By M. H. Cornwall Legh, Author of "The Steep Ascent," Etc.

I.

She repeated the adjective which seemed most appropriate as often as she liked, for she was only speaking to herself.

Miss Lucretia lived alone in a very small house, which was one of a row, all just alike, with a bow-window apiece for their glory, and a little bit of garden and a fence and a gate. They were called Primrose Cottages, despite the fact that there were no primroses about them.

Thirlambury was a very dull, behind-the-age little town, and people thought Miss Lucretia a very dull, behind-the-age little lady. She thought so herself; for she had always taken life meekly.

Lucretia was the only one of the three sisters—of whose happy girlhood together the old maid was thinking as she wiped away her tears—who had been at all meek. Constantia and Ann had both been strong-charactered, masterful girls, in accordance with the traditions of their family. With Constantia this decided turn had met with the happiest development. It had enabled her to manage to perfection a husband and family, and it was with pardonable pride that she now looked at her six successful sons and daughters, all brought up just as they should have been, physically, intellectually, and morally; of whom the last had just left the nursery for the school-room.

With Ann the family characteristics had gone in the wrong direction. Her strong will had led her to marry a very unsatisfactory little man, whom his family finally exported to New Zealand, with her and their four children, rejoicing over the happy riddance. Out there Constantia did not like to say, providentially, though that was the adverb which suggested itself—the four children took diphtheria, and every one of them died.

When the grass had grown green on those four graves, another child was born—little Amy—and Aunt Lucretia was asked to be its godmother. And now, there was this child of five years old left without either parent. They had not been first-class parents, but Miss Lucretia did not think of that; her heart being of too old-fashioned make for such philosophy.

"An orphan, poor little dear!" she said to herself, and her handkerchief became damp again at the thought.

"Constantia has arranged already about her being brought to England," Miss Lucretia soliloquised. (Being alone, she had got into the way of soliloquising.) "How prompt Constantia always is! And now what will become of the child?"

It was not an idle speculation. Miss Lucretia was revolving something in her mind—an idea so new, so absorbing, that over it her eyes dried, and she put back the letter into its envelope with untrembling fingers.

"I am sure I could do it!" she said at last, speaking aloud this time, and with a great deal of determination. "A child of five cannot cost much to keep, and there are many little ways in which I could reduce my expenditure." Then she relapsed into silent thought again. She was making deep calculations, wondering how an income which just sufficed for her and her faithful Fanny could be stretched at the four corners so as to cover the expenses of one more member of humanity. Such a little member that in a large household she could be received and fed and clothed for some years to come without any perceptible difference in the outgoings; but this was a very small household, and the matter had to be considered.

Miss Lucretia's income was of the kind described as modest; but she was a careful manager, and, as everybody knew how poor she was, nothing was expected of her in the way of entertaining beyond a quiet cup of afternoon tea, and the promoters of charity lists went away from her door contented if she only gave half-a-crown.

She always did give the half-crown, and a penny to the organ-grinder who came round weekly, and sixpence each to the butcher's boy, the baker's boy, and the grocer's boy at Christmas; the same every year, not allowing herself any wild excursions of charity till the regular subscriptions had been provided for.

But it was not in her philanthropies that Miss Lucretia proposed making her substantial reductions. There were a great many little luxuries which could be curtailed.

Regarding food, people would have said that no one was more economical than Miss Lucretia, but Miss Lucretia herself knew better. It was true that there never was any waste in this little establishment. A pound of meat was never ordered when three-quarters of a pound would do; and every scrap of food was eaten. But the meat and the milk and the butter ordered for 4, Primrose Cottages were always of the very best. The eggs must be newlaid, and not selected. The pot of jam—"preserves," Miss Lucretia called it, with old-fashioned elegance—in which she and Fanny indulged once a fortnight, must be of whole fruit in syrup; not the marvels of cheapness in two-pound jars.

"Why," thought Miss Lucretia now to herself, "should I buy butter at eighteenpence a pound, when they say the Normandy butter, or the Brittany, is really excellent? And it does seem a sinful waste to give two shillings for tea when one can get it quite good, the Vicar's wife tells me, at sixteen-pence. Indeed, I have seen phenomenal tea at a shilling." And so on.

