Human nature is weak, and we are told there are mixed motives to be found even in the holiest actions. Mr. Drummond never could be brought to acknowledge even to himself the reason why he took so much pains to compose his sermon for that Sunday. Without possessing any special claim to eloquence, he had always been earnest and painstaking, bestowing much labor on the construction and finish of his sentences, which were in consequence more elaborate than original. At times, when he took less pains and was simpler in style, he seldom failed to satisfy his hearers. His voice was pleasant and well modulated, and his delivery remarkably quiet and free from any tricks of gestures.

But on this occasion his subject baffled him; he wrote and rewrote whole pages, and then grew discontented with his work. On the Sunday in question he woke with the conviction that something out of the common order of events distinguished the day from other days; but even as this thought crossed his mind he felt ashamed of himself, and was in consequence a little more dictatorial than usual at the breakfast-table.

The inhabitants of Hadleigh were well accustomed to the presence of strangers in their church. In the season there was 125 a regular influx of visitors that filled the lodging-houses to overflowing. Hadleigh had always prided itself on its gentility, as a watering-place it was select and exclusive; only the upper middle classes, and a sprinkling of the aristocracy, were the habitual frequenters of the little town. It was too quiet; it offered too few attractions to draw the crowds that flocked to other places. Mr. Drummond’s congregation was well used by this time to see new faces in the strangers’ pew; nevertheless, a little thrill of something like surprise and excitement moved a few of the younger members as Nan and her sisters walked down the aisle, with their mother following them.

“The mother is almost as good-looking as her daughters,” thought Colonel Middleton, as he regarded the group through his gold-mounted eye-glasses, and Miss Middleton looked up for an instant from her prayer-book. Even Mrs. Cheyne roused from the gloomy abstraction which was her usual approach to devotion, and looked long and curiously at the three girlish faces before her. It was refreshing even to her to see anything so fresh and bright-looking.

Nan and her sisters were perfectly oblivious of the sensation they were making. Nan’s pretty face was a trifle clouded: the strange surroundings, the sight of all those people unknown to them, instead of the dear, familiar faces that had always been before her, gave the girl a dreary feeling of oppression and dismay. Her voice quavered audibly as she sang, and one or two drops fell on her prayer-book as she essayed to join in the petitions.

“Why is there not a special clause in the Litany for those who are perplexed and in poverty? It is not only from murder and sudden death one need pray to be delivered,” thought Nan, with much sinking of heart. “Oh, how helpless they were,—so young, and only girls, with a great unknown world before them, and Dick away, ignorant of their worst troubles, and too youthful a knight to win his spurs and pledge himself to their service!”

Nan’s sweet downcast face drew many eyes in the direction of the great square pew in which they sat. Phillis intercepted some of these looks, as her attention insensibly wandered during the service. It was wrong, terribly wrong of course, but her thoughts would not concentrate themselves on the lesson the young vicar was reading in his best style. She was not heavy-hearted like Nan; on the contrary, little thrills of excitement, of impatience, of repressed amusement, pervaded her mind, as she looked at the strange faces round her “They would not be long strange,” she thought: “some of them would be her neighbors. What would they say, all these people, when they knew––” And here Phillis held her breath a moment. People were wondering even now who they were. They had dressed themselves that morning, rehearsing their parts, as it were, with studied simplicity. The gown Nan wore was as inexpensive as 126 a gown could be; her hat was a model of neatness and propriety: nevertheless, Phillis groaned in spirit as she glanced at her. Where had she got that style? She looked like a young princess who was playing at Arcadia. Would people ever dare to ask her to work for them? Would they not beg her pardon, and cry shame on themselves for entertaining such a thought for a moment? Phillis almost envied Nan, who was shedding salt tears on her prayer-book. She thought she was absorbed in her devotions, while her own thoughts would wander so sadly; and then a handsome face in the opposite pew attracted her attention. Surely that must be Mrs. Cheyne, who lived in the White House near them, of whom Nan had talked,—the poor woman who had lost husband and children and who lived in solitary state. The sermon had now commenced, but Phillis turned a deaf ear to the sentences over which Mr. Drummond had expended so much labor: her attention was riveted by the gloomy beautiful face before her, which alternately attracted and repelled her.

As though disturbed by some magnetic influence, Mrs. Cheyne raised her eyes slowly and looked at Phillis. Something in the girl’s keen-eyed glance seemed to move her strangely. The color crept into her pale face, and her lip quivered: a moment afterwards she drew down her veil and leaned back in her seat and Phillis, somewhat abashed, endeavored fruitlessly to gather up the thread of the sermon.

