During the next few days Grace and Phillis made great strides towards intimacy; and, as though some magnetic influence attracted each to each, they were to be found constantly together. Neither of them was a girl to indulge in gushing sentimentality; but Grace, whose refined intellectual nature had hitherto met with no response except from her brother, perceived at once Phillis’s innate superiority and clear generous temperament. For the first time she felt feminine friendship a possibility, and hailed it as a new-found joy. Nan testified her pleasure on more than one occasion: jealousy never found a resting-place in a corner of her heart.

“I am so glad, Phillis,” she observed, once, “that you and Grace Drummond like each other so much. You have never found any girl equal to you yet; and I was always too stupid to give you what you wanted.”

“Oh, Nannie, as though I would change you for a dozen Grace Drummonds!” returned Phillis, stanch as ever to her domestic creed, that there never was and never could be such another as Nan.

“Oh, of course we shall always be the same to each other, you and I,” returned Nan, seriously, “we are such old comrades, Phil; but then I have Dick, and it is only fair you should have some one too;” but she did not understand why Phillis suddenly sighed and turned away.

An amusing little incident happened to Phillis after this, which she greatly enjoyed. Colonel Middleton’s avoidance of them had long been a sore point with her, as it was with Dulce.

“I feel almost like that wicked Haman,” she said, once, in a serio-comic voice, “and as if he were my Mordecai. I shall never think we have achieved perfect success until I have forced him to shake hands with me.” But Nan, who cared very little about such things, only laughed.

On Sunday morning Colonel Middleton marched up the aisle rather more pompously than usual, and there followed him a tall, very solemn-faced young man, with serious eyes that reminded them of Elizabeth.

“Son Hammond,” whispered Phillis, who was not always as devout as she ought to be; and Dulce tried hard to compose her dimples.

Possibly the young officer was not as solemn as his looks, for he certainly paid more attention to the opposite pew than he 329 did to his prayer-book; and as he walked home with his sister, Colonel Middleton being just then out of earshot, he questioned her rather closely on the subject:

“Who were those girls, Elizabeth? I mean the three who were just opposite us with their mother. Are they visitors or residents?” Then Elizabeth told him very briefly their name and occupation.

“Good gracious!” he returned, in a thunderstruck tone; and then all at once he burst out laughing, as though at a good joke:

“I call that a piece of splendid pluck. Do you know, I could see in a moment there was something out of the common about them? They are all very pretty,—at least good-looking,—and I liked their quiet style of dress. You must introduce me to-morrow.”

“My dear Hammond, I can do nothing of the kind,” returned Elizabeth, glancing round in an alarmed way. “Father has refused to have them at Brooklyn; and it will annoy him terribly if you were to take any notice of them.” But to this Hammond turned a deaf ear, and, though he forbore to question her any further on that occasion, he had fully made up his mind that the introduction should take place as soon as possible.

As it fell out, accident favored him the very next day; for, as he was calling with his sister, at the White House, who should be announced the next minute but the Misses Challoner,—Phillis and Dulce, who had been bidden to afternoon tea!

Mrs. Cheyne kissed and welcomed them both. Then Captain Middleton was introduced; and they were soon chatting merrily together, to Elizabeth’s secret amusement.

Captain Middleton made himself very agreeable to the two girls, as Dulce observed afterwards. She had never before been so deceived in a man’s appearance,—for he was not solemn at all; and, though the serious brown eyes certainly inspected them rather critically from time to time, he proved himself a bright amusing companion, and fully bore out his father’s and sister’s encomiums.

The Middletons were easily induced to prolong their visit. Elizabeth felt herself a traitor to her father; but she could not refuse Hammond’s imploring glance. And so they stayed, and all took their leave together.

Mr. Cheyne walked down to the gate with them. He had an errand in the town; and he and Elizabeth walked behind the young people, talking them over in a low voice.

Now, it so happened that Colonel Middleton was trudging down the Braidwood Road; and as he neared the White House he looked up, and there was his son walking contentedly with a Challoner girl on each side of him, and the three were laughing merrily.

It was Dulce who saw him first.

“There comes your father!” she said; and she began to 330 blush as she had done on the day when he had left her at the gate of Brooklyn, talking to Elizabeth.

Hammond proved himself quite worthy of the occasion.

“Well met, father,” he called out, cheerily, “We seem all going one way. I suppose no one needs any introduction? Of course you know my father, Miss Challoner?”

Then the colonel threw down his arms. He had fought very bravely on his son’s behalf; but, after all his labors, his bristling defences and skilful retreats, Hammond had of his own free will delivered himself into the hands of the Philistines. What was the use of guarding an empty citadel?—his treasure was already in the enemy’s grasp.

