Aldyth's inheritance

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

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[Illustration]

Aldyth'S Inheritance

By

Eglanton Thorne

AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WORCESTER JUG," "IDA NICOLARI," "THE MANSE OF GLEN CLUNIE," "THE TWO CROWNS," ETC.

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY 56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD AND 164 PICCADILLY

Richard Clay And Sons, Limited, London And Bungay.

Contents.

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Chapter

I. The Bland Family

II. A Novel Introduction

III. Guy Lorraine

IV. A Lecture On Poetry

V. A Day At Wyndham Hall

VI. Disappointment

VII. A Mischief-Maker

VIII. Gossip And Misconception

IX. Mr. Stephen Lorraine Comes To An Understanding With His Heir

X. Hilda Bland'S Party

XI. Christmas At Wyndham

XII. Mr. Lorraine Sends For His Solicitor

XIII. Sorrow And Joy

XIV. A Long-Deferred Hope Is Realized

XV. Aldyth Wakes From A Dream

XVI. Contrasts

XVII. Hilda Is Happy

XVIII. A Summons To Wyndham

XIX. The Mistress Of Wyndham

XX. Unwelcome Changes Come In Fortune'S Train

XXI. Guy Makes A Discovery

XXII. A Stricken Heroine And A Shameless Suitor

XXIII. Losses And Gains

XXIV. A Secret Sorrow

XXV. How Mrs. Stanton Spent Her First Afternoon At Wyndham

XXVI. A Farewell

XXVII. An Accident In The Hunting-Field

XXVIII. Kitty Shows The Strength Of Her Character

XXIX. A Mind Diseased

XXX. The Wrong Disclosed

XXXI. How Guy Was Pacified

XXXII. The Unexpected Happens

Aldyth'S Inheritance.

Chapter I.

The Bland Family.

MRS. BLAND'S house stood in the High Street of the little town of Woodham. It was an old-fashioned, sedate-looking house, with a bow-window projecting on each side of the front door, and two rows of white-curtained windows above; but there was nothing prim about the garden which lay at the back of the house. This garden, with its wealth of sweet-scented flowers, its fruit trees, its sunflowers and hollyhocks standing out in rich contrast to the mellow red of the old walls, was a delightful place in which to spend a warm September afternoon.

About the middle of the garden, and bordering at its lower end the portion which, though not devoid of beauty, was obviously devoted to utility, was a strip of lawn shaded by trees. Here, on such an afternoon, Hilda Bland was lying, very much at her ease, in a hammock suspended between two sturdy trunks. She had a book in her hand, but reading was impossible, since Kate was on the path close by, chattering fast as she gathered flowers, and Gwen, her younger sister, was displaying great energy in her attempts to shake or knock down some of the ripe greengages that were visible at the top of the tall tree to which one end of the hammock was fastened.

"You won't get them that way, Gwen," cried Kate, as her sister threw a rake handle at the top of the tree, and it came rattling down through the branches.

"You are far more likely to break my head," said Hilda, from the hammock, "and you shake me dreadfully. You might have a little respect for my feelings."

"Nonsense; you are so lazy, Hilda! If you were anything of a sister, you would come and help me."

"Thanks for the suggestion, dear," said Hilda, sweetly, "but I prefer remaining where I am." And she threw herself back upon the cushions with an air of indolent grace.

At all times Hilda had rather a languid air. Of slender form, below the middle height, with a colourless complexion, and features regular and delicately formed, she had a frail appearance beside her more robust-looking sisters; but, in truth, her health was as good as theirs. Mrs. Bland used to boast that her girls were never ill, thanks to the care with which she had followed the common sense rules for the rearing of his children laid down by her deceased husband, who had practised as a surgeon at Woodham. There was a dreamy, absent look in Hilda's large blue eyes, which some persons found interesting, and others quite the reverse. To the unimaginative it was a sleepy, stupid look; but the more discerning saw in it the sign of a thoughtful, reflective nature.

There was but the faintest resemblance between Hilda and Kate, who was eighteen months older. No one could be less dreamy or indolent than Kate, or, as she was more often called, Kitty. With black hair, keen dark eyes, and a warm brown complexion, now, at the end of the summer, deepened to a gipsy-like hue, she looked very much alive. Her form was sturdy, though trim, her features of a decided character, the nose of the Roman type, the chin well rounded and somewhat prominent, the mouth firm, though ready enough to break into smiles. She was the eldest of Mrs. Bland's family of four, and had passed her twenty-second birthday, but strangers often took her for younger than Hilda, there was so much of the child about Kitty still. Hilda was the quiet one of the family, fond of reading and dreaming. Kitty was seldom still. She seemed made for a country life, and was as happy in the rigours of winter as in the summer's prime. Riding, rowing, skating, there were few healthy exercises in which she did not excel. Of the liveliest temperament, she was a great talker and rather satirical, but happily her nature was too sound and warm for her satire to be tinged with malice or envy.

"I wish Charlie would come," she said presently, as she flitted to and fro amongst the flowers; "it chimed four ever so long ago. There, the quarter is striking now."

"Did you ever know Charlie come straight home from school?" asked Hilda, as she turned over the leaves of her Browning. "Why are you in such a hurry to see him?"

"Oh, you know! I am dying to hear about that new master. The arrival of a stranger at Woodham is such an event."

"Is there a new master?" asked Hilda, indifferently.

"Oh, Hilda! How stupid you are! Don't you know that Mr. Ferris was to leave at the end of last term, and did you not hear Miss Lorraine say the other day that a gentleman from London was coming to take his place—a B.A. of Cambridge, she said he was?"

"I did not hear it," said Hilda; "but Miss Lorraine has always so much to say, I cannot pretend to listen to every word."

"Well, I should think you might have listened to that," returned Kate, whilst Gwen paused for a moment in her futile efforts to bring down the greengages, and turned to hear what her sisters were saying.

"Why? What about him? What is his name, and what has he to do with us?" asked Hilda, anxious to get information as speedily as possible, that she might resume her reading.

"I have not heard his name, and I do not know that he has anything to do with us," said Kate, rather lamely; "but I hope, for Charlie's sake, that he is nice; and, of course, I should like to know whether he goes in for boating and that sort of thing, and would be likely to join our tennis club."

"Oh, you are thinking of the tennis," said Hilda, languidly; but the next moment she started up with an exclamation of pleasure, as she saw who was coming down the path from the house, accompanied by Mrs. Bland.

The visitor was a tall, slight girl, wearing a fresh cotton gown and a wide straw hat, as simply dressed as a girl could be, yet with a certain becoming grace peculiar to the wearer. You might not have known at first sight whether Aldyth Lorraine was to be considered pretty; but you would have felt in an instant that she was charming.

Her features were neither regular nor delicately moulded. The chin was too long, the mouth too large, the lips perhaps a trifle too full for beauty; but when the lips parted they displayed the most white and perfect teeth, and her smile revealed the sweetness of a frank and loving nature. The large-brimmed hat hid the broad, finely-arched brow and the dark brown hair which rippled back from it, but could not dim the merry, happy light that shone in the grey eyes. There could be no question as to the beauty of those eyes, long in shape, of a deep violet-grey hue, and shaded by long dark lashes. But, whilst we may attempt to describe features, what words can give the charm of a sweet girl's face? Aldyth's had a charm which won many hearts. But perhaps the charm was rather in herself than in her face. That was winsome, because her heart was tender and true and sympathetic, full of kind feelings towards every one she met.

"To think of my finding you all at home!" exclaimed Aldyth. "I felt sure you would be at tennis this lovely afternoon, and that I should have a quiet chat with Mrs. Bland."

"I am sorry for your disappointment," said Kitty; "but there has been nothing to hinder your having a quiet talk with mother. The fact is, Clara Dawtrey has a party of her friends on the ground this afternoon." Kitty's lip curled as she spoke.

Aldyth's quick little nod expressed perfect comprehension.

"What a pity that girl is so loud in her manners," she remarked. "I feel sometimes as if I should like to give her a little hint, but I suppose it would do more harm than good. Aunt says that if she only knew the things that are said of her, even by the gentlemen she counts her admirers, she would alter her ways."

As she spoke, Aldyth was lifting a chair out of the summerhouse at the end of the lawn for Mrs. Bland.

"Gwen," cried Kitty, who had her hands too full of flowers to render assistance, "do you see what Aldyth is doing? How rude you are! It is time you went back to school."

"Never mind, Gwen," said Aldyth, laughing, as the girl rushed up too late to be of use; "it won't kill me to lift a chair. And it is cruel of Kitty to remind you that Monday is so near. Charlie has gone back to school to-day, has he not?"

"Oh, that is nothing; I wish I only went to a day-school," said Gwen, a big girl of fifteen; "but is not Kitty curious? She is dying to question Charlie about the new master. Do you know anything about him?"

"Some one else is curious, I think," said Aldyth, merrily. "All I know of him is that he is named John Glynne, and Aunt Lucy is trying to persuade herself that he is one of the Glynnes of Norfolk, and that she went to school with his mother. Ah, here is Charlie; now we shall hear."

A boy of twelve, satchel in hand, came bounding down the garden. But, boy-like, Charlie would yield but meagre replies to the questions with which the girls plied him.

Yes, he had seen Mr. Glynne, of course. He had taken their class for Latin, and they were to read Shakespeare with him on Friday afternoons. He did not know that Mr. Glynne was any different from other masters; he did not like him so well as Mr. Ferris. He had given them a lot to prepare, and he had come down "like a load of bricks" on one boy, whom he had caught with a book open beneath his desk. He said it was as bad as stealing to take the credit of knowing a lesson which had not been studied, and that he had hoped he was going to teach manly boys, and not "sneaks."

"He is quite right," said Mrs. Bland, warmly. "I hate to hear of boys doing such deceitful things. Charlie, it would grieve me beyond words to express if I thought you could act in such a way. But I am not afraid. I believe that my boy will always be true and straightforward in his conduct."

"All right, mother," said Charlie, hastily. "But, please, I want that half-crown you promised me. I'm off to Stubbs' now, about those rabbits." And no more information concerning the new master was to be drawn from him.

"Tiresome young monkey!" cried Kate, as Charlie ran off with his half-crown. "Aldyth, you have no idea how provoking a young brother can be. You have no brothers or sisters to trouble you."

"I have a brother and sisters," said Aldyth, "though they cannot certainly be said to trouble me."

"To be sure! I always forget those relatives of yours on the other side of the world," said Kate, carelessly. "I must say I could not feel much affection for half-brothers and sisters whom I had never seen."

"But I hope to see them some day," said Aldyth, colouring as she spoke; "and I write to them, and they write to me sometimes. I should be sorry to feel as if I did not belong to them. But I must be going. I only looked in to ask Mrs. Bland if I had bought the right kind of wool that mother wants me to send her."

"Oh, Aldyth, don't go yet!" exclaimed Hilda, springing up in the hammock, and well-nigh overbalancing herself. "Do try the hammock; it's delicious this afternoon. A thousand apologies for not asking you before."

"Not now, thank you, Hilda," said Aldyth; "I have my letter to finish for the mail."

Though Aldyth was on the friendliest terms with all the Bland family, Hilda was especially her friend. The two girls walked arm-in-arm to the garden door, and after a prolonged good-bye there, Hilda came back to her mother and sisters.

"Kitty," she said, "you should not have said that about Aldyth's relatives. I am sure you hurt her, for she thinks so much of them all. She is always writing to them, and she never forgets one of their birthdays, though they sometimes forget hers."

"I am very sorry," said Kitty; "but really it is absurd to suppose that she can care as much for her brother and sisters as if they had been brought up together."

"She may not care in the same way, but she certainly loves them; and as for her mother, it seems to me that Aldyth simply worships the mother whom she has never seen."

"She must have seen her," said Kate.

"Of course; but you need not be so absurdly literal, Kate. Aldyth was only two years old when her mother went to Australia. She cannot remember her."

"It always seems to me that Miss Lorraine is more truly Aldyth's mother," said Mrs. Bland. "She has had the care of her ever since she was a few months old, for shortly after Aldyth was born, Captain Lorraine's health began to fail, and then Mrs. Lorraine travelled about with him, and the baby was left with her aunt. I am sure Miss Lorraine feels that Aldyth is her child, and I believe she provides for her almost entirely."

"Yes, but Aldyth does not feel like that," said Hilda. "She is fond of her aunt, and very grateful to her; but she loves her mother best. She is always looking forward to her mother's coming to England. I wonder if she ever will come!"

"Poor Aldyth!" said Mrs. Bland, with a sigh.

"Why do you always say 'Poor Aldyth' when we speak of Aldyth's mother?" asked Hilda, quickly.

"Do I always say it?" replied Mrs. Bland.

"Yes, you do, mother, and I want to know why. I believe it is because you think that Aldyth's mother loves her eldest child less than her eldest child loves her. Is that it?"

"Well, perhaps," Mrs. Bland admitted. "I must confess I find it hard to understand how a mother could leave such a tiny child behind her in England, and let her grow up to womanhood without making an effort to see her. I can only suppose that the other children, born to her in Melbourne, have taken Aldyth's place in her heart, and that, absorbed in her home life, she thinks but little of her eldest daughter, and regards her rather as Miss Lorraine's adopted child than as her own."

"But she wants to come home, and her coming has often been talked of," said Hilda. "She tells Aldyth in her letters how she longs to see her."

"I dare say," said Mrs. Bland, drily; "but a mother's passionate yearning to see her child would have found out a way for them to meet before now, I think."

"You knew Aldyth's mother when she was a girl, did you not?" asked Kate. "Is Aldyth like her?"

"Yes and no," said Mrs. Bland; "Aldyth's mother was a lovely girl, and had most fascinating ways. Aldyth is more of a Lorraine, and yet she often reminds me of her mother. But there is a great difference—I hardly know how to explain it—but there is a great difference between them. Aldyth seems to have inherited her father's frank, loving nature together with her mother's brightness."

"Had not Mrs. Lorraine a loving nature?" Hilda asked.

"Well, not as a girl. She was the belle of this neighbourhood, and had many admirers, and that sort of thing makes same girls callous. Then her parents were poor and designing, and they hurried her into a marriage with Captain Lorraine, because they thought he was to be his uncle's heir. I do not believe she loved him, and she was too young to have an idea of the serious duties and responsibilities of married life. You know I think no girl should be married before she is one and twenty."

"And the marriage proved an unhappy one, I suppose?" said Kate.

"I fear so," said Mrs. Bland. "Stephen Lorraine strongly disapproved of it, and when his nephew married in spite of his disapproval, he would have nothing more to do with him. The captain was harassed with money difficulties, and, as his health failed, he grew morbid and depressed. I heard Mrs. Lorraine say once that living with him was like being continually with a wet blanket. She was easily consoled after his death, for within a year she married Mr. Stanton, and sailed for Australia."

"Poor Aldyth!" sighed Hilda. "It seems hard that her mother should desert her like that. Miss Lorraine is very kind; but she is so fussy and talkative; I should not like to live with her."

"I wonder if Aldyth will ever join her family," said Kitty, "and how she will like them if she does!"

"I almost hope that may never happen," said Mrs. Bland, "for I fancy it would mean disappointment for Aldyth."

"She will never know what it is to have such a dear little mother as you," cried Gwen, suddenly bestowing a warm hug on her mother.

Mrs. Bland laughed at Gwen's vehemence, but tears came into her eyes as she kissed Gwen.

The death of her husband, followed a year later by that of her eldest boy, three years younger than Hilda, had intensified the anxiety that almost invariably attends a mother's love; but Mrs. Bland was a wise woman, and kept most of her fears to herself, taking care not to worry her children. Thus it was that her girls grew up with the feeling that their mother was their best friend, and there was no constraint between them, though Hilda at times evinced a certain reserve of character which caused her mother some uneasiness.

