CHAPTER IV.

"Care to our coffin adds a nail no doubt.And every grin, so merry, draws one out."John Walcot.

"And Nature swears, the lovely dearsHer noblest work she classes, O;Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,And then she made the lasses, O."Burns.

As the soft September twilight stole over the room, the girls became more silent. Waveney seemed buried in thought, and Mollie, tired out with laughing, nestled against her comfortably, and very nearly went to sleep. But she was roused effectually by Waveney's next speech.

"Sweetheart"—her pet name for Mollie—"I am going to make you miserable, I am afraid, but I have been telling myself all day long that we must face the situation. If father does not get a good price for his picture, what are we to do?"

"But he must sell it," returned Mollie, in a distressed voice. "Barker is getting disagreeable about his bill, and his man says nasty things to Ann when he leaves the meat. And we owe Chandler for two tons of coal."

"Yes, I know;" and Waveney sighed heavily. "Those two tons have been on my mind all day."

"You poor dear, no wonder you looked tired. Ah, how hateful and mean it is to be poor! Ah, you are not as wicked and rebellious as I am, Wave. I sometimes cry with the longing for the pretty things other girls have. I cannot resign myself to the idea of being shabby and pinched and careworn all my life long. If this goes on we shall be old women before our time; when I am ordering dinner I feel nearly a hundred."

Waveney stroked the glossy brown head that rested against her shoulder, but made no other answer: she was thinking how she could best break some unwelcome news to Mollie. Mollie was emotional, and cried easily, and her father always hated to see one of his girls unhappy. "Father would cut the moon up into little pieces and give them to us, if he could," she thought; "nothing is too good for us. But when Mollie frets he takes it so to heart. Oh dear, if only doing one's duty were made easier; but there is no 'learning or reading without tears' in the Handbook of Life;" and then she set her little white teeth together firmly, as a child does when some nauseous medicine is offered.

"Mollie, dear, I cannot keep it back any longer—it makes me miserable to have a secret from you. I have been to Harley Street to-day, and talked to Miss Warburton, and she has something on her books that is likely to suit me."

Then the sob she dreaded to hear rose to poor Mollie's lips.

"Ah, Wave, you can't really mean it! This is worst of all. It is positively dreadful. How am I to live without you? And father, and Noel, what are they to do?" and here the tears rolled down her face; but Waveney, who had been schooling herself all day, refused to be moved from her stoicism.

"Mollie, please listen to me. It is childish to cry. Do you remember our last talk—the one we had in the Lime Walk, and how we agreed that we must do all we could to help father!"

"But I do help him," returned Mollie, in a woe-begone voice. "I keep the house and mend things, and look after that stupid, clumsy Ann; and the fine-art publishers seem to like my little drawings, and I am never idle for a single instant."

"No, darling, you put us all to shame. Do you think I am finding fault with you? But you must not do it all, that is just it; and as Mrs. Addison no longer requires me, I must look out for another situation"—for during the past year Waveney had acted as secretary to a lady living near them in Cheyne Walk. It had only been a morning engagement, and the pay had not been much, but Waveney, and Mollie too, had found immense pleasure in spending the scanty earnings.

"Of course, I know you must do something," returned Mollie, rather irritably, for even her sweet nature resented the idea of losing Waveney as an insufferable injury; "but you might find something in Chelsea."

"No, dear," returned Waveney, gently. "I have tried, over and over again, and I can find nothing suitable. I cannot teach—I have never been educated for a governess; and no one near us seems to want a secretary or reader, or companion."

"Are you quite sure of that, Waveney?"

"Quite sure. I have been wasting two whole months waiting for something to turn up, so this morning I made up my mind that I would see Miss Warburton. She was so nice, Mollie. She is such a dear woman; a little quick and decided in her manner—what some people would call abrupt—but when she gets interested in a person she is really quite soft and kind. She heard all I had to say, asked me a few questions, and then turned to her book.

"'It is rather a lucky chance you came in this morning, Miss Ward,' she said, 'for a lady who called yesterday is in want of a young person who can read well.' And then she explained to me that this lady's sister was troubled at times with some weakness in her eyes that prevented her from reading to herself, especially of an evening, and that they required some pleasant, ladylike girl, who would make herself useful in little ways."

"And the name, Waveney?"

"The name is Harford, and they live at the 'Red House,' Erpingham. They are very nice people, but at the present moment she is staying with some friends in Berkeley Square, and she will interview me there."

"Oh, dear, you speak as though everything were settled."

"No, indeed, no such luck. Miss Warburton was very kind, very sympathetic, and anxious to help me; but she advised me not to set my heart on it for fear I should be disappointed. 'Miss Harford may think you too young,—yes, I know,' as I was about to protest indignantly at this,—'you are really nineteen, but no one would think you were over seventeen.' Isn't it humiliating, Mollie, that strangers will always think I am a child? If only my hair would grow and not curl over my head in this absurd way. People always take you for the eldest." "And you are to see Miss Harford to-morrow?"

"Yes, dear; and you must get Noel to throw another old shoe after me for luck." Then her lip trembled and her eyes grew misty.

"Dear, do not make it harder for me than you can help. Don't you know how I hate to leave my old Sweetheart? I would rather stay at home and live on bread and water than fare sumptuously in other folks' houses; I feel as though I should die with home-sickness andennui. Oh, it is no crying matter, I assure you; it is the rack and the thumb-screw and the burning faggots all in one, and if you want a new martyr for the calendar, and have any spare halos on hand, I am your woman." And then, of course, Mollie did as she was expected to do, left off crying and began to laugh in the manner that often made her father call her "his wild Irish girl." And, indeed, there was something very Irish in Mollie's mercurial and impressionable temperament.

The next minute their attention was attracted by strange noises from below.

Something heavy was being dragged along the passage, accompanied by extraordinary sibilant sounds, resembling the swishing and hissing of an ostler rubbing down a horse. Both the girls seemed to recognise the sounds, for Waveney frowned and bit her lip, and Mollie said, in a troubled tone,—

"Oh, it is poor old 'Canute' come back;" and then they ran into the passage and looked over the balusters. Noel and a little fair man in a shabby velveteen coat were hauling a large picture between them, with much apparent difficulty. One end had got jammed in the narrow staircase, and Noel's encouraging "swishes" and "Whoa, there—steady, old man! Keep your pecker up, and don't kick over the traces," might have been addressed to a skittish mare. Then he looked up and winked at his sisters, and almost fell backwards in his attempt to feign excessive joy.

"Hurrah! three cheers! Here we are again—large as life, and as heavy as the fat woman in Mrs. Jarley's wax-works. But what's the odds as long as you are happy, as the lobster said as he walked into the pot."

"Hold your tongue, Noel," returned his father, good-naturedly. "It is your fault the confounded thing has got wedged. Keep it straight, and we shall manage it well enough;" and then he looked up at the two faces above him.

"There you are, my darlings," he said, nodding to them.

"You see I am bringing our old friend back; we will have him up directly if only this young jackanapes will leave off his monkey tricks." And then in a singularly sweet tenor voice he chanted,—

"You hear that boy laughing? You think it is fun,But the angels laugh too at the good he has done.The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all."

