A week or more had passed by since the night when I had drawn the nets. It was the first of September, and my birthday. I was nineteen years old. A hot, fair day; all the cloudiness and rain of a fortnight since forgotten in bright sunshine and in the scent of the roses, that were making their second bloom.

I was hardly up in the morning before Joyce brought me a little gift which she had been busy preparing for me; it was a handkerchief that she had embroidered for me herself. It must have cost her all her leisure. I had often laughed at her, telling her that a piece of needle-work was far more beautiful to her than all the lovely things that God had made in the world; but that day I wondered why it was that Joyce loved to work a handkerchief for me when I had never cared to sit long enough in-doors to do such a thing for her in all my life. I turned and kissed her. I hoped she did not see that there was a tear in my eye. I turned away very quickly so that she should not do so; but I know that there was one.

Father and mother gave me a black silk dress. It was a sign that I was now quite grown up, and I think I appreciated it more on that account than for its own particular value; certain ideas about "looking nice" were slowly beginning to develop in me, but they were not altogether associated with a black silk dress, although indeed this was a very good one, soft and rich, as much like mother's own old-fashioned one as could be obtained in those more modern days.

Deborah too had her little gift for me, although with a comment upon the absurdity of such things; and even Reuben found a word to say on the subject. Ah me, why was I not contented, as I had always been contented before, with these tender signs of the quiet affection which had filled my life up till now? When father gave me one of his rare kisses before the others came in to dinner, and bade me be a good girl and a happy one, I was ashamed to think that there was anything else in the world that I wanted besides his love and care.

We sat down rather silent to the meal. Even though it was my birthday, nobody was in good spirits. Father had ridden up to "The Elms" that morning, and I suppose he was tired; he was often tired with a very slight exertion nowadays. And the weather was hot. Mother declared that the weather was so hot that her marrow-bone was melted to a pulp. She never could abide the hot weather, and always had the strongest figures of speech ready to hand to express its effect upon her.

"I should think it'll kill off all the old folk in the village," said she.

"Oh no, mother," I laughed; "it's the frost kills off old folk. This will do them good. It ought to do little David Jarrett good too."

Father shook his head sadly. "Mother, I want you to send the poor little lad some more broth," said he. "I've been round to see him this morning. He won't be long for this world, and while he's in it I want him to have all that his own mother ought to get him and don't."

Mother promised to take him the broth herself, and then she asked, what I had been dying to ask ever since father had come in, whether he knew when the bailiff was expected back from London, whither he had gone on farm business some three days ago.

"Dorcas expected him home to-day," said father; "but she didn't know what time."

"Well, I shall be right glad to see him," declared mother. "I don't believe he's been near the place this week past; and as for the squire, why, I can't but think there must something have happened to him."

"Nonsense, Mary; what should the squire want to come for, save now and then for friendship?" said father. "He hasn't got work upon the place, and I'm sure we're not such good company all the year round as to tempt folk to come here to do nothing. We're working men and women, and have no time for talk."

Mother laughed. "Well, Laban, I have seen you get time to talk over some things," said she. "It's natural, I'm sure. And when it's the Rev. Mr. Morland, that knows something about doing good, I'm pleased myself. Not but what you used to have many a nice chat with the squire too, times ago, before you got so set upon other things."

This was all a hit at Frank, I knew; but father did not answer. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the table-cloth, waiting for his helping of pudding, and at that moment a dark figure passed across the lawn to the porch, and my heart went thump upon my side as mother declared gladly that it was Mr. Trayton Harrod, and bade Joyce go bid him welcome.

"Now, Laban," said she, "you won't go and be tetchy with the man, will you? He has done you a world of good with the farm, and you might be beholden to him for it, instead of being so worriting as you have been of late."

Whether father was "tetchy" or not I never knew. It was my place to leave him alone with his bailiff when they had to talk business; and, moreover, I did not want to meet him there among so many; I had a craving for just one quiet word.