Mrs. Bland's heart was so essentially that of a mother that its sympathies could not be bounded by her own home circle. The friends of her girls were her friends also, and responded gratefully to the kindness she showed them. As for Aldyth Lorraine, she was well-nigh as dear to Mrs. Bland as one of her own children. She had grown up with Kate and Hilda. They had been separated only during their school terms, Aldyth having been sent to a more expensive school than Mrs. Bland could afford for her daughters. Aldyth often said that Mrs. Bland was the most motherly woman she knew; and unconsciously the girl's thoughts of her absent mother, and her dreams of what their meeting would be, were largely coloured by what she saw of the love and confidence existing between Mrs. Bland and her daughters.

Chapter II.

A Novel Introduction.

THE house in which Aldyth Lorraine lived with her aunt was scarcely ten minutes' walk from Mrs. Bland's. The High Street took a turn just above the Blands' door, and winding round to the left, ended at an open space where three roads met. To the left diverged the Tolleshunt and Longbridge roads. The road, which was almost a continuation of the High Street, was known as the London Road, and was the more fashionable part of Woodham. Here were the newest and smartest villas that the little town could boast; but here and there amongst them stood a house with a history, a history which went back through many generations, so that one might imagine the old dwelling to look with contempt on its modern, upstart neighbours.

Miss Lorraine's house was one of the old ones, and was known as Myrtle Cottage. It was not very convenient, but it was picturesque, having a thatched roof, and walls tapestried with ivy. It stood in a pretty garden, sheltered by a thick hawthorn hedge, and, as it was the last of the houses, and the road dipped sharply on the other side, it had a fine view of a wide expanse of flat country, green meadows and hedgerows, cornfields and copses, melting away into the exquisite blue of distance.

Leaving the Blands, Aldyth walked quickly to the cottage, but her haste did not prevent her pausing for a moment with her hand on the gate to gaze at the far-reaching prospect bathed in the mellow light of the lovely September afternoon. There was something to Aldyth very heart-satisfying in that broad, fair landscape, and she never wearied of looking at it.

But as she gazed now, she became aware that a young man was seated on the low bank at the other side of the road. For a moment she imagined that he was merely sitting there to enjoy the prospect, but another glance showed her that he was very pale, and there was blood on the handkerchief he was pressing to his temple; his cap lay in the dust, and leaning against the hedge, a few paces down the bill, was a bicycle, which seemed to have come to grief. Instantly Aldyth crossed the road, saying, kindly—

"I fear you have had an accident. Are you much hurt?"

"Oh, it is nothing, thank you," said the stranger, in refined, courteous tones; "I have had an awkward fall and cut my forehead, but the pain is nothing, if only it would stop bleeding."

"Won't you come in and let my aunt see what she can do for you?" said Aldyth. "This is her house, and she is rather clever at dressing wounds."

"You are very kind," said the young man, meeting Aldyth's glance with a pair of clear blue eyes that had a very penetrative gaze; "but I think there is no need to trouble your aunt; I shall be all right in a few minutes."

But a fresh spurt of blood from the wound made him press the handkerchief closer to his face, and the colour which had returned to it died away.

"Indeed, you had better come in," said Aldyth, earnestly. "You know you really cannot go home like that. People would stare at you so."

The last words had their effect. The young man's face broke into a merry smile.

"They would indeed," he said. "I had not thought of that. And the boys! What entertainment for them! Thank you, I will avail myself of your kindness."

"That is right," said Aldyth, making a movement as though she would pick up his cap, but he saw her intention and was before her, though stooping brought a return of the giddiness which he had at first experienced. She had to help him bring his bicycle within the garden, then she hurried on to the house, the stranger following with a slow and somewhat uncertain step.

Happily Miss Lorraine was at home. She was seated at her desk in the little drawing room which opened at one side of the front door. A great talker, Miss Lorraine was not less great as a correspondent. When not paying calls or entertaining visitors, she was generally to be found writing letters.

"Aunt Lucy, here is a gentleman I met at the gate. He has had an accident; he fell from his bicycle. Do come and see what you can do for him."

"My dear! An accident?" cried Miss Lorraine, springing up with alacrity.

She came bustling into the hall, a comely little woman, whose age it would have been difficult to determine, for her black hair was scarce touched with grey, her eyes bright; she moved and spoke briskly, and was always dressed in a dainty, becoming style. Of great energy, she loved to be of use in any way, and, as Aldyth knew well, was delighted by this unexpected call to render surgical aid.

Aldyth had not given a thought to the individuality of the stranger, but Miss Lorraine recognized the gentleman who had been pointed out to her that morning as the new master at the Woodham Grammar School. She welcomed him heartily, took him in hand at once in her quick, energetic fashion, and had soon sponged the wound and dressed it, not unskilfully, with lint and plaster.

"Now, Mr. Glynne, you must stay and take tea with me and Aldyth. Yes, indeed you must rest after such a shock, and the quieter you keep, the sooner the wound will heal."

"You are very kind," said John Glynne, feeling the attraction of the bright little home in which he found himself, and inclined to accept the invitation; "but you have the advantage of me, since you know my name, whilst I have yet to learn to whom I am indebted for such kind services."

"Oh, no one can be long a stranger at Woodham," said Miss Lorraine; "we have a curious faculty—have we not, Aldyth?—of finding out the history of everybody, and if you had been here more than one day, Mr. Glynne, you would have learned that I am Miss Lorraine, and this is my niece Aldyth. I am pretty well-known, having lived at Woodham all my life. And there are few persons in the neighbourhood who have not heard of my father, Dr. Lorraine, who practised as a physician here for many years. People would come miles to consult him."

"And did he leave no son to succeed to his practice?" asked Mr. Glynne.

"No," said Miss Lorraine, a shadow falling on her face; "I had but one brother, Aldyth's father, and he chose the army as his profession. Charlie Bland was my father's partner, and he succeeded him; but he died, poor fellow, a few years later. His widow and family live in that large house with bow-windows at the top of the High Street."

But Mr. Glynne had to confess that he was so new to Woodham that he had not yet observed the Blands' house.

"I fancy the name Bland has come before me to-day," he said. "Is there a boy at the school belonging to the family?"

"Yes, Charlie Bland goes to the school," said Aldyth. "He is a nice boy. I know him well, for the Blands are great friends of mine."

Miss Lorraine was moving to and fro between dining room and drawing room on hospitable thoughts intent. Nothing could please her better than that she should be the first lady at Woodham to make the acquaintance of the new master. As for John Glynne, he was beginning to regard his accident as a fortunate occurrence, since it had introduced him to this bright, good-natured woman and her charming niece. Aldyth felt considerable inward amusement as she talked to this wholly unexpected visitor.

"What will Kitty say?" she thought. "She will wish he had fallen from his bicycle at their door."

"Tea is ready. Will you come into the next room, Mr. Glynne?" said Miss Lorraine, rising to lead the way. "Now had you not better rest on the sofa? No, won't you really? Then you must take this easy-chair. There! You look quite interesting with your head bandaged."

At this remark the young man sprang to his feet and looked at himself in the mirror above the mantelshelf He coloured, and laughed as he saw the effect of the bandage.

"I hope it will not be necessary to appear before my pupils in this headgear," he said.

Catching his half-rueful, half-humorous expression, Aldyth broke into a merry laugh, in which her aunt joined.

"You need not fear that," said Miss Lorraine. "The wound will have stanched by and by, and I can remove that unsightly bandage. It really makes you look as if you had been fighting."

And the three laughed again.

"It is a punishment for reckless riding," said Mr. Glynne. "But I was unprepared for such a sudden descent. I thought Essex roads were guiltless of hills."

"So many persons suppose," said Miss Lorraine. "But Essex is really not so flat as it is represented to be. There are many hills about Woodham, are there not, Aldyth?"

"They seem considerable hills to us," replied Aldyth. "But I dare say people coming from hilly districts would not think much of them. From what part of the country do you come, Mr. Glynne?"

"I was brought up in Norfolk," he said, "but we have lived in London now for many years."

"Norfolk!" exclaimed Miss Lorraine, eagerly. "Was your father a clergyman in the neighbourhood of Yarmouth?"

"He was," said Mr. Glynne, looking surprised; "did you know him?"

"And your mother's name was Susan Staines before she married?" said Miss Lorraine, in her eagerness passing by his question.

"It was—then you know my mother?" said the young man, his face lighting up with pleasure. "How strange!"

"We were girls at school together; she was my great friend in those days," said Miss Lorraine; "but she went abroad to perfect herself in the foreign languages, and gradually our correspondence dropped. I heard some years later that she had married a clergyman, and was living near Yarmouth; then, after a while, I heard that her husband was dead. I have often longed to see her again. And now I see her son. How strange it seems!"

"My mother will be delighted to hear that I have met with an old friend of hers," said John Glynne. "I will tell her when I write to-morrow."

"Yes, do," said Miss Lorraine, "and give her my love—Lucy Lorraine's love. Tell her I mean to be your friend, if you will let me, for your mother's sake. For indeed you seem no stranger now."

"You have shown yourself a good friend to me already," said John Glynne; "but I am glad that you know my mother. It makes me feel at home with you."

"Are you her only child?" asked Miss Lorraine.

"No; there are three of us. I have a brother and a sister. I am the eldest. My mother was left with very limited means, and she has had a struggle to bring us up. But things are easier for her now, I am thankful to say."

"You have helped to make them easier," was Aldyth's quick thought, as she saw the expression his face wore when he spoke of his mother.

It was a good face, and more and more it won on her, despite the ugly bandage which concealed the square compact forehead, betokening a high order of intellect. The features were not handsome, but they were strong; the blue eyes had the kindest, frankest look in them, and the curves of the mouth and the peculiarly sweet smile told of a warm, true heart.

"He is a good son," was the conclusion at which Aldyth arrived intuitively, and the thought deepened the friendly regard in which she already held him. His age she judged to be about seven-and-twenty.

"So you have come to the Grammar School," said Miss Lorraine, after a moment's reflection. "Are you fond of teaching?"

"Yes," he said; but Aldyth saw that his face clouded a little. "I believe I like teaching, but I cannot say that I am very fond of the drudgery of teaching small boys. I had hoped to obtain a different kind of appointment, but it fell to another, and being offered this post at the Woodham School, I thought it right to take it. My mother does not like it for me, but I tell her the experience will be very salutary. I have lately been attempting University Extension Lectures."

"Have you?" exclaimed Aldyth, greatly interested. "Oh, I have heard of them—lectures on literature and science, with classes afterwards for those who are earnest students. How I wish we could have something of the kind here!"

"Why should you not?" he asked. "Surely there are enough people at Woodham to form a centre."

"There are people enough, no doubt," said Aldyth; "but I fear they are not sufficiently intellectual. They would not care to improve their minds. On what subjects do you lecture, Mr. Glynne?"

"Literature is my subject," he said. "I have lectured chiefly on Shakespeare and the poets."

"On Shakespeare! How delightful!" exclaimed Aldyth. "I would give anything to study Shakespeare with one who really understood him. I always feel my own narrowness and ignorance when I come to Shakespeare. And Wordsworth, I long to read him intelligently. I have always loved his poetry, though I hardly know why I love it so much. I should like to be able to appreciate it rightly. Some of his poems seem to me so much grander than others."

"There is no doubt that his work was unequal, and it is curious how unable he was to discern his own highest work," said Mr. Glynne; "but I am glad you love Wordsworth, Miss Lorraine, for I have a great enthusiasm for him, and it is but rarely I meet any one who shares the feeling. It is a bond of sympathy between us."

He looked at her with frank, boyish pleasure in his clear, bright eyes. Aldyth met his gaze unshrinkingly, but she too was conscious of a thrill of pleasure. To one whose life is bounded by a narrow circle, it is a great gain to find a friend who shares one's intellectual tastes and predilections.

"We must have some lectures this winter; I see no reason why we should not," said Miss Lorraine, in her quick, decisive way. "It would be a capital thing for the young people. Tell me how to set about it, Mr. Glynne, and I will see what I can do."

"Auntie!" cried Aldyth, in a tone of delight.

"You must get together a committee of ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Glynne. "Appoint a local secretary, hire a room for the lectures, choose your subject, and apply to the University Extension Society for a lecturer, arrange the terms for the course of lectures, making them as low as you can without incurring debt, and issue bill and circulars announcing the lectures."

"All that is not difficult," said Miss Lorraine. "I will speak to some of my friends on the subject to-morrow. But you must give the lectures, Mr. Glynne. I will only move in the matter on that condition."

But Mr. Glynne would make no promise, though he appeared not unwilling to fill the post of lecturer if he found that his other engagements would permit him to do so. He sat talking to Miss Lorraine and her niece till long after it grew dusk, and when at last he walked away to his lodgings, there was no fear of any one's seeing the patch upon his temple.

The day's incident had given a brighter colour to the prospect of his sojourn at Woodham. Already he had made friends in the little town, and he felt sure that its inhabitants were simple-hearted, good-natured people, acquaintance with whom could yield only pleasure.

As for Aldyth, after he had gone, she awoke to the fact that she had quite forgotten the long letter to her mother which should have been finished that evening.

Chapter III.

Guy Lorraine.

ALDYTH rose early the next morning, that her letter might be finished and posted ere the morning mail went out. The clock had not long struck seven, when she threw wide her casement, and let in the fresh, delicious air. Birds were chirping beneath the eaves, and fluttering to and fro; the dewy grass was sparkling in the sun, and the garden looked most tempting; but Aldyth turned resolutely from the window, and seated herself at her writing-table.

One may often gain insight into a girl's character by a glance round her room. Aldyth's room, in which she took some pride, as girls do in a place that is their very own, revealed that she had a refined and cultured mind. There was nothing luxurious in its arrangements, but it was a pretty room despite the disadvantage, that, owing to the old-fashioned construction of the house, the ceiling sloped sharply on one side. Flowers stood in glasses on the dressing-table, and bees were buzzing over the mignonette planted in a box on the window sill.

Water-colour drawings adorned the walls, some of them painted by Aldyth, and some the gifts of school friends, and here and there were photographs Of Aldyth's favourite heroes—Carlyle, Ruskin, and Charles Kingsley, Tennyson, and Browning. The little wooden bookcase held a selection of books any girl might be proud to possess. There were daintily-bound editions of all our greatest poets, with some of our noblest works of fiction, and standard works of prose, too, showing that Aldyth did not read for mere entertainment, though in reading she found one of the highest pleasures of her life. For Aldyth loved books; she stinted herself of many of the pretty things girls love, that she might spend her pocket money on books, and at any time a bookshop had more attraction for her than a milliner's.

In a handsome frame on the mantelshelf stood the latest portrait of her mother which Aldyth had received. A similar one, reduced in size, Aldyth wore constantly in a gold locket, suspended by a slender chain from her neck. It was the photograph of a lady who might have been thirty years of age, but looked no older, with a beautiful face, faultless in form and feature, and luxuriant masses of hair dressed high on the crown of the head, after the fashion of the day. The pose of the head was queenly, the exquisite lips had a somewhat disdainful curl, as though conscious of their beauty. It was a face which demanded admiration; whether it would as readily call forth love, the portrait did not reveal. It is never safe to judge a person from a photograph.

This was Aldyth's beautiful mother, of whom she had dreamed all her life. Often did her eyes rest on the portrait with a sense of hungry, yearning love, and she longed for the time when she could look into her mother's face, and meet the kiss of her sweet lips. With passing years the longing came to have somewhat of the bitterness of a deferred hope. There were hours when it was positive pain to Aldyth to think of the love she had missed through the long separation from her mother. But her nature was too bright and hopeful for this thought to sadden her long. She was more wont to look forward to the perfect joy of the long-deferred meeting, and dream of the happiness that would then be hers.