All this was written on the colonel’s lugubrious face as he bowed stiffly and walked in sorrowful silence beside them, shaking his white head at intervals; but no one but Dulce took any notice of his sombre mood.

Dulce was very timid by nature. She was the least outspoken of the three, and always kept in the background, like a modest little flower that loved the shade; but she was very soft-hearted, and had great regard for people’s feelings. And the old man’s downcast looks pained her; for how was she to know that he was secretly pleased at this meeting?

“I hope—I wish—you did not mind knowing us so much. But it has not been our fault this afternoon,” sighed Dulce, stammering and blushing over her words. “You will believe that, will you not, Colonel Middleton?”

If a cannon shot had been fired into the old warrior’s ear, he could hardly have started more than he did at these childish words. He looked round. There was the little girl, looking up at him with the innocent eyes he remembered so well, and her mouth puckered a little as though she wanted to cry.

This was more than any man could bear, even if he had a harder heart than Colonel Middleton.

“My dear,” he said, taking the little hand, “I have always wanted to know you; Elizabeth will tell you that. I lost my heart to your sisters the first day I saw them. I am sure we shall be good friends in time, if you will forgive an old man’s pride.” And then he patted her hand as though she had been an infant.

When Mr. Drummond sat down to dinner that evening, he astonished Mattie very much by saying,—

“You can ask the Middletons, after all, for your tea-party, if you like, Mattie. What wonderful sight do you think I saw just now? Why, the colonel himself coming out from the Friary, and all the three girls were round him, chattering as though they had known him all their life; and I am pretty sure that in spite of the dark, I saw ‘son Hammond’ behind him.” And Mattie, glad of the permission, gave the invitation the next day.

Mattie grew a little alarmed as the evening approached. It 331 was her first party and she knew Archie would be critical; but Grace proved herself a useful ally.

In spite of her efforts to keep in the background and leave Mattie in her position as mistress of her brother’s house, she felt herself becoming insensibly its presiding spirit.

Archie was tolerably good-natured to Mattie; but the habits of a lifetime were too strong for him, and he still snubbed and repressed her at intervals. Mattie felt herself of no importance now that Grace had come: her duties were usurped before her eyes. Archie made a fresh demand on her forbearance every day.

“Why cannot you keep to the housekeeping, and let Grace do the schools and visitings?” he said, once. “It must come to her by and by, when you are gone; and I want her to begin as soon as possible. It will not do to let her think she has come too soon,” implying that good taste should lead Mattie to resign of her own account.

Poor Mattie! she had many a good cry in secret before that Tuesday. She could hardly help feeling pained to see how all-in-all those two were to each other, and the glad eagerness Grace threw into her work, knowing the reward of commendation she would reap. “It must be so strange never to be snubbed or scolded,—to do everything right,” Mattie thought.

Grace felt very sorry for her, and petted her a good deal. The dark little face had always a pained wistfulness on it now that touched her. She spoke kindly of Mattie to her brother on all possible occasions.

“I think Mattie is so generous in giving up to me as she does,” she observed, as Archie joined her in the drawing-room in expectation of their guests. Mattie had not yet made her appearance. She had been lighting the wax candles and trimming a refractory lamp that refused to burn, and had just run past her brother with blackened fingers and hot, tired face.

“Oh, yes, she is good enough,” he returned, indifferently, as he straightened a crooked candle; “but I wish she would not always be late. She has not begun to dress, and it is the time we appointed for the Challoners to come. Of all things I hate unpunctuality and fuss, and Mattie is always so fussy.”

Grace’s conscience pricked her. “I am afraid I left her too much to do,” she said, penitently. “Phillis asked me to go for a walk with them; but I ought not to have left her. I will go and help her now.”

But Archie objected:

“No, no; let her be. You must not leave me alone to receive them. How nice you look in that cream-colored dress, Grace! I thought it would suit you.” But, though his eyes rested on her as he spoke, he seemed rather absent. And when the door-bell rang a moment afterwards, a sudden flush came to his face.

It was very odd to feel that he was receiving Nan as his 332 guest. He had dreaded the ordeal greatly, but after the first moment it was not so bad. Grace, who had her suspicions and watched them closely, had them verified without doubt during the moment that followed the Challoners’ entrance; but no other eyes but hers would have read anything amiss in the young vicar’s gravely composed face.

Nan, who was looking beautiful, met him with her usual unconsciousness: though neither of them knew it, it was this very unconsciousness that was fast healing the wound. One cannot mourn long after a lost dream, and there had never been any reality in it. Not one of Nan’s thoughts had ever belonged to him for a moment: his existence, his individuality had never grazed the outer edge of her susceptibilities. Dick had encased her from childhood in armor of proof against all manhood. Archie felt this even as he touched her hand, and his lips gave her welcome.