I went and sat outside on the lawn, just under the big square window-seat of the dwelling-room. There was a seat there in the shade, and I took a book and waited. I heard the voices of the two men inside rising and falling in eager discussion; then mother's voice in gentle remonstrance, for she had not left the room when Joyce and I did, and a moment later I heard father pass out, still talking, and Harrod after him. Mother came to the window and opened it wide just above where I was sitting, and then went out also; the room was empty.

I fell to wondering how it was that men who all seemed to me good and admirable could differ so very materially; father, the squire, Trayton Harrod—all good in their own way, and none agreeing; father's warmest welcome for a new-comer, who did not really give him what the others did.

Yes, I felt that, although I recognized Frank Forrester's fascination, and declared to myself that he had fascinated, and always would fascinate, my sister Joyce.

She came into the room above my head just as I made this reflection. She was singing to herself. I wondered how it was that she could sing. If she really loved Frank, could she sing like that now that he was away, that she could never see him, never have any news of him? If she really loved Frank? Something that was like an iron hand seemed to grip my heart and turn me sick. Could I have sat there singing to myself when the man I loved was far away? No, I knew that I could not. Even now, I felt as though I should never sing again; never sing again as I had sung that bright May morning when I had raced along the dike with Taff, before I had ever met Trayton Harrod. Yet he was here, within hail; the word that I wanted of him might be spoken any day. Even a week ago, on the sea, under the stars, had it not been near to being spoken?

I was not unhappy, but I could not have sung as Joyce was singing. I kept quite still under the window; I did not want her to know I was there, I did not want to speak to her, I wanted to think.

Involuntarily there came to my mind that time on the cliff, the night before she went away to Sydenham, when I had told her that she was overrating her own strength—that she would never be able to live without Frank. I had not met Trayton Harrod then, but now I knew that what I had said was true: "When a girl loves a man she wants him every minute of her life, and something goes wrong in her heart all the time that she is parted from him."

It would be true for me, but was it true for Joyce? Was it only that we were different?

I sat still and Joyce went on singing. She was singing "Annie Laurie"—one of the songs that I used to please father and the squire with when the long winter evenings made time.

But suddenly she stopped. Some one had come into the room; it was Harrod. I knew it before he spoke. And he did not speak for a long while, for such a long while that I wondered.

"You're not looking well, Miss Maliphant," he said at last. "The heat tells on you."

"Oh, indeed," answered she, in a low voice, "I'm quite well. I never have such a color as Margaret has, you know."

"But I think you work too hard in the house. You don't get out-doors enough."

She laughed a little shy laugh.

"I like working," said she. "I'm not so fond of out-doors as Meg is."

He said no more, and presently I heard the rustle of brown paper. I had noticed when I met him in the hall that he had a small parcel in his hand.

"How did you like London?" asked Joyce. "It must have been very hot there."

"It was," replied he. "I didn't like it at all. I'm heartily glad to get back. But I found a minute to run up to Regent Street to look at those shops you told me of. I bought this. I want your opinion on it."

I wondered what it was. A smothered exclamation came from Joyce.

"You like it," asked he, in a pleased tone.

"Oh yes, I think it's lovely," answered she, "lovely!" I had never known Joyce so enthusiastic over anything.

"Well, Miss Maliphant, will you—" he began, and then he stopped.

I raised myself a little on the seat lest I should miss the words. But no words came; and then suddenly it struck me that I was playing a mean part, listening here to what was not meant for my ears, and I rose, rustling the leaves of the shrubs as I went by. Even then there was no sign from those two within the room. What ailed the man? He was not wont to be so awkward. And I felt that Joyce was blushing; it made me furious. I moved on, meaning to go in, but the next words arrested me.

"At least," said Joyce, "I think it would be lovely for a lady to wear in town."

Then it was some article of dress.