"Oliver Wendell Holmes," whispered Mollie; but Waveney made no answer; she only ran down a few steps and gallantly put her shoulder to the wheel, and after a few more tugs "King Canute" was safely landed in the studio, where Noel executed a war-dance round him, with many a wild whoop, after the manner of Redskins.

"Father, dear," whispered Mollie, in a delightfully coaxing voice, "sit down on Grumps while I make your coffee;" for the Ward family, being somewhat original, gave queer names to their belongings; and since they were children the old couch had been called "Grumps," tired hands and tired limbs and aching hearts always finding it a comfortable refuge.

"So I will, dear," returned Mr. Ward; and then both the girls hung about him and kissed him, and Mollie brushed back his hair, and put a rose in his buttonhole; but Waveney only sat down beside him and held his hand silently.

There was no difficulty in discovering where Noel got his good looks. In his youth Everard Ward had been considered so handsome that artists had implored him to sit to them; and for many years well-principled heads of girls' colleges feared to engage him as drawing-master.

And even now, in spite of the tired eyes and careworn expression, and the haggardness brought on by the tension of over-work and late hours, the face was almost perfect, only the fair hair had worn off the forehead and was becoming a little grey—"pepper and salt," Mollie called it. But the thing that struck strangers most was his air of refinement, in spite of his shabby coat and old hat; no one could deny that he was a gentleman; and in this they were right.

Everard Ward was a man who if he had mixed in society would have made many friends. In the old days he had been dearly loved and greatly admired; but just when his prospects were brightest and the future seemed gilded with success, he suddenly took the bit between his teeth and bolted—not down hill; his mother's sweet memory and his own dignity prevented that—but across country, down side roads that had no thoroughfare, and which landed him in bogs of difficulty.

For in spite of his soft heart and easy good-nature Everard was always offending people; his wealthy godfather, for example, when he refused to take orders and to be inducted into a family living; and again his sole remaining relative, an uncle, who wished him to go into the War Office.

"Life is an awful muddle," he would say sometimes; but in reality he made his own difficulties. His last act of youthful madness was when he left the Stock Exchange, where an old friend of his father had given him a berth, and had joined a set of young artistic Bohemians.

At that time he was supposed by his friends to be on the brink of an engagement to an heiress, he had seemed warmly attached to her, until at a ball he met Dorothy Sinclair, and fell desperately in love with her.

This was his crowning act of madness; and when he married her his friends shook their heads disapprovingly, and said to each other that that fool of a Ward had done for himself now. Why, the fellow must be imbecile to throw away a fortune and a good sort of woman like that, to marry a pretty little girl, without a penny for her dower!

And, indeed, though Dorothy was a lovely young creature, and as good and lovable as her own Mollie, she was the last woman Everard ought to have married.

The heiress would have made a man of him, and he would have spent her money royally and been the best of husbands to her; but Dorothy lacked backbone. She was one of those soft, weak women who need a strong arm to lean upon.

And so, when the children came, and the cold, cold blast of adversity began to blow upon them; when Everard could not sell his pictures, and poverty stared them in the face;—then she lost heart and courage.

"Everard, dearest, I have not been the right wife for you," she said once; for that long, fatal illness taught her many things. "Oh, I see it all so much more clearly now. I have disheartened you when you needed encouragement, and when our troubles came I did not bear them well."

"You have been the sweetest wife in the world to me," was his answer; and then Dorothy had smiled at him well pleased. Yes, he had been her true lover, and he was her lover to the last; and when she died, leaving three young children to his care, Everard Ward mourned for her as truly as any man could do.

Those were terrible years for him that followed his wife's death; his twin girls were only ten years old, and Noel a pale-faced urchin of five.

He never quite knew how he lived through them, but necessity goaded him to exertion. He worked doggedly all day long, coming home whenever it was possible to take his meals with the children. Sometimes some kind-hearted schoolmistress would tell him to bring one of his little girls with him, and this was always a red-letter day for Waveney and Mollie, for the poor little things led a dull life until Everard was able to send them to day-school; and after that they were quite happy.

He used to watch them sometimes as they went down the street with their satchel of books. Waveney would be dancing along like a fairy child, with little springy jumps and bounds, as though the sunshine intoxicated her, and Mollie would hurry after her, limping and lurching in her haste, with her golden brown hair streaming over her shoulders, and her sweet, innocent face lifted smilingly to every passer-by.

"My sweet Moll, she is her mother's image," Everard would say to himself, and his eyes would be a little dim; for, with all his faults and troubles and idiosyncrasies, no father was more devoted. His twin daughters were the joy and pride of his heart. When he came home at night, tired out with a long day's work, the very sound of their voices as he put the latch-key in the door seemed to refresh and invigorate him.

"Here's dad! here's dear old dad!" they would cry, running out to meet him; and then they would kiss and cuddle him, and purr over him like warm, soft young kittens. Noel would pull off his boots and bring him his slippers, and then "Grumps" would be dragged up to the fire, and Ann would be ordered to bring up the tea quick, and then they would all wait on him as though he were a decrepit old man; and Noel, who was a humorist even at that early age, would pretend to be a waiter, and say, "Yessir," and "No, sir," and "Next thing, sir," with an old rag of a towel on his arm to represent a napkin.

"I saw Ward the other evening," a friend of his said one day to a lady; "he teaches drawing at Welbeck College, where I take the literature classes, so I often see him; and one evening he took me home with him to Cleveland Terrace. Poor old Ward! he was not cut out for a drawing master; he was always a bit flighty and full of whimsies, and used to fly his kite too high in the old days; but he made a fool of himself, you know, with that unlucky marriage."

"Indeed," returned the lady, quietly.

"Ah, well! that is all ancient history. He has made his bed, poor fellow, and must just lie on it; but I do so hate seeing a man's career marred, especially if he is a good sort, like Ward!"

"And you went home with him?" observed his hearer, in the same quiet tone.

"Yes; and upon my word it was really a pretty little family picture. There was Ward, looking like a sleepy Adonis with his fair hair rumpled all over his head, and two sweet little girls hanging on each arm, and cooing over him; and that fine boy of his lying on the rug with a picture. I declare my snug bachelor rooms looked quite dull that night."

When anything ailed one of the twins, Everard's misery would have touched the most stony heart. When Mollie had measles, he nursed her night and day, and when Waveney and Noel also sickened, he was so worn out that if a kindly friend had not come to his assistance, he would soon have been on a sick-bed.

Happily it was holiday time, and there were no schools or classes; Miss Martin was a governess herself, but with the divine self-abnegation of a good-hearted woman she gave up a pleasant visit to a country house to help poor Mr. Ward—women were always doing that sort of thing for Everard Ward. But her little patients gave her a great deal of trouble.

Mollie cried and would not take her medicine from anyone but father, and Waveney was pettish; but Noel was the worst of all.

Miss Martin was plain-featured, and wore spectacles, and Noel, who inherited his father's love of beauty, objected to her strongly. "Go away," he said, fretfully; "we don't want no frights in goggles;" and he began to roar so lustily that Everard was roused from his sleep and came, pale and weary and dishevelled, to expostulate with his son and heir.

