It was the most successful evening—every one said so; but, somehow, Mattie had not enjoyed it. She supposed she was tired; that lamp had worried her; but, though every one had been very pleasant, and had said nice things to her,—even that formidable Mr. Frere,—Mattie felt something had been lacking. She had been very pleased to see Sir Harry, and he had come up to her at once and spoken to her in his usual genial manner; but after the first few minutes, during which he had drunk his coffee standing beside her, she did not remember that he had again addressed her. After that, he had made his way to Grace, and did not stir for a long time.

Mattie had Colonel Middleton on her hands then; but her eyes would stray to that part of the room. How pretty Grace looked in that soft creamy dress, with the dainty lace ruffles that Archie had sent her! Her face generally wanted color and animation, but to-night she was quite rosy by comparison. She seemed to find Sir Harry amusing, for she looked up at him very brightly. And then Archie joined them: he would not be de trop there, he knew. And the three talked as though they never meant to leave off.

When Sir Harry came to take his leave, he said, a little abruptly,—

“I like that sister of yours, Miss Mattie. She is sensible for a girl; and yet she knows how to laugh. Clever girls are generally a little priggish, do you know? But one need not be afraid of Miss Grace.” And Mattie knew that from Sir Harry this was high praise.

“Every one likes Grace,” she faltered.

“I am not surprised at that,” was the ready response; and then he shook hands and thanked her for the pleasant evening. He did not even look at her as he spoke, Mattie remembered afterwards: he was watching Nan, who was smiling on Dick’s arm. 337

The young vicar stood bare-headed on the snowy door-step, as his guests merrily trooped out together. Dick and Nan came first: Nan had a scarlet hood over her bright hair, and Dick was grumbling over the lightness of her cloak, and was wrapping his gray overcoat round her.

“Nonsense, Nan! I insist upon it! and you know nothing gives me cold!” Dick was saying, in his authoritative way; and then of course Nan yielded.

“‘Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,’” sang Phillis, mockingly, who was following them under Captain Middleton’s escort. “Don’t you think engaged people are sometimes very masterful?” She spoke, of course, to her companion; but he had turned to warn his father and Dulce of an awkward step, and Archie intercepted the sentence:

“Most men are masterful, Miss Challoner. You will find that out some day for yourself.” He meant nothing by this little speech, and he was rather taken aback by the sudden hot blush that came to the girl’s face, and the almost angry light in her eyes, as she turned away from him and ran down the slippery steps, to Captain Middleton’s alarm.

“‘On yonder lea, on yonder lea,’” they heard her humming gayly; and Hammond caught the refrain, and finished it in a fine manly bass, while Archie stood still under the wintry sky. Why had she looked like that at him? What was there in his lightly-uttered speech to offend her?

Grace was standing alone when he re-entered the drawing-room. Most of the wax candles were extinguished, but the soft glow of the firelight irradiated the farthest corner of the room.

“What a glorious fire!” he said, warming his chilly hands at it, and then throwing himself into the easy-chair that Grace silently placed for him. “And where is Mattie? Really, she did very well to-night.”

“You must tell her to-morrow, she will be so pleased; she seems tired, and her head aches, so I advised her to go to bed.” And, though Archie did not say openly that he approved of this sensible advice, he implied it by the way he drew a low chair forward for Grace,—so close beside him that she could rest her arm upon the cushioned elbow of his.

They remained comfortably silent for along time: it was Grace who spoke first.

“Archie,” she said, rather nervously, but her eyes had a settled purpose in them, “shall you be angry if I disobey you, dear, and speak again on a certain subject?”

“What subject?” he asked, rather surprised by her manner. He had not a notion to what she was referring; he did not know how during that long silence their thoughts had been couching the same point, and that all this time she was seeking courage to speak to him.

“I know your secret, Archie; I discovered it to-night.”

“My secret!” he returned, in utter amazement. “I have 338 no secret, Gracie.” And then, as he caught her meaning, a cloud came to his brow. “But this is nonsense!” he continued harshly,—“pure nonsense; put it out of your head.”