“There! it is over! We have made our debut,” she said, a little recklessly, as they walked back to Beach House, where Mrs. Challoner and Dulce were still staying. And as Nan looked at her, a little shocked and mystified by this unusual flippancy, she continued in the same excited way:

“Was it not strange Mr. Drummond choosing that text, ‘Consider the lilies’? He looked at us; I am sure he did, mother. It was quite a tirade against dress and vanity; but I am sure no one could find fault with us.”

“It was a very good sermon, and I think he seems a very clever young man,” returned Mrs. Challoner, with a sigh, for the service had been a long weariness for her. She had not been unmindful of the attention her girls had caused; but if people only knew—And here the poor lady had clasped her hands and put up petitions that were certainly not in the Litany.

Phillis seemed about to say something, but she checked herself, and they were all a little silent until they reached the house. This first Sunday was an infliction to them all: it was a day of enforced idleness. There was too much time for thought and room for regret. In spite of all Phillis’s efforts,—and she rattled on cheerily most of the afternoon,—Mrs. Challoner got one of her bad headaches, from worry, and withdrew to her room, attended by Dulce, who volunteered to bathe her head and read her to sleep.

The church-bells were just ringing for the evening service, and 127 Nan rose, as usual, to put on her hat; but Phillis stopped her:

“Oh, Nan, do not let us go to church again this evening. I am terribly wicked to-day, I know, but somehow I cannot keep my thoughts in order. So what is the use of making the attempt? Let us take out our prayer-books and sit on the beach: it is low tide, and a walk over the sands would do us good after our dreadful week.”

“If you are sure it would not be wrong,” hesitated Nan, whose conscience was a little hard to convince in such matters.

“No, no. And the run will do Laddie good. The poor little fellow has been shut up in this room all day. We need not tell the mother. She would be shocked, you know. But we never have stayed away from church before, have we? And, to tell you the truth,” continued Phillis, with an unsteady laugh that betrayed agitation to her sister’s ear, “though I faced it very well this morning, I do not feel inclined to go through it again. People stared so. And I could not help thinking all the time, ‘If they only knew!’—that was the thought that kept buzzing in my head. If only Mr. Drummond and all those people knew!”

“What does it matter what people think?” returned Nan. But she said it languidly. In her heart she was secretly dismayed at this sudden failure of courage. Phillis had been quite bold and merry all the day, almost reckless in her speeches.

“I am glad we came. This will do us both good,” said Nan, gently, as they left the parade behind them, and went slowly over the shelving beach, with Laddie rolling like a clumsy black ball about their feet. Just before them there was a pretty black-timbered cottage, covered with roses, standing quite low on the shore, and beyond this was nothing but shingly beach, and a stretch of wet, yellow sand, on which the sun was shining. There was a smooth white boulder standing quite alone, on which the girls seated themselves. The tide was still going out; and the low wash of waves sounded pleasantly in their ears as they advanced and then receded. A shimmer of silvery light played upon the water, and a rosy tinge began to tint the horizon.

“How quiet and still it is!” said Phillis, in an awe-struck voice. “When we are tired we must come here to rest ourselves. How prettily those baby waves seem to babble! it is just like the gurgle of baby laughter. And look at Laddie splashing in that pool: he is after that poor little crab. Come here, you rogue!” But Laddie, intent upon his sport, only cocked his ear restlessly and refused to obey.

“Yes, it is lovely,” returned Nan. “There is quite a silvery path over the water; by and by the sunset clouds will be beautiful. But what is the matter, dear?” as Phillis sighed and leaned heavily against her; and then, as she turned, she saw the girl’s eyes were wet. 128

“Oh, Nan! shall we have strength for it? That is what I keep asking myself to-day. No you must not look so frightened. I am brave enough generally, and I do not mean to lose pluck; but now and then the thought will come to me, Shall we have strength to go through with it?”

“We must think of each other; that must keep us up,” returned Nan, whose ready sympathy fully understood her sister’s mood. Only to Nan would Phillis ever own her failure of courage or fears for the future. But now and then the brave young heart needed comfort, and always found it in Nan’s sympathy.

“It was looking at your dear beautiful face that made me feel so suddenly bad this morning,” interrupted Phillis, with a sort of sob. “It was not the people so much; they only amused and excited me, and I kept thinking, ‘If they only knew!’ But, Nan, when I looked at you—oh, why are you so nice and pretty, if you have got to do this horrid work?”

“I am not a bit nicer than you and Dulce,” laughed Nan, embracing her, for she never could be made to understand that by most people she was considered their superior in good looks. The bare idea made her angry. “It is worse for you, Phillis, because you are so clever and have so many ideas. But there! we must not go on pitying each other, or else, indeed, we shall undermine our little stock of strength.”