Near Mrs. Stanton's portrait were portraits of the two daughters who had been born to her in Australia. They were taken as children, but even these juvenile portraits showed that the elder one, a girl about thirteen, had inherited the beauty of her mother, while the little one, dark, heavy-browed, and somewhat stolid-looking, was unlikely to develop good looks.

Aldyth's eyes turned instinctively to her mother's picture as she laid down her pen, after signing herself, "Your ever-loving daughter."

"Oh, mother! When will you come to me?" she cried in her heart.

If she could have had her own way, Aldyth would long ago have sailed to join her mother at Melbourne, but Mrs. Stanton had reasons for wishing that Aldyth should remain at Woodham with her aunt. Five miles from Woodham lay Wyndham, the family estate of the Lorraines, and at Wyndham Hall lived Aldyth's grand-uncle, an old bachelor, strong-willed, crotchety, eccentric, and possessed of considerable wealth.

Stephen Lorraine was the eldest and the last of three brothers, who had been well-known in the neighbourhood of Woodham. His brother William had practised as a medical man there, winning much love and honour, but he died at the age of fifty, leaving two children, a son and a daughter. The son, a handsome young fellow, was a great favourite with his uncle Stephen, and was looked upon as his heir. With his uncle's approval, he made the army his profession. Stephen Lorraine had a decided notion that his heir must conform to his will in everything, and as long as the young man did so, all went well.

But a time came in Captain Lorraine's history, when love proved stronger than expediency, and he dared his uncle's anger by marrying into an Essex family for which old Stephen had a particular dislike. It was an offence not to be condoned, and Stephen Lorraine at once announced his intention of leaving his property to the only son of his brother James, who had taken holy orders, and after officiating for a while as a curate at Woodham, had been presented to a living in the north of England. At his uncle's request, this young man, Guy Lorraine by name, came to Woodham, and took up his abode at the Hall. He brought with him a delicate young wife and a bright boy of two years.

Meanwhile Captain Lorraine, the discarded heir, disappointed in his married life and depressed by disease, was wandering from place to place, seeking health, and vainly hoping that his uncle would relent towards him. If the news of his death stirred a too late regret within the heart of old Stephen Lorraine, he showed no sign of it, unless the increased bitterness of feeling he manifested towards his nephew's widow might be so regarded. He hated the very name of Aldyth's mother, but he expressed a wish to see the little girl who had been left in the care of her father's sister at Woodham, and as soon as he saw her, Aldyth won her way to his heart.

A few months after the death of Captain Lorraine, Guy Lorraine's young wife also passed away, so that when Aldyth's mother finally left her to her aunt's care, Miss Lorraine—or Lucy Lorraine, as every one called her in those days—had as good as two motherless children to love and cherish. Little Guy and Aldyth were constantly together. If Guy were not spending the day at Miss Lorraine's cottage, Aldyth would be playing with him at the Hall, to her childish mind the most delightful place in the world; for Stephen Lorraine made a great pet of the tiny daughter of his favourite nephew. He would walk about the house and garden with the little damsel seated on his shoulder, clinging to his rough, wiry locks; and Aldyth's earliest rides were taken on a little Shetland pony, attached by a rein to the stout cob ridden by her grand-uncle. The servants at the Hall whispered to each other that the squire cared more for the girl than for the boy, and they found the cause in Aldyth's strong resemblance to her father.

But as young Guy grew into a robust, high-spirited boy, he too won his grand-uncle's affection; and when by his father's sudden death from an accident in the hunting-field he was made, as it seemed, the heir to Wyndham, most persons in the neighbourhood believed that it was Stephen Lorraine's intention that the cousins should marry, and Wyndham thus become the home and inheritance of them both. But up to the time at which our story commences, when the young people were both of age, no one had heard old Stephen give the least hint of any such intention. So far he had been content to let things take their course, judging perhaps from his past experience, that by active interference, he might defeat his own ends.

The old man had long outlived his two brothers, and he had seen several of the younger generation of his family pass away; but he was still hale and hearty, though in his eightieth year. Aldyth continued very dear to him, and he liked to have her often at the Hall. And it was because of her uncle's affection for her that Mrs. Stanton wished Aldyth to remain at Woodham. When the girl in her letters pleaded to be allowed to join her mother, Mrs. Stanton would reply that she felt it would be wrong to take Aldyth from the poor old man, who evidently found such comfort in her society.

"Do all you can to please your uncle, darling," her mother wrote. "Make it your duty to cheer his old age, and by so doing you may atone for the harm I did when married your father, and so deprived him of his uncle's favour. Who knows? He may even come to forgive poor me for your dear sake."

But as yet, Stephen Lorraine had shown no sign of forgiving Mrs. Stanton. He preferred to regard her as one who had no connection with him whatever, having passed out of his family when she married her second husband. To Aldyth he never named her mother.

As Aldyth, having finished her letter, ran down stairs, a young man was entering the house with the air of one who felt at home there. He was a tall broad-chested fellow, and his shooting suit well became his fine proportions. Of fair complexion, which the sun had brought to a warm hue, with light hair curling crisply over his forehead, well-cut features, and eyes that might pass for blue, he was a typical specimen of an English country gentleman, and most persons considered him very good-looking. He was carrying several brace of partridges strung together. At the sight of Aldyth, he smiled brightly, and lifted his cap with easy grace.

"Good morning, Aldyth," he said; "I'm an early visitor. I had to drive a fellow up to catch the first train, so I took the opportunity to bring cousin some birds. There are some for Mrs. Bland too, but I could hardly call on them before breakfast."

"No, really? I should have thought your audacity might have carried you so far;" said Aldyth, merrily. "However, in consideration of your bringing us those birds, we'll give you some breakfast, and then, if you like, I will walk down with you to the Blands, for I want to see Kitty."

"Kitty! I thought Hilda was your particular friend."

"So she may be, but Kitty is my friend too. I have something to tell her that will interest her very much." And Aldyth's eyes shone with amusement as she pictured Kitty's excitement when she heard her news.

"What's up? What has happened?" asked Guy, looking at her with curiosity.

But Aldyth only laughed in a tantalizing manner, and at that moment Miss Lorraine made her appearance.

"This is good of you, Guy," she said, lifting her face for him to kiss, for Guy had the place of a nephew in Miss Lorraine's heart. "I thought we should see nothing of you whilst you had such a shooting-party at the Hall. What fine partridges! You must be having good sport."

"Pretty fair," replied the young man; "the birds are not so plentiful as last year; the wet spring thinned the broods. Still, we made tolerable bags yesterday."

"So it seems," said Miss Lorraine, eyeing the birds with admiration, and immediately beginning to plan a little supper-party, to which Mr. Glynne should be invited. "How good of you to remember me! But here is the coffee—come in and get your breakfast. You must need it after your drive."

"When are you and Aldyth coming to Wyndham again?" inquired Guy, as he helped himself to some of Miss Lorraine's excellent ham. "Uncle was saying yesterday what a time it was since we had seen you."

"Well, you see, Guy, we feel rather shy of coming whilst you have a house full of gentlemen," said Miss Lorraine. "You don't want ladies about when you are so busy with the shooting."

"You forget that we do not shoot in the evenings," replied Guy. "Why can't you and Aldyth come down to dinner one evening? I should like you to see Captain Walker and Marriott. Marriott's awfully fond of music, and sings well. You might ask the Blands to come with you, and then we could have quite a musical evening."

"Well, perhaps; I must think about it," said Miss Lorraine, dubiously. "But you must ask the Blands, Guy, not I."

"All right; that's easily managed," said Guy.

"Why should you not bring Captain Walker and young Marriott here one evening?" asked Miss Lorraine. "Then I would invite the Blands and Mr. Glynne to meet you."

"Who in the world is Mr. Glynne?" asked Guy, opening his eyes.

"The new master just come to the school," explained Miss Lorraine. "Aldyth and I made his acquaintance yesterday." And she related the circumstances that had led to the introduction.

Guy's lips curled satirically as he listened. To him the whole story was absurd, and his comments on the incident were not entirely agreeable to Miss Lorraine, who had taken a great fancy to John Glynne.

"How any man can make himself so ridiculous as to go grinding about the country on one of those trumpery machines is beyond my comprehension," he said. "A good horse is worth fifty of them. I should be very sorry to sit astride such a thing."

"There is no reason why you should, you have always a horse at your command," said Aldyth. "I have no doubt Mr. Glynne would think a horse preferable, if he could afford one; but a horse is expensive to buy and expensive to keep, whilst a bicycle is no trouble at all, and its rider is delightfully independent."

"Yes, especially when he falls off and cuts his head open," said Guy, laughing.

"Now, Guy, I will not have you laugh at Mr. Glynne's misfortune," said Miss Lorraine. "For my part, I was glad the accident happened when and where it did, since it made us acquainted with so nice a man. He is not one to ridicule, I assure you. He is a B.A. of Cambridge University, and a highly cultured man. I hope we may be able to induce him to give us a course of lectures during the winter."

"Lectures!" exclaimed Guy, lifting his brows. "What—to you and poor dear Aldyth?"

"Don't be absurd; you know that is not my meaning. We want him to give a course of lectures on literature at Town Hall, or some such place, which any lady or gentleman may attend, who chooses to take a ticket."

"Whatever is the good of that?" asked Guy, with a simplicity which made Aldyth laugh.

"The good is that we shall have a chance of improving our minds and gaining some fresh ideas," said Miss Lorraine. "It will be a great advantage to the young people, if we can arrange for such lectures. You must take a ticket, Guy."

"I will take a ticket with pleasure, to oblige you," he said. "But please do not ask me to sit for an hour on one of those hard benches in the Town Hall, and listen to a dry lecture. I could not do it really. What is the good of it?"

"Guy, you are shockingly lazy!" said Aldyth. "I am just longing for the lectures to begin; and I know that Hilda and Kitty Bland will be delighted when they hear of our grand scheme. I have no fear that the ladies of Woodham will not muster strong at the lectures. I believe we read and think more than the men do."

"Of course; you have nothing else to do," said Guy, who, like many persons who enjoy unlimited leisure, was able to persuade himself that he led a busy life. "But why women want to study so hard I cannot think. They are no more attractive, in my eyes, for knowing a good deal. Indeed, I dislike learned women."

"They are so much more difficult to talk to, are they not, Guy?" said Aldyth, mischievously. "But I see you want to be off, so I will get my hat."

As they walked to the Blands, Aldyth and her cousin met Mr. Glynne hurrying along on his way to the school. It was but a few steps from his lodgings, and he wore his gown and college cap, which made him rather an imposing spectacle in the High Street. As he lifted his cap, the patch of plaster on his brow was plainly visible. Aldyth smiled frankly as their eyes met, and received a bright smile in response. Guy looked at the new master with cold, critical eyes.

"How ridiculous to wear that mortar-board!" he said. "If that's your grand lecturer, I don't think much of his appearance."

"I never said that he was handsome," replied Aldyth; "but I think he looks strong in every way."

Breakfast was still on the table in the Blands' dining room, and Hilda sprang up with rather a shame-faced look as the Lorraines entered the room.

"Yes, Aldyth, it is very shocking, I know," she exclaimed, as her friend shook her head with affected gravity. "But every one cannot have your energy, and it is really mamma's fault that I am late, for she did not call me this morning."

"Oh, of course; it is always some one else's fault," remarked Kitty, running in from the garden with a basket of pears in her hand.

"And a very satisfactory thing that is," said Guy. "I never care as long as I can find some one to bear the blame of my misdeeds. Why should people make such a fuss about early rising? It is all very well to get up if there is shooting or anything to get up for; but otherwise I would rather stay in bed."

Every one laughed at this candid confession, and Hilda's face brightened. They strolled out through the open door into the garden.

"Aldyth has prime news for you, Kitty," said Guy. "It seems there is a new tutor come to the school, and he must needs prostrate himself at my cousin's gate last evening. Aldyth found him there—a gory spectacle. Being, as you know, one of the most strong-minded of her sex, she did not faint, but promptly conveyed him into the house, where she, and Cousin Lucy devoted themselves to binding up his wounds."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Kitty. "I never heard such a rigmarole. Aldyth, what does he mean?"

"It is quite true, I assure you," said Guy. "We met the wounded knight not five minutes ago, with his forehead plastered up, looking like the hero of a hundred fights."

"Do be sensible and tell me what you mean," pleaded Kitty. "Aldyth, is there a word of truth in what he says?"

"It is remotely 'founded on fact,' like the stories auntie used to read when she was a girl," said Aldyth, "and the facts are these: Mr. Glynne had a fall from his bicycle near our gate yesterday afternoon. He cut his forehead rather badly, and I persuaded him to come in and let aunt attend to it."

"You don't mean it! What a joke!" cried Kitty. "Do tell me about it, Aldyth."

"Indeed I will not, if you are going to make a joke of another's suffering—you unfeeling creature!" said Aldyth.

"Why, was he much hurt?" asked Kitty, quickly. "You might tell me, Aldyth."

"I think he will get over it," said Aldyth, with a merry twinkle in her eyes. "He recovered sufficiently to talk a good deal to aunt and me before he left. And what do you think, girls? He is perhaps going to give a course of lectures during the winter."

"A course of lectures!" said Hilda, quickly. "On what subject?"

"Oh, on literature—the poets, perhaps," said Aldyth, vaguely. "Aunt is delighted with the idea; she means to do all she can to realize it."

"Then she will succeed," said Kitty. "I never yet knew Miss Lorraine fail to carry through any plan she had set her heart upon."

"The poets! That will be lovely!" cried Hilda.

"Then you will go to these lectures?" said Guy, his face clouding a little as he spoke.

They walked on down the garden path, leaving the others a little way behind. Hilda's slender form looked more fairylike than usual in contrast to Guy's height and breadth.

"Of course, if they are held, I shall attend them," said Hilda; "I would not miss them on any account. It will be a grand opportunity for self-improvement."

"Some persons do not need improvement," said Guy in a low voice, as his eyes rested admiringly on her. "I like you just as you are. You would be spoiled if you became very learned."

His look and words brought a warm flush to Hilda's face. She was embarrassed, but not annoyed. She gave a little nervous laugh, and said—

"I am sure I ought to feel much flattered. Fortunately there is little danger of my ever becoming very learned."

Aldyth was replying as best as she could to a volley of questions from Kitty concerning Mr. Glynne. She stayed talking for a while after Guy had excused himself and gone off to his shooting. As she quitted the house, she glanced down the High Street, and saw her aunt coming out of the bank. Aldyth went to meet her. Miss Lorraine's face was radiant with satisfaction.

"It is all right, Aldyth," she said. "Mr. Greenwood quite approves of the lectures, and he has promised me his support."

Aldyth could fully sympathize with her aunt's satisfaction. Mr. Greenwood, the banker, and his brother, Mr. Ralph Greenwood, the solicitor, were highly influential members of Woodham society.

Chapter IV.

A Lecture On Poetry.

MISS LORRAINE succeeded in creating an interest in the literature lectures, and carried out her project with little difficulty, though not without encountering opposition. There were various individuals who, like Guy Lorraine, could not see what good the lectures were to do. Some of the elders declared that there were excitements enough for the young people as it was. If they wanted to improve their minds, why could they not read quietly at home instead of gadding out to lectures at the Town Hall? And the mention of Shakespeare in connection with the lectures alarmed these good people. Study Shakespeare, indeed! What could that foster but a love of play-acting and theatre-going?

Happily Miss Lorraine was not wanting in tact. She persuaded the friends who had formed themselves into a committee that Shakespeare must stand aside for the present. They must not begin by riding rough-shod over people's prejudices. No one could object to a course of lectures on Wordsworth and the poets of the Lake School. Let them begin with Wordsworth, and trust that in time the minds of certain persons at Woodham would become enlightened with respect to the value of Shakespeare as a teacher of truth.