But Noel, who was feverish and uncomfortable, repeated his offence.

"We don't want no frights here, dad. Tell her to go."

"For shame, Noel," returned his father, sternly. "I am quite shocked at you. This kind lady has come to help us; and don't you know, my boy, that to a gentleman all women are beautiful?"

"Please don't scold him, Mr. Ward," returned Miss Martin, good-naturedly; but her sallow face was a little flushed. "Noel and I will soon be good friends; it is only the fever makes him fractious." And as tact and good temper generally win the day, the children soon got very fond of their dear Marty, as they called her; and as they grew up she became their most valued friend and adviser until her death.

It was Miss Martin whose sensible arguments overcame Everard's rooted aversion to the idea of his girls working.

"As long as I live I will work for them," he would say; but Miss Martin stuck to her point gallantly.

"Life is so uncertain, Mr. Ward. An accident any day might prevent you from earning your bread—you will forgive me for speaking plainly. Let them work while they are young." But though Everard owned himself convinced by her arguments, it was a bitter day to him when Waveney became Mrs. Addison's secretary.

"Father would cut the moon up in little bits and give them to us," Waveney had said to herself. And, indeed, to the fond, foolish fellow, no gift could have been too precious for those cherished darlings of his heart.

Everard always told people that he loved them just alike, and he honestly thought so; and yet, if Waveney's finger ached, it seemed to pain him all over; and all the world knows what that means!

"And the night shall be filled with music,And the cares that infest the dayShall fold their tents like the Arabs,And as silently steal away."Longfellow.

As soon as Mollie had left the room, on household cares intent, Waveney lighted a small, shaded lamp that stood on the table. It was a warm evening, and both the windows were thrown up. The moon had just risen, and the vine-leaves that festooned the balcony had silver edges. As Waveney turned up the lamp she said, cheerfully, "Now we can see each other's faces," and then she sat down again and slipped her hand in her father's arm.

"Tell me all about it, dad, directly minute." And then a smile came to Mr. Ward's tired face, for this was one of the family stock jokes that were never stale, never anything but delightful and fresh, and whenever one of his girls said it, it brought back Waveney in her baby days, a tiny despot in red shoes, with a head "brimming over with curls," stamping her little feet and calling out in shrill treble, "Directly minute! Miss Baby won't wait nohow."

"There is nothing good to hear, little girl," returned Mr. Ward, with a strained laugh. "When you spell failure, spell it with a big F, my dear; that's all." But another skilful question or two soon drew forth the whole story.

He had had a harassing, disappointing day. The dealers who had sold one or two of his smaller pictures refused to give "King Canute" house-room. They could not possibly dispose of such a picture, they said; it was too large and cumbersome, and there were serious defects in it. One or two of the figures were out of drawing; the waves were too solid, looking like molten lead. There was nofinesse, no delicacy of execution, the colouring was crude; in fact, the criticism had been scathing.

"They were so rough on me that my back was up at last," went on Mr. Ward, "and when Wilkes said I might leave it if I liked, and he would try and get a customer for it, I saw he was only letting me down a bit easier, and that he did not believe it would sell, so I just called a cab and brought it back."

Waveney winced. All this cab hire could not be afforded. And then, what were they to do? But the next moment she was stroking the worn coat-sleeve tenderly, and her voice was as cheerful as ever.

"Dad, it is a long lane that has no turning—remember that; and it is no use fretting over spilt milk. To-morrow we will get Noel to hang up dear old King Canute in that blank space, and if the stupid, cantankerous old dealers will not have anything to say to him, Mollie and I will admire him every day of our lives. Molten lead, indeed!" jerking her chin contemptuously.

But Mr. Ward, who had been too much crushed to revive at once, only shook his head and sighed. In his heart he knew the dealers were right, and that the work was not really well done. The stormy sunset looked blotchy and unreal, and the solidity of the water was apparent, even to him. The whole thing was faulty, mawkish, amateurish, and futile. He had been in a perfect rage against himself, the dealers, and all the rest of the world as he clambered into his cab.

He had had a rap upon the knuckles once too often. Well, he had learnt his lesson at last; but what a fool and dunce he had been!

"Take your punishment, my boy," he had said to himself, grimly. "Write yourself Everard Ward, U.A., unmitigated ass; and wear your fool's cap with a jaunty air.

"You wanted to paint a big historical picture! to be something better than a drawing-master. Oh, you oaf, you dotard, you old driveller, to think that you could set the Thames on fire, that you could do something to keep your memory fresh and green. Go back to your water-colour landscapes, to your water-wheels and cottages, your porches smothered in woodbine; you are at the bottom of your class, my lad, and there you will be to the end of the chapter." And then—for his imagination was very vivid—he saw himself, an elderly man, in his shabby great-coat, going out all weathers to his schools—a little shrunk, a little more hopeless, and his girls, his twin blessings—but here the hot tears rose to his eyes, and he bit his lips. Oh, it was hard, hard—and it was for their sakes he had worked and toiled.

Just then Mollie came with a little tray. There was a tall, curious old china cup on it which was known in the family as "Dives," and was considered one of their choicest treasures. When any one was ill, the sight of Dives, filled to the brim with fragrant coffee or delicious chocolate, would bring a smile to pale lips. As she placed the tray beside her father, Mollie's face wore a triumphant air, as though she would have said, "If any one could beat that cup of coffee or make better toast, I should like to see her, that's all."

"Thanks, dearest," returned her father, gently; "but you have scorched your face, my sweet Moll."

"Oh, that is nothing," returned Mollie, hastily, putting up her hands to her hot cheeks; she had been through all sorts of vicissitudes during the last half-hour. The water would not boil, or the fire burn properly, though she and Noel had put a whole bundle of sticks into it, and at every stick he had asked her a fresh conundrum.

"Have you told dad about Monsieur Blackie?" she asked; and then Waveney smiled.

"No, but I will, presently, when father has had his supper. Come out on the balcony a moment, Mollie. Is not the moonlight lovely!"

"Yes, I do love these 'white nights,'" returned Mollie, ecstatically. "We used to call them silver nights when we were wee children. Those roofs look as though they were covered with snow. And just see how nice our shabby old courtyard looks; those privets are quite grand. What an old dear the moon is, Wave! She covers up all little defects so nicely, and glorifies all common things."

But Waveney did not hear this little rhapsody, neither had she called Mollie out to watch moonlight effects.

"Moll, just listen to me a moment: you must not say a word to father about Harley Street—not one word."

Mollie looked at her blankly.

"And why not, Wave?"

"Oh, dear, not for worlds," returned Waveney, earnestly. "He is so low, so unlike himself to-night; he had so set his heart on that poor old thing being a success, but they have all been throwing stones at him, and he is so hurt about it. Don't you know what Noel always says: 'You must not hit a man who is down.' Those are school ethics, but it is true. Dad is just like the brere rabbit to-night,—'him lies low,'—and we must just talk to him and make him laugh."

"But Wave, surely"—and Mollie, who was nothing but a big, beautiful, simple child, looked quite shocked—"surely you cannot mean to see that lady without speaking to father!"