The little lady proceeded with her reductions till she was quite convinced that Amy's coming need make no real difference in Fanny's comfort—the question which had pressed most upon her mind.

Then there were Amy's clothes to be thought of. Well, they would not cost much. There was a gown hanging up now in the cupboard which might be cut up for her.

Then there was a crimson merino dress which Miss Lucretia had bought last summer for the Vicarage garden-party—not without some misgivings as to the choice of so unwearing a colour, but with the solace to her conscience of knowing it could be dyed.

That would make a sweet little frock and cloak for Amy; for the dress had only been worn twice, and its wearer had held it up very carefully out of the dust.

Miss Lucretia went up to the little box-room opening out of her bedroom, and turned out a number of old treasures—things she had kept ever since her girlhood, carefully folded, wrong side out, and covered with tissue-paper. Here was her bridesmaid's dress for Constantia's wedding—that would cut up into a lovely Sunday frock; and here was a piece of china silk which had never been made up till Miss Lucretia grew too old for white dresses; and other things that would all come in. Yes, she would have no difficulty in dressing little Amy, and making her look just as smart as the children at Beaconsfield Mansion when occasion arose for it. She hoped the occasions would arise, that her child would be asked to parties, like other children, and with a new interest the old woman thought of the different families of her acquaintance.

And now about a room for Amy. The little box-room must be cleared out, and that would make a charming nest for her. The old chintz with the rosebuds on it Miss Lucretia had just taken from its paper would be the very thing for curtains. A little bed would just fit here behind the door, and a washstand there, and so on. Miss Lucretia planned it all out with absorbing interest. The question was, where was the money to come from for buying the furniture? There were certain things in the box-room which could be sold. Miss Lucretia's harp; she never played on it now, and harping was out of fashion, so it would not be wanted for Amy. And that portfolio of engravings—and—— She had soon marked out enough of her treasures to make the furnishing of the little room an easy matter.

Then she went downstairs and divulged her great project to Fanny. Her co-operation was very necessary, and her mistress approached her a little timidly.

"Fanny, I am thinking of having a child to live with me."

"Bless us! ma'am, a child?"

"Yes, my poor sister's little orphan."

Fanny's heart was warm. She listened to Miss Lucretia's plans and wishes without any crushing comment, but at the end she remarked, "Well, I should have thought as Mrs. Dalrymple would have taken her; she is so rich and with that big place and all; but if she don't feel disposed that way, and you do, ma'am, well, I suppose the poor little soul had best come to us." That was quite enough, and now Miss Lucretia hurried out of the house, and into the High Street, to inquire about the price of children's beds. It was early in the day, of course, to enter into such details, but then, the whole affair was so interesting that they could not be put off till to-morrow.

As Miss Lucretia walked down the High Street, she was attracted by a toyshop, and found herself straying into it to inquire the price of a doll in the window. It would be very silly to buy one so soon, and before any of the necessaries of life were provided for. But the temptation proved too strong for her. She went in and bought it—the first present she would give to her child.

Miss Lucretia spent an hour in the furniture shop. She had to arrange first with the proprietor about the sale of her own belongings, and then to choose the furniture for the room. She found she wanted only the prettiest, nicest things for Amy, though the cheapest for their solid value would have been her main object if for herself. Then there was a lovely paper, with nursery rhyme pictures all over it, which so fascinated her that she ordered half-a-dozen pieces of it to come on approval.

Altogether, it was a most exciting afternoon, and Miss Lucretia came home with a springing step, and radiant eyes, and a general bearing of youthfulness, such as she had not known for the last twenty years. A bright golden glow had suddenly overspread the grey landscape of her life, such as the sun sometimes throws at sunset, when it looks out from under a cloud at the end of a long grey day.

Before the post went out, she wrote a letter to Constantia, announcing her intention of taking Amy for her own, which gave a delightful seal of finality to her decision.

II.

"I could not have believed that Lucretia would be so foolish. Just fancy! she wants to adopt Amy!" was Mrs. Dalrymple's comment, as she read her sister's letter; and everyone at the breakfast table exclaimed.

"It is a very generous idea," remarked Mr. Dalrymple mildly. He had always been a mild sort of man, and marriage with Constantia had not made him less so.

