"There's a horse-fair at Kilmacredden on Saturday," said Lord Glengall. "I was thinking you might find time to come along with me and see what's to be picked up."

"It isn't time I'd be wanting," said Mr. Graydon, "and you know it isn't inclination."

"Very well, then, you'll come. We'll have to make an early start and give the mare her time over the mountain. Will four o'clock do?"

"For me, yes. Will you get up on Saturday morning and see that there's a cup of tea ready for me by four o'clock?"

This to Sylvia, who was demurely making tea at a side-table.

"You know I will. Next to being up all night I like to get up before daybreak."

Lord Glengall broke into a slow smile as he turned to look at the speaker. He sat astride a small chair, with his chin resting on the back. He still wore the frieze coat which he had on when he entered; and with his clean-shaven, melancholy face and deep-set eyes, he looked like nothing so much as a hard-pressed mountain farmer, just as Sylvia had described him. Yet the smile was one of great sweetness, and the mingled simplicity and shrewdness of the face were far from being unattractive.

"'Tis well for you, Graydon," he said, "to have little girls to do the like for you."

"You must marry, Glengall, and be properly taken care of," said Mr. Graydon.

"I'm past marrying," said Lord Glengall; "I leave that to the girls and boys."

"They'd make foolish marriages," said Sylvia, "if they were left to themselves."

Lord Glengall smiled more broadly.

"'Tis a prudent little woman you're owning, Graydon," he said. "You should turn match-maker, Miss Sylvia."

"For you, Lord Glengall?"

"I'll go bail you'd find no one to have me, Miss Sylvia."

"If I do will you entertain the proposal, Lord Glengall?"

"Provided she's not too old and will marry me for myself."

"I think I can find her for you, Lord Glengall."

"Come, Sylvia, give Glengall his tea, and don't be talking nonsense," said Mr. Graydon, laughing.

"Here it is for you, Lord Glengall, just as you like it—hot, strong and sweet."

"Thank you, Miss Sylvia; it's as good as ever I made for myself in the Bush."

The two men fell to talking of business matters, while Sylvia manipulated the teacups. Now and again she looked towards the door. Mary was finishing her letter to Mick in the chilly room upstairs, and Pamela had taken the dogs for a walk.

"If they don't come soon," muttered Sylvia over her teacup, "this tea won't be fit to drink, and Bridget's in no humour to make more."

A rat-tat at the hall-door knocker interrupted her meditations.

"Some of those young fellows from the barracks, Sylvia," suggested her father.

"It can't be," said Sylvia. "Mr. Baker was here yesterday, and Mr. De Quincy on Tuesday, and Captain Vavasour's coming to-morrow."

"Lady Jane Trevithick," announced Bridget, flinging the door open.

"Oh, dear!" muttered Sylvia; "and it's one of Bridget's bad days when she won't wear an apron. Now, where has the woman dropped from?"

Lady Jane swept across the room magnificent in purple and sables.

"How do you do?" said Mr. Graydon, going to meet her. "This is a pleasure. My daughter, Lady Jane. My friend, Glengall. No, don't sit there. There's a dog in that chair."

For a self-possessed woman Lady Jane looked a little flurried. Without meeting her host's gaze, she took the chair he handed her, and turned it so that she sat with her back to the light. She bowed in answer to his introductions, and, having seated herself, spoke in a voice which she tried hard to keep under control.

"I find myself unexpectedly almost a neighbour of yours, Mr. Graydon, and I did myself the pleasure of calling."

"You are very good, Lady Jane."

He looked at her with kindly scrutiny. Perhaps he was trying to find in the middle-aged face the features of the proud and stately girl who had married his dearest friend years ago. If so, the darkness in which she sat baffled him.

"I am staying with Mr. Verschoyle," she went on; "I suppose you count him a neighbour?"

"Yes, as country neighbours go. I have met him sometimes on the Bench. I was not aware you knew him."

Lady Jane did not say that she had disinterred an old and almost forgotten invitation in order to lead up to this visit.

"I knew him years ago," she said. "But, by the way, have you heard from my boy?"

"Not directly—nothing since your Ladyship's letter."

"That is careless of Anthony! But he is nursing his uncle, you know, and I daresay is finding time for a little mild amusement as well."

"Trevithick is no better?"