"But I do mean it, Mollie. Of course I want to tell father—I always long to tell him everything,—but it would be rank selfishness to-night; it would be the last straw, that terrible straw that breaks the camel's back. And I know just what he would do; he would not smoke his pipe and he would not sleep a wink, and he would be like a wreck to-morrow when he goes to Norwood. No: when it is settled it will be time enough to tell him;" and, as usual, Mollie submitted to her sister's stronger will. "Waveney was the clever one," she would say; "she saw things more clearly, and she was generally right;" for Mollie thought nothing of herself, and was always covered with blushes and confusion if any one praised her.

So Waveney had her way, and as Mr. Ward smoked his pipe she told him all about Monsieur Blackie; and then Noel shut up his lesson-books and came up stairs, and the three young people sang little glees and songs unaccompanied. And presently Mr. Ward laid down his empty pipe and joined too.

And the girls' voices were so fresh and clear, and the man's tenor so sweet, that a passer-by stood for a long time to listen.

Every now and then an odd boyish voice, with a crack in it, chimed in like a jangling bell out of tune. "Oh, Noel, please do not sing so out of tune; you are as flat as a pancake, and as rough as a nutmeg grater, isn't he, Moll?" and then Waveney made a face at the unfortunate minstrel.

"Don't come the peacock over me," began Noel, wrathfully, for any remark on his cracked voice tried his temper. "Hit one of your own size, miss."

"Hush, hush, Noel!" observed his father, good-humouredly. "You will do well enough some day. 'Drink to me only with thine eyes'—let us sing that, my pets." And then the voices began again, and the listener underneath the window smiled to himself and walked on.

It was late, and Mollie was yawning before the little concert was over; but when Mr. Ward went to his room that night the weight of oppression seemed less heavy. Yes, he had been a fool, but most men made mistakes in their lives, and he was not so old yet—only forty-four, for he had married young. He would leave off straining after impossibilities, and take his friends' advice—paint pot boilers in his leisure hours, and devote his best energies to his pupils. "Cincinnatus went back to the plough, and why not Everard Ward?" And then he wound up his watch and went to sleep. But long after the heavy-footed Ann had climbed up to her attic, breathing heavily, and carrying the old black cat, Mrs. Muggins, in her arms, and long after Mollie had fallen into her first sleep, and was dreaming sweetly of a leafy wood, where primroses grew as plentifully as blackberries, a little white figure sat huddled up on the narrow window-seat, staring out absently on the moonlight.

Waveney could see the dim roofs of the Hospital; the old men were all now asleep in their cabin-like cubicles—some of them fighting their battles over again, others dreaming of wives and children.

"After all, it must be nice to be old, and to know that the fight is over," thought the girl, a little sadly. "Life is so difficult, sometimes: when we were children we did not think so. I suppose other girls would have said we had rather a dull life; but how happy we were! what grand times we had that day at the Zoological Gardens, for example! and that Christmas when father took us to the pantomime! I remember the next day Mollie and I made up our minds to be ballet-dancers, and Noel decided to be a clown;" and here Waveney gave a soft little laugh. "Dear father, it was so good of him not to laugh at us. Most people would have called us silly children, but he listened to us quite seriously, and recommended us to practise our dancing sedulously; only he would not hear of shortening our skirts—he said later on would do for that. Oh, dear, oh, dear, was it not just like him? And of course by the next Christmas we had forgotten all about it."

But even these reminiscences, amusing as they were, could not long hinder Waveney's painful reflections. The idea of leaving home and going out into the world was utterly repugnant to her; she had told Mollie in playful fashion that it was the rack and the thumb-screw and the faggots combined; but in reality the decision had cost her a bitter struggle, and nothing but the strongest sense of duty could have nerved her to the effort.

Waveney's nature was far less emotional than Mollie's, but her affections were very deep. Her love for her father and twin sister amounted to passion. When she read the words, "Little children, keep yourselves from idols," she always held her breath, made a mental reservation, and went on.

"If only people liked Father's pictures!" she sighed, and then another pang crossed her, as she remembered his tired face, how old and careworn he had looked, until they had sung some of his favourite songs, and then his eyes had become bright again.

"Dear old dad, how he will miss me!" But when she thought of Mollie the lump in her throat seemed to strangle her: they had never in their lives been parted for a single night.

"And yet it is my duty to go," thought poor Waveney. "We are growing poorer every day, and it will be years before Noel can earn much. I am afraid the schools are falling off a little. Oh, yes; there is no doubt about it, and I must go;" and Waveney shed a few tears, and then, chilled and depressed, she got into bed; and Mollie turned over in her sleep and threw out her warm young arms.

"It was delicious," she murmured, drowsily; "and oh, Wave, why are you so cold, darling? What have you been doing?" But Waveney only shivered a little and kissed her.

The next morning both the girls rose in good time to prepare the early breakfast. Noel always left home at half past eight—long ago an unknown friend of Mr. Ward's had offered to pay his son's school fees, and, acting on advice, he had sent the boy to St. Paul's. He was a clever lad, and in favour with all his masters; he liked work and never shirked it. But his pet passion was football; he was fond of enlarging on his triumphs, and gloried in the kicks he received. It was understood in the family circle that he was to get a scholarship and go to Oxford; and of course a fellowship would follow.

"'The veiled Prophet' will expect it, my dear," Mollie would say, at intervals, when she was afraid he was becoming slack; for under this figure of speech they always spoke of their unknown benefactor. The whole thing was a mystery. The solicitor who wrote to Mr. Ward only mentioned his client vaguely—"an old friend of Mr. Ward's is desirous of doing him this service;" and in succeeding letters, "My client has desired me to send you this cheque;" and so on.

The girls and Noel, who were dying with curiosity, often begged their father to go to Lincoln's Inn and see Mr. Duncan—the firm of Duncan & Son was a good old-fashioned firm; but Mr. Ward always declined to do this. If his old friend did not choose to divulge himself, he had some good reason for his reticence and it would be ungrateful and bad form to force his hand.

"He is a good soul, you may depend on that," was all they could get him to say; but in reality he secretly puzzled over it. "It must be some friend of Dorothy's," he would say to himself. "There was that old lover of hers, who went out to the Bahamas and made his pile—he married, but he never had any children; I do not mention his name to the youngsters—better not, I think; but I have a notion it is Carstairs; he was a melancholy, Quixotic sort of chap, and he was desperately gone on Dorothy."

"Dad's a bit stiff about the Prophet," Noel once said to his sisters, "but if I am in luck's way and get a scholarship, I shall just go up to Lincoln's Inn myself and interview the old buffer;" and this seemed so venturesome and terrifying a project that Mollie gasped, and said, "Oh, no, not really, Noel!" and Waveney opened her eyes a little widely.

"You bet I do," returned Noel, cocking his chin in a lordly way. "I shall just march in as cool as a cucumber, and as bold as brass. 'I have come to thank my unknown benefactor, sir,' I would say with my finest air, 'for the good education I have received. I have the satisfaction of telling you that I have gained a scholarship—eighty pounds a year—and that, with the kind permission—of—of my occult and mysterious friend, I wish to matriculate at Balliol. As I have now attained the age of manhood, is it too much to ask the name of my venerable benefactor?'"