"Generous! yes. Lucretia is always generous. You know the difficulty I had in stopping her giving expensive presents to the children; but it is so very foolish. I shall write her a letter, of course, and tell her that we intend to have Amy ourselves. Poor Lucretia! Fancy her with the charge of a child!"

So Constantia wrote her letter. It contained about a quarter of the words that Lucretia had used, and was very sensible, kind and decided. There was no answer required to it.

Great was Mrs. Dalrymple's surprise, therefore, when by return of post came a reply, not of acquiescence, but setting forth the other aunt's superior claim as godmother, an idea which, as Constantia remarked, was simply absurd.

"I shall have to go to Thirlambury myself," she said: "though it is not very convenient." It was often not very convenient to go to Thirlambury.

In the meantime, Miss Lucretia had been indulging in her new day-dream, till every bit of her life had been remodelled in anticipation, and brought into harmony with her coming work and responsibility as an adopted mother. Already she attached to herself that beautiful title, the missing of which had been the sole sorrow of her life. As a young girl, Lucretia's day-dreams had not been of lovers, but of marriage; the joys of children clinging round her neck, the merry voices about the house, the little feet pattering up and down.

And now she counted the days to the one coming so near, when she should feel the real warm arms of little Amy clasped round "godmamma's" neck, and fold the child in her own with the new wonderful joy of possession. She felt that she could hold up her head again among women, and that the life which a week ago had seemed to hold nothing more except advancing infirmities was full of new possibilities and ever-increasing interest. Miss Lucretia lived again.

Miss Lucretia actually bought the bed, which the shopman had urged her to purchase at once, or it might be gone, as he had no other bedstead for a child.

As Miss Lucretia relinquished one after another of her own comforts and conveniences, the blessedness of giving grew more and more apparent to her. Nothing in life had ever given her a joy like the joy of this sacrifice.

Four days had passed so, and Miss Lucretia was just planning which plot of the small garden space allowed to a Primrose cottage might be spared from beans and cauliflowers to make a flowerbed for Amy, when a ring was heard at the door-bell. Miss Lucretia answered it herself, as Fanny was out, and there stood Constantia!

Miss Lucretia was always delighted to see her sister, and made the most of her rather infrequent visits. But to-day a kind of misgiving came over her at the unexpected sight of Constantia's smiling face; and a sensation of defeat as Constantia uttered, in her brisk, cheerful voice, the words, "And how are you, Lucretia? You didn't expect to see me?"

Lucretia welcomed her, as usual, and took her into the little parlour, which was drawing-room or dining-room according to the time of day. It was drawing-room now, and the dining-table stood folded, with a cloth and some ornaments on it, in a corner; everything was as neat and carefully arranged as it always was; each chair in that particular spot which experience had proved to be the best for it.

"How nice and tidy you always look, Lucretia," was Mrs. Dalrymple's first remark, as she sat down with a genial laugh in the visitor's arm-chair. "You must be struck with the difference when you come to The Towers. With six children, it is impossible to keep everything in its place!"

Miss Lucretia asked after the six children, categorically, staving off the subject which she knew very well had brought her sister to Thirlambury.

"The girls are as well as possible," answered their mother, massing them, for brevity; "and they are all looking forward so much to having Amy." Mrs. Dalrymple was a person who took bulls by their horns. She always knew exactly what she intended to do with the bull—the great secret of success in life—and was quite sure about its being the best thing that could be done.

"But I intended to have Amy," answered Miss Lucretia, in almost as firm a voice, but putting herself at a disadvantage at once by her slip of the past tense.

"Yes, I know you did. You wrote me all about it. It was exceedingly kind and good of you to think of such a thing, but, of course, it was quite out of the question. As I told you when I wrote, we intend to take her."

"Didn't you get my second letter?"

"Yes, and I saw by that you did not quite understand mine to you. I wrote in a hurry, and I suppose I did not make myself clear."

Constantia Dalrymple was under the impression that she was the most truthful of women.

"You made yourself perfectly clear," answered Lucretia, with a quiet dignity which was not usual with her. "But before you spoke of taking the child, I had made up my mind to do so. I have spoken to Fanny about it, and she is perfectly willing to accept the extra economies we shall have to practise, and any trouble Amy will give her. Of course, I shall take charge of her myself."

