"I wish something would happen," said Sylvia; "it is the longest summer I have ever known."

Sylvia was wearing black for Miss Spencer, who had passed away peacefully a few weeks after that talk with Pamela. When the legal formalities were completed, Sylvia would be chÂtelaine of Dovercourt; but her interest in her inheritance seemed very slight.

"By-and-by," she had said, "I shall be glad to know that I have money to do things with; but just at present I can only remember what it is that has made me rich."

"Why not have Mr. Baker or Mr. St. Quintin to tea quietly?" suggested Pam. "I am sure they are longing to come, and they would cheer you up."

But Sylvia would not. She preferred to wander from the house to the garden with the dogs at her heels, or to stray from one room to another, having a desultory chat with her father, who was now up and about, or with Mary, cheerfully sewing her bridal clothes, usually ending up with a visit to Bridget in the kitchen.

Bridget quite agreed with Sylvia about the dulness of the house, and suggested the same remedy for it as Pamela had done.

"Have a bit of company, child," she said. "Sure, her that's gone (the heavens be her bed!) 'ud be the last to grudge the young what's natural to the young, let alone that I hear young Mr. St. Quintin's that mopy that they say 'tis to horse-racin' he's took, wid the design of breakin' his neck by way of divarsion."

"Don't talk such nonsense, Bridget," said Sylvia languidly. "The horse is not born that could unseat Mr. St. Quintin. He can stick on like grim death. But I don't feel that company, such company as I could get, would be any good to me. I don't like young people, Bridget."

"Well, sorra such a house I ever was in," said Bridget, scandalised.

"Never mind, Bridget dear," said Sylvia, who had temporarily lost her taste for sharp argument with Bridget. "I suppose I was born old."

"Listen to her," cried Bridget, "an' she wid the lightest feet, aye, an' the purtiest face in the barony! Between you and Miss Pamela, me heart's fairly bruk. There's Miss Pamela, that ought to be goin' to be married a week from next Tuesday, goin' round as mopy as a chicken wid the pip. I never seen such goin's on anywhere I was."

"It certainly is time," said Sylvia again, "that something should happen, and, short of marrying myself, Bridget, I'll do anything to bring it about."

"Indeed, then Mr. St. Quintin's a pleasant young gentleman," said Bridget, broadly smiling, "though an imp of mischief. 'Tis meself'll not forget in a hurry how he whipped the steps from undher Grady whin he was pickin' the morello cherries, an' never purtended he heard him bawlin' melia murther, an' the ould rogue, as he was contrivin' to slip down by the trunk, caught by a twig in his breeches an' held there! As I said to Mr. St. Quintin, I hoped he thought then on poor Mary that's gone, that often he made suffer, the crathur!"

"I thought you were going to marry him, Bridget," said Sylvia, with the same languid interest.

"Och, then, heaven forgive you, Miss Sylvia. Sure them was only my jokes. Not but what he axed me. 'The mischief bother you, man,' says I. 'Is it havin' me commit murther you'd be? Why, sure I couldn't keep me hands off you if I was lookin' at you every day, an' then I'd be tried an' hung for it, maybe.'"

"Well, I'm glad you're not going to marry him under the circumstances," said Sylvia. "But, all the same, it is time some of us made a stir."

And even then one thing that was to disturb the current of their lives was on its way.

The very morning after Sylvia's conversation with Bridget there was a large square envelope for Mr. Graydon, which somewhat exercised his youngest daughter's imagination.

"Come here, dad," she said, when at last he arrived at the breakfast-table. "I've been longing for something to happen, and I believe this is really a happening at last."

"It is my uncle's writing," said Mr. Graydon, as he took the letter and opened it. As he read it his face grew graver and graver.

"Poor old Uncle Charles!" he said, when he had finished. "His boy is dead."

Lord Downshire's letter was very characteristic:—

"My dear Archie,—I will not say you have scored again, but at least I have failed with the last card I held against you. My boy is dead. I don't ask for your sympathy or your pity. You, with your healthy girls, cannot appreciate what I suffer. I am racked in the spirit and the body, and I shall be very glad to leave a world that has lost savour for me. I heard indirectly that you were ill after you had been here; but, you see, you have recovered, and it is my boy that is dead. You are my heir now, and I am too sick of it all to make another attempt to frustrate you. And there is no use continuing in enmity against you, so I shall make you an allowance proportionate to the condition of my heir. I shall not ask to see you, but Messrs. Lees and Saunders, of Lincoln's Inn—you will remember Saunders; Lees died last year—have my instructions."

Mr. Graydon put the letter into his pocket when he had read it.

"Something has happened, Sylvia," he said sorrowfully. "I am Lord Downshire's heir once more; and yet I would a thousand times rather be as I was, and the old man's little son living."

But the happenings of the day were not over.

Sylvia, going her pilgrimage to Miss Spencer's new grave, was aware of a tall young figure, which had something familiar about it, swinging along towards her. Presently she recognised Anthony Trevithick.

"Miss Sylvia," he said, "I am so glad I met with you. I want to see Pamela."

"Pamela!" with oddly upraised eyebrows.

"Yes—Pamela. I have stayed away as long as I could. I promised Lord Glengall I would give her time."

"Oh! that is how it is, is it?"

"Yes; didn't you know?"

