to-day, and Prayers are always at half-past, and he breakfasts alone after. And luncheon is at one, always the same, only it is sometimes more of a dinner, and sometimes less. The schoolroom tea is at five, and it is open to anybody. Miss Jackson always made tea, and of course you will now, but Millie is pretty sure to try and oust you, if you don't look out. She dearly likes to put herself first. Mother and Nellie sometimes come to the schoolroom tea; but as a rule they have tea in the drawing-room. Maggie is bent on keeping up the drawing-room tea, though really it is absurd, except just when callers come rather late. Father and Eustace never take tea, and Maggie is only just out of the schoolroom."

"Then she is out of it," I said.

"Yes; and mother wanted me to be out too, so as to be a companion to Maggie. But of course I could not. Why, I am not eighteen for another two months, and Maggie has gone on till her nineteenth birthday is over. Father always promised that I should do the same. I am to pay calls sometimes with Maggie, while mother and Nellie are away. That is bad enough, for I hate calls. Don't you?"

"Not if they come in the way of my duty," I said.

"Are calls ever a duty?" asked Thyrza. "It always seems to me such a sham, going and hoping to find everybody out."

"Is that always a necessary state of things?"

"I don't know," she said. "Not with everybody, but with me. Then there is late dinner at seven, and schoolroom supper at half-past seven. When we are quite alone, all we elder ones down to Denham dine with father, and so will you, because mother settled it so. Miss Jackson never would. She said late dinners disagreed with her. I believe she really was afraid of Millie; for it was only since Millie came that she said so. But you are mother's friend, and differences are to be made. Millie—Miss Millington, I mean,—is awfully jealous of you, because she always has her supper in the schoolroom with the children."

"Thyrza, you must not try to set me against Miss Millington," I said gravely.

"There's no need. You will see for yourself. Besides—" after a pause,—"it is only I who dislike Millie. The others are no end devoted to her, and so was Jackie,—Miss Jackson, I mean. We always called her Jackie. I am afraid it was rude, but she didn't mind. She never minded anything, so long as nobody was cross."