"I see you don't really admire it," replied Harrod, in a disappointed voice. "I was afraid I shouldn't know how to choose such a thing properly. I'm sorry. I was thinking—" He made a long pause, and then he added, abruptly, almost savagely: "Well, I was thinking of offering it to your sister. I hear it is her birthday."

A blush crept over my cheek, even out there where there was no one to see me. But I could not have told whether I was pleased or not.

"Oh, do, do please give it to her, then," cried my sister, eagerly. "I'm sure she'll be pleased. I'm sure she would like to have it. Don't think of what I said."

She was quite distressed. Why was she so much distressed over it?

"I don't think it's really worth giving to any one," said he, with a laugh; and then he said something quite commonplace, I forget what, and I heard him throw down the parcel and go out of the room.

What did it mean? His behavior was scarcely even polite. I waited a minute, wondering; I thought I heard a little sob through the window. I hastened in-doors and into the parlor. Yes, Joyce turned away hastily as I came in, and I could see that she dried her eyes furtively; she had been crying.

"Whatever is the matter, Joyce?" cried I, I'm afraid, crossly enough. She turned her face round to me smiling. I felt a throb of shame. Only that very morning tears of tenderness had come into my eyes, as I thought of the pleasure she had taken in sitting hours together to do fine embroidery for me when she might have been in the fields! But before I could say any more, and before she could answer, mother came in.

"Joyce," said she, "here's Mr. Hoad with his daughters, and father wants us to make 'em welcome to tea. I'm sure we're not fit to make any one welcome to-day—the butter coming so bad, and all the ironing to do, and the best-parlor not turned out this week past. But whatever father says is right, of course, so I suppose they must stay."

Joyce looked up with her patient, gentle eyes.

"Of course we will make them welcome," said she. "I'll set the drawing-room straight." And she and mother went out together to see to the washing of the best teacups, and the uncovering of the best furniture.

I had not said a word. Mother and Joyce no doubt found it natural enough that I should not speak, for they both knew my aversion to the Hoad family. But at that moment I was not thinking of the Hoads. I was thinking of nothing but Joyce and Harrod, and the parcel which still lay on the table. Mother had not noticed it.

As soon as she and my sister were gone out, I darted towards it and opened it. Had he not said that it was meant for me?

It contained a delicate rose-colored silk shawl, strewn with little white flowers, and finished with long fringes—a soft, quaint garment that reminded one of one's grandmothers even then, and was choice and dainty enough for the sprucest of them.

It was perfectly suited to Joyce, who always had something of the air of an old picture; but to me—commonplace, workaday me, with my red hair—how could he have thought of such a thing?

I held it in my hand a long time, looking at it and wondering. It was not that I was surprised that he should give me a present; to tell the truth, I had looked for a present from him, but I had thought it would be a book—a book like one of those in his father's old library that I had so much envied. How was it that he had chosen a thing so unsuited to me, and so well suited to Joyce?

I was still standing there, with the soft, pretty folds crushed up in my hand, when the door opened suddenly and Trayton Harrod stood on the threshold. I had no time to put the shawl away; I remained there with it in my hand—awkwardly. And he did not say a word to help me out of the difficult position; he only looked at me in a morose sort of fashion. I was obliged to make the best of it.

"I beg your pardon," I stammered; "but Joyce said—that is to say—" I stopped, blushing furiously. I had meant to be quite frank, and to confess that I had overheard the conversation, but my courage failed in his sight.

He did not speak, and I felt very foolish. Why did he stand there, silent, with that frown upon his wide brow, that frown that never used to be there!

"It's a very beautiful shawl," I said, timidly, "and it would look lovely, I am sure, upon some grand lady who drives in her own carriage."

"Yes," said he, speaking at last; "things aren't pretty if they don't suit."

"Well, of course, finery is not in our line; at least not in—in my line," I stammered.

I added the last words so low that I don't think he heard them. He almost snatched it out of my hand.

