Chapter Ten.

Chapter Ten.The Look on Papa’s Face.A week or two after, papa came in one day just as mamma and I were finishing luncheon, looking rather grave.“I am very sorry for the Yew Trees people,” he said; “I’ve been there this morning to see Addie. I’m afraid he’s in for bronchitis, poor little chap, and troubles never come singly. Captain Whyte has heard that a favourite cousin of his—a Major Hugo Whyte, who has just come home from India—is very ill. He says he is like a brother to him, and he’s very cut up.”“Is he going to see his cousin?” mamma asked.“N-no; there seem other difficulties, family complications. He was going to tell me more, but we were interrupted. Lady Honor sent for Captain Whyte in a hurry. I hope there’s nothing wrong there. I don’t know what’s coming to everybody.” Papa, usually so cheerful, looked rather depressed. “The Whytes have some money bothers, too, I fear.”“Evey and Mary haven’t got any new winter jackets,” I said. “They’re still wearing their tweed ones, with knitted vests underneath. The old lady can’t have sent them any Christmas present.”Papa glanced at me in surprise.“What old lady? You seem to know a great deal about our neighbours’ affairs, Miss Connie.”“No,” I said. “I don’t know much. Only it’s an old lady who’s Evey’s godmother, and she generally sends her birthday presents, and she didn’t this year.”Papa looked grave.“I wonder,” he said, consideringly, “if that is what’s wrong. Whyte has an aunt, I know, who almost brought him up. I have heard Lady Honor speak of her as very eccentric. Perhaps—but I mustn’t gossip about my friends’ concerns,” he added more lightly, “though truly, in this case, it is real interest in them that makes me do so.”“I am sure no one could ever accuseyouof gossiping, Tom,” said mamma, in the funny little way she had of bristling up in papa’s or my defence.“No one has done so, my dear, except my own self.Qui s’excuse, s’accuse, you know.”And whistling in a boyish way, as he sometimes did, papa started off on his hard day’s work again, stopping to give me a kiss on my forehead as he passed me.I have always remembered that morning, because of what came afterwards: it wassomiserable.It was about three o’clock only; I was still at my lessons with my governess in the schoolroom. I had no idea of seeing papa again till perhaps late in the evening, for he was very busy just then; there was so much illness about. Still I was not exactly startled when I heard his voice in the hall, calling me. He did sometimes look in for a moment as he was passing, now and then, to give some directions at the surgery, or to fetch a book for himself, if he were going to drive far.“Connie,” I heard, “Connie, I want you at once.”“Run, Connie,” said Miss Wade, my governess, for I was delaying a moment to finish a line; a bad habit of mine was want of prompt obedience; “run at once, Dr Percy has no time to spare.”She spoke rather sharply, and I got up.“Yes, papa,” I said as I opened the door, rather affecting deliberateness till out of Miss Wade’s sight (I have told you that I had been “going back” lately in several ways.) “Yes, papa, I am here.”I moved quickly once I got into the hall. Papa was standing there, booted and spurred—how nice and big and manly he looked!—for he had been riding. But his face had a strange expression; he looked stern and yet upset. Under his rather sunburnt bronzed complexion, I could see an unusual flush of excitement.“Is anything the matter?” I asked, startled, I scarcely knew why. “Addie Whyte isn’t worse?”“No, no, nothing like that. But I want you at once, Connie,”—he had begun to speak rather impatiently, but his tone softened as he saw that I looked frightened. “You needn’t look so terrified, my dear. It is nothing—only—only a little misapprehension which you will be able to set right at once. I want you to come with me to Lady Honor’s. I have ordered the carriage; it will be round in an instant. Run and put your things on, something warm; it is very cold.”“But papa,” I began, “won’t you tell—”“No, my dear, I can’t explain. You will see for yourself that it is better not I will tell Miss Wade that you cannot have any more lessons this afternoon, and I have already told mamma that I want you. Be quick, dear.”In five minutes I was seated beside papa in the brougham. He drew the soft, warm fur rug over me tenderly, and put his arm round me.“Why are you trembling so, Connie?” he said. “You have done nothing wrong—what are you so frightened about?”“I—I don’t know, papa,” I said, which was true. “It seems so strange.”But this was not the whole truth. Ihada queer, vague misgiving that the mystery had to do with the Whytes and their family affairs, though my mind was not collected enough to go into it properly.“You will understand it directly,” said papa. “Ridiculous—”—he gave a strange little laugh—“as if my Connie—so open too—”But somehow this did not reassure me.When we got to Lady Honor’s, we were shown into the library. There was no one there, but in a moment or two old Mr Bickersteth hobbled in. He nodded to papa; afterwards I found, that he and papa had met already that afternoon. Papa had looked in to speak to Lady Honor about some poorprotégéof hers, and she had taken the opportunity of telling him of the Whytes’ troubles. Old Mr Bickersteth spoke kindly to me—even more kindly than usual—almost as though he were a little sorry for me.I fancy I did look rather white and startled.“Connie is a little frightened,” said papa. “I told you I should say nothing to her, so that Lady Honor or Captain Whyte can question her themselves straight away. I should like to lose no time, if you please, Mr Bickersteth; I am extremely busy.”“Of course, of course, very sorry to detain you,” said the old gentleman. “Just a little mistake, no doubt. You have taken it up too seriously, my dear Percy.”But papa shook his head, though he smiled a little, too.“Shall we go to the drawing-room?” he said; on which Mr Bickersteth opened the door and led the way, talking, as we crossed the hall, in a cheery, ordinary manner; no doubt to make it seem as if nothing were the matter.A servant was standing close by. He threw open the drawing-room door, and papa, half slipping his arm through mine, led me in. There were several people in the room, and I shook hands all round, though scarcely knowing with whom. Then by degrees I disentangled them; there were not so many after all, and all well known to me. Captain and Mrs Whyte and Mary—not Yvonne Lady Honor, of course, and Anna Gale and her father. Anna was very pale, and I could see she had been crying. Mary came up close to me and stood beside me. I think she took hold of my hand.“Now, Connie,” said my father, “I want to ask you something. It has been stated—it is believed by some of our friends here—but of course the moment you deny it, it will be all right—that some little time ago you met in the lane that leads to the Yew Trees an old lady, a stranger, who asked you the way. And that you, instead of replying courteously and civilly as one shouldalwaysdo to a stranger, above all to anoldperson, answered her rudely, and went on to speak to her with something very like absolute insult. That you called her an old beggar, a tramp—I know not what;” here Anna Gale began sobbing audibly. Papa took no notice, but went on coolly. “Furthermore, that you bound down your companion not to tell of this, and that though it was at least a rather curious incident—strangers are not so common at Elmwood as all that—you have all these weeks concealed it and kept silence about it fromsomemotive. Your companion supposes you knew you had done wrong, and that your conscience made you silent. Now, I shall be pleased if you will look up and say that the accusation is entirely unfounded; either that it is some strange mistake—or—or—no,Ican’t accuse other people’s daughters of anything worse than making a mistake.”He glanced round the room, a proud, half-defiant smile on his face. I seemed obliged by some fascination to keep my eyes on him till his gaze fell on me. And I think I was very pale, but while he spoke I don’t think my expression had changed or faltered.Now, however, when he looked at me again, I felt as if his eyes were stabbing me; still I looked up.“Yes, papa,” I said; “it is all quite true. I spoke even worse than that. I made Anna promise not to tell, and I have never told myself, because I knew I had behaved disgracefully. But—but—I thought she was some kind of a tramp—there are plenty of tramps about here.” I stopped for a second. “No,” I went on, something seemedpushingat me to tell the whole truth, “no, I didn’t think she was a tramp when she came close. I thought she was from the almshouses. But she called me ‘child,’ and—and I was cross already, and I didn’t think she was a lady, and—yes, I said it all, worse than you know even. And I didn’t want any one ever to know.”Papa stood looking at me, but he did not speak. He seemed turned to stone. I could not bear it.“Oh, papa!” I cried, stretching out my hands to him, “don’t—don’t look—”But he did not move. Only two arms were thrown round me and clasped me tight. It was Mary.“You should forgive her,” she called out in a voice that was almost fierce. “Youshould—everybody. She has told it all now bravely, and she didn’t mean it. She didn’t know it was our aunt.”“Your aunt?” I gasped.“Yes,” said Captain Whyte, coming forward and speaking very gently. “My aunt, Connie. You did not know it, but I fear you have injured us irreparably, my poor child. She took you for Mary; she was coming to see us, as a surprise on Evey’s birthday—and now nothing will make her believe it wasnotMary. You allowed her to think so.”“Yes; I suppose I did. I couldn’t explain,” I replied; “but she would believe—shemust—if you told her.”He shook his head.“You cannot understand,” he said, quietly.I don’t clearly remember what happened after this. I think Lady Honor spoke to me, not unkindly, but with a very troubled look. I remember Anna going on sobbing till I turned to her.“What are you crying for?” I said. “Nobody is vexed with you.”“I should have told sooner,” she wept.“Yes, I suppose you should. But it was my fault, not yours. Why can’t you be satisfied that it’s I—only I—to blame? Everybody thinks me as bad as I can be, butyouneedn’t go on. Did your father ever look at you as papa did at me?”I was growing desperate. Papa had walked out of the room without speaking to me. I did not know any one heard what I said to Anna till I felt some one’s arm passed round me. It was Mrs Whyte. Her pretty, merry face was quite changed, the bright, gipsy look quite gone, but the kind, true brown eyes—Evey’s eyes—were kind and true still.“Don’t speak like that, Connie dear,” she said. “I am far more sorry for you than for ourselves. I will come and see you to-morrow. I wish I could go home with you now but poor Addie is so ill;” and I saw the tears glistening.Then I found myself in the hall, and in another moment in the carriage again—alone! I heard Captain Whyte speak to the coachman.“Take Miss Percy home, and then drive back to Todholes as fast as you can,” he said. “Dr Percy will be there.”I would have liked to say I could walk, and that the carriage might go after papa at once, but I was too stupified. I think if all the village children had turned out and hooted after me as I drove along I should not have been surprised. I had only one thought—however wicked and horrid other people thought me,mammawould still love me. But for all that I hardly felt as if I could have kept my senses.Perhaps I had better explain here how it had all happened and why, naughty as I had been, what was after all in itself but a trifling matter was considered so very seriously.The old lady I had insulted was Mrs Fetherston, Captain Whyte’s own aunt. She had been many years a childless widow, was very rich and very peculiar. She was rich partly through her husband, partly because the Whytes’ family place was hers, left her by her father, for the property was not entailed. She had another nephew, Major Hugo Whyte, who as well as Captain Whyte had been partly brought up by her. But Captain Whyte had always been her favourite, and though he himself was younger than Major Whyte, his father had been older than Hugo Whyte’s father, so Mrs Fetherston made him her heir. There was no jealousy between the two cousins; they loved each other dearly. Major Whyte went into the army while Captain Whyte was still at school, and he was out in India when a quarrel occurred between the old lady and her favourite nephew. She wanted him to give up his profession, the navy, and live at home with her, doing nothing; she also, Ithink, wanted him to marry some girl he did not care for. He would not consent to either, and he would marry Mrs Whyte! So Mrs Fetherston disinherited him and put his cousin in his place. At first, he did not much care; he was very happy in his own home, and his aunt still continued his allowance. It was not a very large one, and as time went on and so many children came, it began to seem a very small one. At last he was forced to retire on half-pay. He had a little money of his very own, and Mrs Whyte had a little, and Major Whyte helped them as much as he could, though he was not, at present, rich himself. He also was always trying to soften his aunt to them; she had no real cause for disliking Mrs Whyte, who was very well-born indeed, only not rich. It was in consequence of one of Hugo Whyte’s letters that the queer old lady at last determined to see her nephew’s family for herself, and to pay them a surprise visit. Then—you know what happened.Soon after Yvonne’s unfortunate birthday, Major Whyte, who had not been well for long—he was a delicate man, and had had much active service—got worse, and in consequence of this, as you may remember my overhearing at Lady Honor’s party, he came home. He had seen by his aunt’s letters that she was more bitter than ever against “Frank” and his family, but he did not know why till he saw her, and she told him the whole. He was dreadfully sorry; he did not think himself likely to live long, and his one wish was to see his cousin reinstated. For Mrs Fetherston was quite capable, if he died, of leaving everything, even the Whytes’ own old place, to some charity, away from Captain Whyte altogether. Hugo Whyte wrote to his cousin explaining what had happened, never doubting, of course, but that the rude little girl was Mary! Poor Mary at once denied it, and it became evident there was some strange mistake. Captain Whyte went off to consult Lady Honor, whose quick wits set to work to disentangle the riddle.“There were two little girls,” she said. And that very day she saw Mr Gale and had a long talk with him. Mr Gale, in turn, had a long talk with Anna. Anna, it must be remembered, had only promised “not to tell” of our adventure conditionally; and she had often felt uneasy about it. In one sense it was a relief to her tohaveto tell; but she got more than her share of punishment, poor girl, I shall always think. Lady Honor was unwilling to tell papa about it. She knew how sensitive he was, and how he would take it to heart. So a letter was sent to Major Whyte, explaining the mistake, and asking her to allow Captain Whyte to take his two girls to see her. But the old lady had got an obstinate fit. She would not believe that the culprit was not Mary.Then at last Lady Honor told papa. He took it up very seriously, just as she had feared,tooseriously in one sense, though I well deserved all the blame I got.And another long letter was despatched to poor Major Whyte, who ill as he was, was determinedly trying to put things right.The answer to this letter did not come for some days. But I have forgotten one part of the sad business. Not only was no birthday present or Christmas present sent to Yvonne by her godmother, but for the first time no cheque was received by Captain Whyte’s bankers from Mrs Fetherston. Her rancour had gone the length of stopping his allowance! No wonder the poor Yew Trees people were anxious. And this wasmydoing.

