At their entrance into the dining-room Frank Harland found himself surrounded by a group of friends. As one of them addressed him, Annette, with much tact, slipped away with a softly whispered excuse. She had caught sight of Averil at the other end of the room.

Averil beckoned her to a chair beside her. "What have you done with Frank?" she asked, smiling. "I thought I put you in his charge. Ah! there he is with the Courtlands, surrounded as usual. He is a general favorite."

"One need not wonder at that," returned Annette, sedately. "I have never talked to any young man before, but I found him very pleasant. He has been telling me about monsieur and his mother. He seems to have a happy home, my cousin."

"Yes, Grey-Mount is a dear old house; and all the Harlands are nice. They are very dear friends of mine, Annette, and one day I must take you to see them. A day at Grey-Mount always does me good. And there is another place—Well, Frank"—as that individual made his way to them rather hastily.

"I have shaken off that young puppy, Fred Courtland. I hate fellows who scent themselves. Faugh! You have been talking for the last two hours, and I dare say no one has thought of getting you a cup of tea."

"No, never mind." returned Averil, smiling. "The signora is going to sing again, and I must not leave the room just now. No, indeed, Frank," as he seemed determined to argue the point. "Let me listen to her first, and then I will go with you."

"All right. But please understand that I am to have the monopoly of your conversation. No followers allowed at present." And to Annette's amusement he coolly took up his position so as to fence Annette completely from notice, and his monopoly of conversation consisted of an unbroken silence. Averil seemed perfectly satisfied with this arrangement. She leaned back in her chair and listened to the song, and a more rested look came upon her face as the high, pure notes of the signora's voice floated through the room.

Some degree of attention was paid to the gifted young vocalist; but just at the last a group outside the window, beside which Frank Harland was standing, began talking rather too audibly.

"Miss Seymour," observed a languid, drawling voice, "I wish you could inform me where I can find my hostess. It is awkward, to say the least of it, when one has no conception of a person."

"I do not see her at present," returned Maud, coldly. "It will not be easy to find her in this crowd. A very small person in black. That is the only description I can give you, Captain Faucit. A plain, homely little body like Miss Willmot is not very easy to describe."

"No, indeed!" and here Mrs. Willmot's smooth voice chimed in. "My step-daughter is a sad invalid, Captain Faucit. Dear Averil is quite a recluse. One can not wonder at it"—dropping her voice, although every word was distinctly audible. "With her affliction, poor girl, her want of health, and her deformity, the world offers few attractions."

"Now for the tea, Averil!" exclaimed Mr. Frank, briskly. He had set his teeth hard for a moment, and his hand was clinched, as though it longed to do injury to some one; but the next moment he was leaning over Averil's chair with a gentle, brotherly sort of freedom. "Come," he said, touching her cold little hand. "A cup of strong tea—that is my mother's panacea for all ills."

Averil rose and took his arm without a word. There was a dark, pained flush on her face, a strained look in her eyes, as though the cruel words had gone home. Annette looked after her pitifully. She could see that kind Mr. Frank was still talking to her. He was very tall, and had to stoop a good deal.

"A plain, homely body, indeed!" groaned Annette. "And she looked so sweet just now. Deformity! Oh, what a wicked, wicked lie!" For once Annette did not measure her words. "What does it matter, such a little thing as that? What does it matter that she is not as tall and straight as Lottie, when every one loves her?"

Annette's pleasure in the fÊte was over. She could hardly keep her tears back as she sat there. Where was Lottie? She had not once come across her. But even as the thought passed through her mind Lottie waved to her gayly. She was sitting under the awning with a merry group of girls, and seemed happy and well amused. Annette felt far too miserable to join them. The room was thinning now. The professionals had gone. A little later on she saw Averil glide quietly to her stepmother's side, as the guests made their adieus. The next moment Mr. Frank came up to her corner. "I must be going too," he said rather gravely. "I hope every one has had as pleasant an afternoon as I have;" but he spoke without his old gayety.

"The afternoon is spoiled to me," returned Annette, with more vehemence than caution. "Mr. Frank Harland, why is it that people are so cruel? Why do they hurt my cousin, who has the goodness of an angel? This is all they give her in return for so much generosity."

