The Andersons

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

[Illustration: "They've not got there! Never arrived!"]

The Andersons

Brother And Sister

By

Agnes Giberne

Author Of "The Dalrymples," "Miss Con," "Sweetbriar," Etc. Etc.

"Live to thy neighbor: live unto thy God: Not to thyself alone."

London: James Nisbet & Co., Limited 21 Berners Street

Contents.

Chapter

I. In Brighton Lodgings

II. Lettice'S Dread

III. A New Acquaintance

IV. Prue And Bertha

V. Their Non-Arrival

VI. Quarrington Cottage

VII. Summoned

VIII. From Reading To Bristol

IX. A New Home

X. Aged Nineteen

XI. A Vanished Bank-Note

XII. Found! And Where?

XIII. The Valentines Again

XIV. A Discovery

XV. A Crash!

XVI. A Personal Appeal

XVII. Ruling Passions

XVIII. A Needed Touch

XIX. Retribution

The Andersons:

Brother and Sister.

Chapter I.

In Brighton Lodgings.

"IT doesn't matter! That's to say, it can't be helped. I wouldn't have done the same in your place, Sissie. But perhaps you were right. I don't know exactly how we should have managed. I don't mean to be indebted to him or to anybody. I have my own way to make in the world; and I mean to make it. I'll get on—somehow."

The words were spoken resolutely, and the speaker, a lad of about seventeen or eighteen, gave a slight toss to his head, which shook back a loose lock of hair, given to dropping over the brow. It was a gesture characteristic of Felix Anderson. He was a good-looking young fellow, not tall but well-made, with a resolute square jaw.

"I mean to get on, and I will," he repeated. "Anybody can who chooses. I have to begin at the bottom of the ladder: but that's no reason why I shouldn't got to the top some day. Anyhow, I don't mean to be easily beaten. If I take this thing now, it is only as a stepping-stone to something better. I shall not be a bookseller's accountant all my days."

There was a touch of egoism in all this, but egoism is almost an essential part of youth, and the boy was thinking of others besides himself. "I wouldn't have written to Dr. Bryant in your place,—after the way he treated my father and your mother. But if you thought it best—"

"I could not see what else to do. It is hard enough to ask help of anybody. For myself I would not—only for you and Lettice."

"Not for me. I can do without him, thank goodness! I wouldn't touch a dirty penny of the old fellow's with a pair of tongs! Not for anything you could mention," declared Felix, with unnecessary vehemence. "It is different for you and Lettice. Not that I couldn't have kept you both."

"On seventeen shillings and sixpence a week! Forty-five pounds a year!"

"It will be a pound a week soon. Besides, I shall make more somehow. Something would have turned up," said Felix, with juvenile hopefulness. "And in time, you will be able to teach again,—not a great deal so as to knock yourself up, but enough to be a help. I mean to have a home for you both before long."

The faded woman, lying on a sofa near the fire—faded, though scarcely thirty-five in age—knew better. She was too well aware that the prospective home would not be for her.

It was a shabby little room: a most ordinary specimen of a second-rate lodging-house "parlour" in a dull back street of Brighton. Yet there was about it a certain refinement of air and tone. Cecilia Anderson was a lady, both by birth and by education: and her personality told upon her surroundings. Rows of well-bound books spoke of better days: and a graceful arrangement of moss and ferns gave evidence of somebody's love for beauty. Moreover, the three present, though to some extent shabby, were also scrupulously neat; and while work lay about, it was not flung about: and neither table-cloth nor carpet was bestrewn with the shreds of white cotton, too often seen in the wake of tasteless females.

Lettice had not spoken yet. She knew well that Felix's opinion, not hers, was the important question, even though her future might be more acutely affected than his by the correspondence between Miss Anderson and Dr. Bryant. Not being self-assertive, she was in no haste to thrust herself into the discussion, but sat quietly, work in hand, glancing between the stitches from one to the other.

"What did uncle Bryant do?" she at length asked, in the rather long silence following her brother's last words.

"He's not your uncle,—or mine."

"He is Sissie's,—" with a glance at Miss Anderson.

"And what is mine is yours, of course," added Cecilia Anderson.

"Oh, well—but you can't make a thing to be, when it isn't," rejoined Felix. "He's no scrap of relation to Lettice or me, you know—really—and he must have behaved abominably to your mother."

"What did he do?" persisted Lettice.

"He objected to my mother's marriage. I suppose there were hot words spoken—as usual, in family quarrels. I am not sure about the 'behaving abominably.' He tried to prevent what he did not think would be for her happiness. My mother had her way,—and there was no further intercourse between them."

"And you to write to him—after all these years!"

"That is it! So many years and years ago;—before I was born! My uncle must be quite an elderly man now. I don't think one ought to make too much of things spoken so very long since! He thought he was in the right,—and he did not really know our father. At least, he never learnt to love him. That is what I mean. It is all over now; and one has to forget sometimes. And he is my uncle. Better to be helped by him than by strangers."

"I wonder why Dr. Bryant didn't like your mother to marry papa," Lettice conjectured dreamily. "Did anybody mind our mother marrying him?"

"People sometimes take fancies—unreasonable fancies. Dr. Bryant was always strong in his dislikes, I have been told. Mind, Lettice, you know now all that there is any need for you to know. You are not to ask any more questions, and you are never to discuss the matter with my uncle."

"No." The word came slowly, and Lettice's eyes widened into a thoughtful gaze, her needle lying neglected. She had a somewhat childish look for her fifteen years; and her small-featured pale face scarcely told of the firm nerves or indomitable pluck of her brother and half-sister. Yet it was a happy face, contented and cheery: and the girl, if of more sensitive make than they, was capable of resolute effort, and of patient endurance, though as yet she had not been greatly called upon for the exercise of either.

Cecilia Anderson was a woman of remarkable force and courage. She had been practically a mother to Felix and Lettice, since the death of their own mother, when Lettice was only six months old: and from the death of their father—hers and theirs also—whereby they were at once reduced from ease to penury, she had borne up with unfailing determination.

Not only by her exertions had she made a home for the two children, and given them thus far a good education: but she had also paid all her father's debts—not large, perhaps, in actual amount, but very large in proportion to Cecilia's means. She knew no rest till they were liquidated: and she would have done twice as much in love to her father's memory. He had not been a gifted man, or an estimable man, or a man of high principle: but he had had the power to make all women believe in him.

Cecilia was cultivated in no common degree; thoroughly well taught, and well read: a good French and German scholar: a good musician: a passable artist: and with these powers she possessed also an unlimited capacity for work. No doubt her handsome face, her refined and dignified manner, helped her to make way. Until recently, her time had been for years more than full: and the incessant toil had been sufficiently repaid.

But of late, a change had come. She had begun slowly to drop out of the ranks of the always employed, and to find large gaps in her time, once entirely occupied. Competition in a place like Brighton is very keen: and perhaps she was wearing out physically under the long strain, not able to teach so well. She had often sat up for hours at night, correcting exercises, when her days were over-full. And even in her holidays, she had known no rest with incessant holiday-engagements. Nature will in time take its revenge.

One pupil after another dropped away; and fresh pupils no longer sprang to supply the vacant places. The worry of this told upon her severely. She could stand work, but she could not stand the absence of work. It was scarcely a year since the last of her father's debts had been paid; and she had hoped for a time of less pressure, when she might lay by a little for the future. Now, this new reverse was come!

Treading upon the heels of lessening work came soon the direful question how to get on? How to pay rent and bills, how to procure food and clothing, how to meet educational expenses?

Lettice went daily to a school near: one of the earlier modern High schools. Felix, who showed signs of considerable ability, had only left school this last Michaelmas. Cecilia idolised Felix. She loved Lettice, quietly: but her whole heart was bound up in the boy, this young half-brother, to whom she had been sister and mother and friend, all in one, and for whose success in life she would gladly have flung away her own happiness. Once upon a time she had indulged in a wild dream of College; but this dream had faded under the stringent necessity of finding work for him, without delay.

At first she sought the "something" with ideas far too lofty of what might be expected; since, surely, there were few boys in Brighton like her Felix. Employers did not view the matter with her sisterly eyes, however; and step by step she had to descend in her notions as hope after hope faded.

Had Felix and Lettice been a little more experienced, they might have read in Cecilia tokens of the impending break-down, during the autumn term: but they did not. To the last she never complained, never gave in, never failed in a single lesson. When the collapse came, it was sudden and entire. In the morning she went out as usual: before night she was dangerously ill.

The immediate danger lasted only a few days; but recovery was fitful and slow. Cecilia at length insisted on hearing the whole truth from her doctor: and it was a truth which she had long suspected. She was the victim of complicated and hopeless disease. She might to some extent rally, and even resume ordinary life; but she would never again be strong, or fit for teaching; and at any time, an acute attack might carry her off.

Miss Anderson said not a word of this to Felix or Lettice. She thought it over quietly: and when again able to sit up, she determined to write to the only near relative she possessed—her uncle, Dr. Bryant, alienated many many years earlier by his only sister's marriage to Francis Anderson.

This decision was hastened by an opening for Felix, as accountant in a stationer's shop. He would begin at once going daily, to learn his business: and after a fortnight, would receive the sum of 17s. 6d. weekly, with prospects of an early rise, if he gave satisfaction. Cecilia had looked for something widely different, but others told her how fortunate he was; and the commonsense of the boy acquiesced. Cecilia gave in, and wrote to Dr. Bryant, resolved that Felix should at least, if possible, be unhampered.

The reply was prompt. If Cecilia would travel down to the west with Lettice, as soon as she could bear the journey, Dr. Bryant would give them both a home. To meet immediate expenses, he enclosed a £10 note. The letter was not in style affectionate, but Maurice Bryant never had written affectionately. Some people, demonstrative in manner, are icy by post; and some, who never thaw in personal intercourse, are unexpectedly genial in correspondence. He might be none the less warm, because he expressed himself coldly.

On the whole, satisfaction predominated in Cecilia's mind. To be compelled to seek aid from any one was a source of distress; but she was not a person of puny make, always in arms against imaginary slights, neither was she herself demonstrative. Why should she expect a show of feeling from others?

"We will offer you a home!" Dr. Bryant wrote, and she wondered over the plural pronoun. She had always thought of her uncle as an old bachelor, possibly an eccentric one: but he might have married, without the fact reaching her ears. If so, the future happiness of herself and Lettice would depend greatly upon the manner of wife he had chosen.

Cecilia was not a woman of many friends, using the word in a sense which implies intimacy—partly in consequence of her innate reserve, partly because she held back from possible friendships. She was proud as well as reserved; and she would not endure to have it said that she went after anybody with an object. Neither would she permit towards herself kindness which might border on patronage. Even the families of long-standing pupils would drop away, when the engagement ended. People admired and respected Miss Anderson, but few loved her; and all her thought and care were concentrated in Felix and Lettice—more especially in Felix.

So when these troubles came, she had no one to turn to for help: none except the lodging-house keeper, Mrs. Crofton, who, like everybody, admired and respected her lodger, and who would have done anything in the world for Lettice. Mrs. Crofton did do much; nursing the invalid night and day through the worst of the illness, and afterward sparing every possible moment from work to the sick room.

The doctor, summoned at haphazard from a neighbouring street, was kindness itself: and the clergyman of the parish called often. But though Miss Anderson had been years in this house, she was a stranger to both of them. Despite all their efforts to break through her shield of reticence, she and they remained "strangers yet." Nor was she so grateful as she might have been for their exertions on behalf of Felix, since the result meant to herself deep disappointment.

"I have been talking with Mrs. Crofton about you, Felix; and we both wish you to stay on here, when Lettice and I are gone."

"If I can afford it." Felix did not seem enamoured with the plan. Freedom had its charms for him, and he might be more free elsewhere.

"She will let you have the top back bedroom for half-a-crown a week, and will do everything for you. It would be impossible to get a furnished room anywhere else for so little."

"Ten shillings a month. About six pounds a year. I could manage that, of course. But I say, Sis—" and the lad flushed up hotly; "will it repay her?"

"She says so. I did hesitate—and I told her it ought at least to be more in the season: but she would not listen. She declares that she owes us a great deal, and perhaps it is true. We have never been behindhand, all these years, in our rent; and of course I have done her many little kindnesses. By-and-by, it may be in your power to repay her more fully."

"I hate to be indebted to anybody."

"Yes, I know!—" with full understanding. While Lettice glanced uncomprehendingly from one to the other. "But Mrs. Crofton is a good creature. I would rather be indebted to her than to most people. And the room is not bad—it is neatly furnished, and only one side of the ceiling slants. I told her the plan would be a comfort to me."

"Oh, it will do as well as anything. I just have to get along for the present. I don't mean to be in a shop all my days—or in a garret bedroom."

"You won't—I am sure. It would make me wretched to think so."

"I shall not. I'll get on, somehow. I mean to get on. The chance will come to me, and I shall use it. You'll see."

Would she see? Or would she soon be far-away, beyond reach of this idolised brother?

The question came acutely, bringing a shadow with it. For no brightness lay in the thought. Neither by bringing-up nor by after-conviction was Cecilia in any sense a religious woman. She had a philosophical way of viewing troubles, and a spirited fashion of making the best of things: and what was inevitable she would accept courageously. But death for her meant simply being cut off from her dearest ones—above and beyond all, from Felix! The land on the other side of the grave was, for her, not a Paradise of joy and reunion, but a blank existence of absence and forgetfulness. All her energies had been expended on this life: all her treasure was lodged in this world. She had only a faint confidence in a vague "Providence" to help her through the last straggle, when it should come.

It was not exactly fear that she felt, looking forward. On the whole, she counted that she had done her duty, and that things would not go hardly with her. She had kept up a respectable show of religion, going pretty often to church on Sunday morning, if wet weather did not offer an excuse for staying at home—though no rain kept her in on other days. She had a Bible in her room: not often opened. She had been scrupulously honourable as to her father's debts; strictly true in all her dealings: a hard-working, careful, and self-denying sister. Could more be required? She dreaded having to leave all whom she loved: otherwise she was prepared—or she thought so—to meet the last enemy bravely, as she had met many lesser enemies.

"I wish you would get me another shawl, Lettice. I am so chilly."

Lettice sprang up eagerly: rather too eagerly. A certain impulsiveness and rapidity of movement were natural to her; unlike the dignified ease which had always characterised Cecilia, and unlike the confident composure of Felix. The impulsiveness worried Cecilia, who had done her best to engraft her own manner upon the young girl, hitherto without success. They had never "suited one another," so completely as Cecilia and Felix "suited," but Lettice was scarcely aware of this fact. She was of a happy disposition, humble as to her own merits, passionately fond of Cecilia, and always sure that Cecilia was in the right.

It had become a received fact in the little circle, that Lettice, though well-meaning and affectionate, was hopelessly awkward and dull—a mere foil to her handsome and clever brother. Lettice acquiesced in this version of affairs as fully as any one. She never expected to be anything else than dull; and that her occasional gaucheries should arouse Cecilia's vexation was a matter of course. Lettice was always more annoyed with herself than Cecilia could be with her.

The hurried start to obey was a mistake. As she sprang up, she caught her foot in the rug, and stumbled against the couch—then, in her desperate effort to avoid coming down upon the invalid, she fell sideways towards the fireplace, striking her head sharply against the corner of the marble mantelpiece.

"Lettice!" Cecilia said reproachfully—aware only of the unpleasant jar she had herself received.

"You stupid child!" exclaimed Felix, with brotherly frankness.

Lettice pulled herself up slowly, and laughed—keeping her face turned away. "I'm sorry," she said, in a lively voice. "I didn't mean—I'll get the shawl—"

"Don't knock anything down by the way," said Cecilia, with some sharpness.

