In spite of a good deal of open opposition on the part of Grace, Margaret, full of the enthusiasm of a girl whose intelligence after being long cramped suddenly finds an outlet, threw herself heartily into a systematic course of real study, and the mornings flew on pleasantly. Mrs. Dorriman, who had read a great deal during the lonely hours she had spent, had theorized after the fashion of solitary readers. Her views of life were not unnaturally entirely pessimist, she rejected many high and great ideas from a dislike to what she conceived to be exaggeration. Her character was very far from firm, and she was conscious of this and other shortcomings, but her sweetness of temper saved her from being soured. She had a craving for happiness, without believing in its being possible for her. Her spirits were always low, and the effect of the harshness of her brother, and of the neglect she had suffered from in her youth, would probably pursue her all her life, and affected her now.

She carried this negation of hope even into her religious exercises, finding comfort chiefly in passages about resignation; and, though she had a vague belief that in the future she might have some share of bliss, she never expected it on this side of the grave.

Then another and a most terrible question troubled her greatly. She did not look forward with any profound rejoicing, to the prospect of once more meeting with her husband whom she had forgiven, but whom she had never loved.

That hope that spans the chasm between us and the future, is not always the comfort it is supposed to be, and indeed much may be said about her want of wisdom in dwelling upon problems which must remain unsolved.

She was too timid to take her fears and show her anxieties to any one capable of helping her at all. She was conscious of feeling disloyal to her husband in this matter, which was often a trial to her, and she indulged sometimes in speculations which unsettled her and did not tend to comfort her.

Poor woman! When Margaret put those pointed questions to her common to girls who have begun to think out things and want help, she read and re-read various authors only to come to the unsatisfactory previous conclusions. In this respect the association was not productive of much good on either side, but, excepting in this, the results were to make both happier.

Mrs. Dorriman, married so young as to be barely out of childhood, had the tenacity of opinion and the strong bias in favour of her own conclusions always to be found where the mind has dwelt upon itself, and has not been enlarged by friction with other minds, a bias which no amount of reading tends to modify, since each book is read and digested, almost one might say distorted, by the views brought to bear upon it, a mode of reading which may be compared to looking at a bright and a rainy day through the same smoky glass which gives everything its own hue. But the very exception she took at times, served to arouse Margaret's own powers of thought, and to make her reflect upon her reasons for liking and disliking opinions, and the language in which those opinions were put before her. Many fine sounding phrases fell to pieces when treated this way, and many lovely poems became to her so much more when she followed out a thought therein shadowed forth.

Grace could in reality do nothing to stop this reading, and, though at first she made many bitter observations, she had not the heart to destroy her sister's comfort in these mornings; and indeed, at certain times, when her own idleness became oppressive, she went and sat with them, preserving her independence by making no remarks, standing, as it were, aside and taking no part in any discussion, as though her own mind had been long made up and that these questions had been grappled with and settled by her long ago.

Mrs. Dorriman, who was always more timid when Grace was present, was always relieved when she did not appear, and then took herself to task for the relief. There was no doubt that Mrs. Dorriman brought a great increase of comfort to the place, everything was well looked after, and Mr. Sandford recognised that it was so, without exactly knowing in which way a change had been made.

The one restless and dissatisfied person was always Grace. The monotony of the days became to her absolutely terrible. She had all the discomfort of having put herself upon a pinnacle without any admiring crowd to make up for the isolation. It was difficult for her to come down. Advances of friendliness and proffered affection had been made in vain by Mrs. Dorriman and now no effort was made. Perhaps the hardest trial of all was the perceptible loss of her sister's blind admiration for all she said. To Margaret, Grace was still beautiful, graceful, and full of talents, which only needed recognition to dazzle the world; but she began to think it just possible that Grace did not quite understand things affecting herself and Mrs. Dorriman; and instead of accepting her conclusions, as she had done all her life, without question, she began now to endeavour to argue with her, and though Grace bore her down by a flow of language and silenced her she remained unconvinced and Grace herself knew it. This change, this falling-off in her allegiance, was laid to the charge of Mrs. Dorriman, and when occasions arose that poor lady was told much, which wounded her sorely, about setting the sisters against each other.