"How good of Fanny! I have always thought she must have enough to do with the whole work of your house, and she works a good deal in the garden, too, does she not?"

Miss Lucretia looked a trifle uncomfortable.

"I think Fanny will enjoy having a young life about the house," she replied, rather hurriedly; "just as I shall myself."

Constantia smiled. It was not exactly a nice smile, but perhaps she did not know that.

"I do not think either you or Fanny have had much to do with children," she said. "It is all very well to have them with you for a few hours at a time, when they are in their best frocks and on their best behaviour, and you have nothing to do with them except amuse them. But when you have the whole responsibility of a child, and are obliged to look after her from morning till night, it is a very different thing."

"Of course it is," said Miss Lucretia.

It was that very fact, comprising as it did the constant demand on time and thought and labour, with all the rich reward of corresponding affection from the child in its dependence, that made the sweetness of this dream of motherhood. But Lucretia could not put this into words. She was never very fluent with her deeper ideas, which were, perhaps, instincts rather than formulated notions, and she was least fluent of all with Constantia.

"And how could you ever afford it?" went on Mrs. Dalrymple.

Lucretia explained her scheme of retrenchment, and all her little plans.

"But you won't be able to go on dressing Amy with your old things for ever," said Constantia. "And, then, there will be hats and boots and shoes.

"She may be ill, too; children have to go through measles and whooping-cough, and that sort of thing: how will you afford to pay the doctor?"

Lucretia was silent for a moment; Constantia had such a very convincing way of saying things, and making all that was unpractical and visionary appear so; but she was not really vanquished.

"I think one must trust for that——" she began, at which Constantia smiled again.

"How about schooling, too? A girl's education is a very expensive thing nowadays. I am sure Edie and Gwendoline have cost us as much as the boys."

"Amy is only five now, and for some years to come I think of teaching her myself." The present tense this time, for she was on her mettle. "You know we were very thoroughly grounded by Miss Cox."

"That is a long time ago, Lucretia!"

"Yes, it is a long time, but I suppose the principles of grammar and arithmetic are the same, and I have not forgotten how to read!"

It surprised Mrs. Dalrymple to see her sister pluck up so much spirit, but this defiant attitude did not affect her. There was in her such a certainty of being in the right, and of causing the right to prevail, that she was able to take all Lucretia's opposition very quietly. It was obstinate of her sister to hold out like this—weak people always were obstinate—and it was extremely foolish, but her surrender was only a matter of time.

Lucretia went on talking, urging her suit in a way that would have struck some people as pathetic, but Constantia was not much given to seeing the pathos in life; her view of things in general was optimistic, and unless a sorrow was thrust before her she did not look at it.

Constantia let Lucretia talk on until she naturally ceased, after repeating herself a good many times, in the way that peculiarly weakens a cause. Then she brought up her reserve force.

"But do you think it would be good for the child to be by herself, just with you and old Fanny?"

Fanny was ten years younger than her mistress, and Lucretia realised how very old fifty-nine must be.

Constantia paused a moment. Then she went on to point out all the drawbacks of a bringing-up such as Amy must have with two old maids—not using the term, but dwelling on the characteristics implied in it.

"What would you do with the child if she were naughty?" Mrs. Dalrymple asked by way of a test question. "She is sure to have a strong will of her own; you know what poor Ann was."

Miss Lucretia could not answer the question, naughtiness seeming to her as multi-form a thing as illness, and the treatment for either depending upon its form and cause. She replied that her idea was to bring the child up on a system of love; a vague answer which did not satisfy her sister.

"Bringing up children is not such an easy and simple matter as people might think who have had no experience." Here Constantia herself stood on a firm foundation. "And it is much more difficult to bring up one child by itself than when there are others for it to consort with."

Then Mrs. Dalrymple proceeded to dilate on the smallness of Primrose Cottage, which was certainly a very poor little place compared with The Towers. There Amy would have the grounds to play about in; she would share the girls' governess, ride on Gwendoline's pony, and Nurse, who had been so splendid with Bertram and Edie, would only be too pleased to have a child again.