A week or two after, papa came in one day just as mamma and I were finishing luncheon, looking rather grave.

“I am very sorry for the Yew Trees people,” he said; “I’ve been there this morning to see Addie. I’m afraid he’s in for bronchitis, poor little chap, and troubles never come singly. Captain Whyte has heard that a favourite cousin of his—a Major Hugo Whyte, who has just come home from India—is very ill. He says he is like a brother to him, and he’s very cut up.”

“Is he going to see his cousin?” mamma asked.

“N-no; there seem other difficulties, family complications. He was going to tell me more, but we were interrupted. Lady Honor sent for Captain Whyte in a hurry. I hope there’s nothing wrong there. I don’t know what’s coming to everybody.” Papa, usually so cheerful, looked rather depressed. “The Whytes have some money bothers, too, I fear.”

“Evey and Mary haven’t got any new winter jackets,” I said. “They’re still wearing their tweed ones, with knitted vests underneath. The old lady can’t have sent them any Christmas present.”

Papa glanced at me in surprise.

“What old lady? You seem to know a great deal about our neighbours’ affairs, Miss Connie.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t know much. Only it’s an old lady who’s Evey’s godmother, and she generally sends her birthday presents, and she didn’t this year.”

Papa looked grave.

“I wonder,” he said, consideringly, “if that is what’s wrong. Whyte has an aunt, I know, who almost brought him up. I have heard Lady Honor speak of her as very eccentric. Perhaps—but I mustn’t gossip about my friends’ concerns,” he added more lightly, “though truly, in this case, it is real interest in them that makes me do so.”

“I am sure no one could ever accuseyouof gossiping, Tom,” said mamma, in the funny little way she had of bristling up in papa’s or my defence.

“No one has done so, my dear, except my own self.Qui s’excuse, s’accuse, you know.”

And whistling in a boyish way, as he sometimes did, papa started off on his hard day’s work again, stopping to give me a kiss on my forehead as he passed me.

I have always remembered that morning, because of what came afterwards: it wassomiserable.

It was about three o’clock only; I was still at my lessons with my governess in the schoolroom. I had no idea of seeing papa again till perhaps late in the evening, for he was very busy just then; there was so much illness about. Still I was not exactly startled when I heard his voice in the hall, calling me. He did sometimes look in for a moment as he was passing, now and then, to give some directions at the surgery, or to fetch a book for himself, if he were going to drive far.

“Connie,” I heard, “Connie, I want you at once.”

“Run, Connie,” said Miss Wade, my governess, for I was delaying a moment to finish a line; a bad habit of mine was want of prompt obedience; “run at once, Dr Percy has no time to spare.”

She spoke rather sharply, and I got up.

“Yes, papa,” I said as I opened the door, rather affecting deliberateness till out of Miss Wade’s sight (I have told you that I had been “going back” lately in several ways.) “Yes, papa, I am here.”

I moved quickly once I got into the hall. Papa was standing there, booted and spurred—how nice and big and manly he looked!—for he had been riding. But his face had a strange expression; he looked stern and yet upset. Under his rather sunburnt bronzed complexion, I could see an unusual flush of excitement.

“Is anything the matter?” I asked, startled, I scarcely knew why. “Addie Whyte isn’t worse?”

“No, no, nothing like that. But I want you at once, Connie,”—he had begun to speak rather impatiently, but his tone softened as he saw that I looked frightened. “You needn’t look so terrified, my dear. It is nothing—only—only a little misapprehension which you will be able to set right at once. I want you to come with me to Lady Honor’s. I have ordered the carriage; it will be round in an instant. Run and put your things on, something warm; it is very cold.”

“But papa,” I began, “won’t you tell—”

“No, my dear, I can’t explain. You will see for yourself that it is better not I will tell Miss Wade that you cannot have any more lessons this afternoon, and I have already told mamma that I want you. Be quick, dear.”

In five minutes I was seated beside papa in the brougham. He drew the soft, warm fur rug over me tenderly, and put his arm round me.

“Why are you trembling so, Connie?” he said. “You have done nothing wrong—what are you so frightened about?”

“I—I don’t know, papa,” I said, which was true. “It seems so strange.”

But this was not the whole truth. Ihada queer, vague misgiving that the mystery had to do with the Whytes and their family affairs, though my mind was not collected enough to go into it properly.

“You will understand it directly,” said papa. “Ridiculous—”—he gave a strange little laugh—“as if my Connie—so open too—”

But somehow this did not reassure me.

When we got to Lady Honor’s, we were shown into the library. There was no one there, but in a moment or two old Mr Bickersteth hobbled in. He nodded to papa; afterwards I found, that he and papa had met already that afternoon. Papa had looked in to speak to Lady Honor about some poorprotégéof hers, and she had taken the opportunity of telling him of the Whytes’ troubles. Old Mr Bickersteth spoke kindly to me—even more kindly than usual—almost as though he were a little sorry for me.

I fancy I did look rather white and startled.

“Connie is a little frightened,” said papa. “I told you I should say nothing to her, so that Lady Honor or Captain Whyte can question her themselves straight away. I should like to lose no time, if you please, Mr Bickersteth; I am extremely busy.”

“Of course, of course, very sorry to detain you,” said the old gentleman. “Just a little mistake, no doubt. You have taken it up too seriously, my dear Percy.”

But papa shook his head, though he smiled a little, too.

“Shall we go to the drawing-room?” he said; on which Mr Bickersteth opened the door and led the way, talking, as we crossed the hall, in a cheery, ordinary manner; no doubt to make it seem as if nothing were the matter.

A servant was standing close by. He threw open the drawing-room door, and papa, half slipping his arm through mine, led me in. There were several people in the room, and I shook hands all round, though scarcely knowing with whom. Then by degrees I disentangled them; there were not so many after all, and all well known to me. Captain and Mrs Whyte and Mary—not Yvonne Lady Honor, of course, and Anna Gale and her father. Anna was very pale, and I could see she had been crying. Mary came up close to me and stood beside me. I think she took hold of my hand.

“Now, Connie,” said my father, “I want to ask you something. It has been stated—it is believed by some of our friends here—but of course the moment you deny it, it will be all right—that some little time ago you met in the lane that leads to the Yew Trees an old lady, a stranger, who asked you the way. And that you, instead of replying courteously and civilly as one shouldalwaysdo to a stranger, above all to anoldperson, answered her rudely, and went on to speak to her with something very like absolute insult. That you called her an old beggar, a tramp—I know not what;” here Anna Gale began sobbing audibly. Papa took no notice, but went on coolly. “Furthermore, that you bound down your companion not to tell of this, and that though it was at least a rather curious incident—strangers are not so common at Elmwood as all that—you have all these weeks concealed it and kept silence about it fromsomemotive. Your companion supposes you knew you had done wrong, and that your conscience made you silent. Now, I shall be pleased if you will look up and say that the accusation is entirely unfounded; either that it is some strange mistake—or—or—no,Ican’t accuse other people’s daughters of anything worse than making a mistake.”

He glanced round the room, a proud, half-defiant smile on his face. I seemed obliged by some fascination to keep my eyes on him till his gaze fell on me. And I think I was very pale, but while he spoke I don’t think my expression had changed or faltered.Now, however, when he looked at me again, I felt as if his eyes were stabbing me; still I looked up.

“Yes, papa,” I said; “it is all quite true. I spoke even worse than that. I made Anna promise not to tell, and I have never told myself, because I knew I had behaved disgracefully. But—but—I thought she was some kind of a tramp—there are plenty of tramps about here.” I stopped for a second. “No,” I went on, something seemedpushingat me to tell the whole truth, “no, I didn’t think she was a tramp when she came close. I thought she was from the almshouses. But she called me ‘child,’ and—and I was cross already, and I didn’t think she was a lady, and—yes, I said it all, worse than you know even. And I didn’t want any one ever to know.”

Papa stood looking at me, but he did not speak. He seemed turned to stone. I could not bear it.

“Oh, papa!” I cried, stretching out my hands to him, “don’t—don’t look—”

But he did not move. Only two arms were thrown round me and clasped me tight. It was Mary.

“You should forgive her,” she called out in a voice that was almost fierce. “Youshould—everybody. She has told it all now bravely, and she didn’t mean it. She didn’t know it was our aunt.”

“Your aunt?” I gasped.

“Yes,” said Captain Whyte, coming forward and speaking very gently. “My aunt, Connie. You did not know it, but I fear you have injured us irreparably, my poor child. She took you for Mary; she was coming to see us, as a surprise on Evey’s birthday—and now nothing will make her believe it wasnotMary. You allowed her to think so.”