"O no—I'll—" Lettice laughed again, and went straight out of the room.

"Did you ever see such a child?" asked Cecilia. "And she doesn't care in the least!"

Lettice fled to the top of the first flight, and there stood still, holding the balusters. Resolution failed for the moment to carry her further. The blow had been severe enough to half-stun her, though not to overcome her courage, and tears streamed from her eyes with the pain—an involuntary overflow: muscular, not mental. Lettice would have scorned to cry for such a cause: but she was stupefied, and five minutes passed unmeasured. Then the parlour door opened for a shout:

"Lettice! What are you after? You little slowcoach! Sissie wants her shawl."

Lettice rushed to Cecilia's bedroom door, and called out, "Yes, yes, I'm coming."

"Make haste! What an age you have been!"

Lettice caught up the shawl and ran downstairs.

When she entered, the other two were again in earnest conference, and they scarcely noticed her.

Cecilia only remarked carelessly, "I do wish you would learn to be a little more attentive, Lettice;" and went on with what she was saying.

Lettice attempted no defence. She sat down, not in her former place, but well in the shade behind the couch, and made believe to be at work again.

A tap at the door was followed by the announcement,—

"Please, ma'am, Mr. Kelly wants to see you!"

"Mr. Kelly! O dear!"

"He've been a lot of times, ma'am, when you was too ill: and he said maybe you'd be able now."

"Well, I suppose he must come in for once. It is to be hoped that he will not stay long."

Felix crossed over to where Lettice sat. "I'm off," he whispered. "I'll be back in an hour. I say—you didn't really hurt yourself? I saw you got an uncommonly hard bang."

"Oh, it's nothing—" and she smiled.

"Not bad now."

"It's getting better."

"Sis didn't notice, so I said nothing. She'd only lie and bother. You'll be all the colours of the rainbow in a day or two."

Felix dashed across the room, intent on escape; and Cecilia's eyes followed him with hungry looks. She could hardly bear to have him out of sight, now that the parting was so near. Parting! For how long? Suppose the separation were to be final? Suppose she should never meet the boy again in this world? If not in this world—but beyond, all was blank. Such questions haunted her continually: and they came now with a sudden vehemence which, for the moment, caused forgetfulness of all beside. She forgot to look up and welcome the clergyman, advancing dubiously, after a collision with Felix in the doorway. She entirely forgot the presence of a silent girl in the shade behind her couch. All Cecilia's force was for the moment needed to grapple with the inrush of sad thoughts—the desolate realisation that she had soon to leave the one whom most in all the world she loved; and that the leaving might be final.

Chapter II.

Lettice'S Dread.

THE Rev. Robert Kelly, Vicar of the parish in which the Andersons lived, had called under a strong sense of duty, not at all under the drawings of inclination, to visit a parishioner, who, somehow, always managed to give him a repelled sensation. He admired Cecilia, as almost everybody did: and he could have liked her. But he was too keenly aware that she neither admired nor liked him: that in fact she looked upon him as an unmitigated bore. Such a consciousness goes far to render a gentle and self-distrustful man that which he believes he is reckoned to be.

Before Cecilia's illness, Mr. Kelly had called occasionally, seldom finding her at home, and never meeting with a warm reception. A succession of rebuffs had imbued him with a positive dread of Mrs. Crofton's dignified lodger, and he could never be "at his best" in her presence. She was not at all anxious to be "done good to," however much he might wish to "do her good." And as for practical kindnesses, they were a matter rather for toleration than for gratitude, with one of her independent temper.

Once during her illness, he had seen her for a few minutes, and then she had resolutely kept clear of all subjects except that of Felix's future. Since then he had been repeatedly to the house, and he had been always conscious of a feeling of relief when sent away unsuccessful: a feeling for which he took himself to task. Now at length, he was again admitted; but the words which he overheard, standing outside the door, were not calculated to set him at his ease.

No; certainly he would not stay long, but he had to go in. The very obvious escape of Felix did not add to his confidence: and Cecilia was so lost in thought, that she omitted to notice his approach until he was on the rug. Mr. Kelly failed to observe Lettice, half hidden by the curtain, and Lettice did not stir, so he believed the elder sister to be alone.

She presented a less imposing appearance on the couch, under two shabby shawls, than when standing upright: yet even now there was about her a curious environment of dignity; and Mr. Kelly had his usual consciousness of being overshadowed in her presence. He was an easily abashed man, and she was not at all an easily abashed woman; and although he was her match mentally, she was his superior in vigour of will.

This day he received a more gracious greeting than usual, in consideration of his efforts on behalf of Felix. The result was not indeed what Cecilia had wished; and she was not in heart very grateful, but Mr. Kelly had to be thanked. So she roused herself from the fit of abstraction, held out her hand, and even smiled. If he had not overheard those few words, he would have felt quite cheered, but to get over them was not possible.

"I am glad to learn that you are a little better," he hazarded, by way of an opening speech.

"Thanks. Yes. I am better. As much better as—" She hesitated, looking sharply at the clergyman. Had Dr. Rotherbotham informed him as to her true state? Mr. Kelly's unconscious face seemed to supply a negative. "As much better as I can expect to be," she said.

"In so short a time, you mean. I fear it will be long before you are fit for hard work again."

"Yes." An odd impulse seized her to tell him all; odd, because she did not care for Mr. Kelly; but no doubt there was a natural desire for sympathy: she had nobody else to turn to; and she, like Mr. Kelly, believed that they were alone. The impulse seemed to her foolish, and she resisted it. What good would speaking do?

"Yes," she repeated, "I am going to make my home for a time with my uncle in the west of England. Lettice, too, of course. Felix is more or less provided for, thanks to you. I am not likely at present to be strong enough for work: and my uncle has offered to take us in."

"I am glad to hear it. Is his name Anderson?"

"No; Bryant. He is my mother's only brother. A medical man; but I suppose he has not practised for twenty years."

"And you have not seen him lately."

"I have never seen him." She offered no explanation of the fact.

"It will be a trial to you to leave Felix."

"A trial!" She could have laughed, the word was so inadequate. Life, apart from Felix, would be mere existence, not life. "One has to bear what is inevitable."

"And God's will is always best for us in these matters: even when it means sorrow."

"Perhaps. I do not know anything about its being best. I only know that it has to be . . . If I could stay with him till the end! So short a time!" The words broke from her, under pressure of strong feeling. "If I could; but that is out of the question." She tried to rein herself in, to resume her usual manner, though her hands shook visibly.

"I do not know why I should say all this," she went on, after a pause. "Nobody can do anything. It is not my way to appeal to other people. If I had not been upset—shaken—The thought that all must soon be over! To leave Felix, not knowing if I shall ever—But such partings have to be borne, of course. They are a part of life . . . And I have great comfort in knowing that the boy will do well. No doubt of that. He is so hard-working: so bent on success."

Mr. Kelly had been startled by the unexpected outbreak of distress, and thus far had said nothing. Perhaps his wordless sympathy drew her on further than speech could have done: but this he did not see. He was already reproaching himself for a lost opportunity, grieving over his own want of readiness: and any number of possible utterances, exactly to the point, rushed into his mind, too late. He found himself saying mechanically: "I will do my best to look after your brother for you."

"Thanks; but I am not at all afraid for Felix. He has good principles." Then, as if suspecting Mr. Kelly's line of thought, she talked steadily about Felix's new work.

The clergyman listened and responded; but he was not to be entirely baffled. At the first opportunity, he said gently, "Pardon me! May I ask a question? Did you mean just now that unhappily there is fear that your health may not be in time re-established?"

A moment's pause.

"Yes, I meant that; but I did not mean to speak about it. This is in strict confidence, if you please. Dr. Rotherbotham tells me plainly that I cannot live long. However, I do not wish to discuss the matter."

"And, in looking forward to that great change—" Mr. Kelly spoke slowly, and he was not allowed to finish.

"I have done my duty in life, and I hope that I shall know how to meet my end when it comes," she said coldly.

"If that were indeed the 'end!'"

Cecilia drew up her head, and a red spot burnt in either cheek.

"We may as well keep to other subjects," she said. "Some people love nothing so well as to talk about themselves; but—" scornfully—"I have always counted that a proof of shallowness. It is not my way. Nor is it Felix's way. You will find him by no means disposed to stand personal questions."

"Pardon me! You must not mistake my meaning. I have no wish to press for an answer—for myself. It is no matter of curiosity. I only suggest the question for your own consideration. As an 'ambassador for Christ,' I am bound to speak of Him; of all that you owe to Him, and of the comfort which may be yours in that hour, if you are willing."

"Thanks; I am much obliged, but a different topic is more to my mind. Besides, it has been an agitating day. I must not press for a long visit."

"Then I will not stay longer now; but perhaps you will let me come again. In any case—" for he felt sure he would not be admitted—"if at any time, in any way, I can help you, do not scruple to let me know."

"Thanks!" once more. "I shall be among friends, but I am very much obliged to you all the same. I am afraid I must ask you to open the door for yourself. If Lettice were here—"

She looked round with startled eyes. Lettice was there! Mr. Kelly, just about to make one last attempt, one parting appeal to her better nature, looked also, following the direction of her glance, and was checked.

All through this dialogue the girl had not stirred. At first she remained thus, only because she felt still stupefied with the blow she had had, because movement was still painful, and coming forward might draw Cecilia's attention to her look. Afterward she sat on, because she could not move. Literally, could not. Cecilia's words fell with paralysing power. Had clear thought been possible, Lettice would have remembered that she had no business to listen to a conversation which was not meant for her ears; but she could not think: she could only feel. Part that followed was lost; but she distinctly heard Mr. Kelly's later question, and the not-to-be-mistaken answer. Utterance could not be more plain. Beyond these she took in nothing; and she was incapable of speech.

Then a wonder crept through her mind; were those two talking still? She might have been any length of time seated there. At the same moment sounded these words: "If Lettice were here—"

Lettice neither spoke nor stirred.

She was leaning back in a low chair, with closed eyes.

"Lettice!"

"Asleep, I think," said Mr. Kelly.

"I had no idea she was here at all. Lettice!"

The absence of response was a matter of positive incapacity to speak. Lettice heard, of course; but voices sounded far-away; and the floor seemed to mount with her; and heart and head were beating in thick throbs. She wondered dimly—could she get up, if she tried? A nightmare sensation of helplessness weighed her down; and she craved to be let alone, not to be dragged back into what had become all at once a changed world to her. And yet, she would have to shake off this stupefaction. She would have to wake up and smile and talk. Only another moment's delay, and then—

"How odd of the child to drop asleep so suddenly! I never knew her do it before."

"She seems very sound. I don't think she can have heard us."

Mr. Kelly stepped behind the couch, and laid a hand on Lettice's arm. She had not expected the touch, and it startled her into a sitting posture instantaneously. The start seemed, as indeed it was, perfectly natural.

"Lettice, is anything the matter? Come here," said Cecilia.

Lettice obeyed quietly. With that start, power of movement had returned: though she was still dazed and bewildered in mind. She reached the sofa, and smiled as she stood there, while her lips were white, and the wide-open eyes were sombre, gazing fixedly into the air.

"How strange you look, child! Have you been dreaming? What makes you so pale? Did Mr. Kelly startle you?"

Lettice said "Yes," with a mechanical little laugh, to each question in turn.

"Were you asleep before Mr. Kelly came in?"

"I don't—think so."

"Only too sleepy to move? You queer child. And you dropped off afterwards. Was that it?" Lettice's laugh might have meant anything. "Felix walked you too far perhaps this morning. Run and get some cold water. That will wake you up. And you can open the front door for Mr. Kelly, if—"

"Yes, certainly I must go," said the clergyman, replying to the half-uttered doubt. Lettice disappeared from the room, and he shook hands with Cecilia, remarking: "Your little sister does not seem quite well."

"Do you call her 'little?' She will soon be sixteen. I have tried lately to make her feel herself more of a woman; but she does not behave like one yet. She is so childish. Lettice always was rather easily startled in her sleep. I was glad to see that puzzled look, because it showed how very sound she must have been. I would not for worlds have had her overhear what I said."

Mr. Kelly was not so sure that Lettice had not heard, but he refrained from suggesting his doubt. He made his way into the passage, shutting the parlour door, and found Lettice leaning against the wall. The singular paleness and fixity of her face impressed him again; and his conviction grew stronger that she had not really been asleep. He stood looking at her with kind concern.

"Something is the matter, is it not?" he said, anxious to find out more, without suggesting possibilities. "Has any one been troubling you?"

"No." Lettice gazed straight before her, and forced a short laugh. "Why should any one?"

"Not intentionally; but people sometimes cause pain, not knowing it. Or, perhaps, you are not well. Is that it?"

"O no."

"Tell me: will you not?" urged Mr. Kelly. "Something is wrong, I am sure. I should like to help you, but how can I, if you do not tell me your trouble? Perhaps I could do something. Try to think of me as a friend, and speak freely."

Lettice made an effort. "If—if—if you will promise—" she began, and then a tearless sob broke into the words, and she fled along the passage out of sight.

Mr. Kelly looked after her compassionately, but she did not return. The echo of that heartbroken sob haunted him for hours after.

* * * * * * *

"Mind, Lettice, I mean what I say. You can't help going with Sissie, of course. It has to be: and I suppose, as things are, that there is nothing else to be done. She will not be fit for work again for months; and she never ought to slave as she has done. But you are not to count that house your home. Just a 'temporary residence,' as people say—not a real home.

"After the way Dr. Bryant treated my father—It's all very well his showing kindness to us now, when my father is dead! Why couldn't he be kind in my father's lifetime, I should like to know? Anyhow, I don't mean you to belong to Dr. Bryant; though, of course, one has to be grateful for what he is doing."

Felix spoke in masterful accents, striding along the Parade, and Lettice kept pace with him. She had lain awake all night, gazing with troubled eyes into the happy childhood of her past, and into the uncertain future; and in one night, she seemed to herself to have grown years older. To-day the weight of foreboding was on her heavily, and exertion was a struggle; but the last thing she thought of was to make complaint.

"You understand. It's only for a time. At most, only till I can make a home for you both. Perhaps in a few months Sis will be up to teaching again. And meantime something better might offer itself for me. If a fellow is bent on getting along, he is sure to do it. There's nothing like determination; and I'm not one to be easily beaten.

"Now, mind—you've got to be brave, and not to give in; and, of course, you'll be happy and all that, wherever you are, and everybody will be kind to you. Only you're not to get too fond of those people. Not so as to be in a spoony state by-and-by, when you have to leave them. You belong to Sis and me; and Dr. Bryant is no relation."

Lettice might have suggested that she could spare abundance of affection in both quarters, without defrauding either; but she was not of an argumentative nature.

"I don't know what sort of man Dr. Bryant is, and I don't much care. He may be nice, or he may not. Anyhow, he means to be kind to you and Sissie; and that's right enough, for the time. Only, mind—you belong to me first. Promise not to forget."

She looked up wonderingly. "Why, Felix—how could I? You don't think I'm like that!"

"I don't know. You girls are so odd—ready to take to anybody. You may be as happy as you like: only you've got to remember that your real home is with me—I mean, with Sis and me!"

With Sis, for how long? A stab shot through the girl, and she turned her face away.

"Here, sit down. I can't see you properly, when you poke the top of your hat towards me like that. You understand?—I don't mean to leave you there long. As soon as I can possibly manage to support you both, I'll have you back in Brighton. Not in lodgings, but in a cosy little house of our own. Sis will be none the worse for two or three years of idleness first. I suppose it might be two or three years, unless she gets strong enough to teach again . . . I say, are you listening? Let me look at your face. I do believe you are going to sleep."

The brown hat had dropped against his shoulder, and Lettice drew it away with a hasty movement.