“I am so sorry your mother could not come,” he said, politely. And then he turned to Phillis, who was regarding him with an odd, dubious look.

Archie felt the look, and his spirit rose in instant opposition.

“Do you know the Middletons are to be here, after all?” he said, moving a little into the background, for this girl had keen vision, and, as of old, her sympathy moved him strangely.

“Oh, then we shall be quite a party,” she returned, brightly. “It seems ages since we have been at one, and I feel disposed to enjoy myself. The very sight of wax candles is exhilarating. I am half afraid to touch coffee, for fear it will get into my head. And how sweet Grace looks in that dress!”

“Your chef-d’oeuvre!” he replied, rather wickedly.

“Oh, yes, I recognize my handiwork,” returned Phillis, nonchalantly. “I am quite as proud of it as an artist would be of a picture. Here comes Mattie; poor little thing! she seems tired, but she looks nice, too.”

Archie moved away after this, for the Middletons were announced; but he thought as he left her that he had never seen her look so handsome. Nan’s beauty had so blinded him that he had hardly been aware what a charming face Phillis really had: when she was pleased or excited she lighted up quite radiantly.

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Mattie, fussily coming up at that moment. “I don’t know what has become of your cousin; but Captain Middleton says all the trains have been snowed up.”

“If the train he is in has been snowed up, of course we must not expect to see him this evening,” was Phillis’s laughing reply. “Never mind; I dare say we shall all survive it; though Harry is such a good fellow, and I am immensely fond of him.”

“Oh, but the tea and coffee will be spoiled. I must go and pour it out now. Look, Grace is making signs to me.”

“Shall I come and help you?” was the ready response. “What a pretty little tea-table, Mattie, and how charmingly 333 snug it looks in the bay-window! The gentlemen will wait on us, of course. I like this way better than servants handing round lukewarm cups from the kitchen: it is not so grand, but it is cosier. Was it your arrangement, Mattie?”

“Oh, yes,” returned Mattie, in a disconsolate tone, as she took her place. “But, Phillis, are you really not anxious about your cousin? It is so dreadful to think of him snowed up all night, with nothing to eat and drink!”

Phillis laughed outright at this.

“My imagination will not conjure up such horrors. I believe Harry is at this moment sitting in the hotel discussing a good dinner before a blazing fire.” And, as Mattie looked injured at this, she continued, still more merrily: “My dear, are you such an ignoramus as to believe that any amount of wax candles and charming women will induce an Englishman to forego his dinner? He will come by and by; and if he gets cold coffee, he will have his deserts.” And then Mattie’s anxious face grew more cheerful.

The tea-table became the nucleus of the whole room before long. Even Mr. Frere, a tall scholarly-looking man, with spectacles and a very bald head, though he was still young, seemed drawn magnetically into the circle that closed round Phillis. The girl was so natural and sprightly, there was such buoyancy and brightness in her manner; and yet no man could ever have taken a liberty with her, or mistaken the source of that pure rippling fun. The light jesting tone, the unembarrassed manner, were as free from consciousness as though there were gray-headed dons round her. And yet, alas for Phillis! there was not a word uttered in a certain voice that did not reach her ear somehow; not a movement that was lost upon her, even when she chatted and laughed with those who stood round her.

Colonel Middleton was stanch to his little favorite, and sat on the couch between her and Grace, while Nan and Miss Middleton talked apart. Nan watched the tea-table smilingly. She did so love to see Phillis happy; it never occurred to her to feel herself a little neglected, or to wonder why the grave young master of the house so seldom addressed her: thoughts of this sort never entered Nan’s head.

But she grew a little silent by and by, and began to answer Elizabeth somewhat absently. She did not know what it meant, but a certain strong longing took possession of her,—a sort of craving to see Dick’s face and hear his voice. It was foolish, of course; and then she roused herself with difficulty.

“How late Harry is! I wonder if the train be really snowed up! Oh, that must be he!” as the door-bell sounded. “Mattie will be glad; she was so afraid the coffee would be cold.” For Mattie had poured this grievance into every one’s ears.

Of course it was Sir Harry. Yes, as the door opened, there were the broad, genial face and the massive shoulders that could 334 only belong to one person. And who was this young man following him,—a somewhat insignificant young man compared to this son of Anak,—a young man with sandy hair, with a trivial moustache, with a free, careless expression of good-nature that seemed somehow stamped on his features?