Her advice was followed, and by the beginning of October, every available wall and hoarding about Woodham bore posters announcing the course of lectures on literature to be given at the Town Hall, on Thursday evenings, by John Glynne, B.A., of Trinity College, Cambridge. The novelty of the idea caused considerable excitement in the little town. Every one talked about the lectures, and the tickets were sold with a rapidity that surpassed the most sanguine hopes of the projectors of the scheme.

The first lecture proved a grand success. The Town Hall was full. Every person of importance at Woodham seemed to be there. Conspicuous in the front rank of seats, reserved for the committee, sat Miss Lorraine, her eyes sparkling with excitement, her whole face radiating satisfaction, as, with head turned towards the door, she watched the people pressing in, and welcomed her friends with nods and smiles.

Not far from her sat Aldyth, between Kitty and Hilda Bland. Aldyth's satisfaction was more quietly evinced; but her face was bright with subdued pleasure. She rather shrank from the eager whispers in which Kitty, whose head was turning in all directions, made her observations on every one who appeared.

To the no small astonishment of his cousin, Guy Lorraine was present, seated at the other side of Hilda, on whom he was bestowing a good deal of attention. Miss Lorraine had given her little musical party a fortnight earlier, and Guy had made Mr. Glynne's acquaintance. But the new tutor did not seem to have made a more favourable impression on him on that occasion than at first sight. Guy continued to find much to ridicule in him. Perhaps the interest which Aldyth and her friends manifested in Mr. Glynne, and their enthusiasm about the lectures, kindled in Guy some unconscious jealousy.

The lecturer had stepped on to the low platform; he had placed his manuscript on the reading desk, and was about to begin his lecture, when the arrival of a late-comer created such a stir in the audience as obliged him to wait for a few moments. A young lady, dressed in the most extreme style of fashionable attire, came sweeping down the room. She would have been pretty but for the elaborate "get up" by which she endeavoured to attract attention to herself. The mass of light, frizzy hair which shaded her eyes completely concealed any intellectual attraction her countenance might possess, and the pearl powder lavishly applied to it reduced her complexion to an unnatural deadness of hue, and rendered invisible the quick changes of colour, the subtle play of expression on which the charm of a woman's face largely depends.

But however others might criticize her, Miss Clara Dawtrey seemed fully satisfied with the result of the pains devoted to her toilet. It gave her pleasure to feel that all eyes were fixed on her as she passed down the room, pushing her way to the front, though it was obvious that there were no vacant seats in that direction. When at last she halted, with a dramatic air of dismay, within a few paces of the lecturer, a gentleman rose to give her his chair, and after a faint protest, she dropped languidly into it. The lecturer, who had been somewhat anxiously watching the movements of the young lady, cleared his brow and began to address the audience.

"Well," whispered Kitty, in Aldyth's ear, "I do hope Clara Dawtrey is satisfied with the sensation she has created. The idea of her coming to literature lectures!"

But Aldyth's eyes were on Mr. Glynne, and she was too anxious to lose no word to pay much heed to Kitty.

John Glynne was a good speaker. He had a full, deep, musical voice. He began his lecture in a calm, quiet manner, which was nevertheless impressive. But as he went on, he soon began to display the fire and energy of one who was keenly interested in the subject with which he had to deal. He was a young man, and might be expected to display some timidity in addressing a strange audience; but his manner was singularly fearless and unaffected. He appeared too much in earnest to be troubled with self-consciousness.

Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh, no matter what the subject, and that one lecture was, to Aldyth Lorraine at least, a revelation of the man. It showed her that John Glynne was a religious man—religious in the highest and deepest meaning of the term, a large-hearted man, to whom all life was dear, one who could enjoy much, but one ever actuated by a strong, inflexible sense of duty.

The first lecture was introductory, dealing with the general character of the poetry of the age preceding the era of Wordsworth and Coleridge. There were a few earnest words concerning poetry, which stirred Aldyth's heart with delight.

"I will not attempt a definition of poetry," the lecturer said. "All definitions are alike inadequate; the subtle essence which makes the preciousness of poetry seems to escape us when we try to define it. But let it be said, once for all, that that cannot be poetry which is artificial in its nature, stilted, and affected. True poetry has an intimate relation to human life. It appeals to every heart of man, to the wayfarer as well as to the scholar; it touches the simplest details of homely life; it illumines the joys and sorrows which are the heritage of our common humanity. What would our life be worth if there were no poetry in it?

"Yet, even now, there are those who regard the poets as dreamers, and depreciate their value in comparison with that of the so-called 'men of action.' Dreamers! Yea, verily; but their visions uplift and strengthen us, and make our life more beautiful because more true. 'We are such stuff as dreams are made of.' We 'live in dreams;' and who shall say how much the great heroes of history and men of action in all ages have owed to the 'vision glorious' by which their poets stimulated them to noblest endeavour! Poetry is the highest possible expression of truth, and the true poet is the seer, the inspirer, the teacher of men. Let no one fear that the study of poetry will unfit men for practical life; it should rather make life more real and earnest, as it reveals the grand and the awful possibilities that lie before every soul of man."

Aldyth listened with joy to these words. Was the lecturer conscious of the soft liquid glow in the grey eyes fixed so earnestly on him? Did he see how absolutely beautiful Aldyth's countenance became as it caught and reflected his thought? Yes, for now and again his eyes met the full flash of glad intelligence that leaped into Aldyth's, and he spoke the better for knowing that he had one perfect listener.

The lecture over, the stir and bustle of departure arose in the hall. Everybody was discussing the lecture, and the general feeling seemed one of satisfaction. Guy Lorraine indeed yawned and stretched himself, and professed to be glad that the lecture was ended, thereby exciting the indignation of Hilda Bland, whose reproofs he seemed to enjoy.

"I am glad you were pleased," he said, "but for my part, I found it dull."

"Dull! I cannot believe you," said Hilda. "It was the greatest intellectual treat I have had for a long time."

"Well, I do not profess to be intellectual," replied Guy, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking as if he prided himself on the fact. "I suppose you are going to write the essay for Mr. Glynne."

"I shall try, certainly," said Hilda, "and I hope Aldyth will. I cannot answer for Kitty."

"I should think you might," said Kitty, overhearing her words. "I write an essay on the 'Character of Eighteenth Century Poetry'! I should pity Mr. Glynne if he had to read it. No, I am like you, Guy. I go in for what is practical. I am not a bookworm, like Hilda and Aldyth."

"Kitty, how can you talk like that after what you have heard to-night?" cried Hilda, in a tone of disgust.

But Kitty only laughed, and said that though she had enjoyed the lecture, she was not prepared to give her days and nights to the study of poetry for the sake of Mr. Glynne or any one else.

Clara Dawtrey was professing herself delighted with the lecture in loud tones, intended to reach the ear of the lecturer. But she saw to her annoyance that he was paying no attention to her. He had stepped from the platform and, having shaken hands with Miss Lorraine and received her congratulations, he was leaning across a bench to talk to her niece.

Aldyth's face still wore the glow of excitement. She was looking her best at that moment, when her face was radiant with spiritual light.

Clara saw the beauty, and it vexed her. She could have given no good reason for disliking Aldyth, but dislike her she did. Perhaps she was dimly conscious of the contrast that Aldyth in her simplicity and refinement presented to herself. Perhaps it was because Aldyth belonged to a different set—for the society of Woodham, like that of most little country towns, was composed of several cliques—and she suspected her of looking down upon herself. But she had no cause to think so of Aldyth. Kitty and Hilda Bland had not always been careful to veil their scorn of Clara Dawtrey's vulgarity and fastness; but Aldyth invariably treated the girl withe faultless though distant courtesy.

It annoyed Clara that Mr. Glynne should stand talking to Aldyth for some minutes.

"It is easy to see that Miss Aldyth Lorraine means to be Mr. Glynne's pet pupil," she observed to a young man with whom she was talking. "I write papers? No, thank you. I have no wish to compete with Miss Aldyth Lorraine."

Mr. Greenwood had invited Mr. Glynne to sup at his house after the lecture,—suppers, and not late dinners, were the fashion at Woodham. Mrs. Greenwood, who had no daughter, was pressing Miss Lorraine to come with Aldyth and make the supper more cheerful. Miss Lorraine yielded to her persuasions, so Clara Dawtrey, lingering about the hall to the last, had the chagrin of seeing Aldyth walk down the High Street to the banker's house accompanied by John Glynne, who sheltered her with his umbrella from the slight shower that was falling.

"Mr. Glynne," said Aldyth, as they walked together, "I am so glad you said what you did about poetry to-night. So many persons have the idea that poetry renders us dreamy and unpractical. Even my aunt, though, as you know, she is no enemy to culture, talks in that way sometimes. And Mrs. Bland vexes Hilda by trying to check her love of poetry; she seems to think it makes her sentimental and idle. And really Hilda is rather—"

Aldyth broke off suddenly. Loyalty to her friend seemed to forbid her to speak of her defects.

"I am glad you think I spoke to the point," said John Glynne, without appearing to observe Aldyth's abrupt pause. "Perhaps it is my mission here to teach some of my hearers the right use of poetry. Like every other blessing, it may be misused. It is the wine of life; but we may let it strengthen only our selfishness and vanity. There is always danger to the reflective mind of becoming absorbed in abstractions and notions which are never made fruitful—in a word, of cherishing sentimentality instead of true sentiments."

"That is it," said Aldyth, eagerly; "you have expressed what I have often thought."

"Yes," continued John Glynne, thoughtfully. "Poetry should not make us dreamy, useless, inert; it should rather stimulate us to the highest service, by making clear to us the true meaning of life—that man's blessedness does not consist in any material happiness, but in service, in doing his duty."

"Duty, ah, yes," said Aldyth, earnestly. "Do you know, I think I am beginning to understand the meaning of Wordsworth's 'Ode to Duty.' It used to puzzle me, but now I see the beauty of those words—

"'Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face.'"

They were passing beneath a street lamp, and looking up, Aldyth caught the strange, wistful glance with which her companion regarded her, ere he said, in low, grave tones—

"Are you indeed beginning to understand it? It takes a deal of learning. No one can rightly understand the poem who has not realized the whole force of that word 'stern' that the poet so aptly uses—'stern daughter,' 'stern lawgiver,' nor how essential to the bondman of duty is 'the spirit of self-sacrifice.'"

He spoke so seriously that Aldyth felt awed, and for a moment the gladness of her mood was checked. Would a time come in her life when Duty would wear no smile up her face, but assume the attitude of a stern, inexorable lawgiver, demanding the renunciation of happiness? They were at Mr. Greenwood's house. The light from the opening door fell on Aldyth's face, and showed the shadow there. But as she met John Glynne's quick comprehensive glance and reassuring smile, the shadow vanished, and Aldyth ran lightly up the steps.

Chapter V.

A Day At Wyndham Hall.

ALDYTH and Hilda were very busy during the next few days. They were writing their essays on the "Characteristics of Eighteenth Century Poetry," and whenever they met, they discussed the subject, and manifested considerable excitement as to the result of their work. Hilda, indeed, was so absorbed in this new interest that Kitty laughingly declared that she was lost to the nineteenth century, and would have been oblivious of every duty she owed to her contemporaries if she had not looked after her.

"It is well I am a prosaic mortal," Kitty would say as she arranged flowers, watered the plants in the conservatory, and attended to the various little details on which the beauty and comfort of a home depend; "not a room in the house would be fit to be seen if they were left to Hilda."

And Hilda would smile dreamily, and, with an untroubled conscience, devote all her time to reading and study. Kitty liked active duties, she had no intellectual tastes; why should Hilda interfere to prevent her performing as many such duties as possible?

Aldyth had no sister to relieve her of unwelcome tasks, and Miss Lorraine, who was so much engaged outside her home, expected her niece to assist her in domestic matters. Aldyth did not let her interest in the literature lectures lead her to slight these. Each duty was conscientiously discharged, but, by rising early and making the most of every opportunity, she managed to secure time for reading and writing.

Mr. Glynne's second lecture, which described the influence of the French Revolution on English literature, was even more interesting than the former one had been. Aldyth's paper was returned to her with a few words of commendation written on it. Hilda's, too, was marked "good," but it was criticized as being rather too diffuse, and in some respects not to the point. Hilda, who had spent hours over her essay, and flattered herself that it was well done, was disappointed to find it unequal to Aldyth's.

"Aldyth's is the best essay," said Kitty to Miss Lorraine, as they met near the door of the hall. She spoke in loud, clear tones, as she generally did, and her words were heard by Clara Dawtrey, to whom Miss Lorraine had just been speaking.

"That Miss Aldyth Lorraine should stand first is only what one would expect," Clara remarked with a simper.

Kitty gave her rather a haughty look of inquiry. But Miss Dawtrey had turned to greet an acquaintance, and Kitty's look was apparently lost on her.

"Now what did she mean by that, I wonder?" said Kitty, lowering her voice.

"I am sure I cannot say," replied Miss Lorraine, rather belying her words the next moment, however, by remarking, "I hope there will be no nonsense of that kind. There never was such a place for gossip as Woodham."

John Glynne no longer felt himself a stranger to people who gathered to hear him lecture. The society of a small country town is not usually reluctant to show hospitality to a young man of good family and high personal credentials, and Woodham was no exception to this rule.

The young tutor sometimes was embarrassed by the number of invitations he received, and had to use considerable tact in order to avoid offending any of the many persons who wished for the pleasure of his acquaintance. His frank, genial manner and good spirits made him popular in every home. He was not musical in the ordinary sense of the term; but he could appreciate good music, and so was a welcome addition to the musical parties for which the little town was famous.

There were two houses in which John Glynne felt perfectly at home, and an invitation to either was most acceptable to him. These were Mrs. Bland's and Miss Lorraine's. His lodgings being close by in the Longbridge Road, it was easy to drop into either. Needless to say, good Mrs. Bland's heart went out towards the lonely young man, and for the sake of his absent mother, she showed him many a motherly kindness. And he enjoyed the life and freedom he found in her home. He was sure that his sister would like the girls. Aldyth Lorraine, too; Mary could not help liking her. She was somehow different from any girl he had ever met before.

John Glynne little suspected that he never ran up the Blands' steps or stopped in the High Street to speak to the Bland girls or their friend Aldyth, without a pair of keen, dark eyes noting that he did so. The eyes were those of the Blands' neighbour, Miss Tabitha Rudkin, an elderly maiden lady, grand-aunt to Clara Dawtrey. Her house stood opposite to Mrs. Bland's, just at the bend of the High Street, where a narrow lane ran into it, and was so built that the windows commanded two directions. The use which its occupant made of these windows had led the Bland girls to name the house the "Observatory." Nothing that happened in the High Street could escape the observation of Miss Rudkin and her hired companion, Miss Purkiss.

In her way Miss Rudkin was a power in the little town, but, alas! it was a power for evil. She was one of those unhappy spinsters who have brought a slur upon the character of elderly single women. Of cold, selfish nature and ill-disciplined mind, without occupation or any close ties of affection, she had grown more and more unamiable, more suspicious, more prone to believe the worst of her fellow mortals with advancing years. Although it was no kindly interest she took in her neighbours, the interest was intense. No one knew so much as Miss Rudkin about all that happened or might happen at Woodham. She was the most arrant gossipmonger in the place, if, indeed, she might not be described as manufacturer of that commodity. All those who had a relish for the latest piece of scandal, and could enjoy hearing the character of a neighbour pulled to pieces, without being particular as to the accuracy of the statements made, were wont to frequent Miss Rudkin's house; and many others paid her attention, not because they liked her, but because they feared her.

It was said that long, long ago, when Miss Tabitha Rudkin was young, and perhaps good-looking, there had been a talk of her marrying Stephen Lorraine. No one knew more than that there had been "something between them"; no one could explain why the marriage had never taken place; but it was certain that Miss Rudkin had still considerable influence over old Stephen Lorraine.