“But don’t you feel terribly unhappy sometimes?” persisted Phillis. Neither of them mentioned Dick, and yet he was in both their minds.

“Perhaps I do,” returned Nan, simply; and then she added, with quaintness that was pathetic, “You see, we are so unused to the feeling, and it is over-hard at first: by and by we shall be more used to not having our own way in things.”

“I think I could give up that readily, if I could be sure you and Dulce were not miserable,” sighed Phillis.

“That is what I say,” returned Nan. “Don’t you see how simple and beautiful that is? Thinking of each other gives us strength to go through with it all. This evening trying to cheer you up has done me good. I do not feel the least afraid of people to-night. Looking at that sea and sky makes one feel the littleness and unreality of all these worries. What does it matter—what does anything matter—if we only do our duty and love each other, and submit to the Divine will?” finished Nan, reverently, who seldom spoke of her deeper feelings, even to Phillis.

“Nan, you are a saint,” returned Phillis, enthusiastically. The worried look had left her eyes; they looked clear and bright as usual. “Oh, what a heathen I have been to-day! but, as Dulce is so fond of saying, ‘I am going to be good. I will read the evening Psalms to you, in token of my resolution, if you like. But wait: is there not some one coming across the sand! 129 How eerie it looks, such a tall black figure standing between the earth and sky!”

Phillis had good sight, or she would hardly have distinguished the figure, which was now motionless, at such a distance. In another moment she even announced that its draperies showed it to be a woman, before she opened her book and commenced reading.

There is something very striking in a lonely central figure in a scene, the outline cuts so sharply against the horizon. Nan’s eyes seemed riveted on it as she listened to Phillis’s voice; it seemed to her as immovable as a Sphinx, its rigidity lending a sort of barrenness and forlornness to the landscape, a black edition of human nature set under a violet and opal sky.

She almost started when it moved, at last, with a steady bearing, as it seemed, towards them; then curiosity quickened into interest, and she touched Phillis’s arm, whispering breathlessly,—

“The Sphinx moves! Look—is not that Mrs. Cheyne, the lady who lives at the White House near us, who always looks so lonely and unhappy?”

“Hush!” returned Phillis, “she will hear you;” and then Mrs. Cheyne approached with the same swift even walk. She looked at them for a moment, as she passed, with a sort of well-bred surprise in her air, as though she marvelled to see them there; her black dress touched Laddie, and he caught at it with an impotent bark.

The sisters must have made a pretty picture, as they sat almost clinging together on the stone: one of Nan’s little white hands rested on Laddie’s head, the other lay on Phillis’s lap. Phillis glanced up from her book, keen-eyed and alert in a moment; she turned her head to look at the stranger that had excited her interest, and then rose to her feet with a little cry of dismay.

“Oh, Nan, I am afraid she has hurt herself! She gave such a slip just now. I wonder what has happened? She is leaning against the breakwater, too. Shall we go and ask her if she feels ill or anything?”

“You may go,” was Nan’s answer. Nevertheless, she followed Phillis.

Mrs. Cheyne looked up at them a little sharply as they came towards her. Her face was gray and contracted with pain.

“I have slipped on a wet stone, and my foot has somehow turned on me,” she said, quickly, as Phillis ran up to her. “It was very stupid. I cannot think how it happened; but I have certainly sprained my ankle. It gives me such pain. I cannot move.”

“Oh, dear, I am so sorry!” returned Phillis, good-naturedly; and, in the most natural manner, she knelt down on the beach, and took the injured foot in her hands. “Yes, I can feel it is swelling dreadfully: we must try and get your boot off before 130 the attempt gets too painful.” And she commenced unfastening it with deft fingers.

“How am I to walk without my boot?” observed Mrs. Cheyne, a little drily, as she looked down on the girl; but here Nan interposed in her brisk sensible way:

“You must not walk; you must not think of such a thing. We will wet our handkerchiefs in the salt water, and bind up your ankle as well as we can; and then one of us will walk over to the White House for assistance. Your servants could easily obtain a wheeled chair.”

“You knew I lived at the White House, then?” returned Mrs. Cheyne, arching her eyebrows in some surprise; but she offered no opposition to Nan’s plan. The removal of the boot had brought on a sensation of faintness, and she sat perfectly still and quiet while the girls swathed the foot in wet bandages.

“It is a little easier now,” she observed, gratefully. “How neatly you have done it! you must be used to such work. I am really very much obliged to you both for your kindly help; and now I am afraid I must trouble you further if I am ever to reach home.”

“I will go at once,” returned Nan, cheerfully; “but I will leave my sister for fear you should feel faint again: besides, it is so lonely.”

“Oh, I am used to loneliness!” was the reply, as a bitter expression crossed her face.