"No, I am sorry to say. There is no saying when he will be better, or if he will ever be really better. My son thinks he ought to stay with him, however."

"I am sure he is right," said Mr. Graydon, heartily.

"And this is—Pamela, I suppose?" said Lady Jane, turning her head with forced graciousness to Sylvia, who was bringing her her tea.

"No; Pam will be here presently. This is Sylvia, my youngest girl."

"I am very much indebted to you all, Mr. Graydon, for making my son so happy. He was grieved not to return to you, I know."

Still her eyes never met those of her host.

Seeing that he was practically ignored in the conversation, Lord Glengall got up awkwardly, and with a bow to the visitor, and an affectionate nod to Sylvia, took himself off.

"Ugh!" said Lady Jane to herself; "he smells of the stables! And to think of Archie Graydon coming down to associate with such bucolics!"

Mary came in a little later and was introduced. Then came Pam. The February air had blown a fitful flame into her cheeks, and when she entered the drawing-room, not knowing there was a visitor, Lady Jane's name blew the flame higher, and then extinguished it altogether.

Her father watched her curiously, as she stood looking gravely down into Lady Jane's face. The lady, who could be gracious when she liked, held Pamela's hand a minute, and there was a caress in her voice as she spoke to her.

"I can't feel," she said to Mr. Graydon, "that your girls are strangers to me. I have heard such charming things about them from my son."

"Well, indeed," said Mr. Graydon, to whom belief in the goodwill of all the world came easily, "I should hope that we need not be strangers to a Trevithick. I have never forgotten my love for Gerald, Lady Jane."

"He was devoted to you," said the widow.

No one could have supposed from Lady Jane's manner that the visit was a painful and difficult ordeal to her. Yet, when she was seated in her carriage again, and had driven out of sight of Mr. Graydon, bowing bare-headed on the doorstep, she drew a sigh of actual physical relief.

Mr. Graydon returned to the drawing-room, rubbing his hands together.

"What a charming woman!" he said, coming up to the fire.

"I call her a cat!" said Sylvia, concisely.

"Oh, Sylvia!" cried Mary Graydon and her father simultaneously; but Pamela said nothing. Lady Jane, for all her empressement, had not made Pamela believe in her; indeed, Lady Jane was not sufficiently an actress to deceive any but the most simple people. It was new to her to play a part—to pretend fondness and friendship where she felt arrogant dislike; and, to give her her due, she had played it badly.

The day after Mr. Graydon had gone to the horse-fair with Lord Glengall, he came out of the study as Pamela was going languidly upstairs, and called her in. He put her in a comfortable chair by the fire, and then stood leaning on the dusty mantelpiece, and regarding her with a wistful and tender gaze.

"Not well, Pam?" he said at last.

"A little out-of-sorts," she answered, dropping her eyes before his gaze.

"When did it begin, Pam—this being out-of-sorts? Up to Christmas I thought you were blooming like a wild rose."

Pamela made a movement as if to escape.

"One is not always just the same," she said; "and you fancy things, dad."

"Glengall noticed it, too. Don't go, child—we haven't finished our conversation."

"Lord Glengall is as fatherly to us as you are. He is always watching us like a mother-hen over a brood of ducklings."

Pamela spoke with an attempt at her old sparkle, but her face retained the cold dulness which had fallen upon it of late, and which made the father's heart ache to see it.

"Glengall is a good fellow, Pam," he said, wistfully.

"He's a dear," said Pam, in her listless way.

"A girl might do worse than marry Glengall."

"That's what Sylvia says."

"Sylvia's a wise child. And what do you think, Pam?"

"I?—I haven't thought about it."

"Could you think of it, Pam?"

Pamela looked at him incredulously.

"Poor Glengall would like to marry you, Pam. He's troubled about you, poor fellow. He'd like to take you away, and show you all the beautiful world, and lavish his wealth upon you. Could you do it, Pam?"

To his consternation, Pam put down her head on the study-table, and burst into tears.

"There, Pam, there! I didn't mean to distress you, and I know Glengall wouldn't for the world. I only told you because I thought you ought to know. He has no hope at all himself—and would never ask you, I am sure. Only he is so good. I should know a little girl of mine was safe with him."

Pam still sobbed, with her face buried in the dusty papers.

"There, there, child!" said her father, "don't think about it any more. Poor Glengall! Of course, I know he's too old, and you are only a child; and he'd be the first to say the young should marry the young."