"No, thank Heaven, it's not," he answered. "So we'll say no more about it."

But when he took it from me, there came over me a wild, foolish longing to have the thing. What at another time I should have laughed at possessing, I wanted now more than all the books that I had envied, more than any other gift in the world. And it belonged to me; he meant it for me, it was mine and I would not part with it.

"Oh, please, please, Mr. Harrod," I cried, "don't misunderstand me. I am very much obliged to you for having thought of my birthday. I like it very much indeed. I—thank you with all my heart."

I stretched out my hand for it again, but he only looked at me. I fancied there was a sort of surprise in his gaze.

"Of course, of course," he murmured at last, as if he were pulling himself together. "I'm afraid it will be of no use to you, Miss Margaret, as you say it is not a suitable gift; but if you will take it, of course you are welcome."

I took it; but a chill fell upon my heart.

"You did not remember my commission when you were in London, Mr. Harrod?" I asked, with, I am afraid, something of bitterness in my voice.

"No," he answered, quickly. "Did you give me a commission? I'm very sorry if I forgot any wish of yours."

"A commission to buy me some of those books that you have in your library," I said.

I saw him bite his lip as though vexed. Perhaps he was vexed to think that he had forgotten something which might have given me pleasure. But if he was, he was too proud to confess it.

"Oh, that was no commission," he said, with a little cold laugh. "You know I would not take it. I told you I was not the person for such a job. I advised you to ask Squire Broderick."

I tossed my head. "Yes, and I think I answered you that the squire was no such friend of mine that I should ask favors of him," I replied, hotly. My temper was rising, but luckily he had more self-control than I had; he saved me from making an exhibition of myself.

"I ought not to have forgotten any request of yours," said he. "I'm sorry. If you'll give me the names of the books you want, I'll write to-night."

I thanked him, but I said I did not know the names of the books, which indeed was true enough; and we turned the talk round to every-day things, until luckily some one came into the room.

But there was some one else who knew the names of books, and who, moreover, remembered that I cared about them. It was Squire Broderick. He came in that evening with a case of twelve little volumes of Shakespeare's complete works under his arm.

"I know you're very keen about reading, Miss Margaret," said he, with his sunny smile. "I've often thought of you trying to puzzle out Milton's 'Paradise Lost' up there on the old window-seat at 'The Elms.' But I think you'll find this easier reading than 'Paradise Lost,' and more amusing."

I blushed a fire-red, for they were all standing by: father, mother, and Joyce, and Trayton Harrod. I almost fancied that I saw a suspicion of a smile break round his mouth as the offering was made.

I am afraid that I scarcely even thanked the squire audibly for it. I can only hope that that fiery blush appealed to him somehow as a recognition of his kindness to me, and not as what it really was. Good Mr. Broderick! How far too good to me always! Even to this day it hurts me to think that perhaps I hurt him.

But something in the way father shook him by the hand, and something in his voice as he said, "Oh, Meg, it isn't every girl has such a kind and thoughtful friend," made up, a little, I hope, for my curtness, although indeed the squire went away as soon as he had given his gift, and with something in his face that was not quite like his usual cheeriness. I am afraid that neither father's warmth of manner nor mother's thanks, hearty as they were, were enough for him. Could he have been wishing that it had been Joyce's birthday, that the gift might have been made to her? For no one had been so enthusiastic as Joyce over my good-fortune.

"The very thing for you, dear," she had said, after the squire was gone, taking up the books and looking at them admiringly. "Isn't it, Mr. Harrod?"

Harrod agreed warmly that there was no doubt about their being the very thing for me, and every one declared that I was a very lucky girl. But no one knew anything about that pale pink shawl, with the white flowers, that had fallen into my hands in so strange a manner. I don't know why, but I kept that gift a secret from every one. And to this day it lies in the same folds, in the same piece of gray-blue paper in which it was originally given me.

Did I think myself a very lucky girl?