“Richard is a perfect bear!” exclaimed Edna angrily, as she threw herself into one of the wicker seats on the lawn. It was a lovely evening; the sun was just setting, and she had invited Bessie to take a stroll round the garden.

“The dews are very heavy,” remonstrated her friend. “I think we had better keep to the gravel paths.” And then Edna had got up from her seat, grumbling as she did so, and had again reiterated her opinion that Richard was a bear.

“I think something must have put him out,” returned Bessie, who was always prompt in defence of the absent. “He did not look quite happy.”

“That was because mamma was so vexed about his unpunctuality, and about Malcolmson. Richard hates to vex her, and when she looks at him like that he always becomes gloomy and morose. I have known him silent for days, when they have fallen out about something. I am taking you behind the scenes, Bessie, but all our friends know that mamma and Richard do not agree. You see, mamma is very clever, and she likes managing, and Richard has a will of his own; he is very tenacious of his own opinions, and when he has got an idea into his head he can be as stubborn as a mule.”

“Don’t you think a man has a right to his own opinion, Edna?”

Edna pursed up her lips.

“A man like Neville, perhaps, who is clever and knows the world; but Richard is a perfect child in some things. He ought to be reasonable, and allow mamma to have her way. Now, she dislikes Malcolmson—she does not believe in him; and Richard, as you hear, swears by him.”

“Who is Mr. Malcolmson, if I may venture to ask?”

“Oh, he is an ugly, scrubby little Scotchman whom Richard means to take as a sort of bailiff, or overseer, or something; I don’t understand what.”

“Your brother farms himself, does he not?”

“Yes, he has a large farm; and then there is the brewery, a few miles off, and he wants Malcolmson for that. Mamma is disgusted, because she wanted Richard to take a protÉgÉ of her own—such an interesting young fellow, and so poor, with a widowed mother and two or three young sisters; and my lord won’t look at him.”“Perhaps he has his reasons for declining him.”

“No, it is just his obstinacy; he will not allow mamma to interfere in his business. He thinks she ought to keep to her own department, and leave him to manage his own concerns; but mamma can’t see it; she has been used to rule, and she is always offended when he refuses to take her advice.”

“What a pity!” observed Bessie. “I think people in one house ought to be of one mind.”

“My dear Daisy, your golden rule won’t hold at The Grange. No one thinks alike in this house; mamma and I dote on each other, but we do not always agree; she makes me cry my eyes out sometimes. And as for Neville, as I told you, we have not an idea in common. I think perfect agreement must be rather monotonous and deadening. I am sure if Neville were to say to me, ‘My dear Edna, you are always right, and I agree with you in everything,’ I should be ready to box his ears. It is much more amusing to quarrel half a dozen times a day, and make it up again. Oh, I do dearly love to provoke Neville; he looks so deliciously bored and grave.”

Bessie was at a loss how to answer this extraordinary statement, but Edna gave her no time to collect her ideas.

“Quarrelling with Richard is poor fun,” she went on; “he hasn’t the wit to retaliate, but just sits glum as you saw him to-night. I mean to tell Master Richard, though, that his manners were worse than usual, for he actually did not open his lips to his guest, although she was a stranger.”

“Indeed you are wrong,” returned Bessie eagerly. “You are doing your brother an injustice; he spoke to me several times, and made remarks about the weather and my journey. I was just describing Cliffe to him when your mother gave us the signal to rise.”

“What a brilliant conversation!” observed Edna sarcastically. “Well, I will prove to you that Richard is in his sulks, for he won’t enter the drawing-room again to-night; and if he did,” she added, laughing, “mamma would not speak to him, so it is just as well for him to absent himself. Now let us go in, and I will sing to you. When people are not here mamma always reads, and I sing to her.”

Edna sung charmingly, and Bessie much enjoyed listening to her; and when she was tired Mrs. Sefton beckoned Bessie to her couch, and talked to her for a long time about her family.

“All this interests me; I like to hear your simple descriptions, my child,” she said, when Edna interrupted them by reminding her mother of the lateness of the hour. “Now you must go to bed.” And she dismissed her with another kiss and a kindly good-night.

As the two girls went out into the hall they found Richard Sefton hanging up his cap on the peg. He wore a light overcoat over his evening dress, and had evidently spent his evening out.

“Good-night, Richard,” observed Edna, with a careless nod, as she passed him; but Bessie held out her hand with a smile.

“Good-night, Mr. Sefton. What a beautiful evening it has been!”

“Yes, and so warm,” he returned cheerfully, as though the girl’s smile had loosened his tongue; “it is glorious haymaking weather. I expect we shall have a fine crop in the lower meadow.”

“Are you haymaking?” exclaimed Bessie, with almost childish delight. “Oh, I hope your sister will take me into the hayfield.”

“I will promise anything, if only you and Richard will not turn over the haycocks now,” retorted Edna, with sleepy impatience. “Do come, Bessie.” And Bessie followed her obediently.