Whether he were actuated by a sense of having wronged her in the past, or whatever the motive, he invariably treated her with great respect. On no day did he drive down the town without drawing up for a minute at Miss Rudkin's door to inquire after her health, or leave some little present of game or fruit. Not seldom he would go in to have a chat with her, and gather information concerning the townspeople, for he, too, had an appetite for gossip. It sometimes happened that these visits produced results exceedingly annoying to Miss Lorraine, who had never liked the Rudkins.

Aldyth's life had never been more busy or more full of interest than it was now. It seemed to Miss Lorraine, as she watched her niece with loving eyes, and marked the fresh animation in her look and bearing, that Aldyth was daily growing prettier. There is, indeed, no beautifier of the human face like the glow imparted to it by a noble, spiritual, and intellectual life. High thoughts leave their impress, and a pure, unselfish spirit will illumine the homeliest features.

Three lectures had been given, and Aldyth was looking forward with great interest to the fourth, which was to treat of Wordsworth's work as a poet. It was Tuesday morning, and having completed her round of domestic duties, Aldyth sat down to finish the paper she was writing for Mr. Glynne. She was just fairly launched into her task when she heard her aunt calling to her from below—

"Come down, Aldyth; Guy is here."

Aldyth laid down her pen with a sigh, and ran to obey the summons.

Guy was chatting with Miss Lorraine in the dining room. His dog-cart stood outside the house, with a boy holding the somewhat spirited horse. Since he appeared at the first lecture, Guy had not taken the trouble to attend another, but he had happened to be at Woodham on each Thursday evening, and the Blands had found him waiting on the steps of the Town Hall, apparently for the pleasure of watching the audience disperse.

"Guy has come to take us to Wyndham for the day," said Miss Lorraine, as Aldyth entered; "uncle wishes to see us."

Aldyth felt a pang of disappointment. The work in which she was so interested must be put aside, for Miss Lorraine always regarded her uncle's wishes as commands, and only absolute necessity would have led her to decline this invitation. But Aldyth would not allow it to be seen that she would prefer to remain at home.

"Thank you, Guy," she said brightly; "it is a lovely day for Wyndham. I suppose you would like us to get ready at once?"

"If you please," said Guy. "You will want your habit, Aldyth. Uncle has bought a new mare, one that carries a lady beautifully, and you are to try her paces this afternoon, if you will."

Aldyth's eyes brightened. She was fond of riding, and the prospect of the new mare was delightful. She ran to get ready, but, even with such a pleasure in anticipation, she cast a regretful glance at the books and papers scattered on her writing-table.

In a short time they were on their way to Wyndham. Aldyth sat on the back seat of the dog-cart, and was content to let the other two do the talking. For nearly five miles they followed the Longbridge Road, a dreary road, running on a dead level all the way, with nothing to break the monotony of flat fields save an occasional cottage, or a windmill slowly revolving its long arms. But it was a lovely October day. There was a crisp freshness in the air without its being cold. The sun was shining on the stubble fields and on the brown mud and gleaming water of the distant estuary. The hedges were bright with scarlet rose-hips, an abundance of haws, russet leaves, and here and there rich clusters of blackberries. Aldyth's eyes were quick to discern beauty wherever it lurked. She loved the country at all seasons and under all aspects. She had travelled little, and she often longed to visit the most beautiful parts of the world; but whilst she waited for the realization of this desire, she missed none of the beauty which Nature lavishes on every spot of earth.

As they approached Wyndham, Guy turned his horse sharply from the main road, and they entered upon a long carriage drive which crossed two fields. The gates were set open in anticipation of their arrival, and they drove straight on through a rather gloomy shrubbery till they emerged in front of a long, low, white house. A lawn stretched to the right of it, with flower-beds, rather untidily kept, and to the left lay a round pond with the broad leaves of water-lilies floating on its surface. At the sound of wheels, several dogs came running from the back of the house, barking joyously. They knew Aldyth well, and she called them by their names, and laughed as they made frantic efforts to spring up at the back of the dog-cart.

The commotion soon brought out the squire to welcome his guests. He was a fine old man, wonderfully upright and vigorous for his years. He wore a shabby velveteen shooting jacket, and on his head a soft black velvet cap, which he was scarcely ever known to lay aside. The hair which fell beneath it and almost touched his shoulders was snowy white, in vivid contrast to his cheek which had a ruddy glow like that of a winter apple, and testified to a life spent largely in the open air; his blue eyes were keen and bright; he had a large, handsome nose, a think-lipped, tightly-closed mouth, and a round, cleanly-shaven chin.

His eyes shone with their kindliest light as he grasped Aldyth's hand and helped her to spring from the dog-cart, while the others drove round to the front door.

"So you've come, miss," he said. "Why did you make me send for you? It seems you have no leisure to visit your poor old uncle nowadays."

"Indeed, uncle, we have talked of coming, but we have been very busy lately."

"Busy! Pooh! What can you have to be busy about, I should like to know?"

"Well, uncle, you know we are having literature lectures now at Woodham, and I have to study hard in order to get all the good that I can from them."

An impatient frown came to the old man's face.

"Lectures! Pshaw! What good can they do you?"

"A great deal, I think, uncle," said Aldyth, cheerfully; "I am learning many things I did not know before."

"Rubbish. You know enough. Did you not go to a first-class school?"

"Yes, uncle; but whilst I was there, I had little time for studying poetry."

"What do you want to study poetry for? It will only put ideas into your head that are better out of it. I never studied poetry or attended lectures, and I have got on very well without doing so."

It was difficult to reply to this emphatic statement. Aldyth left it undisputed, and turned to caress one of the dogs.

Miss Lorraine received but a cold greeting from her uncle; but she expected no other. Their intercourse had never been cordial since the time when he thought fit to disinherit the brother whom she passionately loved. Miss Lorraine took her brother's part, and had tried to make peace for him with her uncle; but she had only received the not infrequent reward of the peacemaker—her uncle's displeasure had been extended to her.

His love for Aldyth, and Miss Lorraine's love for both the children who claimed her affection, had tended to patch up this breach; but the patching was frail, and Miss Lorraine was ever aware that her uncle regarded her with coldness and suspicion. But for Aldyth's sake, she strove to preserve a friendly footing at the Hall, and was punctiliously attentive to her uncle's wishes.

These visits to the Hall were seldom agreeable to her. She was not afraid of the old man, but she could not enjoy his society. She believed that he took a secret pleasure in annoying her. He certainly had a knack of "rubbing her the wrong way," and sometimes he irritated her to such an extent that it was all she could do to resist the temptation to give him "a piece of her mind."

During luncheon the talk was about the mare which Aldyth was presently to mount. She knew that her uncle had purchased the animal entirely for her benefit, and she was grateful to him.

"It is very good of you, uncle, to give me so much pleasure," she said.

"Pooh, pooh!" he returned. "One must have a decent horse or two in one's stables, and as you like riding, you may as well ride her. Brown Bess is getting a little too old and staid for your ladyship!"

It was the very day for a ride; Aldyth was longing to be in the saddle. Soon after luncheon the horses were brought round. The new mare was a beautiful creature, pale-chestnut in hue, with one snowy fore-foot. Miss Lorraine, who flattered herself she knew something of horses, was loud in her admiration of her uncle's purchase. Stephen Lorraine said little in reply; but his face was bright with pleasure as he caught the look of Aldyth's. He came down the steps and assisted Aldyth to spring into the saddle.

"It is your right, I know, Guy," he said; "but you let an old man forestall you for once."

Guy laughed carelessly as he mounted his own steed.

Aldyth was a good rider, and she looked her best on horseback. The dark blue habit showed to perfection her graceful figure, and set off the pure paleness of her complexion. Her eyes shone with happiness, and there was a glad ring her voice as she bade good-bye to the two who stood on the steps to watch her ride away with Guy. Miss Lorraine felt less cheerful as she looked forward to spending the afternoon alone with her uncle.

"She is a dear girl," he remarked as his eyes followed two riding down the drive; "and she is growing a handsome girl. They make a fine pair. There will not be a better-matched couple in Essex."

Miss Lorraine turned a startled look upon him.

He met her glance, and arrested it for a moment with his keen old eyes.

"Yes," he said, significantly, "I mean it. Of course those two will marry. You cannot suppose that I contemplate anything else?"

Miss Lorraine grew hot and then cold. She was not exactly surprised. It was rather the realization of a dread that had long haunted her mind.

"The question is rather—what does Guy contemplate?" she said, quickly.

"Oh, as to that," said her uncle, coolly, "where could he find a more charming wife than Aldyth would make him? And would it not be the best thing possible for her?"

Miss Lorraine did not reply. As she followed her uncle across the wide oaken hall, she said to herself that many women would like to be the mistress of such a fine old house. What better position could she desire for Aldyth than that which she would win if she married her cousin, the heir of Wyndham? And yet there was something repugnant to her in the idea. Guy did not seem to her to possess the qualities that could make him a good husband for Aldyth.

They went back into the dining room. It was a large, handsome room; but its dark oaken furniture, dark hangings, and dark carpet made it appear gloomy. The whole house, indeed, had the dingy, uncared-for look that a home generally gets that has no lady as its presiding genius. The drawing room, a long, narrow room facing the garden, was rarely used.

Old Stephen stirred the fire into a blaze, seated himself in his armchair, folded his hands before him, and looked deliberately at his niece.

"You do not like the idea, it seems; but what better thing could there be for Aldyth?"

"That depends on how she would regard it," said Miss Lorraine, drily.

"She has no fortune," he continued, without heeding his niece's words. "Her mother has given her up; but if she had not done so, she has nothing to leave her daughter."

"Aldyth will not be penniless," said her aunt, quietly. "All that I have to leave will be hers when I am no more."

Stephen Lorraine made no comment on this statement. Evidently he thought the £300 a year Miss Lorraine had inherited from her father a poor thing in comparison with the joint possession of Wyndham and the fortune he had accumulated.

"It seems to me," said Miss Lorraine, with sudden boldness, "it seems to me a dangerous thing to make plans of this kind. If the two are drawn to each other, all well and good; but you cannot be sure that Aldyth would be Guy's choice, or, supposing it were so, that she could love him."

"Nonsense!" said the old man sharply. "I tell you she does love him. She'll be all right if you do not stuff her head with rubbish. What's all this about the literature lectures? Who's that young fellow they tell me is constantly at your house?"

Miss Lorraine coloured.

"Oh, Tabitha Rudkin!" she said within herself. "This is your doing."

But she replied calmly—

"I suppose you mean Mr. Glynne, the gentleman who is giving the lectures. He is not more often at my house than he is at other people's. He is a young man of good family, well-bred and highly cultured. I went to school with his mother."

"Whose nonsensical idea was it having these lectures? What good can they do?"

Miss Lorraine thought it vain to argue that question with her uncle.

"Aldyth enjoys them," she said; "she is very fond of poetry."

"More's the pity," returned the old man. "I don't approve of stuffing a girl's head with poetry and rubbish! There's Byron, for instance. Now what good can it do a girl to read Byron, I should like to know?"

Miss Lorraine was silent. She thought it probable that Byron was the only poet with whose writings her uncle was acquainted; but she did not dare to hint that he was perhaps hardly competent to judge of the value of poetry.

"No," he added; "I object to those lectures. They will do her no good. Tell her so from me; tell her that I wish her to give them up."

"Uncle!" His niece looked blankly at him. She could hardly believe that he was in earnest.

"I mean it," he said; "I wish her to give them up. Guy does not care for them; he does not attend them, and I would rather she did not."

"But Aldyth cares very much for them," said her aunt. "You cannot think what a disappointment it would be to her."

"Nonsense!" he said impatiently. "Aldyth is a good girl; she will do what I wish. You tell her what I say—do you hear?"

"I hear, certainly," said Miss Lorraine, greatly annoyed, "but I think you had better speak to her about it yourself."

"You refuse to do so?"

Miss Lorraine hesitated.

"I would rather not," she said; "but if you insist upon it, I will."

"Very well, then; I do insist upon it. Now I shall see whether Aldyth really cares to please me. There has been talk about her at Woodham which has displeased me. I wish to put it down."

"Oh, Tabitha Rudkin!" inwardly groaned Miss Lorraine.

Stephen Lorraine said little more to his niece as they sat together. Presently he took up his newspaper, and nodded a little behind it, though he would have scouted the idea of sleeping in the afternoon.

She sat knitting diligently, but stealing many a glance the while at the clock on the mantelpiece. She hated the disagreeable task imposed on her. What would Aldyth say? At last the long, dull afternoon wore to its close, and she heard Aldyth's happy voice as she dismounted at the front door.

Chapter VI.

Disappointment.

ALDYTH came in fresh and bright from her ride, and her entrance seemed to bring a breath of new life into the dreary old house. She was delighted with the mare, and declared that she had never enjoyed a ride more. Guy, too, seemed in the best of spirits.

"We mean to ride twice a week, Cousin Lucy," he said. "We must get the Blands to join us sometimes. Hilda could ride Brown Bess."

"Hilda is nervous on horseback," said Miss Lorraine. "Kitty would enjoy it more."

"Kitty—oh, Kitty is afraid of nothing!" said Guy, lightly. "We could easily find a mount for her. But Hilda is not so nervous as you think. I am sure she would not be afraid to ride Brown Bess."

"I dare say not, if you were at hand to take care of her," said Aldyth, merrily.

Guy coloured slightly.

The evening passed pleasantly away. Nothing more was said about the lectures. The cousins were in the gayest mood, and old Stephen's eyes twinkled with amusement as he listened to their merry talk. It seemed to him that things were just as they should be, and he had not a doubt that the last, and perhaps the strongest, desire that his imperious will had conceived would be realized without difficulty.

Miss Lorraine was unusually silent during the remainder of her visit, but only her uncle, who had reason to know that she was not well pleased, observed her silence.

The night was so chill that the closed carriage—a very antiquated vehicle, which Guy was wont to designate as the "bathing machine,"—was ordered to convey the ladies back to Woodham.

"Let us see you again soon, Aldyth," said her uncle, in the best of humours as he kissed her. "Remember that your steed will need frequent exercise, or she will get too skittish even for so good a horsewoman as you are. What are you going to name her, by the by?"

"Oh, am I to give her a name? You should do that, I think, uncle."

"Not I; she is yours to all intents and purposes. You do not expect me to mount her?"

"No, indeed; I think she would hardly carry you," said Aldyth, smiling. "But you are too good to me; you spoil me with kindness. Well, I must think of a name for her. I have a great mind to call her Pansy; she is so glossy and bright."

"Pansy! That's the same as Heartsease, is it not? Not a bad name for her mistress, eh, Guy? But come, sir; surely you are going to escort these ladies to Woodham?"

"Oh, I don't mind if I do," said Guy, who had evidently not intended to accompany them.

"Mind, indeed!" repeated his uncle.

"I mean, I shall be happy to do so," he said.

"Ah, that's more like it," returned the old man.

"Pray do not trouble yourself to be so polite, Guy," said Aldyth.

"It is absurd to talk of an escort, when we have old John on the box to take care of us," called out Miss Lorraine, who had taken her place within the carriage.

But Guy seemed now to wish to come. "Wait one moment," he cried, and ran back into the house. In a minute he returned, carrying a long, odd-shaped bundle, wrapped in newspaper, which he laid carefully on the seat before him as he took his place.

"Whatever precious thing have you there, Guy?" asked Aldyth, as they drove off.

Guy looked slightly embarrassed by the question. He unrolled the paper a little, and displayed a number of fine bulrushes.

"I thought I would leave these for Hilda Bland," he said, awkwardly. "She was wanting some the other day, and asked me where they could be found. I got these down Pentlow way; there's some marshy land there."

"It is good to be Hilda," said Aldyth. "You never get bulrushes for me, Guy."

"I did not know you cared about them," he said.

Aldyth laughed mischievously. Guy's colour rose. Miss Lorraine looked from one to the other with an air of bewilderment.