Phillis, who was still holding the sprained foot in her lap, looked up in her eager way.

“I think one gets used to everything; that is a merciful dispensation; but all the same I hope you will not send me away. I dearly like to be useful; and at present my object is to prevent your foot coming into contact with these stones. Are you really in less pain now?—you look dreadfully pale.”

“Oh, that is nothing!” she returned, with a smile so sudden and sweet that it quite startled Phillis, for it lit up her face like sunshine; but almost before she caught it, it was gone. “How good you are to me! and yet I am a perfect stranger!” and then she added, as though with an afterthought, “But I saw you in church this morning.”

Phillis nodded: the question certainly required no answer.

“If I knew you better, I should ask why your eyes questioned me so closely this morning. Do you know, Miss—Miss––” And here she hesitated and smiled, waiting for Phillis to fill up the blank.

“My name is Challoner,—Phillis Challoner,” replied Phillis, coloring a little; and then she added, frankly, “I am afraid you thought me rude, and that I stared at you, but my thoughts were all topsy-turvy this morning and refused to be kept in order. One feels curious, somehow, about the people among whom one has come to live.”

“Have you come to live here?” asked Mrs. Cheyne, eagerly, 131 and a gleam of pleasure shot into her dark eyes,—“you, and your mother and sisters?”

“Yes; we have just come to the Friary,—a little cottage standing on the Braidwood Road.”

Her manner became a little constrained and reserved as she said this: the charming frankness disappeared.

“The Friary!” echoed Mrs. Cheyne; and then she paused for a moment, and her eyes rested searchingly on Phillis. “That shabby little cottage!” was the thought that filled up the outline of her words; but, though she felt inward surprise and a momentary disappointment, there was no change in the graciousness of her manner. Never before had she so thawed to any one: but the girl’s sweet ministry had won her heart. “Then you will be near me,—just at my gates? We shall be close neighbors. I hope you will come and see me, Miss Challoner.”

Poor Phillis! the blood suddenly rushed over her face at this. How was she to answer without appearing ungracious?—and yet at this moment how could she explain?

“If you please, we are dressmakers.” Oh, no! such words as these would not get themselves said. It was too abrupt, too sudden, altogether: she was not prepared for such a thing. Oh, why had she not gone to the White House instead of Nan? Her officiousness had brought this on her. She could not put the poor foot off her lap and get up and walk away to cool her hot cheeks.

“Thank you; you are very good,” she stammered, feeling herself an utter fool: she,—Phillis,—the clever one!

Mrs. Cheyne seemed rather taken aback by the girl’s sudden reserve and embarrassment.

“I suppose you think I should call first, and thank you for your kindness,” she returned, quickly; “but I was afraid my foot would keep me too long a prisoner. And, as we are to be neighbors, I hardly thought it necessary to stand on ceremony; but if you would rather wait––”

“Oh, no,” replied Phillis, in despair; “we will not trouble you to do that! Nan and I will call and ask after your foot, and then we will explain. There is a little difficulty: you might not care to be friends with us if you knew,” went on Phillis with burning cheeks; “but we will call and explain. Oh, yes, Nan and I will call!”

“Do; I shall expect you,” returned Mrs. Cheyne, half amused and half mystified at the girl’s obvious confusion. What did the child mean? They were gentle-people,—one could see that at a glance. They were in reduced circumstances: they had come down to Hadleigh to retrench. Well, what did that matter? People’s wealth or poverty never affected her; she would think none the less well of them for that; she would call at the Friary and entertain them at the White House with as much pleasure as though they lived in a palace. The little mystery piqued her, and yet excited her interest. It was long 132 since she had interested herself so much in anything. To Miss Middleton she had always been cold and uncertain. Mr. Drummond she treated with a mixture of satire and haughtiness that aroused his ire. Phillis’s frankness and simplicity had won her for a moment to her earlier and better self: she conceived an instantaneous liking for the girl who looked at her with such grave kindly glances. “I shall expect you, remember,” she repeated, as Nan at that moment appeared in sight.

“Oh, yes, Nan and I will come,” returned Phillis, slowly, and almost solemnly; but an instant afterwards a flicker of amusement played round her mouth. It was painful, of course; but, still, how droll it was!

“How long you have been, Nan!” she exclaimed, a little unreasonably, as Nan ran towards them, flushed and breathless from her haste.

“It has not been long to me,” observed Mrs. Cheyne, pointedly. She talked more to Nan than to Phillis after this, until the servants appeared with the wheeled chair; but nevertheless her last words were for Phillis. “Remember your promise,” was all she said, as she held out her hand to the girl; and Phillis tried to smile in answer, though it was rather a failure after all.