"What's the matter? Are you tired?"

"I don't know."

"Nonsense. People always know. I believe you are. There!—Put your head on my shoulder again, and go to sleep. You'll be all right presently."

He pulled her with rough kindness into the position suggested, pushing her hat back as he did so. The breeze, lifting her hair, made him exclaim: "I say, what a bump you got yesterday! Is that the mischief? Does it hurt?"

"It aches."

"Why didn't you tell me? Now shut your eyes, and be quiet. There's nobody near to look on."

Lettice made an attempt to obey, but in ten seconds the brown eyes were open again, gazing at some far-off vision, beyond the ken of Felix. He watched her with unwonted closeness. Perhaps the realisation of parting near at hand awoke a new warmth of affection. She had always been a good little sister: counted rather ordinary among themselves, a not unpleasing contrast to his clever and good-looking self. Now he was studying her purely for her own sake: and the patient sadness of the small pale face and wistful eyes woke in him an instinct of brotherly pity and protection. Had that look been there before, he wondered?

"What are you looking at, Lettice?"

"I don't know."

"Nonsense."

"I mean nothing particular."

"Nothing in particular on the sea, I dare say, but something very particular in your mind. What are you dreaming about? . . . Now I mean to know . . . What was it? Dr. Bryant?"

"No."

"Or me?"

"Or Sissie?"

Lettice half faltered a "No," and stopped. "Not exactly," she said faintly. She had been thinking rather of life without Sissie, at that moment.

"You were dreaming about Sis: something or other. What was it? Now I mean to know, so it's no earthly use your trying to hide it. Has Sis been making you and herself miserable about this Bristol plan?—Worrying because she can't teach? If she has, you must just not let her. Things can't be helped, and it's no use to fret."

"Sissie doesn't say much—"

"But she thinks; and you know what she is thinking about. Is that it?"

Lettice's lips formed a "No."

"Then you are bothering your own brains about the journey. That's nothing. It will all go off as well as possible. Nothing to mind!"

"O no—indeed—"

"Then what is wrong? Out with it!"

"I'm only silly. If you wouldn't ask any more—please—" Lettice was debating with herself—should she tell him all? True, Cecilia had not meant her to know: and she had learnt the truth by accident. But now that she did know it, might she not speak freely to her brother? That was one side of the question. On the other side—why should he know so soon? Might he not keep his happy ignorance just a little longer?

"When you have told me what is the matter, I'll stop. So out with it!"

Lettice breathed quickly. Twice she opened her lips, and shut them again.

Felix bent to look into her face, and she murmured: "I thought—I thought—if Sissie—"

"Well! If Sissie—"

"Were to die—"

Two great tears splashed upon his wrist, and Felix, after one quick movement, said not a word. He had had for the moment a quietus. It was Lettice, not he, who spoke next: and she had suddenly regained her usual voice.

"I didn't mean to say it, only you made me."

"What can have put such an absurd notion into your head?" demanded Felix brusquely. "Has anybody been talking nonsense? Dr. Rotherbotham—?"

"Sissie always sends me out when he comes."

"Mrs. Crofton—?"

"O no."

"Or Mr. Kelly?"

"No."

"You are sure?"

Lettice flushed painfully. "He didn't, indeed. Nobody has. It is only—only something I overheard Sissie say. Something I was not meant to hear. Ought I to repeat it to you? She seemed to think she—she—could not—ever be well again—"

"She meant she could not be quite as she used to be. Besides, Sissie is nervous. Sick people always are. That is nothing."

"She said—Dr. Rotherbotham had told her—"

"Dr. Rotherbotham may be mistaken. It is all nonsense, Lettice. Just when she is getting on so well! Going to Bristol will make her stronger than she has been for a year past. Now mind, if you don't put this ridiculous idea out of your head, I'll give you such scolding that you'll never forget it. Sissie knows nothing whatever about the matter—or Dr. Rotherbotham either. It's absurd. Look up, and give me a smile."

Lettice obeyed. She smiled bravely-and Felix was satisfied; not noting how quickly her head was turned away again.

For himself, the instinct of his vigorous youth was to refuse to look in the face any such possibility. Why should not Cecilia recover? Why should death touch him or his? He would not believe in any such coming calamity.

Chapter III.

A New Acquaintance.

"I SHOULD like to help you, but how can I, if you do not tell me your trouble? Try to think of me as a friend," Mr. Kelly had said.

Lettice pondered over these words in the days following,—days full of preparation for the journey.

To other people it might seem that the whole bulk of the Andersons' possessions was not large enough to give trouble. Yet after six years' stay in one house, though only in lodgings, things could not have failed to accumulate. Where each item had to be considered, with reference to taking or leaving, much time might be consumed.

Cecilia was forbidden all needless exertion. She had to lie on her couch and direct others: and with the nervous excitement, not uncommon in ill health, she could know no rest. The near separation from Felix pressed upon her unceasingly; and relief from thought in bodily action was denied.

Lettice had enough to do, those days, carrying out her sister's wishes. She did it all uncomplainingly; toiled upstairs and downstairs; packed, unpacked, and repacked, to any extent. And had it not been for the weight of her new knowledge as to Cecilia's state, she would have done it all blithely, as well as uncomplainingly. That made all the difference. Courage did not fail now, but blitheness did. The strain of keeping up told upon her a good deal. She was cheerful enough, almost too cheerful, in Cecilia's presence; and Cecilia was jarred by this, even while noting a certain unnatural strain of manner.

"I should like to help you," Mr. Kelly had said; and Lettice wondered what kind of help he meant. Suppose she were to tell him all, as he had suggested; to open out the dread which had fallen upon her life.

Lettice was to some extent reserved, but it was by training, not by nature. The desire for sympathy and help from another grew upon her in those days. To break through Cecilia's barrier of silence she felt to be an utter impossibility; and Felix had refused to accept the truth—had almost refused to hear what she had to say.

But Mr. Kelly knew already; he knew from Cecilia's own lips how matters were; and he might even be able to assure Lettice that things were not so bad as she feared. She had not heard all, or nearly all, that had passed between him and Cecilia. Some word of hope might have fallen later, which she had missed, and which he could repeat.

Lettice dwelt upon this possibility, until it gained large proportions; and the formal call upon Mr. Kelly, which at first she had shrunk from, became a necessity. Questions of propriety had not yet begun to trouble Lettice; indeed, she counted herself still a child, and Mr. Kelly, albeit a bachelor, was on the highroad to forty. Her hesitation sprang from shyness, and shyness yielded to the stronger desire for comfort.

Mr. Kelly, returning one day from a round of visits among the poor, was told that somebody awaited him in his study; and, proceeding thither, he found himself face to face with Lettice.

"How do you do?" he said kindly. "Is this a good-bye call? I have just been to your lodgings, but your sister was not well enough to see me. They tell me that you leave in three days."

"On Thursday, if—"

"If she is up to the mark, I suppose. Do you think her getting on?"

"I don't know." Lettice looked at him with strange eyes.

Did he mean what he said? When he knew that Cecilia could never recover! Or did he still think, like Felix, in spite of all, that she might get well? She did not remember, perhaps did not know, that patients even when marked for death have still their ups and downs, and often seem for a time to be improving.

"Please, I have come to ask—? Would you mind telling me—?"

"Yes? Would I mind telling you—what?" queried the clergyman. "Anything that is in my power. Would you not like to sit down?"

Lettice shook her head, and stood firm, grasping the back of a chair. She was doubtful as to the extent of her own self-control, and flight would be easier thus.

"What is it that you want me to tell you? Something to do with—Come, what is it?" encouragingly.

"About—O you know," she said. "You know! About—"

"I am afraid I do not." Mr. Kelly had had a busy day, and a mind full of other matters, including worries innumerable. Even the fruitless call upon Miss Anderson had failed to bring up with any vividness his last conversation with her, or his after-suspicion that Lettice might have heard something of it. He had the train of circumstances in possession: but at this moment, they lay in the background of his memory, not quite ready to hand. He looked dubiously with gentle eyes upon the child, repeating, "I am afraid that I do not. Cannot you explain a little further? Just a word or two more?"

"You do, really. Please, please remember. That day when you said—said you would help me—if—"

"Yes. I would help you—if—Go on, Lettice." He had once or twice considered whether he ought to begin calling her "Miss Lettice Anderson," after Cecilia's intimation of her years: but the notion vanished now. She was such a mere pale child, with troubled brow and brave lips. "Poor little girl!" he said compassionately. "Now see if you can make me understand what is the matter. I said I would help you—if—yes, of course I will. If—what? I—I wonder whether—perhaps—there may be a little difficulty—I mean, a difficulty as to all the expenses of the move, and the journey. You must not mind my asking this. I should be so very glad—"

"O no, no! Not that! Nothing of that sort."

Lettice spoke hurriedly, conscious how displeased Cecilia would have been at the bare suggestion of pecuniary help. "O no, indeed! It is only—only about her! She told you—and I want so very very much to know—if—if it is true?"

Recollections were dawning now: and the sound of the sob, which had haunted him for hours, came back. He hoped no tears might be impending. Nothing made him more unhappy than to see a child cry.

"If you would please just tell me! I know something—but I think—I don't think—I am not sure—and perhaps—" Lettice strained one hand in a fierce pull against the other, as words struggled for utterance. "If you only would please understand—and tell me—"

"Has Miss Anderson been talking to you about herself?" cautiously asked Mr. Kelly. "About her health?"

"No."

"Or anybody else?" Another negative. "But you are anxious. Is not that it? Lettice, were you asleep that day, when she and I had a little talk, and she did not know you to be present? Last time I called. Were you really asleep?"

She shook her head.

"I am sorry. It was very wrong of you. Never listen to what you are not meant to hear. Surely you know that it is not quite—not at all honourable! Why did you not get up and come forward at once?"

"I couldn't!" She lifted her face sorrowfully. "I did not mean to do wrong, but I could not help it. I couldn't move. And then—Sissie—"

"But when your sister spoke, could you not have explained?"

"O no: she would have been so unhappy. It would have made her ill. And indeed I did not mean to listen. I only heard just a few words; and then—then I felt so strange—and then Sissie found me out. Please, I can't talk—only I do want just to know if—"

She hid her face in her hands.

"My child, I only know what your sister told me. Nothing more."

"But if—if—O please tell me—if—"

"If any hope exists still? I think that, in a certain sense, while there is life, there is always room for hope. Sometimes a doctor may be mistaken. Sometimes illness is lengthened out indefinitely."

"But you don't think—she can ever get—well?"

Mr. Kelly did not think so. Cecilia had spoken in no doubting accents; and he knew Dr. Rotherbotham to be a man of cautious speech. He stood in silence, uncertain what reply to make; and Lettice knew what the silence meant.

"I can only say that we must leave the future in wiser Hands," he at length uttered. "Impossible to look forward: and we are but children—not knowing what is best. Not able even to guess. Lettice, don't you think you want help for yourself—help for the carrying of this trouble? It comes heavily on you, poor child!"

He had no response.

"Your sister could not see me to-day; and she may not be equal to another interview before you go . . . But there is one thing that we can both do for her: we can pray . . . I wonder if you often pray! . . . She is in God's hands; and He is very near to us. Always near. We cannot speak without His hearing. He sees all your sorrow now, and He is grieved for you. Would it not be a comfort to ask His help? Shall we do so now?"

Then, as they stood, a few petitions were breathed forth reverently: the clergyman bending his head low, while Lettice never stirred. It was such prayer as seemed to take the absent one, and to lay her in Divine protecting Arms.

"Teach her the road to Thee; and so bring her safely to Thy Home of Peace; and comfort this poor child of Thine, for Christ's sake," were the closing words.

Lettice was conscious of a soothed sensation; even while the knowledge that he so fully accepted the hopeless condition of Cecilia's health brought sharper heart-ache. She was on the verge of a break-down, and might no longer trust her own voice; but this he could not guess, and her immobility perplexed him.

"I shall pray often for her and for you. That at least is in my power. And remember, if at any time you are in difficulties, and will write to me, I will do all that I can . . . Meanwhile, try not to look forward. Take each day as it comes, looking up for strength; and you will be carried through. Even now, if God wills, He is able to make your sister well again. And if—"

Lettice put out her hand. "Good-bye," she said. "Please let me go." The next word was more than she could endure.

The girl's hasty utterance drowned his "If not—," which was too far advanced to receive a check. He understood then, and paused compassionately.

"Please let me go. And—thank you so much!"

"Well, good-bye. But you are going to be brave, I am sure, for your sister's sake. Some day you will write, and tell me all about yourselves. Will you not? And I shall often see Felix."

Lettice gave him one glance of gratitude, and rushed away. Mr. Kelly turned back into his study, with eyes not perfectly dry.

With the day fixed for the journey came a heavy snowstorm, but Cecilia would not hear of delay. Everything was settled: boxes were packed; Dr. Bryant would expect their arrival. A restless desire to have the parting over, and to be off, possessed her. Moreover, barely enough money remained, to pay part of the landlady's claims, to meet the expenses of the journey, and to supply the present needs of Felix.

Dr. Rotherbotham had given a conditional leave for his invalid to start, dependent on her state and on the weather. That she should go off in a snowstorm was the last thing he would have desired or imagined possible; but all opposition went down before Cecilia's will. Felix, who alone might have resisted it successfully, did not recognise the peril. He suggested an appeal to the doctor, and this Cecilia forbade. She silenced Lettice, would not listen to Mrs. Crofton, and declared that go she must and would.

Felix saw them off. To the last, he talked gaily of the little future home. While Cecilia spoke few words, but held his arm in a voiceless clutch, till the boy glanced round, ashamed, to see if any one were looking. Cecilia had never in her life, since babyhood, been seen to weep, and no tears came now.

Lettice listened to her brother's talk, and to his frequent directions, with a bewildered brain. London—cab—porters—tickets—luggage: it all had to be seen to, and she was courageously bent on doing her best. But she felt that they were going out into a wide world, unprotected; and the end of the journey seemed incalculably far-away.

"You'll have to keep your wits about you, Lettice; not let them go wool-gathering. I have asked the guard to have an eye on you both; but you must not depend on Sis, and the guard will only go as far as Victoria. Sis isn't fit for worry; and I shall not be there: so you must see to everything. Mind you count the packages, and don't lose any. You always do blunder, if you can; but to-day you must not. And, remember, you belong to me; not to those people. Don't get too fond of Dr. Bryant."

"I'll try." She longed to say how impossible it was that she should ever love anybody like Sissie or Felix; but she could not trust herself.

A few minutes more, and the train moved. Cecilia leant back, with shut eyes and wan look. In this parting, she tasted the bitterness of death; and not even Lettice, seated patiently by her side, knew half that it was to her, because not even Lettice knew the extent of her idolising love for Felix.

Outside the two closed windows went on a whirl of snowflakes, and many were driven in through crevices; for third-class carriages are not commonly built for inclement weather. The cold was piercing. Hot-water cans cooled fast; and Lettice soon found herself shivering. She had nothing wherewith to occupy her mind; and they had the compartment to themselves. Cecilia never lifted her eyelids, nor uttered a word.

Haywards Heath, at last! Only Haywards Heath! The journey seemed interminable to Lettice so far: and a blank realisation came of all that lay ahead. They had to reach London: to cross to Paddington: to travel down to Bristol: and even then a country drive of unknown length remained.

Lettice glanced at her sister's face, and found no cheer there. It had not only a sombre, but a sunken look. If already thus exhausted, how would she bear the fatigues of the whole day?

"Sissie is thinking of Felix. She will make herself ill! If I could but comfort her!" murmured Lettice.