"Oh, Wave, is he not ridiculous?" laughed Mollie; but Waveney looked at her young brother rather gravely.

"Don't, Noel, dear; father would not like it." But Noel only shrugged his shoulders at this. He had his own opinions about things, and when he made up his mind it was very difficult to move him. Never were father and son more unlike; and yet they were the best of friends.

Mr. Ward always had a hard day's work on Tuesday. He had two schools at Norwood, and never came home until evening. The girls always took extra pains with the breakfast-table on the Norwood days, and while Mollie made the coffee, boiled the eggs, and superintended the toast-making, Waveney made up dainty little pats of butter and placed them on vine-leaves. Then she went into the narrow little slip of garden behind the house and gathered a late rose and laid it on her father's plate.

Waveney was in excellent spirits all breakfast-time. She laughed and talked with Noel, while Mollie sat behind her coffee-pot and looked at her with puzzled eyes.

"How can Wave laugh like that when she knows, she knows!" she thought, wonderingly; but at that moment Waveney looked at her with a smile so sweet and so full of sadness, that poor Mollie nearly choked, and her eyes brimmed over with tears.

"Leave no stone unturned."Euripides.

"What is useful is beautiful."Socrates.

"Wish me good luck, and do not expect me until you see me," were Waveney's last words, as Mollie stood at the door with a very woe-begone face. "Cheer up, Moll. Care killed the cat, you know;" and then she waved her hand and vanished.

It was still quite early in the afternoon when she reached Berkeley Square. In spite of her assumed cheerfulness, her courage was at a low ebb. The imposing appearance of the houses awed her; she knocked timidly, and the butler who opened the door looked like a dignified and venerable clergyman.

He received her affably, as though she were an expected guest. Miss Harford was out driving, but would be back shortly; his mistress, Mrs. Mainwaring, had desired that Miss Ward should be shown into the drawing-room.

Waveney never felt so small and insignificant in her life. For the first time she was conscious of a wish to be tall, as she followed him down the corridor. Then the thickness of the carpets distracted her, and the cabinets of china. Then a door was opened, and she heard her name announced, and a soft little voice said, "Certainly, Druce. Show the young lady in."

For one moment Waveney hesitated. The owner of the voice seemed invisible. It was a beautiful room, grander than anything that the girl had ever seen, and it was full of sunshine and the scent of flowers. Tall palms were everywhere, and china pots with wonderful Japanese chrysanthemums, and there were screens and standard lamps, and a curtained archway leading to an inner room; and here Waveney at last discovered a tiny old lady, half buried in an immense easy chair. She was the prettiest old lady in the world, but as diminutive as a fairy; her cheeks were as pink as Mollie's; and she had beautiful silvery curls under her lace cap. A mass of white, fleecy knitting lay on her satin lap, and the small, wrinkled fingers were loaded with costly brilliants.

"Fairy Magnificent," Waveney named her when she was retailing the account of her visit. She looked up with a pleasant smile, and pointed to a chair. "You have called to see my niece, Miss Harford—oh yes, she is expecting you, but she was obliged to pay a business visit; my nieces are busy women, Miss Ward—perhaps you will find that out for yourself some day." Waveney began to feel less shy; she looked round the room that she might describe it properly to Mollie. How Mollie revelled in that description afterwards; it was like a page in a story book—flowers and statues and palms, and that beautiful old lady in her satin gown.

Fairy Magnificent was evidently fond of talking, for she rippled on, in her soft voice, like a little purling brook, knitting all the time.

"Oh, we all have our gifts, my dear, but I am afraid in my day girls were terribly worldly; it was not the fashion to cultivate philanthropy or altruism, as they call it. I recollect a young man asking one of my nieces if they went in for 'slumming.' I wonder what we should have thought of such a question when I was young."

"Does Miss Harford do that sort of thing?" asked Waveney, with something of her old animation. She was such a dear little old lady—like a piece of Dresden china.

"Oh, not slumming exactly—they are too sensible to take up every passing craze; but they do an immense deal of good. They have a Home for governesses and broken-down workers very near them at Erpingham, and they have a room in the garden where they do all sorts of things. They have Thursday evenings for shop-girls, regular social evenings—tea, and music, and talk; and the girls are as nicely behaved as possible."

"Oh, what a grand idea!" and Waveney's eyes began to gleam and sparkle. "I have always been so sorry for shop-girls. I think they have such a hard, pushing sort of life. The poor things are often so tired, but they have to look pleasant all the same."

Mrs. Mainwaring looked amused at the girl's energy, but before she could reply there were quick, decided footsteps in the outer room, and the next moment a tall, dark woman in walking-dress entered.

When Waveney rose from her chair, the lady looked at her with extreme surprise.

"Miss Ward, I suppose;" and her manner was a little brusque. "Please sit down again, and I will speak to you directly. Aunt Sara, may I have the carriage, please. Morris says the horses are quite fresh. I find the letter that I expected is at the Red House, so it will be better for me to talk it all over with Althea."

"Do as you like, Doreen," returned Mrs. Mainwaring, tranquilly; "but you must attend to this young lady first, you know;" and then Miss Harford took a seat near Waveney.

The girl was suffering from a sense of painful disillusion. Mrs. Mainwaring's talk had given her a favourable idea of Miss Harford, but when she saw her, her first thoughts were "What a grievous pity that such a good woman should be so plain!" But the next moment she added, "Plain is too mild a term; she is really quite ugly;" and it could not be denied that Dame Nature had treated Miss Harford somewhat churlishly.

Her figure was angular, and a little clumsy, and not even her well-cut tailor-made tweed could set it off to advantage. Her features were strongly marked, and her complexion sallow, and her low forehead and heavy eyebrows gave her rather a severe look. She could not be less than forty, probably a year or two over that, but there was no affectation of youth, either in dress or manner.

Perhaps the only point in her favour was a certain frankness and sincerity in her expression that, after a time, appealed to people; and yet her eyes were a light, cold grey. Strangers seldom took to her at first—her quick, decided manners were rather too brusque, and then her voice was so harsh and deep; but they soon found out that she was to be trusted, and by-and-by they grew to love her.

Doreen Harford always spoke of herself as the "ugly duckling," who would never change into a swan in this world.

"I never do anything by halves," she would say, laughing, and her laugh was as fresh and ringing as a child's, though, perhaps, a little hard. "I am as ugly as they make them, my dear,"—for she was too happy and busy a woman to fret over her lack of beauty, though she adored it whenever she found it, and petted all the pretty children and animals.

"There's Aunt Sara," she would go on, "is she not like one of Watteau's Shepherdesses? Did you ever see anything so fine and pink and dainty?—and she is seventy-three. She has had lovers by the score, and she was only a young woman when General Mainwaring died; but she would never marry again, bless her!"

When Miss Harford sat down she pulled off her gloves in rather a disturbed manner.

"I was sorry to keep you waiting, but I had to go out on urgent business. You are very young, Miss Ward—younger than I expected, and than Miss Warburton led me to suppose."

She spoke in a slightly aggressive voice, as though Miss Ward were somehow to blame for her youthful aspect.