Nan did not speak or move in her corner; but she locked her hands together tightly, and a most wonderful blush came to her face; for the young man’s eyes had moved quickly round the room, with an eager expression in them, and had just rested upon her.

Nan sat immovable while Sir Harry, gave the necessary introduction in his loud, jovial voice:

“I am sorry to be late,—I am, ’pon my honor, Miss Mattie! but it could not be helped: could it, Mayne? Mr. Drummond, I have taken the liberty to bring a friend with me; he is my guest at present,—Mr. Richard Mayne. He has come down to Hadleigh to see some old acquaintances of his.”

“Dick! Oh, Dick!” the words would come out now. Miss Middleton had judiciously vacated the corner of the couch, and Dick had boldly placed himself there instead, after first touching Nan’s trembling hand. “What does it mean? Why have you startled me so?” she whispered, for they were in a snug corner, and no one was near them.

“I suppose a man has a right to come and look after his own belongings?” returned Dick, in the coolest possible manner. But his eyes were more eloquent than his words, as usual. “How lovely you are looking, Nan! I do believe you grow prettier every day. And are you glad to see me?—half or a quarter as glad as I am to see you?”

“I was thinking of you,” she returned, softly. “I was wondering what you were doing, and picturing you at Longmead; and then the door opened, and there you were, half hidden by Harry; and I thought I was dreaming.”

“Well, that was transmission of thought, don’t you see?—animal magnetism, and all that sort of thing. You thought of me because I was thinking of you; but you did not know that only the door divided us. Oh, Nan! isn’t it awfully jolly to be together again?”

“Yes; but I don’t understand it yet,” she replied. “Have you come without your father’s permission, Dick? Are you sure he will not be very angry?”

“Oh, no; the pater is all right. Sir Harry—what a brick that fellow is!—has talked him over, and he has given his consent to our engagement. Look here, Nan! what you have got to do is to pack up your things, and I am to take you down to-morrow. This is a note from mother, and you will see what she says.” And Nan’s gloved hand closed eagerly upon the precious missive.

The letter could not be read just then. Nan sent Dick away after that, though he would willingly have remained in his 335 corner during the remainder of the evening. He went off grumbling, to be civil to his hostess, and Nan remained behind trying to calm herself. It was “all right,” Dick had told her. She was to go down with him the next day to dear Longmead. Were their troubles really over? Well, she would hear all about it to-morrow. She must wait patiently until then.

Nan did not long remain alone. Archie, who had watched this little scene from the bay-window, suddenly took his opportunity and crossed the room.

Nan looked up at him with a happy smile.

“You have had a surprise this evening, have you not, Miss Challoner? Sir Harry has just been telling me all about it. You will permit me now to offer my congratulations?”

“Most certainly, Mr. Drummond.”

“I am so glad, for both your sakes, that things should be so comfortably settled,” he went on, placing himself beside her,—a movement that mightily displeased Dick, who had conceived a dislike to the handsome parson from the first. “A parent’s opposition is always a serious drawback in such cases; but Sir Harry tells me that Mr. Mayne has given his full consent.”

“I believe so,” returned Nan, blushing a little; “but I really hardly know any particulars. It is such a surprise to me altogether; but his mother has written to me, and I am expected down there.”

“You have my warmest wishes for your happiness,” continued Archie, gravely; and then Nan thanked him.

But here Dick interrupted them. He was still new to his role, and hardly had the assurance that belongs to the engaged man, who feels himself safely steering towards the desired haven of matrimony. It appeared to him that on this evening he ought not to lose sight of Nan for a moment. To see Mr. Drummond taking his place was too much for him, and he put down his untasted coffee.

“I am afraid it is rather cold,” observed Mattie, anxiously; but she spoke to deaf ears.

Dick was already half-way to the corner. Nan received him a little shyly; but Mr. Drummond at once took the hint.

“Oh, Dick, people will notice! you must take care,” remonstrated Nan.

She was preparing one of those gentle little lectures to which she sometimes treated him, and to which he was wont to listen with the utmost submission; but, to her intense surprise, he turned restive.

“That was all very well when things were not settled between us,” observed Dick, decidedly. “Now we are engaged, of course I shall assert my rights publicly. What does it matter if people notice? They will only think what a lucky fellow I am, and how they would like to be in my place. Do you think I was going to remain at the other end of the room while that parson was talking to you?” And then Nan all at once discovered 336 that, in spite of Dick’s boyish looks and easy temper, she had found her master,—that, like other men, he was capable of jealousy and insisted on an entire and undivided allegiance.

Nan was weak enough to like him all the better for this little touch of tyranny; and, after all, though she felt it a little hard on Mr. Drummond, who was so harmless and good-natured, the sense of this monopoly was very sweet to her.