She drew nearer, and laid a hand on Cecilia's, lovingly. Demonstrations of affection between the two were not common: but to Lettice they were natural, only Cecilia's reserve kept her in check: and it was something unusual for Lettice thus to take the initiative. She had always been in complete and even childish subservience to her half-sister. Now she felt herself in charge of the invalid, responsible for her well-doing: and the little tender action came involuntarily.

It did not seem to be a success. Cecilia opened her eyes, drew her brows slightly together, and with an impatient gesture pulled away the hand which Lettice touched.

"Couldn't I do anything for you?" pleaded the younger girl.

"Only leave me in peace, if you please."

The sharpness of tone sprang from bitter pain, and Lettice knew it: but none the less, she found that sharpness hard to bear. Was not the same pain of parting hers? She too wanted comfort, and she might have found comfort in comforting Cecilia, had not that been denied her? The check was just the one drop too much, and tears came thickly, obscuring her vision as they fell. She was too much absorbed to hear the slight bustle of somebody stepping in at the further end, and she did not at first notice that the train was again in motion. It was needful to master herself, before Cecilia's attention should be drawn and this proved not easy.

Presently the fact dawned upon her that she and Cecilia were no longer alone. Somebody sat opposite to herself—somebody at first indistinct through the haze of tears, but taking shape in time as a girl several years older than herself, dressed in a navy-blue serge costume of severe outlines, a long black cloak, and a black bonnet with white strings. The newcomer had dark eyes and pretty rosy cheeks: and she was bending a little forward, to study Lettice.

"What is the matter, you poor little thing?" came in soft tones.

"Oh—it doesn't matter," said Lettice, endeavouring to sit upright and to assume a sprightly air.

"Everything matters that makes people unhappy."

"O no, I'm only—stupid. I'm always stupid."

"Are you? I should not have thought so. You don't look stupid."

Lettice tried to smile, but not successfully. The stranger came over to the seat by her side.

"Now tell me: I want to know what is wrong. Something must have distressed you just before I came in. You had not been crying long. What was it, I wonder? . . . Is that your mother or—your sister?—" in surprise. "I should not have guessed it. She has been ill, I see. Isn't this rather bad weather for her to travel?"

"She wouldn't put it off. Felix said she ought."

"Who is Felix?"

"My brother—in Brighton. Sissie can't teach any more, and so we can't stay in Brighton," explained Lettice, with childish frankness. "We are going to live near Bristol, with an uncle that I have never seen. And—Felix—"

Lettice stopped short, setting her teeth rigidly.

"And you have had to leave Felix behind? Is that the trouble?"

Lettice nodded, and said "Part," with difficulty.

"But not all. Perhaps your sister's health—"

That line of questioning had to be abandoned. She saw it at once, and stopped.

"Tell me a little about yourselves. Keeping up bravely is all right: but just once in a way one has to give in. Don't you think so? Wouldn't a good cry make you feel better?"

"O no—Sissie—"

"Would it distress her? But she doesn't seem to notice us. Perhaps she is resting. Now I am going to tell you who I am. My name is Nurse Valentine, and my business in life is to take care of sick people. So I have come to the right part of the train, haven't I? And my home is close to Reading. We can go through London together, if you like. Do you think you can trust me? I'm such a stranger."

"I don't feel as if you were a stranger . . . I did dread London!"

"You need not now. I'll manage for you both. What is your name?"

Lettice responded to questioning, and various particulars oozed out about herself, about Cecilia's illness, about the sorrow of leaving Felix, about the unknown Dr. Bryant. She did not definitely tell what she knew of Cecilia's real state: but the weight of foreboding which underlay all else was easily detected by Nurse Valentine's observant eyes, and its cause was soon conjectured.

The relief of free speech was great. Lettice's brow lost some of its strain, her eyes some of their forlornness: and Nurse Valentine's hand coming between hers was held tightly.

"I wish I had you for a friend," she murmured. "There's nobody to go to."

"There's always ONE, child," in hushed tones.

"Is there? But Sissie is too ill. I must not trouble her. And she never likes people to cry. And Felix—" Lettice had to set her teeth rigidly again. "And—and—I'm so—stupid."

"Never mind that; you are not too stupid to feel sorrow, or to need comfort. Don't you know Whom I mean? ONE is always near. You can't get beyond reach of God's loving pity, Lettice. If you have no other friend, you have Him."

A wondering look answered her. The thought seemed new.

"Try, next time you feel lonely, try speaking to Him, and telling Him your need . . . Now you are to curl yourself up in the farther corner; and you are not to look at anything or anybody till we get to London. I'll see after your sister."

Lettice was sure Cecilia would brook no interference from a stranger, but she could not say so in words, and Nurse Valentine disregarded protesting looks. She watched in fear from her corner Nurse Valentine's first move to Cecilia's side, saw her stoop and murmur something, and saw that the advance was not repelled. Then in the relief of shifted responsibility, she fell asleep.

"Lettice—"

"Oh, is it time to get up?" For a moment she counted herself in bed.

"Don't be in a flurry. We are close to Victoria. Lettice, must you go on to-day? You could not spend a night or two in London?"

"There's nowhere to go. And it would cost so much. Is Sissie—?"

"I don't think she is well enough for the full journey; but in that case, it must be risked."

Lettice became aware that Cecilia was not in the same state as when they had left home. Then she had stood about, and had even walked a short distance. Now she had to be lifted from the train to the carriage; and again at Paddington from the carriage to the train. She made no complaints, and scarcely spoke, but her face wore unmistakable signs of acute suffering. Nurse Valentine counted it very doubtful whether she would be able to reach Bristol that afternoon: and her busy brain revolved different schemes.

"I can't leave that child alone to sink or swim. It wouldn't be Christian. I don't know when I have seen a face that appeals to one more. Miss Anderson, I am afraid, is in a bad way. They seem given over into my charge. I shall have to go on to Bristol, or else take them home with me . . . Which is best, I wonder? . . . She isn't fit for the journey. Well, I shall see presently."

They drew near in time to Reading. Nurse Valentine knew this, from her acquaintance with the country; and Lettice seemed to guess it, intuitively.

"Must you leave us now? What shall I do if Sissie gets worse?"

Nurse Valentine moved away to bend over Cecilia. A few low words passed between them; and she returned to Lettice.

"No, my dear, I am not going to forsake you. Your sister cannot travel so far as Bristol to-day. I shall take you both to my home."

"Home with you?" Lettice's whole face changed, pallor vanished, and her eyes shone with delight! "Oh, how good, how good you are: I can never, never thank you."

"Hush, don't let Miss Anderson hear; it is the only plan; but I have not told her yet. I wish we did not live so far out of Reading—nearly two miles—but it cannot be helped. I shall leave word with our doctor in passing, and a telegram must be sent to your uncle."

"I can't think what makes you so kind to us."

"Cannot you?" The train was slackening speed; but Nurse Valentine lingered a moment. "I have a dear Master, Lettice, and I think He is giving me this to do. My work is only to obey. The trouble! Oh, that is nothing. People cannot do anything worth doing without trouble; and always to be trying to save oneself is so contemptible. Trouble was the last thing our Lord ever thought about, when He was on earth; and it ought to be our last thought also."

Lettice had the look of one gaining a glimpse into a fresh world.

Chapter IV.

Prue And Bertha.

"IT'S snowing still, father. Almost as hard as ever. Will Bertha come, do you think?"

"Shouldn't wonder."

"She told me not to mind, if anything did make her put off. She might be wanted a day or two longer, just at last. But it isn't Bertha's way to mind weather."

"She wouldn't be a child of mine, if she did."

"You don't mean to send and meet her?"

"Cabs enough in Reading, if she comes."

"Anyhow, the room is ready—Bertha's own little room. She says she always loves so to think of that room, when she's nursing her hardest cases. It seems like a sort of rest. And she knows everything there is always the same."

Mrs. Valentine lifted her face from a half-made stocking as she spoke, a sweet elderly face, pale yet fresh, pure and contented, in full enjoyment still of life. The robust elderly man opposite was just as fine a specimen of manhood as she of womanhood, perhaps handsomer, but of far rougher outlines, hale and hearty, vigorous and sunburnt, with broad toil-worn hands.

William Valentine's forefathers had owned this farm, and indeed the whole little village, during generations past; and the property had been a valuable one: but with depreciation of land had come heavy losses, and the present owner was a far poorer man than his father or grandfather. It was all he could do to hold things together, and his children's expectations had dwindled to a fine thread. Notwithstanding pecuniary embarrassments, the man was thoroughly liked, thoroughly esteemed, in the country round; not so much for his position as for himself.

He was squire of the village as well as farmer: to the cottagers a very grand personage indeed; and the friend of each one among them. His wife called him always, with great particularity, "a gentleman-farmer," while Mr. Valentine was rarely at the pains to tack on that preliminary descriptive word. He prided himself on being "a plain farmer, one of the good old yeomanry!" And while in truth a gentleman at heart: in sincerity, in kindliness, in honourable feeling and right principle, he lacked polish of manner, and was bluntly straightforward, even to a fault.

All the same, William Valentine knew, and delighted in knowing, that his sweet old lady wife came from a far more refined stock than his own; and nothing pleased him better than to trace her refinement of look and bearing in some—not all!—of his children. With aught of affectation, he had no patience: but he could recognise real refinement where it existed, though he would congratulate himself with a chuckle that his only son, and still more his youngest girl, were "chips of the old block." By which term, he did not designate his wife.

"She knows nothing in that room is ever changed," repeated Mrs. Valentine, looking with tender eyes upon her broad-shouldered husband. "Prue dusts every inch of it herself, and won't let a servant go in when Bertha is away. Bertha does love that room."

"Shouldn't wonder!"

"And when she comes back she is so happy. I hope she'll give us a few weeks at home now: before she goes out nursing again. But there is no knowing. Bertha always seems ready for work. If anything turns up, she'll want to do it."

"She wouldn't be my child, if she wanted to loll in an arm-chair all her days."

"But I hope she won't put off. Such a storm! And it is four months since we had her here last. Prue, do you think Bertha will come?"

An upright and self-controlled young woman entered, the eldest daughter, not far from thirty in age. Prudence Valentine was counted by some people rather estimable than lovable: perhaps only by those who did not know her well. Few did know her thoroughly well, however.

"Bertha will come," she said, moving towards the bay window.

This farm drawing room or chief sitting room was large, and square in shape, well-furnished too in a cumbrous and old-fashioned style. A huge round table occupied the centre; and ornaments were few. "Gimcrack rubbish! Made to be knocked down and broken. No earthly good!" was Mr. Valentine's verdict on such articles. "Give me a room fit for use, where one needn't be afraid to move:" and his womankind obeyed. He had always had the upper hand, in appearance. Secretly, his wife with her softer touch managed him entirely; and in his heart he knew it; but then she never frittered away strength in needless skirmishes.

"Bertha will come," repeated Prue.

"So I say!" echoed Mr. Valentine.

"But they might want her longer, just a day or two longer at the last."

"I don't think so. The girl was well days ago. They have only kept Bertha on, because they have grown fond of her."

"Nobody can help being fond of our Bertha."

Prue's impassive eyes gleamed a faint assent. "We will have tea ready, mother. She cannot be long now."

"Don't you be too sure. Snow hinders trains," said Mr. Valentine. "Where's Wallace?"

"Out in the snow with Nan, somewhere. He is as crazy as she."

"Nan will catch cold."

"Nan catch cold! Ha! Ha! That's good," laughed Mr. Valentine. "My dear, you'd better let your one wild colt have her way. She'll never turn into a Prue or a Bertha. Be content with two after your own mind."

He threw his newspaper aside, crossed over, and stooped to kiss her brow, reverently, as if touching a creature of some superior order. The sweet eyes smiled up at him in placid response; and he strolled off, humming a tuneless tune.

Deep under the surface of his rugged yeoman nature was a passion of love for this wife, who nearly forty years earlier had stepped down to his level for love of him, and had never since faltered in her wifely submission. Submission!—Yes, that was true. None the less, if she set her foot upon a thing, he had to do her will: while if he set his, she yielded, but not at all because she had to do so.

"You've got a fire in Bertha's room, Prue?"

"Yes, mother. Blazing."

"And tea is laid."

"Not made yet."

"I wonder if Bertha will stay at home for a few weeks. She has earned a rest."

"Bertha soon gets restless, you know."

"She always wants to be helping other people."

"That is natural to her. And she likes to be on the go. That is natural too."

"Prue! One might almost think you didn't love Bertha."

"Must love be blind? But you don't think so, mother. Bertha is right to work. We have little enough to depend on, in our future. If I could be spared, I would do something too. Perhaps, when Nan is older—"

"Nan is nearly seventeen."

"She isn't grown-up yet."

"And she says she must go out somewhere. We couldn't do without our Prue."

"No—I know—"

"You would never have cared to undergo hospital training, like Bertha."

"Perhaps not." Prue had had her longings, which she had smothered down for Bertha's sake.

She might have to crush them again, for Nan's sake. Not that she had not the first right of choice, but that she could not trust Nan to do her work at home. It was always an understood thing in the household that "Prue couldn't be spared." Other people might please themselves; but not Prue. Usually she acquiesced in this view of affairs, accepting the manner of life appointed to her. Now and then a restless wave would arise, and sometimes the top curled over,—not often in Mrs. Valentine's presence.

"Why, Prue!—I always thought—you don't want to ran away from home too!"

"If I did—" and a pause. The wave had spent itself. "People can't always do exactly what they wish. Bertha was wild for years to be a nurse. It is her vocation. I'm never wild after anything, you know; and I should not be happy away from home—unless I could be sure of your comfort. Nan is no good."

"Prue—!" called Mr. Valentine.

Prue glided away; and Mrs. Valentine sat meditating, mother fashion, over her children. Prue seemed usually so calm and content. Had she too caught the prevalent spirit of the age?

"When I was a girl I never felt like that," thought the old lady.

A cab at the door; not heard in its approach through the snow. Bertha, of course!

They crowded into the hall to welcome her; father and mother, eldest daughter and eager servants. Wallace came rushing through a back-door, just in time, a big loose-limbed youth of nineteen or twenty: and close behind was a girl, almost equally big, light-haired and uncouth. Bertha hurried into the midst of them, her dark eyes shining, her pretty cheeks brilliant, her long cloak tossed by the wind.

"No, don't shut the door. Not yet. Mother, I mustn't lose a moment. I've brought some one home to be nursed. It couldn't be helped—there was nothing else to be done. Will you forgive me? She's alone with her little girl—such a dear child—her little sister, I mean. Miss Anderson has been ill, and the long journey is too much for her. It would half kill her to go on to Bristol to-day. My room is ready, of course, and she can sleep there. Never mind about me. Any corner will do—besides, I shall sit up with her to-night. Say I was right! I did think of going on with them, and telegraphing to you from Bristol, but she isn't fit, and I knew you would all be disappointed. Was I wrong? I left word with Mr. Jasper to call. He is on his rounds now. Have I done rightly, father?"

"Shouldn't—wonder!" Mr. Valentine said slowly. "Seems to me you hadn't much choice. Eh?" and he looked in appeal to his wife, conscious that his approval without hers would not settle the matter.

"Bertha couldn't well do anything else," said Mrs. Valentine.

To herself she murmured a soft suggestive—"'Inasmuch!'"

"Thank you both!" And Bertha flew back to the cab.

Lettice was helped out first, and consigned to Nan—a worn-out child, bewildered with the sadden glare of light and the crowd of strange faces. Her quiet life hitherto had known no such transitions; and the morning strain had told upon her—all the more in appearance, because now she no longer had the pull of responsibility. Nan, obeying a whispered order, took her into the drawing room, and banged the door—which bang woke Lettice up.