There were times when Grace paced her room in a perfect frenzy of impatience. Her life was slipping away, she thought, and there was no break, nothing in sight. What was the use of being what she was—fitted to reign—when there was no kingdom? Were her gifts—for she believed in her gifts—all to be useless to her?

They had been four months together now; she had seen the snowfall turn black and smutty and lose its beauty under the influence of smoke. Some half-dozen people had called, but they came to see Mrs. Dorriman. In a thousand little minute things she found herself of no account. This was not her natural sphere, and she longed for something in which her merits would be recognised. A good deal of her dissatisfaction was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dorriman, but she had so kindly a heart that she longed to give the girl some interest in life. It was sad to see her day by day more dull, more apathetic, and more discontented.

"Will you not come and look into the housekeeping with me, Grace?" she said, one morning when she saw her, without even the pretence of a book in her hand, throw herself down on a lounging-chair, looking as usual bored and dull.

"What good would it do?" asked Grace, surprised by the invitation.

"I think a notion of housekeeping is a very useful thing. You may have a house of your own some day."

"When that day comes I may learn it. There is not much to learn, I suppose—any intelligent person can order a dinner."

Mrs. Dorriman said no more.

It was rather surprising to Grace that Mrs. Dorriman was so fond of going into the town, and evidently liked going alone. What took her there? Idleness being the mother of curiosity as well as of mischief and other things, she never rested till she found out that she always went to one particular street and to one particular house.

Unsuspecting Mrs. Dorriman felt as though a bomb-shell exploded under her feet when Grace said at dinner:

"What is the name of the person you go to see at Baxter's Houses, Mrs. Dorriman?"

The poor woman coloured and looked nervously at her brother as she answered:

"An old servant of mine, if you wish to know."

Her colour and her nervousness gave Grace a sort of inkling that something more lay behind, so she said with a laugh:

"You must be much attached to her as you seem to go and see her every second day."

Poor Mrs. Dorriman was ready to cry at the suddenness of the attack. She answered something in a low voice which was heard by no one—but she required no defence. Mr. Sandford, usually absorbed in his dinner and taking small share in the conversation, looked up keenly as Grace put the question, and when she asserted the visits were of such frequent recurrence he received a certain shock. An old servant—who was she? But he was not going to have his sister bullied by any one but himself, and he thundered out with an emphatic slap upon the table:

"What business is it of yours, I should like to know, who my sister visits or does not? I consider it very impertinent and uncalled-for your speaking in that way to her; and I blame you," he said turning to his sister, "for letting her get the upper hand; you should keep her down, you should keep her in her place."

Grace rose, white with anger. Margaret trembling rose also.

"Sit down, both of ye," he said, in a tone which awed them both, and they sat down. When they eventually left the room Grace went to her bedroom and Margaret followed to console her.

But the consolation was not so great because Margaret, while grieving for her being wounded, could not think her in the right, and was much too honest to say so; and to her sister no consolation could come unless she was entirely placed in the position of an injured martyr.

In the meantime Mr. Sandford sent for Mrs. Dorriman. He could not be happy till he had spoken to her about this. He did not choose that she should be bullied but he also did not choose that she should have old servants and people in her interests at hand.

"Who is this person living here, and in your confidence?" he asked roughly.

"My old maid, Jean."

"What made you bring her?"

"I did not bring her; but, supposing I had, if I did not bring her to your house, it cannot matter."

"It matters, because you are keeping to my wish ostensibly, but, in reality, you are opposing it."

"I do not pretend to understand you," and Mrs. Dorriman's spirit rose. This was going too far. "You break up my home; you bring me here; you deprive me of the comfort of my personal attendant—and to what end? What is the use of my being here?"

"Of course you cannot understand. You cannot afford a separate house. There are certain papers your husband had, which might have made all different. You might," and he looked at her earnestly and anxiously, "have found receipts and be better off; but the purport of everything would have to be explained to you, and, after all that has come and gone between me and your husband, it would be as well not to let a stranger step in."

Mrs. Dorriman shrank. She also had this fear; but we say a thing to ourselves that we cannot bear to put into words, and now it was dreadful to her to hear this. Her spirit died again, and she said helplessly—

"I cannot give up seeing Jean."

"How did she come here?"

"When I told her you would not—could not—have her here, she said nothing, but she sought and found a situation here. She has been ill; and she has had no comforts; and I must see her!"

