Frank Forrester did not come down to Marshlands for the elections. He did not come, but he was very near coming.

I met Mary Thorne and the Hoad girls out canvassing two days before. Mary would have passed me with a nod, but Jessie Hoad had something to say.

"I don't think it's at all nice of your father not to let you help us canvass for Mr. Thorne, Margaret Maliphant," said she, tartly. "Father says he can't make it out at all. He always understood that Mr. Maliphant would support the Radical cause, and now that for the first time they have got a candidate who has some chance of getting in, he won't have anything to do with him."

"I suppose my father knows what he is about," answered I, proudly.

"Does he?" retorted she. "It's more than any one else knows, then."

I bit my tongue in my efforts to keep it from saying something rude, yet I am afraid the tone was not quite conciliatory in which I retaliated. "His friends seem to know well enough to trust him! You've only got to ask the people round about to hear whose advice they would soonest follow on the country-side."

It was true, but I should not have said it.

Jessie turned to Mary Thorne. "We ought to have her with us," said she. "The funny thing is she's right enough. The laborers hereabouts do look to Farmer Maliphant in the most extraordinary way. He don't hold any meetings, or work at the thing like other folk work. But there's the fact, and that's why it's so aggravating of the man to hold aloof. What does he do it for, eh, my dear?" asked she, looking at me again.

"I don't know," I said, sullenly; "I'm not clever enough to understand father's motives. I only know that he says that Parliament's no good."

Jessie was going to retaliate, but the other stopped her.

"Come, don't bother any more about it, Jessie," said she, with the frank, good-natured smile that had always drawn me towards her, in spite of my father. "We're not going to get Farmer Maliphant's vote nor his support either, and what's the good of going on at it?"

"Oh, my dear, going on at it is the only way to get anything; and one doesn't like to be beaten without knowing the reason why. However, we shall have some one down to-night who will make a finer speech at the meeting than ever Farmer Maliphant would have made, even if he had consented to give us a glimpse of those grand deep notions of his."

Mary Thorne laughed in a sort of self-conscious way; I wondered why.

"Who is coming to speak at the meeting?" I asked.

"Why, Squire Broderick's nephew, Captain Forrester, to be sure," laughed Miss Hoad. "He'll make an effect on the people, I'll be bound. So fascinating and so handsome. I've never heard him speak, but father says he's awfully enthusiastic, and all that kind of thing."

I felt myself grow red or pale, I don't know which. I had wanted him to come, but I had not thought it would be in that way. Yet it was what I should have known must happen if Frank came down to the elections at all.

"I'm sure he will make a splendid speech," said Mary Thorne, with a sort of pride. "I told father it would be everything if we could get him to come down."

"He has been a long while making up his mind," said Jessie.

"Well, it is awkward for him, you see," said the other. "He naturally doesn't care to go against his uncle."

"It's worse to go against one's principles," declared Jessie, loftily.

"I quite understand it," declared Mary, loyally. "He mightn't mind it if the squire weren't such a dear old fellow, but it is awkward, and I consider it a great mark of friendship that he should do it for us."

"Is he going to stay at the Manor or at the Priory?" I put in, bluntly.

"Oh, at the Priory with us, of course," replied she. "And I must send the carriage for him in an hour. So, please, we must get on, Jessie, or I shall never be home in time."

She held out her hand to me, and of course I took it, as I took also Jessie Hoad's when she offered it, but I was not comfortable.

Why was Frank always going to stay at the Priory now, and why was he willing to risk hurting his uncle's feelings solely for the sake of doing an act of friendship to the Thornes? I could not understand it, any more than I could understand why Mr. Hoad should be so extravagantly anxious that Thorne should succeed. Miss Jessie was not in the habit of troubling herself about things that, as she would have expressed it, "didn't pay"; yet here she was putting herself to all manner of inconvenience to go canvassing with Mary Thorne, while Mr. Hoad was scouring the county for votes and spending his evenings writing flaming articles for country papers, or making emphatic speeches at country meetings.

I might have thought about it more than I did if I had not had the more interesting matter of Frank's arrival to occupy me. Would father let us go to the meeting that we might hear Frank speak? Would mother let Joyce have a word with him? How were they to meet, and most important of all, how would Joyce behave towards him? I flew home to tell her, but she was not in the house. Deb did not know where she was.

Deb only gave vent to a loud fit of laughter when I told her that Captain Forrester was coming down to speak at the meeting, and that I wanted to give my sister the news. She made me angry—it was no good speaking to Deb. I caught up my hat again, and rushed off, seized with a sudden inspiration to take a walk that evening and find myself at the station at the time that Frank Forrester would arrive. In common civility he could not do less than offer me a lift up in the carriage which would have been sent to meet him; and anyhow, I could not fail to get a few words with him.

Yes, I would talk to him of Joyce; I would tell him that her manner was deceptive; I would tell him how reserved we all were; how different to himself; how rarely we showed what we really felt; I would tell him that her cold manner the day when I had taken him to the Grange was but from her desire to be loyal to the promise she had sworn our parents, that in truth she loved him; I would tell him how changed she was—for indeed it was true. I would try and not be shy; I would try and give him fresh heart.