"Please let me go. Sissie will want me." She did not know who Nan might be: but the rough grasp hurt her arm, and aroused a latent spirit of opposition. Lettice could be controlled with a rein of silk by those whom she loved: but side by side with her powers of endurance dwelt powers of resistance.

"Let me go, please. She will want me."

"It's all right. They will see to her."

"Sissie doesn't like strangers."

Nan, in answer, set her back against the door, and shook her unkempt hair in a manner somewhat exasperating. The prominent light eyes stared out of the robust face, with wondering interest, into the little pale visage opposite.

"I must go. Nurse Valentine—"

"Pooh! Bertha, you mean."

A cry from without sounded in Cecilia's voice—not loud, but distinctly an utterance of Lettice's name; and it startled Lettice into wild action. She pleaded no more, but flung herself on Nan, and for the moment she prevailed. Before Nan could guess what was coming, Lettice had dragged her aside, and was in the passage. Then Nan was there also, and had Lettice in a grip, against which the younger girl struggled in vain. Cecilia was by this time out of sight, round the first bend in the stairs, being carried by the strong farmer and his son, the others following. She did not call again, but the one appeal had been enough for Lettice.

"It's no good, you know. I'm best at that," said Nan coolly, as the whole weight and force of her young companion were launched into a desperate effort to escape. "I was told to keep you down here: and I'll do it. Why, the poor thing doesn't half know what she's doing. She's off her head with—I say! It's no good. You're best out-of-the-way. Bertha's there, and that's enough. Hallo!"

An abrupt relaxation of Lettice's efforts caused Nan to overbalance herself. The two came down in a heap together,—Lettice underneath. Nan alone sprang up.

"I say! What next?" She tugged at the arm of Lettice. "I say—get up. What's the matter?"

"What are you after now?" demanded another voice, as the half-stunned Lettice made a movement to obey. "Nan; you clumsy thing! Look here! You wretch. See those poor little wrists. What were you doing? Keeping her here! That's a pretty way to keep a guest. As if Bertha meant you to behave so. Get some water."

"O no; I'm all right," said Lettice, managing to find her feet. "Please don't hinder me. I must go to Sissie."

"You can't just now. Prue and Bertha are there, and too many nurses would be in the way. Don't you see? Nan has squeezed your poor little wrists, clumsy thing that she is!" He took one of them in his broad hand, and looked pityingly at the soft skin, reddened and swollen.

"Nan!" repeated Lettice vaguely. "Oh, it doesn't matter. I only want to go to Sissie—my sister, I mean. She called me."

"I wouldn't: just yet. Better not. Bertha is there."

"But Nurse Valentine—"

"That's Bertha. Didn't you know. Nurse Valentine is our sister. She told your sister you were all right. And the doctor's coming directly: and you couldn't do anything. You're awfully tired, are you not?—You poor little thing!"

"It doesn't matter. If only I could go to Sissie!" pleaded Lettice in distress, as he led her back to the drawing room.

"Now, you listen. I'll promise. If Bertha comes, and says your sister wants you, I won't keep you back. You just lie down on the sofa in this corner, and get half-an-hour's rest. And if you go to sleep, I'll wake you up—I mean, when Bertha says you're wanted. See!—Won't that do? You look as if you hadn't slept for a month past."

Lettice laughed faintly.

"Oh, only three or four nights. I couldn't—much."

"Well, you'll sleep now. Just pull off your hat: and here's a shawl to put over you. You're to have a cup of hot tea—it's waiting now—and then a sleep: and then you'll be fit for anything. And Nan shan't come near you."

"Wallace! As if I meant to hurt her!" gulped a reproachful voice.

"You keep off," growled Wallace: but Lettice held out her hand.

"Don't, please. Nan didn't mean anything. She won't hurt me, I know."

"Well, then, bring a cup of tea, Nan: and after that, be off!" commanded Wallace.

Nan obeyed humbly: nearly turned the tea over Lettice in her agitation: and stooped to kiss the wrists she had squeezed. After which she fled.

Wallace watched till the cup was empty, took it away, and said—

"Now go to sleep."

"I must see if Sissie wants me."

"Well, shut your eyes for five minutes. That'll do."

Lettice obeyed so far: and as Wallace expected, she did not open them again.

Two hours later Bertha asked,—

"Where is that child, mother?"

"Asleep on the drawing room sofa. Wallace will not leave her for a moment."

"Wallace?"

"He found her struggling with Nan, to get to her sister. Some one seems to have told Nan to keep her away: and I suppose Nan was rough."

"Just like Nan."

"Wallace can't take his eyes off her. She does look so sweet, lying there, I hardly wonder at him."

"And Wallace is always gentle to anything weak. That's the best of him. I wish Nan were the same."

"She has been crying for an hour, because he was angry with her."

"Mother," after a pause, "it is a question whether the poor thing upstairs will get through the night."

"So bad as that?"

"The attack must have been coming on before she started. She might rally again; but it will be only for a time. She can never be well."

"Does she know?"

"I can't tell. I thought so, from some of her answers to the doctor's questions. But she hides her feelings so carefully—except when she begins to wander. It's a mercy I stopped their going on; she might never have reached Dr. Bryant's alive. And the poor child with her—"

"Yes, indeed. Is Prue upstairs, now?"

"Prue will be in charge till half-past ten; and then I shall take her for the night. If Prue wants me, she will ring."

Bertha went softly into the drawing room; and found Lettice there, heavily asleep, lying flat in a position of profound weariness. The child-like sweetness of her face impressed Bertha as it had impressed Mrs. Valentine. One hand was thrown out unconsciously; and Wallace drew Bertha's attention to the discoloured wrist.

"Nan's doing," he muttered.

"Nan doesn't know the strength of her own muscles. Poor little thing!"

"She's dead beat—hasn't slept for nights."

"Keep her quiet for the present. By-and-by she must go to bed. Our coming in and out doesn't wake her."

"A thunder-clap wouldn't, I believe. But I promised one thing. If Miss Anderson wants her—that's to say, if you tell me Miss Anderson wants her—I must rouse her up."

Bertha was silent; and Wallace did not look up, or ask questions. He had worded his promise carefully, and he now repeated it carefully, relieving his conscience, and shifting responsibility from himself to Bertha. She stood silent, conjecturing how far she might be bound by Wallace's promise. Cecilia did want Lettice, and asked for her incessantly: yet it was better for the two to be apart, at least for a while, and to awaken Lettice now would be absolute cruelty. Bertha could not do it, looking on the wan little face.

"Wallace had no authority to promise for me: and if I do not speak, he need not act," she decided, and moved away.

An hour later, finding Lettice still asleep, her resolution remained the same. She had the child carried upstairs and put to bed in Prue's room: and Lettice never opened her eyes. "It will not do. I must risk delay," Bertha said.

Six o'clock in the morning. The long night was over at last: a night long both to the invalid and to her nurse. Bertha would have no help. She knew what to do, and Prue was forbidden to come before a certain hour, unless summoned.

If Cecilia Anderson lived through the night, hope would revive; hope, at least, of a temporary rally. Again and again this "if" seemed to hang on the merest spider-line. Again and again Bertha actually held in her hand the bell-rope, one pull of which would summon Wallace, to be sent to Prue, with word that Lettice must come. He did not know how the sick woman cried out for Lettice, in her half-wandering state. He had heard an occasional call, as he passed near the room, but no words were to be distinguished. Bertha was resolved that Miss Anderson should not pass away without a sight of the child; but also she was resolved not to call Lettice sooner than might be essential.

"Would you like to see a clergyman?" she had asked on the previous evening: and an abrupt negative was returned. Bertha could not force the matter. All she could do through the long night-hours, was to watch for opportunities to whisper sometimes a short prayer, to murmur occasionally a few words from the Bible, or the verse of a hymn. Bertha was a good and earnest girl. It might be quite true, as Prue had said, that she was naturally eager and restless, naturally fond of work and fond of change; but also she was a girl of right principle and of deep religious feeling, a "servant of Jesus Christ" in heart.

Her efforts met with small response, however. If Cecilia heard, she did not seem to heed, with one exception. Bertha, standing by her side, said slowly—

"'Let the unrighteous man forsake his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him: and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.'"

"What?" cried Cecilia, with a startling suddenness.

"'He will abundantly pardon!'" reverently repeated Bertha.

"Will He?"

"If we turn to Him, and forsake our unrighteous thoughts."

Cecilia sighed, and said no more.

At six o'clock, according to arrangement, Prue came, and Bertha left the room. Miss Anderson greeted Prue with a look of welcome; strange to say, warmer than any she had accorded to Bertha. Something in the quiet and self-contained bearing of the elder sister attracted her, while Bertha's eager pretty manner seemed to have a reverse effect. The last hour there had been some slight improvement; yet Prue noted a strangeness of the sick woman's eyes.

"Come here. I want to speak to you," Cecilia said impatiently. "Is that other girl gone? She means well, but she worries me. She will not let me alone, and I can't get to Lettice. I want my little Lettice back again. That girl will not let her come. Everything that I love is going from me. Call Lettice, if you please."

Prue knelt down on a stool by her side, wearing a face less impassive than often, because it was full of pity. "I am going to stay with you for a little while," she said. "Lettice shall come by-and-by."

Chapter V.

Their Non-Arrival.

SATURDAY afternoon! Felix had been for a sharp walk, to get rid of certain lonely sensations, which were likely enough to assail a young fellow during his first few days away from home. Not that he had left his home, but that his home had left him: and this made matters worse. For he had not the interest of new surroundings. He was in the same place and under the same roof as before; only all that had made the house his home was withdrawn from it.

Like a good many others of his age and standing, Felix had sometimes chafed against certain restrictions, counted needful by the half-sister who had been to him as a parent. Freedom had a charm for him, as for not a few. Yet, now that the restrictions were gone, now that liberty was obtained, now that he might come and go and do as he chose, he found himself more conscious of loss than of gain.

Though not free from work till after dark, he had then started off immediately for a brisk walk along the Parade, doing two miles out and two back in something under an hour. The rapid motion was a relief after long-standing, and it overcame a slight tendency to low spirits, from which he had suffered all day.

Such snow as had fallen on Thursday was gone from Brighton: and he scarcely noticed the ice-cold wind, for his mind was intent on other matters.

He had a definite and absorbing aim before him. Felix meant—not only meant, but was resolutely determined—to get on in life. He had no idea of resting content with his present position. Getting on would mean hard work: and he was willing to work hard. He intended to succeed: to climb from step to step, to win confidence and approval, to leave the stationer's shop in his rear, to make money, to secure a home for his sisters. So far as all this went, it was right. The aim was a commendable aim in itself: only it lacked something. He did not look up for Divine Blessing on his purpose. He did not whisper, "If God will."

Except for this lack, the boy meant well. A certain amount of egoism might mingle with his dreams: yet a silver thread of unselfishness ran through them also. Cecilia's devotion to him in the past, he accepted, as boys do accept such devotion, merely as a matter of course and no more than his due. Nevertheless, he realised that his turn had come, and he longed to work for her: and when the thought came up of Lettice's pale face and sad eyes, his own eyes grew dim. Felix was glad of the darkness, that nobody might see.

"Lettice shall always be mine, never Dr. Bryant's," he declared to himself. Then he wondered, as he had wondered twenty times that day, how soon a letter would arrive. Surely Lettice might have written the day after their arrival.

Felix had hardly yet begun to dream of another kind of love, a closer tie than that of sister and brother. Many boys begin long before they reach his age: but he was young for his years, a thorough home-lad, and he had mixed little in society of any kind.

Cecilia's proud reticence had come in the way here of what might have been for his advantage. He had formed two or three friendships in his school-days, permitted though not encouraged by her: but the friends so made had recently left Brighton, for India and the Colonies. Felix was left stranded, without a single real friend in all Brighton, at the moment when he most needed friends, and with few acquaintances.

He was almost as slow as Cecilia herself in "taking to" strangers. There were two or three other young fellows at the stationer's, beside one rather older man named Andrews, and Mr. Thompson himself, Felix' employer. Felix was respectful to Mr. Thompson, submissive to Andrews, and on the alert to do his work well: but personally, he cared for none of them, perhaps because he would not care, would not take the trouble to know any of them sufficiently well for indifference to pass into liking. After Cecilia's style, he held aloof, and thereby made himself disliked. A man who would have friends must "show himself friendly."

"I shall not live this sort of life always. I am made for something better," he would say to himself, when he found that his own repellent bearing was inducing the same from others. He forgot that whether or no some other mode of life might be "better," according to his views, yet so long as he did live "this sort of life," he owed courtesy and kindness to those about him. Or perhaps it was not so much that he forgot, as that he did not know. Cecilia's training, moral and religious, of this dearly loved young brother had been defective.

"I am made for something better," Felix declared again, late that Saturday afternoon, as he left the Parade and strode through the dark streets towards his now lonely home. "Something will turn up, sooner or later. I will get on! I'll let them know that I'm up to work, and then, when an opening comes—"

"How do you do?" a voice said, and Felix found himself, under the lamplight, face to face with Mr. Kelly.

The clergyman looked younger, more frail, and more at his ease, than when visiting Cecilia Anderson. Felix paused less reluctantly than he would have paused a week earlier. In his present loneliness, a friendly word was not to be counted worthless.

"How do you do, Anderson? Quite well? So you have not yet heard of your sisters' safe arrival?"

"No." Felix wondered how he knew.

"I called at your door just now, in passing, to ask. And Mrs. Crofton says that a letter is awaiting you. She hopes it may contain news of them."

"From Lettice?"

"A strange handwriting, Mrs. Crofton said—though that was hardly her business or mine." Mr. Kelly turned, and walked beside Felix. "You will be impatient to have your letter."

"I ought to have news of them by this time. They went on Thursday."

"True, that snowy day."

"Dr. Rotherbotham told me I had no business to let them start. But—I don't know how I was to help it. Cecilia always has her own way. I suppose it's all right. Ill news would be sure to travel fast. Only I did think Lettice would drop me a line."

"I should like to hear about them before long. Will you come in to supper with me to-morrow evening, after Church?"

"I don't go to Church in the evening," Felix answered bluntly.

Mr. Kelly smiled, and the smile lent to his face a peculiar attractiveness. Somehow he had never felt disposed to smile in Cecilia's presence. "Only in the morning?" he asked. "But come to supper just the same. At half-past eight."

Felix agreed, with the private addition, "I needn't stay long, if he begins to preach."

Then Mr. Kelly crossed the road, to speak to somebody who seemed to be waiting for a word: while Felix dashed on to his own door, less than half-a-street distant.

On the step, Mrs. Crofton met him. "A letter at last, sir. But it isn't from Miss Anderson nor Miss Lettice. I know their handwritings."

Felix recognised Dr. Bryant's, and opened it in haste.

"Why! What—"

"Eh, sir? Nothing wrong?"

"They've not got there! Never arrived! What can it mean?"

Mrs. Crofton's lower jaw dropped, and she burst into a series of exclamations. Felix read his note again, deaf to her audible astonishment!

"QUARRINGTON COTTAGE "Friday afternoon.

"DEAR ANDERSON,—My niece and Lettice did not arrive yesterday; and no letter has come to-day. The weather has been sufficient to account for delay; but I think a telegram might have been sent, to prevent my useless drive into Bristol. Pray let me know when I am to expect them.—

"Yours faithfully, "MAURICE BRYANT."

"Extraordinary!" muttered Felix.

"Nothing bad, sir, I hope? Not really bad?"

"Quite bad enough. Nobody knows where they are, or what has become of them."

It relieved Felix to give out this information fiercely, almost as if the landlady herself were to blame; and the colouring on her high cheek-bones perceptibly lessened.