“Yes; I suppose I did. I couldn’t explain,” I replied; “but she would believe—shemust—if you told her.”

He shook his head.

“You cannot understand,” he said, quietly.

I don’t clearly remember what happened after this. I think Lady Honor spoke to me, not unkindly, but with a very troubled look. I remember Anna going on sobbing till I turned to her.

“What are you crying for?” I said. “Nobody is vexed with you.”

“I should have told sooner,” she wept.

“Yes, I suppose you should. But it was my fault, not yours. Why can’t you be satisfied that it’s I—only I—to blame? Everybody thinks me as bad as I can be, butyouneedn’t go on. Did your father ever look at you as papa did at me?”

I was growing desperate. Papa had walked out of the room without speaking to me. I did not know any one heard what I said to Anna till I felt some one’s arm passed round me. It was Mrs Whyte. Her pretty, merry face was quite changed, the bright, gipsy look quite gone, but the kind, true brown eyes—Evey’s eyes—were kind and true still.

“Don’t speak like that, Connie dear,” she said. “I am far more sorry for you than for ourselves. I will come and see you to-morrow. I wish I could go home with you now but poor Addie is so ill;” and I saw the tears glistening.

Then I found myself in the hall, and in another moment in the carriage again—alone! I heard Captain Whyte speak to the coachman.

“Take Miss Percy home, and then drive back to Todholes as fast as you can,” he said. “Dr Percy will be there.”

I would have liked to say I could walk, and that the carriage might go after papa at once, but I was too stupified. I think if all the village children had turned out and hooted after me as I drove along I should not have been surprised. I had only one thought—however wicked and horrid other people thought me,mammawould still love me. But for all that I hardly felt as if I could have kept my senses.

Perhaps I had better explain here how it had all happened and why, naughty as I had been, what was after all in itself but a trifling matter was considered so very seriously.

The old lady I had insulted was Mrs Fetherston, Captain Whyte’s own aunt. She had been many years a childless widow, was very rich and very peculiar. She was rich partly through her husband, partly because the Whytes’ family place was hers, left her by her father, for the property was not entailed. She had another nephew, Major Hugo Whyte, who as well as Captain Whyte had been partly brought up by her. But Captain Whyte had always been her favourite, and though he himself was younger than Major Whyte, his father had been older than Hugo Whyte’s father, so Mrs Fetherston made him her heir. There was no jealousy between the two cousins; they loved each other dearly. Major Whyte went into the army while Captain Whyte was still at school, and he was out in India when a quarrel occurred between the old lady and her favourite nephew. She wanted him to give up his profession, the navy, and live at home with her, doing nothing; she also, Ithink, wanted him to marry some girl he did not care for. He would not consent to either, and he would marry Mrs Whyte! So Mrs Fetherston disinherited him and put his cousin in his place. At first, he did not much care; he was very happy in his own home, and his aunt still continued his allowance. It was not a very large one, and as time went on and so many children came, it began to seem a very small one. At last he was forced to retire on half-pay. He had a little money of his very own, and Mrs Whyte had a little, and Major Whyte helped them as much as he could, though he was not, at present, rich himself. He also was always trying to soften his aunt to them; she had no real cause for disliking Mrs Whyte, who was very well-born indeed, only not rich. It was in consequence of one of Hugo Whyte’s letters that the queer old lady at last determined to see her nephew’s family for herself, and to pay them a surprise visit. Then—you know what happened.

Soon after Yvonne’s unfortunate birthday, Major Whyte, who had not been well for long—he was a delicate man, and had had much active service—got worse, and in consequence of this, as you may remember my overhearing at Lady Honor’s party, he came home. He had seen by his aunt’s letters that she was more bitter than ever against “Frank” and his family, but he did not know why till he saw her, and she told him the whole. He was dreadfully sorry; he did not think himself likely to live long, and his one wish was to see his cousin reinstated. For Mrs Fetherston was quite capable, if he died, of leaving everything, even the Whytes’ own old place, to some charity, away from Captain Whyte altogether. Hugo Whyte wrote to his cousin explaining what had happened, never doubting, of course, but that the rude little girl was Mary! Poor Mary at once denied it, and it became evident there was some strange mistake. Captain Whyte went off to consult Lady Honor, whose quick wits set to work to disentangle the riddle.

“There were two little girls,” she said. And that very day she saw Mr Gale and had a long talk with him. Mr Gale, in turn, had a long talk with Anna. Anna, it must be remembered, had only promised “not to tell” of our adventure conditionally; and she had often felt uneasy about it. In one sense it was a relief to her tohaveto tell; but she got more than her share of punishment, poor girl, I shall always think. Lady Honor was unwilling to tell papa about it. She knew how sensitive he was, and how he would take it to heart. So a letter was sent to Major Whyte, explaining the mistake, and asking her to allow Captain Whyte to take his two girls to see her. But the old lady had got an obstinate fit. She would not believe that the culprit was not Mary.

Then at last Lady Honor told papa. He took it up very seriously, just as she had feared,tooseriously in one sense, though I well deserved all the blame I got.

And another long letter was despatched to poor Major Whyte, who ill as he was, was determinedly trying to put things right.

The answer to this letter did not come for some days. But I have forgotten one part of the sad business. Not only was no birthday present or Christmas present sent to Yvonne by her godmother, but for the first time no cheque was received by Captain Whyte’s bankers from Mrs Fetherston. Her rancour had gone the length of stopping his allowance! No wonder the poor Yew Trees people were anxious. And this wasmydoing.

