No, it was not a bad room, that room of Mrs. Watkins’s, seen just now in the November dusk, with its bright fire and neat hearth, with the kettle gossiping deliciously to itself; there was at once something comfortable and homelike about it; especially as the red curtains were drawn across the two windows that look down into High Street, and the great carts that had been rumbling underneath them since daybreak had given place to the jolting of lighter vehicles which passed and repassed at intervals.

The room was large, though a little low, and was plainly but comfortably furnished; an old-fashioned crimson couch stood in one corner; some stained book-shelves contained a few well-bound books; and one or two simple engravings in cheap frames adorned the wall. In spite of the simplicity of the whole there were evidences of refined taste—there were growing ferns in tall baskets; some red leaves and autumn berries arranged in old china vases; a beautiful head of Clytie, though it was only in plaster of Paris, on the mantel-piece. The pretty tea service on the round table was only white china, hand-painted; and some more red leaves with dark chrysanthemums were tastefully arranged in a low wicker-basket in the center.

One glance would have convinced even a stranger that this room was inhabited by people of cultured taste and small means; and it was so pleasant, so home-like, so warm with ruddy fire-light, that grander rooms would have looked comfortless in comparison. There were only two people in it on this November evening—a girl lying back in a rocking-chair, with her eyes fixed thoughtfully on the dancing flames, and a child of ten, though looking two or three years younger, sitting on a stool before the fire, with a black kitten asleep on her lap, and her arms clasped round her knees.

An odd, weird sort of child, with a head running over with little dark curls, and large wondering eyes—not an ordinary child, and certainly not a pretty one, and looking, at the present moment, with her wrinkled eyebrows and huddled-up figure, like a little old witch in a fairy tale.

“I am that tired,” observed the child, apparently apostrophising the kettle, “that not all the monkeys in the ZoÖlogical Gardens could make me laugh; no, not if they had the old father baboon as their head. I wish I were a jaguar!”

“Why, Fluff?” exclaimed a pleasant voice from the rocking-chair. “Why, Fluff?”

“I wish I were a jaguar,” repeated the child, defiantly; “not a bison, because of its hump, nor a camel either. Why, those great spotted cats had their balls to amuse them, and polished ivory bones as well; and the brown bear climbed his pole, and eat buns; no one’s mother left it in the dark before the fire, with no one to tell it tales, and only a kettle to talk to a person;” and Fluff curled herself up on her stool with an affronted air.

The elder girl made no answer, but only stooped down and smilingly lifted the child and kitten on her lap—she was very small and light for her age—whereupon Fluff left off sighing, and rubbed her curly head against her sister’s shoulder with a contented air.

The sisters were certainly very unlike, Fluff being very small and dark, while Fern was tall and fair; without being exactly gifted with her mother’s beauty, she had a charming face, soft gray eyes, and hair of that golden-brown that one sees so often in English girls.

There were few people who did not think Fern Trafford decidedly pretty; her features were not exactly regular, but her coloring was lovely, and there was a joyousness and brightness about her that attracted old and young; every one loved Fern, and spoke well of her, she was so simple, so unselfish, so altogether charming, as they said.

Fern never complained of the narrowness of her life, never fretted because their poverty excluded her from the pleasures girls of her age generally enjoyed. From her childhood she had known no other life. There were times when she remembered that she had gone to bed hungry, times when her mother’s face looked pinched and miserable—when her father was dying, and they thought Baby Florence would die too. Somehow Fern never cared to think of those days.

Fern was devoted to her mother, she clave to her with innocent love and loyalty. Percy’s defection had been the bitterest trouble of her life. The girl nearly broke her heart when Percy left them. She grew thin and pale and large-eyed, as girls will when they are fretting and growing at the same time. Nea’s motherly heart was touched with compassion for her child. She wished, if possible, to suffer alone; if it were in her power she would prevent the faintest shadow touching that bright young life.

So she spoke to her in her calm, sensible way, for Nea was always gentle with her children, and Fern was very dear to her—she had her father’s eyes, and Maurice’s pure upright nature seemed transmitted to his young daughter.

“Fern,” she said, one evening when they were sitting together in the twilight, “you must not add to my burdens; it makes me still more unhappy to see you fretting; I miss my little daughter’s brightness that used to be such a comfort to me.”

