Mrs. Dorriman, like most shy people, spoke quickly when she had anything to say that cost her an effort, and she said rather abruptly, though with a little deprecating air, "You see, you were wrong—you must feel that now."

"I feel nothing of the kind, and I do not see it, either. This is a new tone for you to take with me."

"It is a right tone just now, you asked me to help to see what could be done. Grace can never forgive what you said—never."

"Why not?"

"Was there any truth in it? Did you really speak to Mr. Drayton about her?"

Mr. Sandford sat looking straight before him. He could not quite remember at first how it had been. Had Mr. Drayton spoken first, or had he mentioned Grace to him in the first instance? Then he remembered, "Drayton spoke of Margaret. He said something about her admiringly. I did not want him to have any notion of Margaret—I did not know how far it might go. I wished him to like Grace, and I did say something. Yes, that is true. He would not see it, and I am not surprised; but, at any rate, he led up to it, he spoke first."

"Then it is not quite so bad for her. I may tell them this?"

"You may tell them anything you like."

"I only wish to tell them the truth."

"Just as you please."

"Brother!" and Mrs. Dorriman leaned forward a little, and her gentle face flushed a little, "these children are living here with you by your wish; you must not make it hard for them."

"Saul among the prophets! Why, you are coming out in quite a new light."

Mrs. Dorriman shrank back again. She might have answered him and said that for these girls she had more courage than for herself, but she knew the wisdom of silence and she held her peace.

"What do you think they will do?" He asked the question with assumed indifference.

"I think they will go away. They are both high-spirited girls. Margaret feels it so much—she feels any slight offered to Grace more even than Grace does herself; she is perfectly devoted to her sister."

"You must prevent their going—at any rate in this way," he said, not looking at her, but looking straight into the fire.

"How can I prevent it?" said the poor woman, helplessly; she felt as though life was very hard to her.

He did not answer her, but went on looking straight before him.

Then an inspiration came to her. "If I went with them somewhere, after a time perhaps they would come back."

"That would do," he said, slowly.

"It would cost something," she said, always nervous when money matters were in question, and looking at him anxiously.

"You can have any money you want," he said, carelessly. "When would you go?"

"We should have to go at once—to-morrow. I am quite sure the girls will want to be off at daylight." She thought to herself that had she been so insulted she would not have waited till daylight. "I think it will be better to go as soon as possible, and Jean will take care of you."

"I am not afraid of myself, thank you; it is only going back to the days before you came."

She said no more, but wishing him good-night she went upstairs. To-morrow gave but little time for any preparation, and then she had to arrange where she could go with the girls. In this matter she could be guided perhaps by their wishes. She called Jean, who generally sat up for her, and told her in concise words what was to happen.

Jean was fairly taken aback, not unnaturally her first thought was about herself. "Is it me, ma'am, that is going to be left to look after Mr. Sandford? I shall never be able to get on with him."

"Yes you will, dear Jean, you please him already, he is always saying how well everything is done."

"Oh, I'm not afeard for him when he's in a good way," said Jean, stoutly, "but what will I do when he gets rampagious? I'll be feared of my life of him then."

"Oh, Jean, do not make difficulties," said poor Mrs. Dorriman; "it is hard enough, and in the wide world I do not know where I am going with these girls!"

"That's bad," said Jean, sympathising fully with the position of affairs; "it's a hard case to go to an unkent place, with other people's children too!" She made no more difficulties, she put everything ready, but she strongly advised Mrs. Dorriman to prevent the girls going early. "Go at a reasonable hour, and why not?" she insisted. "What is the good of setting people's tongues wagging? they'll aye be speaking whether or no, but no harm comes if the things they say have no legs to stand on."

The early morning roused Grace and Margaret, and they went to the window and looked out.

The night had been bright, and, though the moon had not been visible, there had been that soft starlight which is so mysterious and beautiful. With a vague hope of seeing a fine morning which would inspirit them they drew near, and gazed blankly at the scene before them.

A grey, leaden-coloured sky, a hopeless, pitiless rain, mud everywhere, and everything cheerless, drooping, and miserable.

Tears came into Grace's eyes, and she and Margaret clung together for a moment.

"We must go," said Margaret, to whom nothing else seemed possible.

"I suppose we must," said Grace, looking blankly before her.

Their spirits sank. Margaret, moving softly so as to disturb no one, dragged out first one then another of their boxes. She was resolved to go on with the preparations. She had been more deeply wounded than even Grace by those words of Mr. Sandford's about Mr. Drayton; and then came this terrible thought—was his offer the consequence of something said by Mr. Sandford? If so, how doubly glad she was all had ended as it had. Grace, always easily influenced by the aspect of things, was in a terrible state of depression.