Chapter Eleven.Nothing Venture, Nothing Win.The short winters day was already closing in when the carriage stopped at our own door. I was crouched up in one corner,perfectlymiserable, the fur rug was in a heap at my feet—when I glanced at it, and thought of how papa had tucked it round me that very afternoon, I felt as if Icouldnot bear it. As I got out and entered the hall, where the light was dim, I saw some one standing at the drawing-room door. It was mamma waiting for me; she had heard the carriage stopping.“Connie, is that you?” she said. “Is papa there?”“No, mamma,” I managed to get out. “I’m alone.” Then she drew me into the drawing-room—it looked so warm and bright, the red firelight dancing on the old furniture—and I was so shivering and cold! Somehow the look of it all—the look, above all, in mamma’s eyes—was too much for me.“Mamma, mamma,” I sobbed, and once I had begun my tears came like a thunderstorm, “do you know? Do you know about how naughty I’ve been?”She had not really known of course; till I owned to it no one could have really known, except Anna. But mamma had guessed it was true—in some ways she knew me and my faults and follies even better than papa did, gentle as she was. She had been afraid it was true when he told her that afternoon what I had been accused of—and he had been rather vexed with her!“Yes, darling,” she said, “I know about it, mostly at least.”She drew my head on to her knee, as I crept close to her where she sat on a low couch, and let me sob out all my misery. Oh, mamma, dear little, sweet, unselfish mother—was there,couldthere ever be any one so kind as you? And I, who had sometimes almost dared to look down on her for her very goodness! That afternoon brought me the end of the lesson I had begun to learn. It was quite dark, and growing late, before mamma rang for lights. I had cried my eyes into a dreadful state, and I was still shivering every now and then from a sort of nervousness. Mamma took me upstairs and made me go to bed.“You will feel better in the morning,” she said. “And I will talk more to you. We must notexaggeratethings, you know, dear. Good-night, my Connie, my own little Sweet Content.”Was it not nice of her to call me that! I did not go to sleep for a good while. When I did I slept heavily. It was quite daylight when I woke. Mamma was standing beside me, and Prudence was setting down a tray with my breakfast.“I will come back when you have finished, dear,” mamma said. She did not mention papa, and when I asked Prue she only said he was already out.So he was. Not only out, but away. When mamma came up again she told me that he had got a letter the night before, which had decided him on going to London for two or three days—I think it was to attend some scientific meeting.“He came up to look at you last night,” mamma went on, “but you did not wake.”I did not speak for a minute or two. Then I said timidly:“Mamma, do you think he will ever forgive me? Mamma, do you know that he could scarcely have seemed moreterriblyangry if—if—I had done it on purpose to hurt the Whytes, and youknowit wasn’t that I love them too much; and even if I didn’t, Icouldn’tbe as bad as that?”“I know, dear,” said mamma. “But papa has very strong feelings about courtesy to strangers; above all to the old and poor—and that strange old Mrs Fetherstonseemedpoor. And then, too, the consequences are soveryserious to the Whytes. Papa said to me he was afraid of judging your fault too much by the consequences; that was partly why he sent you home alone, and he is not sorry to be away for a day or two to think things over. I may tell you Connie,” she went on, “that bright and sweet-tempered, almostperfectas he seems to us, papa has naturally a very hot and violent temper. You have never seen it; he has learnt to control it so perfectly; but yesterday he was afraid of sayingtoomuch to you; that was partly why he went away.”“I understand,” I said, “though after all I think I deserved everything any one could have said—mamma,” I added, “perhaps it’s from papa I getmytemper: it’s certainly not from you. And people generally think I’m good-tempered, just as they do him. But heisgood-tempered, because he has mastered himself, and I’m only not often bad-tempered, because I generally manage to get my own way, and am very seldom crossed!”Mamma smiled. She was glad to see me really thinking seriously.“Mamma,” I said, “even if that—that horrid old woman does leave everything to the other one—to Major Whyte,”—mamma had explained it all to me the evening before—“it couldn’t matter so very much, would it? For he’s so fond of them all—could he not make it up to them?”“They fear he would be bound down by her will to do nothing for his cousins,” said mamma. “The old lady, once she has taken a thing in her head, seems very vindictive. Besides, Captain Whyte is a proud man, he has always hoped his aunt would leave him something—it would be hard for him to take it as a gift, almost like a charity, from his cousin. And what can they do for the present? They had little enough before; but now they must be terribly poor. And the old lady may live many years. The worst of all would be if Major Whyte died before her, without her being reconciled to his cousins.” This made it all clear enough to me—only too clear. I could think of nothing else. I got up and dressed, for I was not ill. I was only feeling very miserable and rather shaky with crying so. Mamma had very kindly sent to Miss Wade to tell her not to come, which was a comfort. I was very glad to see no one but mamma, even though I longed for papa. I wanted so to consult him, and see if nothing could be done.It was a very rainy day; it went on steadily till late in the afternoon. It was one of those days which seem as if the sun had not risen.I could not settle to anything. I tried to work and read, but it was no use. Then I began a letter to Evey; I did so want to let them know how miserably sorry I was, but the words would not come, and I gave it up.“It would only seem a mockery,” I said to myself; “I don’t suppose they want to be reminded of me at all,” and I got up and stood drearily by the window watching the plash of the rain as it fell into the puddles of the gravel walk. Suddenly a feeble ray of light caught my eyes—where was it coming from? I looked up. Yes, there, over where the sun would soon be setting there was a little break in the clouds; some thin, cold, watery yellow was peeping out, and even as I gazed it reddened and warmed a little.And at that moment an idea struck me, which, the more I reflected on it, the more my judgment approved of. I stood there some minutes thinking intently. Then I flew into the library where mamma was, I knew, tidying some of papa’s books that afternoon.She had finished and was standing by the fire.“Mamma dear,” I said, “I have thought of something;” and I went on rapidly to tell her what had come into my mind. She listened eagerly, but her face flushed and she looked half-frightened.“We must wait till papa comes home and see what he says,” she replied.I clasped my hands in entreaty.“No, mamma,” I said. “I have a feeling that we mustn’t wait. Therecan’tbe any harm in it. It is my duty to apologise. I could write her a letter, but that would not be the same good. I will not go to her to say ‘I’m not Mary’; I will just say I am the little girl that was so rude to her.”Mamma considered.“But if she refuses to see us,” she said. I saw she was yielding.“Oh well, then—I don’t know. But any way I will havetried. Do you know her address, mamma?”“I know the square she lives in, and the name is not common. We can easily find the number in any address-book when we get there. But, Connie—”I stopped any further misgivings by kissing her. And seeing me look so much happier, mamma had not the heart to say anything more against it.I need not explain what it was I wanted to do, more particularly, for I think any one who reads this will understand. I will just go on to tell exactly what happened.The next morning—it was a fine day; how glad I was of that!—saw mamma and me comfortably installed in a first-class railway-carriage,en routefor London. We had no luggage, for we were only going up for the day—Elmwood is only two hours from Victoria. When we got there mamma hailed a four-wheeler—Iwould rather have had a hansom, but mamma is rather nervous about hansoms, and after all I was scarcely in the humour to care much—and told the man to drive first to one of the big shops she knew well. There she got an address-book and found out old Mrs Fetherston’s number, and off we set again. We scarcely spoke—I was growing so nervous—not out of fear for myself, but lest possibly it should all fail!At last the cab drew up in front of a large, regular London house. We got out. The door was opened by a footman, and further back in the hall were one or two other men-servants. It was a stately, rather old-fashioned house. How strange to think that it belonged to the queer old woman I had so mistaken!“Is Mrs Fetherston at home?” mamma inquired. It was now about half-past two; we had chosen the time well. The footman hesitated.“I think my mistress is at home,” he said, “but she don’t see many visitors.” Mamma smiled so sweetly that he could not help adding: “I can inquire if—”“Perhaps you had better take my card to her, as it is really on business. And pray say I will not detain her many minutes.”At the word “business” the man hesitated again; but he saw that we had kept the cab; that did not look much like ladylike impostors. “Will you step in?” he began again.In her turn mamma hesitated.“We could wait in the cab,” she said to me doubtfully. But it was a very cold day.At that moment a tall, thin, dark-complexioned man—a gentleman, I mean—crossed the hall.“Shut the door, David,” he said hastily. But then seeing us there he came forward a little way, courteously, “I beg your pardon, won’t you come in?”We did so, sufficiently at least for David to shut the door; then the man turned to the gentleman to explain the state of the case.“Do come in,” the gentleman repeated, throwing open the door of a library which looked warm and comfortable.“I am half afraid Mrs Fetherston—”Mamma and I glanced at each other. She was going to speak, I think, but I forestalled her.“Major Whyte,” I said, “please may we tell you about it? Mamma—mamma is Mrs Percy,” I added.He was very quick-witted. He seemed to know in an instant. Indeed, though we did not hear that till afterwards, he had that morning got a letter from his cousin, explaining the mystery of “Mary’s” strange behaviour! And in another moment we were in the library with him, the door closed, and David told to wait till he was rung for, while mamma told our story. Major White listened most attentively while mamma, clearly and without hesitation—except just once, and that was at the part about my naughty rudeness, when she stopped and glanced at me; “I need not say how deeply Constantia has grieved over this,” she said—related everything. The only sound besides her voice was Major Whyte’s cough, the sort of cough one cannot bear to hear. And when she stopped, for a minute or two he could not speak for coughing; his thin brown face grew so painfully red, and he seemed to shake all over. How sorry I felt for him!Mamma waited quietly. Then glancing round she caught sight of a carafe of water and a glass on the side-table. She poured some out and brought it to him.“Thank you—so much,” he said, and in a little he was able to speak again.“I see it all, of course,” he said. “It is brave of your daughter to have come herself, Mrs Percy, and it seems to me it was the best thing to do. There is certainly a very strong likeness between her and Mary, though I have not seen Mary for four years. If I had been told you were Mary,” he went on, turning to me with a smile, “I think I should have believed it. Now, have you the courage to beard the—to come with me to Mrs Fetherston alone? I think, perhaps, that is the best chance.”Mamma and I looked at each other, and Major Whyte looked at us both.“Yes,” I said, “I’ll come alone, if it’s best.”“Bravo,” said our new friend—I felt he was a friend at once—and he held out his hand to me in a way I could not resist or resent, though generally I stood on my dignity a good deal. “We had been thinking of trying a rather desperate experiment to bring my poor aunt to her senses,” he said. “But I believe your effort will be more successful.”We left the room together, he and I. I followed him upstairs to the first floor, and through two big drawing-rooms into a third and smaller one at the back. In he stalked, coughing a little now and then; in I crept after him. A big fire was blazing, an armchair was drawn close to it, and on, or rather in, the armchair, which almost seemed to swallow her up, was seated a small dark figure. She was reading the newspaper.“What is it, Hugo?” she said, at the sound of my conductor’s footsteps. “There you are again, in and out as usual, exposing yourself to every draught, of course.”The sharp tones, the queer, black, unnatural-looking curls were all too familiar to me. I could not help shivering a little.“Aunt Angela,” he said—only fancythatbeing her name!—“I have brought a young lady to see you,” and he drew me forward a little. “You have seen her before,”—piercing eyes were upon me by this time—“but perhaps I can best introduce her and best explain her visit by telling you she isnotyour great-niece, Mary Whyte.”He stood still to watch the effect of his audacity. The old lady began to tremble a little, though she tried to hide it. But this gave me courage, because it made me sorry for her.“Who—who are you then? Who do you say you are?” she said, in a shaky, quavering voice.I came towards her and stood full in the light such a light as there is on a winter’s day in a London back-drawing-room—I pushed my hat back—it fell off, and my fair hair came tumbling over my face. Major Whyte picked up my hat; I shook back my hair. The old lady could see me quite plainly.“You will remember my face, I think?” I said, gently. “My name is Connie—Constantia Percy—papa is Dr Percy. He is the doctor at Elmwood; everybody there knows us. I have come to—to apologise to youverymuch for being so rude to you that day. I was in a bad temper before I met you. I don’t think I’d have been so rude—and—and unkind—to a stranger, if it hadn’t been for that I do hope you will forgive me.”She looked at me still for some seconds, without speaking. Then she turned to her nephew.“I can see now that there is no real likeness to Frank,” she said coolly. “Still the mistake was a very natural one, meeting her where I did, and the superficial resemblance of colouring, and so on, to what you had told me of the second girl, and to her photograph.”“Yes,” said Major Whyte, his face flushing nervously, “the originalmistakewas natural enough, Aunt Angela: that is to say, if you could imagine, which Icouldn’t, that one of Frank’s girls could have behaved so; but after you were assured that itwasa mistake, when they absolutely denied it—” he stopped—his indignation had carried him further than was prudent. He had hit Mrs Fetherston hard; he had hit some one else hard too. Indeed, I think he had forgotten I was there. But I was too much in earnest to resent the unflattering inference of his words.“You could not think me like Mary if you saw us together,” I said eagerly. “She is ever,everso much prettier, and,of course, just as good as I am naughty. It is quite true, neither she nor Yvonne could have behaved as I did.”My voice began to break as I said the last words; the long strain was beginning to tell on me. I felt the tears coming, and I tried to choke them down. I knew Mrs Fetherston’s keen eyes were on me.“My dear,” she said—I could scarcely have believed her voice could have been so different—“there are worse little girls in the world than you. I freely forgive you what I have to forgive. Some day Imaysee you and Mary together.”Major Whyte started and a bright look of pleasure lighted up his face.“Aunt Angela,” he began joyfully. Then I think the remembrance of what he had said came over him suddenly, for he turned to me.“My dear child,” he said, “you must forgive me. I forgot.”“No, no, please,” I said, though I was crying by this time. “I don’t mind; it was quite true.”But at that moment we were all startled by a knock at the door—this room was the old lady’s private sitting-room and a man-servant, not David—an older one—appeared in answer to Mrs Fetherston’s “Come in.”“A—a gentleman to see Major Whyte, if you please, ma’am,” he said; adding in a lower tone, “I think it’s something rather particular.”Major Whyte turned to go, but a fit of coughing interrupted him.“My poor boy, you are killing yourself,” said his aunt; “Freeland, bring the gentleman up here if it is anything particular. Your master can’t go running up and down stairs in this way.”

The short winters day was already closing in when the carriage stopped at our own door. I was crouched up in one corner,perfectlymiserable, the fur rug was in a heap at my feet—when I glanced at it, and thought of how papa had tucked it round me that very afternoon, I felt as if Icouldnot bear it. As I got out and entered the hall, where the light was dim, I saw some one standing at the drawing-room door. It was mamma waiting for me; she had heard the carriage stopping.

“Connie, is that you?” she said. “Is papa there?”

“No, mamma,” I managed to get out. “I’m alone.” Then she drew me into the drawing-room—it looked so warm and bright, the red firelight dancing on the old furniture—and I was so shivering and cold! Somehow the look of it all—the look, above all, in mamma’s eyes—was too much for me.

“Mamma, mamma,” I sobbed, and once I had begun my tears came like a thunderstorm, “do you know? Do you know about how naughty I’ve been?”

She had not really known of course; till I owned to it no one could have really known, except Anna. But mamma had guessed it was true—in some ways she knew me and my faults and follies even better than papa did, gentle as she was. She had been afraid it was true when he told her that afternoon what I had been accused of—and he had been rather vexed with her!

“Yes, darling,” she said, “I know about it, mostly at least.”

She drew my head on to her knee, as I crept close to her where she sat on a low couch, and let me sob out all my misery. Oh, mamma, dear little, sweet, unselfish mother—was there,couldthere ever be any one so kind as you? And I, who had sometimes almost dared to look down on her for her very goodness! That afternoon brought me the end of the lesson I had begun to learn. It was quite dark, and growing late, before mamma rang for lights. I had cried my eyes into a dreadful state, and I was still shivering every now and then from a sort of nervousness. Mamma took me upstairs and made me go to bed.

“You will feel better in the morning,” she said. “And I will talk more to you. We must notexaggeratethings, you know, dear. Good-night, my Connie, my own little Sweet Content.”

Was it not nice of her to call me that! I did not go to sleep for a good while. When I did I slept heavily. It was quite daylight when I woke. Mamma was standing beside me, and Prudence was setting down a tray with my breakfast.

“I will come back when you have finished, dear,” mamma said. She did not mention papa, and when I asked Prue she only said he was already out.

So he was. Not only out, but away. When mamma came up again she told me that he had got a letter the night before, which had decided him on going to London for two or three days—I think it was to attend some scientific meeting.

“He came up to look at you last night,” mamma went on, “but you did not wake.”

I did not speak for a minute or two. Then I said timidly:

“Mamma, do you think he will ever forgive me? Mamma, do you know that he could scarcely have seemed moreterriblyangry if—if—I had done it on purpose to hurt the Whytes, and youknowit wasn’t that I love them too much; and even if I didn’t, Icouldn’tbe as bad as that?”