“I saw it to-night,” she went on, in a very low voice, undisturbed by his evident displeasure. “She is good and sweet, and quite lovely, Archie, and that young man is not half worthy of her; but she has no thought but for him.”

“Do you think I do not know that?” he returned, in an exasperated tone. “Grace, I will not have you talk in this way. I am cured,—quite cured: it was nothing but a passing folly.”

“A folly that made you very unhappy, my poor Archie; but—hush! you must not interrupt me—I am not going to talk about her.”

“Oh, that is well,” he returned, in a relieved tone.

“I was sorry—just a little sorry—at first, because I knew how much it had cost you; but this evening I could have found it in my heart to be angry with you,—yes, even with you. ‘Oh, the blindness of these men!’ I thought: ‘why will they trample on their own happiness?’”

“Are you speaking of me?” he asked, in a bewildered tone.

“Of whom should I be speaking?” she answered; and her voice had a peculiar meaning in it. “You are my dear brother,—my dearest brother; but you are no more sensible than other men.”

“I suppose not,” he returned, staring at her; “I suppose not.”

“Many men have done what you are doing,” she went on, quietly. “Many have wanted what belonged to another, and have turned their backs upon the blessing that might have been theirs. It is the game of cross-purposes. Do you remember that picture, Archie,—the lovely print you longed to buy—the two girls and the two men? There was the pretty demure maiden in front, and at the back a girl with a far sweeter face to my mind, watching the gloomy-looking fellow who is regarding his divinity from afar. There was a face here to-night that brought that second girl strongly to my mind; and I caught an expression on it once––” Here Archie violently started.

“Hush! hush! what are you implying? Grace, you are romancing; you do not mean this?”

“As there is a heaven above us, I do mean it, Archie.”

“Then, for God’s sake, not another word!” And then he rose from his seat, and stood on the rug.

“You are not really angry with me?” she urged, frightened at his vehemence.

“No; I am not angry. I never am angry with you, Grace, as you know; but all the same there are some things that never should be said.” And, when he had thus gravely rebuked her speech, he kissed her forehead, and muttering some excuse about the lateness of the hour, left the room. 339

Grace crept away to her chamber a little discomfited by this rebuff, gently as it had been given; but if she had only guessed the commotion those few hinted words had raised in her brother’s mind!

He had understood her; in one moment he had understood her. As though by a lightning-flash of intelligence, the truth had dawned upon him; and if an electric shock had passed through his frame and set all his nerves tingling he could not have been more deeply shaken.

Was that what she thought, too, when she had turned away from him with that quiet look of scorn on her face! Did she know of any possible blessing that might have been his, only that he had turned his back upon it, crying out childishly for a shadowy happiness? Did she mutter to herself also, “Oh, the blindness of these men!”?

There is an old saying, greatly credited by the generality of people, that hearts are often caught at the rebound,—that in their painful tossings from uneven heights and depths, and that sad swinging over uncertain abysses, some are suddenly attracted and held fast; and there is sufficient proof to warrant the truth of this adage.

The measurements of pain are unequal: different natures hold different capacities. A trouble that seems very real at the time, and full of stings, may be found later on to be largely alloyed by wounded self-love and frustrated vanity. Sound it with the plumb-line of experience, of time, of wakening hopefulness, and it may sink fathoms, and by and by end in nothingness, or perhaps more truly in just a sense of salt bitterness between the teeth, as when one plunges in a waning tide.

Not that Archie realized all this as he paced his room that night: no; he was very strangely moved and excited. Something, he knew not what, had again stirred the monotony of his life. He had been sick and sad for a long time; for men are like children, and fret sometimes after the unattainable, if their hearts be set upon it. And yet, though he forbore to question himself too closely that night, how much of his pain had been due to wounded vanity and crossed wilfulness!

It was long before he could sleep, for the sudden broadening of the prospective of his future kept him wide awake and restless. It was as though he had been straining his eyes to look down a long, gray vista, where he saw things dimly, and that suddenly there was a low light on the horizon,—not brilliant, not even clear; but it spoke of approaching daybreak. By and by the path would be more plainly visible.