"That will mend in time, Doreen, my love," observed Mrs. Mainwaring, kindly. "I think Miss Ward seems a very sensible young lady." And then Waveney longed to hug her.

"I am nineteen," she said, looking Miss Harford full in the face. "That is not so very young, after all; and I have acted as secretary to a lady in Cheyne Walk. It was only a morning engagement, certainly, but Miss Warburton knows all about me, and she thought this situation would just suit me. I am fond of reading aloud, and I never get tired, and——"

"Doreen, if you do not engage this young lady, I think I shall." But Mrs. Mainwaring was only joking, as her niece knew well, for it would have been more than her life was worth to do such a thing.

For Fairy Magnificent had a faithful maid who simply worshipped her, and would have fought any woman who offered to do her service. Her mistress wanted no paid companion as long as she was in the house, she would say; and as Rachel ruled her mistress—and, indeed, the whole household, there was little probability of her indulging in this luxury.

Miss Harford's face brightened. She understood the purport of her aunt's little joke: she liked Miss Ward, and wished her niece to engage her.

"Althea will not mind her being young," she said, significantly; and then Miss Harford turned to Waveney.

"Miss Warburton will have given you some idea of the duties required"—and now her manner had decidedly softened. "We are very busy people, and we lead two lives, the working life and the social life; and as we are fairly strong, we manage to enjoy both. Unfortunately, my sister has had a little trouble with her eyes lately—the doctors say it is on the nerves. Sometimes when she reads or writes she has pain in them, and has to close her book, or shut up her desk. If she were to persevere the pain would become excruciating; it is certainly on the nerves, for sometimes she is not troubled at all."

"I understand," returned Waveney, in a low voice.

"Our doctor is an old friend and a very sensible man," continued Miss Harford, "and he proposed that my sister should find some young lady with a good voice and pleasant manner who would read to her, especially in the evenings, when nothing is going on, and to whom she could dictate letters."

"Oh, I am sure I could do that," returned Waveney, eagerly; and then Mrs. Mainwaring chimed in again.

"My dear, I am an old woman, so you may believe me. My nieces are the best women I know, and they make every one happy at the Red House."

"Now, Aunt Sara," returned Miss Harford, good humouredly, "how are Miss Ward and I to understand each other if you will keep interrupting us? You see, Miss Ward, the duties are very light, and you will have plenty of time to yourself. We want some one young and cheerful who will make herself at home and be ready for any little service. Are you musical?"

"I can sing a little but my voice has not been well trained."

"That is a pity. Now should you mind reading us a page or two?" And she handed her a novel that was lying open on the table.

Waveney flushed, but she took the book at once. For the first few minutes her voice trembled: then she thought of the new gown she wanted to buy for Mollie at Christmas, and then it grew steady.

"Miss Ward reads very nicely, does she not, Aunt Sara?" was Miss Harford's approving comment. "I think Althea will be pleased." Then turning to Waveney with a pleasant smile that lit up her homely features as sunshine lights up a granite rock, "I really see no reason why we should not come to terms. I do not know what we ought to offer you, Miss Ward, but my sister thought fifty pounds a year."

Waveney gave a little start of surprise. The terms seemed magnificent.

"Oh," she said, impulsively, "I shall be able to help father. What happiness that will be!" And then her face fell a little. "Will you tell me, please, is it very far to Erpingham?"

"Do you mean from here?"

"No, not exactly. I am thinking of my own home. We live in Cleveland Terrace, Chelsea." Then Miss Harford seemed somewhat taken aback.

"Is your father's name Everard Ward?" she asked, abruptly.

"Oh, yes,—have you heard of him?" returned Waveney,naively. "He is an artist, but his pictures do not sell, and he has only his drawing lessons. That is why I want to help him, because he works so hard and looks so tired; and Mollie—that is my sister—is a little lame, and cannot do much."

"Is that all your family? You do not speak of your mother."

Miss Harford was looking at the girl a little strangely.

"She is dead," returned Waveney, in a low voice; "she died when Mollie and I were ten years old, but there is a young brother, Noel."

Then Miss Harford turned to her aunt.

"Aunt Sara, I really think it would be best for Althea to see Miss Ward herself. You know I have to drive over to Erpingham now. It is quite early in the afternoon," she continued, looking at Waveney. "Can you not come with me? We shall be at the Red House in three-quarters of an hour. I could drop you at Sloane Square station by seven. It will be a pleasant drive, and the evenings are still light until eight."

Waveney hesitated. What would Mollie say to her long absence? But then, her father never returned home before eight on his Norwood days. The drive tempted her, and then, the idea of seeing Erpingham.

"If you are sure that I shall be back by seven," she said; and then Miss Harford rang the bell and ordered the carriage.

"Althea will give us tea. Come, Miss Ward." And then Mrs. Mainwaring held out her soft, little hand to the girl.

"Good-bye, my dear. You will be as happy as a bird at the Red House. Give my love to Althea, Doreen, and tell her to rest her poor eyes."

Waveney thought of Cinderella and the pumpkin coach as she stepped into the luxurious carriage. The novelty of the position, the enjoyment of the swift, smooth motion, and the amusement of looking out at the crowded street, completely absorbed her, and for some time Miss Harford made no attempt to draw her into conversation.

But presently she began to talk, and then Waveney found herself answering all sorts of questions about herself and Mollie—how they amused themselves, and why her father's pictures did not sell; and then Waveney, who was very girlish and frank, told her all their disappointment about "King Canute," and Miss Harford listened with such kindly interest that Waveney felt quite grateful to her.

"Father was so low and cast down about it last night, he said he should never have the heart to paint a picture again, because the dealers were so hard on him; and I am afraid he meant it, too. Oh, what a nice grey church! And actually, we are coming to a river. Oh, how picturesque those reddish-brown sails look in the sunshine!"

"This is Dereham," returned her companion. "It is not such a very long drive, is it? In little more than ten minutes we shall have reached our destination;" and then she began pointing out various objects of interest—another church, the shops in High Street where they dealt, then a high, narrow house, very dull and gloomy-looking.

"Some dear old friends of ours live in that house," she said. "It is not very inviting-looking, is it? Once they lived in such a beautiful place, until old Mr. Chaytor lost his money. I am always so sorry for them. I think troubles of this kind fall very heavily on some natures."

Waveney assented to this, but the subject did not much interest her. They had left Dereham behind now, and before them lay a wide, green common, with pleasant roads intersecting it. A little clear pool by the roadside rippled in the sunlight. Near it was a broad, grassy space shaded by trees. Two or three nurses sat on benches, and some children were dancing hand in hand, advancing and retreating, and singing in shrill little voices. "Here we go gathering nuts in May," they were chanting, and then one child fell down and began to cry. Across the common there were soft blue distances and a crisp wind, laden with the perfumes of firs and blackberries, fanned their faces.

Then they drove through some white gates. A lodge and a long, shady lane were before them, with long, parklike meadows on one side. It was all so sweet, so still, and peaceful, in the evening light, that Waveney was half sorry to find that their journey was at an end; for the next moment the carriage stopped, and the lodge-keeper opened some more gates, curtsying with a look of pleasure when she saw Miss Harford.