A railway accident! A collision, and everybody killed! The train snowed up, and passengers frozen to death! These were only a few of the suggestions, poured out in a stream for the further distraction of Felix. Or Miss Anderson has been taken suddenly worse, and they had had to stop half-way. This came nearer the mark, and had also a greater air of probability; and the conjecture filled Felix with foreboding. No light cause would, he knew, have delayed Cecilia. She must have been ill indeed, before she would have resolved to sacrifice her ticket and that of Lettice, and to go to the heavy expense of lodgings or hotel. How such expense could be met, Felix had no idea. He was only convinced that Cecilia would not incur it, short of absolute necessity. Then came the question, why had not Lettice written? Surely her first impulse would have been to tell Felix all!

Mrs. Crofton enlarged upon possibilities, wiping her eyes. "I always did say things was sure to go wrong! Sending them two poor innocents off, all that way, and not a soul to take care of 'em. And Miss Anderson no more fit to travel—! And that there awful snowstorm! And as for Miss Lettice—poor little angel! O dear, dear! But, there, you'll go after them, wherever they be, Mr. Felix! Of course you'll go, this minute."

Felix was divided between a strong sense of dismay at the mystery, and a strong inclination to laugh at Cecilia being termed a "poor innocent." Dismay won the day. "How can I? There's no money; and I don't know where to go," he said.

Then, snatching up his cap, he hurried out of the house, with an idea of overtaking Mr. Kelly. He was too late, for the clergyman had disappeared. Felix hesitated some seconds, and sped to the nearest post-office, whence he despatched a brief telegram to Dr. Bryant, intimating how matters stood. After which, he found his way to the Vicarage, arriving barely in time. Mr. Kelly was on the doorstep, gloves in hand.

"Sorry I can't wait: I have an engagement," were words upon Mr. Kelly's very lips, but he did not utter them. "Yes," he said. "You are in trouble. Come in. I can spare five minutes. What is it?"

He turned back into the house, and Felix followed, out of breath with his run. Mrs. Crofton's various suggestions had haunted him by turns as he came; the least probable causing perhaps the most uneasiness. Worst of all was his own sense of helplessness. Yet, he said little, but placed before Mr. Kelly the short letter he received.

"From Dr. Bryant. That is your uncle—your sister's uncle, I mean?"

"Yea."

Mr. Kelly read, and lifted perplexed eyes.

"This is strange. Miss Anderson must have stopped somewhere short of Bristol. It looks a little—I am afraid—as if she had been too unwell to continue the journey. I do not understand why neither you nor Dr. Bryant have heard."

"That is the puzzle. Cecilia would not stop without very strong reason. She isn't one to give in easily. And surely Lettice might have telegraphed."

"It seems so at first sight. Telegraphed or written. I hope that their not sending word is a good sign. No doubt they have delayed, with the wish to save you needless anxiety."

For a moment this thought brought relief. "To be sure, it might be that. It would be like them. They might guess, though, that not hearing anything would be as bad. And why did not Lettice telegraph to Dr. Bryant? It ought to have been done."

"People do not always exercise commonsense. Miss Anderson may have been—not well enough—and Lettice is so young for her age."

"The question now is—what am I to do?"

"You have telegraphed to Dr. Bryant already. He may possibly have received news since sending off his note; and if so, you will hear again. Very likely you will have a letter from Lettice in the course of the day. I think, however, that you would be wise to go to the station this evening, and to make a few inquiries. Perhaps the guard of the train may remember if they reached Victoria."

"To be sure! The very thing! I asked him to see to them."

"Then he would tell you at least so much. If he saw them there, they must now be either in London, or somewhere on the way to Bristol. You are almost certain to hear something, at latest, by the morning's post."

"And if I don't—"

"Then we must consider what step to take next. I cannot wait longer now, as I am overdue elsewhere. Only one word—pray look upon me as a friend in this matter, Anderson. If it becomes needful for you to run up to Town, do not be anxious as to ways and means. You must let me advance any sum that you may need." He held out his hand, and it was grasped in kind, with unusual warmth, half shame-faced by Felix. "Now good-bye, and I sincerely trust that all will come right in a few hours."

Those few hours were hard to live through. Do what Felix might, he could not lose sight of his suspense. To sit still was an impossibility; and to remain long within reach of Mrs. Crofton's doleful prognostications was an equal impossibility; but he kept incessant watch for tidings, and at length a telegram arrived from Dr. Bryant: "Not come; no news; most perplexing."

Felix slept little that night, and he was astir unwontedly early next morning. The postman's knock brought him downstairs with a rush, to receive a letter: handwriting unfamiliar; postmark Reading. He tore it open.

"From 'Prudence Valentine.' Who on earth is she? Something Farm—What's the name?" He skimmed the contents rapidly.

"DEAR MR. ANDERSON,—I am very sorry no one wrote to you yesterday or to-day, but between us all, it has been somehow overlooked. I am writing now late at night, that the letter may go off early to-morrow—Saturday—morning.

"My sister travelled on Thursday from Haywards Heath with your sisters; and as Miss Anderson was taken worse on the way, becoming really too ill to go on, she brought them both home with her. We had our doctor in at once, and all has been done that could be done. My sister Bertha is a trained nurse.

"It would be wrong to hide from you that Miss Anderson has been in great danger, and that her state is still critical; but we hope that she has begun to improve.

"My sister telegraphed to Dr. Bryant on Thursday from Reading station, and a letter ought to have been sent to you. But we were very much occupied. Lettice was so worn-out at first that she could do nothing but sleep; and she has been prostrate since with headache, really able to think of nothing. Otherwise she would have begged me to communicate with you. I am distressed that it did not occur to any of us to do so sooner.

"You may depend upon us to take every care of them both. Lettice is not ill, only knocked down with over-strain, and I think with the parting also from yourself. We are ordered to keep her very quiet for a few days. If you would wish to come and see your sisters, pray do not hesitate—but Miss Anderson assures us that this is out of the question for the present.

"Believe me, yours truly— "PRUDENCE VALENTINE."

"So she did send a telegram, after all!" exclaimed Felix. "Why didn't it arrive, I wonder?"

He was more conscious at the moment of relief than of anxiety. Nothing could be worse than the blank uncertainty he had been enduring; and he failed to realise how bad the account of Cecilia was. An impulse seized him to tell Mr. Kelly without delay; and early though the hour was, he seized his cap and hastened to the Vicarage.

"Come in; pray come in; I am delighted to see you," Mr. Kelly said, rising from his solitary breakfast. "Another cup—" to the maid who had ushered the young fellow in. "Well, good news, I hope. You look like it. Sit down and have breakfast with me."

"It's all right. Cecilia was taken worse on the way, and they are in a farmhouse near Reading. At least—I don't mean 'all right'—" rather confusedly—"but she is better now, and we know where they are. Yes—perfect strangers—nobody I ever heard of before. I can't think what made them do it. Would you like to see the letter?"

Mr. Kelly received the sheet, smiling. Then, as his eyes fell on the handwriting, a curious expression replaced the smile. He glanced on to find the signature, and a faint flush crept slowly over his spare pale face.

"It's from a Miss Valentine."

"True." The flush deepened, and Mr. Kelly put up one hand, as if to shield his slight embarrassment. "True," he repeated, and he read the letter twice, with an abstracted air.

"Odd! Isn't it?" said Felix.

Mr. Kelly looked up, with the start of one awakened from a dream. Then he read the letter a third time, and gave it back.

"I know the name," he said. "Many years ago I met a Miss Valentine—the same, undoubtedly, since her name was Prudence, and she, too, had a sister named Bertha. Besides, the home was the same. I met them elsewhere—not there—but I can recall the address. Your sisters are in good hands. This, at least, I can assure you."

"Cecilia is better now, you see."

"I hope so—to some extent. Yes, evidently better than when she first got there. And Lettice will be well looked after. The child needs it."

"Can't think what on earth they would have done, if they hadn't come across Miss Valentine."

"If not in that way, they would have been cared for in some other way."

"But I say!" broke out Felix. "We've no right! I hate to be indebted to strangers."

"We are all children of one Father; bound by close family ties. Is it so hard, viewed in that light?"

"Cecilia would never submit, if she could help it."

"But if she cannot? Perhaps she has that lesson to learn. Some day it may be in your power to repay the kindness. At present you can only accept it, and be grateful."

Felix had to accept it; but he was far from feeling grateful.

"Is Lettice never to come to me again?" Cecilia asked querulously of Prudence, at the very hour when Felix sat with Mr. Kelly at the Vicarage breakfast table. "It is so long since I have seen the child! Does she not care? Felix would not treat me so."

"She will come soon. She was better yesterday, but quiet is needed. Poor little Lettice cares far too much. If we allowed it, she would come this moment."

"The days are so long—and I am alone. None of my own people are with me. Only strangers."

"Am I quite a stranger still?"

"No. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. But I seem to be cut off from everybody."

"Except One—who is always near. Never cut off from Him."

Cecilia stirred uneasily.

"Somebody else said so. I forget who. So many voices have come to me, one time and another. I cannot always distinguish them. My mother's voice for one; and it brought back things I had forgotten. But I do not talk. It is not my way. I told Mr. Kelly so."

"Mr. Kelly!"

"He has a Church in Brighton. I do not care for him; though he means well."

A red spot rose to either of Prue's cheeks, and there remained. She half said, "What Mr. Kelly?" but checked herself.

"He would not let me alone. People will not, I do not choose to be interfered with; and he interfered. Still, of course he was kind. He found employment for Felix; and he came to see me. He would have come oftener, if I had allowed it. But I cannot talk of myself to anybody and everybody."

"The less we talk of ourselves the better, perhaps," suggested Prue. "He is a clergyman, then?"

"Yes. We went to his Church. He thought himself bound to put questions to me about myself. Perhaps he was, but I was not bound to answer them. As if—" and a pause. "But sometimes—now—" another pause.

"Sometimes now, you would wish to see him again, perhaps. Is that it?" The red spots deepened as Prue spoke.

"No, not exactly. I did not mean that, exactly. One cannot always explain . . . I want Lettice, and they will not let her come. It is cruel—so ill as I am."

"Lettice loves you dearly." Prue could have clung to the other subject, but she would not.

"Well, yes—perhaps. She has always been with me,—always—in those old days. Past now! They can never come back!"

"The past does not come back. It is always going on to something fresh; until we reach Home."

"I have no home. It is behind—with Felix."

"And mine is before—with Jesus." Prue spoke low and reverently. She seldom revealed so much of her true self; but Cecilia's need appealed strongly.

A flickering smile crossed the other's face. "You! A mere girl!" she said, not realising that Prue was scarcely seven years her junior. "What can you know of life?"

"More perhaps than you would suppose . . . I have a dear home here, but the real Home is there."

"People talk so, I know; and you seem to mean it. But to me it is only—"

"Yes—it is only—"

"The unknown. A black depth of nothingness. I do not know why I should say all this. It is not my way. I suppose life goes on there—of course. No unprejudiced or reasonable mind can believe that death means annihilation. There is too much in us for that . . . But the future is so vague. I never expected to be afraid when my time should come . . . Only sometimes—now I am so weak—looking over and seeing no foothold—" Her eyes wandered round the room strangely, even fearfully.

"But if, looking over, you saw the outstretched Arms of Christ, our Lord, waiting to receive you? If in the valley, you had His rod and His staff for your comfort—?"

A softened look stole into the haggard face.

"He is willing. He is waiting. It is we who hold back. It is not He," Prue went on softly. "He is always 'far more ready to hear than we are to ask.' When He has come from heaven to die for us, isn't it the least we can do to believe in His love and pity?"

Cecilia shut her eyes resolutely, and Prue said no more.

Chapter VI.

Quarrington Cottage.

"THEODOSIA, my dear—"

"Well?" said Theodosia tartly.

She was a pretty woman still, though over thirty-five in age, tall and fair—but the fine eyes which carefully avoided meeting those of her husband were not happy, and her whole air expressed intense ennui.

Certainly, the outside world looked cheerless. Snow had fallen heavily throughout the preceding day, and threatening clouds hovered still over a white landscape. Theodosia Bryant hated country at the best of times, and country lanes, immediately after a snowfall, are scarcely at their best.

"The post has come in."

"The post! And to think of the beloved rat-tat of the London postman, ten times a day!" sighed Theodosia. "However, one may be thankful to be not utterly cut off from the rest of the world, I suppose. I wasn't sure whether we might not have come to that. Anything for me?" She shot an uneasy side-glance at Dr. Bryant. He had a handsome face, calm and firm, framed in abundant grey hair.

"Two for you. None from Brighton for me."

"Did you expect to hear? I didn't," said Theodosia, reddening slightly.

"My dear, what can you know of people whom you have never seen?"

"They seem to have put you to trouble without much compunction."

"Some mistake, probably. But I shall write at once to Felix."

Dr. Bryant passed into his study, where indeed he spent the main portion of his days. He was not by nature a sociably inclined man, and since his marriage—only two years earlier—he had not become more sociable. The study grew dearer, the drawing room grew less attractive.

Not that he did not love this wife of his—the first he had ever had, though he was not her first husband. He had been thoroughly in love with the winning and graceful widow, who met him always with sweet smiles and engaging looks. And although, after the honeymoon, smiles and engaging looks became more and more rare, he was not a man to change quickly. He loved still, but he no longer enjoyed her society to the same extent as before.

Theodosia Wells had married Dr. Bryant, not because she really loved him, though his face and manner had both a certain power over her, but because she lacked the means of livelihood, and because she had a keen eye to the future of her boy, her only child. She would have endured a much worse husband than Dr. Bryant, if thereby she might secure an easy future for Keith. And "endurance" is hardly the word to employ with respect to Dr. Bryant. If endurance really were needed, it was because she failed to appreciate him, not because he failed towards her in either appreciation or duty.

How much money Dr. Bryant might possess, Theodosia had not known with any accuracy, in the days when he sought and won her, and perhaps she overestimated the amount. Still she had known him to be comfortably off, and to be free from family burdens. So much the better for Keith. Dr. Bryant had lived in Quarrington Cottage for nearly a quarter of a century, yet Theodosia, had not had the smallest doubt that, when she should become his wife, she would be able to dislodge him. She was not going to be buried in the country. The Cottage must be let or sold, and they would reside in London.

Disappointment awaited Theodosia. She found Dr. Bryant yielding and compliant on minor points. Elderly bachelor though he had been, he placed household arrangements in her hands, let her do and manage as she chose, and seldom interfered outside his proper masculine province. But when she began to press for a change of residence, the desire was at once met by resistance. Quarrington Cottage was his home, and in that home, he meant to live and die.

"Anything else, but not that," he said, when she urged her wish.

"Anything that I don't want, but not what I do!"

"My dear, I told you plainly what manner of home I had to offer, and in accepting me, you accepted it. Then was the time to protest; not now."

Theodosia did not quickly give up hope. She argued and coaxed, worried and pleaded, sulked and wept, by turns; but all efforts were met by a placid and inviolable determination. Gradually she became convinced that, do and say what she might, here was her home during the term of her husband's life.

Uninviting though the prospect might seem to one of Theodosia's tastes, she had no wish to quarrel with that husband. She liked and admired him personally, almost loved him; and she wished to have a strong hold upon him, for the sake of Keith. What money he possessed, he was not bound to leave to his little step-son. She was not much better informed now than before her marriage, as to its precise amount: for he seldom spoke of money matters, and she was too proud to ask. But she had learnt that he had or might have other relatives, near of kin though long estranged; also that he had grieved much over the long estrangement, and that he often craved to hear something of his sister's children, if they still lived.

"But he shall do nothing for them, while I have a voice in the matter," she resolved.

Fresh disappointment awaited her. A letter one day came from his niece, the only surviving child of his only sister, and he showed it at once to Theodosia, with his punctilious frankness. He might have, and of necessity, he did have interests apart from his wife, because she could not or would not enter into them, but he had not intentionally any secrets from her.