There was great excitement at the Friary on the next day. They had found it hard to get rid of Dick the previous night; but Sir Harry, who read his aunt’s tired face rightly, had carried him off almost by sheer force, after a lengthy leave-taking with Nan in the passage.

It was only Mrs. Challoner who was tired. Poor woman! 340 she was fairly worn out by the violence of her conflicting feeling,—by sympathy with Nan in her happiness, with pleasure in Dick’s demonstrative joy, and sorrow at the thought of losing her child. The girl herself was far too much excited for sleep.

She and Phillis did all the packing for the next day, and it was not until Dulce sleepily warned them of the lateness of the hour that they consented to separate; and then Nan sat by the parlor fire a long time alone, enjoying the luxury of undisturbed meditation.

But the next morning, just as they had gone into the work-room,—not to settle to any business,—that was impossible under the present exciting circumstances,—but just to fold up and despatch a gown that had been finished for Mrs. Squails, while Dulce put the finishing-touches to Mrs. Cheyne’s tweed dress, Nan announced in a glad voice that their cousin and Dick were at the gate; “and I am so thankful we packed last night,” she continued, “for Dick will not let me have a free moment until we start.”

“You should keep him in better order,” observed Phillis, tersely: “if you give him his own way so much, you will not have a will of your own when you are married: will she, mother?” Mrs. Challoner smiled a little feebly in answer to this: she could not remember the time when she had had a will of her own.

Nan went out shyly to meet them; but she could not understand her reception at all. Dick’s grasp of her hand was sufficiently eloquent, but he said nothing; and Nan thought he was trying not to laugh, for there was a gleam of fun in his eyes, though he endeavored to look solemn. Sir Harry’s face, too, wore an expression of portentous gravity.

“Are you all in the work-room, Nan?” he asked, in a tone as though they were assembled at a funeral.

“Yes; mother and all,” answered Nan, brightly. “What is the matter with you both? You look dreadfully solemn.”

“Because we have a little business before us,” returned Sir Harry, wrinkling his brows and frowning at Dick. “Come, Mayne, if you are ready.”

“Wait a minute, Nan. I will speak to you afterwards,” observed that young gentleman, divesting himself of his gray overcoat; and Nan, very much puzzled, preceded them into the room.

“How do you do, Aunt Catherine? Good-morning, girls,” nodded Sir Harry; and then he looked at Dick. And what were they both doing? Were they mad? They must have taken leave of their senses; for Dick had raised his foot gently,—very gently,—and Mrs. Squails’s red merino gown lay in the passage. At the same moment, Sir Harry’s huge hand had closed over the tweed, and, by a dexterous thrust, had flung it as far as the kitchen. And now Dick was bundling out the sewing-machine. 341

“Dick! oh, Dick!” in an alarmed voice from Dulce. And Phillis flew to the great carved wardrobe, that Sir Harry was ransacking; while Nan vainly strove to rescue the fashion-books that Dick was now flinging into the fender.

“Oh, you great Goth! You stupid, ridiculous Harry!” observed Phillis, scornfully, while the rolls of silk and satin and yards of trimming were tossed lightly into a heap of debris.

Laddie was growling and choking over the buttons. Dorothy afterwards carried away a whole shovelful of pins and hooks and eyes.

Nan sat down by her mother and folded her hands on her lap. When men were masterful, it was time for maidens to sit still. Dulce really looked frightened; but Phillis presently broke into a laugh.

“This is a parable of nature,” she said. “Mammie, does your head ache? Would you like to go into the next room?”

“There, we have about done!” observed Sir Harry. “The place is pretty well clear: isn’t it, Mayne?” And, as Dick nodded a cheerful assent, he shut the door of the wardrobe, locked it, and, with much solemnity, put the key in his pocket. “Now for my parable,” he said. “Aunt Catherine, you will excuse a bit of a spree, but one must take the high hand with these girls. I have bundled out the whole lot of trumpery; but, as head of this family, I am not going to stand any more of this nonsense.”