"I have not come home to stay, Mrs. Monkton," observed Miss Harford, with a friendly nod, and then the horses began frisking down a winding carriage drive. The shrubbery was thick, but every now and then Waveney had glimpses of little shut-in lawns, one with a glorious cedar in the middle, and another with a sundial and peacock. An old red brick Elizabethan house was at the end of the drive, with a long sunny terrace round it.

At the sound of the wheels two little Yorkshire terriers flew out to greet their mistress with shrill barks of joy.

"Oh, what pretty little fellows!" exclaimed Waveney.

"Yes, they are great pets. Fuss and Fury, that is what we call them," returned Miss Harford, smiling, "and I think you will allow that the names suit them."

"... Life indeed must always be a compromise between common sense and the ideal,—the one abating nothing of its demands, the other accommodating itself to what is practicable and real."—Amiel.

As they entered the large square hall with Fuss and Fury frolicking round them, a tall respectable-looking woman came forward to meet them.

"I suppose my sister is in the library, Mitchell?" asked Miss Harford, quickly.

"Yes, ma'am. Parker has just taken in the tea."

"Then will you please give this young lady some: take her into my room, and make her comfortable. I must ask you to excuse me for a short time, Miss Ward, as I have to talk over one or two things with my sister; but Mitchell will look after you."

"Oh, please do not trouble about me!" returned Waveney; and then she followed Mitchell down a long passage, full of beautiful plants, to a pleasant sitting-room with a deep bay window overlooking the lawn with the sundial; the peacock was strutting across the grass with the mincing, ambling gait peculiar to that bird, the peahen following him more meekly.

Through green trellised arches one looked on a tennis lawn, and beyond that was a large red brick cottage with a porch. When Mitchell brought in the tea-tray, Waveney asked her who lived there. The woman looked a little amused at the question.

"No one lives there, ma'am," she answered, civilly. "My mistresses built it, for their winter evening entertainments. There is only one room, with a sort of kitchen behind it. It is always called the Porch House."

Waveney longed to ask some more questions, but Mitchell had already retired, so she sat down and enjoyed her tea.

How happy she could be in this lovely place if only Mollie were with her! And then she thought of the fifty pounds a year. After all, Erpingham was not so far away. Perhaps they would let her go home once a week. If she could only have her Sunday afternoons and evenings to herself! And then her heart began to beat quickly. How delicious that would be! How Mollie and she would talk! And after tea they would sing their old hymns, and then they would all go to church together, and her father and Noel would walk to the station to see her off. And then she wondered if she should mind the long walk across the common; it would be rather lonely, she thought, on a dark winter's evening, and perhaps Miss Harford would not approve of it.

While Waveney indulged in these surmises and cogitations, Miss Harford had walked briskly across the inner hall, and, tapping lightly at a door, opened it and entered a beautiful long room fitted up as a library. It had a grand oriel window, with a cushioned seat, and a tiny inner room like a recess, with a glass door leading to the lawn with the cedar-tree.

A lady writing at a table in the centre of the room uttered a little exclamation of surprise.

"Why, Doreen, I was just writing to you; but it is the unexpected that always happens." And then the two sisters kissed each other affectionately.

"You can put away your letter and give me some tea instead," Doreen said, laughing; and then Althea smiled and walked to a little tea-table that had been placed in the window, with two inviting-looking easy chairs beside it.

"Sit down, Dorrie, do, and tell me what has brought you over like a flash of lightning on a summer evening," she said, as she took up the tea-pot.

Althea Harford was a better-looking woman than her sister, but she could never have been handsome. She was very tall, and her figure was decidedly graceful; she walked well, and carried her head with the air of an empress. Her eyes were expressive and even beautiful, but her face was too long and thin, and her reddish auburn hair and light eyelashes gave her rather a colourless look. She had a long, aquiline nose, and some people said that she reminded them of Queen Elizabeth, though it may be doubted whether that Tudor princess had Althea's air of refinement and gentleness.

She was evidently a year or two younger than her sister, but her dress, like Doreen's, was very sedate, and suitable to her age. She had a style of her own, which certainly suited her. When excited, or under the influence of some strong emotion, a faint pink colour would come to her cheeks, and a vivid light to her eyes; at such moments she would be almost beautiful.

The sisters were very unlike in disposition; but in spite of their dissimilarity they were the best of friends, and understood each other perfectly.

Doreen took life more lightly; she had a robust cheerfulness that seldom failed her. Althea had a greater sense of humour, and far more intellect; but there was a veiled melancholy about her, as though early in life she had suffered disillusion; and she would speak sometimes as though human existence were a comedy where the players wore masks and performed the shadow dance at intervals.

Both sisters were Ladies Bountiful, and gave nobly of their substance, but Althea could never be brought to acknowledge that she gave enough; she had scruples of conscience, and would sometimes complain that they were like Dives, and had their good things in this life.

"And as though we were not rich enough," she would grumble, "Aunt Sara is actually going to leave us her money"—for Mrs. Mainwaring had lately made another will in her nieces' favour. Doreen would have a large sum of money, but Althea, who was her favourite, would be the chief legatee, and Althea had groaned in spirit when she heard it.

"It is such a responsibility," she sighed; but Doreen would not listen to this.

"It is such an enjoyment," she retorted. "I do so love spending money, and so do you, Althea, in spite of your grumbling. And as to Aunt Sara's will, we need not make ourselves miserable about that, for she will probably live until she is ninety." And this view of the case cheered Althea greatly. Althea's temperament was by no means pessimistic, but like all deep thinkers she had to pay the penalty of her own acute perceptions. The unsolved problems of life saddened her, and at times disturbed her comfort. She envied Doreen her capacity for putting troublesome questions out of her mind. "I wish I had your mind, Dorrie," she said once. "It is such a comfortable, nicely padded mind. When disagreeable things happen, you just let down your curtains and keep yourself snug."

"Upon my word, Althea," returned Doreen, good-humouredly, "I am glad no one but myself heard that speech. You make me out a nice selfish sort of person."

"No, no, you are not selfish at all, you are far more ready to help people than I am. You are a good woman, Doreen, and you know I did not mean that."

"Then what did your riddle mean?"

"Well, just what I said. That you never worry and fret yourself over troublesome questions—social questions, I mean, difficult problems that meet one in this world at every corner; I often make myself quite unhappy over them, and go to bed with a heartache, but I do not believe that you ever lose an hour's sleep over them."

"I daresay not. In that sense I suppose I have a nicely padded mind; but, Althea, it is not that I do not realise the difficulty. But, my dear child, what is the good of sitting down before a mountain and waiting for it to open. Earthquakes of that sort won't happen. I put it by until I am grown up;" and as Althea stared at her she nodded her head. "Quite grown up, I mean; we are only children here, and we are not likely to get all our lessons perfect." And then, in a low voice, she said, a little solemnly, "'What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter;'" and as Doreen said this her plain, homely features were transfigured and Althea looked at her with reverence; for in her simple faith Doreen had passed her and taken the higher place.

"Well, Doreen, what has brought you over this evening?" asked Althea, as she handed her sister a cup of tea. "I was thinking of driving over to-morrow to see you and Aunt Sara."