Richard Sefton looked after her as her white dress disappeared up the dark staircase.

“She seems a different sort from most of Edna’s friends,” he muttered, as he lighted his pipe and retired to the nondescript apartment that was called his study. “There does not seem much nonsense about her. What do you think about it, Mac?” as the hound laid his head on his knee. “I imagine, as a rule, women have a precious lot of it.” And he whistled a bar from the “Miller of the Dee.”

“What a long evening it has been!” thought Bessie, as she leaned out of the window to enjoy the sweet June air, and to admire the lawn silvered by the moonlight.

“It seems two days at least since I left Cliffe. Oh, I hope Hatty is asleep, and not fretting!”

“I wonder if I shall be happy here,” she went on. “It is all very nice—the house and the country beautiful, and Edna as delightful as possible; but there is something wanting—family union. It is so sad to hear Edna talking about her brother. He is a perfect stranger to me, and yet I took his part at once. How could the poor fellow talk and enjoy himself while Mrs. Sefton was sitting opposite to him looking like an offended tragedy queen? He had not the heart to talk; besides, he knew that in engaging that man he was going against her wishes, and so he could not feel comfortable. Edna was wrong in calling him a bear. He was not at his ease, certainly; but he anticipated all my wants, and spoke to me very nicely. But there, I must not mix myself up in family disagreements. I shall have to be civil and kind to every one; but it makes one thankful for one’s peaceful home, and the dear mother and father,” and the tears came into Bessie’s eyes as she thought of her shielded and happy life, and the love of her sisters and Tom.

“God bless them all, and make me worthy of them!” thought the girl, with a sudden rush of tenderness for the dear ones at home.

Bessie was an early riser. Dr. Lambert had always inculcated this useful and healthy habit in his children. He would inveigh bitterly against the self-indulgence of the young people of the present day, and against the modern misuse of time. “Look at the pallid, sickly complexions of some of the girls you see,” he would say. “Do they look fit to be the future mothers of Englishmen? Poor, feeble creatures, with no backbone to mention, leading unhealthy, frivolous existences. If my girls are not handsome, they shall at least be healthy; they shall learn self-control and self-guidance. Early hours will promote good appetites; plenty of exercise, fresh air and good digestion will sweeten their tempers and enliven their spirits; a clear conscience and a well-regulated mind will bring them happiness in whatever circumstances they are placed. I am not anxious for my girls to marry. I don’t mean to play minor providence in their lives, as some fathers do; but I would fit them for either position, for the dignity of marriage or for the unselfish duties of the single woman.”Dr. Lambert loved to moralize to his womankind; he had a way of standing before the fire and haranguing his family—anything would serve as a text for his discourse. Some of his daughters certainly thrived on his homely prescriptions, but Hatty was the thorn in her father’s side, the object of his secret anxiety and most tender care—the sickly one of his domestic flock. Hatty would never do him credit, he would say sadly; no medical skill could put color into Hatty’s pale cheeks, nor cure the aches and pains and nervous fancies that harassed her youth. As Dr. Lambert watched the languid step, or dissatisfied voice, he would sigh, as though some thought oppressed him; but with all his gentleness—and he was very gentle with Hatty—he never yielded, nor suffered any one else to yield, to her wayward caprices.

“My dear,” he would say, when Bessie pleaded for some little extra indulgence for Hatty, “you must not think me hard if I say distinctly ‘No’ to your request. You may trust me; I know Hatty better than you do. Very little would make her a confirmed invalid. It is not in our power, not in the power of any man living,” continued the doctor, with emotion, “to give that poor child health; but we may help her a great deal by teaching her self-control. Half her misery proceeds from her own nervous fancies. If we can help her to overcome them, we shall do more for Hatty than if we petted and waited on her.” But Bessie had always found this wise prescription of the doctor’s a very difficult one.

Bessie always called the hour before breakfast her “golden hour,” and by her father’s advice she devoted it to some useful reading or study. In a busy house like the Lamberts’, where every one put his or her shoulder to the wheel, it was not easy to secure opportunity for quiet reading or self-improvement. There was always work to be done; long walks to be taken; the constant interruption of the two school-girls; Ella’s practicing to overlook; Katie’s French verbs to hear; besides household tasks of all kinds. In the evenings the girls played and sung to please their father, who delighted in music; sometimes, but not often, their mother read aloud to them while they worked. It was against the family rules for one to retire into a corner with a book. In such a case the unfortunate student was hunted out, teased, pursued with questions, pelted with home witticisms, until she was glad to close her book and take up her needlework, for the Lamberts were brisk talkers, and their tongues were never silent until they were asleep, and then they talked in their dreams.