Frank Harland's lips twitched a little under the brown mustache. "You must not ask me, Miss Ramsay," he said hurriedly. "I can't help it if people will be such brutes. I beg your pardon—I believe it was a lady who spoke. I only know I had to pull myself up pretty tight. That fellow Faucit spoke to her just. I longed to kick him."

"I do not like these Seymours," returned Annette, with the same frankness with which she would have talked to Lottie. "They take too much, and they give nothing back. Every day my cousin has much to bear—to suffer. If she were not a good Christian, she would not be so patient."

"Ask my father what he thinks of Averil," was Frank's reply. "Oh, I know all about it. It pretty nearly sickens me to see the airs they all give themselves. If they would only treat her decently. Miss Jones knows my opinion—we have often talked about it. Good-bye, Miss Ramsay. I dare say we shall meet again soon;" and he shook hands with her heartily.

"She is not a bad sort, and she is fond of Averil already," he thought; for the Harlands, from the eldest to the youngest, were stanch to Averil, and Frank especially had a brotherly affection for the gentle little creature.

Annette, after all, did not tell Lottie. Lottie was so gay, so excited, so full of the afternoon's delights, that she had not the heart to damp her; and when Lottie said, "And you have enjoyed yourself, too, Annette?" she only answered, rather soberly, "Yes, very much." But she hardly dared look at Averil that evening, the shade was still so deep in her eyes, and the grave, measured tones spoke so clearly to her ears of repressed melancholy. Only when she bade her good-night Averil detained her.

"Annette, I understand," she said, softly; "but there is no need to take it so much to heart."

Annette started.

"What is it you mean, my cousin? I have said nothing."

"No; only you have looked so sorry for me all the evening. My stepmother meant nothing—it was only her way. If only"—here she caught her breath, as though something stabbed her—"if only Frank had not heard her! My dear, there are tears in your eyes. Why, what nonsense! As though I am not used to it by this time. No, I am not deformed—there was no need to put it quite so strongly—but a little crooked creature such as I am has long outlived vanity."

"My cousin, you shall not talk so—it hurts me. To me you are beautiful; and Lottie says so, too."

Averil laughed a little mirthless laugh; she was so tired, so worn out with all sorts of conflicting feelings, that she felt she must laugh or cry; but Annette's grieved look seemed to rebuke her.

"I meant it—I meant it truly," she said.

"Thank you, dear. What a blessing love is so blind sometimes. Well, I hope to be beautiful some day"—and here her eyes softened; "there will be no little homely bodies in heaven, Annette."

"There will be no cruel words either, my cousin."

"Hush! you are as bad as Frank. They did not mean to be cruel. Mrs. Willmot thinks so much of good looks. All her children are handsome. She is a good-looking woman herself. She attaches too much importance to outward appearance. Personally she means me no unkindness."

Annette was silent; if she had known these words, she would have quoted them: "Evil is wrought by want of thought, as well as by want of heart." What utter want of delicacy to speak of the daughter of her dead husband in such contemptuously pitying terms to a stranger!

Averil seemed battling with some unusual mood, for she continued quickly, almost impatiently:

"Do not think that I am not grateful to you for your sympathy; but you must not spoil me; one wants to be strengthened, not weakened. There was a noted saint once—his name was Francis Xavier—and his prayer used to be: 'Lord, remove not this cross until it has worked that in me for which Thou didst send it.' It was a grand prayer, Annette—it included so much."

"My cousin, we are not saints; few of us could say that prayer."

"No; but we must all try our poor little best; we must not feed our pride and self-love. Now bid me good-night, and put all speeches, unkind or otherwise, out of your head;" and Averil kissed her affectionately.

There was a saying that Averil greatly loved, and which is generally attributed to Thomas À Kempis: "I have sought rest everywhere, and have found it nowhere, save in a little corner with a little book."