She turned her head round once or twice and watched Margaret, but she never offered to help her. She did so hate discomfort! and the prospect of going out and facing the dirt and rain and cold broke her down. Her spirit had forsaken her, and sitting there with a plaid thrown over her she cried miserably.

Margaret was too much occupied to notice that her sister's face was persistently turned away from her. She was kneeling facing the door, while with hands trembling a little from cold and partly from agitation she was putting into the bottom of the boxes their heaviest possessions. She would not take time to think of the future, of where they should go, or what they were to do. To get away—that was her thought, to be far from this hateful position for Grace, to shield her from all chance of hearing anything so hard again....

Noiselessly she went on, and mechanically, trying how the little old work-box took up least room, placing it sideways and lengthways with that carefulness regarding detail which is often the outcome of great excitement, when she was startled by a knock at the door.

The sisters involuntarily drew together—Grace having dashed the tears away from her face. It was Jean, a tray in her hands and some hot tea for them. She took the whole thing in at a glance, saw the look of depression in Grace's face, and Margaret's expression of resolution.

"My bairns," said the good woman, "if without offence to you I may call you so—I heard you moving; work is ill on an empty stomach, and the morning cold. Take up your tea, it will do ye good. And now," she went on as the girls took her advice, "what is it all about?"

"Mr. Sandford has cruelly insulted us," said Margaret, reddening, "and we are going away."

"And where will ye go?"

"I—we do not know—but we must go away from here," both the young voices chimed in.

"Well, it's no my place to preach—an insult's ill to put up with—but Mrs. Dorriman has one of her headaches, and I've to ask you to go and see her at a reasonable hour, ye ken. I trust she's sleeping now. She's been saer put about. She's going away too."

"Going away—Mrs. Dorriman is going away! then," said Margaret, "she has taken our part."

The sisters looked at each other.

"And did you ever know Mrs. Dorriman take any part but the part of the weakest?" asked Jean. "See how she stood by me—not but that your case and my case are two different ones—yes, bairns, they are very different. Mr. Sandford may have a rough tongue, I'm no denying it—whiles I myself am afraid of him—but you're no exactly kin till him, and he offered you a home, and has been good to you in many ways. It's no my business to preach," insisted Jean, "but I think it's an ill return to him to set all the tongues wagging about him. Go! of course you can go, but you can leave his house decently, and not in a mad-like way, particularly as you do not seem to be expected anywhere else."

"He said very terrible things last night," said Margaret, "and we must go."

"I'm not saying anything against it," said Jean, coolly, "but you cannot go till you have seen my lady, and you cannot see her till a reasonable hour. She is going too, and she is going on your account, and you owe her that much. See," she continued, looking at Grace, who was knocked up and ill now from the agitation and want of sleep. "Your sister is ill—go back to bed, my bairns," she said, "and I'll bring you something by-and-bye, and you must see Mrs. Dorriman before you go away—before you make any plans."

Grace was too glad to lie down, never very strong; she was suffering now, and Margaret, vexed at heart, saw that Jean was right. Grace ill, it would be cruel to make her move,—cruel, if not impossible. She was herself too much excited to go back to bed. She went on when Jean left the room, arranging her things in the open boxes, moving quietly, as Grace, worn out with her crying and the emotions of the morning, sank into sleep.

As Margaret watched her, and noticed the swelled eyelids and look of unhappiness, she blamed herself for not having thought of her grief and sorrow before. Nothing she thought then would be too hard for her, no sacrifice too great for her to make on her behalf. She knelt down beside her sleeping sister and offered up her innocent and earnest morning prayer, and she went on making quite a solemn vow to make her happiness her chief object in life, never to think of herself, but to put Grace before her always.

She rose comforted, as we receive comfort from a great resolve—the decision seems to bring its own strength with it.

Turning to the window she saw that the day was more hopeless than ever; rain in the country pattering on the green leaves brings with it a refreshing and not altogether a melancholy sound; the effect of a heavy rain is to wash the grass into brilliancy, and leave glittering traces for the first sun-rays to turn into beautiful prismatic effects; but rain in the outskirts of a town where every pathway is of coal-dust and the mud is black from the same cause—when the rain brings down with it dirt and blacks and insoluble portions of the grimy smoke—is a dreary and wretched thing. Only those who do not live in their surroundings, whose imagination lifts them up and beyond these influences, or are too busy to heed them, are not weighed down by them.

She was startled to see a cab coming up to the house. She looked out, and with indescribable feelings in which relief was uppermost she saw Mr. Sandford and some luggage drive off towards the station.