“Oh, indeed!” put in Phillis. “I hope Mrs. Squails will take her creased gown! Dulce, the sewing-machine is right on the top of it,—a most improving process, certainly.”

“Now, Phillis, you will just shut up with your nonsense! As head of the family, I am not going to stand any more of this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?” asked Mrs. Challoner, timidly. “My dears, I thought it was only fun; but I do believe your cousin is in earnest.”

“I am quite in earnest, Aunt Catherine,” returned Sir Harry, sitting down beside her, and taking her hand. “I hope our bit of larking has not been too much for you; but that fellow vowed it would be a good joke.” Here Dick’s eyes twinkled. “If Mrs. Squails’s gown is spoiled, I will buy her another; but on your peril, girls, if you put a stitch in any but your own from this day forward!”

“Please your honor, kindly,” whined Phillis, dropping a courtesy, “and what will your honor have us do?”

“Do!” and then he broke into a laugh. “Oh, I will tell you that presently. All I know is, Nan is engaged to my friend Mayne here; and I have promised his father, on my word as a gentleman and head of this family, that this dressmaking humbug shall be given up.”

“You had no right to give such a promise,” returned 342 Phillis, offended at this; but Nan’s hand stole into Dick’s. She understood now.

“But, Harry, my dear,” asked Mrs. Challoner, “what would you have them do?”

“Oh, play tennis,—dance,—flirt, if they like! How do young ladies generally occupy their time? Don’t let us talk about such petty details as this. I want to tell you about my new house. You all know Gilsbank? Well, it is ‘Challoner Place’ now.”

“You have bought it, Harry?”

“Yes; I have bought it,” he returned, coolly. “And what is more, I hope to settle down there in another month’s time. How soon do you think you will be ready to move, Aunt Catherine?”

“My dear!” in a voice of mild astonishment. But Dulce clapped her hands: she thought she guessed his meaning. “Are we to live with you, Harry? Do you really mean to take us with you?”

“Of course I shall take you with me; but not to Challoner Place. That would be rather close quarters; and—and—I may make different arrangements,” rather sheepishly. “Aunt Catherine, Glen Cottage will be all ready for you and the girls. I have settled about the furniture; and Mrs. Mayne will have fires lighted whenever you like to come down. Why, aunt,—dear Aunt Catherine,” as he felt her thin hand tremble in his, and the tears started to her eyes, “did you not tell me how much you loved your old home? And do you think, when you have no son to take care of you, that I should ever let you be far from me?”

“Confound you!” growled Dick. “Is not a son-in-law as good as a son any day.”

But no one heard this but Nan.

Mrs. Challoner was weeping for joy, and Dulce was keeping her company; but Phillis walked up to her cousin with a shamefaced look:

“I am sorry I called you a Goth, Harry. I ought to have remembered Alcides. You are as good as gold. You are a dear generous fellow. And I love you for it; and so do Nan and Dulce. And I was not a bit cross, really; but you did look such a great goose, turning out that wardrobe.” But, though she laughed at the remembrance, the tears were in Phillis’s eyes.

Dick was nobody after this: not that he minded that. How could they help crowding round this “big hero” of theirs who had performed such wonders?

Gilsbank turned into Challoner Place; Glen Cottage, with its conservatory and brand-new furniture, theirs again,—their own,—their very own (for Sir Harry intended to buy that too as soon as possible); Nan engaged to her dearest Dick, and all the neighborhood prepared to welcome them back! 343

“If you please, Miss Phillis, Mrs. Squails desires her compliments, and she is waiting for her dress.”

We forbare to repeat Sir Harry’s answer. Nevertheless, with Dick’s help, the unfortunate gown was extricated, and privately ironed by Dorothy.

“That is a good morning’s work of yours,” observed Phillis, quietly looking down at the heap at her feet. “Dorothy, it seems Sir Harry is master here. If any more orders come for us, you may as well say, ‘The Misses Challoner have given up business.’”