"I don't want to marry anyone," sobbed Pam. "Why can't I join a sisterhood and be at peace?"

Mr. Graydon passed his hand fondly over the rumpled curls.

"You'd hate it, Pam, that's what you would. You'd come back again in a week."

"I hate the world!" cried Pam. "The world is so cruel."

"Poor little girl!" said her father wistfully, though he smiled at the same time.

"Pam," he said suddenly, "is there—is there anyone else?"

"There isn't," sobbed Pam, "and if there was, I wouldn't tell you."

"I only asked, Pam, because I thought I might be able to help you."

"No one can help me," cried Pam, "except by letting me alone."

"Very well, then," said her father patiently. "I'll let you alone. Only dry your eyes, and be comforted. I'm afraid you'll have to wash your face, Pam. You've been flooding my old tattered Euripides with your tears, and you've carried off half the dust from him. There, child, be comforted. I won't say another word about Glengall. He's just like myself, poor fellow, only anxious to take care of you. Sure, I know you're a child, and ought to have your freedom for years yet."

"I wish her mother were here now," said Mr. Graydon, as he closed the door behind his daughter.

He looked up at the pure and innocent face of his wife's portrait.

"I wish I had your wisdom, darling," he muttered. "It is so hard for a man to deal with little girls. And, ah! what they lost when you went to heaven!"

He sat before his study-fire deep in thought. Then he got up and paced the room to and fro, with his brows knitted and his hands behind his back.

"I'll do it," he said, half-aloud, at last. "I expect money difficulties would really stand in the way. I know Trevithick died poor, and Lady Jane had little of her own. The lad must love her if she loves him. And it will smooth the way. At worst I shall only suffer a rebuff. I can bear it for the sake of Mary's children. And poor Molly too! Why need she spend her girlhood fretting for her lover when a little money would make things straight?"

He sat down and his face cleared. Again he looked up at the benignant eyes of the portrait.

"I am doing the best I can for them, Mary," he said, speaking aloud as if to a living person.

That evening he announced his intention of taking a run to London during the following week. Such an unusual thing in their quiet life provoked an outcry of surprise from his daughters.

"I may be an old fossil," he said, "but I'm not a limpet attached to a rock. Perhaps I'm tired of you all. Perhaps I'm starved for a walk down Piccadilly, or a visit to a good concert hall. Perhaps—perhaps."

But he gave them no explanation after all of his reason for going.

One event crowded upon another. The next morning, at breakfast, Mr. Graydon drew out a large, boldly addressed envelope from the post-bag.

"Now, who can this be from?" he said, putting it down and looking at it curiously. "'London, W.' Now, who'd be writing to me?"

"Better open it and see," said Sylvia, daintily chipping the top off her egg.

Mr. Graydon broke the seal and read it.

"It's from Lady Jane Trevithick," he said soberly; "a very civil letter. She's sorry she wasn't able to call again; and—and—she wants to know if one of you girls—she mentions Pam, I see—will go over and stay with her. It is very kind of Lady Jane."

He pushed the letter towards Pam, who took it unsteadily, and held it before her face as she read.

"I'd rather not go," said Pam, putting down the letter. "I can't go—I've no frocks."

"I should like you to go, Pam," said her father, wistfully. "The invitation is kindly meant, and Lady Jane moves in very good society, and is influential. Why should my girls be buried here? As for the frocks—I can spare ten pounds—I really can manage that. How much can be done with ten pounds, Mary?"

"A good deal. Oh! I hope Nancy Cullen is still at home! We'll go round after breakfast and see."

"Must I go?" said Pamela.

"I think you ought to go, Pam," said her father; "and we will travel together. I shall wait for you till you can be ready."

In his heart Mr. Graydon thought that the invitation was a sort of guarantee for his daughter's happiness. If Lady Jane had not known or suspected that her son was in love with Pamela, and had not been prepared to accept her, why should she have asked her on this visit?

"I used to think her a proud and cold girl in the old days," he said to himself; "but, of course, the girl of my dreams was so different! After all, I daresay Gerald made no such mistake as I used to fear."

"You will go then, Pam?" he said aloud. "The change will do you good; and you will enjoy yourself."

"Very well," said Pamela, listlessly; "I would rather be here, but if you wish I will go."

END OF CHAPTER NINE.