“I know, dear,” said mamma. “But papa has very strong feelings about courtesy to strangers; above all to the old and poor—and that strange old Mrs Fetherstonseemedpoor. And then, too, the consequences are soveryserious to the Whytes. Papa said to me he was afraid of judging your fault too much by the consequences; that was partly why he sent you home alone, and he is not sorry to be away for a day or two to think things over. I may tell you Connie,” she went on, “that bright and sweet-tempered, almostperfectas he seems to us, papa has naturally a very hot and violent temper. You have never seen it; he has learnt to control it so perfectly; but yesterday he was afraid of sayingtoomuch to you; that was partly why he went away.”

“I understand,” I said, “though after all I think I deserved everything any one could have said—mamma,” I added, “perhaps it’s from papa I getmytemper: it’s certainly not from you. And people generally think I’m good-tempered, just as they do him. But heisgood-tempered, because he has mastered himself, and I’m only not often bad-tempered, because I generally manage to get my own way, and am very seldom crossed!”

Mamma smiled. She was glad to see me really thinking seriously.

“Mamma,” I said, “even if that—that horrid old woman does leave everything to the other one—to Major Whyte,”—mamma had explained it all to me the evening before—“it couldn’t matter so very much, would it? For he’s so fond of them all—could he not make it up to them?”

“They fear he would be bound down by her will to do nothing for his cousins,” said mamma. “The old lady, once she has taken a thing in her head, seems very vindictive. Besides, Captain Whyte is a proud man, he has always hoped his aunt would leave him something—it would be hard for him to take it as a gift, almost like a charity, from his cousin. And what can they do for the present? They had little enough before; but now they must be terribly poor. And the old lady may live many years. The worst of all would be if Major Whyte died before her, without her being reconciled to his cousins.” This made it all clear enough to me—only too clear. I could think of nothing else. I got up and dressed, for I was not ill. I was only feeling very miserable and rather shaky with crying so. Mamma had very kindly sent to Miss Wade to tell her not to come, which was a comfort. I was very glad to see no one but mamma, even though I longed for papa. I wanted so to consult him, and see if nothing could be done.

It was a very rainy day; it went on steadily till late in the afternoon. It was one of those days which seem as if the sun had not risen.

I could not settle to anything. I tried to work and read, but it was no use. Then I began a letter to Evey; I did so want to let them know how miserably sorry I was, but the words would not come, and I gave it up.

“It would only seem a mockery,” I said to myself; “I don’t suppose they want to be reminded of me at all,” and I got up and stood drearily by the window watching the plash of the rain as it fell into the puddles of the gravel walk. Suddenly a feeble ray of light caught my eyes—where was it coming from? I looked up. Yes, there, over where the sun would soon be setting there was a little break in the clouds; some thin, cold, watery yellow was peeping out, and even as I gazed it reddened and warmed a little.

And at that moment an idea struck me, which, the more I reflected on it, the more my judgment approved of. I stood there some minutes thinking intently. Then I flew into the library where mamma was, I knew, tidying some of papa’s books that afternoon.

She had finished and was standing by the fire.

“Mamma dear,” I said, “I have thought of something;” and I went on rapidly to tell her what had come into my mind. She listened eagerly, but her face flushed and she looked half-frightened.

“We must wait till papa comes home and see what he says,” she replied.

I clasped my hands in entreaty.

“No, mamma,” I said. “I have a feeling that we mustn’t wait. Therecan’tbe any harm in it. It is my duty to apologise. I could write her a letter, but that would not be the same good. I will not go to her to say ‘I’m not Mary’; I will just say I am the little girl that was so rude to her.”

Mamma considered.

“But if she refuses to see us,” she said. I saw she was yielding.

“Oh well, then—I don’t know. But any way I will havetried. Do you know her address, mamma?”

“I know the square she lives in, and the name is not common. We can easily find the number in any address-book when we get there. But, Connie—”

I stopped any further misgivings by kissing her. And seeing me look so much happier, mamma had not the heart to say anything more against it.

I need not explain what it was I wanted to do, more particularly, for I think any one who reads this will understand. I will just go on to tell exactly what happened.

The next morning—it was a fine day; how glad I was of that!—saw mamma and me comfortably installed in a first-class railway-carriage,en routefor London. We had no luggage, for we were only going up for the day—Elmwood is only two hours from Victoria. When we got there mamma hailed a four-wheeler—Iwould rather have had a hansom, but mamma is rather nervous about hansoms, and after all I was scarcely in the humour to care much—and told the man to drive first to one of the big shops she knew well. There she got an address-book and found out old Mrs Fetherston’s number, and off we set again. We scarcely spoke—I was growing so nervous—not out of fear for myself, but lest possibly it should all fail!

At last the cab drew up in front of a large, regular London house. We got out. The door was opened by a footman, and further back in the hall were one or two other men-servants. It was a stately, rather old-fashioned house. How strange to think that it belonged to the queer old woman I had so mistaken!

“Is Mrs Fetherston at home?” mamma inquired. It was now about half-past two; we had chosen the time well. The footman hesitated.

“I think my mistress is at home,” he said, “but she don’t see many visitors.” Mamma smiled so sweetly that he could not help adding: “I can inquire if—”

“Perhaps you had better take my card to her, as it is really on business. And pray say I will not detain her many minutes.”

At the word “business” the man hesitated again; but he saw that we had kept the cab; that did not look much like ladylike impostors. “Will you step in?” he began again.

In her turn mamma hesitated.

“We could wait in the cab,” she said to me doubtfully. But it was a very cold day.

At that moment a tall, thin, dark-complexioned man—a gentleman, I mean—crossed the hall.

“Shut the door, David,” he said hastily. But then seeing us there he came forward a little way, courteously, “I beg your pardon, won’t you come in?”

We did so, sufficiently at least for David to shut the door; then the man turned to the gentleman to explain the state of the case.

“Do come in,” the gentleman repeated, throwing open the door of a library which looked warm and comfortable.

“I am half afraid Mrs Fetherston—”

Mamma and I glanced at each other. She was going to speak, I think, but I forestalled her.

“Major Whyte,” I said, “please may we tell you about it? Mamma—mamma is Mrs Percy,” I added.

He was very quick-witted. He seemed to know in an instant. Indeed, though we did not hear that till afterwards, he had that morning got a letter from his cousin, explaining the mystery of “Mary’s” strange behaviour! And in another moment we were in the library with him, the door closed, and David told to wait till he was rung for, while mamma told our story. Major White listened most attentively while mamma, clearly and without hesitation—except just once, and that was at the part about my naughty rudeness, when she stopped and glanced at me; “I need not say how deeply Constantia has grieved over this,” she said—related everything. The only sound besides her voice was Major Whyte’s cough, the sort of cough one cannot bear to hear. And when she stopped, for a minute or two he could not speak for coughing; his thin brown face grew so painfully red, and he seemed to shake all over. How sorry I felt for him!

Mamma waited quietly. Then glancing round she caught sight of a carafe of water and a glass on the side-table. She poured some out and brought it to him.

“Thank you—so much,” he said, and in a little he was able to speak again.

“I see it all, of course,” he said. “It is brave of your daughter to have come herself, Mrs Percy, and it seems to me it was the best thing to do. There is certainly a very strong likeness between her and Mary, though I have not seen Mary for four years. If I had been told you were Mary,” he went on, turning to me with a smile, “I think I should have believed it. Now, have you the courage to beard the—to come with me to Mrs Fetherston alone? I think, perhaps, that is the best chance.”

Mamma and I looked at each other, and Major Whyte looked at us both.

“Yes,” I said, “I’ll come alone, if it’s best.”

“Bravo,” said our new friend—I felt he was a friend at once—and he held out his hand to me in a way I could not resist or resent, though generally I stood on my dignity a good deal. “We had been thinking of trying a rather desperate experiment to bring my poor aunt to her senses,” he said. “But I believe your effort will be more successful.”

We left the room together, he and I. I followed him upstairs to the first floor, and through two big drawing-rooms into a third and smaller one at the back. In he stalked, coughing a little now and then; in I crept after him. A big fire was blazing, an armchair was drawn close to it, and on, or rather in, the armchair, which almost seemed to swallow her up, was seated a small dark figure. She was reading the newspaper.

“What is it, Hugo?” she said, at the sound of my conductor’s footsteps. “There you are again, in and out as usual, exposing yourself to every draught, of course.”

The sharp tones, the queer, black, unnatural-looking curls were all too familiar to me. I could not help shivering a little.

“Aunt Angela,” he said—only fancythatbeing her name!—“I have brought a young lady to see you,” and he drew me forward a little. “You have seen her before,”—piercing eyes were upon me by this time—“but perhaps I can best introduce her and best explain her visit by telling you she isnotyour great-niece, Mary Whyte.”

He stood still to watch the effect of his audacity. The old lady began to tremble a little, though she tried to hide it. But this gave me courage, because it made me sorry for her.

“Who—who are you then? Who do you say you are?” she said, in a shaky, quavering voice.

I came towards her and stood full in the light such a light as there is on a winter’s day in a London back-drawing-room—I pushed my hat back—it fell off, and my fair hair came tumbling over my face. Major Whyte picked up my hat; I shook back my hair. The old lady could see me quite plainly.

“You will remember my face, I think?” I said, gently. “My name is Connie—Constantia Percy—papa is Dr Percy. He is the doctor at Elmwood; everybody there knows us. I have come to—to apologise to youverymuch for being so rude to you that day. I was in a bad temper before I met you. I don’t think I’d have been so rude—and—and unkind—to a stranger, if it hadn’t been for that I do hope you will forgive me.”

She looked at me still for some seconds, without speaking. Then she turned to her nephew.

“I can see now that there is no real likeness to Frank,” she said coolly. “Still the mistake was a very natural one, meeting her where I did, and the superficial resemblance of colouring, and so on, to what you had told me of the second girl, and to her photograph.”

“Yes,” said Major Whyte, his face flushing nervously, “the originalmistakewas natural enough, Aunt Angela: that is to say, if you could imagine, which Icouldn’t, that one of Frank’s girls could have behaved so; but after you were assured that itwasa mistake, when they absolutely denied it—” he stopped—his indignation had carried him further than was prudent. He had hit Mrs Fetherston hard; he had hit some one else hard too. Indeed, I think he had forgotten I was there. But I was too much in earnest to resent the unflattering inference of his words.

“You could not think me like Mary if you saw us together,” I said eagerly. “She is ever,everso much prettier, and,of course, just as good as I am naughty. It is quite true, neither she nor Yvonne could have behaved as I did.”

My voice began to break as I said the last words; the long strain was beginning to tell on me. I felt the tears coming, and I tried to choke them down. I knew Mrs Fetherston’s keen eyes were on me.

“My dear,” she said—I could scarcely have believed her voice could have been so different—“there are worse little girls in the world than you. I freely forgive you what I have to forgive. Some day Imaysee you and Mary together.”

Major Whyte started and a bright look of pleasure lighted up his face.

“Aunt Angela,” he began joyfully. Then I think the remembrance of what he had said came over him suddenly, for he turned to me.

“My dear child,” he said, “you must forgive me. I forgot.”

“No, no, please,” I said, though I was crying by this time. “I don’t mind; it was quite true.”

But at that moment we were all startled by a knock at the door—this room was the old lady’s private sitting-room and a man-servant, not David—an older one—appeared in answer to Mrs Fetherston’s “Come in.”