It was breakfast time, and just as she was turning to go downstairs, and went to see if Grace was still sleeping, Mrs. Dorriman came to the door and Grace started up.

Margaret met her with a little misgiving. She only knew the fact as Jean had told it to her. Mrs. Dorriman was also going away, and on their account, and obeying her first impulse she said to her, "Is it true, you are going away also? Are you vexed with us? But you know we cannot stay."

"Children," said Mrs. Dorriman, and her soft sweet voice imposed silence upon them both, "you took my brother up wrongly. Mr. Drayton spoke first, and the sting is gone I think, then—had it not been so I could understand, and I can feel for you; but my brother said I might tell you the truth, and this is the truth. But he sees, and I see, that the life here is not suited to you—you cannot expect my brother to change his habits and his home for you. His business is here and here his home must be. But he has given me leave, he has given me the means, to go with you somewhere for a time. I think this wise—we will go somewhere and have a change and begin in a new way when we come back. The first question is where do you wish to go?"

Grace and Margaret heard this speech with an emotion and thrill of gratitude. Grace felt as though she had never done Mrs. Dorriman justice. To go somewhere, anywhere away from this, and yet not have to regret it—to go as she had thought it impossible to go! Words failed her, and it was Margaret who thanked Mrs. Dorriman, and who expressed something of the relief and gratitude they both felt.

Mrs. Dorriman was not insensible to the charm of Margaret's affection; but she was not a woman given to much demonstration. She closed the question at present by telling Grace to lie still. She would send her her breakfast, and, taking Margaret with her, they went downstairs. It was to a woman of her temperament a very strange bewilderment now, to have the world to choose from, and not know where to go.

One plan after another was discussed by her and Margaret between the demolition of one scone and the attack upon another. The question was not settled, but Margaret felt thankful in her heart of hearts, giving Mrs. Dorriman credit for the whole arrangement of the difficulty.

When Grace, refreshed, though still pale and bearing traces of agitation, in spite of her sleep, joined them, the great matter was again talked over.

"We cannot go from here," said Mrs. Dorriman, with unwonted firmness, "till we have settled where we are to go, and are sure of rooms."

"Will not that take very long?" asked Margaret.

"Once we agree about the place—writing and hearing in reply will take little time—we can telegraph," said Mrs. Dorriman, with a certain pride in her unlimited powers. She had, never of her own free will, sent a telegram in all her life.

Then a brilliant idea came to Margaret. "Let us go South, and try one place first; if we do not like it we can try another."

Grace was enchanted.

"And now," said Margaret, who seemed to be taking up a new position that morning, "We owe you so much; what do you like best?"

"Oh, my dear!" said poor Mrs. Dorriman, her long self-repression giving way, and surprising the girl by her glistening eyes and brilliant flash of colour, "give me the sea and the hills;" and though, as half ashamed of having shown her craving for both these things, she added, hastily, "Put me out of it, my dear; never mind me. I can be happy anywhere." Their first move was soon decided upon now. To one of the lovely bays at the mouth of the Clyde they resolved to go, and with hearts fluttering with excitement, at one moment studying the Railway Guide, at another a map, they decided to go to Lornbay, and then hastily resumed their packing. Three days came and went swiftly, and satisfactory answers having been received about rooms in the best hotel, Mrs. Dorriman, not without various doubts as to her fitness for this great responsibility, found herself alone with the girls, leaving Renton with all its varied experiences behind them in its murky vale of smoke.

It often happens that the realization of a wish brings with it a certain fear as to whether the intensity of the wish has been altogether full of wisdom, particularly is this the case when we are conscious of having thought of ourselves, to the exclusion of any other consideration.

Of the trio who were whirling to the mouth of the Clyde, Grace was the most disturbed and the one least able to enjoy the change of scene, the one upon whose spirit lay the shadow of a reproach.

She was conscious of having from the first placed herself in a position of antagonism to Mr. Sandford. She had intended him to recognise her merits, and to allow her to influence him as she had influenced those school-companions to whom she had been as a superior being. But she had forgotten to take into account his temper, his prejudices, and his passions; and, though she now recognised that she had failed, she blamed his obtuseness, and not her own powers, for the failure.

Margaret was evidently much to him; she was nothing, and the one person who had come there, though he fell far short of being a prince, had utterly also failed to see in her any attraction.

This also she imagined was due to some fault in him and not in her. Margaret had a way of effacing herself, of putting herself so completely out of the question, that Grace's vanity was almost excusable. Reared in the belief of her possessing many gifts, flattered by the small world around her, it would require a much severer blow to her pride than Mr. Sandford's rudeness and Mr. Drayton's blindness, before she learnt how wide a difference exists between the value we put upon ourselves and the value placed upon us by outsiders who are not biassed or prejudiced in any way in our favour. To the indifferent world poor Grace would simply be an ordinary-looking girl who gave herself airs. But she had this still to learn.

