Some Builders, by Amy Le Feuvre—A Project Gutenberg eBook (2024)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73696 ***

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

"There's a man smoking the other side of the wall,"
said Chuckles, springing up in the boat. "Why, it's Cousin Ran!"

BY

WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY
ELIZABETH EARNSHAW

CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD

London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne

1913

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

1. SIDNEY

2. A CRONY AND A CLIMB

3. MONICA'S REQUEST

4. ON A SANDBANK

5. THE WIDOW

6. LETTERS

7. THE SHADOW OF A CLOUD

8. RIVALS

9. JOCKIE'S ARRIVAL

10. JOCKIE'S FRIEND

11. AUSTIN'S ENLIGHTENMENT

12. FRONTIER NEWS

13. THE MAJOR'S NEWS

14. A DIFFICULT TIME

15. THE GUNS

16. LEAVING THE OLD HOME

17. STRUCK DOWN

18. AUSTIN SPEAKS

19. RANDOLPH'S RETURN

20. A STRANGE ENCOUNTER

SOME BUILDERS

CHAPTER I

SIDNEY

"OH, God, teach me to forget! Teach me to forget!"

The cry was passionate and tense, as the girl clenched the newspaper inher slender hands.

The man overheard the cry by pure accident. He was lying lazily in apunt moored at the bottom of his hostess's garden, and the girl wasleaning over a broad low wall, screened from view by a thick bush ofsyringa. She had come down to the river to be alone with her grief.He lay motionless, afraid to betray his presence; but she voiced thedreary bitterness in his own heart. He had come down from town to tryto forget too. He had only arrived about an hour or two before, and wastold that his cousin, Lady Fielding, had gone out for the afternoon. Ashe lay in his boat and heard the crackle of the newspaper in the girl'shand, he wondered dully why she, as well as he, had received a blowthrough the Press on the same day.

He saw the announcement in his mind's eye which had staggered him thatmorning, when he opened the "Times" at his club.

Eva had been his betrothed for over two years, and had written to himonly three weeks previously, mentioning her probable return to Englandin the autumn. He had already been house-hunting within an easy reachof town, and was making preparations for his marriage. And he had beenvery deeply in love with the pretty girl who had dealt him such abitter blow.

Manlike, he had taken it silently, and was now making an effort to bearit philosophically; but the wound was too recent to be healed in such away.

"Teach me to forget," he murmured. "Only time does that, and time is alaggard when one wants him to hurry."

And then he began to wonder who the girl was that was so close to him,and whether she was one of his cousin's guests.

After a time she moved away, and he caught glimpses of her white gownthrough the shrubbery path as she wended her way back to the house.

He lay on in the boat. He was tired of the strenuous life he had livedin town, and the afternoon was one that invited sleep.

An hour later he woke up with a start. Lady Fielding's merry laughas she discovered his whereabouts, and the chaff of two of her youngsisters, made him leap up in a moment, and for the time forget histrouble. When dinner-time came, he wondered if he would see the ownerof that passionate voice. He asked his cousin if any of her guests hadbeen left at home that afternoon.

"Yes," she answered promptly, "Sidney Urquhart. She left by the fiveo'clock train. Have you never met her? She's a dear girl, the life ofany house-party; but she was summoned home unexpectedly. Her uncle wasill. She would have gone with us otherwise. Did you see anything ofher?"

"No. I went straight down to the boat when I was told you were out."

Lady Fielding was alone with him in the drawing-room as they talked;the other guests were still in their rooms. Her face grew grave as shesaid almost in a whisper:

"Oh, Randolph, I am so horrified! What an awful blow for you!"

He winced as if he had been struck.

"Yes; it has hit me hard; but spare me any words of sympathy, or Ishall flee back to town."

"Well, I always think that when a girl behaves like that it is amerciful escape. I will not speak of it again. You can trust me."

By neither word nor look did Randolph Neville show to the world atlarge what he felt at this juncture of his life. But cynicism andbitterness tinged his speech; he had been an easy-tempered, optimisticman; now he began to develop critical faculties, and certain hardlines imprinted themselves about his lips. A week of boating with hiscousin's guests was enough for him.

"I am going away," he informed her one morning when she was walkinground her well-ordered garden with him and asking his advice aboutcertain alterations she wished to make in the autumn.

"Not back to town? It is August; not a soul will be there."

"If I thought that, I would return to-morrow. I want more solitude—"

"Than I can give you here? Oh, I quite understand, but I don't believeit will be good for you. What wilds will hold you?"

"I'm going to look up Monica Pembroke."

"Good heavens! You will rusticate with a vengeance! I hear she's neverout of an apron and nailed boots. But she makes her farm prosper, whichis something in these days. Monnie is a good woman spoiled. Has shethat imp of a nephew with her still?"

"I believe so, and Aunt Dannie."

Lady Fielding shrugged her shoulders.

"If you prefer their company to mine, I have nothing more to say."

"Don't be cross, Molly. I must get away from conventionality for a bit,and try the simple life. Your French chef is spoiling my digestion andlaying the foundation for gout. May I catch the three o'clock trainthis afternoon?"

"Yes. I will order the car. I'm not cross with you, Randolph; but youhave sealed my lips, so you can expect no sympathy. I understand, andthat is all I can say."

About six o'clock that evening Randolph Neville alighted from thetrain at a quiet little sleepy station bright with roses, carnationsand stocks. It had been a hot afternoon. Heat still simmered in theair, and no cloud softened the brilliant blue sky above. The oldstationmaster was struggling into his official coat as the trainsteamed up. He came forward, mopping his brow with a red and whitehandkerchief.

"Any luggage, sir? Miss Pembroke be awaitin' outside. Her mare won't behandled by none but herself."

Randolph pointed to his bags, then went through the tiny booking-officeto the white dusty road. There, in a high dogcart, was seated hiscousin Monica. She was clad in brown holland coat and skirt and a largeshady hat. She looked cool and fresh, and every inch a lady. When sheturned her face to him and smiled her welcome, her skin might be tannedby outdoor life, but her bright blue eyes and wealth of soft goldenhair rolled back from a broad, intellectual forehead, and her franksmile proclaimed her a good-looking attractive woman.

"It's delightful to see you, Randolph."

"Ah!" he said, climbing up to the seat beside her, "I was sure of awelcome, and so I came. You won't expect me to go out to tea-partiesand picnics and the like, I know."

She glanced at him with twinkling eyes.

"I hope I shan't. This is a busy time with me; so if you can entertainyourself, and be content with our simple ménage, your visit will be asuccess. Aunt Dannie was horrified when I told her you were coming. 'Mydear, I do hope he will not be disgusted by our very poor quarters.Randolph is accustomed to the best. These London men must be humoured.I hope you will dine at the usual hour, not put him down to a squaremeal at half-past twelve or one o'clock.' Then she worried herself tofiddlestrings with training our village girl to valet you. I can seepoor Polly doing it!"

She laughed, and Randolph joined her.

"I've always wanted to see how you run your place," he said. "Are youcoining money over it?"

"No; but I'm not losing it, which is something."

They were driving up a steep hill now, edged with shady trees. In thedistance lay the blue ocean, and a winding tidal river curved in andout at the bottom of wooded heights.

Suddenly a yell close to them made the chestnut mare throw back herears and begin to dance.

A small figure in a stained holland overall and a large straw hatdarted down a bank.

"I've been waiting for you for simply years," the little creaturecried. "Take me up, Aunt Monnie, take me up!"

"No, that I shall not do," was the calm reply, "because I have told youmany times that you are not to spring out and frighten Sunbeam."

Disappointment and dismay was in the pair of brown eyes raised sobeseechingly.

"Oh, Auntie Monnie, do forgive me, do! Sunbeam isn't frightened of me.She's quite grave now."

But Monica drove steadily on, leaving the little boy in a tempest oftears upon the road.

"May I not intercede for the small culprit?" Randolph said. "It seemsrather—"

"Heartless and hard-hearted, eh? But a little discipline is good forChuckles. He never gets it from Aunt Dannie, so I must make up herdeficiencies. And it is no hardship for the imp to run home. We shallbe there in five minutes."

They were turning up a drive now, and soon arrived at a red brickedgable house. The sun-blinds were down at every window; a lawn in frontwas gay with flower-beds, and Randolph could not help exclaiming:

"This is not my idea of a genuine farmhouse."

"No? You must wait till you see my dairies and all my live stock. Hereis Aunt Dannie."

A frail little white-haired lady stood at the door.

Randolph stooped down and kissed her. She was his mother's sister, andhe was her favourite nephew.

She led him into a long low room, dark and cool after the glare of thesunshine outside. The table was laid for supper. There was a sense ofpeace and restfulness in the house that charmed Randolph. He cut shorthis aunt's profuse apologies.

"My dear boy, we wait on ourselves; there seems so much to do, andso few to do it. But you will not expect a well-ordered countrymansion. Not that Monica is a bad housekeeper. She is here, there, andeverywhere—in the dairy, in the kitchen, in the fields; but she hasmethod, and everything goes by clockwork. I will take you to your room.It is our only spare room, and the roof slopes and the floor is uneven,but—"

"Now, look here, Aunt Dannie, I've come down here for quiet and peaceof mind. I have begun to feel the atmosphere already, so don't youpoint me out the drawbacks. I call this the picture of a prosperoushomestead."

Left alone in his room, Randolph leant out of the low window taking inthe extensive view beyond the garden.

"Thank heaven!" he ejacul*ted to himself. "There will be no Societygirls to entertain. I'm sick of them all!"

When he came downstairs he found a clean, demure-faced Chuckles waitingfor him.

"We're having a chicken for supper," Chuckles whispered to him; "thepoor fing was made to die yesterday. And I put pins in your pincushionfor you. Did you see them?"

"How did you get home so quickly?" Randolph asked, hoisting him on hisshoulder, to his delight, and carrying him into the dining-room. Hewas very light and small, with a shock of flaxen curls which consortedstrangely with his blazing brown eyes and dark curling lashes.

"Oh, I stopped crying and ran for my life," he retorted. "I knewed Imust wash before I came to supper; and will you ask for the wishboneand then pull it with me? And be sure to leave just a bite of thechicken on it for me."

Randolph shook his head as he deposited him on a chair.

"How can you eat a person you have known in life?" he asked.

Chuckles heaved a sigh.

"I can pretend I never knowed her, like I does Johnny Barton, who frewmy ball down the well."

Monica sat at the head of the table behind an old-fashioned silverurn. She and her little nephew seemed to be on the best of terms witheach other, but more than once she checked the child's tongue. MissDarlington—who was called "Aunt Dannie" by all who knew her—had a readyflow of conversation, and was amusing in her description of the countryround them and their neighbours. Randolph and she kept the ball ofconversation rolling. Monica herself was singularly silent.

When the meal was over, Randolph sauntered out of doors to smoke apipe, and presently Monica joined him and took him round the premises.He could not but admire the order and prosperity of it all.

"What makes you such a good farmer, I wonder?" he said presently. "Noneof your forbears went in for it."

"Ah," she said, "I have lighted on a good man to superintend it.John Bayley is a farmer born, only he had the misfortune to own anunhealthy farm. He gave it up when he had four children taken from himby diphtheria, and having lost heavily in three or four bad years,was willing to come to me. He has taught me all I know. My time at anagricultural college has been of benefit to me; and I love outdoorlife, as you know. I think I should have sickened and died in a town. Iloathe it so!"

Randolph was silent for a few minutes, then he said:

"Well, I'm going to laze for a bit in your country air. What are yourplans for to-morrow? Not harvesting yet, are you?"

"Not till next week, unless we have a break in this weather. I shallleave you to amuse yourself, for I'm rarely indoors till five o'clock.But—"

Here she hesitated and looked at him doubtfully.

"Would you mind very much dining out with me to-morrow night? I'mafraid I have let you in for it. It is old Admiral Urquhart who wantsto see you. He knew your father. He and his brother live about a milefrom here. He has a very pretty house stretching down to the river."

"I was told you had banned Society. Why, Monnie, I believe you are afraud, after all!"

"I like my fellow-creatures," said Monica firmly. "I am not a recluse,and country neighbours are not to be despised. As a matter-of-fact, Ihave not worn my best dinner-gown for over a year. But it will be onlya family party. You will not mind, will you?"

"I'll try not to. He was a contemporary of my father's, was he not? Andisn't there something queer about his brother?"

"No. He hurt his leg in the Boer War, that was all. He goes in forcarpentering—a most useful hobby. He has made a lot of things for me,and we are great pals."

"No ladies, I hope?"

"Only the Admiral's daughter. You have met her, have you not? She wasstaying with your cousin, Lady Fielding, the other day."

"Molly is always running girls by the dozens. That is why I fled downhere; they were too many for me."

Randolph relapsed into gloom, and Monica wisely left him and went intothe house. She knew why he disliked all girls at this juncture, butmade no comment upon his speech.

He paced the gravel path, enjoying his pipe and the cool, still eveningair. Suddenly a small head shot out of an open window overhead.

"Cousin Ran, I'm going to be a poacher when I grows up!"

The head was as quickly withdrawn. Aunt Dannie could be heardexpostulating with the small boy.

And Randolph smiled.

"The love of intrigue and sport begins early," he muttered. "I meant tobe a poacher once."

His thoughts went back to a lonely boyhood, then swiftly turned to hismore recent experiences of life, and as he remembered his wrongs, thepeacefulness of his surroundings did not bring peace to his soul.

The next evening found him walking down the road, a light overcoatcovering his dress-suit, and Monica by his side.

"You don't mind walking?" she was saying. "My mare is dead tired. Ihad to send her on an errand of five-and-twenty miles to-day. And,selfishly, I enjoy a tramp at this hour of the day."

"I mind nothing except the anticipation of our evening," he saidsomewhat grimly.

"I know you are a martyr; but it's good to do some things we don'tlike, Ran, especially if it gives pleasure to others."

They walked through a shady lane, then turned down a road flanked bybeech woods, and went steadily downhill for half a mile. Then theysaw the river. It was high tide, and some fishing smacks, with theirred-brown sails, were floating slowly down to the sea. They came to ahigh, tarred wooden fence, and Monica stopped at a small gate in it.

"We'll go in this way. It is a short cut. I am allowed a key."

A short walk through a dense shrubbery brought them out under a groupof trees to the side of the house. The garden stretched away interraces down to the river. On the lower lawn were a row of ship's gunsmounted, and trees and flowering shrubs stretched down to the water'sedge. They turned a corner sharply, and the long low, white house laybefore them. It was a pretty spot; but Randolph's gaze was not on thehouse or the grounds.

A girl stood outside the open hall door, leaning against a stonepillar. She was dressed in a clinging black gown, her neck and armswere bare, and she was standing with her arms up and head resting onher clasped hands behind it. Very soft dusky dark hair surrounded adelicately pale oval face. Her eyes were grey, with black curlinglashes and eyebrows. Her skin was as white as alabaster. It was aproud, high-bred little face, with determination stamped upon theround, prominent chin and sensitiveness about the curved lips andstraight, Grecian nose. But her expression now, as she gazed up intothe evening sky, was one of abject misery and helpless appeal.

Monica gave a loud cough. It seemed as if they were intruding uponsacred ground.

In a moment the girl dropped her arms and came forward. Her face wasalight with pleasure and interest.

"Monica, is it you? Oh, my dear Uncle Ted has insisted upon goingdown to Yalstone for fish. He went off in his boat at two o'clock andhasn't yet returned. Cook is tearing her hair, and father is growlingand swearing under his breath. But we can exist without a fish course,can't we? Is that Mr. Neville? I have heard of you often, but we havenever met, I think."

She held out her hand to Randolph in a friendly fashion, and as heencountered her mirthful glance, he began to think that his firstimpression of her had been an optical delusion. Her voice had apeculiarly sweet lilt in it. He saw now that she was not a very younggirl. There was the grace and ease of a woman in her manner. She ledthem into a low wide hall, scented with roses and heliotrope, whichfilled great china bowls. Monica, in a businesslike fashion, slippedoff goloshes and cloak and stood upright in a dark green silk gownwith some priceless lace upon neck and sleeves. Then they entered thedrawing-room. It was quaint and dainty with its chintz hangings. Arounded bay window looked over the river, and beyond was a glimpse ofthe sea. Sitting in the twilight was the Admiral. He rose and welcomedRandolph heartily.

"Now, father, we will not wait for the dilatory culprit. He and hisfish may arrive as we are having our coffee. I have explained to ourguests, and they are quite resigned to their fate."

She rang the bell, told the maid that dinner was wanted at once, anda few minutes after they were seated in the dining-room. The soup washardly finished before there was a bustle in the hall and the tappingof a stick along the beeswaxed floor. Major Urquhart put a ratherdishevelled head inside the door.

"That confounded boat sprung a leak; and the young fool—Harding'seldest—brought me a conger eel; said there was nothing else. Don't waitfor me. I shan't be a second."

The Admiral muttered something under his breath. He was a halehearty-looking man, clean-shaven, and with the same well cut featuresas his daughter, only more pronounced. Randolph found him a keenpolitician, and interested in every subject that was touched upon.

"I get most of my information from printers' ink," he said with a shortlaugh. "I haven't been to town for five years, and it's precious few ofmy own sex that come down my way; but Sidney and I are book-lovers, andthere's not much that we don't thrash out together."

He glanced across the table at his daughter with a certain amountof quiet pride in his eyes. When Major Urquhart appeared, his niecechaffed him unmercifully. Her spirits never flagged, and the dinner, inspite of the absent fish, was a great success.

When Randolph eventually joined the ladies, he found them pacing up anddown the terrace outside the house.

Sidney turned to him at once.

"Well, Mr. Neville, how long will our quiet country satisfy you? Areyou a fisherman? Do you like sailing? Because there is nothing else foryour entertainment. I have seen a few men—very few—endure a fortnightin this part, but never longer."

"You want to drive me away," Randolph said lightly; "but I assure you Ihave learnt to be independent of my environment."

"Now, that's a nasty one, isn't it, Monnie? He is all in all tohimself, and we count for nothing. Like old Bob the shepherd in ourvillage. He has got pensioned off and been given an almshouse. Iwent to see him the other day, and pitied him for the loss of hisoccupation. 'Bless 'ee, miss, 'tis no' to be pitied I am. All my lifeI have had to think an' mix wi' crowds o' creeturs, an' now I can dovery well to myself. No such good company as oneself arter all, but onehasn't a chance commonly o' finding it out.'"

Monica laughed, but Randolph took the bantering speech quite gravely.

"I don't think I bore myself quite as much as other people bore me," hesaid.

"No," said Sidney quickly; "but there's one disadvantage one has toreckon with, and that is, that we can run away from other people, butnever from ourselves."

"And self is a big tyrant sometimes," said Monica gravely.

"Now we're moralising," cried Sidney gaily; "let us come down to thelower lawn, it is so lovely close to the water."

"Bring your guitar down and sing to us," suggested Monica; "I hear solittle music, and you know how much I love your singing."

Without any demur, Sidney slipped into the house for that instrument.

Randolph could not but enjoy the scene before him. It was a stillsoft moonlight night; the river rippled below, only making a slightlapping sound at the stone terrace wall. Roses climbed over a rusticfence—and flowering trees and shrubs seemed to scent the air aroundthem. The old ship's guns looked strangely out of keeping on the softturf, but chairs were drawn up round them, and Monica and Randolph tookpossession of them. Sidney sat on the broad low terrace wall. Withoutany hesitation or apology, she broke into song, and her voice, thoughnot a powerful one, was wonderfully sweet and thrilling. She gave thema gay little troubadour song and an evening lullaby, then with her facetowards the river and her back to them, she seemed to forget theirpresence, and sang her soul out in the following words: *

Sidney's voice was a naturally sad one, and though she recoveredherself in the last verse, and her notes rang out in gay defiance,Randolph felt he had received a distinct shock. It flashed acrosshim as she was singing why he had instinctively been feeling that herecognised her voice and must have heard her speak somewhere before.Now he knew that she had been his unseen neighbour down by the river inhis cousin's grounds.

"Teach me to forget" rang through his ears as clearly as her words weredoing now. He was so engrossed in his thoughts, that he made no commentwhen the song was finished.

Monica wiped her wet eyes.

"My dear Sidney, you make me feel a perfect fool. Why do you revel soin sadness? Sing us one of your 'coon' songs."

But Sidney would sing no more; she turned to greet her father anduncle, who had sauntered down to join them; and talk was of thelightest description for the rest of the evening.

CHAPTER II

A CRONY AND A CLIMB

"WELL, what do you think of Sidney?" asked Monica as they were walkinghome together.

"A very self-controlled young woman," replied Randolph promptly.

Monica eyed him sharply.

"You are more observant than most men," she said. "Sidney is very goodcompany at all times; but she is not phlegmatic by nature, and isthinner skinned than most people, so is apt to be misunderstood. She isof the make of French aristocrats in the Revolution, who went to theguillotine with a jest upon their lips."

"You speak as if a tragedy is hers."

"Oh, no; we have no tragedies in this village."

"Nor suitors to carry off your heroines?"

Again Monica glanced at him, but she said nothing.

It was the next day that he was enlightened, and it was Aunt Dannie whodid it.

She came out into the garden with him and paced up and down by his sideas he was smoking his pipe.

"Tell me about your dinner party. Such a little amuses us in this quietneighbourhood. I suppose you fell in love with Sidney Urquhart on thespot. Most people do, I believe. She might have married over and overagain had she been so minded. But I always said that her cousin, ArchieHughes, was the favoured man."

"You're a veritable gossip," said Randolph, looking at the old ladywith twinkling eyes.

Aunt Dannie nodded her head, well pleased with the accusation.

"Of course I am. Country people must be gossips, unless they'rerecluses. You see, Archie lived all his life close here. His father wasone of the Admiral's cronies. He died two years ago. Archie and Sidneygrew up together, and there was a kind of boy and girl engagementbetween them. We all expected a marriage, but I fancy Sidney couldnot make up her mind to leave her father. She was content to driftalong. Then General Hughes died, and Archie grew restless, and the nextthing we heard was that he was going out to India as secretary to adistant relative of his out there, who was Governor in some outlandishprovince. And then the other day, to our great surprise, we heard ofhis marriage. So I suppose, after all, there was nothing but cousinlyfeeling between him and Sidney. He was a second cousin of hers. She andMonica are great friends, but it is a pity she does not marry. She isnot like Monica; she has not half such a self-reliant nature."

Randolph did not speak. He was wondering at the coincidence of hiscoming down to this place to hear of the man who had stolen his fiancéefrom him. And he alone—unless Monica knew her friend's secret—had bymere accident discovered that Sidney had suffered as well as himself inthat transaction.

Aunt Dannie continued:

"I am interested in Sidney; she is a little different from most girls;it comes of being chiefly associated with men. Her mother died whenshe was five. She had a brother two years younger than herself. He wasin the Navy, and a rollicking sailor he was, but he died of fever afew years ago. It was a great grief to the Admiral. She is straightand blunt at times, and has no airs or graces, but she is not quite somasculine as Monica."

Then the old lady rambled on about some of Monica's misdemeanours, andRandolph hardly heeded her.

The sudden appearance of Chuckles, demanding his presence at thesheep-shearing, made him change his company, and for a time histhoughts.

Sidney, if he had only known it, was at the same time discussing himwith her father. Admiral Urquhart spent most of his afternoons on thelower lawn by the river. Sidney established him there, with his pipeand newspaper, with clockwork regularity directly luncheon was over. Hehad his own chair, and Major Urquhart had his, but the Major was not aslave to his afternoon nap as was the Admiral. He was a restless manby nature, and generally had more on hand than he could possibly getthrough. He seldom sat down till tea-time. It was half-past three now,and in her white linen dress and cool shady hat, Sidney approached herfather with her work-basket under her arm.

"Now, dad, I'm ready if you are. The leading article first of all,please, and then details after."

Admiral Urquhart turned over the sheet of the "Times" with alacrity.There was nothing he enjoyed more than reading the paper to hisdaughter and discussing the degeneracy of old England. But he pausedfor a moment, paper in hand.

"A nice fellow, Neville is; very like his father, who was the mostultra-conscientious beggar that I ever came across. But it was his ownundoing. He never did much in politics."

"I don't know anything about the Nevilles. Tell me about them."

Sidney settled herself with her work under the shady beech that grewdown so close, to the river. Her father responded:

"Charles Neville was a school chum of mine. He came into a nice littleproperty in Hampshire, and was member in the House for a good numberof years. He had talent and interest, and we expected him to do greatthings; but he was one of those independent thinkers, and though hemade good speeches, he never secured a good office for himself underhis Government. This son of his is going the same way, I fear. He wasin the Army, and, I expect, might have got on; but on his father'sdeath, the constituents insisted that he should take his father'sseat, and Randolph chucked the Service. He was telling me about itlast night, and, upon my soul, I don't blame him. He was returned allright, and was in Parliament for five years, but at the last election,he retired. He was dead sick of the party discussions, and tricks,and subterfuges. Told me a clean pair of hands was impossible if youclimbed the ladder. I don't agree with him, but, of course, thingsare different from what they were. The class of member is different,to begin with, and now this payment system has been started, the oldpatriotic spirit will die out."

"What is he doing now? He looks too keen to be an idler."

"He is waiting for a job; has been promised a post of some importancein India or the Colonies. I hope he'll get it. He's a strong man; tooconscientious for the present time."

"Oh, dad, don't! I hate to hear you talk so."

Sidney's grey eyes flashed fire.

"Do you think we're to follow the multitude, and to abjure all thetraditions of our race?"

"Why cast pearls to swine?" said the Admiral, "or take up pebbles witha silver spoon? There are only two professions, my dear, where dirtytricks don't prosper, and those are soldiering and sailoring."

"I'm sure every profession wants good clean-handed men in it," retortedSidney.

Then she laughed.

"It is too warm to argue, or I would suggest that the War Office andthe Admiralty have diplomatic ways sometimes. Mr. Neville looks more ofa soldier than anything else. But he's not so keen as he has been. Hespeaks so indifferently of people and things in general."

"He classes himself amongst the failures in life," said the Admiral."That's what he said to me; but he's not the fellow to sit down underit."

"I should hope not."

Sidney's lips curled a little, then mischief stole into her eyes.

"Let us hope Monnie will take him in hand, dad. I long that someinferior man should come along and capture her proud heart. It wouldbe glorious to see her knuckle under and have to defer to her lord andmaster. And he looks as if he would manage the woman he cared for."

"I think he has more grit than his father," said Admiral Urquhart,puffing out a thin column of smoke and watching it ascend in the stillair.

"I'm waiting for your news," said Sidney. "We won't dissect Mr. Nevilletoo thoroughly."

So her father turned to his "Times;" but he was very comfortable, andthe atmosphere was a sleepy one. His voice began to waver, the paperslipped from his fingers, and a gentle snore told Sidney that furtherreading was over for the present. She dropped her work in her lap andgazed dreamily over the water; shadows gathered and deepened in hereyes. Then she sprang up and slipped quietly down some broad stepsclose by. There was a light boat moored to the stone wall. With deftfingers she loosened the rope, stepped in, and taking up the light pairof oars, rowed gently away from the garden and down the river towardsthe sea.

Then, alone at last, she raised her head with a passionate gesture.

"Oh, I can't bear it! I can't bear it! What is life to me now? It'sfinished—absolutely done! There is nothing to hope for, nothing to waitfor! Nothing will ever come to me now!"

She went back in thought to the years that stretched behind her. Onefigure, one personality, was prominent in them all. Archie Hugheshad been a playmate first, then a friend, then a lover. She and helatterly had been separated by distance, but it had only made thefuture brighter to her, for would it not bring them together? In allshe planned, Archie took a prominent part. She did not now seem able toadjust her life without him. Never had she looked forward to the yearsstretching away in front of her without a happy thrill, the certainhope that she would have Archie to advise her, comfort her, and be herstand-by.

Sidney was no modern young woman with an assurance and independenceof thought which made a single life appear so attractive. She hadgrown-up amongst men who still held chivalrous ideas of women. She wasaccustomed to little attentions from them, and perhaps queened it overthem rather more than was good for her.

"Oh," she moaned, as she pulled in her oars and let herself drift fora little with the tide, bowing her head in her hands in abject misery,"if it had been anyone but Archie! He must have tired of me. Perhaps Ishowed him too much how I cared. And yet when he wished me good-bye, hewhispered, 'Good-bye, little wifie!' What can have happened to make himchange so?" She recalled his letters; but a pang went through her asshe remembered how few and far between they had been of late.

It was bitter to her to feel that he had flung her aside without aword, without giving her any reason for doing so. "Perhaps," shesoliloquised, "he was tired of waiting for me. Men are not like women.I tried his patience. But how secure I felt! How implicitly I trustedhim!"

Then she sat up and pushed her hair off her forehead, and the proudlittle poise of her head told that there was still some spirit left inher.

"I must have pluck and courage. Others have gone through as bad a timeas I am having now. Some women seem to be happy without husbands orlovers. Monica is. She never seems to have a thought about them, exceptto like a friendly chat with them occasionally. I must rise above mytrouble. I will not brood over it. I shall never be tempted to leavedad now. I must learn to look at life differently. God will help me. Mylife belongs to Him, and He has arranged it so. I will try not to pitymyself any more. If only I could forget!"

She caught up her oars again and swung the boat round. Rowing backagainst the tide was hard work, but the exercise to muscle did hergood, and the desire to battle with difficulty was realised.

When she brought the boat back to its mooring-place she saw thatvisitors were with her father. A young fellow, seeing her, sprangtowards her.

He was a curly-haired merry-faced boy of twenty-two, a special crony ofhers.

"It isn't often the mother and I drive out paying calls," he said, ashe assisted in mooring the boat to her anchor, "but I was as dull asditch-water. When I'm like that my mind always veers to you! Buck meup. I'm as flabby as a codfish. This heat, and life as it is seen fromour house, is pretty deadly, I can tell you."

"You're too idle," Sidney said, looking at him with laughing eyes. "Hotweather and idleness naturally sap all your energy and spirit out ofyou. But if you had come down early this morning and told me you wouldtake me for a day's sail in your new boat, we should both be returningnow, enormously hungry, and ready for anything."

"Oh, why didn't I! But this scandalous little agent keeps me potteringover fusty musty documents on purpose to annoy. And the governor had abad night, and so, of course, he insisted upon an extra lot of businessbeing done; and first I had to be shut up with Dobbs, and then I had tobe shut up with him, telling him every item of our conversation. Thedoctor is an old fool; he won't let Dobbs come near the governor; as ifmy bungling recital isn't fifty times worse than the genuine article!I assure you I wasn't done till one o'clock, and then I don't know whowas exhausted most, the governor or myself."

Sidney went up the garden and greeted a tall, handsome woman who wastalking to her father.

It was said in the neighbourhood that the de Cressiers were theproudest people in the county. They had lived at Thanning Towers sincethe Norman Conquest, and had refused several peerages, for theirmenkind had been of great service to their country and king. Thepresent Henry de Cressiers had been stricken down a year ago in thehunting field, and he lay a helpless paralysed invalid; but his voicewas left him, and his brain, though the latter was enfeebled. Theeldest son and heir had been drowned out in America in that same year,and Austin, the second one, had been summoned home from the universityto manage his father's estate and try to keep an eye upon a veryunsatisfactory agent, whom Mr. de Cressiers would not discharge. Nearlyall the de Cressiers were good-looking, dark men, with strong wills andstern self-repressed natures.

Austin often declared he must be a changeling, for his pride was nil,and he was one of the sunniest and most warm-hearted of mortals. As asmall boy he had been devoted to Sidney, who was a distant cousin, hermother having been a de Cressiers, and his devotion was still as great.

Mrs. de Cressiers kissed Sidney affectionately. There were few peopleround who did not like the girl. Perhaps her attraction was chieflyin her intense interest in everyone and their affairs. Her nature wasessentially a sympathetic one.

"My dear Sidney, I want to borrow you for a couple of nights. We havetwo big dinners on, and I want your help at them."

Sidney made a little grimace.

"Eating is such a farce this hot weather. Why don't you turn them intomoonlight suppers up the river?"

Austin chuckled. His mother looked scandalised.

And then Sidney laid her hand caressingly on her arm.

"Of course I will come, if dad thinks he can spare me. Is he to beasked?"

"I have asked him already. He won't come. We must have your uncle."

"You won't get him, I am afraid. He is going up the river for a week'sfishing to-morrow."

"I want another man badly."

"Monnie has a cousin staying with her. Ask him."

"But then I should have to include her, and I don't want another woman."

"I'll stay at home. Why did you ask me?"

"Sidney, don't be silly. I really need you."

A little pucker of Mrs. de Cressiers' eyebrows made Sidney drop herbantering tone.

"Monnie won't dine with you. She hates a lot of people, and she'll bevery glad to get rid of her visitor. Just explain it to her; she willunderstand."

"But what is her cousin like?"

"Is he county or co*ckney?" interrupted Austin. "Has he a long enoughpedigree to eat salt with us, and has he an immaculate dress-suit?"

"He is one of the Nevilles," said Sidney, shaking her head reprovinglyat him, for one of his mother's failings was a lack of humour. "Dadwill tell you his pedigree. He's an ex-M.P. and a failure."

"That he's not!" contradicted the Admiral with warmth. "He is too goodfor his party, that's what he is. Take him and be thankful, Clarice.But I doubt if he'll go to you; he told me he wanted to rusticate."

"I'll drop in on Monica on my way home," said Mrs. de Cressiers.

"And I'm going to plant myself firmly here till bedtime," said Austin.

His mother looked at him reproachfully, and he added heartily: "Ireally ought to be canonised, mother, so don't overdo it. Think of mybusy day, and let me have a little recreation now. I really will comehome before the small hours of the morning."

Mrs. de Cressiers rose to go. Her son accompanied her to the gate,where the carriage was waiting; then he came back joyously to Sidney.

"Now, Sid, what shall we do?"

"Go and tell them to bring down tea to us here," said Sidney, sittingdown by her father's side and taking up her work again.

He made a grimace, but obeyed. Admiral Urquhart looked after hisretreating figure with twinkling eyes.

"If he were a few years older I should take myself off, my dear. As itis, I don't intend to move. He'll never make a good landlord, and hismother knows it. When he comes into the property he'll spend all hisfather has saved."

"Now, dad, you shall not abuse him. He is a dear boy, and will be morepopular than any former de Cressiers. They are so alarming as a rule."

Austin returned and flung himself into a hammock under the trees.

"The mother is as keen as mustard on these dinners. They are tointroduce Sir Walter Rame as possible member."

"I thought he refused to be canvassed," Sidney said.

"He is in doubtful mind. Our first dinner is for the cream of ThanningDale, our second for the ordinary. Now, which is this new arrival? Themother will sort him with her eye in a twinkling."

"I don't think he is ordinary," said Sidney slowly.

"I wish you would enlighten me as to this Monica Pembroke. She has onlyappeared since I left home. Everyone seems to know her, but I don't."

"I suppose not; but she used to live at Crawford Manor, only afterher parents' death she lost all her money and left the neighbourhood.She had one brother abroad in New Zealand. He wrote to her, tellingher his wife was dead, and he wanted to come home. He said he wouldtake a farm in England if she would join him. And she worked hard atan agricultural college and was full of it, and then on his way home,her brother died, and a small imp of a boy arrived alone. Monnie has,of course, adopted him, has put her brother's money into a farm, ashe wished, and means to bring up the imp to work it. Meanwhile, she'smaster, and is making a huge success of it. She's a dear. She succeedsin everything she puts her hand to. I wish I had half her energy andcapability."

"What would you do with it?"

Sidney's eyes grew wistful.

"I should like to be of use to my generation," she said.

"Be content with being useful to your old father and uncle," said theAdmiral. "I hate these rampaging public women, and pray you may neverbe one of them."

"I don't care a button for my generation," said Austin—"wish I did. Iloathed all the mangy chaps at Oxford. There were a few who were ratherdecent chaps, but I would always rather people were useful to me thanthe other way about. I say, Sid, will you come up Rock Beacon with meafter tea? It will be cool enough for a climb. You see how your societyis beginning to invigorate me!"

"Yes; I am longing for bracing air. We'll go."

They started when tea was over. It was not the first time they hadclimbed the Beacon together. It lay about a mile from them, and as theywent, Austin plunged into confidences about his home and the work thatwas so distasteful to him.

"You understand," he said; "I've no one else to grouse to. If I wasgiven a free hand I would work from morning to night and be as happyas a sand-boy, but I have to see all kinds of inane things being done.I know Dobbs is a rogue, and is an adept at cunning and lining his ownnest, but the mother implores me to keep worries from the governor, andhe, poor chap, thinks that Dobbs is an angel of goodness, and tells methat I'm not to do a thing unless he agrees. I'd chuck it all to-morrowexcept for the mother. I'm wasting my days, and doing no good."

"What good would you be doing if you weren't at home!"

Austin looked at Sidney's grave face and laughed.

"I'd be storing honey like the busy bees: imbibing knowledge and havinga good time generally. No, I wouldn't! It was a mistake going toOxford. I'm not a scholar. I want to travel. The de Cressiers are asnarrow as—as—give me an apt simile!—A thread of silk! I want my mindbroadened."

"You ought to have had a profession."

"It's the eldest son's role to be in the Service—a very stupidarrangement, for he never stays there long."

"I don't think it is wise to grumble at what you're doing now, for itis work. You must be a check on Dobbs, and you can't deny that you're apleasure and comfort to your parents."

"Oh, Sid, don't be a stuffy prig!"

"Well, don't ask for my opinion then."

"Did I?"

"You invited it! Of course, you're very young, and you think that lifeought to be your servant. You will discover that it may be your master."

"A de Cressiers is never mastered by fate!" His merry eyes flashedfire; then he gave a little chuckle. "Didn't I say that like my mother!I believe, after all, I've got the same pride of race at the bottom ofmy heart."

There was a little silence between them; then he said:

"Sid, you are changed. What has happened? Has life mastered you?"

Sidney laughed, but her laugh had lost its merry ring.

"I am climbing," she said, "and we won't philosophise any more. Youknow what I think about idle men. And I want you to have high ideals,Austin, not low selfish ones."

Heather and bracken were now under their feet; the wind came over fromthe ocean and fanned their faces. Soon they left the heather belowthem, and short turf with grey blocks of stone lay before them. Sidneypresently spied a man's figure in front of them. He was just gainingthe summit.

"Who is that? Some tourist? He is not a shepherd or anyone of ourparts."

"What dogged shoulders! And what a pace! Come, Sid, buck up! We'reawfully slack."

"We aren't climbing for a wager. Let us look back. I don't know why Ifeel inclined to moralise to-day, but I do."

"Oh, let me do it for you! I know the style. As we look back on thepath of our feet, dear friend, we see here a picture of our life'sjourney. When we come to the top of the hill of life we shall see howsmall the things now look that once seemed so great—our all in all. Aswe—"

"Be quiet, Austin. I want to enjoy the view."

Sidney was gazing out towards the ocean which lay before them in thedistance. The land below them, with its shining valleys and windingriver, its wooded hills, and the cluster of cottages dotted here andthere round a turreted church tower, or spire, presented a fair pictureof English country.

Austin threw himself upon the ground to rest. His eyes were fixed onSidney's slim upright young figure.

"I wonder some fellow has not stepped in and laid siege to your heart,"he remarked meditatively. "I always thought that Hughes would be thelucky chap. You don't mind my mentioning it. He has got tied up now,hasn't he?"

"I believe he has," Sidney answered quietly. "Now let us finish ourclimb."

They started again, and in another ten minutes were at the top of theBeacon. There, leaning against a pile of rocks, the foundation for manya bonfire, was Randolph Neville.

CHAPTER III

MONICA'S REQUEST

HE looked as surprised as they when they met each other. Sidneyintroduced Austin at once.

"I came up here for a blow," said Randolph.

"And perhaps to get away from people," said Sidney with quickintuition. "We had no idea we were pursuing you, though we admired thepurpose and energy of your long strides."

Randolph smiled.

"I was pursued by visions of dinners and crowded drawing-rooms. I havecome from town to escape them."

"Then my mother wasn't successful in capturing you," said Austin; "shehad a hard try, didn't she?"

"She was very kind. I am afraid I vexed her; but I should be noaddition at present to any company."

Sidney looked at him with a mixture of amusem*nt and interest.

"There are very few of us who refuse Mrs. de Cressiers anything,"she said. "I don't think it was very kind of you. And these are veryspecial occasions, aren't they, Austin? It is a political opportunity."

"So Mrs. de Cressiers said; but that is just one of the reasons why Ifight shy of it."

Sidney, who knew his history, was silent.

"Shake hands!" cried Austin delightedly. "I loathe politics. My motheris too strong on them for my taste."

"I am ashamed of you both," said Sidney hotly, a warm colour creepingup into her cheeks. "If you love your country, you must be interestedin them. It is sheer laziness with you, Austin, and you know it."

Randolph turned to her.

"What part are you going to take in these political dinners, MissUrquhart?"

"Oh, I shall be a listener, and perhaps try a little persuasion withone or two stiff-necked old squires, for I want Sir Walter Rame tosucceed. He isn't of this county, but he rents a big place here, and ishonest and upright, I am sure."

Randolph was silent again. He doubted the sincerity of a would-bemember.

Sidney looked at him a little deprecatingly.

"Forgive me, Mr. Neville; I don't know you well enough to scold you,do I? But I can't bear to think that there are some Englishmen whowash their hands of politics because they cannot purge them of allself-seeking and knavery. There is always good leaven in them, and wewant to increase that, not decrease it. A good captain never deserts anold ship."

"It's only the rats," said Randolph, meeting her earnest gaze withtwinkling eyes. "I'm a bad rat and a sad rat, and I shan't be missed."