When Bessie rose early, as usual, the morning after her arrival at The Grange, she sat down by the open window, and wrote a long letter to her mother and a little note to Hatty. It was an exquisite morning; the thrushes and blackbirds, the merle and the mavis of the old English poets, were singing as though their little throats would burst with the melody, and a pair of finches in the acacia were doing their best to swell the concert; the garden looked so sunny and quiet, and such a sweet breath of newly made hay came in at the open window that Bessie at last laid down her pen. The household was stirring, but the family would not be down for half an hour, so the maid had informed her when she brought Bessie the morning cup of tea. Bessie had looked rather longingly at the pretty teapot, but her father had been so strong in his denunciations against slow poison, as he called it, imbibed on waking, that she would not yield to the temptation of tasting it, and begged for a glass of milk instead. This the maid promised to bring every morning, and as Bessie ate the bread and butter and sipped the sweet country milk, yellow with cream, she thought how much good it would do Hatty. Then she put on her hat and went softly downstairs, and finding a side door open, went out into the garden.

She thought she and the thrushes and blackbirds had it to themselves, but she was mistaken, for in turning into a shrubbery walk, skirting the meadow, she was surprised to see Richard Sefton sitting on a low bench, with Mac’s head between his knees, evidently in a brown study. Bessie was sorry to disturb him, but it was too late to draw back, for Mac had already seen her, and had roused his master by his uneasy efforts to get free, and Mr. Sefton rose, with the awkward abruptness that seemed natural to him, and lifted his cap.

“Good morning, Miss Lambert. You are an early riser. My mother and Edna are hardly awake yet.”

“Oh, I am always up long before this,” returned Bessie, smiling at his evident astonishment, as she stooped to caress Mac, who was fawning on her.

“Mac seems to know you,” he observed, noticing the dog’s friendly greeting.

“It is very strange, but he seems to have taken a fancy to me,” replied Bessie, and she narrated to Mac’s master how the hound had pleaded for admission to her room, and had lain under her table watching her unpack.

“That is very odd,” observed Richard. “Mac has never bestowed a similar mark of attention on any one but a certain homely old lady that my mother had here for a time, as a sort of charity; she had been a governess, and was very poor. Well, Mac was devoted to the old lady, and she certainly was an estimable sort of woman, but he will have nothing to say to any of Edna’s fine friends, and generally keeps out of the way when they come.”

“An animal’s likes and dislikes are very singular,” remarked Bessie, looking thoughtfully into Mac’s brown eyes. “I believe Mac knows that I am a lover of dogs.”

“Are you indeed, Miss Lambert? Would you like to see mine?” returned Richard quickly; and his face lighted up as he spoke. He looked younger and better than he did the previous night. His powerful, muscular figure, more conspicuous for strength than grace, showed to advantage in his tweed shooting-coat and knickerbockers, his ordinary morning costume. The look of sullen discomfort had gone, and his face looked less heavy. Bessie thought he hardly seemed his age—nine-and-twenty—and, in spite of his natural awkwardness, he had a boyish frankness of manner that pleased her.

Bessie was a shrewd little person in her way, and she already surmised that Richard Sefton was not at ease in his stepmother’s presence. She found out afterward that this was the case; that in spite of his strength and manhood, he was morbidly sensitive of her opinion, and was never so conscious of his defects as when he was presiding at his own table, or playing the part of host in her drawing-room, under her critical eye. And yet Richard Sefton loved his stepmother; he had an affectionate nature, but in his heart he knew he had no cause to be grateful to her. She had made him, the lonely, motherless boy, the scapegoat of his father’s deceit and wrongdoing. He had been allowed to live at The Grange on sufferance, barely tolerated by the proud girl who had been ignorant of his existence. If he had been an engaging child, with winning ways, she would soon have become interested in him, but even then Richard had been plain and awkward, with a shy, reserved nature, and a hidden strength of affection that no one, not even his father, guessed. Mrs. Sefton had first disliked, and then neglected him, until her husband died, and the power had come into Richard’s hands. Since then she had altered her behavior; her interests lay in conciliating her stepson. She began by recognizing him outwardly as master, and secretly trying to dominate and guide him. But she soon found her mistake. Richard was accessible to kindness, and Mrs. Sefton could have easily ruled him by love, but he was firm against a cold, aggressive policy. Secretly he shrunk from his stepmother’s sarcastic speeches and severe looks; his heart was wounded by persistent coldness and misunderstanding, but he had sufficient manliness to prove himself master, and Mrs. Sefton could not forgive this independence. Richard took her hard speeches silently, but he brooded over them in a morbid manner that resembled sullenness. Yet he would have forgiven them generously in return for one kind look or word. His stepmother had fascinated and subjugated him in his boyhood, and even in his manhood it gave him a pang to differ from her; but the truth that was in him, the real inward manhood, strengthened him for the daily conflicts of wills.

Poor Richard Sefton! But after all he was less to be pitied than the woman who found it so difficult to forgive a past wrong, and who could wreak her displeasure on the innocent.

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