I sped away over the downs and along the hill, Taff following me uninvited. It was a long way to the station, and I was afraid of missing the train. Ah, I had missed it! Just as I was crossing the last strip of level road before reaching the rails, I saw the Priory carriage bowling towards me on its return journey. "What a pity!" said I to myself. But it came near and nearer, and at every bit that shortened the distance between us I became more and more sure that Frank was not in it; there was only one person, and that person was Mary Thorne.

She stopped the carriage as she saw me. Her face was very pale, and I saw that she held the yellow envelope of a telegram in her hand.

"Oh, Miss Maliphant, do you think it would really be quite impossible to persuade your father to address the meeting for us to-night?" she said, hurriedly. "We are disappointed of Captain Forrester, who was to have spoken." Her lip trembled a little.

"I hope he's not ill?" I said.

She did not answer at once.

"I hope nothing has happened to him?" I repeated.

I saw her fingers close tightly over the yellow envelope until they were quite white.

"Yes," she said, slowly. "He was riding in a steeple-chase not far from here; he has been thrown. They say—" Her lip trembled again. She could not go on.

"But he's not much hurt, not badly hurt?" I cried, in a fury of anxiety. "Do speak!"

She looked at me sadly, but a little surprised; and no wonder. I did not know how loud or how eagerly I had spoken till I saw the coachman look round.

"Father is so fond of him," I said. "I should be so sorry if he were hurt."

"They say only slightly injured; no cause for alarm," she answered. "But one never knows."

She turned away her head. I knew very well that she was crying. I ought to have been sorry; I was only angry.

"Oh, I dare say it's a mere excuse," I said, ill-naturedly. "Men are so clever at excuses. He has got scratched just enough to say so. He didn't want to come."

She turned round. Her eyes were dry again. But she must, indeed, have been a good-natured girl, for there was no trace of anger in her face.

"You don't know him; that's not his way," she said, quietly. And then she added, "You'll try and persuade your father, won't you?"

"I'll give him your message," I answered. "But I know perfectly well he won't speak."

"Well, then, we must do the best we can without him," she said. "It's too late to get any one else. I must get home quickly. Good-night."

She drove on and left me standing in the road. Another time I might have thought it rude of her; but then I noticed nothing, I thought of nothing, just as she, probably, thought of nothing, but that Frank Forrester was hurt. And for my own part, I thought of nothing so much as that Joyce would—must be—heart-broken.

Taff, seeing me standing there as though turned to stone, leaped upon me, barking. I took no notice of him, but he roused me, and I tore up the hill as fast as I could to carry my grewsome message. Instinctively, I felt that this, at last, must rouse my sister to show her true feelings, and if there were a mask on her face, that this at last must strip it off.

I did not want to see Deborah, and I did not stop to go in by the front door. I climbed the hedge and crossed the lawn to the parlor window. Through the tangle of traveller's-joy and frail old-fashioned jasmine that framed it around, I looked into the room. Father and Trayton Harrod sat by the fireless hearth smoking their pipes, and at the table was Joyce, with the inevitable basket of family darning; her profile was turned towards me, listening intently, with eyelids raised and needle poised idle in her hand, to something the bailiff was saying.

What was there in anything there to vex and sour and wound me? Yet I went in hastily, letting the door slam behind me.

"Good gracious me! Fancy sitting in-doors this lovely fine evening!" said I. "We sha'n't have so many more of them that we need waste one. The summer is nearly over."

"Why, what's the matter, Meg?" asked father. "Let folk please themselves, child."

"Oh, dear, yes; they can please themselves," I answered.

"Is that all you came in-doors to say?" laughed he again.

Harrod was busy filling his pipe, ramming in the tobacco with a stern hand, while Joyce bent forward again over her work.

"No," answered I, promptly. "I came with a message for you, father, from Miss Thorne. She wants you to oblige her by speaking at the Radical meeting to-night."

A cloud gathered on father's brow. "Speak at the Radical meeting!" echoed he. "What ails the girl to make such a request, or you, Meg, to bring it? You know very well I shall speak at no meeting."

"I told her so," said I, curtly; "but she would not take my word."

"This is some of Hoad's work," he said, excitedly. "Why can't the man understand that he won't bully me into doing what I don't intend to do? I don't intend to support James Thorne. I don't consider James Thorne an honest man. Why can't he leave off worrying?"

This speech was not at all like father. There was an amount of irritability, almost of pettiness, in it, which was quite foreign to him; and his saying that Hoad couldn't "bully" him into anything struck me as odd even then, though the more weighty matter that was in my mind made me chiefly impatient to hear my own voice.

"Well, it isn't Mr. Hoad this time, father," said I, hastily. "I'm sure he knew nothing about it. Captain Forrester was to have spoken."

Joyce did not raise her head, but I saw a little frown trouble her smooth brow.