“Am I a comfort to you, mother?” asked Fern, wistfully, and something in those earnest gray eyes thrilled the widow’s heart with fresh pangs of memory.

“You are my one bit of sunshine,” she answered, fondly, taking the girl’s face between her hands and kissing it almost passionately. “Keep bright for your poor mother’s sake, Fern.”

Fern never forgot this little speech. She understood, then, that her mission was to be her mother’s comforter; and with the utmost sweetness and unselfishness she put aside her own longings for her brother, and strove to make up for his loss. So Fern bloomed in her poor home like some lovely flower in a cottage garden, growing up to womanhood in those rooms over Mrs. Watkins’s.Fern had long since finished her education, and now gave morning lessons to the vicar’s little daughters. In her leisure hours she made her simple gowns and Fluff’s frocks, and taught the child the little she could be persuaded to learn, for Fluff was a spoiled child and very backward for her age; and one or two people, Mrs. Watkins among them, had given it as their opinion that little Florence was not all there, rather odd and uncanny in fact.

Fern was quite contented with her life. She was fond of teaching and very fond of her little pupils. Her pleasures were few and simple; a walk with Crystal or Fluff to look at the shops, perhaps an omnibus journey and an hour or two’s ramble in the Park or Kensington Garden, a cozy chat with her mother in the evening, sometimes, on grand occasions, a shilling seat at the Monday or Saturday Popular.

Fern loved pretty things, but she seemed quite satisfied to look at them through plate glass; a new dress, a few flowers, or a new book were events in her life. She would sing over her work as she sat sewing by the window; the gay young voice made people look up, but they seldom caught a glimpse of the golden-brown head behind the curtain. Fern had her dreams, like other girls; something, she hardly knew what, would happen to her some day. There was always a prince in the fairy stories that she told Fluff, but she never described him. “What is he like?” Fluff would ask with childish impatience, but Fern would only blush and smile, and say she did not know. If, sometimes, a handsome boyish face, not dark like Percy, but with a fair, budding mustache and laughing eyes, seemed to rise out of the mist and look at her with odd wistfulness, Fern never spoke of it; a sort of golden haze pervaded it. Sometimes those eyes were eloquent, and seemed appealing to her; a strange meaning pervaded the silence; in that poor room blossomed all sorts of sweet fancies and wonderful dreams as Fern’s needle flew through the stuff.

As Fluff rubbed her rough head confidingly against her shoulder, Fern gave a musical little laugh that was delicious to hear. “You absurd child,” she said, in an amused tone, “I really must tell Mr. Erle not to take you again to the ZoÖlogical Gardens; you talk of nothing but bears and jaguars. So you want a story, you are positively insatiable, Fluff; how am I to think of one with my wits all wool-gathering and gone a-wandering like Bopeep’s sheep? It must be an old one. Which is it to be? ‘The Chocolate House,’ or ‘Princess Dove and the Palace of the Hundred Boys.’”

“Humph,” returned Fluff, musingly; “well, I hardly know. ‘The Chocolate House’ is very nice, with its pathway paved with white and pink sugar plums, and its barley-sugar chairs; and don’t you remember that, when Hans was hungry, he broke a little brown bit off the roof; but after all, I think I like ‘Princess Dove and the Palace of the Hundred Boys’ best. Let us go on where you left off.”

“Where we left off?” repeated Fern, in her clear voice. “Yes, I recollect. Well, when Prince Happy-Thought—”

“Merrydew,” corrected the child.

“Ah—true—well, when it came to Prince Merrydew’s turn to throw up the golden ball, it went right over the moon and came down the other side, so Princess Dove proclaimed him victor, and gave him the sapphire crown; and the hundred boys—and—where was I, Fluff?”

“In the emerald meadow, where the ruby flowers grew,” returned Fluff. “Go on, Fern.”

“So Princess Dove put on the crown, and it was so heavy that poor Prince Merrydew’s head began to ache, and the wicked old fairy Do-nothing, who was looking on, hobbled on her golden crutches to the turquois pavilion, and—hush! I hear footsteps. Jump off my lap, Fluffy, dear, and let me light the candles.” And she had scarcely done so before there was a quick tap at the door, and the next moment two young men entered the room.