“A—a gentleman to see Major Whyte, if you please, ma’am,” he said; adding in a lower tone, “I think it’s something rather particular.”

Major Whyte turned to go, but a fit of coughing interrupted him.

“My poor boy, you are killing yourself,” said his aunt; “Freeland, bring the gentleman up here if it is anything particular. Your master can’t go running up and down stairs in this way.”

Chapter Twelve.True Hearts.We all waited, without speaking. Poor Major Whyte indeed seemed exhausted by his cough. There was a feeling in the air, I think, as if something strange were going to happen.And in a very few moments there came the sound of footsteps up the stairs, and then crossing the two big drawing-rooms. And then—the door opened. Freeland murmured something, and I saw coming through the doorway the familiar figure of Captain Whyte, and close behind him the sweet fair face of dear Mary.Major Whyte started up. He wrung his cousin’s hand without speaking. But I—what do you think I did? I seized Mary and dragged her forward. Fancyme, naughty me, being the one to introduce Mary to her own aunt!“Here she is,” I cried; “now youcansee us together. This is Mary, your own niece, Mrs Fetherston; you can see if what I said wasn’t true.”Marydidlook sweet, though she was shabbily dressed and very frightened. In that grand house the old tweed jacket looked even shabbier than at Elmwood. She clung to me, till I almost pushed her into the old lady’s arms.“Kiss her, Mary. She’s your own aunt. Oh,do” I whispered; “you don’t know what good it might do. Oh, do kiss her.”Perhaps the last three words were spoken more loudly in my excitement; perhaps the old lady’s ears were as sharp as her eyes! However it was, she heard, and she smiled.“Yes,do,” she repeated, and she half held out her arms to Mary. “You are not my special child, I suppose,” she said. “Yvonne is my godchild; but, oh, you are very like what Frank was. Frank,” she added tremulously, “my boy, Frank—are you not going to speak to me, too?”He came to her at once; I turned away, and somehow or other I found myself with Major Whyte in the outer room.“Do you—do you really think it is going to be all right?” I could not help saying to him.He nodded; for a moment or two it seemed as if he could not speak, and I think there were tears in his eyes. His voice was husky when he did speak, but that might have been from his cough.“Yes,” he said, “I do—I do really hope so.Thank God.”And as I glanced up at his kind, worn face, there seemed to me to be a light about it—a light such as one never sees save in the face of those who have suffered much, and have learnt to thank God for both sorrow and joy. I knew then that poor Major Whyte was not—as our simple country-folk say—was not “long for this world.” I never saw him again, and I had never seen him before, but I have never forgotten him.He took me downstairs to where mamma was anxiously waiting. He had ordered tea for her and me; he knew we would be the better for it, he said, before setting off on our cold journey back. He was so gentle and considerate to mamma, telling her all that had happened upstairs as frankly as if she had been an old friend—I always notice that people who are quite,quitewell-bred, are so much franker than commoner people, who make mysteries about nothing, and treat you as if your one object in life was to get their secrets out of them—and he was quite right, for she did indeed feel like one. And when we went away he took both my hands in hissonicely and thankedme—me, the naughty horrid little mischief-maker. Was it not more than good of him? When we were by ourselves in the cab I leant my head against mamma’s shoulder and burst into tears. I could not help it.“All’s well that ends well, my Connie—my little Sweet Content,” she said. But I could not help going on crying when I thought of poor Major Hugo’s thin face and his terrible cough, and of how muchIhad added to his troubles and anxieties by my naughtiness on Evey’s birthday.Papa came home the next day. We were longing to see him and to tell him everything. I fancy mamma was just a little afraid of his thinking we had been imprudent, though she did not say so to me, for fear of making me anxious. Iwasanxious all the same. We had heard nothing of the Whytes, and mamma thought it better not to go to see them or send to the Yew Trees till papa came home. We did not know what time to expect him; his letter only said “to-morrow, as early in the afternoon as I can manage it.” I spent that afternoon principally at the dining-room window, watching for him, which was very silly I know, and certainly did not make the time pass quicker. But I reallycouldnot settle down to anything. Just fancy: I had not seen papa since he turned away from me in silent, cold contempt in Lady Honor’s drawing-room, though it was a comfort to know that he had come up to my room that same night and looked at me as I lay asleep.When at last hedidcome, I was, of course, not at my post: that is always the way. I was in the drawing-room at afternoon tea with mamma. I did not even hear his latchkey in the lock, as I often did. He was standing at the drawing-room door, looking at us, before we knew he was there!All my plans of what I would say, how I would ask him to forgive me, flew out of my head. I just rushed up to him and threw my arms round him and burst into tears.“Oh, papa, papa!” I said.He did not repulse me; he did not speak for a moment, but I felt his kind, firm clasp. Then he said:“My poor little girl,” and he stooped and kissed me. The kiss said everything.Mamma came forward.“Tom, dear,” she began, a little nervously, “we have a great deal to tell you.”Poor little mamma—what a shame it was that she should be nervous, when if shehaddone anything imprudent it had only been for my sake!But papa’s first words took away all our fears.“No, darling,” he said. I liked to hear him call mamma “darling”; he did not often do so, for he is not at all what is called “demonstrative.”“No, you haven’t; I know all you have to tell me, and a good deal more. Indeed, I rather think I have a good deal to tellyou. But first, give me a cup of nice hot tea. Itiscold this afternoon;” and still with his arm thrown round my neck, he came close up to the fireplace and stood there, watching mamma as she poured out his tea in the nice neat way she does everything.“This is comfortable,” said papa; “it’s worth having a cold journey to come home like this, especially when—when one has good news, too, to bring back.”I started at this.“Oh, papa,” I said, “is it about the Whytes?—is it all right?”“I think so. I quite believe so,” he replied. “I had a most cheerful note from Captain Whyte this morning written from his aunt’s house. We were together in London yesterday. He came to my hotel with Mary, on his way to Mrs Fetherston’s, little thinking of your stealing a march on us! Indeed, it was a good deal my idea—the taking Mary to show that she was herself, and not—”“Notme,” I interrupted. “Oh, papa, I have beensosorry,soashamed.”“I know you have,” said papa, gravely. “I would have spared it you if I could; but yet, Connie—”“I deserved it,” I said, “and I wouldn’t have minded its being twice as bad as it was yesterday, if it was to put things right. And the old lady was really kind, papa, at the end.”“Captain Whyte told me all,” he said. “I don’t think any of them dared to hope in the least that things would turn out so well. They are all going up to town to-morrow—all, that is to say, except the three little fellows. Mrs Fetherston is not one to do things by halves, I fancy. The saddest part of the whole is poor Hugo Whyte’s precarious state.”“Have you seen him?” mamma asked.“Yes,” papa replied. “I called on him the day I went up to speak about Captain Whyte’s idea of bringing Mary. He is very, very ill. I don’t think they quite realise how ill he is. Perhaps, however, it is just as well. He may have a little breathing-time now he is happier and cheered by having them all about him; he may live a few months in comparative comfort. That is the best I can hope for.”“It is a comfort to think that his last days will be cheered and happy,” said mamma, softly.But I could not help crying again just a little, at night when I was alone, when I thought of Major Whyte’s face, and that I could never hope to see him well and strong and bright like papa and Captain Whyte.Things turned out pretty much as papa had predicted. Two days after the evening I have been telling you about—the evening of papa’s return—all the Yew Trees people came home again. We knew they had come home by hearing accidentally that the fly from the Stag’s Head had been ordered to meet them at the station at three o’clock. So I posted myself at the dining-room window, and had the tantalising gratification of seeing both it and Lady Honor’s brougham pass our door on their way to the Yew Trees. I could distinguish Mrs Whyte in the brougham, and a bag or two, and the back of a hat which I was sure was Yvonne’s. And the fly was well filled too. But none of them looked out our way, nor nodded to me, though theymighthave seen me. I felt rather unhappy again.“Mamma,” I said, when I got back to the drawing-room, “I have seen them all pass, but they didn’t look this way. Mamma, you and papa have forgiven me, but perhaps—even if theyforgiveme, they’re perhaps not going to be the same ever again,” and I could scarcely choke down a sob.“Connie, dearest,” said mamma, “how can you fancy such things? You will see, dear, it will be all right.”But I was very unhappy all that evening.“They haveneverpassed before without looking out,” I kept saying to myself, and mamma could not manage to cheer me. But just as I was going to bed, the “odd man” from the Yew Trees made his appearance with a note for “Miss Percy,” from Evey! I knew the handwriting, and tore it open.“Dearest Connie,” it said, “wewereso disappointed not to find you here, at the Yew Trees, when we arrived. I wrote yesterday from London, to ask you to be here to spend the evening, so that we could tell you everything. I gave the note to Lancey, and he has just found it in his pocket! So please ask dear Mrs Percy to let you come to-morrow. You must have a whole holiday for once, and stay all day. Oh, we are so happy.“Your loving“Evey.”“Now, Connie,” said mamma, triumphantly, “surely you will never mistrust your friends again.”I thought I never could, and I thought so still more when I came home the next evening, after one of the very happiest days I ever spent. But I have notquitekept to it, as I will tell before I come to the end of my story.I must go straight on—was it not sweet of them to make me so happy?—they would not let me keep the least sore feeling about what I had done; they would have it I had been so “brave and unselfish”—fancymeunselfish!—in going to see Mrs Fetherston on my own account, as I had done. Everything was coming right, Mrs Fetherston had fallen in love with their mother, and what wonder! They were all to spend the next summer holidays at Southerwold—that was the old home of the Whytes, which none of the Yew Trees children had ever seen; “Uncle Hugo,” as they called him, was to get quite well immediately, and though I felt more inclined to cry than to smile when they said this, knowing what papa thought about Major Whyte, I took care not to cloud their bright hopes. It was so like the Whytes. They could not see anything other than hopefully—some people think that a bad way to face life and its troubles, but I really can’t say. All I know is that when troubles do come, these dear friends of ours meet them bravely.“Isn’t Uncle Hugo a darling?” said Yvonne. “Of course we’ve knownhintall our lives, though we never saw Aunt Fetherston before. But it’s nearly five years since Uncle Hugo went to India, so of course we had all to learn each other over again, as he says. He’s taken such a fancy to you, Connie. He’s coming down here to stay with us as soon as ever the milder weather really sets in; just now he’s best in London. There’s no pleasure in being in the country if one can’t go out.”“No, of course not,” I agreed. Evey’s confident tone almost made me feel as if, perhaps, papa was wrong, and that Major Whytewouldget well again after all.But, alas! it was not so. He did seem to get better for a little, and even papa, who was up in London again, a month or so later, and went to see him, allowed when he came home, that he could not have believed Major Whyte could have rallied so much. And as the spring set in early, and the good symptoms continued, all was arranged for his coming down to the Yew Trees; the very day and train were fixed, and we three were nearly as pleased at the idea of seeing him again as the Whytes themselves, when the blow fell. Something, no one could say certainly what—it might have been a slight chill, or over-fatigue, or, perhaps merely the pleasant excitement of the visit in prospect—something—he was so far gone that a mere nothing was enough, papa said—brought on his cough again fearfully. He broke a blood-vessel, I think, and there was only time to telegraph for Captain and Mrs Whyte, and the elder children to go to bid him good-bye before he passed away, very peacefully and very happily, Evey and Mary told me, when they were able to tell me about it. For it was a real and sad grief to them all, and it was the first trouble ofthatkind they had ever known.“He sent his love and good-bye to you,” Yvonne said; ”‘little Connie Percy’ he called you. And I heard him say, ‘but for her, things might not have been as they are.’ Yes, he was quite happy. Do you know,” she went on in a very low voice, “years and years ago Uncle Hugo was going to be married to somebody very nice and sweet, and she died. Mother told us—I think it was that that made him so gentle and kind, though he was very brave too.”The children gave no thought to the difference Major Whyte’s death would make to them all in the end. I think Captain Whyte told papa all, but I never heard or thought about it till the change actually came. That was two years after Major Whyte’s death, when poor old Mrs Fetherston died too. She felt the shock of his death very much, for though he had not been originally her favourite nephew, no one could have lived with him without learning to love him. She had grown dependent on him, too, for helping her to manage things. Altogether it was a great blow, though now, fortunately, as things were, she had Captain Whyte instead, and for the rest of her life she did indeed cling to him and his wife, and to them all. But she never came down to Elmwood again. She stayed on at Southerwold, where she went immediately after Major Whyte’s death, and one or the other, or more of the Yew Trees family were always with her. So I never saw her again, though now and then there was a talk of her coming to the Yew Trees.These two years were very happy. The Whytes, though they still lived very simply, were free from anxiety about the future, and instead of this making them selfish, it only made them the kinder. All children, I suppose, live a good deal in the present. I don’t think I understood this till the great change came, which made such a difference to me. I had thought, I suppose, that things would always go on much the same.But one day—it was only six months ago—Captain and Mrs Whyte, who had both been at Southerwold for nearly a week, telegraphed to papa, that old Mrs Fetherston had died; it was rather sudden at the last; and in the telegram they asked him to go to the Yew Trees to tell the children. I had seen them only the evening before, when there was no expectation of such a thing.“Give them my love, papa,” I said, as he was starting, “and tell them I am very sorry.”“Theywillbe sorry, I suppose,” I added to mamma, when we were sitting alone; “but notvery, do you think? She was rather a frightening old lady, though I don’t mean to be unkind.”“She was very much softened of late,” said mamma, but she spoke rather absently.“Still, mamma, it can’t make themverymiserable—not like if one of themselves had died,” I said. “I may go to see them soon, mayn’t I, and everything be the same?”Mamma looked at me very tenderly.“Connie, dear,” she said, “don’t you understand that it must make a great difference? Captain Whyte will be the owner of Southerwold, and one or two other smaller places as well, I believe. He will be a very, very rich man, and they will be very important people. I don’t say it will change theirhearts; indeed, I am very, very sure it will not; but they will have many new ties, and responsibilities, and duties, and—they will have to leave us.”I stared at her. It was very silly of me not to have thought of it before, but I just hadn’t. Then I burst into tears, and hid my face on mamma’s shoulder.“You must try not to be selfish, darling,” she whispered. “Try to be my own Sweet Content, and trust.”I did try—I have tried, and I daresay mamma thinks I have succeeded. But in my heart I know I have not,quite. It all happened as mamma had said; as ithadto, indeed. But it came so soon: I had not realised that. They were all as kind and dear as they could be to the end. Only they were very busy, and, of course, a little excited by the change. What wonder! Who could have helped it? In their place, I am sure, I should have been justhorridlyselfish. And before we knew where we were they were gone; the Yew Trees empty and shut up again. I went through it once, just once—but never again, for when I came to Evey and Mary’s room, with the climbing roses paper on the walls, I felt as if my heart would burst. That was six months ago. I have seen none of them since. They write me nice letters, but lately I have not had one—and, after all, letters are only letters. Some of them have been abroad for part of the winter; poor Addie was ill again, and no doubt they have new friends, and lots and lots to do. Perhaps it will be wisest for me to remember this, and not expect ever hardly to see them again; but—there is mamma calling me—what can it be? I must run and see.It was a letter from Yvonne—a letter and aninvitation. I am to go to Southerwold for the Easter holidays! Oh, I can hardly believe it. I don’t know if I am glad or not. I amsoafraid they will have grown so grand, and that I shall feel strange and shy. Oh, my dear Evey and Mary—if I could but have you again like last year—with your dear old shabby tweed jackets, and the loving hearts inside them!Southerwold,April16th, 188-.I amhere, at Southerwold, and oh, so happy! It is the most beautiful, the grandest place you can imagine. They haveeverything! But it is not the place nor the grandeur that makes me happy. It is themselves. They are just quite,exactlythe same. I will never, never, never have horrid, distrustful fancies about them again. They met me at the station—Evey and Mary—in their own beautiful pony-carriage, and in one moment I felt it was all right. And just fancy—they had on the old tweed jackets!“It has got so suddenly hot,” said Yvonne, in her funny, practical way, “that we couldn’t stand our winter things; so we routed these out. They do very well, don’t they? I suppose we shall get new ones this year. There isn’t any difficulty now about such things, you see, Connie,” she added smiling.“How pretty your jacket is, Connie,” said Mary, admiringly. “Do let us ask mother to get us ones something like it, Evey.”Dear Mary—they were all dear. They are going to show me all the things they do—the poor people, and the schools, and everything, so that when I come here I shall know their ways and be able to help them. For I am to comeveryoften they say. And the week after next, dear little mamma and papa are coming to fetch me. I shan’t mind going home, for I know now we shall never be separated for very long, and never at allin our hearts.