"Look here," broke in Austin; "I didn't bring you up here, Sid, to talkpolitics. Let us try another subject. Look at the ocean. Are you keenon fishing? I'm going out to-night with an old salt—a great pal ofmine. Will you make a third?"

Randolph and Austin plunged into an animated talk of fish in general.Sidney moved away. She loved the wide expanse of earth and sky, and thefresh keen air invigorated and refreshed her. Sitting down and leaningher back against a rock she wondered why, at a high altitude, thetroubles and worries of daily life seemed so small and insignificant.

"I suppose," she mused, "it is because I feel so near Heaven, and deepdown in my heart I know that my deepest love and interests are there."

When, a little later, Randolph and Austin joined her they were bothconscious of an increased radiance and softness in her face. AndAustin, who never could keep his thoughts to himself, said:

"Communion of the saints again, Sid? I'd like to know your thoughtswhen you get alone, but you never will tell me."

She roused herself with a light laugh.

"It is time we were going home. We will leave you to your solitude, Mr.Neville. I would love to spend a night up here by myself."

Randolph did not offer to accompany them down, and Austin took care toengage Sidney's attention for the rest of the way.

"The mother will be furious at Neville's refusal to come to her. A verydecent chap, I should say, but quite equal to holding his own withanyone."

"He looks unhappy," Sidney remarked.

"Oh, you sentimental women! If a man has got a fit of indigestion, orthe gout in his big toe, it is heartache with you. He is posing as acountry-lover, and he's already bored to death. He jumped at the ideaof an all night fishing. I'll tell you if he has had a disappointinglove affair after our expedition is over. But I doubt it. He's bored totears with the quiet here, and won't own up to it."

"We won't criticise him, Austin. He is a stranger and deserves ourconsideration."

When Sidney chose, a certain aloof inflection of tone had the effect ofa severe snub upon Austin. He instantly demanded very weakly:

"Please tell me what to talk about now," and then with laughter, theyresumed their usual happy intercourse together.

The day after, Monica called for Sidney to drive into the nearestmarket town with her. Admiral Urquhart had a small trap, and a veryfat lazy pony. Monica's cob was a fast one, and Sidney was always gladto go with her rather than drive herself. Friday was market day inPegborough, and both of them liked to go there every week.

"Randolph has taken Chuckles off my hands for the day," Monica said. "Ishall be glad when his holidays are over. He is rather a handful forpoor Aunt Dannie, and I can't have him always with me."

"I wish you would send him up to me oftener. I adore him."

"Sidney, I'm going to ask a favour of you." Monica spoke abruptly, anda certain little frown appeared between her level eyebrows.

"Ask away; you know you will get it."

"Don't be rash. It's this. I want to know if you'll give Chuckles alittle Sunday tuition on Sunday afternoons?"

If Sidney was surprised, she did not show it.

Monica flicked her cob a little nervously as she continued:

"I can't do it, as you know. It isn't in my line at all, and poor oldAunt Dannie tries and fails. Last Sunday the little imp chased herround the room with sofa cushions. I know you have a class in themorning, and it seems nasty of me to wish to spoil your quiet Sundayafternoons, but the fact is, I feel he wants something that I can'tgive him. He is growing up a godless little heathen, and seems lackingin moral principles. I don't know why I can't give them to him, but Ican't. They're instinctive with me, but he seems morally deficient. AndI'm anxious, awfully anxious, that he should grow up to be an uprighthonourable man. I know what you believe in, Sidney, and I want you toimpart your faith to him."

Sidney was silent. Sudden tears sprang into her eyes.

"I would love to have him, Monica dear, but you ought to teach him, notI."

Monica looked before her with set lips.

"You know what my religion is. I never want to appear other than I am.I go to church once on Sunday. I practise honesty and live straight.I have a strong belief in leaving the world better than I find it. Ibelieve in our Creator. That is the sum and substance of my faith. Iget along very well. I have been successful in all that I have put myhand to, and I want no more. But I have failed so far in building upChuckles' character. I can build my own; I can't build his."

"He wants a foundation stone, and so do you." Sidney's tone was softand reflective.

"He may do so. I give you leave to do what you can in that direction.But I differ from you entirely about myself. I consider I have shapedmy own life since I left school. I have firm ground under my feet—dutyis my foundation; a good straight life springs up from it. This soundsconceited. It is only what I aim at. I sometimes fail in the practice,and I seem to fail with Chuckles. Duty is always shirked by him, andoh, Sidney! My hopes are centred in him. I want him to grow up asuccess, not a failure. I hope to hand him over a thriving, prosperousfarm—his heritage; only regard it as a trust for him at present. Theysay single women make a mess of a boy's training, but I am determinedthat I shall not. No one can say I spoil him, and I think I have hislove."

"Chuckles is very lucky," said Sidney warmly.

"I think he is," responded Monica with a little laugh; "not in hisaunt, but in his surroundings. But I honestly would like him to have alittle more religion. He hates church. When Aunt Dannie discourses tohim on the love of God for good little boys, and how he ought to loveback, he says he can't love a Person he never sees, and he doesn'twant to be a good little boy. Then she shakes her head over him, andhe laughs at her. I feel that his only hope in that direction is beingtaught by you."

Sidney did not answer for a moment; then she said slowly:

"You know, Monnie, I was of the same mind as you till I met thatearnest-minded German woman abroad four years ago. I hope I inheritedprinciples of duty and honour from dad, but I do assure you that thereis something more in life than that; and she showed it to me. Duty is agood foundation, but it isn't the right one."

"It's good enough for me," said Monica dryly.

"But you are willing that Chuckles should have a better one?"

"No, I want him to have that, but I can't arrive at it."

"Oh, what a drab world for children and for all of us if duty filledour hearts to the exclusion of love!"

"Don't let us moralise; but I hand over Chuckles' spiritual educationto you with pleasure."

Then they began to talk over Randolph Neville.

"It is strange," Monica said, "that he is content with my quiet life.He seems in no hurry to leave me. To-day he has taken Chuckles up theriver, fishing. I expect he will be bored with the small imp beforelong. I was vexed that he refused Mrs. de Cressiers' invitation todinner. She was astonished and annoyed. She is not accustomed to bedenied anything."

"No," Sidney said, laughing. "We spoil her, don't we? And she was quiteaware of her condescension in asking him at all, as she knew nothing ofhim. I like him, Monnie; I admire strong silent men, and I am sure heis one of them, but something has embittered and soured him."

"Yes, and I heard this morning what it is. His cousin mentioned it in aletter to me. The girl he was going to marry threw him over and marriedsomeone else."

"Oh!" said Sidney with a long-drawn breath. "If a man is real in hisfeelings, he takes that very badly."

"Yes, but it ought not to spoil his life."

"It won't spoil Mr. Neville's."

"I hope not. He ranks himself as a failure, but that's mere surfacetalk. He is keen now on getting a Government appointment abroad. I hopehe will. He is too good to be an idler, and he unfortunately has enoughmoney to be that."

They accomplished their marketing and returned home. Sidney had a busyafternoon. Her uncle carried her off to his workshop directly lunchwas over. He was erecting a small teahouse in the garden, and wantedher advice about the dimensions and shape of it. Then her father toldher he wanted to drive over to inquire for an old friend of his, a SirPeter Wood, who lived six miles off, and he would like her to accompanyhim.

When they came home, a woman from the village was waiting for her.One of her little Sunday scholars was very ill and wanted to see histeacher. Sidney went off promptly, and returned only just in time fordinner. And after dinner, she played chess with her uncle, sang to herfather, and got no time to herself till bedtime arrived.

When she was at last alone her thoughts turned to Chuckles. She wasa true child-lover, and had often longed to have a bigger bit of hiscompany than was possible. Here was an opportunity. And the thoughtof all that might result from it, made her open her Bible and prayearnestly for guidance.

"It is a bit of building," she thought as she read to herself. "'Otherfoundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is Christ Jesus.'God's building, and if Jesus and His Life and Love are left out in achild's training, how can he be expected to thrive on stern duty andself-repression? Love makes it all so easy."

And as her mind dwelt on the theme of the New Testament her heartglowed within her.

"What does it matter about my broken prospects when I serve One Whonever disappoints, Who never fails? He is a rock under my feet, andthat gives me an idea for to-morrow. I will tell Chuckles the story ofthe builders on the rocks and the sand."

She went to sleep that night with a happier heart than she had had fora long time, and with a little shamed feeling that she had not realisedmore of the wealth she possessed in the unseen things.

Precisely at three o'clock the next afternoon Chuckles appeared. Hewas in his Sunday garb—an immaculately clean white sailor suit; but helooked at Sidney rather suspiciously.

"I don't know what I've comed for. Aunt Monnie said I was to listen toyou, Miss Sid. What are you going to say?"

"We're going to enjoy ourselves," said Sidney, producing a box ofchocolates. "Help yourself, Chuckles, and you shall choose where weshall sit, under a tree or in a tree. But I vote for the garden and notthe house."

Chuckles gave a swift glance round; then his eyes rested on the riverin the distance, and he promptly said:

"I chooses to sit in the boat."

For an instant Sidney hesitated; then she gave consent, and theymarched down to the bottom of the garden.

"We won't unmoor her as it is Sunday, and I never use her on Sunday."

Chuckles looked a little dissatisfied, but clambered in, and Sidneyfollowed him, thinking to herself that the boat had one distinctadvantage, for that Chuckles could not so easily run away from her.

"What am I to listen to you about?" the small boy demanded, folding hisarms and looking up at her with a glint of defiance in his brown eyes.

"Oh, just talk," said Sidney happily. "Why weren't you at church thismorning?"

"I don't like it. I—I washed the yabbits' house." Chuckles "r's" had away of escaping him sometimes. "And then I wented down and built sandcastles on the sand, but the sea comed in, and I had to come home. AuntDannie says I'll never go to heaven."

He said this quite cheerfully.

"I'm going to tell you a story," said Sidney promptly. "One fine daytwo men walked along by the seashore, and they suddenly said to eachother: 'We'll build a house to live in by the sea; it's so beautifulhere.' So they began to build, and first they walked about to choosethe place. And one was quicker than the other, and he started the verynext day. He chose a nice flat place on the sand, a good way from thesea, and he got some men to help him, and every day his house grewbigger and higher. When his doors and windows were in, he looked at hisfriend's house, and he could see no sign of it. At last he went overand called his friend.

"'What are you doing? Just look at my house. You've done nothing butdig, dig, dig. Every day you dig, and I have had no digging at all.'

"'Yes,' his friend said, 'I've been watching you, and I'll allow yourhouse is getting built very quickly, but, you see, I want a good strongfoundation, for this is a stormy part, so I am digging into the rock.'

"'Oh, that's waste of time; there's nothing to show for your labour.'

"'We'll wait and see,' the slow builder said. And so days passed; hishouse grew very slowly, but it was firm.

"The house on the sand was finished very soon, and the man furnishedit, and took his family to live in it, and everybody said what anindustrious worker he had been, and how quick and how clever he was.And they laughed at the rock builder; they said he would be an old manbefore his house would be finished. But he did not care; he went slowlyand steadily on. At last his house, too, was complete, and he went intoit to live with his family.

"Now, Chuckles, which house would you lived in?"

Chuckles had been following this story with open mouth and eyes.

"I like sand better than rock," he remarked reflectively; and Sidneywas glad his aunt was not there to hear him say it.

"Well, you would have chosen a house on sand. What happens to your sandcastles?"

"Oh!" said Chuckles, with a beaming face. "You're going to make a stormknock it down. I should like to have been there to see it."

Sidney went on hurriedly.

"Yes; one day the clouds rolled up, and the sky got black, and the windrolled the waves in with a boom and a crash, and the two men got insidetheir houses and hoped they would be safe. But, alas! The house on thesand soon began to rock and sway, and the sea rushed in at the bottom,and then suddenly it all crumpled up and fell down with an awful crash,and the man and his family were crushed to death."

"And the other house?"

Chuckles' eyes were nearly starting out of his head.

"Well, the slow man looked out of his window, and saw his neighbour'shouse destroyed, and his wife began to cry and say: 'It will be ourturn next.' And then he said, with a proud smile: 'No; we are builtupon the rock, and the ocean itself and all the storms in the worldwon't wash us away.'

"He was right. The waves dashed against his house, and the wind beatit, and the rain poured down; but when the storm was over and the sunshone out there was his house safe and sound, and the other was inruins. Now, which do you think was best?"

"The rock," said Chuckles with conviction. "I'll build a castle on therocks next time."

There was a pause. It was one thing to tell the story, another to applyit; and Sidney began to feel that her subject was above a child'scomprehension.

"That's a story from the Bible, Chuckles. Jesus told that one, and Hesaid that people who tried to live without Him were like the man whowouldn't build on the rock. He is the Rock of Ages, you know. And Godwants us all to be builders; only we must take care we build properly."

Chuckles leant over the side of the boat, and began to splash the waterwith his hands.

"I don't know nothing about God," he remarked carelessly, "and I can'tlive with Jesus. He is up above the stars, millions of miles away. AuntDannie told me so."

"He is here now, Chuckles—close to us. He sees you, and He hears whatyou say."

Chuckles looked fearfully round; then he shook his curly head.

"I would rather He didn't."

"That is because you don't know Him, Chuckles. I want you to get toknow Jesus Christ. I want Him to be your best friend."

"The las' friend I made was our washwoman's husban'. He mends umbrellasand china, and he sharpened my knife for nuffin. He lived in Londononce, but the fog got on his chest. I've got an awful lot of friends."

"But I don't think you have one friend who died to save you. And Jesusloved you so much that He did this for you. If He was on earth, Hewould draw you gently to Himself, and put His arm round you. He wouldtell you He had died so as to let you go to Heaven, for He had beenpunished instead of you. He would tell you He wanted to live in yourlittle heart, and make you happy and take care of you; and if you onlysaw His kind, loving face, if you only heard His voice, you would lookup and say: 'I will follow You all my life. I will try to please Youevery day.'"

"Would I, do you think?" said Chuckles thoughtfully. "If I could reallysee Him, p'raps I would. Only Aunt Dannie always says He wants me to bepuffickly good, and have no fun at all."

"I am sure the Lord Jesus Christ loves to see you have fun—fun thatmakes you and everybody else happy is quite right. It is only fun thathurts or destroys anything and anybody that is wrong. Now, Chuckles,will you have the Lord Jesus for your best friend?"

Chuckles gave a little wriggle.

"I don't know Him."

"No, you don't; but I'm going to try to get you to know Him. I shalltalk to you about Him, and tell you stories about Him, and read youmessages from Him, until you won't be able to keep from loving Him. Heis my best friend, and I want Him to be yours. And when you come tosee me on Sunday afternoons, you are coming to meet Him and make Hisacquaintance. He is so close to us now that I am going to speak to Him,and you can listen to what I am saying, if you like."

Sidney bent her head. Chuckles watched her with keen interest.

"O Lord Jesus, will you be Chuckles' Friend? Will You speak to himYourself, and make him love You and know You. For Thy Name's Sake.Amen."

"Why, that's praying!" said Chuckles. "You said Amen."

"Praying is only speaking," said Sidney. "Now I have talked to youenough. You talk to me."

"There's a man smoking the other side of the wall," said Chuckles,springing up in the boat. "Why, it's Cousin Ran!"

And Randolph it proved to be. He had walked down to fetch the smallboy home to tea, but how long he had listened to the Sunday lesson onthe other side of the wall, he did not say. Sidney wondered. And shewondered if she had made any impression upon Chuckles. As she stoopedto kiss him and wish him good-bye she said:

"Have you liked our talk?"

He nodded.

"I liked about the storm and houses. I shall play at that."

"And remember, darling, that you're a little building belonging to God,and unless you are a part of Jesus Christ, Who is the Rock, you'llnever stand the storm that will come to you."

"That's too differcult," said Chuckles, and then he turned to Randolph.

"She's going to make me have a New Friend," he said with a little nodof his head at Sidney. "But I haven't said 'Yes' yet."

Randolph's eyes met Sidney's.

"Ah!" he said. "You have made me wish myself a boy again, MissUrquhart. I used to have Sunday lessons in a garden once upon a time."

Then, without another word, he marched Chuckles off, and Sidney went toher father wondering again if she had done any good or not by her firsteffort towards Chuckles' spiritual education.

Up the road the man and boy walked together.

"I love Miss Sid," Chuckles asserted. "I ate twenty chocolates, and shenever said 'Stop.'"

"Mind you remember what she tells you," said Randolph, somewhatseverely.

"Did you listen to her behind the wall?"

Randolph scorned embarrassment.

"If I did, it was for my own profit."

"Tell me honest now," said Chuckles gravely, "do you know this Friend?You don't think she's taking me in. I don't like church and catechism,you know, but she made it out quite different, and she says Jesus willlike me to have fun. Do you know Him like she does?"

"That I don't."

"Not at all?"

"Well, perhaps a little."

"Is it proper for men and boys to know Him?"

"Quite proper," said Randolph, with a smile, and as he spoke thewords from some distant cell in his memory came almost to his lips:"'Neither let the mighty man glory in his might, let not the rich manglory in his riches, but let him that glorieth, glory within, that heunderstandeth and knoweth Me.'"

"I'll think about it," said Chuckles in a loft manner, "and tell hernext Sunday whether I'm going to do what she wants or not. But I shallcut the rope when she isn't looking, and then we shall drift out to seaand be shipwrecked."

As Chuckles' intentions that were told never came off, Randolph made noremark. His thoughts persistently followed Sidney, and at times he wasperplexed and annoyed by the vagaries of his brain.

When Monica met them coming in at the garden gate, she looked a trifleanxiously at Chuckles.

"I hope you have been good," she said.

"Me and Miss Sid don't want to be good," said Chuckles with his chin inthe air. "We don't talk about such stupid things as that."

Monica wisely forebore to question him further. It was enough for herthat he had been and was willing to go again.

CHAPTER IV

ON A SANDBANK

MRS. DE CRESSIERS' political dinners were a great success. When Sidneywas returning home again, that lady said to her:

"I wish you were my daughter. You are such a help to me when I amentertaining."

"Or daughter-in-law, mother," put in Austin. He was driving Sidney backin his high dogcart, and could not resist adding to his mother's words.

Sidney laughed.

"I will come whenever you want me, Cousin Clarice."

Then, as they drove away, she reproved Austin for his levity:

"Your mother looked quite shocked."

"Oh, no," Austin said calmly. "I often tell her if I had come into theworld a little sooner, I might have had a chance with you. As it is,you scorn me and call me a mere boy."

"And so you are, and ever will be in my eyes; so don't you try to bedifferent."

"As long as we're chums, I don't much care. When is that man goingaway?"

"Which man?"

"Oh, there aren't so many about here—Neville. I took him fishing, anddidn't cotton to him."

"For any reason?"

"Now, don't speak with that distant air. He wouldn't unbend. I chaffedhim about his politics. Hate a fellow who won't stand chaff! He treatedme like a fly upon the wall."

"You're very young," said Sidney; then, meeting a glare from the cornerof Austin's eye, she added quietly: "and impudent."

"A de Cressiers is never snubbed in these parts," said Austin laughing."That's my mother's creed, you know, and Neville gave her the biggestsnub she has received for a long while, so she and I both bear him agrudge. Why is he so superior?"

"He never strikes me to be anything different from ourselves," saidSidney. "He is a reserved man, and not a very happy one. He is adisappointed man, I should say. Life has treated him hardly."

"You seem to know a lot about him. I'm a disappointed man, and life istreating me hardly, but I don't talk to people as if I am in the skyand they in the gutter."

Austin finished with a little chuckle. His naturally sunny temperovercame his sudden prejudice.

"We'll let him go hang!" he said. "Will you come out sand-eeling withme to-morrow?"

And in the interest of this new topic, Randolph sank into thebackground.

About a week later, Randolph went to dine with the Admiral. He arrivalpunctually at eight o'clock, but found the house in a commotion. TheMajor met him at the door.

"Have you seen my niece? We thought she might be at the Farm."

"Is she lost?" Randolph asked lightly.

"By George!" said the Major, bringing his fist down with force upon thehall table. "Do you think we're going to allow that for a moment? Shewent out after lunch, and said she would be back to tea. It's close oneight now, and no one seems to have seen anything of her."

"She has not been near the Farm," said Randolph, sobering at once. "Didshe go on the river?"

"She never said she was going," said the Major. "Is the boat missing?"

No one seemed to have thought of looking. The Admiral came forward:

"It was only ten minutes ago that we discovered that she was not in thehouse. I have been out riding all the afternoon, and have not been inlong. Wherever she is, she must have been delayed by some grave cause,for she is never late for dinner."

Randolph almost smiled as he recalled Monica's remark to him aboutthe clockwork regularity of the Admiral's household, and then he wassurprised at the anxiety tugging at his heart. Why should Sidney'sunpunctuality be of such moment to him? He almost ran down to theboathouse. There was no boat in it, nor was it moored to its anchorage.The tide was out, and the low sandbanks across the river were plainlydiscernible.

"She's stuck on the mud somewhere," was his thought, and he shouted itout to the Major, who was following him down the garden.

He shook his head.

"Don't believe it! She has more gumption than that. She knows the riverbetter than we do."

Randolph lost no time. He pulled out another boat close by—a boatbuilt for the sea, and not for the river. He threw off his overcoatand dress-coat; turning up his white shirt sleeves, he shoved off andcautiously rowed in the shallow current down towards the sea.

The Major shouted after him: "I'll go down to the village and makeinquiries there. Don't get on the mud yourself."

Randolph rowed off, and as he looked back, saw the old Admiral fussinground his horse, and evidently preparing to ride off again in search ofhis daughter.

"Three of us," he said, bending to his oars with a will. "I mean tocome in winner."

It was getting dark, and the navigation of his boat was difficult.Progress was necessarily slow.

He wondered now if he had better have ridden along the banks andtrusted to his sharp eyes to discover her whereabouts. To add to hisdiscomfort, black clouds rolled up, and soon torrents of rain poureddown almost perpendicularly.

"I'm rather a fool if she has landed safely hours ago and is makingher way home," he muttered, but he knew that nothing would make him goback. Three miles down was the sea and the fishing village of Yalstone.This was his goal. He knew she invariably rowed seawards.

Suddenly he slipped in his oars and listened. Was it fancy that thefollowing words were wafted over the water towards him?

Was it a trick of imagination? The rain was lessening. He strucka match and lighted up his pipe whilst he listened; and then verydistinctly came a "Hallo!" across the river. He shouted back, andSidney's voice came like a bell in response:

"I'm on a sandbank. Don't come too close."

"Why," he muttered to himself, "I was within an ace of passing her!"

Deftly and cautiously, he worked the boat towards the centre of theriver.

"Go on singing," he shouted. "I can't see, but I can hear."

"I've sung myself hoarse!" came the cry.

Then came a rift in the rolling clouds, and a watery moon showed itselffor a moment or two. Randolph saw his goal, and in a few minutes hadpulled up by the side of a low sandbank.

Sidney was there in her boat, stuck hard and fast.

"Take care!" she cried. "You will stick too!"

Randolph was reckless.

"I've come down all right; I can go back. Now step in."

Sidney extended two very cold hands with her gay laugh.

"I really never expected that you would be my rescuer. I pictured youin the midst of the pudding course."

"Did you imagine that we should dine without you?"

He was wrapping her in his overcoat. Sidney protested.

"My dear man, I am soaked through. What I want is exercise, notwrappings. I really think our best plan will be to land and walk home.We shall only get stuck on another sandbank. I know them better thanyou. It's just a fluke that you rowed safely down. It's too dark to seeanything."

"Can we land?" Randolph said, peering through the darkness.

"I'm afraid it must be on the wrong side—this side; there's a bit ofbeach close to us. I was making for it when I got stuck."

"Let's chance rowing back."

"We shan't do it. Father won't sleep if I'm out all night."

"Will you steer, then, as you know where you are? Confound the boat; Ibelieve it has stuck."

He backed with all his might and just saved it. Sidney steered stilldownstream.

"We shall get to the end of this bank and then slip across. Now, then,row for your life. Give me an oar."

It was a breathless moment, but they did it, and drove the boat fastand firm on a stony beach.

In another moment both were out on dry ground.

"There!" said Sidney. "Now we'll say good-bye to our boats and make thebest of our way home. It's a good six miles round by the bridge, butthere are no obstacles to prevent speed."

They scrambled up a steep bank, after making the boat fast to a postclose by, and found themselves on a good high road.

Sidney slipped out of Randolph's overcoat and held it out to him.

"I really couldn't walk in it," she said apologetically; "but it hassent a little circulation through me."

"You are wet through," he said, just for one moment letting his handrest on her shoulder.

"Yes; but I'm hardy, and am going to enjoy my walk. I honestly am verygrateful to you. I was preparing to make myself comfortable for thenight when I heard the splash of oars, so then, Lorelei-like, I beganto sing, knowing that I might be luring you to a similar fate."

"Who did you think it was?" demanded Randolph.

"Not you."

"Why not? You knew I was coming to dine."

"But you don't know the tricks of our river, and Uncle Ted does. I'mdisappointed in him."

"I got to the boat first," explained Randolph. "He didn't give youcredit for sticking in the mud; said you had too much gumption."

Sidney laughed out.

"I've never done such a thing in my life before; and now he'll neverlet me forget it. I was a fool, I own I was, but—I was thinking toomuch."

She hesitated, and Randolph, not liking the drop in her voice, saidcheerfully:

"How long shall we give ourselves for getting round?"

"Four miles an hour. In an hour and a half we shall be walking up thedrive. Oh, yes, I feel you have no faith in my walking powers, but whenI wind myself up I'm equal to any man—and the difficulty is to stop.When I'm thoroughly in it, I feel I could walk on for ever."

She walked as if she liked it; her feet hardly seemed to touch theground, her tread was so light and springy.

"What a pity you don't smoke!" Randolph said. "Would you object to mypipe?"

"Of course not. Dad is old-fashioned; I think I am too. I never couldtake to it. I assure you I'm a century behind most contemporaries ofmine."

Randolph did not respond.

She went on:

"It's an advantage in one way. I don't get sick longings for an activeindependent life. I'm too pleased with myself and my surroundings.Don't you think I'm a very self-satisfied creature? Aunt Dannie says Iam."

"I think you would be contented with very little," said Randolphgravely. "I wish I could be. Hand your secret on to me. I can't becontent with my circ*mstances."

"Ah," said Sidney, drawing a long breath, "content or discontent is amatter of long or short sight, isn't it? I have learnt that it is."

Randolph began to think it out.

"How?" he questioned. "Even a sandbank in a deluge doesn't affect yourspirits."

"Well, it might be worse," said Sidney; "and I'm not going to haveyou think me other than I am. A fit of discontent took me out thisafternoon and abstracted me from the present. When I stuck, Ireadjusted my focus, and then felt better."

"Still I don't understand."

"'For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us afar more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.'"

The words came softly but very firmly from Sidney's lips.

"But you don't apply that to the sandbank?"

Sidney's laugh rippled out.

"I was going to the cause that made me drift to the sandbank. We weretalking of general content and discontent, weren't we? That quotationgives present and future; if we see as far as the end of it, there'snot much to grumble at, is there?"

"You're very religious," Randolph said vaguely.

"Oh, I'm not. I wish I were; but I stake my all on the Book from whichthat saying comes. I believe it through and through. And it's such acheerful creed."

Randolph walked along silently for a few minutes. He thought over hisdisappointments and disillusions in life, and he wondered if he hadtaken the Bible as his guide whether it would have brought him cheerand comfort.

"I wish you would tell me more," he said. "If you bring disasterwilfully upon yourself, can you still look ahead and forget thepresent? It sounds ghostly and unreal. What is our future? Who cantell? It is the present that matters."

"Well," said Sidney gaily, "our present is rather a nasty one. I'mtreading water in my shoes, and haven't a dry inch on me, but we're nottaking it to heart much; we're getting home—on our way there—and thethought of the fires and food and comforts that will be ours makes usthink lightly of the present, does it not?"

"You're going home," said Randolph with emphasis.

"We've all got the same home at the end of life—at least, we can haveit if we want to—and we're getting home, that's what I keep saying tomyself."

Strange memories crowded into Randolph's heart. He had had a goodmother, and he knew that she had reached home and expected to see himthere. In a vague fashion, he expected to meet her again; but he hadnever troubled his head about the way to do it. He felt as if he wouldlike to walk on for ever, listening to Sidney's soft bright voice asshe spoke so naturally of the things that were usually locked away fromordinary conversation. They tramped along; from grave subjects theyturned to gay; once Sidney spoke regretfully of her father and hisanxiety.

"I wouldn't make him uneasy for worlds. I do hope, he hasn't salliedout anywhere after me. He has had a cold, and his throat is alwaysdelicate. What a dinner party for you! I really think you mostlong-suffering not to be enraged with me!"

"I haven't missed my dinner," said Randolph quietly; "but this will bemy last visit to you. I am off to-morrow."

"Are you, really? We—my father will miss you."

"Why did you correct yourself?" Randolph asked with a short laugh. "Ishould like to think you missed me. I haven't too many friends; perhapsit's as well. The fewer you have, the fewer you lose. They want me intown about a billet abroad."

"Why do you leave poor old England? I heard you were a good speaker. Wehave not many at present in Parliament."

Then Randolph spoke with passion underlying his tone:

"They are offering me a frontier post. I shall have things my own waythere; but it's a disgrace to the Empire at present. I shall get achance of a good sweep out, and a general clean up. If I can cleanone corner for the country and keep it clean, it's better work thanfighting for party, and swallowing one's convictions and consciencewith one gulp."

"Yes," said Sidney slowly; "perhaps. And we want strong men for thoseisolated frontiers. You are going to accept it?"

"Most certainly. I am a single man and have no ties; there isn't a soulwho will miss me. I have nothing and nobody to keep me at home."

Bitterness was in his tone.

"Oh, don't say that."

"It's true. You were good enough to hint you might miss me down here.But for how long? A month hence your remembrance of me will be vague. Afew years hence you may take up a paper and read of the death by feveror some such epidemic of a certain Randolph Neville. And you will sayto your father, 'Wasn't that the man who visited Monnie once? I seem toremember the name.'"

Very lightly Sidney laid her hand on his arm, and the touch thrilledRandolph, though he was furious to have to acknowledge it to himself.

"Have I deserved such a speech?"

"I don't know why I'm talking of myself at all," said Randolph gruffly;"it isn't my way."

"Life will be better to you than you think. It's a good world to livein. Don't doubt everything and everybody."

"Ah, you have as yet had no disillusions!"

Then, aghast, he recollected; and her tense cry once more came to hisears: "Teach me to forget! Teach me to forget!"

"I have had a few," said Sidney very quietly; "but the world is big,and we are not meant to grow bitter in it."

Randolph caught his breath.

Then through the darkness came a shout, and the next moment theAdmiral's groom reined up his horse by them.

"Oh, Baker, is that you? I am all right, and we're coming home as fastas we can."

Sidney's voice was brisk and cheerful.

"Ride back and tell the Admiral I'm coming. I got stranded on asandbank."

The groom galloped off.

All serious talk was over, and very soon they were in the hall, withthe Admiral and the Major fussing round them. The Major had just gotin, very tired and rather cross now that the excitement was over.

"We thought your boat had got upset," he said testily. "We neverexpected you would stick in the mud."

"I'm so sorry I have disappointed you," said Sidney; then she put herarms up round her father's neck, and gave him a hug. "You are not sorryto see me back again, are you, dad?"

Her father laid his hand caressingly on her head.

"I shall say my prayers to-night with a grateful heart," he said; thenhe looked towards Randolph. "Thanks much to you for bringing me back mylittle girl. I could not live without her."

Then Sidney slipped away to change her wet clothes. Half-way up the lowbroad staircase, she stopped and looked down at the little group in thehall.

"Make Mr. Neville change his wet things, dad. Uncle Ted's clothes willfit him. And we shall be ready for dinner in twenty minutes."

The belated dinner was served at half-past ten, and it was a cheerfulmeal. Afterwards, in the drawing-room, Randolph bade Sidney good-bye.

"Shall we never meet again?" she exclaimed, as she laid her hand inhis, and felt the emphasis of his words. "I don't like to make friendsand lose them so quickly. Won't you be in these parts again before yousail?"

He shook his head.

"If I go, I go next week. Miss Urquhart, I shall be a lonely man outthere. Will you write me a line occasionally? May I write to you? Justto keep up our friendship, which I trust we have started."

"I shall like to hear from you how you are getting on, and willcertainly answer your letters," responded Sidney gravely.

Randolph's eyes for one moment rested upon her slim graceful figure asshe stood before him. Surely, he thought, those fringed grey eyes thatlooked with a sunny calm into his could be trusted! And then he sawthem droop before his gaze, and was not sure whether it was only hisimagination that made him think he saw a glistening drop hanging on thetip of those dark curled lashes.

He went, and Sidney watched him go with a strange sinking of heart.

"I feel so sorry for him," she said, turning to her father; "he isconscious of his integrity and clean hands; but has always been abusedand misunderstood and deceived by those whom he trusted most."

"Well, you seem to know a lot about him," said her father; "but Nevillewill make his way. He is a rising man, and if he gets this billet,he'll be the right man in the right corner."

"Monnie has told me a good deal about him," said Sidney, with a wistfullook in her eyes. "He is not a happy man, I am afraid; and yet, hedeserves to be. I wish he were not going out to such desolation."

"It's time some right-minded man tackled that job," the Admiral said."I happen to know a good bit about that place. We coasted round itonce. There is only a handful of Europeans, and they say English ladssent out there either die in five years' time, or come back hopelessdrunkards. They go to pieces; climate, isolation, and drink are toomuch for them. But they've had bad administrators; it's a blot on ourEmpire. Neville will remedy that."

"I wish he had never left the House," said Sidney warmly. "He will bewasted out there. We want strong men at home in the present state ofaffairs."

"We want them in all quarters of the globe," said the Admiral. And hisdaughter said no more.

Randolph did not go to bed very early that night; when he got back, hesat up with Monica over a little log fire, the first she had had; butthe rain was heavy. And though she had no idea how much he had beenexposed to it, she expected that he would have a wet walk home. Sheand he were very good friends, and she was genuinely sorry that he wasleaving her the following day.

"You have done me a lot of good," she said to him. "I get into a rut ofmy own, and want to be shaken out of it. But dear though Aunt Dannieis, she is not a conversationalist, and we think so very differentlythat we agree to go our own ways. You make me see that my ways arenot infallible; and your presence here has been good for Chuckles.Oh, Randolph, do you think I shall make a good man of him? I get soanxious. Sometimes I think I am too severe; sometimes overindulgent.And it is such a loss for a boy to have no father!"

"I don't know," said Randolph; "it rather depends on the father. Ibelieve a woman is better at training than a man—up to a certainage. I know all the good that ever came to me was through my mother.I remember her teaching; it has stuck to me through life—at least,some of it has; I don't remember anything learnt from my father. Hewas indifferent to me, and died when I was ten. A woman lays a betterfoundation than a man."

Monica sighed. Sidney's words came to her: "Duty is a good foundation;but it is not the right one."

"I shall get Sidney to help me with him," she said. "She happens tohave that happy knack of teaching without any effort. I get ponderouswhen I talk to him for his good. And he and I are both relieved when itis over. I wonder when you will come down here again?"

"Not for some years, I should say."

"Oh, don't bury yourself out there. You must have a home of your ownone day, Randolph. I know you don't feel like it now; but time bringschanges to our feelings, as well as to everything else. And do choosean English girl for a wife!"

"Are you afraid I shall choose a dark-skinned one?" Randolph said, witha little laugh.

"I know you will be lonely out there," said Monica gravely.

"I don't know the meaning of that word," said Randolph, squaring hisshoulders and compressing his lips, quite forgetting his partingwords to Sidney. "I have always lived alone and thought alone; butthat is second nature to me. The difficulty to me is to include myfellow-creatures in my calculations."

"Now, that is nonsense! No one has worked harder for his fellow-beingsthan you have."

"Yes, and have received kicks and abuse for it accordingly. Never mind!I suppose I must have one more try, and then, if I come back a failure,I'll struggle no more against the stream."

"You will never become a drifter," said Monica with conviction.

The next morning, at breakfast, Chuckles was told of Randolph's comingdeparture.

"Why are you going away, Cousin Ran? I'm very fond of you. I was hopingyou would take me with you to London."

"I'm going a little farther than London," said Randolph. "No, you'llhave to do your growing without me for a bit now, Chuckles. When I comeback, I'll find you a first-class farmer, I hope."

"I'd rather be a builder," said Chuckles, looking across at his auntwith his mouth full of bread and butter. "I'm specially intellested inbuilding just now. Miss Sid is talking a lot to me about it."

"What does she say?" asked Randolph, laughing at the child's solemneyes.

"We've all got to build," Chuckles said. "I'm practisin' on the sand,but I always put a big stone first at the bottom of my castles. That'sthe funation, you know. It must be a stone—rock, the Bible says. Thefunation is awfully differcult. Miss Sid says we're all builders.Fancy! God put us in the world to build! Did you know that?"

"Well, I'm going to do a bit of Empire building, I trust," saidRandolph, looking across at Monica with a queer smile, "so I shall befulfilling my destiny."

"Yes," she answered gravely, "and I, in my corner, building up aprosperous heritage, I trust, for a certain small boy, who may defeatand disappoint my hopes."

"Not if Miss Urquhart is as successful a builder in her corner as youare," returned Randolph.

"Yes, I'm a better builder at farms than characters," said Monica witha little sigh.

"So we're all building something, Chuckles," said Randolph, looking atthe small boy with a twinkle in his eyes. "I've been an unsuccessfulbuilder so far; two of my cherished castles have toppled over."

Chuckles clapped his hands exultantly.

"That's acause you didn't have a stone funation, like the man on thesand. The winds blew, and the flood came, and the big sea washed itover."

"Yes," said Randolph, the twinkle dying away; "the winds blew, and theflood came, and the big sea washed them quite away. I'm having anothertry now. Wish me success, little man."

Chuckles looked at him with big eyes.

"How high will you build? Up to heaven?"

"Go on with your breakfast," said Monica quickly.

Chuckles said no more until his good-bye came, and then he looked withawe at the small gold piece pressed into his chubby palm.

"Why, that will buy me a pony, won't it?" he questioned, beginning tocaper up and down. "Oh, Cousin Ran, thank you truly! And may I come outto see you building in India one day? Me and Miss Sid will come outtogever."

"And what will become of Aunt Monnie?"

"She'll come, too. We'll all come, and we'll all build togever!"

"A happy family!" laughed Randolph, as he waved his adieux.

He had much food for thought during his journey up to town, and somehowor other Sidney's slim gracefulness, her sweet vibrating voice, hereager shining eyes, haunted him. He carried away the impress of herpersonality with him, and also the lisping words of the child: "Howhigh will you build? Up to heaven?"

CHAPTER V

THE WIDOW

LIFE went on very quietly for Monica and Sidney after Randolph leftthem.

But one afternoon, as Sidney and her father were sitting together inthe garden, Major Urquhart came limping out to them in some excitement.

"It's what I always say," he declared, sitting down heavily in agarden chair; "brain and knack are better servants than strength. Sixmen—brawny fellows, too—all perspiring and cursing and shouting, andwith no more notion than a child how to get a bit of furniture in at adoor!"

"And then you walked by with your brain and knack, and the thing wasdone," said Sidney laughing. "At which village move have you beenassisting? I know there are one or two flittings on hand."

"Lovelace's Cottage—bottom of the hill."

Sidney sat up and looked interested.

"I heard a lady had taken that. Did you see her?"

"Yes, I did. An uncommonly sensible little woman; but her workmen werebunglers. I passed by and lent a hand."

"I can see you do it!"

"She's got some very good bits of furniture," the Major pursued, "andthis gigantic bureau, of course, came to pieces. They only wanteda screwdriver, but none of them had thought of it. She's come fromNorfolk, she told me, and is a widow."

"Does she know anybody here?"

"Yes. She's a connection of Mrs. de Cressiers."

"Oh, she'll be all right, then. I wonder Austin did not tell us abouther. He was here yesterday. Is she all alone, poor thing?"

"My dear Sidney, a 'poor thing' doesn't apply to her. Wait till youmake her acquaintance."

"I don't know that I'm fond of widows," Sidney said meditatively. "Isshe old or young?"

"Young—quite young; a very sensible young woman! So natural. I'vepromised to put her up a shelf or two to-morrow. She has some goodbooks, but no place to put them."

"Well," said Sidney admiringly, "you have got on!"

The Admiral chuckled.

"You'll be kept busy, Ted," he said. "Mark my words, if she has herwits about her, she'll make use of you. I should, if I were in hershoes. You're a first-rate carpenter."

"She gave me a first-rate cup of tea," said Major Urquhart; "boiledsome water up in a spirit lamp in a jiffy. She's good for emergencies,I can tell you! Wasn't flustered or fussed, but sat down and told mea rattling good story of an experience she had in Ireland with thePaddies. Her husband was a soldier. She seems to have been in allquarters of the globe."

"She sounds interesting," said Sidney; "I'll call on her as soon asever I can."

"I told her you'd be down first thing to-morrow morning, and she'scoming to lunch. Her maid doesn't come to her till to-morrow evening."

The Admiral laughed out.

"I wonder you didn't offer her a bed, and bring her back to dinner," hesaid.

"I offered it," said the Major, quite unabashed. "I knew Sidney wouldbe delighted, but she declined."

"But why hasn't Mrs. de Cressiers befriended her, if she is aconnection?" asked Sidney.

"I didn't ask. Shouldn't think she's a little woman to hang on to herconnections; too independent for that."

"But," began Sidney; and then she stopped herself. She was about tosay that surely connections should be asked for hospitality beforestrangers; but she knew how impulsive her uncle was, and did not wantto hurt his feelings.