"Forrester!" echoed father. "No, no! You're mistaken, child. I should be disappointed, grievously disappointed," he added, tapping the fingers of one hand on the knuckles of the other, "to think he should be led astray to throw himself in with that lot. Are you quite sure of it, Meg?"

"I am quite sure he was going to speak," said I; "but—"

"Ah, I'm sorry, I'm very sorry," repeated father. "But he's young—easily misled. I must have a talk with him. I didn't know the lad was in these parts."

"He's not," said I. "He was to have come, but he has had an accident; he has been thrown from his horse in a steeple-chase."

"God bless my soul!" cried father, starting up from his chair. "Why didn't you say so? Not killed?"

My eyes were on Joyce's face. She had looked up anxiously, but she had not changed color one bit.

"No, not killed," answered I, slowly; "but I don't know how badly hurt. The telegram didn't say."

"Poor lad, poor lad! murmured father, concernedly, as he sat down again. But still Joyce did not speak. She looked serious and distressed, and a faint pink flush had deepened on her cheek, but there was no horror in her eyes.

"Men shouldn't ride in steeple-chases," said Harrod. "It's the most dangerous of all riding—and only for amusement, after all."

"I should have thought Captain Forrester was such a splendid rider that he could have managed any horse," said Joyce.

"Oh, it's not always a matter of mere management in a steeple-chase," said Harrod. And I do believe my sister was actually opening her mouth to reply to him, when I said, sharply, "Joyce, mother wants you," and by that means got her out of the room.

"Poor lad!" I heard the old voice murmur again as I closed the door.

"Father's sorry," said I, as I turned round and faced my sister.

"Yes," said she; "of course. Who could help being sorry?"

"Some folk seem to be able to help it very well," laughed I. "I couldn't have sat there discussing with another man how my lover had nearly come by his death! At least I can scarcely fancy that I could. Of course I'm not engaged to be married to anybody, so perhaps I don't know how I should feel."

Joyce looked at me aghast. "Good gracious, Meg!" said she, in a half-frightened whisper, "what is the matter?"

I suppose my face had told her something of what I was feeling; I suppose it had become white, and the gray eyes were black in it, as father used to declare they were wont to become when I was angry.

"The matter?" cried I. "Oh, there's nothing the matter. Only I was a little surprised to see how coolly you took the news of Frank's accident."

"Why, what was I to say?" said she. "I am very sorry, and I sincerely trust that it is nothing serious."

"Well," answered I, scornfully, "I should think you would feel as much as that if Joe Millet had been run away with by the old dray-horse, or even if Luck were to have a fit. I'm sure I should. I was afraid you would be very unhappy when I brought you that bad piece of news. I was afraid you would be quite upset. I didn't know whether I ought to tell you before a stranger, but I needn't have troubled myself. You took it very well. Perhaps poor Frank would have been a little hurt to see how well you took it."

"I don't know what right you have to speak to me like that, Meg," said my sister, in a low voice. "How do you know what I feel? People aren't all alike. You take things very hard. You must have everything your own way, or else you fight and struggle. But I'm not like that. I believe that whatever happens is all for the best. Why can't you let me take things my own way?"

"Good gracious me!" cried I; "take them your own way by all means, only you might argue till you're black in the face, but you'll never get me to believe that it's all for the best whether the man one cares for breaks his neck or not."

"Oh, Meg, you know I didn't mean that," murmured Joyce, in a low, disheartened voice. The tears gathered over those clear blue eyes of hers, that were as untroubled waters whose transparent depths could be fathomed at a glance. There was never anything mysterious about my sister's eyes; they were simple as a little child's, but, unlike a child's, they had ceased to wonder.

The tears irritated me, but they made me ashamed of my unreasonable temper, and I said, quickly, with sudden change of mood: "Well, I'm a cross-patch of course; but you know it was enough to make anybody angry to see you sitting there so meek and patient when I knew you must be dying of anxiety. And all for nothing but to please two dear old people who have forgotten what it was to be young and eager. But you must write to Frank at once."

"He knows very well how sorry I am," said Joyce.

I think my face must have darkened again, for she added, almost humbly, "You know I never could write letters, and I had rather not vex mother."

"Then you'd rather let that poor fellow think you didn't care whether he was dead or alive than show mother you've got a mind and ten fingers of your own?" I cried.

"He must think what he likes," said Joyce, in her most quietly obstinate voice; "I don't want to write." And that was all I could get from her.

"Very well, I'll write, then," I said, with ill-concealed anger. "I like writing letters, and I am not afraid of mother."

I flew up-stairs; I did not dare trust myself to say another word, but on the first landing I looked down and saw her head upturned towards me. There was a pitiful look in the blue eyes.

"Don't think me heartless, Meg," she murmured.

"Oh no; I understand," said I, wearily. "I dare say you're quite right. I dare say it's much better not to take things too hard."

After all, she might be right. She had said, "How can you know what I feel?" And, indeed, how could I possibly know? "How could one ever know what anybody else felt?" I repeated once more, as if to convince myself of it; and I am afraid, I am sadly afraid, that my own voice broke a little. "I know I'm not always happy, and perhaps it's because I take things too hard."