"Absurd!" Theodosia said, as she gave it back. "Miss Anderson has no right to appeal to you now, after all these years. It is perfectly ridiculous. And a step-brother and step-sister into the bargain. Does she coolly expect you to adopt them all? As if you had not enough to do with your money."

"Quarrington Cottage would hold them all, and not crowd us, my dear. But the boy can make his own way. Cecilia and Lettice must come, of course." He dwelt upon the word "Cecilia" affectionately, feeling that she belonged to him.

"Come here! For how long, pray?"

"So long as they need a home. I fear it may not be very long for poor Cecilia, judging from what she says—but you see she begs us on no account to let a word of this reach Felix or Lettice. You need not look anxious, Theodosia,—" a very gentle manner of characterising the expression on her face. "I have means enough. Your comforts will not be affected. At the most, it means only laying by less."

Theodosia at once thought of Keith's future.

"And I am to have no voice in the matter. I am to have these strangers forced upon me—a vulgar disagreeable woman, for aught we know, and a great rough girl, to knock about my little delicate Keith. If I had guessed two years ago what I was going in for—"

"Nay, Theodosia! Better not to say what you will regret by-and-by."

Theodosia, in no mood for self-restraint, broke into angry remonstrances, and bitter accusations of his indifference to her happiness. She had a sharp tongue, and that hour she gave it fall swing. Doctor Bryant listened with a pained look, but by no means with the air of one willing to yield. He met her anger gravely, and spoke with his usual calm kindness; but his resolution did not falter. Theodosia's passion was like the sea breaking over a rock.

At the end of the interview, Dr. Bryant simply said, "Now I must write to catch the post. When you have had leisure for thought, you will view the matter differently. I shall answer for your welcome, as well as for my own."

The different view was slow in developing.

For two days Theodosia had hardly a pleasant word or look for her husband: and Dr. Bryant, without remonstrance, retired more than usual to the solitude of his study.

When Cecilia's answer arrived, he as usual handed it to his wife, observing, "They will come, as soon as my niece is able to travel."

Theodosia noted the gleam of pleasure in his eyes; and she woke up suddenly to a fresh aspect of the question. To repel her husband by persistent ill-humour would simply mean to thrust him under the influence of Cecilia Anderson. This would not do. If Cecilia were a designing woman, what might she not effect? Theodosia thought again of Keith, and for Keith's sake she mastered herself, managed to smile, and inquired Cecilia's age.

Dr. Bryant seemed agreeably surprised. "That is right, my dear. I knew I could depend upon your kind feeling, when it should come to the point," he said. "I am not sure about the age. Some years over thirty, I imagine, and the child she speaks of as fifteen—young for that. Not too old to be something of a companion for Keith; and you and Cecilia will be friends."

"Thanks!" Theodosia could not control her scorn.

"You will arrange everything comfortably for them—south aspect, and so on. Yes, it must be a room with south aspect."

"Not the best spare room! There is no other, except at the top of the house."

"An attic bedroom! For my only niece!" Dr. Bryant looked at his wife in astonishment.

Theodosia swallowed something with difficulty. "I certainly did not mean to give Miss Anderson the best spare room!"

Dr. Bryant was silent, and by his silence won the day. Theodosia again came to the conclusion that her wisest course—for Keith's sake—was to conciliate him, even at the cost of her best spare room. "But as for being friends! Faugh!" she said scornfully. "I am very much obliged to Maurice."

With the Thursday, on which Cecilia and Lettice were expected, came heavy snow. "Of course they would not come in such weather," Theodosia declared.

"Of course they will send me word, if they give it up," Dr. Bryant answered. He was in a state of unwonted restlessness all day, and ordered the pony-trap to be in readiness, despite the storm, to take him to Bristol station. If they arrived, he could obtain there a closed fly.

Not long before he meant to start, Theodosia took a look, in passing, out of the hall-window, and saw a telegraph messenger approach. She opened the door herself, received the telegram, paid the extra fee, and passed on to the drawing room.

The address was to "Mrs. Bryant."

"Odd!" Theodosia said, as she stood gazing. "What should make them put my name? Perhaps they think my husband would be off by this time! And if he were—as if I should be in any suspense! Why didn't they send it earlier?" A wave of indignant disgust towards the Andersons swelled in her breast. "Why should I trouble myself to open it? What do I care for those people? . . . Maurice is infatuated . . . Let him go, and have his drive for nothing! . . . What harm? . . . It will make him think less of them, perhaps!" Such half-formed ideas flashed through Theodosia's mind; and before she knew whither they tended, or what was the actual form of the temptation, she had tossed the yellow envelope upon the blazing fire. One little flash of flame, and only a curling shred remained.

Then fear seized her. Suppose her husband should find out what she had done! Suppose, later, hearing that a telegram had been despatched, he should trace its receipt to her! Suppose—"But what nonsense! It was to me, not to him. I do not know who it was from, or what it said. I can say that I have heard nothing, and that there was no telegram for him."

She tried to put aside the uncomfortable recollection, watched Dr. Bryant off on his snowy drive, and spent the afternoon in a state of mingled remorse and irritation. Her dislike of the Andersons was enhanced by the fact that she had, in a sense, done something to injure them.

When Dr. Bryant returned, chilled, disappointed, and plainly hurt, she found not the slightest difficulty in showing exactly the same indignation which she might naturally have shown, if no telegram had been sent.

"And after all, I do not know that it was from them," she said again in self-excuse, when her husband had gone off, with a mild, "Tut, my dear! Things are not so bad as that. I shall hear to-morrow."

But the next morning arrived, and when the postbag was brought in, Dr. Bryant found no letter from Brighton. As related, he came at once to tell his wife. After which he retreated anew to his study, and wrote the short letter which reached Felix on the afternoon of Saturday.

Theodosia watched him disappear, then threw herself back with a profound sigh. "I only hope something may have happened to prevent their coming altogether. Too good to be true, I am afraid. But to be boxed up here, in this wretched place, with people that I know I shall detest—"

"Mamsie!" a small voice said, and a little boy in knickerbockers entered. He had Theodosia's pretty complexion, and his hair hung still in long curls, over a lace collar. Theodosia's face softened at the sight of him. All her tenderness went out towards this child; a lovable boy by nature, but systematically spoilt.

"Come here, my sweet! What has Keith been doing?" He was six years old, but she had not yet learnt to drop the baby style of speech; and there was still a babyish intonation in his little high-pitched voice.

"Mamsie, nurse said I wasn't to come; but I would. I knew you wouldn't mind."

"Mamsie is always glad to have her boy; always!" as Keith sprang upon her.

"It's as snowy as can be. Such a lot of white. Mamsie, what does father mean. He says I'm to have a jolly new playfellow."

"You don't want a playfellow, do you? You are quite happy with Mamsie, and nurse, and all the pets."

"Ah, but I should like a boy!"

"But this isn't a boy. It is only a girl—a big dull girl, twice as old as you."

"Twice six is twelve."

"Clever boy! Well, she is fifteen—a great deal more than twice as old. No companion for you, and much too big to play games. She will only be in the way."

"I don't want a girl. If it was a boy, I should like it."

"Ah, it isn't a boy. Only a girl, and a tiresome grown-up lady, who is ill, and who will give no end of trouble, and not like the least noise. You will have to creep up and downstairs like a mouse now."

"Mamsie, don't you like them to come?"

"I hate it, Keith." Theodosia hid her face. "I can't bear to have them here. It makes me miserable. But you mustn't tell father, because he would be so vexed."

"No, I won't. And I shall hate them too." Keith doubled his little fist. "I won't like them, and I won't play with the little girl; and I'll make lots of noise; and I won't care what nobody says. Mamsie, I wish you wouldn't cry! Why do you? Why mayn't I tell father you don't like them? Why must they come, Mamsie?"

Quarrington Cottage stood alone near the middle of a long lane, over two miles from the outskirts of Bristol. There was a village less than half-a-mile off—"the village" to the neighbourhood. It was not peculiarly pretty country, even in summer, being somewhat too flat, though distant hills might be seen: and now, under a sheet of snow, it was monotonous. But Dr. Bryant never found it monotonous, never wearied of the quiet. He was always happy in the country, always miserable in a town. Health and spirits failed him immediately, under the oppression of a crowd of human beings, while to his wife such a crowd was a very elixir of delight.

Still, Dr. Bryant had made no secret of these his tastes before marriage. Theodosia knew, or she might have known, all about the matter. He attempted to hide nothing; and if she failed to understand, the fault lay in her own dulness of perception. To some extent she had understood, for she had professed to agree with him, and had expatiated on the delights of getting away from town into country; only she had failed to emphasise the fact that it was getting away which she liked, and by no means remaining. Dr. Bryant loved his country home all the year round, in all seasons, and in all weathers. Theodosia liked a country-house—including plenty of guests—for a few weeks in summer or autumn. These diverse views had not been sufficiently weighed before marriage: or if Theodosia had recognised them, she had reckoned too much on her own influence, too little on the steadiness of Dr. Bryant's will.

A harder fiat could hardly have been uttered, than that which kept Lettice in her own room, and away from Cecilia. She did not see any need for the prohibition. In matters of health, many people are apt to count themselves worse than they are, a few to count themselves better than they are; and Lettice belonged to the minority. True she felt desperately tired: her head ached, and exertion was a struggle: but what of all that? What did it matter—what did anything matter—side by side with the fact that Cecilia wanted her? By nature patient and enduring, as regarded any bodily discomfort of her own, she was neither patient nor enduring when withheld from doing the will of one whom she loved.

Submission to the Divine Will was as yet an unknown element in the life of Lettice. Because she passionately loved her sister and brother, she would have done aught, borne aught for them. Because she did not love God, His Will was not dear to her: and she chafed against it. Not worry herself! They might tell her not to do so, but how could she obey when she thought of Cecilia, ill and among strangers, parted from Felix, and craving the younger sister who might not go to her?

"Keep that child quiet for two or three days," had been the doctor's order on the morning after their arrival. "A sensitive child—the strain has been too severe, and she is ripe for pretty nearly anything. No; I don't think she'll be ill, if we take her in hand at once: but she must rest. How old do you say? Nearly sixteen! She doesn't look more than fourteen. Well, the two are best apart for a few days. Unless what?—Yes, of course—if Miss Anderson were taken suddenly worse—but I must leave that to your discretion. At present she will have all she needs in your care and your sister's. The child could do nothing further. You are good Samaritans to take them both in, after this fashion. It is the sort of Christianity which a man respects."

After the first day or two, Lettice was allowed to dress, and to sit in a cosy arm-chair near the window, looking out upon a garden, which in summer was lovely, and which even in winter had some beauty of its own. Lettice could not enjoy that beauty. She could enjoy nothing if she might not go to Cecilia: and at present she was a prisoner in Prue's room. She sat there hour after hour, doing nothing, declining to be interested, going round and round in the same circle of thought. Always, how was Cecilia? what was Cecilia doing? did Cecilia miss her greatly? And might she soon be with Cecilia? She could not acquiesce in her deprivation. Her eyes were intent ever upon the door, her ears were intent for footsteps beyond the door. At this rate she was not likely to recover tone and strength quickly. Prue coming in on the fourth morning, with the usual remark, "Not yet," met a face of despair which went to her heart.

"Why, Lettice, poor child, you don't mind so very much," she said, sitting down by her side. "It is only for a day or two, I hope. You must try to be brave."

Lettice held her fast. "Oh, I don't know how. If only I needn't wait! I do want to see Sissie."

"It is dull for you here, I am afraid."

"O no; I don't mind being dull. I only want to go in and kiss Sissie."

"Miss Anderson seems really a little better, I hope."

"But if—if—" Lettice could not go on.

"Yes, I understand. I asked the doctor about that. If Miss Anderson should be taken worse, you should be called."

"Promise!" whispered Lettice.

"I do promise, so far as is in my power. But this is only to comfort you. We think she is doing well. I told her the doctor forbad your coming. She seemed to think it was on her account, and I said no more. She would be unhappy to think that you were not well."

"But it's nothing. I'm only tired. People must be tired. If only I needn't keep away from her."

"Lettice, do you never pray?"

The question came unexpectedly, and struck home. She had been asked almost the same before—"Do you often pray?" But Prue asked, "Do you never pray?"

"I don't know," she said faintly, with a dim sense that the short form which she sometimes, not always, repeated at night, was scarcely what Prue meant.

"I think you ought to begin now. Sissie needs your prayers. If you were with her, you could do little—nothing more, perhaps, than Bertha and I can do. But God can do everything. He has all power in heaven and earth. Why do you not ask Him to take care of her for you, and to make her well again, if it is His will to do so?"

Lettice kept these words in mind. "She is in good hands," Mr. Kelly had said: and now Prue added, "God can do everything." Then the two questions came up, side by side: "Do you often pray?" "Do you never pray?" The two voices chiming in together, with another addition from Prue: "Why do you not ask Him to take care of her for you?" The rest of the sentence floated away unheeded: for what was the use if Cecilia could not get well?

Clasping her hands, she tried to carry out Prue's advice. "Please take care of Sissie; take care of Sissie; O please take care of her!" were the only words which would occur, but Lettice repeated them again and again, and a soft sense crept over her, that the petitions were surely heard. It was Lettice's first lesson in real prayer.

"I've been—trying—" she whispered that night, when Prue bent over her.

"Trying?"

"Trying to do—what you said . . . Don't you know? . . . You asked if I ever—ever—"

"Ever prayed?"

"Yes. And—I have been trying—really! . . . Mr. Kelly asked me once—if I didn't often do it. I don't often—but—"

"But you will begin now. You will do it often from to-day. Mr. Kelly was right," murmured Prue. "He—was he a kind friend to you, Lettice?"

"He got the work for Felix, and he used to come and see Sissie. I don't think Sissie liked him much."

"And you—did you like him?"

Prue blamed herself for letting the conversation drift in this direction; yet perhaps enough had been said in the other direction. "O yes—I liked sometimes," Lettice answered. "He told me to write and tell him how Sissie was. And he said if we were in trouble, I must let him know."

Lettice shut her eyes, and Prue asked no more. Why, indeed, should she?

Chapter VII.

Summoned.

THE "two or three days" of Lettice's enforced absence from Cecilia's room grew into a fortnight. She was allowed to dress, and even to creep into an adjoining room; but this was the utmost that she could be counted fit for. Prue sometimes wondered whether the strain of being with Cecilia could prove more harmful than the strain of not being with her; but the doctor was firm, and Bertha took his view of the matter.

Then upon Cecilia's slight improvement followed a severe relapse; and Lettice's presence was not to be thought of. Lettice submitted; resisting less than earlier. Perhaps the present prohibition seemed natural, since she had been kept away by Mrs. Crofton in the worst phases of Cecilia's first attack; but she grieved over having been forbidden the room when Cecilia was better.

Nan would sit staring at her, with light reddened eyes of girlish sympathy; and Prue would say: "No one could know that this was coming on, Lettice, dear." Sometimes Lettice turned from both of them, in her distress, refusing comfort; but later the whispered apology was sure to come: "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be vexed. You are all so kind."

During the early part of this fresh relapse, Cecilia was much disposed to wander. She ceased to ask after Lettice, evidently counting her out of reach. Generally she knew who came and went; but it was plain that she kept no count of time. Days might be weeks to her; weeks might be months. There was not a little rambling talk of the past, and her nurses learnt a good deal more of her history than she would willingly have divulged. It was a brokenly-told story, minus many links, containing much of sorrow and disappointment, with hard struggling to keep afloat, but lightened by a spirit of courage, endurance, and proud resolution, also of strong affection.