"You have rather rushed me into a call," she said.

"It's only neighbourly to show her the ropes in a strange place," saidher uncle.

And Sidney assented, wondering if she could see Mrs. de Cressiersbefore she went.

Fortunately, after dinner Austin walked in.

"Came down to be livened up!" he confided to Sidney. "The governor isextra grumpy; the mother on her high horse, so I cut."

"Now you can tell us about the new arrival at Lovelace's Cottage,"Sidney said eagerly. "She's a connection of yours?"

"Never heard of her. Who do you mean?"

"She's a Mrs. Norman; her husband was a captain in the 12th Lancers."

"Never heard of her," repeated Austin. "But now I come to think of it,the parents were saying something to each other about Lovelace's. Ididn't take much notice. Is she a good sort?"

The Major gave an emphatic nod.

Sidney began to laugh.

"Uncle Ted is bowled over. I'm to go down in the early hours ofto-morrow, and she's to feed here till she gets in comfortably. It'sall arranged."

"I think I'll stroll round and have a look at her," said Austin. "IfI'm a connection, I ought to have first innings."

"Ask your mother about her first," said Sidney.

"Oh, you suspicious, conventional brutes!"

The Major shot this out with vehemence; then walked out of the room,and banged the door behind him.

Sidney could not treat it gravely.

"Dad," she said, "this is worse than we have had hitherto. Uncle Ted isalways susceptible, but he never has capitulated quite so rapidly."

"Don't chaff him. You'll make his kind-heartedness into something moreif you don't look-out!"

Sidney took her father's rebuke at once, and said no more; but the nextmorning a groom rode down before breakfast with a note from Mrs. deCressiers:

Sidney read the first part of this note aloud at the breakfast table.The latter bit she kept to herself, for she knew she would have nopeace from her uncle until she had been down to the cottage; and thoughMrs. de Cressiers always tried to rule her life, Sidney had neverallowed her to do so. Her father was quite aware of Mrs. de Cressiers'failing and always backed his daughter up to resist her sway.

"No woman shall rule my ship," he would say genially; "and these oldfamilies are not living in the feudal days; neither are we their serfs.Oh, I know, my dear, your mother was a de Cressier, but the Urquhartblood is quite as good, and a little more vigorous than theirs; and youare your father's daughter, remember, and not Mrs. de Cressiers'!"

So after breakfast Sidney accompanied her uncle down to Lovelace'sCottage.

The front garden was still strewn with empty packing cases and paperand litter of all kinds. As they unlatched the gate, Mrs. Norman cameout of the front door. She was a pretty woman; her complexion was good,her eyes rather a vivid blue. She showed a good many teeth when shesmiled and talked, and her hair was bright golden. She was dressed ina very short and shabby tweed skirt, a man's bright yellow cardiganjacket was over it, and a soft grey felt hat, with a jay's feather anda bit of staghorn moss in it, gave her a distinctly sporty appearance.

"How awfully kind and friendly of you!" she said, holding out herhand to Sidney. "Your uncle told me what a friend you were to anyforlorn strangers. Do come in, if you don't mind the chaos. I'm in thestate of the Irishman who said: 'Sure I'm in sech a botheration andcommiseration, that I don't know whether me toes come out of me head orme legs!'"

She led the way into the tiny house, found some chairs, and Sidney satdown and looked about her.

"You ought to have had a woman in to clean," she said. "Are you quiteby yourself?"

"Absolutely. I quaked in the night when I remembered half of my chinawas lying in the packing cases in the garden; but then I rememberedthat the country was not crammed with thieves, and I slept like a dogtill nine this morning. I've only just finished my breakfast."

Major Urquhart was already examining the walls of the tiny sitting-room.

"Look here," he said, "this is the place! I'll rig you up some shelvesin this recess in no time. And how would a locker at the bottom work,with a lid? It's a tidy contrivance of my own, for women always have alot of rubbish about—sewing, you call it, don't you? And you can shootthe whole lot in, when you want a tidy room, see? My man will be heredirectly with some wood."

"Oh, how awfully kind of you! That's what I always say—men are sodelightfully prompt. If they promise a thing, they go straight away anddo it."

She sprang up, and for the next twenty minutes she and the Major weredeep in calculations and measurements. Sidney looked on, half amused,half interested. Then Mrs. Norman turned to her with a laughing apology:

"You will think me most dreadfully rude, but it really is a chancefor me, when I have such a kind offer made me. I can't afford to havehalf I should like in this house. I'm afraid you'll go back, and thinkme a calculating selfish creature; but I've learnt a good many thingsin life, and one is how to take from people. There was a time when Ipreferred to give; but then, of course, I had the means to do it. Afterall, the world is divided between givers and takers, and if you can'tbe one, you can be the other."

She laughed as she spoke, and Sidney felt the magnetism of her frankcheerfulness.

"I'm sure you'll be doing Uncle Ted a kindness if you give him work. Hehas filled our house to overflowing with his handiwork, and now has noscope for half his designs. I don't think I will take up your time anylonger; but do come up to lunch, if it will be of any help to you."

"Oh, how kind! But perhaps I had better not. I only want a snack ofbread and cheese, and I don't want to encroach upon your kindness!"

"Come up, of course," Sidney said. "But tell me before I go if I canhelp you in any way."

Mrs. Norman laughed.

"I know I want all sorts of counsel about supplies, but at this momentmy bookshelves have ousted everything else. May I pick your brains atluncheon? As you are so very kind as to press me, I will come withpleasure."

Sidney saw nothing for it but to go; she felt instinctively that shewas not wanted; she refused to let herself criticise her new neighbour,and went home occupying herself with many household duties for the restof the morning. Once her father came across her, and asked about thenew arrival.

"She is a pleasant little body. You will see her at lunch."

And no more would she say.

Major Urquhart arrived punctually for a wonder, but Mrs. Normanaccompanied him. And when Sidney laughingly remarked that her uncle wasalways late for meals, she said:

"Ah, but, you see, I insisted upon punctuality, for I was an invitedguest, and could not take such liberties!"

"Unpunctuality is impossible to me," said the Admiral. "We let Ted gohis own way, but my daughter and I never keep each other waiting."

It was a cheery table. Mrs. Norman was very good company, and couldtalk on a variety of subjects. She discoursed on books and politics tothe Admiral, on fishing and carpentering to the Major, on servants andvillage tradesmen to Sidney. When they rose from the table she gave alittle sigh:

"I shall return to my work a Hercules. But, oh, what a problem it isto fit big furniture into a cottage! I should like to tip some of myeffects into the river, which flows in such an accommodating way pastmy back garden. What a temptation to fling all my tiresome burdens intoit as well, and let it carry them away for ever!"

"How would you begin?" said Sidney merrily.

"My duties and responsibilities would go first—don't be shocked,Admiral!—They weigh heavily on us all at times, especially if you'rea lonely unit, and have none to share them with you! My memorieswould follow. They are so worrying and depressing. And my bills wouldcomplete the list. What a happy creature I should be!"

She laughed, and her laugh was so infectious that even the Admiraljoined in it, though he hardly approved of such audacious sentimentsbeing aired.

Major Urquhart insisted upon going back with her to complete his work.

"He's quite infatuated," the Admiral said, turning to his daughter.

"Yes," said Sidney, "aren't we all? She is charmingly natural andoriginal. Don't you think so?"

"No," said the Admiral gruffly. "I've seen a good many of that stamp inmy time."

Sidney shook her head at him.

"We shall see a good deal of her, I prophesy; so we will be prepared tolike her."

"We shan't see much of her. Ted will."

Sidney said no more. She was strangely anxious to like this newarrival; but as time went on her views changed, and one afternoon shearrived at Monica's farm with a depressed little furrow on her usuallysmooth forehead.

She found Monica in her store room, packing up some honeycomb from herbees to go to London. Sidney swung herself up on an empty shelf, andbegan:

"Be rude to me, Monnie! I'm longing for a short abrupt brusque remarkfrom someone. Honey is delicious, but you can get a surfeit of it,can't you? And somehow or other I've been having honey with some stingin it. Do bees ever leave their stings in their honey?"

"I haven't time to talk in parables," said Monica, in her downrightway. "What is the matter with you?"

She did not look up from her work. Sidney watched her quick deftmovements, as she slipped her cases of honey into the light packingcases on the floor, and said somewhat wistfully:

"I've come over for a talk. Can't you be idle for half an hour?"

"Yes, if you wait ten minutes. These must go to the station thisafternoon."

"I sometimes wish I had an entrancingly busy life like yours," Sidneysaid; "and yet I have my days filled up, only they don't seem asprofitable as yours."

Monica did not reply. She worked on until the cases were full; then shecalled one of her men to nail them down, gave him directions for takingthem to the station, and, slipping off her apron, turned to Sidney witha smile.

"Come into the sitting-room, and we will have tea. Aunt Dannie andChuckles are spending a day at the rectory, so we shall be undisturbed."

The sitting-room looked cheerful with its blazing fire. Outside, a greymist was coming up from the sea; the leaves on the trees seemed to beshivering under its touch, and many were silently dropping to theirdeath.

Sidney seated herself with a sigh of content in an arm-chair by thefire. Then she looked up into Monica's face affectionately.

"Be a safety valve to me! Oh, Monnie, what should I do without you!You are so safe, so silent, so busy in your world of work, that allmy confidences will be safe. I have come over with the overwhelmingdesire in my heart to pick our new neighbour to pieces. Isn't it trulydreadful of me? Have you seen her yet?"

"Her name is Mrs. Norman, is it not? She is taking milk from us. No, Ihave not met her."

"You would like her at first sight, as I did. She's a jollycheery-looking little woman; but, oh, Monnie, I wish with all my heartshe had never come near us."

Monica sat down.

"Tell me all about her. Get it off your chest, and you will feelbetter."

"It's ridiculous of me, but I have an instinctive feeling that she isgoing to bring havoc into our quiet life. I suppose she is what youcall a man's woman; but she is awfully sweet—too sweet to me—only, asa rule, her conversation is directed wholly to Uncle Ted and father.And she makes me feel out of it. I can't explain. I'm not jealous, andI've never been made to feel so in my own home before. She's a greattalker, and an amusing one; and she's the kind of person that absorbsall the conversation, and centres it round herself. I've tried awfullyhard to like her, but I haven't succeeded; and there are things I havehated in connection with her. She has always given us to understandthat she was a lonely widow, with no one belonging to her. Yesterday,quite accidentally, I found out that she has a grown-up daughter wholives with her father's relations. She seems quite indifferent in herfeelings towards her.

"Then she posed to father as a great reader, and Uncle Ted was full ofher wonderful library. Now we find out the books were her husband's,and she keeps them with the intention of selling them when she has agood offer for them. She hasn't read one of them; she confessed as muchto me in an unguarded moment.

"She orders Uncle Ted about as if he were a boy; he is doing all kindsof things for her in her cottage, and he spends his days down there. Ofcourse, I am delighted that he should have the interest and occupationof it; but one day when I was out, she left him down there and marchedup to spend the afternoon with dad. She was full of garden questions.When I came back, she was pouring out tea for dad, as if she had knownhim all her life. Dad was bored to death with her—only he's too politeto say so. He doesn't like her, I can see. Then Uncle Ted came todinner in the sulkiest of tempers; he had been furious at her leavinghim and attaching herself to father. It sounds very silly and foolish,doesn't it? I wish Mrs. de Cressiers were back."

"It sounds as if she were of the adventuress style," said Monicalaughing.

"Doesn't it? And yet she isn't; for everything is quite straight andabove board, except perhaps about her daughter. Mrs. de Cressiers knowsher history. Well, let me continue. Two days ago Austin called on her,and now she has him completely in tow. He is superintending her garden;Uncle Ted is making shelves, and dressers, and tables for her. Isn'tshe clever? And am I not a backbiter?"

"I should like to see her," said Monica thoughtfully; "but I'm not oneto make calls, as you know. I'm not a society person."

"My dear Monnie, if Mrs. Norman wants to know you she'll do it, whetheryou want it or not. She amuses me awfully. She has such a good opinionof herself that it never enters her head that other people may set adifferent value on her from what she does herself. There, I'm becomingbitter, and I will not be that, if I can help it. She told us the otherday that she had left a 'weeping world' behind her in Norfolk. 'And Iknow,' she added, 'that new friends are more difficult to make as onegrows older. My dear old ones have such a big place in my heart.'"

"That's nice," said Monica shortly. Then she looked out of the window."And here she is coming up the drive. At least, it is a stranger. Peepand tell me if it is she, Sidney."

"Yes. I'm off. Don't let me meet her."

"But why not? Do stay."

"She'll—you'll get on better without me," said Sidney. "I'll creep outthe back way."

But it was too late. Mrs. Norman's voice was heard in the hall, and thenext moment she was in the room.

CHAPTER VI

LETTERS

"AH, this is delightful!" were her first words. "Miss Urquhart, youwill be my friend, and introduce me? I have really only come up ona little matter of business, Miss Pembroke. It is so kind of you tolet me have your dairy produce. I am wanting to start a small poultryyard. Quite a few hens, you know, as I'm rather an ignoramus; but MajorUrquhart has been advising me strongly to go in for eggs and chickens.I think he is wise, don't you? And I wondered if you could sell me afew good pullets. I want them to begin laying in the winter. Can youmanage that for me? Ah, Miss Urquhart, I see you are laughing at me;but you know what I mean! I don't want to keep fowls all the winter andnever get an egg. And I have heard of Miss Pembroke's fame. Everythingshe puts her hand to prospers, I was told. What a charming old houseyou have!"

She turned to Monica. Poultry and poultry-keeping was the subject ofconversation, but it was one to which Monica always rose with alacrity;and again Sidney marvelled at Mrs. Norman's talent for interestingpeople at once.

When business was satisfactorily settled, Mrs. Norman turned to Sidney.

"I've left that dear boy, Austin, planting roses round my porch.Doesn't that sound ideal! I told him I would be back to tea, so mustnot stay. If you have time, Miss Pembroke, do come down and see me. Iknow you're a busy woman, but I shall be so grateful for any more hintsabout my poultry."

"I'm afraid I'm a bad hand at visiting," said Monica bluntly.

"Oh, I don't mean a state call," said Mrs. Norman, laughing. "You knowI'm renowned for my unconventionality. I would not have dared to cometo you this afternoon, unless I had known you were too sensible tomind; and, after all, it was business."

She got up to go; then laid her hand affectionately on Sidney's arm.

"Has Miss Urquhart told you how kind she has been to me, and howhospitable? Why, I feel now as if I am welcome at any meal, and can runin and out with all my troubles. A lone woman is at such a disadvantagewhen she comes to a fresh place."

Then Sidney spoke:

"I can't help wondering why your daughter did not come with you. Shewould have been a great help, would she not?"

"Poor Gavine! I would not spoil her good time by the drudgery of amove. When I am really established, and everything is pretty andcomfortable, then I shall introduce my little daughter to you. And youwill love her, as everyone does who sees her."

She shook hands and left.

Sidney gazed at Monica with a sparkle in her eyes.

"Well? Your verdict?"

"It's too soon to give it. I shouldn't say there was any harm in her."

"No, of course there is none. But she doesn't like me. I know shedoesn't!"

"She realises you haven't taken to her."

"I did at first, but she simply overlooks me if there are men in theroom, and I honestly hate that style of woman. But, oh, I have to be socareful, Monnie, in guarding my tongue from criticism when Uncle Tedis near. And now Austin is getting nearly as bad. What will his mothersay, I wonder, when she comes back? I shall be curious to see how sheand Mrs. Norman take to each other. Now I must be off home. I feel Ihave relieved my mind by my outpouring. I am so thankful we haven'tsweet purring things to say to each other when we meet, Monnie."

Monica laughed.

"Ah, well, I should be the better for some of her sweetness, I know.And, after all, Sidney, she is wise to make friends. And it is hard tostart in a fresh place alone."

Sidney walked home through the dusky mist feeling strangely depressed.But when she got in, her father claimed her attention, and she was herbright happy self again.

"There is one heart she can never touch, and that is dad's," she toldherself. "His heart is divided between my mother and myself."

And then the next day her thoughts were turned from Mrs. Norman toRandolph Neville, for she got a letter from him.

Sidney read this in the privacy of her bedroom. She sat for a longwhile with it on her knee, for the personality of the writer possessedher; and then she wrote a reply:

When her letter had gone, Sidney began to wish it back; there was somuch she wished to alter in it; and then she laughed at the importanceit was assuming in her eyes.

"What does it matter? Why should I think so much about it? I wish hewere here. I loved talking to him. And yet I am glad he is away, for hewould follow the others down to Mrs. Norman's cottage and give her thebenefit of all his ideas. What a jealous creature I am getting! Mrs.Norman seems to creep into all my thoughts."

But Mrs. Norman did figure in Sidney's life a good deal, and she couldnot get away from her. The day after Mrs. de Cressiers' return fromtown, Austin appeared. It was after dinner, and Sidney and her fatherhad retired to the study to have a cosy time together. The Major hadstrolled down to Mrs. Norman's with a magazine he had promised her.Austin came in rather breathlessly.

"I want to speak to you," he said, addressing Sidney.

"Am I in the way?" asked the Admiral.

Austin looked a little embarrassed; so, without a word, Sidney took himinto the drawing-room.

"Have you been getting into any scrape?" she asked him.

"No; it's only—Dash it all! I won't beat about the bush. I want you topersuade the mother to call upon Mrs. Norman soon—to-morrow. She's soon her high horse with me. It's ridiculous! You can influence her; sheis fond of you. It's a shame! The poor little woman is connected withus. Why should she be snubbed because she is poor and unknown? It'srank snobbery. You know what mother is like: 'I may call on her when Ihave time. There is no hurry. She is a complete stranger to me,' etc.etc. Do go up to-morrow and make her see reason."

Sidney smiled at his eagerness.

"My dear boy, your mother won't be driven. Does it make a vastdifference to Mrs. Norman whether your mother calls at once or a littlelater? She means to do it, which is something."

"I should rather think she did," said Austin hotly. "She ought to havedone it before she went away. Now, be a brick, and tell the motherwhat a good sort Mrs. Norman is. Women are always so queer when a manpraises one of their own sex. But you're different; you're generous,and she'll listen to you and take your word for it."

Sidney was touched by his faith in her.

"I will do my very best," she said, "but don't blame me if I fail."

Austin looked relieved. He sat back in a chair and commenced to talk.He had not been to the house for a long time, and Sidney was gladto have him back on the old lines. But his talk was chiefly of Mrs.Norman, and Sidney listened and tried to give him her sympathy.

"Can't think why your uncle is always poking about down there. He'smaking her a fence now, but I told her it wasn't necessary; she hasa nice iron railing. What else could she want? And he strikes me asgetting quite doddery—makes eyes at her. Don't laugh! She finds himrather a bore, between ourselves; but he turns up nearly every day, shetells me."

"Poor Uncle Ted! Why shouldn't he like to talk to her as much as youdo?"

Sidney's eyes were mischievous, but for once Austin did not join in herhumour.

"I hope I shan't be so garrulous when I get to his age," he muttered.

In accordance with her promise, Sidney went up to Thanning Towers thenext morning, but though Mrs. de Cressiers was unfeignedly glad to seeher, nothing would induce her to call upon Mrs. Norman that same day.

"It's perfectly ridiculous, Sidney. Of course, I know that Austinhas sent you to me. He seems quite infatuated with her. And it is athousand pities. I have heard all about her in town. She married herhusband for the sake of a home, neglected him whilst alive, and nowposes as a broken-hearted widow. She couldn't be bothered to bring upher own child; found her an encumbrance when travelling about, and shehas been brought up entirely by her father's family. Why she has comedown here, I cannot fathom. She has five hundred a year of her own, buthas very extravagant tastes. Now, is she a suitable wife for Austin?"

"I should see her and judge for myself," said Sidney craftily. Then sheadded quietly:

"I think if you oppose Austin in the matter you will perhaps hurry himinto an engagement with her, when otherwise the acquaintance may die anatural death."

Mrs. de Cressiers sighed.

"I wish you and Austin would make a match of it. He is really fond ofyou, Sidney."

Sidney laughed gaily.

"As a sister, nothing more. I am much too old for him. He is a mereboy. I couldn't marry anyone younger than myself."

"Isn't this woman older than you?"

"I don't think it will come to anything. Uncle Ted is as often there asAustin. It's most amusing. But I'm afraid they're beginning to dislikeeach other heartily."

"Oh, I know her kind."

Mrs. de Cressiers' tone was contemptuous. Then she said withdeliberation:

"I shall call on her to-morrow afternoon, and you must come with me."

"Oh, please not! I can't help thinking that she doesn't like me."

"Her likes or her dislikes cannot affect you. I will call for you inthe carriage at three o'clock, and I shall stay ten minutes with her,not a moment more; and then you must come back to tea with me."

"You are so masterful," murmured Sidney.

She told Austin later of the result of her visit. He was satisfied.

"I said to her the mother was generally rather done up by her visitsto town, so if she goes to-morrow it will be all right. And I'm gladyou're going too, for you will prevent mother from being ''igh and'aughty,' as our old nurse used to say."

Sidney did not relish what was before her, but she made the best of it,and the next afternoon joined Mrs. de Cressiers at the time appointed.

"Oh, dear!" she said with her bright laugh, as she looked at Mrs. deCressiers in her most imposing attire, "I am glad I am not the poorvictim of your visitation."

Mrs. de Cressiers smiled very slightly. Sidney was a favoured person,and perhaps the very fact that she had never been afraid of Mrs. deCressiers was a point in her favour, for it was the fearful and timidwho suffered most from that lady's masterful spirit.

"I am visiting her as a neighbour," she said.

"And as a friend," Sidney put in.

"That remains to be seen."

Lovelace's Cottage was fast assuming a neat and pretty aspect. Arespectable-looking maidservant opened the door and ushered them intothe tiny drawing-room, where they found Mrs. Norman sitting by a brightfire with needlework in her hand. She had discarded her loud-colouredcardigans and short skirts, and was in a dark green cloth gown whichfitted her to perfection. The room was dainty and fresh. Yellowchrysanthemums were in bowls on the table. Her greeting to Mrs. deCressiers was quiet and simple.

"It is very kind of you to come to see me. I did not expect it. I thinkI have made acquaintance with your son. Major Urquhart brought him inone day. What a nice fresh boy he is! He told me he felt quite lostwhen you were away. I don't expect to see him now you are back; but heseemed so lonely that I quite pitied him."

"Then I am afraid you wasted your pity," said Mrs. de Cressiers in hermost frosty tone, "for Austin and I have our interests entirely apart,and we are hardly ever together."

Sidney's cheeks got quite hot, but Mrs. Norman was quite serene. Sheturned towards Sidney with a smile.

"I can't tell you, Mrs. de Cressiers, how very good and kind MissUrquhart and her people have been to me. I came as a stranger to astrange land, and they befriended me from the very first day. I havealways heard that country neighbours are real friends, and now Ihave proved it. Major Urquhart is my great stand-by. I think hardlya day passes without his coming down to give me some bit of adviceor counsel. And one really feels that a man of that age can help onetremendously without any unseemly gossip following his kindness."

"I don't think we gossip in these parts," said Sidney. "Do we, Mrs. deCressiers? There are so few to be interested in the doings of theirneighbours. The rector is an old bachelor, and the doctor has a familyof ten children, who keep their mother more than busy, and our otherneighbours live too far-away to know anything about our daily life."

"Are you making a home here for your daughter?" asked Mrs. de Cressiersabruptly.

Just a glint of light seemed to pass over Mrs. Norman's eyes as shereplied with a little laugh.

"I wish I could say 'Yes,' but she finds it dull to be with me. She isone of these modern girls who must have their hockey and golf and youngcompanionship. And she gets it all at her aunt's house. But I mean tohave her down as soon as she will come. And I will bring her to seeyou, if I may. She is considered a very handsome girl. Let me show youher photo."

She rose and went to a side table, producing a cabinet photo of asingularly interesting-looking girl, with broad intellectual brow andearnest wistful eyes. Sidney gazed at it with pleasure.

"She has a beautiful face," she said warmly.

"So people say," said Mrs. Norman. Then she turned to Mrs. deCressiers: "I have heard so much of your goodness to the villagepeople that I fancy there is not a small corner which I could occupy,is there? I do so want to do something to help my poorer neighbours.You see, I am an idle woman, and after a busy life the days will seemrather empty here unless I fill them with work and local interests. Iused to help the secretary of the G.F.S. in Norfolk. I have always beeninterested in that society. I wonder if a branch has been started here?"

Sidney almost smiled as the big fish at last rose to the bait. Mrs. deCressiers had been keenly anxious for a long while to have a branchof the G.F.S. in the villages surrounding her property. It had beentried, but for lack of proper organisation it had failed, and she couldpersuade no lady to take it. Sidney had enough already on her hands,and her father did not want her to take up anything more. She had herSunday scholars, and a weekly working party amongst the fisherwomen,and was a district visitor as well. In fact, she was the rector's righthand in most of his parish work.

Now Mrs. de Cressiers began to thaw. In a few minutes she and Mrs.Norman were having an animated discussion upon the merits andadvantages of the G.F.S., and the visit of ten minutes lengthened intonearly half an hour. Tea appeared, but that Mrs. de Cressiers would notstay for. When she and Sidney at last drove away, she said thoughtfully:

"Perhaps I was prejudiced. She is a lady, and evidently sees more ofyour uncle than of Austin. He is a mere boy, of course. I must havesome girls down to stay in the house; they will employ his spare time.And I really shall be very thankful if Mrs. Norman will work up theG.F.S. in this part."

Sidney wisely said nothing, but she confided in her father that eveningthat Mrs. Norman was the cleverest woman she had ever met.

CHAPTER VII

THE SHADOW OF A CLOUD

IT was a wild wet November afternoon. Rain and wind were making havocof the few late flowers in Sidney's sheltered garden. Petals ofdahlias, chrysanthemums, and even late roses were flying through theair; the trees and shrubs were swaying and bending under the gale, andevery window and chimney in the house creaked and whistled in companywith the wind outside.

The Admiral sat with his head in his hands over the study fire. He hadcaught a slight chill, and a bout of toothache completed his discomfortand depression. He had had words with his brother at luncheon, a mostunusual occurrence, and Major Urquhart had sworn and flung out of theroom, leaving his food unfinished upon his plate. It was over a trifle:the Admiral did not want some trees cut down in the garden, the Majordid, and the altercation was sharp and bitter. Sidney was astonished atthe Major's virulence, and when he got up from the table, he shouted:

"By —, we'll see who's master here!"

She puzzled over his words. Major Urquhart had been proverbial for hisgood nature and easy temper. He had never, since Sidney could remember,asserted his wishes above those of his brother's, but lately he hadbecome irritable and restless, and much more argumentative than ofold. They had always been a very peaceful household, so that it wasbewildering to Sidney now. She had gone after her uncle to try to makepeace, but he shut himself up in his workshop, and told her he did notwish to be disturbed. Then she came into her father's study and softlytouched him on the shoulder.

"Dad dear!"

The Admiral looked up. It was not only pain that had brought such ashadow across his face, but he tried to smile.

"I shan't be good company this afternoon," he said, with an effort tospeak cheerfully.

"I don't know what possesses Uncle Ted! He is quite unlike himself."Sidney spoke resentfully.

"I think there's something going on down at the Cottage," said theAdmiral a little wearily.

"But it would be too ridiculous if he were in love with Mrs. Norman,"said Sidney; "and I think she aspires higher than poor Uncle Ted. Sheis making a fool of him, and he knows it, and that makes him angry.Why, Austin would be a much better match for her, for he will come intoa big property!"

"If she wants a comfortable home, Ted could give it to her."

"By bringing her here? Oh, don't suggest such a thing! It would betoo awful! I am sure she would not agree to it. She must be mistresswherever she is."

"But she would be!" said the Admiral. "Do you think this house belongsto me?"

Sidney stared at him. She thought for a minute that her father hadtaken leave of his senses.

And then the Admiral put his arm round her.

"Come and sit down. I have never told you, for there seemed no need;but when my father died, he left this house and property to Ted. Hegave me extra money in lieu of it. He fancied that as a seafaring man Iwould never settle down. You know your uncle and I are twins, but he ismy senior by a few minutes. Well, at the time of my father's death, Tedwas abroad, and much in need of money. He wrote to me saying that hedid not care for this part of the world, and that he would never electto live here. If I liked to have the house, and send him some of theextra money that had been left me, we would be quits. I agreed, senthim a big cheque in a very unbusinesslike fashion, and took up my abodehere.

"Then he got wounded and left the Army. He travelled abroad for a shorttime, but drifted back here and settled down. We mutually agreed tolive together, but I was to run the house, and he to pay me so muchyearly towards the household expenses. There has never been a hitchtill the other night. He came back late from the Cottage. You had goneto bed. He told me he much regretted giving over this house to me, andadded, 'Of course, it is still legally mine.' I asked him why he shouldtalk so, and he muttered something about a man wishing to settle down,and it was a mistake to have a divided household."

Sidney's face blanched.

"Why, dad, this is dreadful! He can turn us out! If she means to marryhim—and I believe she does—she will make him do it! Our sweet prettyhome! I can't believe it!"

Quick tears sprang to her eyes.

"It's awful! I never imagined the house was not yours. It is, it mustbe. He gave it to you. He could not be so despicable as to say he didnot."

"I'm afraid it's a question of pride with me," said her father, holdingup his head sternly. "If he wishes to dispute the fact of ownership,you and I must make our best bow and walk out!"

Sidney's face was full of horror at the thought.

"It will never come to that, it cannot! We have been such a happyfamily, and I'm really fond of Uncle Ted, and he likes me. He couldn'tbe such a brute! Oh, dad, dear, you don't feel well, and facts havebecome distorted in your mind. It is only the merest, most shadowypossibility! It will not come to pass!"

"We will hope for the best."

But there was no hope in the Admiral's voice, only tired depression.

Sidney looked at him with affectionate anxiety; then she persuaded himto move to his couch, which she drew up near the fire.

"You said you had a sleepless night, so do try and have a nap now. Iwill cover you up warmly. There's nothing so depressing as toothache.You will feel quite differently about everything when you wake. Youand I will have a cosy tea together. Oh, dad, dear, nothing on earthmatters if you and I have each other."

Sidney bent down and kissed her father passionately as she spoke, thenshe slipped out of the room, and for a moment her cheerfulness desertedher. Then she pulled herself together.

"I shall go out and battle with the elements. I feel I must fightsomeone! And Uncle Ted is keeping out of my way."

She ran upstairs to equip herself for her walk, and in a few minuteswas walking briskly out of the house. She had no umbrella, only awalking-stick; indeed, she could not have kept an umbrella open,the wind was so violent. But her waterproof tweed coat and cap wereimpervious to the wet, and she liked to feel the rain sting her cheeks.For one wild moment she meditated climbing the Beacon, and then sherealised that she would have no chance of keeping her footing in thegale, so she tramped along the country roads. They were bordered bywoods for a couple of miles, and the smell of the wet leaves underfootand the moist earth gave her a sensation of pleasure. She had plentyto think about. The prospect hinted at by her father hung like a heavyblack cloud in front of her; but she resolutely tried to push it out ofher thoughts. Her uncle's present state of irritability more concernedher.

"I wonder if I have been neglectful of him," she mused. "He always haslived his life pretty much to himself. Perhaps he has felt lonely, andMrs. Norman's eager sympathy has made him feel the want of it at home.Father and I are always together; but he has had his carpentering andfishing, and we have generally been together in the evenings. I willtry in future to be more with him, to interest myself in what he isdoing."

Then her thoughts, in an inexplicable fashion, flew to Randolph; shebegan to picture him in his lonely life, to wonder if he ever longedfor a woman to speak to, for she remembered the statement that thedoctor made to him on board ship. "Not a single European woman in thestation."

"He is too good to go to pieces," she said to herself. "I don't knowhow it is, but I always felt that he was a tower of strength to leanagainst. I wish he were here now. I believe he would be able to manageUncle Ted."

She had come to a turn in the road, and suddenly met Monica walkingbriskly towards her. The young women stared at each other. Monica wasalso in suitable country garb; she scorned umbrellas at all times, butit was not her usual custom to take walks by herself, and Sidney knewthat this particular road led to no place or house to which businessmight call her.

"How nice to meet you!" Sidney cried. "Where have you been?"

"I've been tramping off my temper," Monica replied stolidly.

Sidney's merry laugh rippled out.

"How delicious! I've come out on pretty much the same errand, only itis a fit of the blues, not temper, which I wish to get rid of. You'renot going back yet!"

"I'll turn and walk a bit farther with you. I've had a rasping day,and that imp Chuckles is at the bottom of it. You know I'm having somenew pigsties built; well, one was finished this morning, or prettynearly—the masons had done their part and gone. What did that child dobut deliberately slip out in the driving storm and demolish the wholebuilding. How he did it I don't know; he kicked and beat and tore thebricks off one after the other. I caught him standing in the ruins. Heseemed beside himself with exultation. He yelled when he saw me:

"'It hadn't a funation, Aunt Monnie; Higgs wouldn't build it on a pieceof rock, and so, of course, it has all come down with a crash. The windand storm and me didded it altogether! I telled Higgs he would find itall gone away! He'll have to build another on a rock!'

"I was so exasperated that I did not argue the point with him, butgave him bread and water for his dinner for that piece of deliberatemischief. I left him to Aunt Dannie for the afternoon, and then, as Idiscovered the sheep had escaped out of their proper field, I thoughtto myself that he might like to help me drive them back. He never bearsmalice—that's one of his good points—and I hate being out of friendswith him. So I went indoors and called him. He was in an arm-chair bythe dining-room fire, drawing with pencil and paper. Aunt Dannie wasopposite, nodding off to sleep. When he heard why I wanted him, helooked up calmly:

"'No, fanks; I'm more comfable here.'

"Then my anger rose, for I am determined to bring him up hardily.

"'You'll come out at once,' I said, 'or go straight to bed. I'm notgoing to have you turn into a little mollycoddle, sitting by the fireand letting your aunt go out in the rain. A man would be ashamed to dosuch a thing.'

"That touched him, but unfortunately Aunt Dannie woke and gave a shiver.

"'Ugh!' she said. 'It's not fit for a dog to be out in such weather!'

"And then the imp pursed up his mouth and defied me.

"'I won't come, fanks,' he said.

"So I carried him, kicking and screaming, upstairs, undressed him, andput him into bed; and then, as I shut the door and came downstairs, heburst it open and shouted after me:

"'I hates you, Aunt Monnie, I hates you!'

"I heard the thud of his bare feet as he scampered back into bed. Itmay seem ridiculous, but I was in such a tumult that I came straightout of the house, drove the sheep back, and then tramped the roads tobring myself into order. For, Sidney, I cannot show it, but I dote onthat child! He is all I live for, work for! Do you think he will learnto hate me? I do want to bring him up a self-disciplined industriousman; but am I making him my enemy by so doing?"

"Poor baby!" said Sidney, the soft tender look stealing into her eyes,the look that all mothers have, and that some single women have, too."His heart is yours, you need not trouble, but your methods are drasticwith him. I own he is a pickle, but I'm afraid I'm to blame for hisdemolishing your pigsty. I have filled his mind with the necessity ofa foundation, and he applies it at once in a practical fashion to thefirst fresh-made building he sees!"

"Oh, I don't mind that so much, but I will not have him choose easerather than duty."

Sidney laughed.

"You do amuse me, Monnie, though I own your principles are right; butyou make duty a terrible bugbear!"

"It's a stern reality with me."

"You have the spirit of the old Puritans. You're quite a generation ortwo behind your time."

"I may be behind most of you, but I'm not a Puritan. I wish sometimes Ihad a little of their faith. I live in a material world, and I'm of amaterial nature."

"And you build on the sand," said Sidney softly; "but, of course, yourbuilding is only for this life, so you do not expect it to last."

"I expect it to last over my time, and for Chuckles, too. I'm buildingfor him and no other."

"And if at any time anything happened to him? Suppose he did not liveto grow up?"

Monica gripped her arm fiercely.

"Don't say such horrible things! His life and mine are bound up in eachother. Let us talk of other matters."

"No," said Sidney, "this is so interesting; but we won't supposeanything dreadful will happen to Chuckles. You don't really mean,Monnie, that your whole life will be given to providing a prosperousfarm for Chuckles? Do you see no other goal ahead?"

"None. I want to be a success in the line I have mapped out for myself.I care for nothing else. My epitaph can be:

"No, that's heathenish. It isn't worthy of you. Earth is our servant,not our master."

"Look at the churchyards."

"I see nothing there but worn-out caskets, waiting till their ownerscome back. Oh, Monnie, look up and believe!"

"It's too much trouble."

Monica seldom spoke so unreservedly, but Sidney was not shocked. Sheremembered her daily in her prayers, and believed that she would seedifferently one day. Then Monica gave herself a little shake.

"We have talked enough of my concerns. Tell me yours. Something istroubling you. What is it?"

"It seems such a mare's nest," said Sidney. "It's undefined trouble inthe future, and, yet I don't know, I have something definite to worryme. You are so safe that I will tell you."

And Sidney told her friend of what her father had said to her thatafternoon.

Monica's face grew grave as she listened.

"I don't quite share your fears. I think Mrs. Norman is one of thosewomen who must be friendly with all men. Look at young Austin deCressiers! They rode up to me yesterday; he had mounted her! Shestrikes me as being interested in everybody and everything. She talksmost sensibly about poultry and farming, and really enjoys the subject.I heard them talking a good deal of the hunting field. She is afirst-rate horsewoman, and if that engrosses her, your uncle won't seemuch of her, poor man!"

"No," said Sidney reflectively, "I suppose not; and if she wantsanother husband, there are plenty of men about who would suit herbetter than Uncle Ted. She will meet them if she hunts. But I am sorryfor Mrs. de Cressiers. She won't see much of Austin now; she told meshe hoped he would not hunt so much this winter as he did last, forthe estate business wanted his attention. Of course, I think thisweather and father's little chill has made both him and Uncle Ted alittle teasy. I am sure Mrs. Norman will not be mistress of our home atpresent! It's quite ridiculous to imagine it. Oh, how good the wind andwet air is! I feel a different creature, don't you?"

"Yes," assented Monica. "We get apt to exaggerate trifles when we shutourselves up within four walls. I'm going back to my imp now, and Idon't feel that his fit of temper is likely to bring dire consequencesupon us. Now we part ways. My advice is to you, treat your uncle'sinfatuation lightly, and be just and generous to Mrs. Norman. You aresuch a sympathetic little soul that you ought to see her side and makeallowances for her accordingly. I'm not one to take to strangers, but Imust say I like what I have seen of her."

Sidney walked back feeling that there must be something very wrong withher not to have the same regard for the young widow as had everyoneelse. "Even Mrs. de Cressiers is beginning to sing her praises, only Idoubt if she will like Austin providing her with a hunter."

When she reached home she went straight to her uncle's workshop, andthis time she was successful in gaining admission. He was not working,but sitting over his fire smoking his pipe. Sidney came in like a freshgenial breeze.

"Well, Uncle Ted, have you been in all this afternoon? It's reallydelicious out, if you don't mind a wind. I wish you'd been with me toenjoy it."

"I've been busy," her uncle said curtly. "Only just finished my job.How do you like it?"

He pointed to a wooden bench daintily turned and panelled.

"I think it's charming," said Sidney, stooping down to examine it."It's for Mrs. Norman, I suppose?"

"Yes."

There was a hint of defiance in the Major's tone. Then Sidney took thebull by the horns.

"Dear Uncle Ted, I want to talk to you. We have been so happy together,that a breeze between you and dad is dreadful to me! Why were you socross at luncheon? Now, tell me why."

She was down on her knees by his side, her hand affectionately on hisshoulder. Few could resist Sidney when she exercised her charms.

The Major looked into her sweet pleading face and melted.

"It was my d-dashed leg again!" he said contritely. "This weather plays'Old Harry' with it, and I've had red hot wires pulling at my nerves!And your father is so d-dashed conservative that he won't uproot atree, even if it's blocking out an exquisite view. It's the one cornerin the garden that would give us the mouth of the river and the sea.Mrs. Norman called my attention to it."

"Yes, we'll see what we can do. I think dad fancied you wanted moretimber for your work, and you've had several trees this year, haven'tyou?"

"Well, and if I'd had fifty, is there any reason why I shouldn't havefifty-one?" demanded the Major, getting choleric again. "Whose are thetrees, I'd like to know?"

"I always thought they were father's till to-day," said Sidney quietly."You've given us quite a shock. I never knew properly how things stoodbetween us. Of course, legally you can turn us out."

"Is it likely I'm going to do that?" said the Major, calming down. "Ihad no intention of saying what I did. Vernon is a fool to take noticeof it. He had no right to repeat it to you."

"But it places us in a very awkward position, Uncle Ted, dear. Fatheris proud, and so am I. If you say you have the right to the house, andwant to live alone, we shall walk out of it—to-morrow, if necessary."

The Major shot an almost frightened look at his niece; then he saidhumbly:

"We won't quarrel, Sid. We've lived fair and square together, onlysometimes I feel I'd like to have a wife and a home of my own. It's notlikely to happen. No one would put up with a lame, maimed creature likeme, but I own I did have a bout of temper this morning."

"Then we won't say any more about it; but come into father's study withme, and we'll have a cosy tea together."

"I can't do that. I saw the hounds come back half an hour ago. Thatpuppy is out with her, and she asked me to come down and hear abouther first day out. It's lonely for a woman to turn into an emptyhouse after a hard run and have no one to speak to. I wish to heavensthat young cub had never lent her a mount! She'll break her neck withsome of his half-trained hunters, but she told me her doctor stronglyrecommended her to ride for the sake of her health. It makes one feelthe loss of one's legs when one remembers bygone days and what hardhunting one had."