We all waited, without speaking. Poor Major Whyte indeed seemed exhausted by his cough. There was a feeling in the air, I think, as if something strange were going to happen.

And in a very few moments there came the sound of footsteps up the stairs, and then crossing the two big drawing-rooms. And then—the door opened. Freeland murmured something, and I saw coming through the doorway the familiar figure of Captain Whyte, and close behind him the sweet fair face of dear Mary.

Major Whyte started up. He wrung his cousin’s hand without speaking. But I—what do you think I did? I seized Mary and dragged her forward. Fancyme, naughty me, being the one to introduce Mary to her own aunt!

“Here she is,” I cried; “now youcansee us together. This is Mary, your own niece, Mrs Fetherston; you can see if what I said wasn’t true.”

Marydidlook sweet, though she was shabbily dressed and very frightened. In that grand house the old tweed jacket looked even shabbier than at Elmwood. She clung to me, till I almost pushed her into the old lady’s arms.

“Kiss her, Mary. She’s your own aunt. Oh,do” I whispered; “you don’t know what good it might do. Oh, do kiss her.”

Perhaps the last three words were spoken more loudly in my excitement; perhaps the old lady’s ears were as sharp as her eyes! However it was, she heard, and she smiled.

“Yes,do,” she repeated, and she half held out her arms to Mary. “You are not my special child, I suppose,” she said. “Yvonne is my godchild; but, oh, you are very like what Frank was. Frank,” she added tremulously, “my boy, Frank—are you not going to speak to me, too?”

He came to her at once; I turned away, and somehow or other I found myself with Major Whyte in the outer room.

“Do you—do you really think it is going to be all right?” I could not help saying to him.

He nodded; for a moment or two it seemed as if he could not speak, and I think there were tears in his eyes. His voice was husky when he did speak, but that might have been from his cough.

“Yes,” he said, “I do—I do really hope so.Thank God.”

And as I glanced up at his kind, worn face, there seemed to me to be a light about it—a light such as one never sees save in the face of those who have suffered much, and have learnt to thank God for both sorrow and joy. I knew then that poor Major Whyte was not—as our simple country-folk say—was not “long for this world.” I never saw him again, and I had never seen him before, but I have never forgotten him.

He took me downstairs to where mamma was anxiously waiting. He had ordered tea for her and me; he knew we would be the better for it, he said, before setting off on our cold journey back. He was so gentle and considerate to mamma, telling her all that had happened upstairs as frankly as if she had been an old friend—I always notice that people who are quite,quitewell-bred, are so much franker than commoner people, who make mysteries about nothing, and treat you as if your one object in life was to get their secrets out of them—and he was quite right, for she did indeed feel like one. And when we went away he took both my hands in hissonicely and thankedme—me, the naughty horrid little mischief-maker. Was it not more than good of him? When we were by ourselves in the cab I leant my head against mamma’s shoulder and burst into tears. I could not help it.

“All’s well that ends well, my Connie—my little Sweet Content,” she said. But I could not help going on crying when I thought of poor Major Hugo’s thin face and his terrible cough, and of how muchIhad added to his troubles and anxieties by my naughtiness on Evey’s birthday.

Papa came home the next day. We were longing to see him and to tell him everything. I fancy mamma was just a little afraid of his thinking we had been imprudent, though she did not say so to me, for fear of making me anxious. Iwasanxious all the same. We had heard nothing of the Whytes, and mamma thought it better not to go to see them or send to the Yew Trees till papa came home. We did not know what time to expect him; his letter only said “to-morrow, as early in the afternoon as I can manage it.” I spent that afternoon principally at the dining-room window, watching for him, which was very silly I know, and certainly did not make the time pass quicker. But I reallycouldnot settle down to anything. Just fancy: I had not seen papa since he turned away from me in silent, cold contempt in Lady Honor’s drawing-room, though it was a comfort to know that he had come up to my room that same night and looked at me as I lay asleep.

When at last hedidcome, I was, of course, not at my post: that is always the way. I was in the drawing-room at afternoon tea with mamma. I did not even hear his latchkey in the lock, as I often did. He was standing at the drawing-room door, looking at us, before we knew he was there!

All my plans of what I would say, how I would ask him to forgive me, flew out of my head. I just rushed up to him and threw my arms round him and burst into tears.

“Oh, papa, papa!” I said.

He did not repulse me; he did not speak for a moment, but I felt his kind, firm clasp. Then he said:

“My poor little girl,” and he stooped and kissed me. The kiss said everything.

Mamma came forward.

“Tom, dear,” she began, a little nervously, “we have a great deal to tell you.”

Poor little mamma—what a shame it was that she should be nervous, when if shehaddone anything imprudent it had only been for my sake!

But papa’s first words took away all our fears.

“No, darling,” he said. I liked to hear him call mamma “darling”; he did not often do so, for he is not at all what is called “demonstrative.”

“No, you haven’t; I know all you have to tell me, and a good deal more. Indeed, I rather think I have a good deal to tellyou. But first, give me a cup of nice hot tea. Itiscold this afternoon;” and still with his arm thrown round my neck, he came close up to the fireplace and stood there, watching mamma as she poured out his tea in the nice neat way she does everything.

“This is comfortable,” said papa; “it’s worth having a cold journey to come home like this, especially when—when one has good news, too, to bring back.”

I started at this.

“Oh, papa,” I said, “is it about the Whytes?—is it all right?”

“I think so. I quite believe so,” he replied. “I had a most cheerful note from Captain Whyte this morning written from his aunt’s house. We were together in London yesterday. He came to my hotel with Mary, on his way to Mrs Fetherston’s, little thinking of your stealing a march on us! Indeed, it was a good deal my idea—the taking Mary to show that she was herself, and not—”

“Notme,” I interrupted. “Oh, papa, I have beensosorry,soashamed.”