"Don't forget to leave the bulrushes," were Aldyth's parting words to her cousin, as she sprang out of the carriage at her aunt's gate.

"I believe you want me to give you some of them, but I will not," he said. He got back into the carriage, having declined an invitation to enter the house, and drove off.

Aldyth came in, looking highly amused.

"What is it?" asked her aunt, seeing the fun sparkling in her eyes. "What is all this about Hilda and Guy? You surely do not think that there is anything between them?"

"What do you mean by anything, auntie?" asked Aldyth, laughing.

"Anything serious—anything more than silly trifling."

"It is difficult to imagine Guy serious about anything," said Aldyth; "but he really seems to have a great fancy for Hilda, and, what surprises me more, she appears to be falling in love, or fancies that she is, with him."

"Goodness me! You do not mean to tell me that, Aldyth?" exclaimed Miss Lorraine.

"Why, auntie, you look quite shocked. Do you think it would be a bad thing? I certainly think Hilda might do better. I cannot help being amused by it—Guy is odd and Hilda so romantic; still, it is not a thing to make fun of, I know."

"Certainly it is not," said Miss Lorraine, with a severity of tone that surprised her niece. "There would be a terrible to-do if such a thing were to happen. No, no, depend upon it, Guy is only trifling, Aldyth. Don't you do anything to encourage it."

"I should not think of doing so," said Aldyth, looking troubled in her turn. "Do you suppose that uncle would dislike it?"

"Dislike is not the word," replied her aunt; "he would be simply furious. But why do you say that Hilda might do better, Aldyth? Guy would make a good husband."

"Would he?" said Aldyth, doubtfully. "But surely not for Hilda. They have scarcely anything in common. I cannot understand how she can care for him."

"That is hardly a kind thing to say of your cousin, Aldyth."

"Oh, I do not mean it unkindly. I am fond of Guy," said Aldyth, innocently; "but I cannot help wishing he were rather different. I do not think he is the one for Hilda."

"How about yourself?" thought Miss Lorraine. And she sighed, feeling oppressed by a sense of coming troubles, which she had no power to avert.

Aldyth was busy arranging in a vase some flowers she had brought from Wyndham. She looked so happy as she bent over them, her long, slender fingers giving a touch to this stalk, or a pull to that leaf till she had got just the effect she desired, that Miss Lorraine shrank more than ever from the task of communicating Uncle Stephen's wish. But it had to be done.

"Aldyth," she said at last, "you will be dreadfully vexed at what I have to tell you; but it's not my fault. Your uncle has taken a strong dislike to the idea of these lectures, and he wants you to give them up."

"To give them up?" exclaimed Aldyth, flushing deeply in her surprise. "To give up the literature lectures because he dislikes them? That is most unreasonable."

"So I think," said Miss Lorraine; "but it was no use talking to uncle. He thinks the only knowledge desirable for girls is how to make puddings and keep a house in good order." And she repeated what Stephen Lorraine had said about poetry.

Aldyth was too hurt to find amusement in his words, as under other circumstances she might have done.

"And he asked you to tell me that he wishes me to give up the lectures?"

Her aunt nodded.

"I cannot see that he has any right to expect that I shall yield to his wish in this matter," said Aldyth, decidedly. "It is not as if he had any good reason to give. Why he wishes it I cannot imagine."

Miss Lorraine could understand it very well, but she was not going to enlighten her niece.

"I do not care," said Aldyth, giving her head a little toss; "I shall not give up the lectures. You cannot expect me to, aunt?"

"My dear, it would be very hard; but it is not wise, you know, to cross your uncle's will."

Aldyth's face said plainly that she did not care whether it were wise or not. She rose to bid her aunt good-night. All the brightness had gone from her manner.

Miss Lorraine kissed her with more warmth than usual.

"I am as sorry as I can be," she said. "I felt quite angry with uncle. It is a great pity, for Mr. Glynne's lectures are so good and you enjoy them so much."

"But, I am not going to give them up," said Aldyth. "You need not speak as if I were."

She went hastily from the room, that her aunt might not see the tears that had risen in her eyes. Whether she continued to attend the lectures or not, she felt that her enjoyment of them was spoiled.

As she entered her room, the sight of her writing-table reminded her of the essay she had meant to finish on the morrow. Would it ever be finished now? Oh, she wished she had not gone to Wyndham! The thought of her uncle's kindness in giving her the beautiful horse grew bitter to her. Since he had done so much to give her pleasure, had he not a right to expect that she would do as he desired?

Yes; in her secret heart, Aldyth knew that she could not adhere to her resolve and defy her uncle's anger. She knew it, but it came home to her forcibly as she glanced at her mother's portrait. It was her mother's wish that she should please her uncle. This was the most severe test to which Aldyth's love for the mother she did not know had ever been put. Her lips quivered as she looked at the beautiful face, and the tears which had been slowly gathering, began to fall fast. Ah, she was learning something now of the inexorable demands of duty! She turned away, sobbing to herself—"If only I could tell her all about it, if we could talk it over together! She would understand; she would help me."

But Aldyth needed no further incentive. Her love had stood the test. The voice of duty had not spoken in vain.

She came down to breakfast the next morning looking languid and heavy-eyed. "Auntie," she said, directly they had greeted each other, "I spoke too hastily last night. I was angry, but it is of no use to be angry; I shall have to submit. Mother would not like me to do anything that would vex uncle."

"No, she would not," said Miss Lorraine. "She thinks it of great importance that you should keep in favour with your uncle. You are acting in the way she would wish; but I am very sorry for you, my dear child. I know it is a great disappointment."

Aldyth was silent. She did not care to talk about the disappointment. What to many girls would have been but a trifling sacrifice of inclination, was to her, with her keen intellectual tastes, a very great loss.

"I suppose uncle would like me to give up the lectures also," said Miss Lorraine, with a little laugh; "but happily he did not suggest such a thing, for I am too deeply committed to the undertaking to abandon it now. I expect he owes me a grudge for starting the idea."

"I think you may attend them with safety," said Aldyth, making an effort to speak lightly. "There is little fear that the study of poetry will unfit you for practical life, render you incapable of making a pudding, for instance, if cook should fall ill."

Miss Lorraine laughed. "Men attach great importance to cookery," she said. "Perhaps if Mr. Glynne were lecturing on that subject, uncle would not object to your attending the lectures."

An hour later Kitty and Hilda Bland came in.

"Have you finished your essay, Aldyth?" Hilda asked.

"No," replied Aldyth.

"No? You are behindhand. I have written eighteen sheets. What length do you think yours will be?"

"I do not know," said Aldyth, quickly; "I shall finish it for my own satisfaction, but I shall not send it to Mr. Glynne. I am not going to any more of the lectures."

"Aldyth! What do you mean?" exclaimed the sisters together. Their astonishment could not have been greater.

"It is uncle's doing," said Aldyth, speaking with an effort. "He does not approve of the lectures; he has desired me to give them up."

"I am sure I would not give up the lectures if I cared for them as you do, Aldyth, for any cross-grained old uncle in the world," said Kitty, warmly. "I call Mr. Lorraine a thorough tyrant."

"It is not for his sake so much as for my mother's," said Aldyth. "She would not like me to vex uncle."

"I am afraid I should not respect my mother's wishes if she were all those miles away," remarked Hilda. "You might write and ask her about it, and by the time you got her reply, the lectures would be over."

Aldyth smiled. "Nonsense, Hilda," she said; "you would not do so if you were in my place."

"But you could write the essays and send them to Mr. Glynne, if you did not attend the lectures," said Hilda. "You shall have the benefit of my notes. Come, you might do that, Aldyth."

Aldyth shook her head. "It would not be straightforward," she said. "It would be obeying uncle in the letter but not in spirit. And I ought to treat him better than that, for he is very good to me. Do you know he has bought a beautiful chestnut mare on purpose for me to ride?"

"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Kitty. "Well, you are a lucky girl, Aldyth. I would gladly give up the lectures if any one would give me a horse—would not you, Hilda? Oh, I forgot you are such a goose on horseback."

"Hilda must conquer her fears," said Aldyth, smiling, "for Guy has set his heart on our making a riding party one of these days, and Hilda is to ride Brown Bess."

Hilda's face flushed with pleasure. "Oh, I am not so nervous as I used to be," she said, quickly, "and Brown Bess is such a steady old creature. It is very kind of Guy to think of it. He is kind. Did you see the lovely bulrushes he brought us last night, Aldyth?"

"Yes, they were fine ones," said Aldyth; "but now, Hilda, please remember that since I am debarred from attending the lectures, I shall rely on you to tell me all you can about them. I am afraid aunt's memory is not very trustworthy where literature is concerned."

"I wonder what Mr. Glynne will think of your keeping away," said Kitty.

Aldyth winced at the remark. It was a thought which had occurred to her many times already.

"Never mind," said Kitty, good-humouredly, as she read her face; "if I have a chance, I will let him know that it's not your fault."

Chapter VII.

A Mischief-Maker.

ALDYTH was feeling more out of temper than perhaps she had ever felt before. It was Thursday evening, and Miss Lorraine had gone to the lecture, leaving her alone. She had yielded to her uncle's wish from a sense of duty; but it was impossible to feel resigned to the deprivation his absurd crotchet was causing her. The absurdity, the unreasonableness of it struck Aldyth more and more as she sat dismally picturing Kitty and Hilda and her other friends enjoying the lecture from which she was shut out. She could settle to no occupation. It was impossible to feel her former interest in the course of reading prescribed by the lecturer. Needlework was still more distasteful. She began a letter to her sister Gladys, the beautiful daughter of whom her mother wrote with pride that she was creating quite a sensation in Melbourne society; but Aldyth dropped her pen in the middle of a sentence, and, springing up, began to poke the fire with far more vigour than its condition demanded. It was of no use trying to think of anything except the lecture from which she was so provokingly excluded. Would Mr. Glynne observe her absence? she wondered, with a little sigh.

"Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice."

What brought the words to her mind at that moment? Truly she had little of the spirit of self-sacrifice. Perhaps it was well that her will for once should be thwarted, that she might learn to sacrifice her own wishes without murmuring. John Glynne had been wise when he reminded her that Duty would not always wear a smile upon her face. He was one to obey Duty under any circumstances without a murmur. He was a strong man. She knew instinctively that he had already sacrificed his own inclinations many times for the sake of his mother. Would he, with his rare abilities, have taken such a post as that he held in the Woodham Grammar School, had he not been anxious by means of his salary to increase the comfort of his mother's life?

Aldyth felt ashamed of herself as she thought of one so much nobler. She turned to the piano, and began to practise diligently a difficult passage in a sonata, but her thoughts were at the lecture the while. The clock struck nine. Aunt Lucy should return soon, but she was one of those persons on whose punctual return to their homes it is never possible to depend. She would be sure to have much to say to everybody when the lecture was over, and various things might happen to detain her.

The neat little housemaid—Miss Lorraine was famous training young housemaids, whom, when their education was completed, she passed on to her friends—came to lay the supper, full of wonder why Miss Aldyth had remained at home instead of going out with her aunt, as she usually did on Thursday evenings. Just then the door-bell rang. Sarah hastened to open the door, and returning, ushered into the room Mr. Glynne.

Aldyth was so taken by surprise that she coloured deeply as she advanced to welcome the visitor. He was last person she expected to see at that hour. He too seemed surprised to find her there alone, having evidently passed the evening in solitude.

"Good evening, Miss Aldyth," he said, regarding her with grave, searching eyes. "Have I arrived before Miss Lorraine? I thought I should overtake her. She had left the hall when I came away."

"Perhaps she went into Mrs. Bland's," said Aldyth. "It is never certain that aunt will come straight home. But she will be in directly, no doubt, if you wish to see her."

"Oh, I was only going to ask her kindly to give you this," he replied, producing from his coat-pocket a small, rather ancient-looking book; "you said you would like to see it."

It was a copy of the first edition of the Lyrical Ballads, of which he had become possessed. Aldyth was very pleased to see it, but she felt rather shame-faced as she turned over the leaves.

"You were not at the lecture to-night," he said, a minute later. "There is nothing amiss, I trust?"

"I am quite well, if that is what you mean," she replied, with nervous quickness. "I am very sorry, Mr. Glynne; it is a great disappointment to me; I shall not be able to attend any more of the lectures."

"Indeed!" he said, surprised in look and tone.

"Yes," said Aldyth, colouring deeply. "It is not my fault. I cannot help myself in the matter. It is uncle—he thinks it is not good for girls to study poetry. He thinks we should devote ourselves entirely to cooking and housekeeping."

"What a barbarian!" he exclaimed, so seriously that Aldyth burst into a laugh, and all her discontent seemed to melt away.

"Excuse me," he added, the next moment. "I ought not to speak so of your uncle. But are you obliged to renounce the study of poetry because he thinks in that way?"

"Yes," said Aldyth, firmly; "at least, I feel that I must give up the lectures. It will seem strange to you, but there are reasons why I am peculiarly bound to defer to Uncle Stephen's wishes."

"Is it so? Well, I am very sorry," he said, with sincere regret in his tones. "Your papers were so good. Miss Hilda Bland took charge of the one I returned this evening. It is marked 'Excellent,' like the others."

Aldyth's face glowed with pleasure.

"And now, I suppose, I must expect no more papers from you?" he added, in a tone of vexation.

Aldyth hesitated, as she thought of Hilda's suggestion. It would have been so easy to arrange still to write the papers. But after a moment she answered "Yes."

He observed her closely for a few moments, then he said—

"Well, I shall know that you still take an interest in the lectures, and I shall hope to see you sometimes and talk things over. But I wish very much that your uncle were—different."

There was something so droll in the way he uttered the last word that Aldyth laughed. She was feeling very happy just then, despite her uncle's prohibition. Ere her laugh was over, Miss Lorraine came in, and was surprised, and perhaps not altogether pleased, to find the lecturer entertaining her niece. It was not that her liking for John Glynne had diminished, but she had an uneasy consciousness that her uncle would strongly object to Mr. Glynne's being there on such friendly terms. Yet Miss Lorraine's hospitable feelings made it impossible for her to refrain from asking the young man to remain and take supper with them. The invitation was given so cordially that John Glynne accepted it without hesitation, and Aldyth enjoyed a talk with him, which, she told herself afterwards, was as good as hearing the lecture.

How Clara Dawtrey knew that John Glynne supped with the Lorraines that night it would be difficult to say. But by some species of espionage she discovered the fact, and reported it to her Aunt Tabitha. Clara's powers of observation were on the alert where John Glynne was concerned. She had set her heart on fascinating him, and pursued her end with an unmaidenly freedom of action which excited disgust rather than admiration in the mind of that gentleman.

But vanity rendered Clara obtuse in judging the effect of her attractions. Mr. Glynne's grave politeness did not check her hopes; his quiet, reserved manner did not restrain her from asking questions, or making flattering personal remarks, which he found particularly disagreeable. Clara had not a doubt that Mr. Glynne would find her society as attractive, if not more so, as that of Aldyth Lorraine and the Blands, if only she had more opportunities of impressing him with her wit and gaiety and the charms in which she so confidently believed. She certainly lost no chance of bringing these to bear on him.

She always contrived to secure a seat close to the platform and to speak to him after each lecture, compelling him sometimes, when there were students waiting to consult him, to break away from her trivialities with scant courtesy. She managed to meet him almost every day as he passed to and fro between his lodgings and the Grammar School; she questioned his landlady concerning his habits; she frequented every place where there was the least chance of seeing him. In short, she pursued him to such an extent that John Glynne became as anxious to avoid her as she was to meet him.

It was a sore vexation to poor Clara Dawtrey to see how quickly John Glynne formed a friendship with Aldyth Lorraine and the Blands, whilst towards her his manner continued only distantly polite. Her dislike for these girls became more bitter. She had a malicious desire to annoy or injure them in revenge for the indifference with which they regarded her and the way in which, as it seemed to her, they monopolized John Glynne.