Sidney gave a little caressing pat to his shoulder.

"We'll let bygones be bygones," she said half pityingly, half cheerily."And when you meet father again, do be nice to him. He isn't at allwell to-day."

"Nice," muttered the Major. "Wonder how often women make mention ofthat feminine adjective! I always loathed 'nice' behaviour!"

But his growl was no longer surly, and Sidney knew that peace had beenrestored.

CHAPTER VIII

RIVALS

MAJOR URQUHART went off to Lovelace's Cottage.

Yes, Mrs. Norman was in, the maid told him. Would he come in and wait?She was upstairs, but would be down directly.

So in he came, and scowled when he saw upon the mantelpiece a cabinetphoto of Austin, in his pink coat, on his favourite hunter.

"Insolent puppy!" was his muttered imprecation.

In about ten minutes' time Mrs. Norman appeared. She was clad in arusset-brown velvet tea gown; a cluster of tea roses was fastenedin some old point lace at her breast. Her face was flushed with herriding, the little curls about her forehead still damp with the rain.The Major had never seen her look more beautiful.

"How kind of you, Major!" she said, extending one white hand, andlooking up at him with pleased eyes. "You see, I have not come togrief, as you prophesied, but I did wish you had been with us. We hadsuch a splendid run. May I tell you about it, or would you rather not?Will it bore you?"

"Anything that interests you interests me," responded the Majorgallantly.

"Ah, that is your unselfishness! When I think of what it must be toyou to be deprived of the sport you once loved so much, it makes memarvel at your cheeriness. And instead of sitting still and developinginto an irritable whining gouty invalid, you choose a hobby which notonly employs your odd time, but is of such inestimable benefit to yourfellow-creatures. And you're always busy, always contented. I oftenthink you are not half appreciated by your relatives, but, as we weresaying the other day, three in family is rather an awkward number—oneinvariably goes to the wall. And, of course, Miss Urquhart is wrappedup in her father, and he in her. It is only natural! Well, I amdigressing. Now I will describe our run."

Mrs. Norman was a good reconteuse. Nothing escaped her quickobservation; she had humour, and knew how to seize the humorous pointsof the hunting field. The Major listened and chuckled and laughed tillthe tears came into his eyes. Then he broke in with some of his huntingreminiscences, and Mrs. Norman was a woman who could take interruptionwith equanimity, and be as interested in his stories as in her own.

The time flew, and when seven o'clock struck by the little silverchiming clock on Mrs. Norman's writing table the Major got reluctantlyupon his feet.

"Oh, must you be going? Now, won't you take pity on me and stay to myfrugal little supper? It will be such a treat to have company. I amsure the Admiral will spare you to-night. Just to celebrate my firstday with the Thanning hounds. And that dear boy Austin sent me in abrace of partridges, so there will be just a picking for each of us.You don't know what distaste I have for my food when I invariably sitdown to eat it alone. I picture your cheerful dinner going on, and theamicable and interesting conversation upon the sayings and doings ofeach one of you during the day, and then I sigh and try to be contentwith my lonely lot."

"We hadn't a very amicable luncheon to-day," said the Major with ashort laugh.

He looked round the cosy firelit room, and at the pretty bewitchinglittle woman before him, and he contrasted it with the big dining-roomat home, and the Admiral's politics. He saw Sidney linking her arm inher father's, and going off to the study with him after dinner andthrowing a laughing word at him over her shoulder:

"Now, Uncle Ted, don't shut yourself up the whole evening in yourworkshop. And don't burn it to the ground, for I know you have a napover your pipe."

The words of Mrs. Norman rang in his ears: 'Three in family is ratheran awkward number—one invariably goes to the wall.' Why should hetrudge home to make the outside third, when here was one who wanted,who appreciated, him?

Mrs. Norman saw his hesitation.

"Now you're going to say 'Yes.' I won't be refused."

She pulled her bell. The maid appeared.

"Major Urquhart is staying to supper," she said.

And the Major sat down again, with a smile and a shake of his head, butrelief plainly discernible in his face.

"They won't miss me," he said. "They never wait, for they say I'malways late."

"Do tell me what happened at lunch. That is, if it is not veryinquisitive," Mrs. Norman said, re-seating herself in an easy chairopposite to him and stretching out her slender satin-slippered footupon the fender.

"Oh, it was a tirade of my brother's against timber cutting. He refusedto have that old elm touched!"

"The one that blocks that exquisite view? Oh, what an old duffer he is!Why don't you insist a little more upon your rights, Major? You are toogood-natured, too easygoing. You have allowed your brother for so longto think of the house as his that he is an absolute tyrant regardingit."

"Well, you know," the Major said, uneasily twisting himself in hischair, "it is his virtually—he paid me a big sum, as I told you."

"Don't tell me any more," said Mrs. Norman impatiently, tapping herfoot on the ground. "It is Jacob and Esau over again; making yousell your birthright! I don't mean to liken you to Esau, but I thinkthe Admiral intensely mean in taking advantage of a young soldier'sdifficulties! Could he not have helped you out of those difficultieswithout making such a bargain? It would have been only brotherly to doit."

"I must say that I proposed it," said Major Urquhart. "You see, I was agay young dog, had run through a lot—ah, well, best not talk about it."

"No, we won't. And, of course, as we said the other day, an estate,however small, cannot be handed over from one brother to another insuch an easy illegal fashion. I am quite sure the Admiral in his heartrealises that the house is yours, though you were ready to make suchan amicable arrangement with him. Virtually, it does not matter much,as long as you are content to sink your own individuality and livetogether as you have been doing. But I must say I cannot bear to seeyou put aside as you are. You ought to have a voice in the managementof your own place, and if a time ever came when you wanted to be masterof it, you ought to have the pluck and stand up and tell them so.There! I have relieved my feelings, and I know it is most impertinentof me to give my opinion on such a private family matter. You mustforgive me. But you are so kind and unselfish that you do not seem ableto stand up for yourself, and it makes me angry. Now, shall we go inand have supper? I hear the bell, and we will talk of lighter subjects."

She chatted with great ease and graciousness; her supper table wasdainty with flowers and well-kept silver; the soup, partridges, andsweet omelette that followed were well cooked, and the Major foundhimself wondering what he would feel like if he could sit down todinner every day with this pretty vivacious little woman, who seemed tounderstand and feel for him in a way that no one else had ever done.

She let him smoke in her drawing-room afterwards, and still theytalked; they seemed to have so much to say to each other. Once theMajor pointed to the photo on the mantelpiece.

"Did he give you that?"

She smiled.

"Yes; he is such a boy, isn't he? So proud of himself when he is inhis pink. I sent him home to his mother to-day; he does rather boreme, entre nous, with his youthful aggressiveness and self-assertion.But he's a nice boy for all that. I wish my girl was home; they wouldbe great chums, I know. I feel so very old when I am talking to him.I'm afraid his mother is not very sympathetic, is she? The young wantan interest shown in them, and a patient tolerance for their youthfulfailings. I am glad to mother him a little, for I never forget my ownyouth—and I had a baby son once. He died when he was two; I always feeltenderly towards boys. He would have been such a big son by now if hehad lived."

She sighed heavily, and a wistful look came into her eyes. The Major'sspirits rose. How foolish he had been to think that Austin de Cressierscould stand in his way! What was he but a bumptious boy, who bored thiskind little soul to distraction! He looked almost kindly at the photoat which a short time ago he had gnashed his teeth.

It was past ten o'clock when he let himself in with his latchkey.Sidney, candle in hand, was just going up the wide staircase. Sheturned at his entrance.

"Oh, you truant! Why didn't you tell us you were dining out? But weguessed. Go in and see dad, won't you? Good-night!"

He nodded a good-night to her, and marched off rather surlily to thesmoking-room.

Admiral Urquhart greeted him pleasantly:

"What kind of night? Rain before long, eh?"

"Begun already," the Major said shortly.

"Look here!" the Admiral said. "I was a bit hot tempered at lunch, oldfellow. Chop down your elm, if you like. Don't let us cut up rough witheach other over such a trifle!"

"Oh, it's all right," said the Major, appeased at once. "We'll have awalk round to-morrow and discuss it."

He dropped into a chair, took his pipe out, and peace was restored. Forthe time, even Mrs. Norman's gentle insinuations had faded from hismind. His evening had been a delightful one. Austin was relegated tothe background; the Major and the lady moved alone through a successionof dreams. Her personality possessed him, and he was content.

There was another household in which peace had been made that night.

Monica went back to her farm refreshed in soul and spirit. Yet alurking fear was in her heart that she might find Chuckles stillharbouring resentment against her for such summary chastisem*nt. Shefound Aunt Dannie still dozing over the fire.

"Have you heard or seen anything of the child?" Monica asked a littleanxiously.

"Eh, my dear? No. Why, you sent him to bed, did you not? I always thinkyou are a little too bard upon him. But he is very obedient; he has notmade a sound."

Monica went upstairs. It was dark, and there was a great stillnessin Chuckles' small room. A sudden fear seized her. Had he defied herafter all, and made his escape downstairs, perhaps into the kitchen,knowing she had left the house? She hoped there would be no need forfurther scolding. Under her reserved, rather stern manner there beat avery soft heart where her small nephew was concerned. She stood on thethreshold of the door, listening. It was an intense relief to hear awhispered, lisping voice proceeding from the bed.

"And so you see, God, I'll just step up as quick as anyfing theminute you call. I'd like to. I know all about it. And Jesus is myvery special Friend. Why, I know Him almost as well as Miss Sid, andwhen Aunt Monnie come she'll look and look, and will never find menevermore, and she'll say to herself: 'Why, I spec' he's just beentaken to heaven becorse I was cross!'"

The little chuckle that gave Chuckles his name came at the close of hisspeech. He was evidently gloating over his aunt's supposed remorse whenshe found him gone.

Monica suppressed a smile, and called out:

"Chuckles, are you awake?"

There was no answer. The whispering was over. She advanced into theroom, and lighted a candle. Matches were not allowed in the child'sroom, but she carried a silver fusee case in her pocket. Then she sawthat the bedclothes were pulled tightly over the small boy's head, andthe little figure was rigidly still.

"Chuckles, it's nearly supper time. Would you like to come down?"

No answer or movement.

"I believe there's a hot baked apple for a little boy who is going tobe good."

Then the bedclothes were thrown back, and Chuckles' curly head wasthrust upwards. Not yet would he entirely capitulate.

"I'm very busy saying my p'ayers. God and me don't want to be'asturbed!"

"I'm sorry," said Monica meekly. "I'll wait."

She sat down on a chair near the window and there was silence.

Chuckles regarded her reflectively; then he lifted up his voice:

"And, please God, perhaps we'd better wait till nex' time, becorsesupper is ready. Amen."

Then he sat up and began eagerly to put on his socks. Monica came toassist him.

"God and me have been talking," he assured her with a grave nod. "Godhas quite forgiven me for not going with you. He's purf*ckly pleasedwith me now."

Then Monica lowered her head and pressed her lips on the curly head.

"And so have I forgiven the little boy who told his aunt he hated her."

"That was Satan," said Chuckles in the same solemn voice. "He tolded meto say that, and he hurried me to say it, so I did it quick as anyfing."

"But you are sorry now?"

He looked at her with a little twinkle in his eyes. "Could I have twobaked apples, do you fink?"

"No, only one. Are you sorry, Chuckles?"

He threw his arms round her neck and hugged her.

"I loves you! Let's hurry downstairs!"

They walked downstairs hand in hand, and Monica's soul was at peace.

But there was trouble at Thanning Towers that night. Mother and sonwere talking late into the night. Mrs. de Cressiers first scolded, thenthreatened, then expostulated with Austin for neglected estate businessand being out with the hounds day after day.

"I understand you've told the grooms you mean to hunt four days a week;who is going to do the work which you came home from college to do?"

"If I hunt four days that leaves me two for business, and I should bea rotten slacker if I couldn't tackle all that there is to do in thattime."

"You know your father likes to see you at a certain hour every morningand talk over things with you. If he does not do it, he worries thewhole day. How can he do this when you leave the house every morningbefore he's out of bed?"

"He worries anyhow. There is no necessity for him to be like clockwork.I can talk over things with him in the evening."

"You come home dead tired and very cross, and your father's patiencehas given out, waiting all day for you. If he discusses business lateat night, he sleeps badly in consequence. You know this as well as Ido, Austin."

Austin began to get heated.

"I always have hunted, mother. I'm not going to give up every healthyexercise and be a household drudge and slave. I'll throw the wholething up and go abroad; you expect too much from me."

"You promised me a month ago you would only have an occasional day out.What has made you so keen about it? I understand you are mounting Mrs.Norman. Is she the attraction?"

"If she is, it's no one's business but my own. You all seem determinedto run her down."

"You cannot accuse me of that. I have had her to luncheon severaltimes. I admit she is a bright sensible little woman—too fond ofaffecting to be young, for she's old enough to be your mother; but sheought not to come in the way of your duties. Your father ought to comefirst with you."

"He doesn't, then," muttered Austin rebelliously.

"I don't want to make mischief," pursued Mrs. de Cressiersrelentlessly; "but if you will neglect the estate and pay no regard toour wishes, I shall go down to Mrs. Norman and tell her the harm she isdoing you."

Austin laughed.

"I am not a baby to be coerced by such threats. You will do yourselfmore harm than you will do her or me if you venture to mix her up withit."

So it went on. Mrs. de Cressiers had an iron will, but so had her boywhen roused, and she soon saw that opposition was making him likeadamant. She adopted a milder tone; she reminded him how all theirhopes were centred in him, how he was their only son, and the only onewho could take his father's place.

Austin listened and tried to carry it off with a high hand, but he grewuncomfortable, and finally departed to bed without wishing his mothergood-night.

He rode off obstinately the next morning, and found Mrs. Norman waitingfor him at the four cross-roads. The meet was not a great distance off,so they jogged slowly along the roads together. He confided to her thathe had had a row with his mother the previous night.

"She always has kept a tight hand on the reins in our household. Myfather is absolutely under her thumb, so she cannot understand myindependence."

"Mothers never can," said Mrs. Norman softly. "I sometimes wonder, ifmy boy had lived to grow up, whether I should have tried to manage him.I don't think I should. I have a great belief in men being placed in aright position. Young men must have freedom of thought and action; theycan't be tied to their mothers' apron strings, if they're to be men atall. But we poor women can't understand it. Now let us enjoy our day.We won't think of disagreeable things."

"Were you awfully tired yesterday?"

"No; I had that poor old Major down to inquire after me. Don't glareso, you silly boy! He bored me to death. I couldn't get rid of him; hewas so garrulous. But I do feel so intensely sorry for him. He is oldand crippled, and seems to have so few pleasures."

"He can't keep away from you, it seems," said Austin a trifle curtly.

"I always notice that old men must have some woman as a recipient forall their egotistical reminiscences. You need not be jealous. I lookupon him as a father—a grandfather, if you like. There's the horn! Wemust hurry up."

At four o'clock that afternoon Sidney met Austin riding home. Hestopped when he saw her, and dismounted.

"Sid, do come up to dinner to-night. I tell you I can't stand any moreof the mother's jaw. She was at it all last night, and now I'm goingback to begin it again. I mean to hunt, so she must make up her mind toit. It's absurd to attempt to tie me down to an old woman's life andmake me into a sick-nurse to my father. I won't do it. I have told herso. I very nearly accepted Mrs. Norman's invitation to dinner, but Iwon't be a funk, and I know I must see the governor about some letters.Can't you come back now, just as you are?"

Sidney shook her head.

"I never accept invitations to dine from the men of a household. Yourmother would not be pleased."

"Rot! You know she would be delighted. Well, come back to tea. I'llmanage the rest."

Sidney wavered, then said she would.

"Only I must run in and tell them I shall be out to tea. Don't wait forme. I shall come later."

She was as good as her word. Mrs. de Cressiers was delighted to seeher, and kept her to dinner. Afterwards she sang to Mr. de Cressiers,and kept them all in a good humour. She put a word in for Austin whenshe was alone with Mrs. de Cressiers.

"Don't go against him, and give him credit for some feeling for you andhis father. You'll find he will buckle to work the two days he is home,and I don't believe he will continue his four days' hunting for verylong. Mrs. Norman is not very strong, and she won't keep it up. Whenshe gives it up, he will."

Austin walked back with her at ten o'clock, but his talk was chiefly ofMrs. Norman and of her horsemanship, which was astonishing the field.Sidney listened and tried to sympathise, and Austin did not notice anywant of enthusiasm in his subject. When they parted, he wrung her handgratefully.

"You're a trump, Sid. I'm eternally grateful to you. But, I say, dokeep the old Major from trotting down all hours and boring Mrs. Normanto death. She can't stand him."

Sidney nodded and laughed, but as she turned into the house, she againmurmured to herself reflectively:

"She is very clever; most appallingly so, and no one seems to see itbut me."

CHAPTER IX

JOCKIE'S ARRIVAL

SIDNEY'S next letter from Randolph Neville was as follows:

"He's a good man," murmured Sidney as she folded her letter up. "Idon't believe he would ever fail his friends. And I do like his remarksabout building."

She thought over one of her buildings which had been overthrown, theone which had occupied the citadel of her heart, and though the smartand anguish of it had not yet left her, she dimly began to see the whyand wherefore of its overthrow.

The foundations were not worthy.

She was thinking this out when a little later she walked over to theRectory about some parish matters which she wished to lay before theRector. He was an old man, but hale and hearty for his years, and livedwith his housekeeper. Mrs. Lunn had been with him over twenty years,and was of the old-fashioned school. Sidney and she were great friends,and would have long talks together, comparing the past generation withthe present. Mrs. Lunn considered that nothing ever came up to the"good old times that were gone."

The Rector was in the hall, preparing to go out. He took Sidney's handwith fervour.

"I believe you have been sent to me," he said. "I am in great trouble.I was just coming out to find either you or Miss Pembroke. Come into mystudy. No, not into the drawing-room."

Then turning to his parlourmaid, who stood by, he said with someagitation:

"Will you tell Miss Borlace that I am engaged for the present andcannot be disturbed."

"Who is Miss Borlace?" asked Sidney, with interest, as she followed himinto his study. "Is it some relative of yours?"

Mr. Borlace sat down heavily in his big arm-chair, and shook his headin rather a helpless fashion.

"My dear Sidney, I'm sadly afraid she is—sadly afraid."

Sidney could not help smiling.

"You seem quite bowled over. What has she done?"

"I am shaken, and for once in my life I don't know how to act. I want awoman to advise me. Mrs. Lunn refuses to do it. She says it is not herplace, but she will be the most affected by it—she and I together."

"It is quite mysterious. Do begin at the beginning."

"It began yesterday, but upon my word it seems like a year ago. I wasnailing up my William Allen Richardson—the wind of these last few dayshas played havoc with it—and suddenly I heard a voice behind me:

"'I believe I am speaking to my cousin.'

"I turned and there she was! Her bicycle was leaning against the gate,and she told me she was taking a cycle tour through these parts, andthought she would look me up. I couldn't remember who she was at first,but she soon enlightened me. I asked her to stay to lunch, and thenshe stayed to tea, and she talked hard the whole afternoon, and in theend I offered her a bed for the night, and this morning we have hadtears, and a burst of confidence, and she wants me to keep her herealtogether, and, of course, it is very upsetting, for I have been abachelor for so long that I prefer my own ways, and yet she seems tohave some claim upon me. I don't know what to do. I wish you would gointo the drawing-room and have a talk with her, and come back and tellme what you think of her."

"She might resent my interference," said Sidney.

"Oh, she isn't that sort. She is too anxious to be helped."

So Sidney left the room. She expected to see some hysterical woman ofmiddle age, so that it was rather a surprise to confront a radiantspecimen of girlhood. She was sitting on the arm of a chair, whistling;her hands were in the pockets of a short tweed coat; her hair was doneup rather untidily, with a broad plait encircling her head, but herface was bewitching in its fresh beauty and sparkling animation, andher eyes seemed alive with mischief.

She jumped off the chair and looked up at Sidney with a mixture ofbashfulness and assurance.

Sidney held out her hand at once.

"We have been left to introduce ourselves. I am Sidney Urquhart, aclose neighbour of your—your cousin's. And he has asked me to come andhave a chat with you."

"And to find out what kind of species I am," said the girl, with alaugh. "I'm Jockie—that's who I am—Jockie Borlace. And I've cycledforty miles to see if he can do anything for me."

"Tell me all about it," said Sidney, smiling into Jockie's eyes withinstant friendliness.

"You will help me, won't you? I remember mother saying before she diedthat there was only one member of father's family whom she believed in,and that was Cousin John Borlace, and he was a clergyman. And she toldme if I got into any difficulty to go to him or to write, and he mighthelp me to earn my living. And now I've come, and he seems frightenedto death at the sight of me.

"I only came home from school a year ago. I wish I could go back, butthey won't have me. They say I upset the earnest atmosphere of thehouse. I can't be earnest, can you? But I've had an awful year. Fatherknows people whom mother would have never let inside the door. And lastweek, he married a music-hall girl, and they're coming home the endof this week. I won't eat a meal in the house with her. I told fatherI wouldn't. And I've come straight off, and I told our housemaid tosend my luggage after me when I wired her my address. Now, ought notparsonages to be places of refuge? I don't see how Cousin John can turnme out, especially as he has a nice spare bedroom ready for use. Islept in it last night. And I shall be awfully useful to him if he willlet me stay. I can do anything from cooking to typewriting, and I'llrun the whole parish for him, too."

"There's nothing like self-advertisem*nt," said Sidney, laughing.

Jockie joined her in the laugh.

"Well, I could help him to do it, then. I want to be useful, MissUrquhart—I really do. And I love children. Do go back and tell him thatyou like the looks of me extremely, and that you think he'd better takeme on a month's trial. After that, we'll make other plans if necessary,but a month will give me time to look round. Perhaps you know someonewho wants their library books sorted out and mended up and re-bound.I know a girl who got a job like that, and it lasted her three years,with board and lodging and seventy pounds a year. Not bad, was it? AndI've learnt bookbinding, and love reading, so I would have the time ofmy life if you knew of such a billet."

"You're a thoroughly modern young woman," said Sidney, looking at herwith twinkling eyes. Then she put her hand caressingly on her arm.

"If I promise to plead for you, will you promise to be very good to Mr.Borlace, and not upset his methodical, orderly household? I am veryfond of him, and shouldn't like him to be worried at his time of life."

Jockie gave Sidney an impulsive hug.

"I know you'll be an angel to me! You show it in your face. I'll doanything and everything that Cousin John tells me, if he'll only giveme a home pro tem."

So Sidney left her and joined Mr. Borlace in his study. He was pacingup and down the room in great perplexity of spirit; but Sidney'spersuasion was always successful. She soothed and comforted him, andfinally told him that if Jockie proved a trial to him, he could sendher to the Admiral's.

"We will take her in for a time, for she wants befriending, poor child!"

"Her father is a ne'er-do-well," said Mr. Borlace, with a sigh."Charlie was never anything but a trouble to his family, and broke hiswife's heart. She was too good for him. I only saw her once, but thisgirl is not a bit like her. She takes after her father in her audaciousspirits. I suppose I must keep her for the time, but, of course, herfather's house is the proper place for her."

"I don't think his marriage can be a good thing for her," Sidney said."But I will tell her you will have her on a visit, or come and tell heryourself. That will be the best way."

She led him into the drawing-room.

Jockie almost flew into his arms directly she saw him.

"You're going to keep me! I see it in your face. I promise I'll be avery angel of goodness. And now, dear Cousin John, tell me where I canwire home for my luggage. Do they send off wires in the village postoffice?"

Sidney slipped away; she thought they would settle down together bestif left to themselves.

But she was to see a great deal of Jockie Borlace. Early the nextmorning she arrived and marched in upon Sidney before the Admiral hadfinished his breakfast. Sidney was discussing the morning's post withhim. Jockie was not in the least abashed at the early hour she haddisturbed them.

"We had our breakfast at the unearthly hour of eight," she said; "andI haven't known what to do with myself since. Cousin John wouldn't letme order the dinner, or do a bit of gardening, and now he has got anold women's club up at the house, and says he prefers to do it alone.And he looked so worried that I promised to make myself scarce tillluncheon, and so I've come off to you."

The Admiral eyed her critically.

"I am sorry for your poor cousin," he remarked.

"Are you? For having me, I suppose you mean? But I'm not a worry—reallyI am not. I can amuse myself in heaps of ways, and if only he would letme into his study, I would be as happy as a king. I love reading, andhe has his walls lined with books."

"I can lend you books," said Sidney, getting up from the table. "Comewith me, and when I have done my housekeeping we will go out for a walktogether."

She took the girl into the morning-room, which was her special domain.To her surprise, she found it already tenanted. Austin de Cressiers wasseated calmly at the table writing a note.

He looked up and laughed, then, when he saw Jockie, rose to his feet.

Sidney introduced them.

"How cheeky of you!" she said. "My notepaper, too! What are you doing?"

"I came in through the French window; knew you were at breakfast. And Iwanted to leave a note, and hadn't any paper in my pocket. I've had tostay at home to-day, but meant to have hunted. The governor is in oneof his ramps! I'm an ill-used, co*ck-and-henpecked son!"

His eyes sought Jockie's. They both laughed.

"So you're a fresh importation?" Austin said. "I hope you'll like us."

"I like Miss Urquhart already," said Jockie promptly and emphatically."I adore her! She's—she's so fascinating!"

"Yes," Austin said, co*cking his head on one side and regarding Sidneythrough half-shut eyes; "she is that, and when she sings she's asiren—and when she comforts you she's an angel—and when she scolds youshe's a duck!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Sidney put in. "Have you finished with my penand paper?"

Austin turned back to his seat, signed his name with a flourish, sealedhis envelope, and stuck it in his breast-pocket, which he then pattedaffectionately.

"Now I'm off to Lovelace's Cottage."

"To leave your note? I saw Mrs. Norman ride by an hour ago."

"I was to have met her at Three Crows Inn. Isn't it scandalous ofthe parents? Well, what I want you to do is to come up to lunch. I'mto be up to my eyes in business till one. Then it's the workman'sdinner hour, and I want you, Sid, to act as a buffer between me andthe mother. For she won't remember that a man's digestion plays thedickens with him if he's harried between every mouthful. And bring upMiss—Miss—"

"Jockie," said that young lady, with sparkling eyes. "Oh, I shall bedelighted to come, and Cousin John will be more delighted still, for hetold me he has always been accustomed to have a luncheon tray broughtto him in his study. He doesn't like sitting down to the table with me,and yet he won't dispense with ceremony. I should love to picnic on hisstudy floor with him, and told him so, but he didn't see it."

"Then you come up, and I'll turn you on to mother, whilst Sid and Ienjoy ourselves."

He caught up his cap, waved it at them, and dashed out of the windowlike a schoolboy.

Jockie laughed delightedly.

"What a nice boy! Tell me who he is?"

So Sidney told her, and then left her, whilst she went to her cook,and Jockie amused herself by drawing caricatures of people on a sheetof notepaper. On one she made a solemn-looking dog regarding a chickenemerging from an egg, and the words underneath were: "Will it bite me?"The dog had a great look of her uncle, and the pert chicken a slightresemblance to herself.

When Sidney returned to her, she wore her hat and coat.

"Now I have done all my duties, and I'll take you out; we'll go and seeMonica. If you want to garden or to farm, she's the one who will teachyou. And then we'll lunch with the de Cressiers. I'm sorry for Austin,for he is being pulled two different ways every day of his life."

"Pleasure versus duty," said Jockie knowingly. "It's the way with me.My chief chum is a girl—oh, she is grand! I would like you to knowher. We did everything together at school, and she inspired me. She'schock full of enthusiasm and earnestness, and life is all nobility andgrandeur, and work is our vocation, and we tread in the air, with oursouls in heaven when we're together, and then when we part, I tumbledown to earth, and have been grovelling on it ever since I last heardher speak. But she's trained me to have an uncomfortable feeling whenidle the whole day through, so I know what it is to be tugged twodifferent ways."

Jockie knew how to talk; her tongue was at it hard till the farm wasreached. They came upon Chuckles swinging upon the gate.

"Can't come in!" he cried. "This is my castle, and everybodies outsideis enemies!"

Jockie caught him up in her strong young arms, then seated herself uponthe gate and began to swing herself and him together.

"Now this is our castle," she said, "and two are better than one tokeep the gate!"

Chuckles was enchanted. It was some minutes before Sidney couldpersuade them to get down and walk on quietly with her to the house.

"We're ploughing the five-acre field to-day," said Chucklesimportantly. "Aunt Monica will be back soon. We must see the men works,you know. And then we're going to see the frashing!"

"You are a jolly little farmer," said Jockie admiringly. "Isn't he aduck, Miss Urquhart? Isn't it a pity that they grow up?"

Chuckles frowned upon her.

"It's a pity you growed up. If you were a nice little girl, you and mewould play marbles at once. I got twopence of them yesterday."

"Why aren't you at school, Chuckles?" asked Sidney.

He twinkled all over.

"They has the mumps."

"Happy boy!" said Jockie. "I can play marbles. Let's have a game now."

Chuckles seized hold of her, and they ran off together. Sidney caughtsight of Monica coming across the yard, and went to meet her. Theyalways had a good deal to say to each other, and Monica was interestedto hear of the new arrival.

"I don't understand girls, nor care for them," she said; "but if shelikes to come over here sometimes, I can always give her a job. Shewill be very dull at the Rectory, I should think."

"You must see her. I like her. She is frank and natural. We are goingto lunch with the de Cressiers. Austin is not getting on well, Monica.He ought to be more at home, and this hunting has bewitched him."

"Or Diana!" said Monica, laughing.

"Well," said Sidney, with a little sigh, "I am pulled two differentways. When she is not with him, she is with Uncle Ted. I don't knowwhich I dislike most."

"You are hard upon her."

"I suppose I am, but she will make no man happy, Monnie. She demandstoo much and gives too little."

"That will make a man unselfish," said Monica thoughtfully. "People saymen are selfish, but it is the women who make them so, and a selfishwoman is a boon to the race of men."

"Oh, Monnie!" remonstrated Sidney, laughing.

"I mean it. If I am not very careful, I shall rear Chuckles into aselfish man. Let me tell you our fracas at breakfast. I told him Iwanted him to come and watch the ploughing.

"'I don't want to,' he said promptly.

"Then Aunt Dannie said in shocked tones:

"'Little boys must never say that. If we only do what we want to do,that is selfish.'

"Chuckles gazed at her with his big eyes.

"'And I want you to come with me, so you're coming,' I said quickly anddecidedly.

"'Then you're selfish, Aunt Monnie,' the imp said. 'If you weren't,you'd let me do what I like.'

"So then I had to read him a long lecture, and finally took him offwith me. But isn't the training of a man fatiguing?"

Sidney and Jockie stayed at the farm for a good hour, then walked on toThanning Towers.

"I shall have Chuckles to spend the day with me," announced Jockie. "Heis quite charming!"

"He is a dear little boy," said Sidney, rather absently.

Her thoughts were straying to Austin and to Mrs. Norman. She honestlydid not want him to become engaged to her, and yet it seemed to herthat if that happened, she would have no longer any anxiety about heruncle. She was, as she said, torn two ways. And then she impulsivelyturned to Jockie.

"I wish you were a man, Jockie—a good-looking, wealthy man on thelook-out for a wife, a man who would be quick and successful in hiswooing, and who would insist upon a speedy marriage!"

Jockie stared at her.

"You don't want him for yourself, do you?"

"Rather not; but I know of someone who would make him a very sweetbride."

Then she laughed.

"I am talking nonsense, Jockie. You must forget it."

"I'll try," said Jockie; but she knew she would not, and she made amental note of Sidney's strange speech, and determined to keep her eyesopen for the possible "sweet bride."

They reached Thanning Towers. Mrs. de Cressiers welcomed themcordially, but she looked careworn and anxious. Mr. de Cressiers wasnot at all well, and in an irritable frame of mind. Austin and he hadbeen having a difference of opinion, and Mrs. de Cressiers had beencalled in to intervene. Austin came to lunch gloomy and self-absorbed,but in Jockie's vicinity, it was impossible to remain grave for long.She soon had him laughing, and before the meal was over a happy easycamaraderie had been established between them. He insisted upon takingher out into the grounds, and Mrs. de Cressiers, with relief in herface, swept off Sidney into the drawing-room.

"Oh, my dear, I am so troubled! George is getting quite unfit todiscuss business affairs, and he will insist upon doing it! I don'tknow what we shall do. Austin has neither patience nor tact. He expectshis father to understand what he cannot. He does not realise his brainpower is failing. We have had dreadful scenes this morning. And, ofcourse, Austin has been careless and negligent lately. I can hardlyever get hold of him to have a quiet talk. He shuns being with me. Heis wrapped up in his hunting."

Mrs. de Cressiers had seldom spoken so freely to Sidney as she did now.Her reserve and pride seemed to have been crushed in her real anxietyabout her husband and son.

Sidney's face was grave and sympathetic as she listened.

Mrs. de Cressiers continued:

"I had got it into my head that Mrs. Norman was the attraction in thehunting field, but she happened to call late yesterday afternoon, andfrom what she said I see my fears were quite unfounded. In fact, sheassured me that Austin was quite offended with her because she talkedto him for his good, and told him his duty was to stay at home and helphis father and me. You used to have influence with him, Sidney dear;can't you exert it now? It's a bitter confession for a mother to make,but it is true. My words make no impression upon him. He will listen toa stranger rather than to me."

"I think if Mrs. Norman cannot influence him in the right direction, Icannot," said Sidney slowly.

"Well, something will have to be done. I cannot go through such scenesas we had this morning. They are bad for all of us, especially for mypoor husband. I believe this will be his last winter with us. Is it toomuch to ask of his son that he should give up his hunting and help andcomfort us?"

"No," said Sidney firmly; "I think Austin ought to do it. I will talkto him again, if I get a chance. But you must forgive me for sayingit—if you were to meet him half-way and show him as much affection asyou really feel for him, Austin would respond at once."

Mrs. de Cressiers' head was instantly raised haughtily and stiffly.

"I think, my dear Sidney, I do not require you to teach me my duty as amother."

"I am sorry."

Sidney spoke penitently, and then Mrs. de Cressiers said in a differenttone:

"That is a nice little girl you brought with you. Shall we walk outinto the garden and join them?"

They did so, but Sidney got no chance of a word alone with Austin. Heavoided her, and as soon as they had left the house, he went to thestables and ordered his horse. His mother did not see him again tilldinner-time.

CHAPTER X

JOCKIE'S FRIEND

JOCKIE settled down at the Rectory in a surprisingly quick time. Shetook a Sunday class of boys, and helped as much as she was allowed inthe parish. The Rector before long began to trust her, and discoveredthat she was not the flighty damsel that her words had led him toexpect. She was devoted to Sidney, and gave her a young girl's worship,but she was of too energetic a nature to be satisfied with her quietlife at the Rectory.

She marched up to Monica one day.

"I want work, Miss Pembroke. Miss Urquhart says you can give me some. Ican't fill my days. Cousin John has too many servants. There is nothingto do. The gardener won't let me touch the garden; the housekeeperorders the house; when I'm not running about the village, I read; butI know that my friend Gavine would say that if I take in, I must giveout. She is great on work. I had a letter from her the other day. Sheimplores me to make myself of use to my fellow-creatures. What can Ido?"

Monica looked at her thoughtfully.

"I believe you can help me," she said; "not by outdoor work—I couldgive you a lot of that—but by taking Chuckles in hand."

"Oh, how heavenly!" gasped Jockie. "Tell me quickly!"

"Could you give him steady teaching from nine to twelve every morning,and then take him for an hour's walk. I am not at all satisfied withhis school. It is a small private one in Pegborough, and the few boyswho go to it are tradesmen's sons. I don't mind that, but the teachingis indifferent, and he is not improving in manners or principles. Iwant to send him to a good boarding-school next year, and I want himcoached in Latin, as well as French and English. Of course, if youtake him, we must do it on business terms. I should regard you as hisgoverness."

Jockie's face was radiant.

"Miss Pembroke, you are a witch! Who told you of my secret longings toearn something? You know, I arrived with two shillings and twopence inmy pocket. My father has not sent me a penny as yet, and I can't go toCousin John. I was wondering what I should do. And then you offer methe job that I should like above all others. I'm sure I know enoughLatin to satisfy you, and I assure you I'll be as stern as you are inschool-time. When can I start?"

"I think at once. This is the second time this term I have had tohave him home. They seem to have perpetual epidemics at the school.Of course, I trust you to teach him thoroughly, and have no games inschool-hours. He is not very strong, and he will be out of doors withme in the afternoons."

Jockie could hardly express her gratitude. Terms were arranged, andlessons were started in earnest the very next day. Jockie was a clevergirl and had a knack of teaching; Chuckles was as good as gold, andeverything went smoothly.

One fine frosty afternoon Jockie came in upon Sidney with her usualflow of spirits.

"I've been enjoying myself so much," she said. "I met Mr. Austin, andwe've actually climbed the Beacon together. He was very grumpy atfirst, but he couldn't keep it up. How hunting people hate frost. I'mrather glad I don't ride. If I did, I think I should neglect everythingelse for it, like Mr. Austin. He's great fun when you get him alone,isn't he? And then, on the way home, we met his ladylove—Mrs. Norman.I know all about it. He was singing her praises most of the way. Well,she stopped and asked to be introduced to me, and, Miss Urquhart, weonly chatted together for about ten minutes, but it's going to be warto the knife between us!"

"My dear Jockie, don't say such things!"

"But I must. I tell you everything. And I made a most astonishingdiscovery; that's why I have come to tell it to you. But I'll give youour conversation first. She began by commiserating Austin—I can't helpcalling him by his Christian name to you—upon the frost, and then Ispoke up.

"'It will keep him more at home, Mrs. Norman, and that will be a goodthing,' for Austin had been telling me a little of his home affairs.She gave me a nasty gleam out of her eye, and then, ignoring me, wenton to talk about people in the hunting field, whom, of course, I didn'tknow; and then, looking at her, it suddenly flashed across me, and Isaid: 'I've seen you before, Mrs. Norman, and I know someone whom youknow.'

"She gave a little start, but smiled and said:

"'I'm afraid I don't remember you.'

"'But your daughter is my greatest friend,' I said, 'and I saw you oncewhen we travelled to town together, and you told her that you could nothave her with you for the Christmas holidays. It was a blow to her,poor girl, for her aunts were abroad, and you sent her to an old nursewho kept lodgings in some fusty London square. Poor Gavine had an awfulChristmas; she wrote and told me all about it.'

"'Oh,' she said, 'do you really know my dear Gavine? Yes, I remember,poor child. I don't know who felt it most, she or I. That was adreadful Christmas. And so you are one of her schoolfellows! Howdelightful! You must come and see me, and we will have great talkstogether.'

"'I'm going to get Cousin John to invite Gavine down here,' I went on.'She never has any pleasures with her invalid aunts.'

"'I think when her aunts can spare her, she will come to me,' she said,and she tried to speak very haughtily. So I laughed and said:

"'But you never want her, do you? There's always some reason why youcan't have her.'

"And then she glared at me and went on talking very fast to Austin, andpresently I said good-bye and left them. Now, isn't it funny that Idid not connect her with Gavine before, as, of course, it is the samename? And do you know, Miss Urquhart, that her daughter doesn't knowwhere she is? She hardly ever writes to her, and Gavine thought she wasabroad."

Jockie paused for breath, and Sidney looked quite mystified.

"How very strange! Then is the girl you talk so much about Mrs.Norman's daughter?"

"Yes; and she has treated her abominably. She hardly ever sends herany money, and always writes as if she is at her last penny. Fancy!Since Gavine left school, she has only been allowed twelve pounds ayear! It's a kitchenmaid's wages when she first goes out. Gavine hastwo aunts who are not at all well off, and one of them is paralysed;but they have given her a home until her mother can settle down andhave her. She has always said she would do it, and now she has taken acottage here, there's no reason why Gavine should not come to her. Onlyif she lives with her, I know she'll be perfectly miserable. I'll gether to come to me; that will make her mother feel ashamed of herself."

"Oh, Jockie, dear, you must not talk so. She is her mother. If yourfriend is a nice girl, she must feel attached to her own mother."

"So she does. Gavine is an angel. But I know what her life hasbeen—continual disappointments. She's always hoped and longed to livewith her mother, and Mrs. Norman won't have her. She likes to pose as ayoung woman; and Gavine is much handsomer than she is, and wants to dogood, and Mrs. Norman hates good people. She hates you, Miss Urquhart.She mentioned your name to Austin.

"I'll tell you what she said. 'Do come and deliver me from that poorold Major. He has come down every day for the last week. I feel sosorry for him. It is a great pity he has such an unhappy home. I cannotunderstand Miss Urquhart; but then I don't know her. She seems to mesuch a pleasant girl to outsiders, but she does not show much affectionto her poor old uncle.'

"I flared up, of course. 'Miss Urquhart adores him, and he adores her,'I said.

"And then Austin laughed. 'You have got hold of the pig by the wrongear, Mrs. Norman,' he said. 'The old Major is a confounded bore, buthis niece has always been most awfully good to him. I've had the run ofthe house since I was quite a small boy, so I know.'

"Now, don't you think that ought to have squashed her? Not a bit.She looked quite perturbed and sorry. 'Oh, dear! What a dreadful oldhumbug the Major is!' she said. 'He gave me to understand quite thecontrary. I suppose he was wanting to get my pity. Old men love to havea grievance, don't they?'

"It was then I said good-bye to them and walked on. Yes, it is war tothe knife between us, Miss Urquhart. I feel it in my bones. And, ofcourse, I understand why you want another man to come upon the sceneand carry her off. I wish he would."