“I know you have,” said papa, gravely. “I would have spared it you if I could; but yet, Connie—”

“I deserved it,” I said, “and I wouldn’t have minded its being twice as bad as it was yesterday, if it was to put things right. And the old lady was really kind, papa, at the end.”

“Captain Whyte told me all,” he said. “I don’t think any of them dared to hope in the least that things would turn out so well. They are all going up to town to-morrow—all, that is to say, except the three little fellows. Mrs Fetherston is not one to do things by halves, I fancy. The saddest part of the whole is poor Hugo Whyte’s precarious state.”

“Have you seen him?” mamma asked.

“Yes,” papa replied. “I called on him the day I went up to speak about Captain Whyte’s idea of bringing Mary. He is very, very ill. I don’t think they quite realise how ill he is. Perhaps, however, it is just as well. He may have a little breathing-time now he is happier and cheered by having them all about him; he may live a few months in comparative comfort. That is the best I can hope for.”

“It is a comfort to think that his last days will be cheered and happy,” said mamma, softly.

But I could not help crying again just a little, at night when I was alone, when I thought of Major Whyte’s face, and that I could never hope to see him well and strong and bright like papa and Captain Whyte.

Things turned out pretty much as papa had predicted. Two days after the evening I have been telling you about—the evening of papa’s return—all the Yew Trees people came home again. We knew they had come home by hearing accidentally that the fly from the Stag’s Head had been ordered to meet them at the station at three o’clock. So I posted myself at the dining-room window, and had the tantalising gratification of seeing both it and Lady Honor’s brougham pass our door on their way to the Yew Trees. I could distinguish Mrs Whyte in the brougham, and a bag or two, and the back of a hat which I was sure was Yvonne’s. And the fly was well filled too. But none of them looked out our way, nor nodded to me, though theymighthave seen me. I felt rather unhappy again.

“Mamma,” I said, when I got back to the drawing-room, “I have seen them all pass, but they didn’t look this way. Mamma, you and papa have forgiven me, but perhaps—even if theyforgiveme, they’re perhaps not going to be the same ever again,” and I could scarcely choke down a sob.

“Connie, dearest,” said mamma, “how can you fancy such things? You will see, dear, it will be all right.”

But I was very unhappy all that evening.

“They haveneverpassed before without looking out,” I kept saying to myself, and mamma could not manage to cheer me. But just as I was going to bed, the “odd man” from the Yew Trees made his appearance with a note for “Miss Percy,” from Evey! I knew the handwriting, and tore it open.

“Dearest Connie,” it said, “wewereso disappointed not to find you here, at the Yew Trees, when we arrived. I wrote yesterday from London, to ask you to be here to spend the evening, so that we could tell you everything. I gave the note to Lancey, and he has just found it in his pocket! So please ask dear Mrs Percy to let you come to-morrow. You must have a whole holiday for once, and stay all day. Oh, we are so happy.

“Your loving

“Evey.”

“Now, Connie,” said mamma, triumphantly, “surely you will never mistrust your friends again.”

I thought I never could, and I thought so still more when I came home the next evening, after one of the very happiest days I ever spent. But I have notquitekept to it, as I will tell before I come to the end of my story.

I must go straight on—was it not sweet of them to make me so happy?—they would not let me keep the least sore feeling about what I had done; they would have it I had been so “brave and unselfish”—fancymeunselfish!—in going to see Mrs Fetherston on my own account, as I had done. Everything was coming right, Mrs Fetherston had fallen in love with their mother, and what wonder! They were all to spend the next summer holidays at Southerwold—that was the old home of the Whytes, which none of the Yew Trees children had ever seen; “Uncle Hugo,” as they called him, was to get quite well immediately, and though I felt more inclined to cry than to smile when they said this, knowing what papa thought about Major Whyte, I took care not to cloud their bright hopes. It was so like the Whytes. They could not see anything other than hopefully—some people think that a bad way to face life and its troubles, but I really can’t say. All I know is that when troubles do come, these dear friends of ours meet them bravely.

“Isn’t Uncle Hugo a darling?” said Yvonne. “Of course we’ve knownhintall our lives, though we never saw Aunt Fetherston before. But it’s nearly five years since Uncle Hugo went to India, so of course we had all to learn each other over again, as he says. He’s taken such a fancy to you, Connie. He’s coming down here to stay with us as soon as ever the milder weather really sets in; just now he’s best in London. There’s no pleasure in being in the country if one can’t go out.”

“No, of course not,” I agreed. Evey’s confident tone almost made me feel as if, perhaps, papa was wrong, and that Major Whytewouldget well again after all.

But, alas! it was not so. He did seem to get better for a little, and even papa, who was up in London again, a month or so later, and went to see him, allowed when he came home, that he could not have believed Major Whyte could have rallied so much. And as the spring set in early, and the good symptoms continued, all was arranged for his coming down to the Yew Trees; the very day and train were fixed, and we three were nearly as pleased at the idea of seeing him again as the Whytes themselves, when the blow fell. Something, no one could say certainly what—it might have been a slight chill, or over-fatigue, or, perhaps merely the pleasant excitement of the visit in prospect—something—he was so far gone that a mere nothing was enough, papa said—brought on his cough again fearfully. He broke a blood-vessel, I think, and there was only time to telegraph for Captain and Mrs Whyte, and the elder children to go to bid him good-bye before he passed away, very peacefully and very happily, Evey and Mary told me, when they were able to tell me about it. For it was a real and sad grief to them all, and it was the first trouble ofthatkind they had ever known.

“He sent his love and good-bye to you,” Yvonne said; ”‘little Connie Percy’ he called you. And I heard him say, ‘but for her, things might not have been as they are.’ Yes, he was quite happy. Do you know,” she went on in a very low voice, “years and years ago Uncle Hugo was going to be married to somebody very nice and sweet, and she died. Mother told us—I think it was that that made him so gentle and kind, though he was very brave too.”

The children gave no thought to the difference Major Whyte’s death would make to them all in the end. I think Captain Whyte told papa all, but I never heard or thought about it till the change actually came. That was two years after Major Whyte’s death, when poor old Mrs Fetherston died too. She felt the shock of his death very much, for though he had not been originally her favourite nephew, no one could have lived with him without learning to love him. She had grown dependent on him, too, for helping her to manage things. Altogether it was a great blow, though now, fortunately, as things were, she had Captain Whyte instead, and for the rest of her life she did indeed cling to him and his wife, and to them all. But she never came down to Elmwood again. She stayed on at Southerwold, where she went immediately after Major Whyte’s death, and one or the other, or more of the Yew Trees family were always with her. So I never saw her again, though now and then there was a talk of her coming to the Yew Trees.

These two years were very happy. The Whytes, though they still lived very simply, were free from anxiety about the future, and instead of this making them selfish, it only made them the kinder. All children, I suppose, live a good deal in the present. I don’t think I understood this till the great change came, which made such a difference to me. I had thought, I suppose, that things would always go on much the same.

But one day—it was only six months ago—Captain and Mrs Whyte, who had both been at Southerwold for nearly a week, telegraphed to papa, that old Mrs Fetherston had died; it was rather sudden at the last; and in the telegram they asked him to go to the Yew Trees to tell the children. I had seen them only the evening before, when there was no expectation of such a thing.

“Give them my love, papa,” I said, as he was starting, “and tell them I am very sorry.”

“Theywillbe sorry, I suppose,” I added to mamma, when we were sitting alone; “but notvery, do you think? She was rather a frightening old lady, though I don’t mean to be unkind.”

“She was very much softened of late,” said mamma, but she spoke rather absently.

“Still, mamma, it can’t make themverymiserable—not like if one of themselves had died,” I said. “I may go to see them soon, mayn’t I, and everything be the same?”

Mamma looked at me very tenderly.

“Connie, dear,” she said, “don’t you understand that it must make a great difference? Captain Whyte will be the owner of Southerwold, and one or two other smaller places as well, I believe. He will be a very, very rich man, and they will be very important people. I don’t say it will change theirhearts; indeed, I am very, very sure it will not; but they will have many new ties, and responsibilities, and duties, and—they will have to leave us.”

I stared at her. It was very silly of me not to have thought of it before, but I just hadn’t. Then I burst into tears, and hid my face on mamma’s shoulder.

“You must try not to be selfish, darling,” she whispered. “Try to be my own Sweet Content, and trust.”

I did try—I have tried, and I daresay mamma thinks I have succeeded. But in my heart I know I have not,quite. It all happened as mamma had said; as ithadto, indeed. But it came so soon: I had not realised that. They were all as kind and dear as they could be to the end. Only they were very busy, and, of course, a little excited by the change. What wonder! Who could have helped it? In their place, I am sure, I should have been justhorridlyselfish. And before we knew where we were they were gone; the Yew Trees empty and shut up again. I went through it once, just once—but never again, for when I came to Evey and Mary’s room, with the climbing roses paper on the walls, I felt as if my heart would burst. That was six months ago. I have seen none of them since. They write me nice letters, but lately I have not had one—and, after all, letters are only letters. Some of them have been abroad for part of the winter; poor Addie was ill again, and no doubt they have new friends, and lots and lots to do. Perhaps it will be wisest for me to remember this, and not expect ever hardly to see them again; but—there is mamma calling me—what can it be? I must run and see.

It was a letter from Yvonne—a letter and aninvitation. I am to go to Southerwold for the Easter holidays! Oh, I can hardly believe it. I don’t know if I am glad or not. I amsoafraid they will have grown so grand, and that I shall feel strange and shy. Oh, my dear Evey and Mary—if I could but have you again like last year—with your dear old shabby tweed jackets, and the loving hearts inside them!

Southerwold,April16th, 188-.I amhere, at Southerwold, and oh, so happy! It is the most beautiful, the grandest place you can imagine. They haveeverything! But it is not the place nor the grandeur that makes me happy. It is themselves. They are just quite,exactlythe same. I will never, never, never have horrid, distrustful fancies about them again. They met me at the station—Evey and Mary—in their own beautiful pony-carriage, and in one moment I felt it was all right. And just fancy—they had on the old tweed jackets!

Southerwold,April16th, 188-.I amhere, at Southerwold, and oh, so happy! It is the most beautiful, the grandest place you can imagine. They haveeverything! But it is not the place nor the grandeur that makes me happy. It is themselves. They are just quite,exactlythe same. I will never, never, never have horrid, distrustful fancies about them again. They met me at the station—Evey and Mary—in their own beautiful pony-carriage, and in one moment I felt it was all right. And just fancy—they had on the old tweed jackets!

“It has got so suddenly hot,” said Yvonne, in her funny, practical way, “that we couldn’t stand our winter things; so we routed these out. They do very well, don’t they? I suppose we shall get new ones this year. There isn’t any difficulty now about such things, you see, Connie,” she added smiling.

“How pretty your jacket is, Connie,” said Mary, admiringly. “Do let us ask mother to get us ones something like it, Evey.”

Dear Mary—they were all dear. They are going to show me all the things they do—the poor people, and the schools, and everything, so that when I come here I shall know their ways and be able to help them. For I am to comeveryoften they say. And the week after next, dear little mamma and papa are coming to fetch me. I shan’t mind going home, for I know now we shall never be separated for very long, and never at allin our hearts.

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