Fluff ran to them at once with a pleased exclamation.

“Why, it is Percy and Mr. Erle; oh, dear, how glad I am.”

“How do you do, Toddlekins,” observed her brother, stooping to kiss the child’s cheek, and patting her kindly on the head; “how are you, you dark-eyed witch,” but as he spoke, his eyes glanced anxiously round the room.

“We never expected to see you to-night, Percy, dear,” observed Fern, as she greeted him affectionately, and then gave her hand with a slight blush to the young man who was following him. “Mother will be so sorry to miss you; she was obliged to go out again. One of the girls at Miss Martingale’s is ill, and Miss Theresa seems fidgety about her, so mother said she would sit with the invalid for an hour or two.”

“I suppose Miss Davenport is out too”—walking to the fire-place to warm his hands.

“Yes, dear; there is a children’s party at the Nortons’; it is little Nora’s birthday, and nothing would satisfy the child until Crystal promised to go and play with them. It is only an early affair, and she will be back soon, so Fluff and I are waiting tea for her.”

“You look very snug here, Miss Trafford,” observed the other young man, whom Fluff had called Mr. Erle. By tacit consent his other name was never uttered in that house; it would have been too painful to Mrs. Trafford to hear him addressed as Mr. Huntingdon.

The young men were complete contrasts to each other. Percy Trafford was tall and slight, he had his mother’s fine profile and regular features, and was a singularly handsome young man; his face would have been almost perfect, except for the weak, irresolute mouth, hardly hidden by the dark mustache and a somewhat heavily molded chin that expressed sullenness and perhaps ill-governed passions.

The bright-faced boy, Nea’s first-born and darling, had sadly deteriorated during the years that he had lived under his grandfather’s roof. His selfishness had taken deeper root; he had become idle and self-indulgent; his one thought was how to amuse himself best. In his heart he had no love for the old man, who had given him the shelter of his roof, and loaded him with kindness; but all the same he was secretly jealous of his cousin Erle, who, as he told himself, bitterly, had supplanted him.

Percy’s conscience reproached him at times for his desertion of his widowed mother. He knew that it was a shabby thing for him to be living in luxury, while she worked for her daily bread; but after all, he thought it was more her fault than his. She would have none of his gifts; she would not bend her proud spirit to seek a reconciliation with her father, though Percy felt sure that the old man had long ago repented of his harshness; and yet, when he had hinted this to his mother, she had absolutely refused to listen to him.

“It is too late, Percy. I have no father now,” she had returned, in her firm, sad voice, and her face had looked like marble as she spoke.Percy was rather in awe of his grandfather. Mr. Huntingdon had grown harder and more tyrannical as the years passed on. Neither of the young men ventured to oppose his iron will. He was fond of his grandson, proud of his good looks and aristocratic air, and not disposed to quarrel with him because he was a little wild. “Young men would be young men,” was a favorite saying of his; he had used it before in the case of Lord Ronald Gower.

But his nephew, Erle, was really dearer to the old man’s heart. But then every one liked Erle Huntingdon, he was so sweet-tempered and full of life, so honest and frank, and so thoroughly unselfish.

He was somewhat short, at least beside Percy, and his pleasant, boyish face had no special claims to good looks. He had the ruddy, youthful air of a young David, and there was something of the innocence of the sheep-fold about him.

All women liked Erle Huntingdon. He was so gentle and chivalrous in his manner to them; he never seemed to think of himself when he was talking to them; and his bonhomie and gay good-humor made him a charming companion.

Erle never understood himself how caressing his manners could be at times. He liked all women, old and young, but only one had really touched his heart. It was strange, then, that more than one hoped that she had found favor in his eyes. Erle’s sunshiny nature made him a universal favorite, but it may be doubted whether any of his friends really read him correctly. Now and then an older man told him he wanted ballast, and warned him not to carry that easy good nature too far or it might lead him into mischief; but the spoiled child of fortune only shook his head with a laugh.

But in reality Erle Huntingdon’s character wanted back-bone; his will, not a strong one, was likely to be dominated by a stronger. With all his pleasantness and natural good qualities he was vacillating and weak; if any pressure or difficulty should come into his life, it would be likely for him to be weighed in the balance and found wanting.