"You take my breath away, Jockie!" Sidney said with a distressed lookin her eyes. Jockie's recital had cut her to the quick, and the girlperceived it. She flung her arms round her and kissed her.

"Don't look like that! My tongue runs away with me. We won't think anymore about her. She isn't worth it. But I shall write and tell Gavinewhere her mother is."

Jockie was as good as her word, and came to tell Sidney the result.

"Gavine says she has just heard from her mother, and she wants herdown here at once. Isn't it exciting? I shall love to have her. I wanther to see you, and you are sure to like her—everyone does—but keep alittle bit of your heart for me."

Sidney laughed at her.

"You won't want me when your friend comes."

"I've just met Mr. Austin," Jockie continued; "so I told him thenews. He didn't look best pleased. I think this frost is making himvery cross. When I told him that Gavine ought to live with her motheralways, he said curtly:

"'I don't see why she should.'

"So then I said an awful thing! I can't help my tongue, Miss Urquhart.I wish I could. It is past my control entirely. I said: 'I suppose youwouldn't care to have so old a stepdaughter?'

"He looked as if he could bite my head off, and turned bang round andwalked off without saying good-bye, or even raising his cap. He can bevery rude when he likes. So then my temper was up, and I called afterhim: 'You had much better let the Major have his innings. His age ismuch more suitable.' And, of course, you'll say I was rude and vulgar.I thought I was myself when he had gone."

"I don't see why you should try to quarrel with Austin," said Sidneyvery quietly.

"He annoys me. He is so idiotically infatuated with Mrs. Norman. Andshe is Gavine's mother, I never can forget that."

Gavine Norman soon arrived, and Sidney went down to Lovelace's Cottagewith some curiosity, to see Jockie's bosom friend. The frost stillheld. Sidney herself was grateful to it. Austin was much more at home,and his mother rejoiced accordingly. Mrs. Norman took long walks; shedid not hide her disappointment at the hunting ending so soon. MajorUrquhart wandered down to her cottage about every other day. Sidneywondered as she walked if her uncle were down there now. But she wasovertaken by Austin, whose steps were bound the same way.

They were both shown into the tiny drawing-room, where mother anddaughter were sitting. Mrs. Norman was writing at her davenport; Gavinewas sitting by the fire reading. She looked up as they entered, andSidney was struck at once by her face. She was dressed in a dark redgown. The colour suited her. She had a very white skin; her soft, duskyblack hair was parted in the middle, it fell away in ripples over herears, and a thick plait encircled her head. Her eyes were dark blue,and a steady, rather sombre light seemed to glow in their depths,whilst thick eyebrows and very long curved lashes lent a touch ofheaviness to her otherwise fragile and delicate oval face. Her nose wasstraight and sensitive, her lips had a wistful droop at the corners,but her square, determined chin, and broad intellectual brow showedthat she had mental force and ability.

Mrs. Norman was her usual gay charming self. She greeted Sidney warmly,her eyes welcomed Austin.

"How kind of you, Miss Urquhart! Let me introduce my big daughter. Shequite frightens me by her size, but time flies, and she has grown muchsince I last saw her. I must get accustomed to take the back place whenI have her with me."

Gavine made no reply. She dropped her book, and sat silently listeningto the chatter around her. When talk got on the frost, and the signs ofit yielding, Sidney left Austin to Mrs. Norman, and turned to the girl.

"I have heard so much about you from Jockie, that I have longed to meetyou," she said.

Gavine smiled, and when she smiled, her face was beautiful.

"Jockie is a dear; she sees no fault in her friends."

"Have you seen her yet?"

"Yes; she came over yesterday. We are going to take a long walktogether to-morrow if fine."

"Do you hunt?"

"I have never been on horseback in my life."

"I was wondering if you would find it dull here. But I expect you haveresources."

"I never want to kill time," said Gavine, looking at Sidney withglowing eyes; "it is too precious for that."

"I hear you are a great reader."

"I love it—as a relaxation."

Sidney began to wonder if she were priggish or in deadly earnest.

Her mother turned round at that moment.

"Mr. de Cressiers is asking whether you skate, Gavine. He says the iceis bearing."

"Yes," she said a little indifferently. "I have skated up in the north."

Austin looked across at her with some eagerness.

"We are going to open our grounds to-morrow, for we have some bigfish-ponds which are in first-rate condition. You will come, won't you?We'll adjourn to the house for lunch."

"I don't think she has any skates with her," said Mrs. Norman slowly.

"That doesn't matter, we will turn out ours. I know we have a lot ofodd pairs. And you'll come too, and if you don't know how to skate, Iwill teach you."

He turned an adoring eye upon the young widow. Gavine regarded himgravely for a minute, then she said to Sidney:

"Will you be there, Miss Urquhart?"

"I—I hope so, and Jockie must come too."

"I thought Jockie taught in the morning."

"Oh, I dare say Miss Pembroke will give Chuckles a holiday."

"I should hope she won't, for Jockie's sake," Gavine said earnestly."When she does undertake a thing, she ought to stick to it. That washer great fault at school, she was brilliantly clever, but would neverpersevere."

"And perseverance comes easily to you?" Sidney asked with a smile.

"Yes, I lack in initiative. I can't start things, but when once startedI'm all right. Jockie is a very good starter."

Sidney was interested in the girl; not so much in what she said, butin the smouldering fires which shone in her deep blue eyes, and in thechanging expression of her face. She said to her:

"You take life earnestly, Miss Norman."

"Who wouldn't? Oh, Miss Urquhart, it is a tremendous thing, isn't it?There is so much to gain, and so much to lose."

Her lips quivered. She touched the volume she had been reading.

"These are some essays by Carlyle, and Macaulay, and Emerson. I am onlydipping into them, but they make you think, don't they? And they makeme long to work. I have had so much time to think and to read. I amsimply yearning to do—"

"You must come and see me, and we will have a good talk together," saidSidney, being almost startled by the vehemence in the girl's tone.

Mrs. Norman had caught a bit of the conversation.

"Ah, Miss Urquhart," she said, laughing. "It is the young people whoteach us in the present day. They are so wise, so full of enthusiasm,so intense in what they feel and hope for. When I listen to my girl, itreminds me of my hot-headed youth, and I pray she may not be awakenedso quickly as I was."

Gavine looked at her mother.

"How were you awakened?" she asked gravely.

"My dear child. You will know how later on. Life has hardly touched youyet. You are only on the threshold."

"You talk as if you were Methuselah!" said Austin. "How can you be soabsurd?"

"Am I absurd!"

Mrs. Norman lowered her voice and turned her head away from Sidney andher daughter. "My dear boy, Gavine makes me feel a frivolous doll; sheis the essence of lead. Her heaviness and stolid matter-of-fact sensehave a most depressing effect upon me. I feel bound with chains whenshe is in the room. And when we go about together, I have the awfuldesire to shock her. Isn't it dreadful of me? For she's such a goodearnest girl, and her good worthy aunts are so much more to her thanher own mother is. She is never happy till she gets away from me. And Iassure you she would be scandalised if she saw me tumbling about on theice to-morrow. She thinks I ought to be dressed up in a lace cap andspectacles and sit over the fire knitting shawls for the poor. That isher ideal mother!"

Austin laughed. He could not help it; but he felt a littleuncomfortable. Gavine's good looks impressed him. He was inclined totalk to her, and when presently her laugh rang out at one of Sidney'sspeeches, he moved across the room and joined them.

"What is the joke?"

"I was only describing some of our characters here," said Sidney, andthen she rose to go.

Austin stayed behind. He did not offer to accompany her, but shewas accustomed to that now. She went home wondering what kind ofintercourse there was between mother and daughter.

"I don't know which I pity most," she said to herself. "The girl wantsmore gaiety in her, the mother less. But I like the looks of Gavine,and hope I shall see something of her."

There was no skating the next day. A sudden thaw set in. Sidney did notsee either of the girls for some time, as her father was in bed with aslight attack of bronchitis, and she hardly left the house. The Majorwas in very low spirits as he watched Mrs. Norman riding off to themeets with Austin. He shut himself up in his workshop, and growled ateveryone who came near him.

Gavine and Jockie took long walks together every afternoon. One dayGavine's face was unusually grave.

"Jockie, dear, I must go back to the aunts. I can't stay here."

"Why?" Jockie's horrified face made Gavine smile.

"I don't think mother wants me."

"She never has," said Jockie indignantly; "but I want you. Have you hada row? You needn't mind telling me."

"Oh, it never comes to that. Mother never loses her temper, you know.I sometimes wish she did. But I annoy her. I blurt out truths whichare best not expressed, and I can't understand what I'm expected tosay, and what I am not. Major Urquhart came yesterday, and mother askedhim to tea to-day, as there was no meet anywhere. Mr. de Cressiershappened to come in this morning, and wanted us to go motoring withhim this afternoon. Mother accepted, and, thinking she had forgotten,I said quickly: 'Oh, we can't do that, can we, mother? You asked MajorUrquhart to tea to-day, and you asked him to come early, for you hadnot seen him for such a long time.'

"Now why should that speech of mine be such a crime? Mother carried itoff all right at the time, but she was most annoyed with me afterwards.She told me I was like an awkward child, had no manners, and she reallythought I was better in my 'northern wilds' than in decent society. Ihonestly think I am. I hate the chitter-chatter of society. It leadsto nothing, and I am living a lazy idle life here. It doesn't suitme. I have been accustomed to attend to my two aunts, and do somesick-nursing. There is nothing to do here, and Jockie, dear—it is nother fault. We have lived our lives apart since I was four years old,but mother has no more affection or feeling for me than that stone.'"

She struck a wayside stone with her stick as she spoke, but there weretears rising in her blue eyes. Jockie linked her arm in hers.

"No, dear, you two will never hit it off together, never! Has yourmother disappointed the old Major again?"

"I took up a note to him, asking him to dinner instead. She is out nowmotoring, but I did not want to go. It is no fun to me."

"No. You're gooseberry!" said Jockie.

Gavine stared at her.

"I sometimes think I am very dense. What do you mean? You don't knowmother as I do, Jockie. She is friends with everybody. She always hasbeen, but never anything more."

There was an anxious look in Gavine's eyes, and Jockie did notenlighten her further. They began to talk of "work," which was Gavine'sfavourite topic.

"I want to work somewhere in London, Jockie. If only mother would giveme a little more money, I could do it. I should like to go to one ofthose settlements, where everybody is doing something for others. Thereis so much to be done, so few to do it. I don't want to hide my talentsin a napkin. It is the next life that matters, not this. We are in aschool of discipline here. We must make efforts towards heaven, and Ido not want to fail in getting there, do you?"

"I don't know," said Jockie soberly. "I don't incline towards thestrenuous disciplined life. I have often told you so. I want to enjoyeverything as it comes. It always seems to me that in preference youcross the street to the shady side. Now I like to walk in the sun."

"I want to keep my body in subjection," said Gavine, with earnestshining eyes, "so that it will not be a hindrance to me when I amworking. I sometimes think I should like to join a sisterhood. I wasvery nearly doing it a year ago, and then I promised someone I wouldnot."

"Who?" Jockie asked bluntly.

A soft pink colour stole into Gavine's cheeks.

"Oh, it's only someone who has gone abroad."

Jockie's eyes twinkled.

"I'm waiting to be told his name."

But Gavine kept her own counsel and would say no more.

CHAPTER XI

AUSTIN'S ENLIGHTENMENT

CHRISTMAS came with its festivities; and though Thanning Dale was nota very gay neighbourhood, there was enough going on to keep everyoneoccupied. Sidney was freer now that her father was convalescent, andshe and Jockie pressed Gavine into their service, for there were parishteas and entertainments and a Christmas tree for the children. Andsomehow or other, Austin was always with them. Sidney noticed that hedid not mention Mrs. Norman's name, and there was something in hisfeverish gaiety and forced ring of cheerfulness, that made her wonderif anything had gone wrong in their friendship.

She was too busy to seek for his confidence; and, indeed, there waslittle opportunity for quiet talk between them. Gavine and he were goodfriends, but nothing more. Jockie made fun of him, laughed at him, andcontradicted him whenever she got a chance, but Austin held his groundwith her, and Sidney listened to their gay talk and laughter withrelief of mind. This was Austin in his wholesome boyish state again.What had occasioned the change?

She was enlightened at last. Austin was seeing her home after thevillage children's prize-giving and treat. It was a windy night.

"Take my arm," he insisted; "you are tired out with the romping. Areyou my friend still, Sid?"

"Is it my way to change?" Sidney said quietly.

"Oh, no, but women are beyond me. And it's my fate to have my idealsshattered."

"You'd better tell me," Sidney suggested.

"I want to. But you're the only one on earth I'll speak to about it;for I know you won't crow, and say 'I told you so.' It's only—only I'vehad a nasty shock about that little woman. I really can't bring myselfto tell you, but it's all up between us, and I'm going to clear out fora bit. The mother condescended to say that I could have a holiday, andI'm off to Cairo next week. I know a fellow going out, and I've fixedit up with him."

"That is very wise of you," said Sidney, hardly knowing what to say.

"You don't ask questions? But I'll try to tell you. She sent me aletter intended for your uncle. 'Pon my honour, I feel sorry for her,but she began, 'My dearest,' and dashed if I didn't read it rightthrough before I twigged she had put it in the wrong envelope. And shetold him not to be angry with her, for the 'poor boy' would not keepaway, and she could not make him see how he bored her. Then she wenton to hint that if this poor infatuated youth still frequented hercottage, the Major must take into consideration that there was her girlready to amuse him, and young people liked each other's company. Nowwhat do you think of that? After assuring me that the Major was a dailypurgatory to her. It bowled me over, I can tell you."

"I am sorry for you," Sidney said, "but you would take no warnings. Shehas wanted to keep you both as friends."

"Oh!" cried Austin with a little groan. "I tell you it has been apretty stiff eye-opener to me! I sent the letter back to her, and toldher she need not trouble to send the letter she originally meant forme, and, of course, I haven't been near her since. She wrote an abjectapology, saying she could explain if I called, but mum's the word!And I shall be out of it soon. And I'm jolly well cured of a leaningtowards your sex, Sid. If it were not for you, I'd never believe in asingle woman again. By George! How she's taken me in, and befooled me.Do you think the Major got my letter?"

"No, I don't think he did," said Sidney, stifling a sigh. "I almostwish he had. I don't think his eyes will ever be opened."

"I shouldn't like to tell you of the jeers and jibes she has flung athis courting. But she may pull it off with him. And I say, do befriendthat poor girl; she does have a time of it."

"Do you mean Gavine?"

"Yes, I put my foot in it several times trying to stand up for her.Don't think I'm a broken-hearted youth, Sid. I tell you, I rode by thecottage on purpose to-day, and whistled merrily. But all the same, Ishall be glad to turn my back on this place for a time."

When they parted, Sidney looked at him gravely.

"Austin, you ought to be thankful to have had your eyes opened. Shenever would have made you happy."

But when she got indoors she said to herself:

"And now I feel that Uncle Ted is doomed. She will not let him escapeher."

And that feeling hovered about her like an angry looming cloud. Themore cheerful her uncle became, the more anxious she was. The uncertainfuture seemed to menace her. It needed all her faith and fortitude togo about with a bright and smiling face.

About the same time Monica had a visit from Mrs. Norman. She was thefirst to inform her that Austin was leaving home for a time.

"It is an immense relief to me. In fact, I may tell you in confidencethat it is chiefly through my instrumentality that he is going. It wasbad enough to have him in and out of my house all hours of the day,before Gavine came to me. I was sorry for the boy. He seemed so lonelyand miserable, so misunderstood at home. But you know a woman's pityis sometimes mistaken for something else, and I found he was presumingtoo much, so I had to stop it. You see, I do not mind what people sayof myself. I am quite impervious to idle gossip. I think if one hasa clear conscience one is perfectly indifferent to the wagging oftongues. But I have my daughter to think of now, and I was afraid if hewas never out of our house, that her name might be a subject of gossip.A woman is always supposed to have matrimonial plans, if she has apretty daughter. So I wrote him a letter which has effectually quenchedhim. I have acted rightly, have I not? I believe you would have donethe same, had you been in my place."

Monica could not but agree. She did not know how much went on atLovelace's Cottage; she was too busy a woman to meddle much in herneighbours' affairs; but when Sidney came next to see her, she told herwhat she considered were "the rights of the story." Sidney listened,and felt hopeless and helpless to put the matter straight, so did nottry to do so.

"We had better take Mrs. Norman at her own valuation, Monnie. It willbe only a fret and annoyance to ourselves if we don't. How do you likeher daughter?"

"I have hardly seen her, but she happens to be coming to tea thisafternoon. Will you stay to meet her? Jockie is going to bring her inhere after their walk."

"Yes, I shall like to stay. Father and Uncle Ted have actually gone outdriving together. It is some business they want to do with their lawyerin Pegborough."

Something in Sidney's tone made Monica look at her sharply.

"Nothing wrong, I hope?"

"Nothing, I believe; but I am full of fears, Monnie."

"And I am afraid Austin's absence will not mend matters."

"We shall see. How is Chuckles? Do you think his Sunday lessons areimpressing him?"

"He is still mad on building. Some of his remarks are very funny. Heasked Aunt Dannie if God had not nearly finished building her yet; andwhen she said she did not know, he informed her that when the top stonewas put on, God would take her to heaven. I really enjoy listening tohim. I will bring up the subject at tea-time, and you will see foryourself if he does his teacher credit."

Sidney gave a little sigh.

"It is so easy to talk, so difficult to live. Life is very perplexing,Monnie."

"But you don't find it perplexing," said Monica with a dry littlesmile. "You tell me that your foundation is so sure that you are neveraffected or moved by difficulties and troubles. Isn't there a verse inthe Psalms, 'I shall never be moved'? That is your position, is it not?"

Sidney looked wistfully out of the window.

"It ought to be my realisation." Then a light came into her eyes. "Butit doesn't say 'I shall never be shaken'; only 'never be moved.' It'sthe buffeting I find so trying. It isn't the building's fault when thewind and storm attack it."

She visibly brightened up.

"I like to tease you sometimes," said Monica, smiling at her.

"Yes, you brace me up, Monnie. I feel very slack at present. I have allkinds of presentiments, and I honestly don't like living near anyonewho is not friendly to me. I see the girls are coming in. They are ahandsome couple, are they not?"

Chuckles was dancing up the garden after them. He was in a very dirtyoverall, and brandished a trowel in one hand.

Monica carried him off to make him tidy for tea; the girls joinedSidney in the cosy sitting-room. Both were genuinely glad to see herthere.

"We've been up the Beacon," said Jockie. "It's our favourite walk. Oh,dear! I shall be glad of some tea. Talking and climbing are ratherexhausting, and our tongues have been hard at it. Gavine says she'sgoing away soon; isn't it a shame of her, when I want her so much?"

"Does your mother want you to leave her so soon?" Sidney asked, turningto Gavine.

"Yes," the girl answered simply; then she added, with a little effort:"We have been talking together, and mother is quite willing that Ishall go and do something. You see, my aunts do not really need me.They told me so when I came away; they thought my duty was to stay withmy mother."

"And is it not?" asked Sidney.

"Not when it is her wish that I should leave her," said Gavine quietly."I am going up to London to stay with a clergyman and his wife; he hasa curacy in the slums somewhere, and they say they can give me plentyof work. She was at school with me. Jockie knows her."

"Yes; she's not a bit like a clergyman's wife; much too fond of dressand society," said the outspoken Jockie; and then she laughed.

"I expect people say much the same of me—not a bit like a clergyman'scousin; much too fond of fun. I tell Gavine we can give her plenty ofparish work, can't me, Miss Urquhart? But I know what she wants—a morerigorous, self-denying life; she wants to live in a kind of cell and beshort of food and fires, and go out to early services at six o'clock inthe morning, and make herself very ill and bad-tempered."

Monica came back at this juncture, leading a very clean Chuckles by thehand. Then she asked them to come to a sit down tea in the dining-room.

When they were at the table, Sidney asked the small boy what he hadbeen doing with himself all the afternoon. His eyes gleamed.

"I've been building a real house, me and Mr. Rudge togever."

"It's a labourer's cottage being erected," said Monica. "You can fancythat he discovered it very quickly."

"Yes," said Chuckles, with a self-satisfied nod. "Mr. Rudge holded myhand and showed me how to put the mortar atween the bwicks. He was verylike God this morning. I tolded him so."

Gavine stared at the child with her grave eyes.

Jockie giggled.

"How was he, Chuckles?" she asked. "Tell us."

"He helped me to build," said Chuckles with great gravity. "That's whatGod does to me every day, doesn't He, Miss Sid?"

Monica looked across at Sidney with a smile.

Chuckles was never better pleased than when he had got an audience. Helifted up his voice and continued:

"I'm just about middle built now."

"What do you mean?" asked Jockie.

"Well, fust, you see, God builded me a baby; that's when I couldn'tdo nuffin myself, and God builded me all by Hisself. Then He went onbuilding me taller, a little bit at a time, until I was builded intoa boy; now I've got to build a little myself, and build all kinds ofbwicks on me; and God just hold His hand over mine so I don't make nomistakes. He's building me up gooder every day."

"Oh," said Monica, "I hope I see the goodness coming, Chuckles; but youdon't grow in that direction very fast."

Chuckles co*cked his head on one side like some saucy sparrow.

"The bwicks don't stick always," he asserted; "sometimes they tummlesoff; 'specially the bwick this week—it's to do what you're told quick,and it won't stick."

"Did you teach him all this, Miss Urquhart?" asked Gavine, a lightleaping into her eyes.

"Yes," said Sidney; "we're doing a course of building every Sunday, andwe find out a lot about it, don't we, Chuckles? We're all builders—of asort."

"Of a sort," repeated Monica slowly.

"When I'm builded into a man, I shall begin to build other people,"asserted Chuckles.

And the important tone with which he said it made the girls laugh.

They had a merry tea. Jockie was overflowing with fun and spirits, butwhen the time came for them to go, she said to Sidney:

"Will you let Gavine walk a part of the way with you. I have promisedto be home in time for the choir practice; and she's dying to talk toyou."

Sidney was only too delighted. She had wanted to see more of Gavine,but seemed to have had no opportunities with her.

When they were left alone together Gavine said:

"What a quaint child that boy is. He seems such a mixture. Jockie sayshe is a regular pickle, and yet he talks like a little saint."

"He is far from a saint," said Sidney; "but real religion is as naturalto children as their daily food. They only want teaching, and Chuckleshas a bright intelligence and a vivid imagination. I love having him onSunday."

"I want to be a builder," said Gavine earnestly. "I really think I'mgoing to get my wish. But I wish I could think with Chuckles that Godwould put His hand over mine to prevent mistakes."

"He will if you ask Him," said Sidney earnestly. "Only, if you want tobe a successful builder, be sure about your foundation."

"How do you mean?"

"Chuckles and I began with the stories of the houses on the rock andsand. Don't build on sand; it will only court disaster. It says in theBible: 'Other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which isJesus Christ.'"

"Oh, do talk to me, Miss Urquhart," said Gavine in a voice whichvibrated with earnest longing. "Jockie said you would. I want to knowso much. I want to get satisfied."

Sidney gave a little happy laugh as she tucked Gavine's arm within hers.

"You poor child! Talking is easy, but the right talk is what we want.And I don't quite know where you are."

"I don't know where I am myself," said Gavine, "except that long agoI felt that life would not bring me sunshine, so I determined that itshould bring me work. But I seem thwarted on all sides. Now, it istrue, I feel light is coming, but it has been obtained at tremendouscost. My mother has been long in coming round to my point of view, andshe has told me definitely that, as I wish to take up work, I must lookupon it as my profession or vocation in life, and never count againupon her house as my home. It makes me feel bitter, but it is happierto have a complete understanding between us. We haven't an idea incommon. She says I am my father's daughter, and she never cared abouthim; it is no good to pretend she did. All my life I have been hopingshe would have me with her, and let me take care of her and work forher. It has been one series of hopes and disappointments. Now it hascome to a crisis, and it is better so. I can learn to stand alone.

"Many girls would glory in such freedom. I have £80 a year of my ownnow, for I was twenty-one last week. But though work is coming to me,it has not as yet made me really happy, and I am wondering if it will.I suppose it doesn't matter about being happy, does it? But you carryit about in your face. I was watching you to-day. I know you feel sadsometimes. I—don't laugh—but Jockie and I love looking at your face. Itis so beautiful, and has so many changes in it. Before Chuckles beganto talk, conversation was a little effort to you, and your thoughtswere far-away; then, when he began to talk about building, light andgladness crept into your eyes and the merry ring into your voice. Youlooked as if you were brimming over with happiness, and I felt as if Iwas outside a house in the cold and rain, looking into a cosy firelitroom. Do help me."

Quick tears had sprung into Sidney's eyes. She exclaimed impulsively:

"You shall not go to London till you know how you can be happy, dear.You will want the deep fountains of content inside you to tide you overall the sin and misery that you will see in London's slums. I wish youcould come back to dinner with me this evening. Do you think you could?We will send you home."

Gavine's eyes looked very wistful.

"I wish I could. But I don't know whether mother would like it."

"Oh, yes, she will. I will send a note down and say I have keptyou; that is the best way. Now let us go on talking. I wonder whatfoundation you have under your feet? I mean what do you rely on whenthings go wrong? What is your aim, your hope, your inspiration?"

Gavine's young pulses throbbed, yet her eyes were troubled.

"I think I'm like a watch without a mainspring. I have great ideas ofwhat can be done, what ought to be done, and of what I mean to do,but I don't seem to get the power to do it. I'll confess to you, MissUrquhart. Jockie has been giving me sick poor to go and see in thevillage. I've all my life wanted to visit the poor. I've had to contentmyself with waiting on a sick aunt, and I've felt all my talents werehidden and wasted. Well, I've visited the poor; but, do you know, mytongue has been dumb. What can I say to help or comfort a mother who isdoing her share of wage-earning by days out at farms, a mother who getsfrom her husband thirteen shillings a week, and has eleven children tobring up and fit out in life upon it? What can I say to a partiallyparalysed old woman who lies in bed day after day alone with herthoughts, and only a dirty, cracked ceiling and a dingy coloured wallto feast her eyes upon? It makes me wonder, now I have got the desireof my heart, whether that will turn to dust and ashes when I touch it."

"Why do you want to work so much?" said Sidney softly.

"Why? I don't know, except that I've always had a contempt forwastelings, for idlers, for cumberers of the ground. We're put into theworld to make it better, aren't we? We have to work our way to heaven.That is my goal. I do think it is. I want to be inside its gates oneday. And a lifetime here is only a fragment of eternity, is it not?"

Gavine's eyes were glowing, her heart was in her words.

"Yes," said Sidney. "You want to be a builder with the rest of us."

"I do, I do. I have all the longings for it in the abstract, but I ambeginning to doubt myself, to wonder what practical value I am going tobe in the world."

"Oh, Gavine dear, you will be all right if you build on the rightfoundation. But a creed of good works erected on the sand will toppleover before they reach heaven. And it is such dreary work wondering ifone has done enough, or will do enough to pay for what has already beenpaid for. Don't you know from your Bible that eternal life can never bebought—that it is a gift?"

"We must work out our own salvation," murmured Gavine.

"Yes, work it out, but it must be given us first. That is such amisunderstood verse. We work, for love compels more forcefully thanthe desire to escape death. Do you remember St. Paul's words?—'And nowabideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these ischarity,' or Love. Christianity is the gospel of Love. Christ earnedheaven for you, He showed His love by dying, and by bearing your sins.He could do no more. When God Himself said, 'It is finished,' do youthink it needs our puny attempts, even of a lifetime, to add to Hisscheme of salvation? We can show our gratitude and love to Him by agood life and good work; that is our absolute duty, but when every actpleases the One you love, it is such happy work."

There was a little silence. Then Gavine squeezed Sidney's arm, andthere was a sound of tears in her voice.

"Oh, Miss Urquhart; I have never had anyone to talk so to me before.Show me how to love Him."

CHAPTER XII

FRONTIER NEWS

GAVINE stayed to dinner, and afterwards Sidney retired with her overthe drawing-room fire, where they had the talk that remained withGavine for the rest of her life.

Major Urquhart was, of course, only too delighted to take her home,and Mrs. Norman welcomed him in so warmly that Gavine escaped to bedunnoticed. Sleep did not come very soon to her. She had always been adeeply religious girl, but there was now a quickening thrill and firein her soul that had never been there before, for she had been shownthe foundation stone, and simply as a little child she had plantedherself upon it.

She opened her window and gazed up into the still blue heavens aboveher.

"What does anything matter?" she exclaimed in the rapture of herheart's adoration for the One who had become the centre of her life."If I never get any slum work at all, I can find work to do at home.Wherever I am, I can be working, for it is just doing His will andfollowing Him. That is what makes Miss Urquhart so contented and happyin her life. I wondered at it before. Now I understand."

To Sidney, that evening talk had been a tremendous lift and cheer. Shehad kept a bright face, but her heart had been saddened and fearfulover her future. She was not a perfect woman by any means, and inpointing the way to another wayfarer, she had taken a firmer footholdherself. So the next day dawned for these two with a brighter outlook,and the little frets and chafings of life hardly touched them.

That afternoon the Admiral called Sidney to him.

"I've been reading about Neville's doings. Have you seen the paper? Heis making things hum out there. I knew he would."

Sidney sat down at once by her father's side.

"Do read it to me," she cried. "I have neither heard nor seen anything."

"You had better read it yourself. He has been turning out a nativecollector or commissioner, and the place is up in arms. He foundhim out in 'bribery and corruption,' the usual thing with a nativeofficial. But this particular man was the son of a big gun out there,and I'm afraid he has raised a hornet's nest about his ears. What withthe depredations of native robbers, and the corruption of many of theofficials, those small outposts are not a treat, I can tell you. I knowa little about them. And these Radicals in Parliament are, of course,thrusting their noses into the pie, and calling out that colour and therights of the native are not being respected."

Sidney took the paper in her hand with beating heart. Why she was soagitated she could hardly explain to herself. She had written to her"fellow builder" only a week previously, one of her gay, sweet letters,ending with some earnest bracing words of cheer and stimulation. As shesaw his name in print, and his actions criticised and questioned inthe House, the warm colour crept into her cheeks. She read an extractfrom a letter of his which was quoted: "I will sooner resign my postthan wink at a system of job and corruption." And she looked up at herfather with glowing eyes.

"What a pity we have not a few more men like him, dad."

"I'll write him a line of congratulation," the Admiral said, turning tohis writing table. "He is standing alone at present; but the Viceroywill back him up. People at home are so terribly afraid of the nativesrising that they think nothing of recalling a man who is doing hissimple duty. I know all about it. Those who have travelled round theworld as I have, see a little farther than these country bumpkinswho push themselves into Parliament, and think that any trouble withnatives means unjust oppression on our part."

"I hope they will give him a free hand," Sidney said. "He told me hehad been born under an unlucky star. It would be rather hard to recallhim. They couldn't do it, could they?"

The Admiral shook his head.

"He'll win his way sooner or later. I always said so, and why not now?"

In a few days' time they saw from the papers that troops had beencalled out, and a horde of fanatics had swept down from the hills tojoin in the mêlée. Sidney watched for the news breathlessly. She wasastonished when Gavine appeared one morning and begged to know if thedaily paper had come.

"We don't get ours so soon as the Admiral, and I want to see somethingin it."

"It has not come yet. Sit down and wait. It won't be long now. What isit you want to see, Gavine?"

"Oh, only the account of this row on one of the Indian frontiers."

"Are you interested in it?"

"Very. I know someone out there."

Gavine was blushing. Sidney looked at her in amazement.

"Do confide in me. Father and I are interested too, in someone outthere. Do you know Mr. Neville?"

"No, but I've heard of him."

The girl hesitated a little, then, meeting Sidney's affectionate andsympathetic gaze, she faltered.

"It's a young fellow who used to live close to my aunts in the north.We grew up together. We aren't engaged. I did not want to be, but Ipromised if he still wanted me in three years' time from the day hewent out, I would think about it. I wanted him to make his way first.He has been out there two years now, and he writes to me constantly.I feel I could go down on my knees before Mr. Neville, if I were everto see him, and thank him for all he has done. Because George couldnot keep straight, and I have suffered tortures as I gathered it inhis letters. He is not a weak character, I should not care for him ifhe were; but he is one of those happy generous natures who love theirfellow-creatures, and are too simple to suspect guile in anyone.

"He was essentially a home boy. His mother was a widow, and died justbefore he went abroad, so he has no home or home ties to keep himstraight—only me. And he did struggle and try so hard when he went outthere, but, as far as I can make out, there wasn't a single soul whogave him a helping hand. Everyone dragged him down. And I felt a monthor two ago as if I had completely lost him. He had left off writing forfive months. Then he wrote again. Such a letter, and such a confessionof the past!

"But he had been taken hold of by Mr. Neville, and he said he felt hecould die for him. I little thought how those words would nearly cometrue. I heard from him two days ago, and he was full of all this thatis coming out in the papers, only, of course, he tells me much more. Doyou really know Mr. Neville well? How awfully strange. I think he mustbe a splendid man—a regular hero."

"He was staying down here before he went out," Sidney said, trying tospeak calmly. "He is a cousin of Miss Pembroke's. Do tell what you haveheard. We are so—so interested in him, and all that is going on outthere."

"Oh, George has been full of it. He has told me of all the improvementsMr. Neville has made, and how he has absolutely alone and unaidedattacked all the abuses in the place, and pulled things together, andmade a clean sweep of the scoundrels and rogues. But, of course, therehas been a section dead against him, and furious with him for stoppingso much of the drinking and gambling, so they have made mischiefand stirred up the natives; and then he was the cause of the nativecollector at the neighbouring station being removed, and that was thelast straw, and one night—the night before George wrote; he was diningwith him fortunately—a crowd of natives surrounded his bungalow. Hisservants ran away, and the ringleader called out for Mr. Neville toshow himself. He didn't want any calling, for he was out on the stepsin a moment, and one man with a revolver dashed forward and fired fullin his face. George was quicker still, and sprang forward and struckup his hand as he fired, so the shot went clear over the bungalow. Hestood there before them bareheaded, with his hands in his pockets, andsmiled at them, George said.

"'Next man!' he cried. 'I have no firearms about me, and am a goodtarget.' And not a man moved. Then he spoke to them, and George saidhis speech was simply wonderful. He talked to them like a father mightto his children. He told them they had only one life to live downhere, and it ought to be a clean life. He was going to help them up,and not down. And then he reasoned with them and pleaded with them,and he reduced some to tears, and some pressed forward and prostratedthemselves before him, and the scoundrels slunk away. George said itwas like listening to a second Gordon, and Mr. Neville wound up bytalking of the Indian and British Empires, which would rise or falltogether, and he impressed them with the righteous power of a justnation. Oh, I am not telling it well, but I cried over the letter. Itwas all so splendid, so inspiring."

Sidney's eyes were moist too, and her heart beating strangely. Whyshould she be so moved? she asked herself. But, womanlike, sheevaded—even to herself—the answer.

"Did he say anything about the troops coming down?"

"Yes; he said that was a very big blunder. Some well-meaning butmistaken fool had written off for them. Mr. Neville told George therewould have been no more trouble if the troops had not arrived. AsGeorge was writing, he heard that the natives had risen in the hills.And that is why I'm so anxious to get news. I know George will be inthe thick of it, for he refuses to leave Mr. Neville's side, and he isnot the man to stay inactive."

"Here is the boy with the paper," said Sidney, and she darted out intothe hall to get it. Together they bent their heads over it, but therewere only two lines, saying that there had been sharp fighting, butthe natives had been repulsed, with a few British losses. "Particularswould follow."

"They would have said if any officers or Commissioners had beenwounded," said Sidney. "Now come and tell my father your news, Gavine.He will be so interested. It is such an extraordinary coincidence thatyou should know someone out there too. How quiet you have kept it."

"Well, he is only a friend," said Gavine shyly. "Nothing more atpresent. You can't wonder I like Mr. Neville, after all he has done forGeorge."

She accompanied Sidney to the Admiral's study, and there told her storyagain. The Admiral was delighted.

"He'll do. I always said he'd do. And this fighting is nothing atall. It will clear the air and show that we are in earnest over ourout-stations."

When Gavine had gone Sidney went straight to her writing-desk and wrote:

Sidney put her pen down when she had signed her name with a little sigh.

"Oh, how tied a woman is!" she exclaimed. "How she has to keep backall natural expressions of pleasure in what a friend does and says. Myheart is too full of his heroism to trust my pen. It would run awaywith me. I feel I would like to see him. Letters are so stiff, sounsatisfying."

Then she relapsed into dreams—dreams which she had long thought dead,but which kept her wrapped in sweet oblivion of time and surroundingsand brought a light to her eyes and a flush upon her cheeks. When sheroused herself at last, she laughed at herself.

"I ought to know better than to waste my time in such silliness."

And she went downstairs and occupied herself with so many householdduties that further dreams were impossible.

The papers for the next few days brought no fresh news except that theBritish had a complete victory over the rebels, with fifteen dead andthirty wounded. Then one day the names of the wounded were given, andamongst them was Randolph Neville, "slightly wounded in the shoulder."A letter arrived from him later. It was as follows:

Sidney read the greater part of this aloud to her father.

"Men always take things so lightly," she complained. "Now, if that hadbeen a woman who had written, we should have had the fighting in awfulreality. She would have drawn a vivid picture of the whole; but Mr.Neville dismisses it in a few words."

As she was speaking, Gavine was ushered into the room. She brought up aletter from George Lockhart which she had received by the same mail, soSidney had her desire given her, for George gave many details about hischief, and told exactly how he was shot in carrying a wounded soldierto safety.

"I thought you would like to hear this," said Gavine simply. "George isvery enthusiastic over Mr. Neville, but he knows him better than anyoneelse."

Sidney thanked her warmly for her news, and for some time the Admiraland the two girls discussed the situation. Then Sidney asked Gavineabout herself. There had been delay about her going up to town, and shehad not yet left her mother, but she was hoping to leave the very nextday.

"I never thought I should be so sorry to go," she confided to Sidney asshe stood on the terrace outside the house wishing her friend good-bye."I felt I should miss Jockie, but I shall miss you a thousand timesmore."

Sidney did not laugh at her girlish infatuation, she kissed hertenderly.

"We will write to each other, and you must come and stop with us nexttime you visit this part."

For an instant Gavine looked as if she were about to say something;then she checked herself, and it remained unsaid.

Yet, as she went down the drive a few minutes later, she murmured toherself:

"I wonder if she guesses. I could not tell her my fears, for, afterall, I may be mistaken, and I am not the one to talk of my own mother."

CHAPTER XIII

THE MAJOR'S NEWS

THE very next day Jockie burst in upon Sidney like a whirlwind.

"Oh, Miss Urquhart, haven't you a contempt for women who scratch eachother? Mrs. Norman and I have been doing it with smiling faces, and Ifeel disgusted with myself, and yet I would do it again gladly if shewere here to provoke me. Do let me confess to you. First of all, ofcourse, you know that the Major and she are on the eve of making theirengagement known?"

"Oh, Jockie!"

"Yes; and I ought to cut off my right hand, for I, and no other, havebrought it all to pass. If I once begin confessing, there will be noend to it. You remember that Austin got the wrong letter sent to him,and it had the effect of choking him off? Well, one afternoon I wascycling down to see if I could get hold of Gavine, when I saw Mrs.Norman flying up the road without a hat on, and looking perfectlydistracted.

"'What is the matter?' I said.

"'Oh,' she gasped, 'I want to catch the postman. I have enclosed aletter in a wrong envelope.'

"'I'm afraid you're too late,' I said. 'I passed the postman ages ago.'

"'Oh,' she cried, 'it is so important; I must try to get it back fromthe post office. Could you—would you help me. You could cycle in a fewminutes to the office. A mile would be nothing to you.'

"'All right, I'll go,' I said, and I cycled off. Neither she nor Ithought of mentioning the address or the letter, so when I got tothe post office I was quite in ignorance. But the postman was veryobliging. I caught him up before he got to the post office, and heopened his bag and took out two letters addressed in Mrs. Norman'swriting. One was to Austin, the other to Whiteley's, in London.

"For one moment I hesitated, and then I knew that she would not bein such a ferment over a tradesman, and I felt that if Austin gotthe letter it might possibly show him what a fool he was, and so Ideliberately took Whiteley's, and slowly made my way back to thecottage. Now don't be disgusted with me! I thought the end wouldjustify the means. I really almost felt sorry for her when I saw herface. But she couldn't say much, except that I had brought the wrongletter, and that in her agitation she omitted to tell me which one itwas.

"Now I see what I have done, and I have brought trouble on the one Ilove best. But I didn't realise that if it was not Austin, it would bethe Major. Of course, since Austin has gone off, the Major has beendown there every day, and Gavine has tried her utmost to keep out oftheir way, but was unfortunate yesterday, as she surprised them in themidst of an embrace. Oh, perhaps I had better not go on. I am painingyou."

Jockie's blunt speech was like salt on a raw wound to Sidney's soul.She could not bear hearing of her uncle's infatuation for the widow;though she was conscious of the truth of it. But she said very quietly:

"I should like to hear all you have to tell me."

"Well," said Jockie, "I come back to where I started. I had to takea message about some committee meeting to Mrs. de Cressiers thisafternoon. Uncle John sent me. I found Mrs. Norman there before me.She had evidently been telling Mrs. de Cressiers how she had refusedAustin, for as I came in she was saying:

"'I will not say that I did not think of you in it, dear Mrs. deCressiers, for I knew that his continued absence from home must bemost trying to his father. And I thought the sooner it was stopped thebetter. The whole thing was foolishness. I regarded him, and shallalways regard him, as I should if I had a son of my own. But youngmen are so rash and headstrong that they cannot, and will not, seethemselves as others see them.'