"I guessed, of course, but Pam is not the old Pam. She has been as solemn as an owl, and as secretive, ever since.... When was it?... I really think it began about the time of your going away. She used to be the best of good company."

"What is this for, Miss Sylvia?" said the young man, touching her black frock.

"Ah! You do not know. Miss Spencer died a month ago."

"I am sorry," he said, with a sympathy which at once made Sylvia his friend.

"Does Pam know you are coming?" she asked.

"No. I was afraid to announce myself. Perhaps she will show me the door."

"Perhaps she won't, Sir Anthony. She's fond of you, you see."

"Oh, Miss Sylvia!" cried Anthony Trevithick, flushing delightedly through his tan.

"Oh, yes! she's fond of you. I'm not going to talk about her secrets, but I know how it is. I knew all along. That is why I was so vexed with her—when—— Never mind. You want to see Pamela, then? Well, just wait for me a minute outside this gate. I will come back with you then, and find Pamela for you."

"You are awfully good."

"Perhaps I'm glad to get rid of Pam. She's prettier than I am, though some people don't think so. Perhaps I'm afraid of her stealing my admirers."

"I believe it is only your goodness to me."

"And to Pam. She's not the same Pam she was a year ago. If you make her like her old self, I shall forgive you even that you left us forlorn and unsquired at that famous festivity for which you should have returned."

"Oh! Miss Sylvia, I shan't believe that."

She did not try Anthony Trevithick's patience by keeping him waiting long at the churchyard gate. She was gone only a minute or two before she returned, her basket empty of its flowers, and her face, which had gained so much in character and sweetness during the year, a little overshadowed.

When they reached Carrickmoyle, she brought Anthony Trevithick through the sunny hall where the door stood, as ever, hospitably open, and into the big drawing-room. "Stay here till I find Pam," she said. She went upstairs two steps at a time in the boyish way he remembered. He listened with a smile on his face till the sound of the footsteps died away. Then he began to walk up and down nervously.

Pam sat in the window of her own little room with her chin in her hands, gazing over the summer-dark landscape, her air listless, and her eyes apathetic.

"It is lonely, Sylvia," she said, scarcely turning her head as her sister entered.

"You never used to find it so," said Sylvia. "I remember the time when Carrickmoyle held all the delights for you."

"That was when we were little girls in short frocks, and led poor Mick into scrapes."

"Many a year ago," said Sylvia. "When you struck Anthony Trevithick with the sun-bonnet that was intended for the red cock——"

Pamela's heightened colour assured Sylvia of what she wanted to know.

"Pam," she said, "why don't you make it straight with Anthony Trevithick?"

"How do you know there is anything to make straight?"

"Rubbish!" said Sylvia, with quiet scorn.

"Oh, Sylvia!" said Pamela, "you don't understand. I am tired of love and lovers. I only want to be let alone. I have suffered too much."

"If you have, it's your own fault. You'd no business to take poor dear Glengall when you were in love with someone else, though how you could look at others in the same day with Glengall fairly bothers me. And now, why don't you write and ask Anthony Trevithick to come back?"

"I don't want him to come back."

"Yes, you do; you're crying your eyes out for him every night. Yes, you are. And why you let all this muddle go on without doing anything to prevent it I don't know. I could shake you, Pam!"

"What would you have done, Sylvia?"

"Well, supposing I was in love with a man and knew him to be in love with me, and supposing he went away and didn't write, I'd never think anything except that the letter was lost. If I could get at him, I'd write and ask him what it meant. If I couldn't, I'd go on believing in him, maybe till I was old and grey, and till I died, as some have done—if I really loved him, mind you."

"Perhaps you are right, Sylvia."

"There's no doubt about it, Madam Faint-Heart."

"But come," she said, after a benevolent scrutiny of Pamela; "come, you look very nice, unless you'd like to put on the pink sun-bonnet. Anthony Trevithick is in the drawing-room."

"Sylvia!"

"Yes, I know I ought to have mentioned it before, instead of talking nonsense. The poor young man's on tenter-hooks."

"Sylvia! I can't go down."

"Yes, you can. You shall, even if I have to use force."

"Very well, Sylvia," said Pam, rising and trembling a little.

"Come, don't think about it. Do it quickly, as we used to take our cod-liver oil long ago. Let us run down the stairs. There, you poor little thing! your hands are cold. The run will warm them."

And, half-resisting, Pamela was pulled by force down the stairs.

Nevertheless, she entered the room with her head high.

"How do you do, Sir Anthony?" she began.

"Ah, Pam darling!" cried the young man, coming to meet her. "Don't give me any more cold words or cold looks. I haven't deserved them, and if you've nothing else for me I shall go away for ever."

"No, surely," said Pam, and her sweet voice had a little surprise in it. "You didn't really deserve any blame at all."

"But you did, for I asked you to trust me, Pam. I asked you to trust me, and your faith was brittle."

"So it was," said Pam.

"Well," said Sylvia, as she went out and closed the door. "It is plain these recriminations are not meant for me. Heigho! I wish Mr. Baker would come along just now, that I might have the satisfaction of refusing him. It is easy to see that Glengall is as completely forgotten as if he had never existed."

No one could say that Mr. Graydon's youngest daughter was not loyal to the absent.