One afternoon, Clara Dawtrey was at Cartmell's, the stationer's, one of the most important shops in the High Street, and a grand centre for gossip. There was a circulating library in connection with it. Clara had just obtained a fresh novel, and was leaning on the counter in easy conversation with Mr. Cartmell, when she saw John Glynne go past on his bicycle. It was the Wednesday half-holiday, and he was off for a run in the country. She saw him too late for any chance of a greeting, and she was vexed with herself for lingering to talk with Mr. Cartmell, and thus missing John Glynne, whom she must have met had she quitted the shop a few minutes earlier.

She hurried out in time to see him go rapidly down the hill, almost as far as the old church, and then turn to the right. He was going down "the Hundreds," as the flat, uninteresting district lying to the east of Woodham was termed, through which ran a good, level road. Well, he could not be going far in that direction, and the November afternoon was short. She might yet manage to meet him, and give him an opportunity of admiring her appearance in the smart little crimson hat she had lately received from London.

Clara's father was a solicitor, a man of somewhat ill-repute in his profession, but well-to-do, and Clara, his favourite daughter, and the only one who remained unmarried, had a liberal allowance for her personal expenses. Yet, large as it was, her dressmaker's and milliner's bills often outran it. Clara's mother had died when she was a child, a fact Aldyth always remembered when others were disposed to judge Clara harshly. Her father had not married again, and the girl had grown up with little control save that of sisters as flighty and heedless as herself. If she considered herself to have any duties, they were such as made but the slightest demand upon her time, and she seemed to have no idea of any higher aim in life than that of her own gratification. Aldyth was perhaps right when, in her gentle charity, she spoke of Clara as one to be pitied rather than blamed.

It was a mild November afternoon. Clara sauntered slowly down the hill, and, turning to the left, came on to the bank of the river. It was a tidal river, and when, as now, it was high water, the red roofs of the houses and the barges on the river with their large ochre-coloured sails gave to the little town somewhat of the appearance of a Dutch village. The sky was grey but clear, and the subtle; melancholy charm of autumn pervaded the scene; but Clara was not conscious of its beauty as was Aldyth, who had just come out of one the cottages on the shore, and stood gazing up the river. So true is it that the eye perceives beauty only as the mind inspires its vision. Clara lacked the imagination that can behold—

"A light that never was on sea or land."

[Illustration]

Aldyth heard a step on the shingle, but not till she turned rather suddenly, remembering that she had several cottages to visit that afternoon, did she see Clara. The girls came face to face within a few feet of each other. Aldyth moved by with a bow and the words:

"A lovely afternoon, is it not?"

"Very," responded Clara, coolly.

She was annoyed that Aldyth passed without saying more.

"She need not avoid me as if I had the plague," she said to herself.

She looked after Aldyth with a dislike that was born of envy. Aldyth in her simple serge suit and little felt hat looked such a lady that for a moment Clara hated her new adornments, and felt that they were gaudy and vulgar.

She wandered rather drearily by the river. In summer, when boating was general, its banks presented a lively scene; but now there were few boats out, the sunlight had faded, and a grey mist was beginning to gather over the distant marshes. Clara hardly knew how to fill up the time till she might expect John Glynne to be on his way home. She went back into the High Street and made a large purchase of sweetmeats at the chief confectioner's. Then a thought struck her. A road branched off from the Hundreds into the Longbridge Road. Mr. Glynne would very likely return to his lodgings by that. How annoying if she missed him after all! There was nothing for it but to walk as far as the junction of the two roads, and she started at once, much fearing she might be too late.

She walked briskly, but ere she had reached the turning into the Longbridge Road, she saw the individual she was anxious to meet. Could anything be more provoking? He was not one. He had alighted from his bicycle and was walking by the side of a lady. Could it be—yes—actually it was—Aldyth Lorraine!

There she was walking by Mr. Glynne's side on the quiet country road, and he was talking so earnestly to her that, despite the crimson hat, Clara had almost passed ere he saw her, and then he clutched mechanically at his cap, without seeming to have any clear notion to whom he was bowing.

Aldyth had seen her. Clara felt sure that she coloured as she met her glance, and no wonder.

Clara was scandalized. That Aldyth should be walking with Mr. Glynne in that lonely part of the road was shocking to her, though assuredly had Mr. Glynne overtaken her when she was there alone, she would not have hesitated to walk back to Woodham with him.

Aldyth Lorraine, who was so good and proper! Who would believe it? Of course it was a planned thing. Aldyth had seen him go down the Hundreds, she had waited about and come down that road for the chance of seeing him. Or else they had arranged to meet. Perhaps there was some secret understanding between them. It became increasingly clear to Clara that such must be the case, as, full of jealous rage and mortification, she walked on, it being impossible to turn back and show that she had been pursuing that road without a purpose.

After a few minutes, Clara ventured to look round. The straight, level road was visible for some distance. The two she wished to watch had almost reached the cottages. Ah, yes, they would part now. He was remounting his bicycle; he was off, and Aldyth was left walking alone.

There was a gleam of malicious satisfaction in Clara's eyes as she hastened back to Woodham by the Longbridge Road. It brought her out at the head of the High Street within a stone's throw of the dwelling of her amiable relative, Miss Tabitha Rudkin. Clara remembered that she had not visited her aunt for many days. She would call on her now; she had something to tell the old lady that would be sure to interest her.

Miss Rudkin's reception of her grand-niece was never gracious. Her greeting was generally a string of reproaches for past neglect.

"You don't mean to say it is you, Clara?" she exclaimed, with affected surprise. "I began to think I should never see you again. It would be a poor thing for me if I depended on you to comfort and cheer me. I am sure it is a month since you were here."

"Well, I'm here now, any way," said Clara, in a matter-of-fact tone, debating with herself how quickly she could impart her intelligence and make her escape. "How is your cough, aunt?"

"Much you care about my cough!" retorted her aunt. "What's that thing you have on your head? Another new hat! Dear! Dear! Your father need be rich to support your extravagance."

After a little of this delightful intercourse, Clara came to her point by saying, "By the by, aunt, have you seen your friend Stephen lately?"

"Of whom do you speak in that disrespectful way?" demanded Miss Rudkin.

"Oh, you know," returned Clara, coolly, "Mr. Stephen Lorraine."

"I cannot see that it concerns you whether or not I have seen Mr. Lorraine."

"No?" said Clara, indifferently. "Well, perhaps not. I only wanted to know whether he had told you of Aldyth's engagement."

"Aldyth's engagement! Aldyth Lorraine engaged! Who says so?" asked the old woman eagerly.

"I say so," boldly replied Clara; "I met her just now with Mr. Glynne down in the Hundreds, and if they are not engaged, I do not know what to think. You ask old Stephen, when next you see him, if Aldyth is not engaged to Mr. Glynne."

"I shall ask him no such question. Mr. Glynne, indeed! She is to marry Guy."

"So you've said before; but I do not believe it," returned Clara. "Of course I only know what I saw this afternoon, but that is enough for me."

She laughed gleefully as she spoke. She believed that she was getting Aldyth into a scrape, and the thought revived her spirits. She bade her aunt good-bye, and left her to ponder the matter. She had not a doubt that what she had said about Aldyth would be repeated to Aldyth's grand-uncle.

An hour later, Aldyth, as she sat drinking tea with her aunt, said quietly: "I went down the Hundreds this afternoon to see old Adam Drake. You know he likes me to call once a month for his club money. As I was coming back, Mr. Glynne overtook me on his bicycle. He got off and walked a little way with me. He has had bad news from home. His sister is ill, and they are afraid it is scarlet fever."

"Scarlet fever!" exclaimed Miss Lorraine, in dismay. "What a trouble that will be for poor Mrs. Glynne!"

"Yes; he seems very troubled on her account," said Aldyth; "and he is afraid it may prevent his going home for Christmas."

"I should not wonder," said Miss Lorraine. "He must run no risk of infection. And if he is wise, he will keep the matter to himself. The very mention of scarlet fever by a school master is enough to raise a panic amongst the parents."

"I said something of the kind to him," replied Aldyth with a smile, "and he promised to be prudent. As he was telling me about it, we met Clara Dawtrey, and she stared at me in such an insolent manner, that I felt quite uncomfortable."

"Oh, my dear, you don't mean to say that Clara Dawtrey saw you with Mr. Glynne!" exclaimed Miss Lorraine, in distressed tones. "Then your uncle will hear of it."

"What if he does?" asked Aldyth, drawing herself up, whilst her eyes suddenly flashed with pride. "Do you think I mind that uncle or any one should know that I have been walking with Mr. Glynne?"

Chapter VIII.

Gossip And Misconception.

"MOTHER, is it true?" asked Charlie Bland, one afternoon in the following week, as he burst into the dining room, swinging a strapful of books. "Is it true that Mr. Glynne going to marry Aldyth?"

"My dear Charlie!" exclaimed his mother, looking up from her letter-writing in the greatest astonishment. "Whoever told you such a thing?"

"Oh, all the boys are talking about it. Tom Rudkin says he knows it's a fact. And old Glynne is in an awfully jolly temper to-day."

Kitty dropped her novel, and burst into a fit of laughter.

"Oh, you ridiculous creatures!" she exclaimed. "What will you boys conjure up next? You might have known it was not true, Charlie. If Aldyth were engaged, should not we know it as soon as any one at Woodham?"

"Well, I thought it could not be true," he replied, "but Tom Rudkin was so positive."

"Here comes Aldyth," exclaimed Kitty, who was seated in the window. "What fun! I shall ask her what she means by concealing her engagement from us."

Mrs. Bland was looking vexed—too vexed to be amused. Tom Rudkin was Clara Dawtrey's cousin, so it was easy to see in what quarter the report had originated.

"Take care how you tell her, Kitty," she exclaimed, as Kitty rushed to the door. "It will annoy her, I know."

"Talk of an angel, and her wings are heard," said Kitty, laughingly, as she opened the door to her friend.

"You were talking of me? What have you been saying, I wonder?" said Aldyth, as she came in. "Now, Charlie, you must be my friend, and tell me all. What have they been saying about me?"

"That you are engaged to Mr. Glynne," blurted out Charlie.

Aldyth looked amazed for a moment, then her face flushed.

"Oh, Charlie! How can you?" cried Kitty. "We never said that, I'm sure. It was your astonishing piece of news."

"What does he mean?" asked Aldyth, looking from one to the other in embarrassment.

"You must not mind it, Aldyth, dear," said Mrs. Bland, kindly. "I do believe boys are as fond of gossip as old maids. He has just brought us that surprising piece of intelligence from school."

"Tom Rudkin declared it was true," said Charlie, sturdily.

"After that, my declaration that it is not will go for nothing, I am afraid," said Aldyth, trying to laugh off her vexation, which was evidently great. "I wish people would not be so wise concerning me."

"It is most annoying to have such things said," observed Kitty. "Really, Woodham is a most detestable place for gossip."

"Come, come, child!" said her mother. "Don't run down your native place. All little towns are pretty much the same, as far as gossip is concerned."

"Of course it is easy to see who started this report," she added, as Charlie disappeared from the room. "It originated over the way, no doubt."

"That horrid old Tabitha!" exclaimed Kitty. "She is the bane of the town. She ought to have been born a century earlier, when she might have been drowned as a witch! Ne that I should wish her to be drowned: but, you know, there really is something witch-like about her."

Aldyth could not help laughing at Kitty's ideas respecting Miss Rudkin.

"It's Clara Dawtrey's doing," Aldyth said. "She met me the other day walking with Mr. Glynne. That was foundation enough for this fabrication. Oh, dear! I should like to tell her what I think of it. But it would do no good."

"No, no!" said Mrs. Bland. "The best way is to take no notice, and let the report die a natural death."

The talk turned to other matters; but Mrs. Bland could see that throughout her visit, Aldyth's mind was dwelling on the unpleasant fact she had learned. Mrs. Bland was sorry for her, and indignant with Clara Dawtrey. She knew that nothing is more trying for a girl, nothing more prejudicial to her happiness, than to have her name thus coupled with that of a gentleman whose friendship she values.

Two evenings later Kitty came in from attending a meeting of the Woodham Sewing Club in a state of considerable excitement.

"What is the matter, Kitty?" asked her mother, for Kitty's face was crimson, her eyes sparkling, and she burst into the room in a way which showed no respect for the nerves of those who occupied it.

Hilda, who had been dreaming rather than reading as she sat by the fire, looked up with a startled face.

"Oh, nothing," said Kitty, calming down as she saw the surprise she was causing; "nothing, except that I have had it out with Clara Dawtrey, and prevented her from telling any more stories about Aldyth."

"Kitty!" exclaimed Hilda. "Have you? Oh, do tell us!"

"Well, Clara, if you please, was at the meeting to-night. It is not often she troubles herself to attend. She was helping Mrs. Rayner to give out the work, and Miss Phipps was there too. The girls had gone, and we were putting things away when I saw their heads all close together, and heard Aldyth's name. Miss Clara did not mean me to hear, but I caught a word or two, and I spoke out at once, and said there was not an atom of truth in the report that Aldyth was engaged to Mr. Glynne. I looked straight at Clara, and said that I believed the report had originated with her; would she kindly tell me from whom she had received the information? You should have seen how taken aback she looked! She turned as red as possible, and could only say she was sure she thought it was true, or she would not have repeated it.

"'As an intimate friend of Aldyth's, I can assure you,' I said, 'that she is engaged to no one, and it is preposterous that such a thing should be said. I shall be obliged if you will contradict it, if you hear it again.'"

"Oh, Kitty!" exclaimed Hilda, with admiration in her tones; but Mrs. Bland looked uneasy.

"I do not wonder that you spoke so, Kitty," she said, "but I doubt, my dear, if it were wise."

"Oh, I do not believe in letting people say just what they like," replied Kitty. "Anyhow, I've killed that rumour; but I dare say a fresh one will be started, for Miss Phipps began to say that she had always understood Aldyth was to marry her cousin."

"Poor Aldyth!" exclaimed Mrs. Bland, whilst Hilda hastily took up her book, to hide the hot colour that was mounting in her cheeks. "Why will people talk about her so?"

"Mother, do you think that Aldyth will marry Guy?" asked Kitty.

"My dear, how can I say whom she will marry? I am no oracle. But I am sure that nothing would better please Stephen Lorraine. And in many respects it would be a good thing for Aldyth."

"Yes, of course," said Kitty, in a comfortable, matter-of-fact tone, "she would be the mistress of Wyndham; she would have plenty of money, and could keep as many horses as she liked; but still I cannot fancy that Aldyth would care to marry Guy."

Kitty quitted the room as she spoke. Hilda bent over her book, apparently absorbed in its pages, but it was long ere the unwonted colour in her cheeks faded.

Needless to say, Kitty's encounter with Clara Dawtrey did not tend to soften the feelings with which that young lady regarded the Blands and their friend.

A few days later, Clara, who occasionally called on Mrs. Greenwood, although the banker's wife did not admit her into the inner circle of her friends, entered that lady's drawing room to find John Glynne there talking to her. Clara was delighted to meet him thus; and immediately began to display all the coquettish airs and graces by which she believed that she rendered herself charming to gentlemen.

Mr. Glynne would have retired after a few minutes, but as he rose, the servant appeared, carrying the tea-tray, and Mrs. Greenwood would not hear of his going before he had taken a cup of tea. Just then other visitors were announced, who engaged Mrs. Greenwood's attention, and Glynne found himself drawn into a talk with Miss Dawtrey. They were seated within the bow-window which commanded the High Street.

Clara, talking rapidly, looked up at her companion with what she believed to be an arch glance, when she perceived that he was paying little attention to what she said. His eyes did not meet hers; they were looking beyond her, down into the street. Clara turned quickly to see what was interesting him there. Her chagrin did not lessen when she saw that Aldyth Lorraine was riding past, accompanied by her cousin. The girl-rider looked trim and graceful in her dark blue habit and little felt hat with white plume.