The beauty of the late spring was filling every copse and valley through which they passed. Everywhere was the budding forth of those tender hues which bring a sense of quiet refreshment to the eye; on every sheltered bank the primroses were gazing at the passers-by like faint stars from their deep leafy beds. The mountain torrents here and there were quivering with excitement as they raced down the hill-sides bubbling over with the joy of having escaped from the imprisonment of the winter's frosts. When the train stopped they could hear the twittering and singing of birds; all these things of everyday occurrence and of no importance in everyday life, perhaps; but to these three, who had felt the great want of the fresh beauty of country life, and had passed some months without any of these cheering influences, they came as a breath of Paradise.

Grace began to respect Mrs. Dorriman when they changed stations, and she saw the quiet practical way in which everything was arranged. Then they sped on their way along the banks of the Clyde, and an exclamation burst from Margaret's lips. Mrs. Dorriman's eyes were moist. The sea came in sight where the river widened; the evening light was falling over it all touching with a golden gleam the ripple of the water. Some yachts were lying at anchor. Away to the South rose faint blue hills as on the West. Even Grace, too much self-absorbed as a rule to be passionately alive to natural beauty, felt it all, as she had never in all her life felt any scenery before. The movement and life all framed in this exquisite scene thrilled her. She forgot herself, her hopes, her ambitions, and all else, and, unconsciously holding Margaret's hand, she found herself giving back an answering and a sympathetic clasp.

The bustle of arrival came as a break to the high-strung feelings of Mrs. Dorriman. She had not been to this place since the days of her girlhood; when her father had gone for change and she had accompanied him. Can any one look at the scenes of their youth and compare the still-remembered visions of those days with the blank reality of their lives? All seems unchanged, everything seems to have stood still. We remember the gnarled trunk of that tree, its very boughs seem hardly to have lost a twig; the same wild flowers grow under and around the great grey stones, where so often we gathered them, with supple limbs that sprang across the burn as lightly as any roedeer. Now we stoop stiffly, our suppleness is gone from us, and we are afraid of even the stepping-stones; they are still there, but we are woefully changed. Mrs. Dorriman was not old enough for so painful a contrast, and her activity was still stirring her to action, but the elasticity of her spirit was gone. She could still feel things keenly, but her powers of enjoyment had gone; she feared more than she hoped, she had lost the freshness of her feelings; she was saddened and subdued, the habit of her mind was depression, she expected evil and not good. Nothing for so long had come to her in the way of pleasure, that she had ceased to think happiness could come to her at all, and she drifted on in her life without any aim, only trying to do what was right. Even heaven seemed to her a vague and far-away dream, which was not to her a positive joy because of that uncomfortable distaste we have alluded to about her husband's perpetual companionship.

But when their informal but comfortable meal was over and they had separated for the night she stood long looking down on the moving lights upon the water; the black hulls of the larger ships sent dark shadows in vivid contrast to the moonlight rays, the boats flying about with their twinkling lights; the splash of oars came up to her in the stillness; every now and again a hoarse cry rang out as boats hailed each other, snatches of song came up on the light wind that fanned her face. She could hear the cheerful unrestrained laughter ringing out. Over all, the moon shone down resplendent, and the soft wind, hurrying from the south, was warm and pure, tasting of the sea over which it had come so many many miles.

It was one of those times in her life when her whole nature protested against unhappiness. She understood but vaguely (we generally do understand it vaguely) what would give her happiness, but she craved for a higher and a fuller life; the perpetual repression, the subjection of her very ideas to a stronger mind, chafed her, and as she clasped her hands the thought that at the moment comforted her was that here she could have freedom—here it would be more like home.

How long she stood there! The lights went out as the boats came in-shore, the sounds died away, the feeling of being free seemed to show her all at once how much she really feared her brother, and then slowly rose before her once more the thought of those papers.

This problem always filled her with pain, the same dread of still further learning to distrust her husband, the same irresolution came over her, she turned round quickly and shut the window, shutting away that painful remembrance with a resolute determination not to think of it just now, and putting it away from her with all her power. Even as she prayed she was conscious of that something she would not think of, as a secret sin may be covered up and concealed in a corner of our mind (knowing that it is seen) and passed over, while we confess every other.