"Well, I wanted to see you about two or three things, Miss Ward amongst them. I have brought her over, and she is at present partaking of tea and cake in my room."

"Oh—do you think she will do?" asked Althea, quickly.

"Well, that is for you to decide. You shall see her presently and judge for yourself. At first sight I confess that I was not favourably impressed—she is such a childish-looking little thing, with fluffy, babyish hair curling over her head. But for her eyes, and expression, I should never have thought her grown up. She is rather like Laura Ridgway, only paler."

"Laura has very pretty eyes, Doreen."

"So has Miss Ward; they are quite out of the common. Aunt Sara took rather a fancy to her."

"Aunt Sara is a very good judge of character," her sister observed.

"Well, I liked her better myself after a time; her voice is deep, but I somehow admire it, and she read very nicely. She seems anxious to come to us. They are evidently rather poor. But——" Here Doreen hesitated in rather an embarrassed way.

"Out with it, Dorrie: there is something behind, I see."

"Well, it is for you to judge. I shall leave the decision in your hands. I think Aunt Sara is right, and that Miss Ward is a nice little thing; but she is Everard Ward's daughter."

Althea started; she was evidently quite unprepared for this. She changed colour slightly. "Are you sure of that, Doreen?" she asked, in a low voice. "You know how many Wards there are—dozens and dozens."

"Yes, and I never for a moment imagined that it could be Everard's daughter; but directly she mentioned her address—Cleveland Terrace, Chelsea—of course I recognised her. Wait a minute"—as Althea seemed inclined to interrupt her—"let me make it all clear to you. I put the question to her, 'Is Everard Ward your father?' That was plain enough, was it not? And when she said yes, I managed to glean two or three particulars, that we already know."

"Yes, but tell me, all the same;" and Althea's manner was a little eager.

"Well, she told me that her mother was dead—we knew that—and that she had a twin sister who was rather lame, and a brother Noel." Then, at the mention of Noel's name, Althea looked a little amused.

"What a strange coincidence!" she murmured.

"Strange enough, but rather embarrassing. Miss Ward was verynaiveand frank. It seems the poor man cannot sell his pictures; he has one on hand now. 'King Canute,' she called it, and none of the dealers will look at it. She says her father is very low about it, and that they want the money badly. Well, what now, Althea?" pretending to frown at her; for Althea's face was suffused with colour, and her eyes were very bright.

"Poor Everard!" she said, softly. "There is room for another picture in the Porch House." And then a queer little smile came to her lips. "It will be a valuable lesson to the girls."

Then Doreen shook her head at her.

"It could not be done, you foolish woman. You would be found out."

"We must discover another way, then," returned Althea, who was quite in earnest. "Perhaps Thorold will give it house room."

"But you must be prudent, dear."

"I will be discretion itself. The picture will not be purchased in my name, you can depend on that. I begin to think my nature is not straightforward, I do so love little plots, and underhand schemes. I should have made a good secret conspirator. Now about this girl: if she pleases me, I can see no objection to our engaging her. It is perfectly simple, Dorrie; they are poor, and the girls have to work. Fate, or rather—for it is no joking matter—Providence, has brought her to us. Is it too superstitious to say that I feel that I dare not refuse to take her. It may be another way of helping them."

"Yes, but in my opinion, Everard ought to know to whom he is sending her."

"Ah, I agree with you there, in spite of my subterranean and complicated schemes. I did not propose any fresh masquerade, as far as the girl is concerned. I am willing to be as open as the day. Now, as we have finished tea, shall I go to your room?" And Doreen smiled assent.

Waveney was standing by the window, crumbling some sweet-cake for the peacock. She turned round at the sound of the opening door.

The evening sun was shining into the room, and perhaps the light dazzled Waveney a little; but certainly she gave a very droll description of Althea to Mollie afterwards.

"The door opened, and a very tall woman in a grey gown seemed to glide in, for she walked so quietly that I could not hear a footstep; and lo and behold, it was Queen Elizabeth's Wraith."

"Oh, Waveney, what nonsense! And I do hate that horrid old Elizabeth."

"Well, so do I; but, all the same, Miss Harford is remarkably like her—such a long, thin face and nose, and reddish hair; and she had a sort of ruff of lace round her throat, and such a stately manner, it was quite queenly. And, I think, really, that I should have made my curtsy, only she came up to me in the kindest way and took my hand. 'I am so sorry that you have been alone all this time,' she said, in such a sweet voice, 'but my sister and I had so much business to discuss. She has told me all about you, so I am not going to trouble you with needless questions. You can just tell me anything you like about yourself. I have a great respect for workers, and always love to help them.'"

"It was nice of her to say that."

"Yes; it quite won my heart. I like both the Miss Harfords, Mollie; but Miss Althea—or Queen Bess, as I prefer to call her—is more to my taste. She interested me directly, and we had such a nice talk, just as though we were old friends; and she said at once that I could have my Sunday afternoons—think of that, sweetheart! I shall be with you every Sunday."

Althea's sympathetic nature had at once grasped the girl's trouble at leaving home.

"I think I could arrange for you to spend the greater part of your Sundays at home," she observed, "that is, if you are a good walker, for we never use our horses on Sundays, unless the weather is very bad. We dine early, for I always have a busy afternoon in the Porch House, and I could spare you easily."

"But the long walk back in the dark," faltered Waveney, who knew well that her father would make objections to this. Then Althea considered the point.

"Yes, you are right. You could not walk alone on dark evenings, and the winter is coming. There are houses, of course, but they stand so far back, and the gates are locked. Oh, no, my dear, that would never do. Neither my sister nor I could permit you to walk alone." Then her face brightened, and she continued with more animation, "I have an idea. My maid Peachy always goes to see her mother on Sunday afternoons; she lives near Victoria, and she always takes the same train back. We will find out which that is, and then you can walk up the hill together." At this the girl's joy was so evident that Althea had been quite touched.

Just at the close of the interview she had said a few words that greatly surprised Waveney.

"And now, my dear, I should like you to go home and talk things over with your people, and then you can write me a line saying whether you wish to come to us. We must not decide things finally until your father gives his consent. He will know our names." And, as Waveney seemed puzzled at this, "When we were young he visited at our house. Oh, not here; we lived in Surrey then."

"But when shall you want me," asked Waveney, anxiously. "Oh, I am sure father will give his consent. He is dreadfully unhappy at the idea of our working, but he knows it must be done."

"Still you must consult him," returned Althea, gently, and her manner was a little stately. "As for my wanting you, I shall be content if you could come to me in about ten days. Now I hear the carriage coming round. Good-bye. I think I will addau revoir;" and then she shook hands very cordially, and the next moment Doreen joined them.

There was very little conversation during the drive back. Miss Harford was busy with her letters and note-book, and Waveney leaned back on the cushions, and thought over her talk with Althea.

"How strange that father should have known them!" she said to herself. "He often talks of his old friends, but he has never mentioned their name. Harford—no, I am sure I never heard it until Miss Warburton spoke of them. If I go anywhere it shall be to the Red House—I have made up my mind to that. I like both of them—they are different somehow from other people; but I like Queen Bess far the best."

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