"It always makes her and me quite unhappy to look at the empty nursery," said Mrs. Dalrymple, "though the children have only flown into the schoolroom."

There was a weight of truth in every sentence Constantia uttered, which made it strike like a battering-ram against the walls of Miss Lucretia's airy castle. At last she gave a little cry—a cry in words:

"Oh, don't tell me that I mustn't have Amy!"

"I do not say that you must not have her," answered Constantia. "As you say, you are the child's godmother, and the elder of us two. I leave it for you to decide. Only, I want you to think which would really be best for Amy."

Released thus, suddenly and unexpectedly, from the paws of the cat, the little mouse of Miss Lucretia's soul ran trembling into a corner, while the cat smiled, sweetly enough this time, as those may who have won the game. It was a good cat, too, which had only been doing its duty.

At this moment, Fanny came in, bringing tea, and Mrs. Dalrymple greeted her with her usual warmth and kindness, rejoicing in the anticipation of eating some of that delicious home-made cake which was always so much better than they could get their cook at The Towers to make; asking with sympathy after Fanny's rheumatism, and giving her an abundance of those smiles which were so taking; while Lucretia sat, looking old and small and withered, with a face that seemed as if it would never smile again.

She had come to her hour of sacrifice; the great sacrifice of her life. Even with Lucretia the age was not past when sacrifices may be lit up by a golden halo of romance. There had been a halo round the sacrifice of all her little comforts which she had already made in will for Amy. The love that prompted it had turned the self-denial into a part of the joy of her prospective guardianship.

But round this sacrifice there hovered no such brightness. It was only like herself, a poor, common-place, drab-coloured thing. No sense of heroism could attend it; common-sense demanded it, so Constantia had proved, but, even with Constantia's provings, Lucretia could not have offered up her precious sacrifice upon the altar of common-sense. But the other altar, which stood hard by, the altar of love, was one that she could not thus disdain. The result of the pitiful struggle was certain, or Constantia would not have given the game into Lucretia's hands; but Lucretia was not sharp enough to see that. To her the whole brunt of choosing was as real, the action of her will as decided, as if a long habit of unselfishness had not made any other course impossible.

It was better for Amy that she should go to Constantia. Then to Constantia she must go.

"I suppose you are right," she said at last, in words as commonplace as befitted her unheroic sacrifice.

"I was sure you would agree with me when you came to think about it," Constantia answered, gently now, for it was part of her system, the one, perhaps, which had made it so successful with her children, never to use unnecessary force. "I am sure a month hence you will feel very glad that you have not a child turning your peaceful life and your pretty cottage upside down."

There was no use trying to make Constantia understand; and, if she could have understood, it would have made no difference.

Miss Lucretia said nothing. It was time now for Mrs. Dalrymple to go, and, finishing her second cup of tea, she wished her sister an affectionate good-bye, with the promise of a hamper of game from The Towers, where they were just going to have one of their "big shoots."

"Perhaps I might have done it more kindly," Constantia thought, as she drove in her cab to the station. "But it was such a foolish idea. I am glad Lucretia saw it for herself in the end."

Miss Lucretia went upstairs with slow, old footsteps, after her sister had gone. The last red glow had faded from her landscape, and everything was grey again, a shade deeper grey now, as it must go on growing deeper, till the night. She went into the little room, and, as she looked at the little bed which was never to hold her child, a tear came up into each of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

The doll lay on the bed, wrapped up in the white muslin that was to have made its underclothes, looking like a tiny corpse. It seemed to Lucretia like her dream of motherhood as it was now, the dead body of something that had never really lived.

She went to the window and looked out on the grey, darkening landscape, and over it there twinkled one faint star. She stood watching, and the star grew brighter, then another came out, and then another. For a long time Lucretia looked up: then she knelt down, looking up still.

The far-off light from the stars seemed to be shining on her face as she turned it to Fanny, when that faithful woman came up at last to bring her mistress down to supper.

"Miss Amy is going to Mrs. Dalrymple," she said, quietly, and with a little smile. "My sister left it to me to decide whether she should go to The Towers or come here, and I gave her up to them, Fanny. I am glad she is going to my sister. She will be happier there."