The morning broke exquisitely fine, light clouds enhanced the sunshine. The girls, with few regrets in their past lives, came to breakfast with "shining morning faces" full of the happiness of a delightful change and all the pleasantest expectations of what the world held for them there. Grace was radiant; Margaret's more composed face reflected her sister's expression. They went out, hurrying Mrs. Dorriman's slower movements with a naturalness and impatience she did not dislike as they seemed so near her; and they looked about them with the full enjoyment of girls who had never seen anything of life, except in the serried ranks of schoolgirl's fashion, and who now stopped to look at every shop window in the long street running round the bay, alternating this close attention by watching the boats, upon the other hand, glide to and fro.

Mrs. Dorriman was very nearly as much taken up as they were, and entered fully into their pleasure. She was not superior to the charms of caps, which she wore with a mental protest, having great quantities of hair, but which she thought frightful, and which, she was always trying to improve upon.

They had just turned away from an array of these necessary evils when she noticed a lady coming towards them leaning on the arm of a very tall young man. She was walking very slowly, and evidently was using his arm from no conventional sense, but as really requiring it.

As she drew nearer she fixed her eyes inquiringly on Mrs. Dorriman's face, made a hurried pause—moved on—turned back, and said in a voice of inquiry, "Annie Sandford?"

"Lady Lyons! Yes—I was Annie Sandford—I am Mrs. Dorriman."

"And these?" inquired Lady Lyons, turning with languid grace to Grace and Margaret.

"Miss Rivers and her sister," said Mrs. Dorriman, who never knew exactly how to put their connection with her brother concisely, and determined to explain it at her leisure.

"Oh," said Lady Lyons, evidently requiring some further explanation now, at the present moment.

"My brother's wards—he is their guardian."

"Oh!" again said Lady Lyons, but this time in another manner; she thought she understood.

Then she introduced her son, and he dropped behind and talked to the girls. Lady Lyons slipped her hand under Mrs. Dorriman's arm and they walked on together.

"Delightful," began young Lyons, turning impartially to each sister in turn, "to find unexpected acquaintances in this dull little place."

"We only came last night, we do not think it dull," they said in a breath. Grace adding, for fear of his looking down upon her, "we have not had time to find it dull."

"What have you seen, so far?" he asked; adding in a breath, "not that there is anything really to see."

"We have seen —— caps," said Grace laughing.

He laughed with full understanding, and quoted "The ruling passion...."

Margaret felt annoyed, and could not quite see why she should be annoyed. Still her innate loyalty made her dislike even a covert sneer, and looking at him full in the face she said, "What is there to see here that you think interesting?"

He laughed merrily; "How severe you are,—very severe. Some people like the sea, others go into raptures about the hills; it depends upon whether you like nature or human nature. There is no choice here, there is only the sea and the hills, always the hills."

"We think the place lovely," said Margaret, "and we have seen so little, only school and then Renton. Renton is such a smoky place."

"But Renton Place is a fine place," he rejoined. "I have all my life heard of Mr. Sandford as being a millionnaire."

Margaret laughed. "We used to think it would be a fine place standing in a large park. I believe we thought (Grace and I) that there would even be deer there, but it is quite different—a square house, a short avenue, and the town just outside the gates."

Mr. Lyons looked puzzled. "How strange!" he began, when Grace interrupted him. "All very rich men have whims," she said, in a tone quite unlike any Margaret had ever heard her use before. "Mr. Sandford's whim is to live close to Renton, where he coins money, I believe."

"It will be all the better for those who succeed him," the young man said, looking more attentively at Grace than he had done as yet.

"Yes," said Margaret, in her straightforward way, "but that is a question that does not interest us."

"My dear Margaret, you should not make these very positive assertions," said Grace; "you know nothing, really. My sister is very young, Mr. Lyons, and young girls always draw their own conclusions, often without anything really to go upon."

Mr. Lyons laughingly said her youth was very self-evident. "How beautiful is youth!" he exclaimed, with mock solemnity, and Mrs. Dorriman was startled to hear them all on such a familiar footing already.

She and her friend parted with enthusiasm. Poor Lady Lyons really out of health, and having many, many troubles to bear, was unfeignedly pleased to meet Mrs. Dorriman again; and Mrs. Dorriman, while conscious of much short-coming in the matter of friendship, as she could look back only upon acquaintanceship, and nothing more, was much flattered to find herself of so much importance to another.

At the dreary school where Mrs. Dorriman had been educated; Lady Lyons, then an older, stronger, and handsomer girl than herself, had been.

Mrs. Dorriman could not remember that they had been friends, but now the old familiarity made them more than acquaintances, and they met with that common ground of "old times" which bridges over so much.

As they neared their hotel a man was standing on the steps and lifted his hat. It was Mr. Drayton.