Sometimes she believed herself to be at Dr. Bryant's, and she would then speak distressfully of her obligations to the Valentines, by which she was tried precisely as Felix was tried. Sometimes she knew herself to be still at the Farm, and then she would complain of being hindered from going on to Bristol.

These were flitting surface fancies. Below the surface she seemed to live another life, bordering on that unseen world which at all times closely surrounds us. We know practically little of the experiences of sufferers, when they are too far removed by dire sickness to give expression to their thoughts. If they rally to health, they are apt to forget much that they have gone through, albeit they often come out from such an experience different from their former selves, transformed or to some extent remade. This comes about, not alone through bodily suffering, but, in some cases at least, doubtless through the silent touch of unseen influences, acting through the mind, and especially through awakened memories. It may be that "often" is too strong a word. The process is occasional rather than common; and perhaps it seldom if ever takes place, unless there has been an earnest desire to do rightly, and a sincere though blind feeling after Him Who is never far from any one of us.

From the first, Cecilia had turned from Bertha and had clung to Prue. No one could say why, except that she was possessed by the idea that Bertha alone was responsible for Lettice's long absence. She never blamed Prue. If Bertha spoke tenderly, Cecilia would show cold indifference; if Prue did the same, she would smile a response. It spoke well for Bertha that no tinge of jealousy troubled her. Prue could help where she could not; and Bertha was content.

So matters lasted, until another rally came. There were long hours of continuous sleep; and from this phase she emerged, altered. Not in face alone, but in herself. She had ceased to show dislike to Bertha, and her mind seemed far-away; while in manner she had become gentle and grateful. The old habit of reserve enveloped her still, but not to the same extent; and when alone with Prue it gave way.

For nearly two days it seemed to Prue, and perhaps also to Bertha, that recovery from this particular attack had fairly set in. The doctor spoke no word of hope, and his silence was afterwards remembered, though at the time not so much marked.

Prue was blaming herself much for an indiscretion. During Cecilia's long sleep, she had yielded to the younger sister's pleadings, and had on her own responsibility taken Lettice into the room for "one look." She had not realised what that brief glimpse would mean; because she did not realise how great an alteration had been wrought by this last relapse. It was not till she had to half carry Lettice away, shivering with the shock, that she knew how unwise she had been.

Prue confessed the deed frankly; and neither the doctor nor Bertha uttered reproaches. No need that they should. Now that for two days the sisters might have been together, Lettice was prostrated, a prisoner once more in her room. Strange to say, the unreasoning instinct of the child proved truer than the observation of Prue. From the moment of that one glimpse, Lettice never doubted that Cecilia was dying; though even Bertha had hopes of a respite; and Prue could honestly endeavour to cheer her up.

"Have I been here many weeks?" Cecilia asked, on the evening of the second day. "Or—is it months? I am so confused. I cannot remember." Then, as Prue made answer evasively, "Tell me, please. I should like to know. I came—when was it? Why did I not go on to Bristol?"

"You were too ill."

"I remember—yes. Somebody brought me. Nurse Valentine, she called herself. I cannot recall more. Only she went on with Lettice to Bristol; and you came in her place . . . That seemed so strange, when I was ill. Felix would not have left me."

"I think you a little misunderstand." Prim feared to excite her, by explaining that Lettice had been unwell; this fact having been hidden. "You shall see Lettice soon, and she will explain everything."

Cecilia moved her head slowly. "I shall never get to Bristol—now—" she said. "I should have imagined—that Lettice—But one never can know beforehand. It is all disappointment—in every one."

"Except in ONE!—Who never changes. Cannot you trust Him?"

"You mean—Christ?" after a pause. "Yes; He has been more real to me lately. I do not know how. But it is as if—"

"As if He had been showing Himself to you?"

"It may be that . . . Would He? . . . When I have lived so little for Him! . . . And yet—lately—I have felt the need. Not that I have not always tried to do my duty . . . But still—"

"Our duty is to love Him, first and best of all."

"I have not loved Him."

"But He has loved you; with love so great that He died for your sake."

"Somebody said so. Who was it? They told me that He would 'abundantly pardon.' Yes, that was it. If I would leave all evil thoughts. 'Abundantly!'"

"He will, indeed."

"I have tried so hard to do my duty. But now—it seems all failure."

"Must it not be so? Our best doings are worth nothing, when we step into the light that streams from Him . . . You know how the spots on a white dress show in sunlight, yet you may hardly have noticed them in a dark room. And He is willing to take all those spots away, 'abundantly!'"

"I have had so little leisure to think about Him."

"Perhaps now He has laid you aside, mercifully, that you might have leisure."

"Perhaps—yes. All these months of pain!" Poor thing! The two or three weeks might well look like months to her consciousness. Much experience may be compressed into a short space of time. "All these months, and I have been so alone . . . It may have been the teaching I needed . . . If Mr. Kelly were here now, I would listen; I would indeed. Tell him so, some day . . . I have thought of his words; the comfort that might be mine; and I think they helped me to ask . . . If it is not presumption, I do believe I have been heard—have been forgiven . . . Only If I could see Lettice again before I die! My heart is breaking for the child. If God would grant me this! And then I should be willing to go."

She closed her eyes, and one or two heavy tears forced their way through. It was the first time for years that she had let herself weep. "Such pain to be forsaken!" she whispered.

Prue could not bear this, and an explanation was on her lips, when Bertha stood by her side.

"I heard. Mr. Jasper is here. I will ask him, and it must be risked," Bertha said softly, and vanished.

Prue bent to kiss Cecilia.

"Yes, you are kind, very kind—you and Bertha too. But no one can take the place of Lettice; my child from her babyhood. If only once I might see her again!"

Prue was silent, not daring to promise, till a stir was heard outside, and Bertha came in leading a pale girl.

"Look!" Prue said.

And Cecilia gazed hungrily. "Lettice here! Not gone to Bristol! And I thought—"

"Now be quiet and good, both of you. No fuss or agitation," commanded the doctor.

He placed Lettice on the bed, close beside Cecilia, and the two were locked in a fast embrace, each struggling not to give way.

"And you have been ill too! Was that it? My poor little Lettice. And they never told me."

"Not ill, only out of sorts," interposed Bertha cheerfully; but Cecilia went on, unheeding—

"I thought you had gone quite away, not caring for the old sister any longer."

"O Sissie! How could you?"

"Never mind, it is all right now. If Felix too—but that cannot be. Come closer. I have something to say."

Mr. Jasper drew a pace off. "Five minutes only," he said to Bertha. "Bad for them both; but the other was getting to be worse."

"I don't like her look this evening," murmured Bertha.

"I did not this morning." The doctor then spoke in his ordinary voice. "Now, no crying, please. Don't let me have to regret the indulgence."

"So good of him, isn't it, Lettice?"

"But I may come again," Lettice tried to say.

"Dear little Lettice! Poor little Lettice!" Cecilia spoke in hasty uncertain accents. "When you see uncle Bryant—tell him—"

"Yes—"

"I forget! No, it's not that. I wanted to say—mind you go to him. Don't put off. That is your home. And you must be good to Felix—love him—do what he wants."

"I will, always."

Cecilia was breathing with difficulty: and Mr. Jasper would have removed Lettice, but there was resistance. Cecilia put him off with both hands, and clasped Lettice in a wild embrace.

"One word! Only one word. Dear one, tell Felix from me—there is nothing—nothing—nothing worth living for, but to serve God! Tell him so! I would give anything—anything—to have lived a different life . . . Too late now . . . Too late for that . . . There is forgiveness . . . abundant pardon . . . and He will not cast away! . . . But oh, to have lived for Him! To have served Him! . . . The pitifulness of living to oneself, and coming to Him only at last! . . . O the difference now, if I had only lived for Him! . . . Lettice, don't forget—don't put off! Pray to be shown! I shall look for you there! And tell Felix—tell Felix—"

Cecilia broke off: and those around her knew from her face that she could bear no more.

"O Sissie, one moment—"

"No, no. Good-bye, my dear. Tell Felix—he must come—"

Cecilia controlled herself to say so much. Then to the doctor: "Yes—take her, please."

Lettice was hurried away. The haste seemed to her cruel; and she could not see the mercifulness which would hide from her the sight of her sister's suffering. The whole interview with its abrupt termination half crushed her, and she lay for hours after, her face hidden, unable to look up or to bear being spoken to. But Cecilia Anderson was nearly at the end of her voyage. One more sharp tempest, and then her little vessel reached the harbour. Before midnight she had passed away.

The telegram announcing what had happened came heavily upon Felix. He had not allowed himself to think of danger, had not pictured to himself the possibility of any such ending. A letter written on the evening of Thursday, to tell of the fresh attack, did not arrive until after the brief message which said that all was over.

Felix had never known sorrow since his father's death, and then he had been a mere child. The cold touch of bereavement bewildered him. To hear of other people losing their friends was a matter of course, easily dismissed with a pitying word or two; but that he should lose Cecilia—Cecilia, with whom every inch of his life was associated, who had been parent, sister, protector, everything to him—that his Cecilia should have passed away beyond reach, into the world of the unseen, seemed incredible, even horrible. He felt a kind of indignant wrath that death should meddle with him and his, doing away with the pleasant future which he had pictured. Why should he suffer thus, when other people had their sisters spared to them?

Felix did not this time rush off to Mr. Kelly. He went to his work as usual, scarcely half-an-hour late, for the telegram had arrived early: and except that he looked pale and stern, no one would have supposed anything unusual to have occurred. It never so much as came into his mind to ask to remain away from work. Nothing could have been more distasteful than to sit still and think.

The shock did not affect his health; it only caused a species of mental dizziness. Life seemed to wear vague aspect, with all its ordinary curves altered, like the changed slant of a landscape, looked upon from the position of one lying prone on a hill-side. Such disorganised glimpses came to him from time to time, through unbending attention to work; and waves of angry sorrow rose, when by sheer force of habit his mind reverted to its accustomed aim—that little future home, which Cecilia now would never need. Yet none of his accounts were wrong.

A letter came from Prue next morning, containing many details. She spoke of the last meeting between the sisters, and she mentioned slightly Cecilia's agitation: but the direct message to Felix himself was through Lettice, and with that Prue would not meddle. The funeral was to be on Monday afternoon: and Dr. Bryant had telegraphed that he would be present.

"Mr. Anderson of course would go also. Could he not stay at the Farm from Saturday till Tuesday or Wednesday?"

"No: certainly not!" Felix decided this at once, with his unnecessary vehemence, crushing the sheet in his hand. Even for Lettice's sake, he would not be indebted to the Valentines further than was unavoidable. Things were bad enough already. If he had not feared to show disrespect to Cecilia's memory, he would have stayed away altogether. The thought of seeing Dr. Bryant would alone have been almost enough to deter him. But he knew what would be said: and a weak little pencil scrawl from Lettice implored him to go.

Felix was pre-disposed to dislike the Valentines. He objected much to certain things in this letter of Prue's. What business had she to speak of Cecilia's "hope" and "trust," in terms which distinctly implied that they were new, the outcome of a recent experience? If Cecilia had not before been so ready for the great change impending, this would at once leave him where she had stood, would place him apart from her in a kind of outside category, as requiring still what Sissie had somehow found. Felix would accept no such view of the question. He "pished" over it indignantly.

"A set of fanatics!" he declared, with the glib contempt of ignorance: and he flung the letter on the fire, careless that it contained a message to Mr. Kelly. He would not go in Mr. Kelly's way. Miss Valentine might write to Mr. Kelly herself, if she chose. Nor would he spend a long Sunday at the Farm, to be talked at and preached to. So he telegraphed that he would go on Monday; and he wrote a line to Lettice, making the excuse that he must wait for his mourning.

Then he went through a brief interview with Mr. Thompson, asking for Monday's absence, and uncomfortably begging an advance of salary to pay for the journey. Had it not been for the message to Mr. Kelly, which Felix would not give, he would have preferred to ask a loan in that direction.

"Why did you not tell me yesterday?" Mr. Thompson asked kindly. He offered another day or two beyond the Tuesday, which Felix declined, and he advanced the needful amount without hesitation.

Nan was the first to descry Felix's approach, before early dinner. She rushed out to meet him, blushing all over her plain face.

"Oh, we were so sorry you couldn't get here sooner," she cried. "It is such a dreadful disappointment to Lettice. And we are depending on you to put things right. Dr. Bryant can't come, after all—he has a cold or something—and Lettice is bent on going off to him this week: and we want to keep her here another month. Do, do please persuade her to stay."

"Nan!" a reproving voice said behind. And gentle Mrs. Valentine came forward; whereupon Nan subsided and vanished.

Felix had listened with an air of rigid reserve to Nan's outburst, attempting no response, and he met Mrs. Valentine's kind greeting in the same manner. Dinner would be ready in a few minutes, she said: and after that—But would Mr. Anderson like to see Lettice at once? Up in her room. She had not come down yet.

"I would rather wait," Felix answered.

And strange though the delay might seem to Mrs. Valentine, she had learnt the rare art of letting people be unhappy in their own way. She could believe that he dreaded anything which might cause him to lose his self-control before the sad ceremony near at hand: though she had never seen any one less likely in appearance to break-down, than this good-looking young fellow, with his confident and reserved air.

Dinner was a constrained meal, well over in everybody's opinion. A note from Dr. Bryant was given to Felix, which he read and pocketed without remark. Then followed the last sad office for "Sissie," and Felix comported himself as chief mourner, with a composure which might easily have been mistaken for lack of feeling.

When they returned to the house, Prue asked, "Will you not see Lettice now?" and Felix acquiesced. He followed Prue upstairs, and found himself alone with a quiet pallid girl in deep mourning, who met and kissed him, then sat down, visibly trembling.

"So you haven't been well either, Lettice?"

"No—" she said faintly.

"Nothing much wrong?"

"I don't know. I thought you would come—before—"

"Before lunch. I couldn't. There were all those people to see. And I—well, I felt I'd better not."

There was a sound of something like heartlessness in the tone: but Lettice would not hear it, would not believe it. She knew the reality of his affection, and the assumed manner did not take her in. Indeed her mind was so full of other thoughts, and so bent upon the present fight for self-command, that she noticed it less than might have been expected. Only, the absence of expressed sympathy brought a chill.

"You see, Lettice, it's no good to talk," he said. "Nothing can change—that! We have to keep up and go on. Things are as they are, and nobody can make them different. And you've got to be brave."

Her lips quivered. "Yes, I will," she said. "I do mean to be good, indeed, and not to give trouble. And I'll do—anything you tell me."

"Of course you will. Get well and strong, the first thing."

"I'll—try."

"I've got a note from Dr. Bryant. He couldn't come, and so much the better, perhaps. But he offers you a home still. And you must go the first possible day."

"Yes. She told me—"

"Of course," as voice failed. "That's the right thing. The Valentines are strangers, and we are too much indebted to them already. You can get off in a day or two?"

"If Mr. Jasper will let me. I am so tired now, with everything."

"Change will do you good. I can't have you put off. Only mind—you belong to me, not to the Bryants."

"Must I love nobody there?"

"You'll like them well enough. Quite as much as signifies. It's only for a time. Be sure you write to me once a week, and tell me everything. I mean to get on, and to have a home for you by-and-by."

Lettice was nerving herself to deliver the dying message of Cecilia, which she knew Felix had not yet heard. Twice she began to speak of it, and Felix led away to other subjects. The third time she held to her point, refused to be diverted from it, and with resolute tearlessness repeated the impassioned words which had made a vivid impression on her own mind. Felix heard in silence.

"Of course it has all been very trying for you," he said at length, finding some remark expected.

"Felix, what did she mean? I have not liked to ask anybody, but I don't understand. I want to do what