At present his life had been smooth and uneventful; he had yet to test the hollowness of human happiness, to learn that the highest sort of life is not merely to be cradled in luxury and to fare sumptuously every day. The purple and fine linen are good enough in their way, and the myrrh and the aloes and the cassia, but what does the wise man say—“Rejoice, oh, young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes: but know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment … for childhood and youth are vanity.”

Erle knew that a new interest had lately come into his life; that a certain shabby room, that was yet more homelike to him than any room in Belgrave House, was always before his eyes: that a girl in a brown dress, with sweet, wistful eyes, was never absent from his memory.

Neither Fern nor he owned the truth to themselves; they were ignorant as yet that they were commencing the first chapter of their life-idyl. Fern had a vague sense that the room was brighter when Erle was there looking at her with those kindly glances. She never owned to herself that he was her prince, and that she had found favor in his eyes. She was far too humble for that; but she knew the days were somehow glorified and transfigured when she had seen him, and Erle knew that no face was so lovely to him as this girl’s face, no voice half so sweet in his ears, and yet people were beginning to connect his name with Miss Selby, Lady Maltravers’ beautiful niece.

He was thinking of Miss Selby now as he looked across at Fern. She had taken up her work again, and Percy had thrown himself into the rocking-chair beside her with a discontented expression on his face. He was telling himself that Miss Selby was handsome, of course strikingly handsome; but somehow she lacked this girl’s sweet graciousness. Just then Fern raised her eyes, and a quick, sensitive color came into her face as she encountered his fixed glance.

“Ah, do you know, Miss Trafford,” he said quickly, to put her at her ease, “I have promised to spend Christmas with my cousin, Sir Hugh Redmond. I am rather anxious to see his wife. Report says she is a very pretty girl.”

“I did not know Sir Hugh Redmond was your cousin,” returned Fern, without raising her eyes from her work.

“Yes, on my mother’s side, but I have not been to Redmond Hall for an age. Old Hugh had rather a disappointment last year; he was engaged to another lady, and she jilted him—at least that is the popular edition of the story; but anyhow the poor old fellow seemed rather badly hit.”

“And he has married so soon!” in an incredulous tone.

“Of course, caught at the rebound like many other fellows. Don’t you know how the old adage runs, Miss Trafford:

that is the right sort of spirit, eh, Percy.”

“How should I know?” returned Percy, morosely—he was evidently out of humor about something; and then, as though he feared to bring on himself one of Erle’s jesting; remarks, he roused himself with an effort. “Well, Toddlekins, how’s Flibbertigibbet; come and sit on my knee, and I will tell you the story of Mr. Harlequin Puss-in-boots.”

“My name is not Toddlekins,” returned Fluff indignantly, “and I don’t care about Flibbertigibbet or Puss-in-boots; your stories are stupid, Percy, they never have any end.” And then, with the capriciousness of a spoiled child, she sidled up to her chief favorite, Erle, and put her hands confidingly in his.

“When are you going to take me again to the ZoÖlogical Gardens, Mr. Erle?” she said, in a coaxing voice; “Fern wants to go, too, don’t you, dear?” but her sister shook her head at her with a faint smile, and went on with her work.

“I don’t see my way clear yet awhile, Pussy,” replied Erle, as he smoothed Fluff’s curls, and here he and Percy exchanged meaning looks; for during his grandfather’s absence from town Erle had paid frequent visits to Beulah Place, and on one occasion had actually carried off the child for a day at the ZoÖlogical Gardens in spite of Fern’s demur that she hardly knew what her mother would say.

“But surely you can do as you like, Mr. Erle,” persisted the chill, earnestly. “Percy tells us that you are so rich, and ride such beautiful horses in the park, and that you have nothing to do but just enjoy yourself; why can’t you take Fern and me to the ZoÖlogical Gardens?”

“Oh, Fluff, Fluff!” remonstrated her sister, in a distressed tone, “what will Mr. Erle think of you?”Erle looked embarrassed at the child’s speech, but Percy laughed, and the next minute he rose.