"Then I came in and gave my message. Mrs. de Cressiers is always niceto me. I like her. Then Mrs. Norman asked me if I had been with Gavine.

"'I see so little of her that I am afraid I shall not miss her so muchas I ought when she leaves me. It is quite a characteristic of theyoung people nowadays, is it not, Mrs. de Cressiers, to be happiestaway from home with strangers? If girls have parents, they will not becontent to live with them.'

"I knew she was hitting at me, as well as at Gavine, so I said:

"'It depends on the parents, Mrs. Norman. Parents nowadays are alwayson the look-out for a second marriage, and find their daughters in theway. Gavine and I have had pretty much the same experience.'

"Mrs. de Cressiers was quite shocked at my rudeness.

"'Respect to parents is dying out,' she said with a little sigh. 'I amafraid Austin does not care for his home.'

"'He will be different now when he comes home,' I said consolingly. 'Hetold me he was thankful he had had his eyes opened, for he had been thebiggest fool out. And he means to be a model son, Mrs. de Cressiers. Wehad a lot of talk together at Christmas time. It will do him good goingabroad.'

"Then Mrs. Norman began to talk about the parish, and how unfortunateit was that Uncle John had no woman to advise him, and how manymistakes there seem to have been made this Christmas, and then I said—"

"My dear Jockie, please spare me any more. It is not interesting oredifying, and if you are going to indulge in such petty, spitefulretaliation with people whom you do not like, you will do yourself moreharm than you will do them."

Sidney spoke severely. Jockie kissed her impulsively.

"Don't be angry with me. She brings out all the evil in me. You alwaysmake me feel ashamed of myself. And I honestly own that it was abeastly trick to play her when I took back the wrong letter, but I wentdown under the temptation."

"I could not have believed you would do such a thing," said Sidney,still unappeased.

"No; scold me well! I'm awfully repentant. But if I went and confessedit to her, she would be still more furious, would she not? For, ofcourse, she does not know I saw the other letter. I could tell her Iknew all about it. Shall I?"

"Jockie, are you an imp in disguise? Do you think you are fitted toteach Chuckles?"

"No, that I'm not."

And this time Jockie spoke quite humbly.

"But, oh, Miss Urquhart, I have done you an awful lot of mischief.Gavine says her mother told her that she was thinking of marryingagain, and she said that the Major was an honourable kindhearted man. Ishould hate to have Mrs. Norman enter my family, and if I had left wellalone, she would have become Mrs. Austin de Cressiers, and you wouldhave been well rid of her. I never, never shall forgive myself!"

"Now, look here, Jockie, I am going to speak seriously to you. Youmust not talk so wildly. Sometimes it is best not to put our feelingsinto words, and you are old enough to understand this. If Mrs. Normanbecomes engaged to my uncle, you and I will be told in due time. It ismere conjecture now. And if the engagement is announced, I shall trustto your discretion not to go stamping all over the village saying youare so sorry for me. If my uncle is happy, I shall be glad for hissake; and you may be sure that neither now, nor at any other time,would I wish to say anything that might hurt his feelings or estrangehim from us. You see, I am talking to you quite confidentially. If thisthing happens, for my sake keep quiet, and don't make a moan about it.And if—" here Sidney spoke with some hesitation—"if it may not turnout as happily as we could wish, it is perhaps better that an old lifeshould suffer than a young one. So do not reproach yourself too much.Do you understand?"

"I understand that I'm a beast, and you're an angel!" exclaimed Jockiefervently. "And I'll shut my lips and never say a word more on thesubject."

Sidney smiled, but her heart failed her at the prospect that lay beforeher. She chatted to Jockie on different village matters, and sent herhome to the Rectory quite happy. Then she went to her father.

She found her uncle smoking a pipe with him in the study, and such anoccurrence in the afternoon meant that something of importance wasunder consideration.

Her father looked up at her with a little relief in his eyes.

"Come along, little woman," he said cheerfully. "Give your Uncle Tedyour good wishes. You can guess the news."

Sidney's face blanched. It had come quicker than she expected.

Then she pulled herself together with an effort. "Are you really goingto marry Mrs. Norman?" she said with a smile, turning to her uncle.

Major Urquhart looked her steadily in the eyes.

"Yes," he said, with a mixture of shyness and defiance in his tone."Don't you think she's very good to take such an old crock as I am?"

Sidney bent and kissed his forehead.

"I think she is fortunate in getting such an awfully nice man to takecare of her."

The Admiral laughed.

"Women congratulate women, Ted. Men congratulate men."

"Ah, well," said the Major, drawing in a long whiff of his pipe, "Iknow I'm not a catch in any way. I'm not one of those fools that don'tknow their own value. I must thank you both for taking my news so well.We've lived together these many years very happily, and I shan't wishfor any changes. There's room enough for us all in the old house, eh?"

Just for a second Sidney's eyes sought her father's anxiously, then shesaid gently:

"I don't expect we shall wish for any change, Uncle Ted."

"Will you write her a little friendly note, Sid? I am dining with herthis evening. I thought perhaps you'd ask her up to dinner to-morrownight?"

"Yes; most certainly," said the Admiral, and Sidney added her assent.

A little silence fell on them. Sidney stood on the hearthrug, lookinginto the blazing fire in front of her. Then her uncle got up.

"Have my chair," he said. "I'm off to the workshop for half an hour."

He left the room. Sidney dropped into the big leather chair he hadvacated, and drew a long sigh: "Well, dad dear?"

The Admiral looked at her with a little whimsical smile.

"Our fears have turned into certainty. Now we must buck up, and take itas happily as we can."

"Does he expect to bring her here, and make us into one happy family?"

"We can but give it a trial."

"Oh, we can't—we can't!"

Sidney's forced composure gave way. She almost wrung her hands.

"Oh, dad dear, how shall we stand her? It's impossible! She must not bebrought here. It's bad enough to have to ask her to dinner, but to livein the house with us is awful! Never to be able to get away from her!And it will mean misery to Uncle Ted. She does not really care for him;it must be to get a comfortable home and a position. Think how she hasbeen going on with Austin! She was determined to get one of them, andshe really cares for neither of them, or she could not have acted so!What can we do?"

The Admiral leant back in his chair and half-shut his eyes.

"If it is not pleasant, we can go away and leave her in possession."

"But, dad dear, will it come to that? Is the house really not yours?Oh, why won't Uncle Ted go, and start a house of his own somewhere?"

"He is quite willing to do so, but she is not. I have gathered thatfrom his talk this afternoon. She will be the ruling spirit, I expect."

The tears came to Sidney's eyes. She had been expecting—dreading thisblow, yet now it had fallen she felt quite stunned and unprepared forit.

"I know she has determined to turn us out." Then she stiffened in herchair.

"Dad, you and I must not wait to give her a chance of doing it. We mustgo at once, before the wedding."

Her father shook his head at her, with a sad little smile.

"That would be unfair to Ted. He doesn't want us to go. I somehowthink that even now there are times when his heart fails him, when hequestions the wisdom of taking such a momentous step at his age. Hebegged me to stay, and let things be as they are."

"But if Uncle Ted considers this his house, how can things remain thesame? Don't you see that she will be mistress?"

The Admiral looked quite startled.

"I never thought of that. Well, Sidney, my child, we have each other,and I think we could find a snug little home somewhere else. Wouldn'tyou be content to live alone with your old father?"

Sidney left her chair and went over to the Admiral. Getting down onthe hearthrug by his side, she rested her head against his knee. Ithad been her favourite position as a little child, when she had felt acraving for companionship and solace.

"You and I would be happy in a walnut shell," she said, laughing, andwiping her tear-stained cheeks with her handkerchief. "I think youwould feel leaving this house more than I."

"I dare say I should," said the Admiral; "but my training in theService has taught me to view change as promotion, and if it be to anunpopular station now, our Great Commander makes no mistakes."

He laid his hand caressingly on Sidney's soft hair as he spoke.

And then Sidney's eyes glowed with understanding and appreciation, butshe could not trust herself to speak. At length she broke the silence.

"I will be thankful for our mercies," she said in her bright naturalvoice. "Why, there was an awful time soon after she made her firstappearance, when I thought she was setting her cap at you. Andimagine—don't laugh—let us imagine my feelings when you told me youwere giving me such a stepmother. Oh, dad dear, a house—even a dearold house like this—is nothing to give up—nothing! But don't let uswait for her to humble us. My pride is up in arms. I don't think we arecalled upon to make ourselves into doormats for her feet! Don't saythat will be necessary!"

"I think we must wait and see," said the Admiral very firmly.

And Sidney dropped her head upon his knee again and was very silent.

They did not talk much more about it. Both their hearts were full ofthe impending change in their lives, and each was trying to discoverbits of cheer which might be passed on to the other.

At last Sidney moved.

"I must go, dad. I suppose I had better write a note for Uncle Ted togive her. Will you write, too?"

"Just a line, perhaps. I have been thinking, dear, that she may prefera house in town. I am sure she will find this very dull."

"Yes," said Sidney bravely, "perhaps she will. In any case, they arenot married yet, and 'there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.'"

She left the room, and did not take long to write her note:

She went to the workshop and gave this into her uncle's hand. He lookeda little wistfully at her.

"I hope my news has not annoyed you—worried you?"

"Oh, Uncle Ted, why should it? I don't grudge you your happiness. If Iwas sure, quite sure, that it would be for your lasting happiness, Iwould be delighted."

"You have my word that it will. And if Ethel comes to-morrow, you willbe nice to her, will you not? She has an idea you don't like her, andno one has ever disliked her before, she says."

"Is Gavine going to-morrow?"

"Yes, I—I think so. I heard her mother say something about it, but Idid not take much notice."

"If she does not go, will you ask her to come with her mother? She is adear girl. I am very fond of her."

He shook his head.

"Rather too headstrong for me. She has not the sweet clinging nature ofher mother."

Sidney turned away.

"Thank God, no!" she murmured to herself.

The next morning, as soon as she was set free from her housekeepingduties, she tramped off to see Monica. She had a great difficulty infinding her, but eventually came upon her looking after some ewes withtheir tiny lambs. It was a cold day, and she was superintending a roughshelter being put up for them in a field.

"Poor mites!" said Monica, looking at the tiny bleating creaturesambling round their mothers, who did not seem to know how to protectthem properly from the wind. "What an unfriendly world they have comeinto! How they must long to go out of it again."

"Yes," said Sidney gravely. "But if we were all granted our wishes,what a lot of hurried exits there would be from this world."

"What has happened?" Monica asked, pulling on her leather gloves andtaking Sidney's arm. "Let us get out of this field and tramp the highroad for a bit, shall we? I have nothing particular to do at thispresent moment."

"I want you to come to dinner to-night. You must not fail me. I nevershall be able to get through alone. It is to welcome the future Mrs.Edward Urquhart into our family."

"Really? Oh, Sidney dear, I am sorry."

"You must not express regrets. We must carry it off happily andcheerily."

"Then I think you had better have Jockie, not me."

"It is you I want. Jockie is the last person who will be asked to meether. She is very naughty about her."

"She does not hide her dislike to her, I own. Well, Sidney, our fearshave come true. You see, there was never anything between her andAustin. I always felt that she was much more attracted to your uncle.Don't you think they will make their home somewhere else? If so, itwill not affect you much."

Sidney shook her head.

"It will be us who will have to make our home elsewhere. I am perfectlycertain she covets the old house and grounds. I don't say so tofather. I think it will break his heart if he has to go. He loves hisgrandfather's guns on the terrace."

"I have never heard the history of them."

"Oh, they were the guns of his ship that he commanded under Nelson.And when the ship was broken up, and the guns became obsolete, he gotpossession of them. I see father stroking them down sometimes, as ifthey were live creatures. One thing is certain—that we shall never beable to live all together in one house. I know you think me prejudiced,Monnie, but Mrs. Norman has disliked me from the very first moment shesaw me. There is some instinctive antipathy between us. I felt it, too."

Monica looked very grave.

"Jockie has been saying something of the same sort. She is like alittle tiger where you are concerned."

"You see," Sidney went on, feeling it a relief to unburden her mind tosomeone; "it is not only from a selfish point of view that I dislikethe thought of the marriage, but she is not true or sincere, and doesnot really care for Uncle Ted. She only cares for the home and theposition that he can give her. She has laughed at him, and made fun ofhis failings to Austin in a most heartless way. She has called him anold bore. What chance is there of her making him a good wife? And UncleTed is too nice a man to be so deceived. It is such a miserable outlookfor us all. I know you rather like her, and so does Mrs. de Cressiers.She has made you both believe that she refused Austin and sent himaway. Now I know for a fact that he gave her up because he found herout. That makes a lot of difference."

"Yes, it does," said Monica slowly. "Well, I will come if my presencehelps you, Sidney dear. It seems rather a disaster; it certainly willbe a terrible one, if you leave your home. Is it quite an establishedfact that the house is your uncle's, and not your father's?"

"They both went into Pegborough the other day to see their lawyer aboutit. Legally it is Uncle Ted's; morally, I say, it belongs to dad. Butin any case, father would not turn Uncle Ted out, and it will be quitean impossibility to live together when once they are married. How isthe boy?"

"He is pegging away at his lessons. He told me yesterday that he won'tbe a farmer."

"Oh, Monnie, don't look so tragical!"

Sidney began to laugh. For a moment she forgot her own troubles.

"Why do you pay so much attention to a baby's words?"

"Because I'm so dreadfully in earnest, I suppose. If he grows up with adislike to farming, what am I to do?"

"I think it will be a good thing when you send him to school. You willfind that when he comes back in the holidays, he will love every stickand stone in the place."

Monica smiled a little.

"Aunt Dannie has been depressing me to-day. She says Chuckles hatescoming the round of the farm with me. I always like him to be with mein the afternoon."

"I think," said Sidney slowly, "I should let him consider that a treat,not an obligation. Send him to the Rectory some afternoons for achange."

"I will," said Monica firmly. "I am coming to the conclusion that I amtoo old a woman to have the care of a little child. He wants someonebrighter and younger."

"He is a very fortunate little boy, Monnie, and he has a young brightgoverness. What else does he want? Good-bye. Don't torture your oldhead with your delinquencies as an aunt. You are all that you ought tobe. Good-bye till to-night."

She waved her hand as she parted from her friend, and went her way,softly singing to herself Longfellow's lines:

"Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.

"What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood.

"That to the world are children,
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below."

CHAPTER XIV

A DIFFICULT TIME

MONICA, in a grey silk gown, and Sidney, in a russet-brown velvet withold point lace, stood in the drawing-room, warming their feet on thefender and waiting for Mrs. Norman's arrival. The Admiral met her ina friendly fashion in the hall, and brought her in. Her gown was of aheliotrope satin; it fitted her like a sheath; her dark hair was boundwith silver braid and an aigrette; her complexion was, to even Monica'seyes, slightly made up with rouge and powder. But her manner was sweetand gracious, and had a touch of deference in it to the Admiral.

She took hold of both Sidney's hands, but did not offer to kiss her.

"You are a dear girl to send me such a sweet note! It took away allhesitation on my part about coming to-night. How nice to see you, MissPembroke! This is quite an unexpected pleasure."

"I hope you don't consider I shall be in the way," said Monica, withher grave smile. "I told Sidney that I had qualms about insertingmyself into such a family party. But she and I are almost like sisters,so you will understand that I am glad to have an opportunity ofoffering you my congratulations."

"Thank you very much. I have really known you as long as I have Sidney,have I not?"

The easy way in which she uttered Sidney's name made the girlstart, but she said nothing. The ice was broken, and, sitting down,conversation became general. Major Urquhart was the only one who wasrather silent, but his eyes followed every gesture of the widow's,and his ears were only open to her words. When the ladies were in thedrawing-room after dinner, Mrs. Norman seated herself on the sofa byMonica.

"I can't tell you how this has upset my quiet monotonous life! I had solittle idea when I came here what would happen. And my heart is stillin my little cottage, which I have made so pretty. It will be a greatblow to leave it."

Sidney got up and moved about the room rather restlessly, puttingthings straight. Why was it, she wondered, that Mrs. Norman alwaystried to ignore her in conversation?

"But why should you leave it?" asked Monica in her quiet decided tones."I should have thought it was an ideal home for two people."

Mrs. Norman heaved a slight sigh.

"Men require more room than women, do they not? The Major will nothear of it. And his impatience almost irritates me, if it were not sotouching. He wants our marriage to be at once. I believe he thinks aweek or so is quite long enough to wait. We mean to go up to town veryquietly, and walk into one of the City churches one day, without anyfollowing at all, except the necessary witnesses."

Sidney came across the room and re-seated herself.

"I am sure you are wise in coming to that decision. Poor Uncle Ted hashated crowds all his life. Have you fixed the day yet?"

"Not at present. You may be sure I will tell you when we have."

Sidney gave a little laugh. She could not help it. Then Mrs. Normanaddressed herself to her:

"Can you spare time to-morrow to show me over the house, Sidney dear?Your uncle is very anxious that I should have the choice of rooms. Hewants me to have a little boudoir of my own upstairs, but you are notcramped for room at all, are you? So there will be no difficulty aboutthat. He wanted me to come over yesterday, but I said 'No, I will speakto Sidney first.'"

"I will take you over the house whenever you like," said Sidney.

"Thank you. It is a dear old rambling place, is it not? And yourold-fashioned bits of furniture seem to suit it. Don't be afraid thatI shall make any changes. I am not fond of these comfortless modernrooms. As long as my own room is according to my taste, I shall leavethe rest of the house as it is, and I hope, my dear Sidney, we shall bevery happy together. I do not see any reason why we should not be. Youwill have your father to look after, and to be with; I shall have mydear Ted, and if I relieve you of the housekeeping, you will have themore time for your outdoor pursuits. Perhaps we shall be able to induceGavine to spend more of her time at home; a house with young people init is always cheerful, and I know you like her and she likes you."

Just for a moment Monica's eyes met Sidney's, and she had a glimpse ofthe misery that was in them. Her friends always said that Sidney's eyesbetrayed her.

Sidney was almost breathless with the assurance and sweet determinationof the widow, but she held her head high, and smiled as she responded:

"It is early days to talk of our combined households yet, Mrs. Norman.Perhaps it may never come to pass."

"Has Gavine gone away?" Monica called hastily, feeling that theatmosphere might get electric.

And in talking of that young lady, they veered away from the subject ofthe house and housekeeping.

Major Urquhart was the first to return from the dining-room, and heproposed some music.

Sidney sat down and sang with such warmth and sweetness that Monicamarvelled at her. But she and the Admiral were the chief audience, forthe Major and his ladylove retired to the farther end of the room,where they conversed in low tones until the party broke up.

It was not a comfortable evening, but as Sidney whispered to Monica inthe hall as she was helping her into her cloak, "We have got through itamicably, and that was the most that I hoped."

In a few days the neighbourhood received the news, and Mrs. Norman wasrecognised as the Major's fiancée. Mrs. de Cressiers could not concealfrom Sidney the relief which this turn of affairs had brought to her.

"So much more suitable than my poor dear Austin! She was quite truein all she told me. She never had cared for my boy. It was a veryone-sided attachment."

And Sidney and her father just waited on, saying very little tooutsiders, but feeling all the more. It was a difficult time to them,and Sidney's spirits, though generally good, fluctuated occasionally.

After her inspection of the house, Mrs. Norman did not trouble themmuch with her company, but the Major talked of nothing but her wishesand her views and her likings, until even the Admiral began to lose hisequanimity of temper. One day there was a question raised about theguns on the Terrace.

"Ethel wants to know if you would mind very much if they were moved.She says they spoil that bit of lawn. I told her you were attached tothem, but they wouldn't look bad in the field on the edge of the cliff.She says they would show a more imposing front there to the public upand down the river."

Then the Admiral turned upon his brother.

"Look here, Ted, if those guns go, I go too. You know they've beenpart of the soil for a couple of generations. For goodness' sake, man,let your future wife keep to her own province, and not meddle with ourfamily trophies. And let her have a right to our name before she beginsto turn our household topsy-turvy."

Major Urquhart said a bad word and flung himself out of the room. Frombeing good-tempered and in high spirits, he relapsed into sullennessand gloom, and spent all his days down at the cottage. Sidney guessedthat Mrs. Norman was quietly and steadily exerting all her powers toestrange him from her and her father. But her heart ached for him, asshe knew he was being used as the widow's mouthpiece, and did not likethe business.

The wedding-day was fixed, and Sidney packed her uncle's portmanteauxand thought of everything him. By Mrs. Norman's wish, none of thefamily were to come up to it. They were going to Paris for a fortnight,and then coming straight to The Anchorage.

Just before the Major left the house, he found Sidney tidying in hisdressing-room. She put her hands affectionately on his shoulders.

"Oh, dear Uncle Ted, I do wish you happiness." He looked at herwistfully.

"I do believe you do," he said. "I'm—I'm rather too old for this kindof thing. It makes me feel nervous. But I wish you felt nicer in yourheart towards Ethel. It always gives me an uncomfortable feeling whenyou are talking together."

He shook his head as he spoke.

"Now, look here," said Sidney with earnestness, "if we aren't a happyfamily when we all settle in together, you must let father and me slipaway from you, and then there will be no friction. We mustn't live atwarfare with one another. We will see how things work. You have toldfather you don't want him to go, but I won't have him stay here, if heis miserable."

"No, no," the Major said hastily. "We will see, as you say. Whyshouldn't we go on as we have done all these years? And I won't havethose guns moved. I have told her so. We've been very good friends,little Sid, have we not? We shall pull together all right."

But when he had gone Sidney went away to her room and had a good cry.

She knew that the old days were gone, and would never come back again;that nothing would ever be the same when Mrs. Norman came to live intheir midst.

And then she poured out her soul in prayer, and rose from her kneeswith a bright and steadfast spirit. "I will make father happy anywhere.I must. If it were not for his feelings, I would set to work at onceto find a fresh home. But he will break his heart, if he has to leavethis. God knows about it, and He loves dad better than I do. I willtrust Him to do what He sees best. And meanwhile we shall have a veryhappy fortnight together."

Jockie kept Sidney bright at this juncture. She was always popping inat unexpected times and giving her news of Chuckles, or of the village,and no one could be in her presence long without being infected by herspirit of mirth. She learnt to be very silent on the subject of theabsent bride and bridegroom, for she saw her outspoken remarks wereneither palatable to Sidney nor her father, and, as she wisely remarkedto Monica:

"Now the thing is done, it's no good to sit down and moan about it. Wemust all grin and bear it."

Gavine had said very little in her letters about her mother. She wroteto Sidney long details of her work, and said she was very happy.

"Yet the work would not have made me happy," she wrote; "there is somuch that is depressing and disheartening. But after that wonderfultalk I had with you, I see things so differently. And I really do feelnow that one's Foundation is the only comfort in life. When I visitthe sick, and realise how little I can relieve their pain, I know Ican tell them of the certain cure for their weary, sin-stained souls.And hope, glad hope, of our good time by and by, is better than anydoctor's tonic."

Sidney kept up a brisk correspondence with her, for she felt that shehad been brought into touch with her to help her. And Gavine wrote toJockie that "Miss Urquhart's letters were like 'angels' messages.'"

The fortnight flew by, and then came the arrival of the bride andbridegroom.

Major Urquhart looked bright, but there were times when a nervousflicker of his eyelids and an anxious look in his eyes betrayed a wantof ease in his wife's society. She was, as usual, sweetness itself, andexpressed herself delighted with her rooms and all the preparationsmade for their arrival. Only Sidney noticed that a certain sharpinflection of tone had crept into her conversations with her husband.Major Urquhart had never taken the initiative in household matters, andwas with the greatest difficulty prevailed upon to do so now. He couldnot understand his wife's continual hints and suggestions, and wouldsay bluntly:

"Well, ask Vernon; he'll see to it, or else Sidney will."

The situation was a tense and difficult one to all.

One thing Major Urquhart utterly refused to do, and that was to sit atthe head of the table. Sidney relinquished her seat at once, and Mrs.Urquhart promptly took it, but the Admiral faced her.

Before very long Sidney came to her father:

"We cannot continue to live here, dad dear. It will be a ceaselessfret to all of us. I have given over the housekeeping to her, and sheis altering all the hours of everything, just for the mere sake ofchanging our ordinary routine. There is no reason in it. I asked forthe pony carriage yesterday, and could not have it. To-day I have askedagain, but she has again ordered it for her own use. She is pullingdown the outside greenhouse, and a conservatory is going to be builton to the hall. I don't know where the money is coming from. And shehas just told me that some friends of hers are coming down for theweek-end, and she is afraid she will have to ask me to give up myroom and move up to the top floor whilst they are here. I never makea single objection to anything she says, but the more I acquiesce themore she demands. What are we to do?"

The Admiral looked at his daughter with troubled eyes.

"I am afraid she resents our presence here. Well, little girl, if wehave to go, we must. Would You like to come up to town for a month ortwo before We settle down again?"

Sidney's face flushed and sparkled with pleasure. She had never beenable to induce her father to stay long in London at any time. She hadoften longed to see a little more life, and renew her friendship withold school friends and distant relations, but would not leave herfather. Such a prospect before her seemed to take all the sting out ofher present circ*mstances.

"Why, dad, that will be delightful! Let us go at once! We can say itis for a visit, and it will be better for them to settle down alonetogether."

They planned it all out, and at dinner that evening, after the servantsleft the room, Mrs. Urquhart again mentioned her coming visitors.

"They are such charming people. Surely you have met them? She is aniece of Lord Berrydown's, and her sister, who lives with her, is quiteone of Society's beauties. I met them abroad a few years ago, and wewere the greatest friends. They have just let their flat in town. Heis ordered into the country for a rest. He has had a kind of nervousbreakdown—so sad for a man! But he is a scholar, and has been workingtoo hard at deciphering some old Persian books. I thought you would lethim have the run of your study, Vernon. He will enjoy your library, andhe will be able to lie on your couch by the window, and read and smokeby the hour together, looking out on that lovely peep of the river."

The Admiral smiled; he could not help it. It was his turn now, hefelt, to be ousted from his quiet retreat, which had hitherto beenmonopolised solely by himself and his daughter.

Sidney never betrayed a sign of vexation. Her father marvelled at herperfect self-control.

"That will be very pleasant for him," she said, meeting Mrs. Urquhart'seyes with serene equanimity. "I hope the change down here will do himgood, poor man! It will fit in very well, for father and I are going upto town the end of this week."

"To town!" the Major blurted out. "Why, Vernon, you hate it! You nevertold me you meant to go. I—I don't see how we're to get on without youhere to entertain these people."

He looked helplessly at his wife. If Sidney's statement was news toher, she never showed her surprise, but went on peeling her walnutswith an unconcerned air.

"My dear Ted," she said, "I would not think of troubling Vernon toentertain my friends. That is the last thing I should wish or expect.If Sidney wants her father to go to town with her, I should not dreamof raising any objections to it."

"The fact is," the Admiral said pleasantly, "we have come to theconclusion that we would like a little change. Sidney has been such athorough housekeeper that she was always chary of leaving her dutiesup to now, but she is free from that, and Ethel and you, Ted, will bequite equal to run the house in our absence. It is good for me to berouted out of my quiet groove. And I think Sidney and I will get muchenjoyment out of our little jaunt together."

"I should think we would!" murmured Sidney, smiling contentedly toherself.

It was arranged very easily. Sidney went over to see Monica before shewent, and her news was received with much approbation.

"It's the best thing that you can do," said Monica heartily. "I thinkyou are all in very difficult circ*mstances at present. Things willshake down, and you will be able to see much more clearly when youreturn how to act for the best."

"Yes," Sidney replied. "But, oh, Monica, I never quite imagined itwould be as bad as it is. You see, Ethel never loses her temper, andI think I keep mine in pretty tight control; but my feelings and mybottled-up anger inside are terrible! She knows how to cut, and sheseems to delight in picking out the weak points in one's armour. Dadand I have not a corner in the house now where we can retire and beundisturbed. Her energy is ceaseless; so is her passion for alteringfurniture and every habit of our quiet household."

Monica looked distressed.

"I am afraid you will not be able to live together."

"I am certain we shall not. Well, as you say, we shall see, andmeanwhile dad and I are going to town, and it will be enchanting! Onegets the sun with the clouds, doesn't one? They come after each otherin pretty quick succession. I don't think you're looking very well,Monnie. Tell me how things are going with you."

"I'm having an anxious time. My right hand, as I call him, is leavingme. He is going to set up for himself in Canada."

"Not John Bayley?"

"Yes. Of course, I can get another man to take his place, and I knowenough myself to see that he does all that is required, but I shall bebusier than ever. John has saved me so much."

"I think that is quite a disaster," said Sidney.

Monica laughed.

"No, it's a set-back. I'm going through all the accounts with John.This last year has not been a prosperous one, but the previous oneshave, and it will only mean harder work for me till the new man haslearnt my ways. There is nothing to be anxious about, only sometimes awave of doubt seems to sweep over me; and when I doubt myself and mypowers, the outlook seems very black."

"I did not know that you could doubt your powers," said Sidney,laughing.

Monica smiled, too.

"You always have thought me too self-sufficient, haven't you? But Idon't often get a fit of blues. I have quite decided to send Chucklesto boarding-school after Easter."

"I believe that is at the bottom of your depression. You don't likelosing him. I'm sure I shall miss him on Sundays dreadfully. And justwhile I am away, will you let Jockie teach him on Sunday afternoons? Itwill do her good as well as him."

"If she is willing to be saddled with him, I shall be very glad."

After a little more talk, Sidney said good-bye and left. She paid onemore visit, and that was to Mrs. de Cressiers, but she did not confidein her. She simply stated the fact that she and her father were goingup to town.

Mrs. de Cressiers thought it a very good plan.

"Your dear father moves about so seldom that the change will do himgood. And now, Sidney, what is this about your handing over the reinsof government to your uncle's wife? Is that wise of you? You are nota very young girl, and are undoubtedly the proper mistress there. Icannot imagine why your uncle does not get a house for himself and hiswife. He must do so before long. A joint household is always a failure."

"If it is," Sidney said quietly, "father and I mean to go and leavethem in possession."

"My dear girl, what do you mean?"

"It is something we have discovered lately—the house is legally myuncle's. I cannot go into details. We have lived together many yearswithout any necessity for making this known; in fact, we were not awareof it ourselves till lately."

"But I happen to remember and to know more than you do, Sidney," saidMrs. de Cressiers gravely. "I remember when your grandfather died, andwhen your uncle was 'sowing his wild oats,' as people say. He sent wordhe did not want to take the house and would not settle down, and thensold it to your father."

"I did not know you remembered it all," faltered Sidney. "Well, therewas no legal transaction between them, it seems, and—"

"But your uncle is an honourable man."

"Oh, yes—yes; but please don't talk of the past or refer to it. Mrs.Urquhart does not see it as we do; she worries him till he begins tolook at things in a different light; and we have decided that we hadbetter go—at least, I think we shall do so. Nothing is absolutelysettled yet."

Mrs. de Cressiers looked almost dazed.

"I shall begin to think as hardly of her as Jockie does. Thatgirl is a strange mixture. Do you know she has been coming up andplaying draughts with my poor husband, and chatting away to him soentertainingly that he quite enjoys her visits. But, my dear Sidney,you and your father must not leave this neighbourhood. You really mustnot. Why, it will break your father's heart. He is bound up with thathouse and those old guns. I shall have to go down and have a talk withyour uncle, I think."

The colour mounted in Sidney's cheeks. She raised her head proudly.

"I hope you will do nothing of the sort. If we go, it will be becausewe prefer to do it. There is no question of expulsion."

Mrs. de Cressiers smiled, and patted Sidney on the shoulder.

"I always like to see your de Cressiers blood come to the fore. Go toLondon, my dear, and things will be different when you return."

So Sidney and her father departed, having the sanction of their dearestfriends; and Mrs. Ted Urquhart watched them go with a triumphant heart,for she meant to reign supreme, and she knew that this step wouldfurther her resolve.

CHAPTER XV

THE GUNS

A FORTNIGHT in town soon slipped away; and then the fortnightlengthened into a month. The Admiral and his daughter found many oldfriends, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. They stayed at a quietprivate hotel, and took life more easily than did most of those aroundthem. Sidney saw a great deal of Gavine, who spent all the time shecould spare away from her work with them. She did not talk much of hermother; it had never been her way to do so; but one day, when she waswishing Sidney good-night, she clung to her for a minute and whispered:

"Oh, do tell me—is it because of her that you have come away? I can'ttell you what torture it is to me to think that we have brought troubleinto your family."

"My dear Gavine, nothing has happened except that which God hasoverruled. I am quite positive of this, and you have nothing in theworld to do with it. I am only too delighted to have a holiday fromhousekeeping, and my father is thoroughly enjoying himself."

"But you will never be able to stand it when you go back. I have beenthrough a little of it, so I know."

Sidney smiled bravely as she kissed her.

"I feel I can stand anything as long as dad and I are together. Ahouse, after all, is not the chief happiness in one's life. And if wewere to move into another place, it would still be home to me."

Gavine said no more, and never referred to the subject again.

Spring was already showing its hand in the London squares and parkswhen Sidney and her father turned their steps homewards. As they spedthrough the fresh green meadows, and noted the budding copses and woodsby the side of the railway line, the Admiral said:

"It is good to be going home, little girl. I have already my oldcraving for the salt sea breeze and the sweet smell of the country."

Sidney nodded, but could not trust herself to speak. Her heart felt asheavy as lead. She gazed out of the carriage window with misty eyes,and longed that the end of their journey should come, so that her fearsmight either be certainties or be proved groundless.

The hired fly was at the station to meet them, and the stationmaster,as usual, had a little pleasant chat with the Admiral.

"Saw the Major down here yesterday, sir. A deal of company since you'vebeen away."

"I wonder if the company has departed," Sidney said to her father, asthey were driving up together.

"I should hope so," her father said; then he turned to her with hischeeriest smile. "Remember, little woman, we have quite made up ourminds that we are going home to pack up our things and flit. We'll be ahappy party till then, I hope."

"We will try to be," said Sidney valiantly.

Mrs. Urquhart met them in the hall, and welcomed them back in hersweet gracious way. But when the Admiral went into his study,which—manlike—was the first room he entered, he drew in a long breathof surprise and consternation. It was almost entirely transformed. Awhole row of some of his choicest books had disappeared, some old oilpaintings—family portraits—had been taken away and cheap prints hung intheir places on the wall. Two big lounge chairs and an old curiositycabinet had gone, and only his writing table had remained as he hadleft it. There was no fire in the room, and it looked cold and dreary.Hearing her father exclaim, Sidney stepped in after him, and her eyesflashed with indignation.

"How dare she interfere with your room!"

"Won't you come to tea?" said Mrs. Urquhart, following them in. "I knowyou won't mind, Vernon, but I took the opportunity when you were awayto make a few alterations in your room. You see, when we have visitorsit is so very awkward to have no smoking-room apart from your study,so with a little manipulation I have made a very cosy smoking-room outof the lumber-room at the end of the passage. I wanted to leave youundisturbed in your own room, but as the Major seemed to dislike theidea of buying new furniture for my venture, I have had to collect afew odd bits from different rooms. I don't think I have taken anythingthat you will really miss."

"My books," said the Admiral.

"I thought I had been most careful in what I chose. I have not taken asingle one with your name in it—only your grandfather's and a few ofyour father's. Of course, those are really the Major's, are they not?They went with the house. I am longing to show you the smoking-room. Itlooks so cosy! But come and have some tea first. You must be tired withyour journey."

"Come along, dad; we will soon get things to rights," said Sidneybrightly, linking her arm into her father's and drawing him afterher into the cheerful, firelit drawing-room. Then, turning to theparlourmaid, she said quietly: "Light the fire in the Admiral's studyat once, Jane. It is too cold for him to be without it."

Jane glanced at Mrs. Urquhart, and then left the room.

"I told her not to light it, Sidney, for we have one in the newsmoking-room, and I thought your father would like a chat and smokewith the Major there to-night. Ted is devoted to the new room."

"Uncle Ted can come into the study and smoke," said Sidney a littleshortly. "My father must always have his room and his fire."

"Where is Ted?" asked the Admiral, sitting down by the fire andspeaking in his usual pleasant tone.

"He is in the grounds somewhere, directing the gardeners. We are havinga good many alterations, which I hope you will consider improvements."

A little later the Major came in. He seemed nervous and ill at ease,and made conversation in jerky tones. Sidney saw that he was manifestlyafraid of his wife, for when she left the room for a few moments hiswhole manner changed. He leant forward eagerly to Sidney:

"I hope you don't mind the changes, Sid? She's a wonderful woman! Suchenergy and enterprise. But I sometimes wish I could pull her in abit. But you and she together will put things straight. I don't wantanything altered myself. I hope you believe me?"

There was a little wistfulness in his tone.

Sidney reassured him. She was her gay bright self that evening,resolutely suppressing all the tide of anger that rose within her, andtrying with all her might to keep her father cheerful. She did notlike the look of patient endurance upon his face, the weary dejectionin his eyes. She sang some of her old songs to him after dinner, sherelated their town experiences with great animation, and never let theconversation flag for a moment. Then, when her father went back to hisstudy, she went with him, and sat down on the hearthrug, leaning herhead on his knee.

"I did not think it would be so difficult," said her father slowly.

"To leave this, dad? It won't be. We must find a nice little housesomewhere in the neighbourhood."

"They say a woman is wrapped up in her possessions," said her father inthe same slow, grave way, "but I begin to feel I must be getting likeher. If we go, Sidney, all of it will be new. I don't know why my heartfails me. I had hoped to carry away my books and some of our familyheirlooms—my mother's picture amongst them, and my wife's miniature.She evidently does not know who it is. But she is quite right—thehouse, with its contents, was left to Ted. If he has it, he has it all."

"You have me," said Sidney, trying to laugh, but a lump rose in herthroat, and a choke was in her voice.

Her father caressed her hair gently with his hand.

"Yes, my little Sid. You will never fail me. What is that verse? 'Aman's life consisteth not in what he hath.' Is that how it goes?"

"'A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which hepossesseth,'" quoted Sidney. "But, father dear, there are quantities ofthings in the house which are really yours, and which we can take. Wewon't worry about it to-night. You are looking so tired. Don't sit uplate, will you? And if you would rather stay on here, don't think ofme. I will willingly do it."

"No; it is only that I feel my age to-night. I have not the buoyancyI had. The thought of a move into a strange house is not a cheerfulone. But I dare say I am tired with the journey. I shall be more myselfto-morrow, and we can discuss the question then."

Sidney kissed her father passionately when she wished him good-night.She was very near tears herself. She could bear slights to herself, butnot to her father, and when she met Mrs. Urquhart in the hall her headwas high and her voice remote and distant in its tone.

"I shall be glad if you will return my mother's picture. It was overthe mantelpiece in the study. That does not belong to Uncle Ted."

"Oh, I am so sorry. The picture of a young girl in white? I thought Tedtold me it was a sister who died. She is rather like your father inface, don't you think so? You mustn't be vexed with me, my dear Sidney,for trying to improve this old house. It really was sadly in want of alittle renovation and change. I know old people don't like change as arule, but I have always found men better than women in that respect,and I think that if you show a little of your good sense, you will soonpersuade your father to welcome my improvements."

"I don't think that will be necessary," said Sidney, looking at herwith quiet dignity, "for we shall not be here much longer. My fatherand I are going to make ourselves another home."

"That is very sensible of you. It is a mistake to have amalgamatedhouseholds, and quite as difficult for me as for you. I am sure Tedwill be pleased to hear of that arrangement. Are you going to bed?Good-night."

And as she swept off to join her husband in the smoking-room, triumphwas in her eyes.

Sidney went upstairs and cried bitterly.

The next morning, when she came down to breakfast, she heard thather father had gone out into the garden. For a moment she thought ofjoining him, but did not do so, as she knew he sometimes liked a quietsmoke before breakfast, and the morning was a lovely one.

Major Urquhart came to the table more like his old self.

"We have missed you, Sid—haven't we, Ethel? And I always feel a lostdog without your father. He must help me in these new garden plans ofours. I'm always a duffer about flower-beds and vegetables."

Sidney made some vague response. As she glanced out of the windowopposite her, she saw a flock of finches and thrushes breakfasting offthe green lawn. The lilac and laburnums were coming into full flower,a cherry tree was white with blossom, and the beds round the housewere full of narcissus and daffodils. Beyond the sloping lawns was theriver, edged with young larches and copper beech. What a sweet house toleave, she thought; and then she rose from her seat, feeling as if herfood would choke her.

"Excuse me," she said to Mrs. Urquhart; "I must go and bring father in.He is forgetting the time."

"I don't think he slept too well," the Major said. "He was pacing hisroom half the night. My room is just below his, so I heard him."

Sidney stepped out of the French window.

"Oh," she said to herself, "how could he sleep? I believe he will bepretty nearly broken-hearted when it comes to leaving his old home."

She wandered round the garden walks, but nowhere could she see herfather. At length she went down to the lower lawn, and there she stoodaghast. The turf had been cut and taken up, and the guns which hadstood there for so many years were gone! Two or three men were at work.The old gardener was not there. Sidney knew the men—they were labourersin the village.

"Have you seen my father?" she asked.

One of them rubbed his head rather ruefully.

"Yes, miss. The Admiral, he come down an hour ago, and he were properupset at this job, so he were!"

"Where is he? Where did he go?" Sidney asked impatiently. Oh, why hadshe not been at hand to comfort him! she thought.

"He went towards the shrubberies, miss, but I reckon he's back at thehouse long ago."