"Aldyth Lorraine looks well on horseback," remarked Clara, studying Mr. Glynne's countenance with an intentness of which he became uncomfortably aware. "Some people call her pretty. Do you think she is pretty?"

"Really, Miss Dawtrey, that is hardly a fair question," he replied, laughingly. "Is not a gentleman bound to admire every young lady he meets?"

"Oh, that's rubbish," she said. "You can't admire ugly girls. Now, I call Guy Lorraine a very handsome fellow; you don't think so, of course; you men are so jealous of each other; but he is. He ought to have a pretty wife. Of course you know—" She paused, and looked at him significantly.

"Please do not take my knowledge for granted," he said, his heart beating more quickly as he spoke; "do you mean that Miss Aldyth will marry her cousin?"

"Oh, hush!" she said, putting her finger to her lips with a warning look, and then glancing at the other visitors. "I would not have said anything about it, but I made sure you knew."

"But surely—if they are engaged—Is it an engagement?"

"That is an awkward question, Mr. Glynne," said Clara, dropping her eyes. "I do not wish to tell you a story, and I am not at liberty to answer in the affirmative. Though really it is absurd to make a secret of it, for every one at Woodham has known since they were children that Guy and Aldyth were intended for each other. My great-aunt, Miss Rudkin, is in Mr. Stephen Lorraine's confidence, and he has told her that he looks forward to their union. But pray do not repeat what I have said; I should not have told you."

"It is safe with me," he said, quietly.

He was on his guard, and could maintain an air of indifference.

"There has been an absurd fuss lately," said Clara, in a carefully subdued tone, "because a rumour arose that Aldyth was engaged to another gentleman. I understand that she has been most indignant about it, and the Blands call it a preposterous idea. Aldyth is very proud; I suppose it does not please her that her name should be coupled with that of any one save her cousin."

"Naturally," said John Glynne, rising to put down his cup. His tone was cold and hard. With all his self-control, he could not help the colour rising in his face as Miss Dawtrey spoke.

It was impossible that in such a place as Woodham, he should fail to hear what people were saying about him and Miss Aldyth Lorraine. It had annoyed him almost as much as it had annoyed her; but his vexation was entirely on her account. He could not blame himself: He had done nothing that could give colour to such an assertion. He was certain that Clara Dawtrey meant to annoy him by her words. She could not have supposed that he was unaware that it was his name that people had linked to that of Aldyth. But for that he cared not. What stung him in her words was their suggestion that some disdain of him had mingled with Aldyth's indignation. He took his departure hastily, and went back to his lodgings in a depressed frame of mind.

His little sitting room, with its hard, horsehair furniture, its brilliantly coloured pictures, its quaint decorations of seaweed and shells, had never seemed so distasteful and unhomelike as it did to-night. His landlady's shoes had never creaked so horribly as when she was laying on the table his evening meal; the conversational efforts she made in her nasal monotone had never been so tiresome.

So Aldyth Lorraine was to marry her cousin! For he did not for a moment imagine that he was mistaken in the inference he had drawn from Miss Dawtrey's words. Well, it was not surprising, and yet he was surprised. They were so different. What he had seen of Guy Lorraine had led him to regard him with a sort of good-natured contempt. A fine human animal, he had thought him, a clever sportsman, and not without good qualities, but empty-headed and primed with the self-conceit that often accompanies a vacant mind. Aldyth Lorraine, with her intellectual tastes, her delicate perceptions, her exquisite refinement of mind, to share the life of such a man! What had they in common, except their horsemanship and their love of out-of-door life—in Guy's case it could scarcely be termed "love of Nature?"

Having taken his supper hastily and with little appetite, Glynne plunged into work, and tried to banish these thoughts from his mind. After all, it was no concern of his whom Aldyth might choose to marry. And yet—and yet—one thing had been made clear to him by the talk of the gossips—the fact that had he been in a position to contemplate marriage, Aldyth was the girl he would desire to win. Was she making a free choice in the matter? he asked himself with a sudden thrill.

He remembered how she had said, "I am peculiarly bound to defer to Uncle Stephen's wishes." Could it be that she was being forced into this marriage? No; impossible! She was not the woman to marry under compulsion. The words must have referred to her engagement. They were a confirmation of what Miss Dawtrey had said. Glynne's spirits sank lower as he thought this. Vainly he tried to absorb himself in his work; thoughts of Aldyth would come between him and it, and mingling with them came to mind scraps of "Locksley Hall."

"He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse."

Chapter IX.

Mr. Stephen Lorraine Comes To An Understanding With His Heir.

JOHN GLYNNE would have been surprised could he have known how little Aldyth had enjoyed that ride with her cousin. She had been conscious of something unusual in Guy's manner towards her. He had been more assiduous in his attentions to her than he was wont to be, yet at the same time he had vexed her by contemptuous allusions to John Glynne, and the report that had been circulated in Woodham.

It had become a sore subject with Aldyth, and she was far from appreciating the witticisms in which Guy indulged at her expense. Yet Guy had no intention of annoying her. On the contrary, he meant to try his best to please his cousin. But it was not easy to substitute for the old, free and easy, cousinly intercourse, the new rôle he had taken upon himself. He had not succeeded in his endeavours, and he felt that he had not.

"I shall never be able to do it as I should," he said to himself, as he rode back to Wyndham, after lingering a while in the High Street, in the hope of seeing the Blands. "I wish I had not promised; but Wyndham is worth a sacrifice; though it is hard that a fellow may not choose his own wife." And Guy felt anything but comfortable as he surveyed the position in which he found himself.

A few days earlier Stephen Lorraine had ridden back from Woodham in the worst of humours. He had never accustomed himself to put any kind of restraint on his irritability, and he had no sooner returned, than his household had cause to know that something had "put him out."

Guy, who came into dinner a few minutes late, received his share of his uncle's wrath.

"You will be good enough to remember, sir, that my dinner hour is six. It is doubtless disagreeable to you to conform to my habits; but it cannot be for long now, and I think I have a right to expect that you will pay me that degree of respect."

Happily Guy, who was tolerably easy of temper, did not encourage his uncle's quarrelsome tendency.

"I am sorry to be late, uncle," he said. "I assure you I like my dinner at six; but that fellow Ames detained me. Is there any soup coming for me?"

"I believe so; but if you have any consideration for your throat, you will have nothing to do with it," said the old man, grimly. "Cook evidently considers pepper the chief ingredient in making soup."

"It is rather highly seasoned, certainly," said Guy, as he tasted the soup the servant placed before him. "How did you find things at Woodham? Much as usual, I suppose?"

An impatient sound escaped old Stephen's lips, but he said nothing, and Guy did not pursue the inquiry, though he was full of wonder as to the cause of his uncle's ill-temper. The few carefully-chosen remarks on which he ventured being ungraciously received, Guy finished his dinner in silence. As the dessert was placed on the table, the old man's manner brightened somewhat. He sent for a bottle of special port from the cellar, and having filled his own glass, pushed the black, cob-webbed bottle towards Guy.

"Fill up; you'll find it worth drinking," he said. "It's almost as good as the '54 will prove, I trust, which I am keeping for your wedding."

Guy laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"Time enough to think of that, sir," he said, lightly.

"Nay, not so," said the old man, with repressed eagerness; "it is time you began to think about it seriously, my lad, if I am to have the pleasure of drinking the health of your pretty bride."

Guy coloured, and fell to studying his wine-glass to hide his embarrassment.

"I should be sorry to think that you would not see my wedding, sir," he replied, with becoming seriousness; "but happily you are a rare man for your years, and will, I trust, see many more, for I am but a young fellow to think of marrying."

"Nonsense," said the old man, sharply; "you are twenty-four, and in your case there is no reason why marriage should be delayed. Now, do not smile, Guy, if you please. I am in earnest, and I wish you to be."

"Certainly, uncle, I will consider what you say; but a fellow can hardly get married at a moment's notice."

"Pshaw! How you talk!" cried old Stephen, impatiently. "One would think you had to go far to seek a bride. Come, sir, do you know what is being said about Aldyth at Woodham? Do you know that the gossips will have it she is going to marry that jackanapes in cap and gown—the fellow who lectures—tush! I've forgotten his name, but you know whom I mean."

Guy had turned a startled look on his uncle, and his face grew a shade paler as he caught the drift of his speech; but he said, coolly—

"Mr. Glynne, you mean. Well, why should not Aldyth marry him if she fancies him?"

"Guy, are you beside yourself? Do you know what you are saying? How dare you suggest that such a marriage would be suitable for Aldyth? A beggarly usher—a fellow of no social position whatever! Would you tamely submit to see her throw herself away upon such an one?"

There was growing passion in the old man's tones. Guy was alarmed, but he took refuge in sulky indifference.

"I do not know what you mean by 'tamely submitting' to it. Of course it would be a pity. I should not admire Aldyth's taste; but I could not interfere in the matter."

"It is absurd for you to affect to misunderstand me," said Stephen Lorraine, growing more angry. "You must know perfectly well that I have always looked forward to your marrying Aldyth."

"Indeed, sir!" said Guy, looking blank. "This is the first time you have acquainted me with the fact."

"You should not have needed information. You might have seen it was the only thing to be thought of."

"But I have never thought of it," said Guy; "and I must confess that I do not like the idea. Aldyth is my cousin."

"Your second cousin," said his uncle.

"Second or first," said Guy, "it is the same. We have grown up together almost like brother and sister. I am fond of Aldyth, but I tell you honestly, sir, I have no wish to make her my wife."

"You will find that it is to your interest to do so," said his uncle, with a calmness born of intense passion. "Listen to me, sir. Aldyth is every whit as dear to me as you are. When I have looked on you as the heir to Wyndham, it has been with the thought that she would share your inheritance. I do not choose to divide my property between you; but neither do I mean that Aldyth should suffer loss. If you resolve to disregard my wish in this matter, I shall have to reconsider the disposition of my property. Now, I have given you fair warning."

Guy heard his uncle with feelings of the utmost dismay. "I don't know about the fairness of the matter," he muttered, then added in a louder tone: "You must allow that this has come upon me very suddenly. It is hard for a man to have it dictated to him whom he is to marry."

"Not at all," interrupted his uncle, "when the girl is such a fair, sweet girl as Aldyth."

"I don't believe she will have me," said Guy, with the air of having hit upon a happy solution of the difficulty. "You will not blame me, uncle, if she refuses me?"

"Yes, I shall," returned old Stephen, grimly. "If she refuses, it will be because you have wooed her in a sorry fashion. You ask her properly, and tell her that I wish it, and she will have you fast enough."

Guy devoutly hoped that his uncle might be mistaken in this belief. But he lacked the courage to withstand him, and boldly claim his right to act as he would in a matter that so closely concerned his happiness. Guy believed that Hilda Bland was the girl who could make him happy; but he was not one to deem the world well lost for love. The heirship of Wyndham was dear to him. Not for any girl's sake could he bear to be disinherited. So he temporized, and drifted into a sort of tacit promise that he would seek to win Aldyth for his wife.

It was with poor spirits that Guy set himself to carry out his purpose. He had little hope that Aldyth would really refuse his brilliant offer. A woman, he told himself in his youthful wisdom, regards marriage from a very different point of view from that of a man. Was it likely that one whose matrimonial chances were so limited and uncertain would reject, in one breath, himself and Wyndham?

But somehow Guy was not very successful in his efforts to act the part of a lover. He found it impossible to convince Aldyth of his sincerity. She would take purely as a joke his pretty speeches and the devoted airs he tried to assume. She laughed at him, and bantered him on what she believed to be mere affectations. The chief result of his endeavours was to raise doubt and jealousy in the mind of Hilda Bland, towards whom his friendliness was marked by strange fluctuations, and who was quick to perceive that Guy was more attentive to his cousin than he had formerly been. One day he would treat Hilda with such apparent indifference that her thoughts would turn with sympathy to Mariana in "The Moated Grange," and she would dream of dying early of a broken heart; then again he suffered himself to be betrayed into the old tenderness of voice and look, and Hilda's heart would beat with tumultuous delight, and life seemed to stretch before her again as a long, bright vista.

Meanwhile, poor Hilda grew daily more dreamy, and unpractical, more neglectful of home duties, more oblivious of all that lay outside the rosy curtains which screened her own inner world of self-conscious emotion. Even Aldyth felt impelled to take her to task sometimes.

"You are getting lazy, Hilda," she exclaimed one day when she was at Mrs. Bland's, and heard Hilda refuse to carry a soup ticket to a poor woman whom Mrs. Bland was desirous of helping.

Kitty, who was present, had at once volunteered to do the errand, and was now buttoning her boots by the fire.

"Oh, it is really too cold to go out this morning," said Hilda, lounging in her easy-chair by the fire, with her pretty little feet on the fender. "Kitty does not mind the cold, but I hate to go out before I have had time to get thoroughly warm."

"There is one kind of poetry Hilda does not appreciate," remarked Kitty—"the poetry of motion."

"And she has yet to learn that one should occasionally sacrifice one's own inclinations for the sake of helping others," said her mother, in rather a severe tone, as she quitted the room.

As soon as she was alone with her friend, Hilda burst into tears.

"That is always the way now," she said. "Mother is for ever finding fault with me. Kitty is her favourite daughter, and nothing that I do is right."

"Nonsense, Hilda," said Aldyth; "you fancy such things. I do not believe Mrs. Bland has a favourite, but Kitty is of course a great help to her."

"Yes; but then Kitty likes doing all sorts of things," said Hilda, vaguely. "She is so different from me. I do not get any sympathy from her. She laughs at my love of poetry; and as for mother, I am sure she grudges me the time I give to self-improvement. I suppose she wishes I were like Kitty, who scarcely ever reads anything except a novel."

"Now you are wronging your mother," said Aldyth, quickly. "I am sure she was very pleased that you and I should study together for the lectures. But talking of novels, what were you doing when I came in? Is not that a novel I see in your lap?"

"Certainly it is," said Hilda, "but such a novel!" And she held up "Romola" to view.

"Ah! That is a grand book," said Aldyth; "terribly sad, yet as true as it is sad. I can never lose the impression made on me by its revelation of the slow but sure decline into evil of Tito—so bright, and lovable, and unsullied as we see him at first that we love him almost as Romola does, and share the bitterness of her disappointment."

"Yes, it is very sad," said Hilda; "but what a splendid woman Romola is. I have just been reading how she devoted herself to those poor people dying of the pestilence. They might well take her for the Madonna. Oh, to go amongst the poor and suffering like that would be a life worth living; I often wish that I could be trained as a nurse, but mother would never hear of my leaving home. It is horrid to live in a place like Woodham, where there is nothing to be done."

"Only some poor people to be visited and supplied with soup tickets," said Aldyth, mischievously.

Hilda coloured. "Oh, that is nothing," she said.

"It is only a small thing, certainly," said Aldyth. "But I think the small duties may prepare us for great ones, if we should ever be called to undertake them. 'He that is faithful in that which is least, is faithful also in much.' But, Hilda, I had no idea that you had any leaning towards a nurse's vocation. I should have thought that kind of work would not have been at all to your taste."

"Perhaps not," said Hilda, looking piqued; "but you do not know all the thoughts that I have."

And she said to herself that Aldyth understood her no better than did her mother and sister.

There was a pause, then Hilda asked, "Are you going to ride to-day?"

"No," said Aldyth. "Guy has gone to Colchester, but he proposes that we should all have a ride on Saturday—you on Brown Bess. You feel quite comfortable on her now, do you not?"

"Yes, indeed, I am not a bit afraid of her now," said Hilda, her face lighting up with pleasure. "I shall enjoy another ride. And oh Aldyth, what do you think? Mother says we may have a party on my twenty-first birthday. Won't that b