How often, during the last five years, she had entered her room, feeling bruised and weary from contact with hard, uncongenial natures, and had risen from her knees feeling quieted and refreshed. This night, when Unwin had left her, she opened a favorite book that always lay beside her Bible; its title had attracted her—"Weariness"—and in its kindly, consoling pages she had found endless comfort. A passage she had marked and remarked now met her eye: "Night after night, as you lie down to rest, the weary day ended, think that a day offered to God in weariness and quiet endurance may bring you fuller joy than the brightest, happiest seasons of enjoyment can do; and when morning brings a fresh beginning, it may be of weariness of body and spirit, strive to hear the voice of God saying: 'My son, it is thus I will that thou shouldst serve Me. If I will that thy service be weary and lifeless, and deficient in all earthly reward, and pleasure, what is that to thee, so long as it is My will? What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter. Follow thou Me without questioning the love which inflicts this weariness and sadness, and seeming privation of all thou most delightest in.'"

Averil closed the book and sat motionless for awhile. Outside, the summer moonlight was steeping everything in its pure white light, the night-dews were bathing the sleeping flowers.

"I have not been good to-day," she said, presently. "What does it matter if he heard it? It is better so—it makes no difference. I will not let this fatal sadness conquer me. To-morrow I will go down to the Dove-cote, and I will take Annette;" and with this resolution Averil slept.

The next morning, as Annette was standing by her window watching a pair of quarrelsome sparrows, who had fallen out over a moldy crust, and who were pecking at each other's soft feathered bodies with angry, defiant chirps, there was a tap at her door, and Averil entered fully dressed, without a trace of last night's cloud on her serene face.

"Good-morning, Annette. Are you nearly ready? for I have ordered an early breakfast for you and Lottie and myself. I am going a little way into the country to see some friends of mine, and if you like the idea you shall go with me."

"Oh, that is good—delightful! What friends are these, my cousin? Is it monsieur and—"

"My dear child!" and Averil could not forbear a smile, "the Harlands are not my only friends. I see you are pining for a sight of monsieur, as you persist in calling him, so I shall have to take you to Grey-Mount. But to-day I am going to my Dove-cote. No; you shall not ask me any questions. Wait until you see my friends. Now, you must hurry, for the gong will sound in less than ten minutes, and the carriage will be round at half past nine. Put on your new cambric—we are going to have a hot day."

Annette was not long in finishing her toilet; but Averil and Lottie were already seated at the breakfast-table. Lottie made a little grimace when she saw Annette.

"What a charming day you are going to have! I do love the Dove-cote. Averil is very disagreeable not to invite me too."

"But are you not going Lottie?" and Annette regarded her with some surprise. But Averil answered for her.

"No, dear; it is your turn to-day, and Lottie is only pretending to be vexed. She knows she has far too much to do. There are letters to be written, and Georgina wants her to go with her to Kew, as Maud is engaged. Lottie will enjoy that, especially as she will meet some of her own friends."

"Oh, that is all very well," grumbled Lottie who looked as fresh and bright as the morning. "But I would rather be with you and Annette. I don't care about the Courtlands, and unless Mr. Frank will be there—"

"He will be there," returned Averil, quickly. "He told me so yesterday. And his friend, Mr. Chesterton, will be there. Lottie, you are getting up a grievance for nothing. The party will be as nice as possible."

But Lottie made no answer, and she was remarkably silent the remainder of the meal.

"Is life to be one fÊte?" thought Annette, as she put on her new shady hat, and selected a pair of gloves from the smart little case on her toilet-table. No more mended finger-tips, no more frayed and faded ribbons for the young lace-mender. "Tell me, my cousin—are your friends grand?" she asked, as the carriage bore them swiftly in the direction of Paddington. But Averil refused to answer.

"You shall judge of my friends when you see them, Annette, dear. They are very dear friends. I call them my family. Some of the happiest hours of my life—and, thank God, I have had many happy hours—have been spent at the Dove-cote."

"It is, then, dearer to you than Grey-Mount?"

Averil hesitated, and was half annoyed, half amused at this curious pertinacity on her cousin's part. "Comparisons are odious," she said, lightly. "One does not measure one's friendship. Mr. Harland is my very good friend; but still"—with a thoughtful look and a sigh that was quickly repressed—"I am happier at the Dove-cote."

Here the carriage stopped, and in the bustle of taking tickets, and finding a less crowded compartment, the subject dropped.