Sidney turned off at once, and as she walked she mechanically repeatedto herself:

"'I will trust and not be afraid. The Lord is my helper. I will notfear what man shall do unto me.'"

The verses had formed part of her morning reading. She wonderedafterwards why they had recurred to her mind at that juncture, as shewas not conscious of actual fear, only a longing desire to be with herfather and comfort him. The shrubberies were gloomy even on this brightmorning. She called her father by name, but there was no response.

She was on the point of turning back when she heard the whining ofthe Admiral's little terrier, and, coming out at the end of theshrubberies, she saw the dog.

There was a rubbish heap against an old wall; half in and half out ofa ditch were the guns, and leaning against one of them, with his armstightly clasped round it, and his head bowed down upon his arms, washer father. For a moment Sidney hesitated to disturb him. This privategrief was sacred; she felt she ought not to intrude. And then a well ofseething hot anger rose within her. How dared they go to such lengthswith these family treasures! She felt as if she could never forgiveMrs. Urquhart for such a wanton proceeding.

"Dad dear!"

Lightly she placed her hand on her father's arm.

"Oh, dad dear, never mind; we can take them away with us, and you willnot be separated from them."

There was no movement, no response, and a sudden ghastly fear clutchedat Sidney's heart—a fear which was realised a moment later, when shebent over her father and took his hand in hers. The Admiral's bodywas guarding his beloved guns, but his soul was beyond all earthlytreasures. At first she could not believe it. She rushed back to thehouse and summoned her uncle and the servants.

"Father has fainted; he is ill! Come quick-quick!"

The Major was on the spot first, in spite of his lame leg. He groanedwhen he saw his brother, and exclaimed:

"These confounded guns! I wish I'd told him last night. I knew it wouldupset him!"

Carefully and tenderly the Admiral was carried into the house andlaid upon his bed. The doctor was not long in coming, but he could donothing—only testified that it was sudden failure of the heart. Heasked if he had been agitated in any way. Sidney was too dazed andstunned to reply, but Mrs. Urquhart was voluble with explanations:

"He has been a month in London, and it evidently has been quite toomuch for him. He has always led such a very quiet life that the rushand excitement and fatigue of it up there has told upon him. I noticedhow grey and drawn his face was when he returned yesterday. I said tomy husband that it was a pity his daughter had not brought him homebefore. Of course, she would have done so, poor girl, if she had knownthe harm town life was doing him, but he doted on her, and you know howthoughtless young people are when they are enjoying themselves; theydon't realise that the old cannot keep pace with them."

Sidney heard all this as in a dream. She did not take it in.

Dr. Lanyard, an old friend of the family, raised his eyebrows, but theMajor burst forth excitedly, and it was the only time he ever let hisfeelings get the better of him:

"It's all our doing! Oh, why was I such a fool as to give way about it!His guns were cleared away. It was the last straw! I found him clingingto one. I told Ethel it was a cruel thing to do. I'll never lift up myhead again!"

A choke came into his voice, and he hurried out of the room. The doctorturned and followed him. Sidney crept back to her father's room. Shewould not leave it. The blow had been so sudden, so unexpected, thatshe could not realise it was true. She knew that her father had notbeen strong, but he had seemed so much brighter and more active in townthat she had had no anxieties about his health, and had never knownthat his heart was at all weak.

The news spread fast. That afternoon Monica came to the house. One ofthe old servants begged her to go upstairs to Sidney.

"She's just breaking her heart, ma'am. You may be able to get her tohave some food. We've got her out of the room at last, but she's in herown room, and won't come out of it."

Monica went up with a heavy heart. She realised that no earthly comfortcould ease Sidney's pain, and in a strange way the words of the parablewhich Chuckles was so fond of repeating to her came into her mind:

"The rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beatupon that house."

"'Twill be a terrible loss to Miss Urquhart," the old servant said, asshe followed her along the corridor to Sidney's bedroom. "Things haveall been turned upside down lately, and I for one don't wish our dearmaster back. The new mistress has served him shamefully—and I gave hernotice this morning."

Monica hardly heard the muttered words; her thoughts were with thestorm-tossed one.

"I wonder," she murmured to herself, as she tapped gently at Sidney'sdoor; "I wonder if the house still stands?"

Monica gained an entrance. Sidney was sitting by the window, which wasopen, her Bible was upon the broad ledge before her, and she was gazingout, the tears fast dropping down her cheeks as she did so. She clungto Monica when she kissed her.

"Oh, Monica, what a wonderful day this is to him! It has seemed a yearto me, but think of what he must be seeing and hearing! Come and sitdown. I don't mind you, but I cannot go downstairs and eat food. Couldyou?"

Monica was tongue-tied. There was a radiance in Sidney's face which waslike a rainbow shining through rain.

"I came up here stunned," she went on softly, "and then I took myBible. Do you know the forty-sixth Psalm, Monnie? 'God is our refugeand strength, a very present help in trouble.' That seemed to steadyme. And when I came to the verse: 'God is in the midst of her; sheshall not be moved: God shall help her, and that right early,' I tookthe words and applied them to myself. You can do that with the Bible.Words seem to give messages in so many different ways. And as I prayedabout it I got my answer. God has been raising my heart up above theworld altogether to where dad is. What does it matter about me? He iswith mother. I found his 'Daily Light' open on his dressing table. Healways read it, and the first verses he read this morning were these:

"And the last verse:

"He went out straight into the garden after reading those verses, andwas gathered into God's arms to be comforted. He wanted it, poor dad!It was a difficult homecoming last night. Let me talk, Monnie; it easesme. I had a miserable hour to-day, thinking of dad's great sadness.Uncle Ted said he was pacing his room half the night. If only I hadknown! If only I had been with him! He was perplexed and troubledabout the future. People think that it is only women who cling to oldassociations, but men do—even more. Father did! He could not make uphis mind to leave his books, his pictures, the old bits of furniturethat his father and mother had used. It was torture to him, and Isuppose when he found his guns torn up, rooted out of their place andthrown in a ditch, that was the finishing stroke. I won't be bitter; Iwon't think of the door through which he escaped. It does not matterabout the door, does it? It may be a narrow one, and an unpleasantone to enter, but it is so quickly passed, and the other side is soglorious!"

She paused, and again her eyes sought the blue sky outside her window.

Monica was silent. What could she say? She put her hand out and tookSidney's in it. They sat for some minutes in silence. Then Sidneyturned to her, and the light still shone in her eyes.

"Oh, Monnie, it is at times like this that you learn the value of yourfaith."

When, half an hour later, Monica left the house, she repeated the verseagain that was still sounding in her ears, but she was able to add theconclusion, for Sidney had not disappointed her:

CHAPTER XVI

LEAVING THE OLD HOME

"IT is never you!"

"Why shouldn't it be? How's the world wagging down here?"

Jockie had been taking a walk, and had suddenly come face to face withAustin, who, with an overcoat slung over his shoulder, and a cap pushedback from his forehead, was pelting along the road at a rapid rate.

"Things are awful for most of us," Jockie said, looking at himgloomily, "but your people are all right. Do they know you're coming?They hadn't an idea of it yesterday."

"My boat arrived a day earlier than expected, so I thought I'd walkup and take them unawares. Left my baggage at the station. I've hada stunning time. Now, just turn back with me, and tell me the 'awfulthings,' as you call them."

"I don't know where to begin. How much do you know?"

"I heard of the wedding," said Austin, taking off his cap and lettingthe spring breeze fan his heated brow.

"I do wish with all my heart that it had been your wedding," saidJockie viciously. "I wish with all my heart I had never tried to do youa good turn. I don't know what possessed me to do it. It was only tospite her. I have brought disaster to everyone."

"What the d—dickens have you to do with it?" asked Austin.

Jockie told him of the episode outside the post office.

"She came back from her honeymoon determined to slight and insult theAdmiral and Sidney all she could. Oh, I can't tell it all to you; itwould take too long. She began to be mistress before she married, soyou can imagine what it was like afterwards. She has always hatedSidney, and she couldn't forgive the Admiral for not being smitten byher charms, and falling down and worshipping her, as all the rest ofyou did."

"But," interrupted Austin, "the Admiral isn't it a fool. Surely he canbe master in his own house?"

"No, the Admiral isn't a fool," said Jockie solemnly, "he is now asaint in heaven."

Austin stopped still in the middle of the road. "You don't mean to tellme that the dear old chap is dead?"

"She killed him—murdered him—just as surely as if she had shot him. Dolet me tell the story in my own way. I hardly know the ins and outs ofit, but it seems that the house really belongs to Major Urquhart—atleast, she gives out that it does, and your mother told me that theAdmiral would not fight his brother about it, but that it was morally,if not legally, his. Mrs. Ted has turned Sidney out of her place at thehead of the table. She took the reins of the whole house in her ownhands; she moved and changed everything in it on purpose to annoy them.She took the Admiral's books and pictures away from his study, and saidthey belonged to the Major, and she furnished a new smoking-room withall his treasured things. The Admiral and Sidney at last, in despair,went up to London. They were driven out of the house by her. When theycame back she was worse than ever. She had cut down all the Admiral'sfavourite trees, and in spite of the Major's protests, got somelabourers to come up and clear away the guns from the lawn. That wasthe last straw! The poor old Admiral went out the morning after he camehome, and found them half buried in an old rubbish ditch. It broke hisheart, and he was found dead, clasping his arms round one of them. Now,what do you call that but murder?"

Austin drew in a long breath of dismay.

"Gracious, child, go more slowly! I can't quite believe that Mrs.Norman would act so."

"Mrs. Edward Urquhart, please. And you need not address me as 'child.'I shall shut up if you do."

"Beg pardon. Go ahead."

"Well, of course, dear Sidney has behaved like an angel. We wanted herto leave the house at once, but she would stay on until the lawyerand she had sorted out all her father's papers and put the businessstraight. What she's gone through no one knows! She's a marvel to allof us. I have heard Mrs. Ted stinging at her like a gnat, and Sidneyspeaks to her in the most gracious and sweet way, but in a lovelyremote tone, as if she hardly knows who she is, and she lives inanother world just now. She looks lovelier than ever in her black, butso frail and delicate. And then sometimes she puts her hand on my armand laughs in her old fascinating way, and then the dreamy sad veilfalls over her eyes again. Miss Pembroke wants to have her, and yourmother wants to have her, but neither has got her yet. Sometimes Ithink she stays on for the Major's sake. He's awfully unhappy—I can seeit in his eyes; he's a broken-down old man since the Admiral's death,and his wife does nothing but whip him on, as if he were a tired oldhorse. Oh, she's an awful woman! If only you had married her!"

"Thank you," said Austin stiffly; then he added: "How women hate oneanother! I can hardly recognise Mrs. Norman under your description. Inever heard her say an unkind word to anyone."

"Oh, if you're going to believe in her still, I'll stop. There's such athing as poison coated with sugar. But you'll never see her in her truecolours. Men are as blind as bats where women are concerned."

Jockie gave her head a little toss and walked on.

Austin looked at her. If he had not been so perturbed, he would havelaughed, as Jockie on her dignity was like some saucy sparrow aping aswan.

"Poor dear old Sid!" he murmured. "I didn't think she was having such abad time! She was quite swallowed up in her father. I can't believe Ishall never see him again."

"No," said Jockie in a grandmotherly tone, "we never know how soon oldpeople will be taken from us. I hope you're going to be very good toyour father now you have come back. He has missed you frightfully. If Ihad been a man, I should have had enough grit to stop at home where Iwas wanted, instead of running away from my trouble."

"You seem to have a remarkable knowledge of our private affairs," saidAustin witheringly.

"Yes; I know them all," said Jockie cheerfully. "I have been trying tobe your substitute, since you have been away. Your father and I talkover lots of things together, and I went round with your horrid agentthe other day to see a farmhouse which wants repairing. I reported itto your father the next day, and I told him what a sneak and bully theagent was. I've heard some stories about him in the village, and CousinJohn and I can prove the truth of them. Mr. de Cressiers is almostwilling to dismiss him now he takes in what kind of a man he is."

"I think it is high time I was back," said Austin loftily.

"It is," assented Jockie.

The two young people walked on for a minute in silence, then Jockieburst forth again:

"It's no good for you to defend her! She's a clever unscrupulous woman,and Sidney can't cope with her. What do you think she is saying toeveryone now? She pulls down her mouth and drops her eyes and sighsforth: 'Yes, most sad; but the Admiral's sudden death must wholly beattributed to that London trip. His daughter did not realise that hewas not strong enough to drag about after her. She, like most girls,wanted to have a good time, and her poor old father could not keep pacewith her. He returned home a perfect wreck, and the very next day hecollapsed.' Now, what do you think of that?"

"I suppose she thinks it true," said Austin loyally.

"Does she? Now, I'll tell you something else, for you deserve to knowit. Do you know what she told everybody when you went away? That youhad proposed to her, and that she had refused you, for the very ideawas preposterous. She had only taken pity on you and talked to you likea mother for your good, and you had simply made a fool of yourself."

"I think I'll be walking on," said Austin, in dangerously quiet tones.He was white with rage, and Jockie's audacity for once deserted her:

"Oh, forgive me! What would Sidney say? I promised her I would try tocontrol my tongue."

Then, as Austin's long legs outwalked her, she called out:

"All right, then. You need not think I am going to run by your side.You're much more disagreeable than when you went away."

Austin looked back, and raised his cap.

"I prefer sugar to vinegar. You won't keep any friends with that tongueof yours."

And Jockie walked home humbly, for she felt the truth of his words.

Austin had a warm welcome from his parents. His mother corroboratedmuch of what Jockie had told him, but her plain dignified statementshad more effect upon him than Jockie's bitterness. Early the nextmorning he went down to The Anchorage to see Sidney. It cost him someeffort, but he knew that he must meet Mrs. Urquhart soon, and wantedthe first plunge to be over.

He came across her in the garden giving directions to the gardeners.She was looking as sweet as ever, and greeted him with perfect ease.

"So glad to see you back. Your father has been wanting you badly. Whatdo you think of the sunny East?"

"Oh, tolerable! Is Sidney in? I'm awfully upset over the Admiral'sdeath, and came down to see her."

"Poor girl! She is wonderful. It has been so sad, for they bothintended this London visit to be one of keen enjoyment. We littlethought—"

"I have heard about it," said Austin abruptly. "Excuse me going in.This place has always been like a second home to me, and I'm bewilderedat all these changes."

He heaved a sigh of relief as he got past her.

"Thank goodness that's over! Jockie was quite right. I did make a foolof myself."

He noticed at once the changes in the house; but when he was shown intothe morning-room, and Sidney held out both hands with a bright smile ofwelcome, he almost broke down.

"Oh, Sid! My little chum! What can I say? How we shall miss him!"

Sidney's eyes filled with sudden tears.

"That's good to hear, Austin! He was very fond of you."

"Can you speak about it? Would you rather not?"

"I should love to tell you all about him, but I expect you have heard."

"Not details. I want them."

So, in a soft steady voice Sidney went over those last precious days,which would always be beloved in her memory.

Austin had been so truly fond of her father, that his sympathy wasmore to her than that shown by others. And then he drew her on to talkof herself and her own plans. He was aghast when she told him of heraltered circ*mstances.

"I shall have enough to live on," she told him; "but, of course,father's pension is gone, and the house with all its contents seems tobelong to Uncle Ted. He has promised to furnish a small cottage forme from any bits that I like to pick out. Ethel suggests my going toLovelace's Cottage, which is still unlet; but I can't bring myself todo that. It is a matter of pride, I am afraid."

"But you don't mean that they're going to turn you out?"

"No, I am choosing to go myself. I have been too long my own mistressto be happy here now. Uncle Ted has besought me to stay; but it isneither good for him nor her that I should do so. Your mother has verykindly asked me to stay with her till I can find a house. I don't wantto leave neighbourhood."

"And you're coming to us? That's the first bit of good news I've heardsince I came back! It has been blow upon blow! That imp of a girl metme yesterday on the way from the station and poured a black recitalinto my ears."

"Do you mean Jockie? I thought you were good friends."

"So we were. She's a pretty little thing, too, but she piled it on toostrong, and did not spare me, I can tell you! How on earth has she gothold of my father? She manages him like no one else, my mother tellsme. And he is actually going to get rid of Dobbs!"

"Jockie has great tenderness under that careless exterior; andpatience, too. I have seen her with sick people, and she is a differentbeing at once. Poor Jockie! She espouses my cause with too much zeal.She will learn wisdom later on. And now tell me all about yourself. Wehave talked enough of me and my troubles!"

So Austin leant back in a lounge chair, crossed his legs, and for anhour discoursed to Sidney about all he had seen and heard. When he atlast rose to go, he said:

"Come to us as soon as you can, won't you, Sid?"

Sidney nodded cheerfully.

They had not discussed Mrs. Urquhart at all; but Austin encountered heragain in the hall on his way out.

"I want to speak to you for a minute," she said, turning wistful eyesupon him.

Austin followed her like a lamb into the drawing-room, with an uneasysense of walking into a snare.

"I want you to forgive me," she said, laying her hand gently on hisarm. "You went off so suddenly; you would listen to no explanations. Iwas forced to act so. Your mother implored me. And you know how often Ireminded you of the difference in our ages. It is a great mistake fora middle-aged woman to tie a young fellow to herself. It would haveruined your life. If I had consulted my own feelings—"

She paused, and her eyes finished her sentence.

"Oh, that's all right," said Austin awkwardly; "that chapter is closed.Don't for goodness' sake try to open it again."

"Ah, you are hard and unforgiving! Let us close it, by all means, butlet us be friends. We live in the same neighbourhood; don't let therebe ill-feeling between us. You say you have looked upon this houseas a second home. I want you to look upon it in that light still.Come in when you want cheer, or comfort, or advice; let me feel thatI can still be a friend to you. I will not speak of myself. I havemany lonely hours, and the Major, as you know, does not shine inconversation. But I cannot bear to live amongst you, if you are goingto give me the cold shoulder. It is my misfortune to be over-sensitive,and I feel things so much and so deeply!"

What could Austin say? He could never be anything but courteous to awoman; so he murmured something about the past being the past, andhaving no cause for resentment, and then he slipped away.

"'Pon my soul," he muttered, "she's one too much for me. I don't knowwhere I am, but I'll keep clear of her for all I'm worth; for I'llplay the game with the old Major! And I'm honestly sorry for the poorbeggar!"

After Austin had left her, Sidney sat with her head in her hands. Inspite of her bright brave spirit, she had times of real darkness anddepression, and no one but herself knew what an effort it was to livethrough her days.

She now was doing what she seldom allowed herself to do—looking backinto the past. It was hardly a year ago that she had lost the one whowas her all in all: not by death—she could have borne that better—butby his own treachery. Her soul writhed at the very thought of thevalley of humiliation into which he had cast her, and through which shehad struggled with soreness and anguish of heart. Now she had lost bothher father and home. Like Job, she felt inclined to say: "My days arepast, my purposes are broken off, even the thoughts of my heart."

Her future seemed to stretch away from her in one dreary monotonousline. The purpose in her life had been snapped. The care of her fatherhad been her absorbing thought since the end had come between herselfand Archie Hughes. Now that was gone! How could she gather up thebroken fragments of her life to the best advantage?

She lifted up her heart in earnest prayer:

"Thou will teach me how to glory in tribulation. Thou will not quenchthe smoking flax! It is Thine hand upon me. Show me what Thou wouldesthave me to do."

This was the gist of her prayer. And when Sidney went to her knees, shealways rose with serene and steadfast eyes.

"As long as I am left in the world, I am wanted there," she said toherself. "If my own personal life is not all that I desire, there areother people's lives around me to be thought of. And I am absolutelyfree to help wherever my help is needed most."

It seemed at present to be needed at Thanning Towers. Mrs. deCressiers, with tears in her eyes, had begged her to come to her.

"I have never urged you before, Sidney, because of your dear father;but now your way seems clear. After all, I am your nearest relation inthis county. I may be able to help you about getting a small house ifyou are still determined to live alone; you certainly will help me. Asone gets older, one feels less equal to bearing the strain and anxietyalone. You are the only one I can talk to about my husband and boy, andyou don't know what your sympathy and companionship will be to me."

Sidney arranged to go. The evening before she went she spent in tidyingthe Admiral's desk. Her uncle crept into the room almost stealthily.

"Sid," he said dejectedly, "is it too late now to beg you to changeyour mind? Our happy old days have slipped away, but I would do all Icould to make you comfortable, if you stayed with us. You don't knowwhat this house is without you! You used to be fond of your old uncle.Are you going to cast him off altogether?"

There was something so pathetic in his eyes that Sidney almost cried.She put her hand on his shoulder caressingly.

"Dear Uncle Ted, you know I am fond of you still, but I am quite sureI do not add to your happiness by staying here. I shall be in theneighbourhood, and will often pop in and see you."

He gave almost a groan.

"I am being justly punished, but I was a blind fool! I never meant tooust you and poor Vernon. I'll never hold up my head again, Sid. Butone thing I've done: I've ordered those guns back to where they weretaken from, and there they shall stay till my time comes to quit! I canassert myself sometimes, but it's confoundedly hard!"

Sidney kissed him. Her heart ached for him as she saw what a cipher hewas in his own house. And though she could not tell him so, she knewthat his wife resented her talking much with him alone.

Mrs. Urquhart showed the only impatience she ever showed anyone towardsher husband. Sidney saw that there was no love to help her to endurehis bachelor ways; she had no real interest in his workshop. Her oneidea was to fill the house with company; and company of any sort theMajor thoroughly disliked. They had hardly any tastes in common.

The Major spent half his days wandering through the house looking forSidney, and this was why Sidney was anxious to leave. She knew the onlychance for the ill-matched couple to draw closer to one another was toleave them alone. As long as there was a third person, the breach wouldwiden between them; for the Major was perplexed and frightened by hiswife's masterful methods, and avoided being with her. Her manner wasnow coldly civil to him; her sweet graciousness was only for outsiders.If she by chance said a kind word, the poor old Major would becomealmost hilarious with joy; then a little curl of his wife's upperlip would send him shrinking into his shell again. And he could notunderstand why he should not seek Sidney's society in preference to hiswife's. When the time came for her to leave for Thanning Towers, heaccompanied her to the gate.

"You'll remember that anything out of the house can be moved to yournew home," he said, waxing bold as soon as he got out of earshot of hiswife. "You have only to tell me, and I'll see that they're sent off.And, Sid, my dear child, just assure me the past is forgiven. You don'tbear me malice for the—the step I took? And will you come to me, if I'mtaken ill; one can't have good health for ever; and I sometimes thinkthat I'm beginning to break up. You won't cut us, will you?"

"Why, Uncle Ted, you are quite morbid! Of course I won't! And if you'reill, send for me at once. I will run over and tell you directly I havemade my plans. I am not going very far-away, you know. Good-bye, dear."

She gave him one of her old hugs, then turned quickly away, for therewere actually tears in the Major's eyes. He coughed them down, and asSidney watched his retreating figure out of the carriage window, shenoted that his shoulders seemed extra bent and his limping gait morediscernible.

"He is getting an old man," she said to herself. "Oh, I hope she willbe kind to him."

To Thanning Towers she went, and took with her there an atmosphereof sunny content which was felt by all who came near her. Mrs. deCressiers' troubled brow relaxed; she could speak to Sidney, and toSidney alone, of her fears about her husband's state of mind and body.And the very speaking of it seemed to lift a weight off her spirit.Mr. de Cressiers liked to hear her sing. It was the keenest delightleft to him to listen to any music, and Sidney's wonderfully sweet andthrilling voice brought messages of peace and comfort to his soul.Austin shouldered his burden in gay spirits when Sidney was near athand. She was the recipient of confidences from father, mother and son,and her presence in the house was joy to all.

Jockie still came and went. At first she said she would be wanted nolonger, but Mr. de Cressiers was always ready to listen to her livelychatter, and Sidney told Mrs. de Cressiers that her gay spirits werebetter than any amount of doctor's visits for the invalid. Mrs. deCressiers assented. She had no objection to the pleasant intercoursethat existed between her husband and Jockie, but when it came to thatbetween her son and the girl, she became alarmed.

Sidney laughed at her.

"You must expect young people to be friendly; Jockie is the last girlin the world to mean anything serious by it. And if it did come toanything, you would gain a dear little daughter-in-law!"

"She is a perfect hoyden, and not at all the style I approve of. I wantAustin to marry in his own class, not beneath him."

"But," expostulated Sidney, "Jockie is a little lady. Her father is Mr.Borlace's cousin, and you have always said that it was an advantage tous to have a rector who was really well born."

"Oh yes; the rector is a gentleman, but the Borlaces are not county;and I don't know who the girl's mother was. Austin must marry well."

"There is no one about here who is good enough for him," said Sidneywith a mischievous smile. "You despise titles, so you would not carefor a titled daughter-in-law. I think Jockie would suit him very well."

Mrs. de Cressiers' head was a few inches higher than usual.

"She would not suit me. I do not want to be connected with our rector.If I thought that there was anything between them, I should stop hercoming to the house altogether."

"Well," said Sidney, "the surest way to make them care for each otheris to keep them apart now. Don't try it, dear Mrs. Cressiers."

Mrs. de Cressiers looked unconvinced; but she kept her own counselafter that, and never mentioned the subject again. And Jockie andAustin continued to chaff each other, and were a great deal moretogether than either Mrs. de Cressiers or Sidney imagined.

CHAPTER XVII

STRUCK DOWN

"AUNT MONNIE, do take me with you."

Monica was driving off in her high dogcart one afternoon in May. Shewas going over to see a neighbouring farmer, who lived nine miles off,about some business matter. Chuckles, in his holland overall, cametearing across the garden.

For a moment Monica hesitated. In after years, she often wondered if ithad been her good angel who tried to intervene. Then, seeing the eagerexpectancy in the child's eyes, she told him to climb up. For a momentshe thought of telling him to put on an overcoat, but the sun wasbright, and she had a warm plaid over her knees, so she drove off withhim, saying dryly:

"I hope we shall not meet anyone, for a more smutty nephew I think noone could possess!"

"It's the waterbutt; I'm sailing my walnuts in it. They're the Channelfleet on an island of water."

"There's no such thing as an island of water."

"Isn't there? What is it when the land comes round the water?"

"The water is then a lake."

Chuckles tipped his hat back on his head and thought hard. Then hismind took another turn.

"Aunt Monnie, I feel I was born a sailor."

"You were born to be a farmer," said Monica firmly. "You were born ona farm abroad. Your father brought you home and meant to farm himself,and bring you up to it. He was taken from you, and I am bringing you upin the way he wished."

"I think father is very happy to be an angel instead. I'd rather be anangel than a farmer."

"Why don't you like farming? You never used to talk like this?"

Chuckles considered.

"I always did like water better than earth," he said solemnly. "Iremembers when I was a baby I liked it. And everybody ought to fightfor their country—Miss Jockie says so—and farmers don't fight. AuntMonnie, if you promise you'll change me from a farmer into a sailor,I'll bring you back a red and green parrot the first day I come backfrom sea!"

"No," said Monica, trying to speak lightly; "I can't be bribed,Chuckles. You must grow up a good man, and carry out your father'swishes."

Chuckles said no more. His aunt drove on through the sunshiny greenlanes feeling a heavy weight on her heart. Her farm had not beenprospering lately; her new man was careless and untrustworthy. Shefeared she would not be able to keep him, but she dreaded anotherchange. Chuckles always depressed her when he talked of his dislike tofarming. She wondered as he grew older if he would take his own wayinstead of hers. He had a stubborn will and much tenacity of purpose;but she told herself that she had not toiled all these years to give upthe fruits of her labour at a child's bidding.

And then, dismissing the subject from her mind, she talked quitehappily to the small boy till she reached her destination. Her businessdid not take her very long. She left Chuckles the proud possessorof the reins outside the house, and when she joined him again, herelinquished them very reluctantly.

"I can drive Nellie. She turned her head to look at me, for she meantto bolt, but I showed her the whip and she was afraid of me!"

Monica drove home a different way. She was not quite certain of theroad, and missed her bearings, but when the river came in sight she wasreassured, for she knew she had only to follow it. Some tall yellowflags attracted Chuckles' attention. He begged to be allowed to getdown and gather them.

"You must be quick, then," his aunt said to him, "or we shall be verylate home."

He scrambled down. Monica dreamily gazed before her, enjoying thebeauty of the scene. The river banks were shrouded with scenery: wildroses, honeysuckle, and the white meadow-sweet climbed in riotousprofusion over the bushes. Here and there clumps of blue forget-me-notsbrightened the edge of the water. On the farther side of the river wasa wooded hill, and in a dip at one side was a glimpse of the distantsea. Clouds were rolling in from it, and Monica began to fear that astorm was on its way.

She was about to call to Chuckles, when a sharp scream and a heavysplash broke the silence reigning. In an instant Monica sprang down anddashed to the bank. She saw Chuckles struggling in the water. There wasa rapid current, and he was being carried down the river. In one secondshe plunged in just as she was. She could swim, but her clothes wereheavy, and in one agonising moment, when the little figure sank, shefeared she had lost him. Then he rose, she was able to get hold of him,and in another moment she struggled to the bank with him and landedherself and him safely on shore. Chuckles was frightened and exhausted,but quite conscious. She rapidly wrung his clothes as dry as she could,and then wrapped him tightly round in the warm plaid and laid him inthe bottom of the trap.

"There!" she exclaimed. "That is a cold pack! Lie still, and I willdrive to the nearest house and get you dried and warm."

Then she wrung her wet garments, got into the trap, and drove as fastas she could homewards. It was a lonely bit of country, and aftersatisfying herself that Chuckles was well and warm, she did not go outof her way to look for any houses. Her nerves were strong, but therealisation how near the child had been to death that afternoon sether face in tense lines, and made her strong capable hands tremble.More than once she bent over the child to listen to his breathing. Shecaught herself picturing her return home with a little drowned body ather feet, and she shuddered at the vista it opened out before her of apurposeless future and a wasted past.

A strong keen wind blew in from the sea; the clouds rolled up andobscured the sun, and Monica shivered with cold. She found drivingin drenched garments a very miserable experience. She had not even arug over her knees, nothing to protect her from the rising storm. Andabout two miles from home, the storm broke full upon her. She droveinto her own gates with a blue face and chattering teeth, but in spiteof all Aunt Dannie's expostulations, she would not change her wetgarments till she had put Chuckles to bed with her own hands, given himsomething hot to drink, and seen him drop off into a quiet sleep. Then,she thought of herself, and went off to her own room to get into dryclothes.

The next morning she was too racked with pain to get out of bed, andbefore another day dawned she was in the throes of rheumatic fever.Sidney did not hear of it till the evening, and then she left ThanningTowers and went over to help nurse her friend. Jockie carried offChuckles to the Rectory, and Aunt Dannie and Sidney, with the doctor'shelp, fought hard to keep death at bay. Monica was a strong woman, butfor once she had presumed too much upon her hardy constitution, andNature asserted itself with a vengeance. She was wrapped in cotton-woolfrom head to foot, and fever ran high. It was pitiful to hear herrepeating over and over again:

"Save the child! It does not matter about me. He must live. Oh, leaveme, and help him! Don't you hear his cries for help?"

Dr. Lanyard was indefatigable in his care and attention.

"We can't spare her yet, Miss Urquhart," he would say to Sidney; "hersis a valuable life. We must not let her slip!"

And Sidney prayed earnestly for her recovery, and nursed her withfervent devotion. The doctor at last insisted upon a nurse, for he sawthat Sidney was wearing herself out.

Aunt Dannie was not of much use in the sickroom, and when Monica wasconscious, the poor old lady's nervous fussy movements seemed toirritate her. So Sidney persuaded her to remain downstairs and try tosuperintend the many daily duties of the servants and farm hands.

Three weeks, four weeks passed, and only then did Monica slowly creepback to convalescence. This was the most trying part of her illness,for she began to fret and worry over her farm. Sidney tried to keepthings from her, for matters had not improved during her illness. Herhead man was more unsatisfactory than ever; he absented himself fordays together from the farm without any ostensible reason, except thathe was doing business in the neighbouring town, and the labourers werebecoming slack. They could not work without a head. The hay was leftuncut too long, and a wet month ensued, ruining some most promisingcrops of rich meadow-grass.

One morning Sidney stood looking out of the sitting-room window in deepdejection of mind.

The doctor had paid his usual daily visit, and had shaken his head whenhe had come out of the sickroom. He had followed Sidney downstairs, andhad blurted out:

"Cheer her up, Miss Urquhart! She is a strong woman. She ought not tolie worrying there over inevitable circ*mstances. She must use herstrength of will now to some purpose, to help her to endure what isbefore her, for her farming days are over. I fear she will not walkround her fields for many months to come—perhaps never!"

Sidney stared at him with pallid cheeks.

"Oh, don't say that! Give her hope, or she will die. She has been sostrong, she has had such no outdoor life! Surely her iron constitutionwill save her from chronic rheumatism!"

"I have seen too many like her. She will be crippled for the rest ofher life, I fear. This rheumatism has seized hold of her like a vice,and attacked every joint. When she gets stronger she might try somebaths, or the electrical treatment, but her age is against her."

"She is in the prime of life."

"If she were ten years younger she would have a better chance," saidthe doctor grimly.

Sidney could not speak. Her heart ached for her friend. She shook handswith the doctor in silence as he went away, and now stood at the windowand watched a grey mist roll in like smoke from the sea.

The trees and grass were sodden with wet, but the dreariness outsidedid not equal the dreariness within. Aunt Dannie wandered up and downthe house with tear-stained cheeks, murmuring weakly to herself:

"What shall we all do! Everything is going to pieces for want of ahead!"

The three young maids quarrelled with each other, and, realising thattheir mistress's tight hand was for the time withdrawn, spent most oftheir time in gossip and surmises about the future. Chuckles' absencebrought an unusual quiet and stillness into the atmosphere, and Sidney,standing in her deep mourning by the window, began to feel that deepertrouble than her own seemed to be brewing in the farm.

She thought of Monica, who had boasted that she could never remember aday's illness in her life; Monica, strong and active, whose greatestjoy was striding over her fields in all weathers; whose greatestpenance was to sit still for any given time indoors; and who was nowcondemned by the doctor to be a cripple for life and never walk again.

"Oh!" cried Sidney, raising her sweet face to the sky. "I wish it hadbeen me. I wish I could bear it for her. I have no ties now, nothingto demand my health and strength, and I should be able to draw comfortfrom the One Monica does not know. I don't see how she will be able toendure. It's a terrible verdict."

"Sidney, my dear, she is asking for you."

Aunt Dannie broke in upon her musings, and as Sidney went upstairs inobedience to the summons, her heart was saying:

"Oh, God, help me to help her. Do Thou help her Thyself."

Monica lay on her bed, a wreck of her former self. She could not movewithout pain, but she tried to smile when she saw Sidney.

"How soon shall I be about again?" she said. "The doctor looks somysterious when I question him. Did he say anything to you thismorning?"

"It will be a long business, dear, we are afraid."

Sidney spoke cheerfully, but her eyes could not meet Monica's.

"Does he not think I am going to recover?"

The words came like a pistol shot, so sharp and incisive they were.

"Oh, yes—yes—you are getting on splendidly, but you have had a verysevere attack, and it will take time."

There was silence for a few minutes, then Monica said:

"Chuckles must go to school as soon as possible. I meant him to goafter Easter."

"After the midsummer holidays will be time enough, dear. Jockie isteaching him and looking after him. He is very happy and good."

"How long have I been ill?"

"Six weeks."

"And the hay. Has it all been saved?"

"Not all," said Sidney evasively. "You really must not worry overanything just now, Monnie, or you will never get well."

"But I can't continue to lie here," said Monica in feverish excitement."I must be getting about to look after things."

She tried to rise, but the excruciating pains in her limbs made hersink back amongst her pillows with a groan.

Sidney tried to soothe and comfort her, but it was hard work. Monicamade an exceedingly bad patient. And as her mind grew clearer andstronger, her irritability and impatience seemed to increase. EvenSidney felt a desire at times to go away and leave her to herself. Noone had the courage to tell her of the doctor's gloomy fears. But astime went on, and she found that strength did not come to her crippledlimbs, Monica began to have her dark hours of doubt. When she was wellenough to be put into a wheeled chair, she was brought downstairs.

Sidney had arranged that a friendly farmer near should take over thebulk of the crops and superintend all necessary farming operations forthe time. This was highly resented by Frank Edge, the head man, buthe had been absent so much from his work that he had little cause forcomplaint. Austin de Cressiers had helped Sidney a great deal whenappeal to Monica had been impossible, but his advice was not alwaysfollowed.

"Chuck Edge if he doesn't do his work! Chuck them all; it's the onlyway! I'd chuck anyone who didn't serve me faithfully, in the twinklingof an eye!"

But Sidney did not feel she had the authority to "chuck" any ofMonica's people, and Aunt Dannie was hopeless and helpless about anypractical issue.

When Monica was downstairs, it was impossible to keep things from her.She insisted on interviewing her man, and the interview was a tryingone to both of them. She dismissed him at once.

Sidney went back to Thanning Towers for a week or two, as Mrs. deCressiers was not very well. Once away, she found it very difficultto get back to the farm, and Monica was forced to meet and fight herbattles alone. Chuckles was packed off to a private boarding-school,and he departed in high spirits. Childlike, he had little notion of hisaunt's self-sacrificing devotion to him, and did not seem to take inthat her illness was due to her care and love of him.

Sidney had a very long Sunday talk with him before he went.

"I won't forget I'm a building," said Chuckles, looking into her facewith great earnestness. "And I've got to build and God has to build,and we're going to do it wiv each other."

"No, Chuckles; God must put His Hand over yours and teach you how tolay every brick."

"Should I put them on crooked?"

"Very crooked; so crooked that they would never hold together, and onlycome to the ground with a crash!"

"But that's only when a storm comes, and I'm not on the rocks. I meanto be quite, quite steady, I 'sure you, for I aren't on the sand. Whatdo you think my school bwicks will be?"

"The same as at home. Truth is one, obedience another. Industry—"

Chuckles jumped up and put his small hand over her lips.

"Don't say them all. They're so dis-disinter-westing."

Yet his last words to her were:

"I shall have gwown into a strong tower when you see me nex'. A veryhigh one indeed."

And Sidney kissed him with laughing eyes. "You dear little man! I shallexpect to see and hear great things now you are a genuine schoolboy."

It was a lovely autumnal morning. Sidney was walking along a terrace ofroses at Thanning Towers, reading a letter from Randolph Neville. Itwas the first one she had received since she had left her old home, andher eyes devoured each line with an eagerness which surprised herself.

Sidney's face was flushed as she folded up the letter and slipped itinto her pocket. She stood leaning against the low terrace wall, apicture of dainty grace and sweetness, and in her eyes was a dreamyglow of expectation.

"Oh," she said half aloud, "if I could only see him walking up thispath, I should never feel lonely again. He has never written me such aletter before. What does he mean by it, I wonder?"

Her answer was not long in the sending.

CHAPTER XVIII

AUSTIN SPEAKS

"WELL, Monica, dear, how are you?"

Sidney was bending over her friend, but the face that was raised tohers hardly seemed like Monica's. It was sharpened and lined with pain,and the misery and bitterness that flashed from her eyes struck Sidneywith a fresh realisation of what she was enduring.

"I know the worst at last," Monica said in cold, biting tones. "Thatfool of a doctor could buoy me up with false hopes no longer. I madehim tell me the truth."

"He wants you to try electrical treatment," faltered Sidney.

"Oh, don't tell me what he wants me to try! He knows, and you know,that if ever I walk again, it will be with crutches. He told me, in anycase, my farming days were over."

Sidney could not speak.

"I wondered he dared say such a thing to me. I felt in such impotentfury. To tell me—I, who have never had a day's illness, who have beenout of doors in all weathers, who cannot breathe with comfort indoors,who, a couple of months ago, was the strongest straightest hardiestwoman in the county—that I am to spend the rest of my life on a couchby the fire, or, at the best, hobble out for an hour or two in the sunupon crutches! Why, Sidney, it is enough to turn my brain!"

Sidney's eyes filled with tears.

"I wish I could bear it for you."

"I made up my mind directly his back was turned to go straight up toLondon to get special advice, but the post came in and brought me thisletter. You will laugh at me when I tell you that it is the last bitterdrop to my cup of misery, and the climax of it all. I shall struggleno longer: The farm is going rapidly to pieces. My house, Sidney, hasbeen destroyed. The storms have come and beat upon it, and great is thefall!"

Sidney took the letter offered to her. It was in Chuckles' bestcopper-plate handwriting.

Sidney had no heart to smile, for Monica's restless unhappy eyes neverleft her face.

"My dear Monica, such a baby's letter cannot really affect you. Nextweek you may hear he means to be a soldier. You don't really mean totell me that this ridiculous letter has any weight with you?"

"Yes, it has. The child is growing rebellious already over my futurefor him. I know what boys are. I know what my brother was, and Chucklesis just like him. He has never hidden his dislike to farming. I don'tknow why. And now, as I lie here, I see things differently. It is nota promising profession in England. The least slacking off, the absenceof superintendence, and a few mistakes, and the whole thing begins toslip downhill. My farming days are over. I keep repeating it to myself.All my efforts, my successes, have been fruitless. My time, my life,has been wasted, and I am doomed to a sofa and crutches for the restof my days. Don't express any sympathy or talk religion to me. If youthink that disaster and trouble will make me turn to religion, you aremistaken. It never suited me, and it never will. Your nature and mineare utterly different.