“Do you mind if I leave you for a few minutes, Fern? I have a little business that will take me about a quarter of an hour—oh, I will be back in time,” as Erle seemed inclined to remonstrate; “you may depend upon it that I will not make you late for dinner, as la Belle Evelyn is to be there,” and with a nod at his sister he left the room.

Fern looked a little troubled. “I hope he has not gone to meet—” and then she flushed up and did not finish her sentence; but Erle understood her in a moment.

“Miss Davenport would not be pleased, I suppose—oh, yes, of course he has gone to meet her. What a pity your mother is not here, Miss Trafford; she would have kept him in order?”

“Crystal will be so angry,” replied Fern, anxiously, and dropping her voice so that Fluff should not overhear her; but the child, disappointed that her request had been refused, had betaken herself to the furthest corner of the room with her kitten, to whom she was whispering her displeasure. “She never likes Percy to meet her or show her any attention; I have told him so over and over again, but he will not listen to me.”

“I am afraid he is rather smitten with your friend, Miss Davenport—she is wonderfully handsome, certainly. Yes, one can not be surprised at Percy’s infatuation—you are the gainer in one way, Miss Trafford, for Percy never came half so often until Miss Davenport lived with you.”

“That makes it all the more wrong,” returned Fern, firmly; “it was Percy’s duty to come and see mother, and yet he stayed away for months at a time. Crystal has never encouraged him—she never will. I know in her heart she does not like Percy, and yet he will persist in harassing her.”

“Faint heart ne’er won fair lady,” returned Erle, lightly; and then, as he saw the tears in Fern’s eyes, his manner changed. “You must not trouble yourself about it,” he said, kindly; “it will be Percy’s own fault if he gets badly bitten: even I, a complete stranger to Miss Davenport—for I believe I have not seen her more than three times—can quite indorse what you say; her manner is most repelling to Percy. He must be bewitched, I think.”

“I wish he were different,” she replied, with a sigh; “I know he makes mother often very unhappy, though she never says so. He seems to find fault with us for our poverty, and says hard things to mother because she will work for us all.”

“Yes, I know, and yet Percy is not a bad-hearted fellow,” replied Erle, in a sympathizing tone; “he is terribly sore, I know, because your mother refuses his help; he has told me over and over again that with his handsome allowance he could keep her in comfort, and that he knows that his grandfather would not object. It makes him bitter—it does indeed, Miss Trafford, to have his gifts refused.”

“How can we help it?” returned Fern, in a choking voice. “Percy ought to know that we can not use any of Mr. Huntingdon’s money: neither my mother nor I would ever touch a penny of it. Don’t you know,” struggling with her tears, “that my poor father died broken-hearted, and he might have saved him?”

“Yes, I know,” replied Erle, looking kindly at the weeping girl, “and I for one can not say you are wrong. My uncle has dealt very harshly and I fear cruelly by his own flesh and blood—my poor mother often cried as she told me so; but she always said that it was not for us to blame him who lived under his roof and profited by his generosity. He was a benefactor to us in our trouble—for we were poor, too.” But here Erle checked himself abruptly, for he did not care to tell Fern that his father had been a gambler, and had squandered all his wife’s property; but he remembered almost as vividly as though it were yesterday, when he was playing in their miserable lodgings at Naples, after his father’s death—how a grave, stern-faced man came into the room and sat down beside his mother; and one speech had reached his ears.

“Never mind all that, Beatrice, you are happier as his widow than his wife. Forget the past, and come home with me, and your boy shall be mine.”

Erle certainly loved his uncle, and it always pained him to remember his wrong-doing. In his boyish generosity he had once ventured to intercede for the disinherited daughter, and had even gone so far as to implore that his uncle would never put him in Percy’s place; but the burst of anger with which his words were received cowed him effectually.

“A Trafford shall never inherit my property,” Mr. Huntingdon had said, with a frown so black that the boy positively quailed under it; “I would leave it all to a hospital first—never presume to speak to me of this again. Percy does not require any pity; when he leaves Oxford he will read for the Bar. We have arranged all that; he will have a handsome allowance; and with his capacity—for his tutor tells me he is a clever fellow—he will soon carve his way to fortune;” and after this, Erle certainly held his peace.