"You are fatherless and homeless; I acknowledge the storm has beatenand buffeted you, and you still go about serenely, with a smile inyour eyes and on your lips. We illustrate the two builders aboutwhom Chuckles is so fond of talking. You have built on the rock, yousay, and your life is still steady, your spirit unbroken, your trustunshaken. I am lying amongst the ruins of mine. I ought to rise up andstart building again, this time on the rock, but I won't do it. If Ipray at all, it will be to death to come and finish off a useless,broken life. I am vanquished now, with a vengeance. Oh, how horriblycruel life is!"

Sidney listened in pained silence.

Then she put her hand gently on Monica's arm, and said with intensefeeling:

"You can prevent my talking to you about the only One Who can comfortyou, but you cannot prevent my praying for you. Your illness only makesme love you all the more and long to help you; and if I feel thus, whatmust God do, to Whom you naturally belong?"

"No more, please," said Monica, with furrowed brow. "Now let us putme and my misery aside for a time, and talk about the advisability ofletting this farm while it is still worth its purchase."

Sidney humoured her, but before she left her, she persuaded her to trysome baths that the doctor had recommended, and offered to go with her.

In the end Monica accepted the offer. Aunt Dannie was left behind totake care of the house, and for two months Thanning Dale was withoutSidney's bright personality.

And whilst she was away, Jockie was more than ever up at ThanningTowers. Mrs. de Cressiers had tried to snub her, but it was of no use.Jockie was impervious to snubs.

"Don't you really want me to-day, Mrs. de Cressiers? Then I'll cometo-morrow, instead. I want to tell Mr. de Cressiers a very good storyI heard in the village to-day. It will make him laugh, and that alwaysdoes him good, does it not? But if you're very busy, you had better letme stay a few hours, because I shall be able to take Mr. de Cressiersoff your hands."

Then Austin would appear and carry her off in triumph to his father'sstudy, whence Mrs. de Cressiers would hear gay laughter and chatter.If she went in, she would generally find Austin there, sometimesastride on the low window-sill that opened upon the terrace, sometimespretending to sort over papers at his father's desk, but in realitylistening to the gay young voice and having wordy skirmishes withaudacious Jockie, when he could get a chance. Mr. de Cressiers wouldlie back amongst his cushions, well pleased, and would always say tohis wife:

"We must keep Miss Jockie to lunch. I want her to read to meafterwards."

And Mrs. de Cressiers soon gave up trying to keep Jockie and Austinapart. The girl's bright natural ways and frank affection began to haveeffect upon her. She comforted herself with the thought that Austin wastoo perfectly at ease in Jockie's presence to have any warmer feelingfor her than that of a comrade and friend. He teased her unmercifully,and sometimes she would lose her temper and take her departure withstiff dignity; but the next time they met, the past would be forgotten,and they would be greater friends than ever.

One lovely evening in September, Austin and Jockie were boating on theriver together. Austin had been rather grave and silent, and Jockie wasfond of relapsing into dreams when she was upon the water. She lookedup at him presently, and her eyes began to twinkle.

"A penny for your thoughts, old sobersides."

"We'll exchange them; give me yours."

"I was thinking of dear Sidney. I do wish someone would come along andmarry her, so as to prevent her shutting herself up in some poky house.But there isn't anyone near here good enough for her. Of course, womendon't marry nowadays as they used to do; but Sidney is so enchantingthat she ought not to be wasted."

"It's rather rum that both our minds should be running on matrimony.I was trying to make up my mind to 'come along,' as you term it, and'marry somebody.' I think it is time I settled down."

Jockie looked at him with round eyes.

"You're too young," she said, with her head in the air; "boys like youcouldn't be trusted with wives. You would not know how to take care ofthem."

"Girls don't want to be taken care of nowadays," he retorted; "more'sthe pity. They're too independent to suit me. And you talk as if I'mintending to have a batch of wives. One would be quite enough for me."

Jockie's laugh rippled out. She leant over the side of the boat and lether hand trail in the water. She looked at him through half-shut eyes.

"Go on," she said. "Tell me about your future wife. What is she goingto be like?"

But Austin was silent. He compressed his lips. Then he blurted outsuddenly:

"If you don't think I would make a good husband, we'll change thesubject."

"Oh, don't be sniffy. I think you have, as dear Cousin John would say,some valuable qualities. You are a gentleman, and have a gentleman'sideas of truth and honour. You wouldn't do a dirty trick to save yourlife; and you're quite intelligent. Your father says you are no fool;and you buck up when obstacles crop up and bar your path. You learn howto jump awkward banks in the hunting field, don't you? And you're notone of those who are always looking for the gates. I admire the way youhave dismissed the agent and are doing his work yourself till you canfind someone else."

Austin grinned at her.

"'This is very pleasant,' as my mother says. I don't often hear mypraises sung. Please proceed."

"I always spread the butter fairly thick," said Jockie gravely, "butyour faults must be told."

"No, thanks, not to-day. I'm going to have my say now. This honourable,high-minded gentleman with intelligence and grit now proceeds to offerhis hand and heart to the one who appreciates his noble qualities. MissJockie Borlace, will you do me the honour of accepting them?"

Jockie gave such a start that she nearly upset the boat. Then she said,a little reproachfully:

"What a humbug you are!"

Austin slipped in his oars, and, folding his arms, gazed at her withsteady eyes.

"I'm in dead earnest."

Jockie went red and white with emotion which she could not conceal.

"But—but," she said, "we may like each other very much, but that's notenough to marry upon."

"It depends on the measure of the liking," said Austin.

Then he stretched out his hands and took hold of both hers.

"Sit still and listen to me. I've had this in my mind for a long while.I'd rather live with you, Jockie, than with anyone else on the face ofthe earth. We won't discuss each other's virtues and vices. You're nomore perfect than I am; but I loathe perfection. I like you just as youare. Now, do you feel like that about me?"

Jockie's slim sunburnt hands trembled in his grasp. He was glad to seethat she was perturbed; he dreaded lest she might show flippancy.

"Do you care for me a little bit? Now, on your honour! For this is nogame; it means either that we're going to be all in all to each other,or nothing at all."

"I think you'll have to give me time," she said irresolutely. "There'sa lot to be considered, and I'm sure Mrs. de Cressiers won't approve."

"No; I won't give you time. Hang consideration! You know your own mindas well as I do. Leave everyone else out of the question. Here are wealone—just we two. If there was no one else in the world but you andme, what would you feel like?"

Then Jockie looked up. Her mischievous eyes showed a deep clear lightin them as she met his ardent penetrating gaze. She drew in a longbreath.

"Gloriously happy," was her answer.

And he was more than satisfied.

An hour later they were walking up to the Rectory together, when twopeople stopped to speak to them. These were Major and Mrs. Urquhart.

"Is that Jockie?" said Mrs. Urquhart sweetly. "My dear girl, we havejust been talking with the Rector. He was quite anxious about you. Itis getting dark. Have you been on the river?"

"She has been with me," said Austin, with pride in his tone.

"So I gather. Well, we must not keep you. I suppose you have heard thatSidney returns to-morrow with poor Miss Pembroke? It is such a sadblow—that the baths have done her no good. I expect Sidney will makeher home with her now. It will be very nice for her if she does so, asshe will be able to help her a good deal."

"Sidney helps everyone," said Jockie with sudden heat. "The house ishappy that has her, and those are fools who oust her from their lives."

"Hear, hear!" muttered the Major.

His wife responded with dangerous sweetness: "You are a warm-heartedchampion, Jockie. I wish, for your own sake, that Sidney could be morewith you. You certainly want someone to look after you. Good-night. Thesooner you get home the better. Your poor cousin is much harassed bythese late expeditions."

Austin was about to speak, but Jockie slipped her arm into his anddragged him on.

"Don't explain or protest. It will only be wasted on her. We won'tspoil our evening by a wordy combat. Oh, Austin, do you think we shalllook back to this lovely evening for the rest of our lives as a redletter day? I shall never forget it, will you?"

Austin insisted upon going into Mr. Borlace's study and informing theRector of what had taken place. His distress and agitation was quitealarming, but Jockie laughed and soothed him into a peaceful state ofmind.

"Don't you be afraid of Mrs. de Cressiers. Austin and I will manage herall right; and I'm not a child, Cousin John. And you can pretend youknow nothing about it, if you would rather not. It has nothing to dowith you, has it? And we have settled it up on the river, not even inthis house, so you can't be in any way responsible."

She talked to him in the way that a modern girl would; as if she,and she alone, were the only one responsible for her future. And Mr.Borlace, who did not understand girls, and had come to look upon Jockieas a very original specimen of her race, at last sat back in his chairwith a resigned sigh.

"Well, you must 'gang your own gait'; only don't ask me to express myopinion upon such an altogether unexpected and unsuitable union."

And then Austin laughed, shook him warmly by the hand, and departed,wondering how he would get through the coming interview with his mother.

Manlike, he hated scenes, and he knew that his mother's hopes did notrest upon Jockie as a daughter-in-law. He went straight to her boudoir,and found her writing letters at her davenport.

"Now, mother," he said gaily, "when do you intend to get old, and sitin an arm-chair before the fire knitting for the poor? Isn't that therole of all good old ladies?"

"Not when the thermometer stands at seventy-eight," said his motherdryly.

But she left her writing and sat down in her easy chair. Austin stoodon the hearthrug warming his back at an imaginary fire.

"Are you only just back?" she asked him. "I hope you have not been outwith Jockie at this late hour?"

Austin did not answer; then he launched his bolt.

"I have asked her to marry me, mother. You do like her, don't you? Thegovernor does. He was only saying to-day how good she was to him. Icould not bring you a daughter-in-law whom you did not know. Jockie islike a daughter of the house already."

Mrs. de Cressiers visibly stiffened in her chair. "You might at leasthave given me some idea of your intentions, Austin. It will be a bitterdisappointment to your father. He never anticipated this. Jockie is agood-tempered amusing schoolgirl, no more fitted to be a member of ourfamily than any well-behaved village girl. I can hardly believe thatyou are in earnest. It was only a year ago that you were infatuatedwith Mrs. Urquhart."

Austin nodded in a shamefaced manner.

"Yes. Would you have preferred her as a daughter-in-law? I don'tthink you would. I own I was a fool. But fools can learn wisdom byexperience, and Jockie and Mrs. Urquhart are as different as chalkand cheese. You'll find that Jockie will, under your tuition, growinto a de Cressiers under your very eyes. It only wants a greatself-assurance, and a firm belief in one's own superiority to the restof the human race, to stamp the de Cressiers look and tone upon one'sface and tongue. I bet you that Jockie will do it easy."

"You have always been different from any of your race," said his motherbitterly. "It is only what I might have expected. She is your sort. Iought not to have hoped for anything different."

Austin, generally so easy going, said a bad word now, and flung himselfout of the room. He could not go to his father, for he had retired tohis room for the night, so he stamped off to the smoking-room, wherehe brooded over the unreasonableness and silly pride of some women,and the sweet audacity and warmheartedness and lovableness of one inparticular.

"Ah," he said to himself, "Sid will be home to-morrow; she will pouroil on the troubled waters."

But it was not Sidney who brought the first signs of relenting to Mrs.de Cressiers' proud heart. Jockie met Austin the next morning ridingoff to one of the distant farms on a matter of business. They had ashort confabulation together, and arranged to walk up the Beacon in theafternoon.

"How is your mother?" asked Jockie.

Austin tightened his lips.

"I'm dead certain I'm a changeling," he said; "was changed in my cradleby the nurse. Isn't that how it is done generally? Otherwise, shouldn'tI have a little comprehension of my own mother's spirit? She's anenigma to me, and I ditto to her."

"I suppose you've had an awful row about me?" said Jockie, looking alittle disconsolate.

"I didn't think my mother would take it lying down. But she'll be allright in a day or two. Don't you fret!"

"I never fret!" said Jockie scornfully. Then the light sparkled in hereyes. "You're rather an old blunderbuss with your mother. Go on like agood boy, and do your business, and don't come home before you can helpit. You'll find a slight change in her, I venture to prophesy, beforethe day is over."

He shook his head, and after a few more words went his way. Jockiestood and watched him out of sight, then pelted away as fast as shecould towards Thanning Towers. She was rather breathless when shearrived at the front door, but was shown at once into the morning-roomwhere Mrs. de Cressiers was sitting.

Her face when she saw the girl was a study. But Jockie came forwardwith both hands outstretched, and such a radiant sunshiny face, thatMrs. de Cressiers could not maintain her icy remoteness. She never knewhow she did it, or why she did it, but she had kissed the girl beforeshe realised what she was doing.

"I know it's all wrong my coming to you like this," said Jockie humbly;"but I couldn't keep away, for you have been so awfully kind and goodto me that I wanted to know how you were feeling; and, dear Mrs. deCressiers, I'm so honestly fond of you and Mr. de Cressiers, that Ipromise you I won't bring discord in your family. I know I'm not whatyou would like as a daughter-in-law, and if you're dead against me, andare quite convinced that Austin will be happier with some other kindof girl, I shall just go away somewhere and hide myself till Austinforgets me. He is so self-willed and obstinate that it would be no goodmy remaining in the neighbourhood, for he would insist upon meeting meand worrying my life out. I can't help being fond of him, you know; heis such a dear. But I'm fond of you, too, and I do honestly believe Icould make Austin a little bit more of a de Cressiers than he is. Hedoesn't think half enough of himself, does he?

"But since your last agent has gone, he has done a lot more in the wayof business, hasn't he? I'm always talking to him about it. It's afunny thing to say, but if you could bring your mind to it, how do youthink it would be to give me a month's trial as your daughter-in-law!Then, if we're miserable all round and you feel ashamed of me, I couldbreak off the engagement. Now I promise on my honour to do it, but giveme a month's trial first. You see, I've had no mother to look after meand tell me things. Comparing myself with Sidney, I see how rough andclumsy and slangy I am. But if you'll have patience and just mother meyourself for a bit, you don't know the good it will do me. And I'll tryto my utmost limit to live up to your ideal of a daughter-in-law."

Jockie paused for breath. She was so much in earnest, and so full ofher subject, that she did not notice a slight relaxation in Mrs. deCressiers' stern set face.

"I don't think we shall gain anything by discussing the situationtogether," Mrs. de Cressiers said loftily.

"Oh, I think we shall, if we go on long enough," said Jockiecheerfully. "If you will tell me a few of your objections, I will tryto meet them; and I'll do anything to please you. Of course, I don'tmean in the cringing way. I could never cringe to anyone; but I'll tryto cure my most glaring faults and curb my tongue."

Mr. de Cressiers' bell rang at this juncture.

"Oh, let me go to him!" Jockie exclaimed as Mrs. de Cressiers made amove. "Do think over what I have been saying. It would be so heavenlyif Austin came home and found that you and I were the greatest friends."

She slipped away, and was soon making Mr. de Cressiers laugh at herconfidences. Mrs. de Cressiers left them alone, but later on joinedthem. As she more than half expected, her husband turned to her at once:

"My dear, I think we must accept this little girl as a daughter. She isyoung, but time will mend that, and if she makes Austin a good wife,and reminds him of his duties towards us and the estate, she will be ahelp and not a hindrance in our home."

Jockie looked appealingly into Mrs. de Cressiers' face.

"I wish you liked me as much as I like you," she said.

The frank sincerity of her tone, and a little wistfulness in her eyeswon the day.

Mrs. de Cressiers put her hand gently on her shoulder.

"We old people must learn to stand aside when young people cometogether," she said. "I cannot prevent your becoming my son's wife, butI will try to become accustomed to the prospect. It remains with you asto whether you will bring peace or discord amongst us."

Jockie seized her hand, and pressed it fervently.

"You must turn me out if I bring discord," she said. "Thank you, dearMrs. de Cressiers, for withdrawing your objections to me. You will makeAustin a happy boy to-day."

And when Austin returned home with a slight shrinking in his heart fromanother encounter with his mother, he found Jockie and her holding ananimated conversation as they sat at luncheon together.

Jockie looked up at him as he came in, with her mischievous smile.

"I am quite one of the family now," she said; "and though your motherdoes think me not half good enough for you, she is going to train meherself to carry on and maintain the tradition of your race."

Austin was too dumbfounded to reply. He said to his father afterwards:

"Jockie beats anyone I know for walking into a heavy squall, and comingout of it triumphant. She not only knows what she wants, but she getsit done before I've half-finished surveying the situation."

CHAPTER XIX

RANDOLPH'S RETURN

"HE will come home."

"Do you think he will?"

"Sure to. It's a most splendid appointment."

It was a year later. Monica and Sidney were sitting in the garden.Sidney was working, whilst Monica was reading the newspaper; and it wasRandolph Neville whom they were discussing. There was a short paragraphin the paper, mentioning the good work he had done on the frontier, andthe appointment that was offered to him of an important Government postin Central India.

Monica had had a terrible year of suffering and struggling against herfate. She had been through many treatments, but with very little resultas regards improvement to her health. She could walk a little with thehelp of a stick, and use her hands; but she would never be a strongactive woman again; and she had at last grasped this fact and acceptedit. Sidney had never left her. Monica had told her that if she did, shewould not endure her life a day longer; and though her rash words wereunconvincing, Sidney had not the heart to leave her alone.

The months had been testing times for all, for Monica's couragedeserted her, and she was a captious irritable impatient invalid. AuntDannie worried her so much, and realised that she did, that she finallyleft her and went to make a home with an old friend of hers in London.Sidney took the household into her care, a good working bailiff wasfound for the farm, and the routine of life went on pretty much asbefore.

Chuckles came home for his holidays, and gladdened the place with hispresence. But his aunt never spoke to him about being a farmer now. Shehad decided to sell the place as soon as she got a good offer for itand retire into a town, where Chuckles could attend a good day school.Her hair was grey, and her face lined like an old woman; for thisupheaval in her life had met and conquered all her fighting strength,and her agonising and futile efforts to get the better of it had leftscars behind which would not ever be effaced.

Sidney's sweetness and patience with her, her unfailing cheerfulness,and unswerving trust in One Who is Lord of circ*mstances, did much tosoften her lot; but though Monica had accepted her fate, she was notresigned to it. She had been very slowly, from constant intercoursewith Sidney, learning a few lessons that were not of her ownmaterialistic school; but though she was seeing through a glass darkly,she was still outside that circle of rest and assurance in which:

She was still her determined practical self; very quiet about her deepfeelings, coldly undemonstrative to everyone but Sidney. But she wasbeginning to take more interest in the outside world, and to bear thevisits of her friends without the resentment she had showed at first.

Sidney's heart beat quickly at the thought that she might possibly seeRandolph soon.

Their letters had insensibly altered in character from the time whenthey had first started their correspondence. She felt she could notgreet him now as a mere acquaintance. He was a good deal more to herthan that. And as she mused upon the probability of an early meeting,the flush deepened in her cheeks, and the light came to her eyes.

About four days afterwards, Monica received a wire.

And Sidney felt as if she were walking on air after it came.

It was a most exquisite evening in August when he arrived. The dogcarthad been sent to the station for him, and Monica and Sidney greeted himfrom their seat on the lawn. He strode towards them, looking thin andsunburnt; but his eyes were on Sidney's face and no other.

"How good to see you here," he said, as he took her hand in his. "Ihardly dared to hope it."

Monica smiled at his outspokenness.

"She is where she always is," she said,—"where her help is needed.Since I have become such a crock, she has supplied all my deficiencies."

And then Randolph turned to her.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am," he murmured.

"Well, if you are, you mustn't say so. Because I am not yet able toendure pity. Here is Chuckles coming to greet you. He was hoping todrive you back from the station, but arrived home too late from theRectory."

Chuckles had flung himself delightedly on Randolph. His school had notas yet robbed him of his impulsive affectionate ways.

"I'm simply longing to hear about India, Cousin Ran."

"Well, give me breathing space, old chap. I'll do my best later on. NowI want to hear all the news round here; my news can wait."

Sidney had slipped into the house. It was more than she could bear tostay quietly there. The touch of his hand, the look in his eyes, thetone of his voice, were all too much for her. She felt like breakingdown. She would have given worlds to have had her first meeting withhim alone, but Monica hardly realised how things were between them. AndSidney had hardly realised it herself until she was brought face toface with him.

Randolph's eyes followed her to the house. And then Monica, looking up,caught the hungry unsatisfied look in his eyes, and understood. Shepromptly resolved to give him his opportunity later on.

Meanwhile, with Chuckles on his knee, he sat and asked after MajorUrquhart.

"Oh, he is pretty well; but he is not a happy man, and is in completesubjection to his wife. She fills the house with visitors whenever shegets a chance; but I have nothing to say against her. She is sweetnessitself to all outsiders, and is always doing little kindnesses to herneighbours. Her role is to be popular. As a matter-of-fact, peopleround here take her existence very quietly, and do not have much to dowith her. They can't get over Sidney's dethronement."

His lips met together in a stern line.

"And has she no home but this?"

"Not at present. I assure you it's not a bad one, taking everythinginto consideration. She has had bad times with me, but we're reallyfond of each other, and she says she is happy and content."

"And what about young Austin? Is he married yet? I haven't seen theyoung lady, have I?"

"No; she arrived in this part after you left. Well, of course,people shook their heads at first; but, really, it seems turning outremarkably well. They were married last May, and Jockie is perfectlyhappy living under the wings of her mother-in-law. She has a mostastonishing capacity of adapting herself to her surroundings, and froma rather noisy hoyden, she is shaking down into a very fascinating andsweet little daughter of the house. Old Mr. de Cressiers is pretty muchthe same. He is devoted to Jockie; and Austin has settled down in greatcontent."

Chuckles had kept silent as long as he could. Now he burst forth:

"And I go to school, Cousin Ran, and I'm in the eleven, and I gets moreruns than any other chap."

"Wonderful!" said Randolph absently; then he turned to Monica. "She'slooking so frail. Has she been ill?"

There was no need to ask who "she" was.

"I think I have worn her out a good deal," said Monica gravely. "But,of course, she's been through a lot since you saw her last. And thoughher spirit is not broken, nor her bright hopefulness taken from her,yet the loss of her father and home has told upon her physically."

Randolph was silent for a moment or two. Then he rose from his seat,and stood looking down upon his cousin with pity in his eyes. Chucklesdashed away into the house. He could never be still for very long.

"You won't let me say how sorry I am for what has befallen you," hesaid.

"No. Please don't try to. It is just what I cannot stand. Talk to meas you would in the old days. Try to feel that my individuality is asstrong and unimpaired as ever. It is only my outer shell that is thecrock."

"It is strange that such trouble should come upon you both in the sameyear," said Randolph musingly.

"Yes," said Monica, with a little dry smile. "I tell Sidney we are thetwo builders who built their houses side by side, one on the rock, theother on the sand. The storms have come and beaten upon us; hers stillstands firm, but mine has gone under. And I tell you honestly that Iwould give anything sometimes to have Sidney's faith. Something towhich I could cling, some light beyond the present. I'm sitting amongstthe ruins of my plans and hopes, and though I've given up the struggleat last of trying to erect my building again, I'm not what you callresigned or happy. It's a cruel fate to overtake me, is it not?"

"I should start building again," said Randolph, looking at hermeditatively. "It may have to be a different style of building, andupon a different foundation, but you can still be a builder of sorts."

Monica made no reply. Then she made a move towards the house, and quiettalk was for the time postponed. Sidney appeared when the evening mealwas ready. She wore a simple white gown. She might be thin, and herface somewhat transparent, but the flush on her cheeks and light in hereyes made her look very radiant.

Randolph could hardly keep his eyes off her, but he was led to talk ofhis experiences, and he had a good deal of interesting news to give,so that Sidney lost her momentary fit of self-consciousness and wasan eager listener. Young George Lockhart had got promotion besideshimself, and had already written to Gavine to ask her to come out andshare his life.

"He's as steady as a rock now," said Randolph, "and has a good futurein front of him. I hope she is the kind of girl to be a help to him."

"She will be a tremendous help to him if she goes," said Sidney warmly.

And then, with a little hesitation, Randolph said:

"I came down here with a Major Hughes and his wife. He used to live inthis neighbourhood, did he not? They're visiting the Woods. We got intoconversation. I knew her before she married."

His eyes never left his plate as he spoke. He felt, much as he longedto meet Sidney's eyes as he hurled this bolt upon her, that it would bemore honourable on his part not to do so.

Sidney's tone was easy and assured.

"Yes; Archie Hughes is an old friend. I thought he was still in India."

"His wife was ordered home by doctors, so he has come with her to spendhis long leave."

"You never told me that you knew his wife," said Monica, eyeing himanxiously.

"Did I not? I used to be often at her father's house in town."

Sidney was slightly distrait for the rest of the meal. But when it wasover, Monica asked her to show Randolph some new farm buildings whichhad been erected since he had been there.

"They were a good investment," said Monica quietly, "though I shan'thave the use of them much longer. I am putting up the place for saleshortly."

Randolph walked out into the sweet evening air, feeling that hisopportunity was close at hand. What were farm buildings to him whenSidney was by his side? How hungrily he had longed for the sound of hervoice, the sight of her smile, in those distant lands which had heldhim!

Sidney trod lightly by his side.

"What is Mrs. Hughes like?" she asked.

"She looks ill and worn now, but she used to be a pretty girl when Iknew her." Then, in rather a stern tone, he added: "She was engaged tobe married to me before she went out to India." Sidney drew her breathin sharply.

"And I was engaged to him," she said simply, "or thought I was."

They were crossing the old orchard. He turned round quickly, and,before Sidney realised it, both her hands were imprisoned in his.

"Isn't it a remarkable thing that the two who wrought havoc in ourlives should be brought before us, to-night of all nights?"

"Why?" asked Sidney gently.

"Because I am hoping that we have both learnt not to regret the past. Iknow I have. Have you?"

Sidney raised her eyes to his, the eyes that Randolph loved so to meet,so clear and deep and sweet were they under their long curled lashes.

"Yes," she said. "I have no regrets."

Then he spoke, and strong man as he was, his voice was a little husky,and he paled under his emotion.

"I wonder if you guess why I have come home? By night and day yourpresence has been with me. I have closed my eyes and pictured youbefore me; I have dreamed so often that a rustle of your gown inpassing, a whispered call, told me that you were with me. I gotheart-sick for a sight of you, the sound of your voice. Oh, Sidney,sweetest, will you let me tell you how I long to take care of you forthe rest of your life? You have been spending your life in lookingafter others, will you let me look after you? I want to love you, toguard you, to make it my one business in life to make you happy. Do youthink I shall be able to do it? Will you trust yourself entirely to me?"

Sidney's hands trembled in his. Her lips quivered. Though this was anexquisite moment in her life, her eyes were blinded by a mist of tears.She allowed his strong arm to come round her, and with a little happysigh leant her head against his shoulder.

"Oh!" she said softly. "If you have wanted me, I have wanted you. Ibelieve I have missed you every day since you went."

"And I you. Do you remember, darling, the first night we came to dineat The Anchorage—Monica and I? You were standing outside the door,looking like some ethereal being who had come to earth, met with bitterdisappointment and disillusion, and was already poised for flight. Yoursoul seemed reaching out to heaven. That picture of you has never leftmy heart. And now I will confess to you that same evening I discoveredyour trouble. Do you remember coming down to the river just before youleft Lady Fielding's, and calling out in the anguish of your heart:'Oh, God! Teach me to forget!' I was an unwilling listener, for I hadjust arrived, thought nobody was in, and was lying under the wall ina boat. And you uttered the words that were hammering away in my ownbrain. I had that morning received the same shock as you had, and wasin great bitterness of soul. When I heard you sing, it flashed acrossme that I had heard your voice before, and then I remembered."

Sidney lowered her head a little.

"That dreadful day I hardly know what I did, and how I got home tofather. Oh, it was dreadful! But it is past. Don't let us think of it.How wonderful it was that we were brought together! How strange that weeach should have been dealt the same blow!"

"Yes, Fate plays many tricks, does she not? Oh, Sidney! Sweetheart, Ican hardly believe I have won you! How often when I was here before,I longed to chase the sadness out of your eyes! How I have prayed forthis moment to hold you in my arms, and tell you how I loved you! Thetime has been sweetened out abroad by your letters; I have carried themabout; I have slept with them under my pillow. I have learnt them byheart, and kissed the writing night and morning, but they're a poorexchange after all for you, yourself. I got foolishly jealous at onetime of young Austin. I was glad when you told me that he had goneabroad. It was torture to me when you left your home, and I knew thatyou had no longer any man to care for you or protect you. I know I'mout of date; but, thank God, you are! You don't want to go through lifealone and independent, do you? You will be content to come to me, andlet me have the joy of caring for you?"

Sidney's murmured assent was hardly needed. She felt the exquisite restof soul that a good and strong man's love brings to one. She believedin him and she loved him. He would never disappoint her.

Presently she released herself, but the farm buildings were forgotten.They wandered round in the twilight talking over their letters, theirexperiences, their need of each other; and when they at last returnedto the house, Monica received them in her matter-of-fact fashion.

"I am sure you have never been near my buildings. Well, it served itspurpose, and now accept my congratulations. You are a very lucky man,Randolph, to have won her heart. But I don't like the idea of youcarrying her off from us all. How shall we get on without her?"

"You can get on better without her than I can," said Randolph, witherect head and triumphantly happy eyes. "And I think it is her turn tobe taken care of. You people down here seem to regard her as a generalhelp, one whom you can send for at a moment's notice, if you get intoany sort of trouble. I am going to stop all that, for she is worn-outin working for others."

"Never!" said Sidney, looking up at him with kindling eyes. "Don't youknow that is a woman's highest ideal, to be wanted?"

"Then that ideal will be realised, for I have only half lived since Imet you first, and then had to part from you."

"It's just another form of selfishness," said Monica dryly. "She willhave to centre herself round one individual, instead of round many."

Randolph laughed lightheartedly.

"You have me there," he said; "but I'm not going to take her to adesert island. She is going to help me at Empire building."

A sharp line showed itself between Monica's brows.

"Oh, this building!" she exclaimed. "It is getting on my nerves."

Sidney bent over her and kissed her.

"We won't talk about it any more, Monnie, and you are not going to loseme yet, not for a long time."

CHAPTER XX

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER

"Is Uncle Ted in?"

Sidney wanted to tell her uncle herself of her engagement. Randolphand she had come down to The Anchorage together, and Mrs. Urquhart hadreceived them rather ceremoniously in the drawing-room. Randolph was astranger to her; and she had no idea of what had taken place. Sidney,felt unable to break the news to her, and wanted to get away to heruncle, and Mrs. Urquhart was only too pleased to entertain any visitor.

"You will find him in his workshop. He doesn't do much but smoke andsleep there. I'm afraid his working days are over."

Sidney sped away. She did not find her uncle asleep. He was surroundedby papers, and was writing rather laboriously when she entered, butmade an attempt to hide his handiwork.

When he saw she was alone he stood up, received her greeting, thenturned and locked the door behind her.

"I will have you to myself," he said, rather desperately. "I want toshow you something."

Sidney smiled into his anxious-looking face.

"Ethel is entertaining a visitor—Randolph Neville. Do you remember him?He has come home, and is staying with Monnie."

"He was rather a nice chap. Oh, well, she won't miss you, if he is withher. Sit down. I want to tell you something."

Sidney quietly obeyed him. Her own news could keep. She saw that heruncle was full of his own affairs.

Major Urquhart leant back in his chair. Looking at him Sidney saw thathis hair was rapidly getting white; he had become a careworn old man,and her heart ached for him, for she knew that the atmosphere of lovewas wanting in his home, and there was but little comfort for him.

"I've been making my will," her uncle said solemnly; "one can't tell atmy time of life how soon it might be wanted. I've had it drawn up andlegally witnessed, and it is here."

He patted a businesslike envelope on his table. "I've been writing aletter to my wife explaining the contents of it. The letter I am goingto lock up in dear Vernon's writing bureau. She'll soon find thatafter—after I'm taken. But I want you to know, and only you, where Iam going to put my will. I'm not going to have any risk of it beinglost; and she's rather thick with that lawyer chap. Upon my word, I'mbeginning to suspect everybody nowadays. Look here!"

He went up to the fireplace, and, stooping down, took up a bit of theflooring in a recess by the side of it. Sidney followed him, and saw atin box reposing underneath.

"That's where my will is going to be!" he said impressively.

"All right, uncle. May it remain there for many a long year."

He shook his head.

"We are not a long-lived family. Look at poor Vernon! Well, I'verelieved my mind. And you'll be able to have it produced whennecessary. You see, the best of women are curious, and I shouldn't likeher to get an inkling of its contents, so I have put it where she willnever be able to find it. And I would like you to know, Sid, that theold house and its contents will just come back to you. She would neverlive here. She has no love for the place. I couldn't rest in my grave,unless I felt that I had made my wrongdoing right as far as possible. Ishall like to feel that in days to come you, and perhaps children whomay come after you, will still be here."

Tears were in Sidney's eyes.

"You are a dear, Uncle Ted! I don't want to thank you now. I don't knowhow you have done it; but, of course, you will remember that your wifehas the first claim upon you. If she doesn't care for the house—"

"Oh, yes, yes; we won't discuss the money part of it."

"I want to tell you," Sidney went on quietly, "that Randolph Nevillewants me to go back to India with him. You see, I shall be providedfor. Will this make any difference?"

"None whatever," said the Major stoutly, "except to ease my mind atpresent about you. So that is the way the land lies, is it? I'm gladhe's had the sense to come home. Well, well! You can't live in Indiafor the rest of your days. You'll be glad enough to retire after abit, and then you Will find this place useful. But what does he sayto finding you turned out of your home? I never shall hold up my headagain."

It was the usual strain when Sidney visited her uncle. He always beganlamenting over the past. Sidney stopped him rather sharply.

"Now, Uncle Ted, if you begin talking like that, I shall run away.Don't you see how everything has turned out for the best? If you andI had been living on here together, how could I have left you? Ishouldn't have had the heart to do it. I should have told Randolph thathe must wait, and he would have had to sail back to India alone. As itis, I know you are being taken care of in your own Dome, and so I shallgo out happily with him."

The Major cheered up at once.

"Yes, yes, I see. Well, that gives me a gleam of light. Is Nevillehere? I should like to see him. He is a lucky dog, that he is!"

They both returned to the drawing-room. Randolph had evidentlyenlightened Mrs. Urquhart. She came up to Sidney and kissed her.

"So glad, my dear Sidney, to hear the news. It was a pleasant surprise.And isn't it strange that by yesterday's post I got a letter fromGavine, telling me she was engaged to young George Lockhart. Iunderstand Mr. Neville and he are great cronies. It gave me quite ashock when I had the letter. These modern daughters settle up theirown affairs quite independently. I shall have to congratulate her andprovide her trousseau. That is all my part of it."

"Dear Gavine!" said Sidney warmly. "She deserves to be happy, for sheis spending her life in trying to make others so."

They did not stay much longer. Randolph was impatient to get Sidney tohimself. They were walking home to the farm, talking as only loverscan, when suddenly, in a turn of the road, they came face to facewith a little group of people. Jockie and Austin were escorting somefriends down to the riverside. They were in boating attire. It was atrying moment for all, for Sidney and Randolph instantly recognised thecouple who had wrought tragedy in their lives—Archibald Hughes and hiswife. Introductions followed, of course. Mrs. Hughes had a washed-outappearance, and rather a spiritless laugh, but light came into her eyesas she turned to Randolph. She could not forget the past; few women can.

"I was wondering when we should meet you again," she said. "We cameover to Thanning Towers last night to dine and sleep, and now we havebeen persuaded to stay to a water picnic. But you know Sir Peter, ofcourse. Do come over and see us."

"I'm afraid I shall not be able to, thanks," said Randolph briefly.

Archie Hughes was the most awkward one of the party. He was trying tobe unconscious of Sidney's presence; and yet she had never looked morecharming than she did now, and he found his eyes wandering towards herin spite of himself.

In the first shock of the meeting Sidney had paled even to her verylips, but her greeting was perfectly assured and gracious.

"When are you going back to India?" she asked him.

"Er—when?—er—I think in about a month's time. We're visiting round inthis neighbourhood for a week or so. A lot of changes. Sorry to hearabout your father. Never knew it till we got here. Is your uncle herestill?"

"Yes. He has married since you were in this part. He would be very gladto see you."

As she talked to him, calm conviction came to her that the love she hadhad for this man once was absolutely dead. She contrasted his loose andsomewhat stout exterior with the wiry-knit frame of Randolph. Archiedid not seem to have improved with time, and his marriage was not onewhich would lead him to take serious views of life.

Jockie, of course, was most eager that Sidney and Randolph should jointhem in their expedition. She could not understand her husband's wantof enthusiasm in the proposal; but she was the only one of the partywho was ignorant of the past.

When at last the boating party went on their way, Jockie exclaimed:

"And that is the frontier hero whom Gavine has talked so much about.Well, they will make a splendid couple. Now I know where Sidney'sheart has been all this time. I always felt she would never remain anunappropriated blessing for long."

"She's rather good-looking," said Mrs. Hughes.

"Oh, she's perfectly beautiful," said warm-hearted Jockie; "but it isherself we love her for, isn't it, Austin?"

"I hope he'll be good enough for her," said Austin. "I thought it wouldhave come off when he was here before."

Archie was silent. What could he say?

It had been a remarkable meeting, and Sidney and Randolph were the onlyones involved who could view the past without regret.

"I am glad our meeting is over," said Sidney, slipping her arm in thatof Randolph's. "I was foolishly dreading it, but I only feel thankfulnow."

Randolph bent down over her.

"We have both suffered," he said; "but now let us bury the past. Thefuture is ours, and my own aim in life now will be to make you and keepyou happy."

"It won't be difficult to do that."

Sidney had for so long lived in the shade that this sudden spell ofsunshine almost overwhelmed her. Tears came into her eyes. Then she metRandolph's gaze and smiled.

"Don't make too much of me, will you? Oh, Randolph, I do believe thatGod meant us for each other, and so in love He prevented us from makingthe mistake of our lives."

Later on Monica was told about it. Randolph was lured away by Chucklesto inspect his rabbits, and Sidney sat and talked with her friend.

"What I like about Ran," said Monica in her matter-of-fact way, "isthat his love is unselfish. It will wear well, Sidney. His firstthought is of what he can be to you. Most men think of what you can beto them. I am glad you two have come together. I remember the time whenI thought you and Archie Hughes would make a match of it. But he wasnever good enough for you. You would have had to be always pulling himuphill after you."

"The only regret I shall have is leaving you," said Sidney slowly andthoughtfully.

"You have pulled me through my worst time," said Monica. "I have alwaysbeen accustomed to stand on my own. I'm not one of the world's leaners."

"But I wish I could leave you happier."

"You want me to think as you do, don't you? I may come at it some day,but not yet. You have made me realise what faith can do. Whether Ishall ever arrive at it, is a different matter."

"If you could only see how lost one is without a centre," cried Sidney,"and how much we owe to the One Who made us."

Monica looked thoughtfully at her, but made no reply.

"Oh," Sidney went on earnestly, "it is just being illustrated overagain with you and Chuckles. How you have toiled and slaved for thatchild! How anxiously you have worked and saved to bequeath to him agood inheritance. How you even were ready to sacrifice your life forhis, and have, in saving him, condemned yourself to a crippled life.He realises it all so little; he does not understand. He takes it allas a matter of course, and seems to have no sense of gratitude or wishto please the one who has loved him so. Isn't that how we treat ourFather?"

The words sank into Monica's heart. She began to see dimly a little ofwhat she had missed in her life; but she said nothing, only turned theconversation into another channel.

And presently Randolph returned with the chattering boy.

"We've been having a lovely time. Cousin Ran has been telling me aboutsnakes. Aunt Monnie, I'd like to go out to India one day and do whatCousin Ran is doing. Miss Sid says he's an Empire builder. I shouldlike to build an Empire. It's such a big thing to do."

"You won't be ready for that just yet," said Monica.

"And you have to take care of your aunt, Chuckles," said Sidney. "Shewill want someone to love her and care for her when we have gone."

"Is Cousin Ran going to take you away from us? That's horribly nasty ofhim."

"I can't build without her," said Randolph.

"She does know how to build wonderful," said the child with a wise nod."She taught me all about it; she said God taught her, so, of course,she couldn't build wrong."

"Of course she couldn't," said Randolph gravely, as his eyes metSidney's. "We can all learn from the Master Builder, and then therewill be no mistakes."

"But you will be done building before me," pursued Chuckles, who, onceon his favourite topic, was not easily quenched; "because the olderpeople are, the higher their house is, and when it's very high andclose to heaven, God takes them in. I made that up myself."

Sidney smiled, but Monica's brows were furrowed.

"Of course," Chuckles continued in his most dreamy voice, as he gazedup into the summer sky, "some people get their houses knocked down,and then, I suppose, they begin again. Miss Sid says they can. That'sbecause they didn't build tight on the rock. I do hope my buildingwon't slip off the rock."

"Run off to bed," said his aunt shortly.

She felt she could bear no more.

Chuckles obediently wished them all good-night; then, as a partingshot, he called out to Randolph:

"I see you out of my window when you take Miss Sid through the garden.You stick so close you only make one shadow!"

"That is what we will do through life," murmured Randolph in Sidney'sear, not at all embarrassed by the child's remark. "Our shadows will bemerged into one."

Later on, when they were taking their evening stroll together, Sidneylooked up at Chuckles' window.

"I hope he will grow up a comfort to Monnie," she said. "She hasspoiled her life in saving him; and yet I do think no life can bespoiled down here. She will come through it yet, a nobler and finercharacter."

"She will learn to rebuild, eh?" said Randolph, divining Sidney'sthoughts.

And then, as if Chuckles had heard them, he raised his window and shothis head out.

"I see you! Miss Sid, do you know why I'm going to be like a limpet?Because I'm going to build tight and stick to the rock for ever andever. I've just said it in my prayers."

And Randolph raised his hat and looked upwards. "Amen," he said.

PRINTED by CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E. C.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73696 ***