There was a pause. Mrs. Dorriman looked at her brother anxiously. He was evidently thinking over something. At length he broke silence—

"What is the tie between you?" he asked, abruptly. "Has she any of your things in charge?"

"Things!" she said, surprised. "No. Why, poor thing—where could she put them? No, she has no charge of anything; and the tie between us is but the tie of long service and great trustworthiness. You are a rich man, brother, and can command services; but to be poor and to be alone is to know what faithful service given you from affection is."

"That is a high-flown idea," he answered; "that is the sort of thing the doctor said. I never found that sort of service available. I was also to derive much satisfaction from the society of young people. I cannot say that the society of Grace Rivers affords me any satisfaction; I think she is as disagreeable a girl as I ever came across."

"She has all the lessons of life to learn," said Mrs. Dorriman, gently.

"She had better learn them soon," he said, gruffly, "if she intends to remain under my roof."

"If she could marry, and have a home of her own," and Mrs. Dorriman sighed, for this did not always bring happiness.

"And why should she not marry?"

"There is no reason, except——" and Mrs. Dorriman made a startled pause.

"Well," said Mr. Sandford, "except—pray go on—you really are very trying sometimes. What upon earth are you afraid of?"

"To marry, you must have a chance of seeing people."

Mr. Sandford reflected upon this answer, then he said—

"You do not know it, but do you know sometimes you say very sensible things."

Mrs. Dorriman smiled faintly, and left him, relieved beyond expression that nothing more had been said about Jean.

But her satisfaction did not last long. Late in the afternoon of the next day she was told a woman wished to see her, and Jean—much too ill to have left her bed—stood before her, pale, defiant, and all her spirit roused to resistance.

"The master has ordered me away," she said, "he came to-day and bid me go. He threatened and stormed!"

She was flushed and feverish. All through the cold wind of the early spring she had come, fever in her veins, and burning in her head; and now she dropped down upon a chair and shivered, looking wild, and evidently was on the verge of delirium.

The dinner-bell rang unheeded, and when Mrs. Dorriman was fetched she sent word she could not come.

Mr. Sandford, angry and amazed, went to her room—to find Jean on a sofa, talking loud and fast, incoherently, and Mrs. Dorriman pale and composed, attending to her. She met him with reproach.

"How could you? How could you?" she began. "She was ill, poor thing! and you told her to go. But she shall not go! I will nurse her. My poor, poor Jean!"

Mr. Sandford himself was startled. To do him justice, he had not seen that the poor woman was so ill. In the height of her illness, upheld by a strong resentment against him, she had come to his house, and there she must remain.

No persuasion would induce Mrs. Dorriman to consent to her removal to the hospital or to allow any one to take her place by Jean's bedside.

The doctor came and went constantly, Mrs. Dorriman, submissive and timid when she herself was in question, was neither of these things as regarded Jean.

That bow-windowed room coveted by Grace was made into a bedroom for her, but she would not sleep out of Jean's room; she allowed no other hand to tend her. Mr. Sandford was astonished and touched. This was the weak woman he had scouted, and whom he had thought so incapable. He watched her come and go with a perpetual amazement, and learned by that poor woman's bedside something of the service love can give and does give, and which no money can buy.

It was a sad household because Mrs. Dorriman was missed by all, but as there is generally a bright spot somewhere, so in this instance Grace thought she had found it, and that now she had her opportunity.

She rearranged the drawing-room, making the very moving of the furniture a protest against Mrs. Dorriman's position as head—she interviewed the cook, throwing so much command into her manner that she was met with direct antagonism. All the servants were in arms against her, the dinners were bad, the servants discontented, and the household bills heavy. Grace knew nothing of expense, nothing of the commonest rules as a guidance, and she allowed no one to suggest or of course tell her anything. Mr. Sandford recognised the loss of his sister's services the moment he was deprived of them; and Grace had the mortification of hearing him say to her,

"It is to be hoped you will be soon able to take your own place again. The discomfort is terrible, and we never get anything fit to eat, and everything is at sixes and sevens."

Watching his sister's ways with the servant she so regarded, he could not help asking himself whether supposing he was ill, as ill as this, he could command the same devotion. He expressed this to Mrs. Dorriman one day; she looked at him gravely and said without any emotion:

"If you were ill, I should try and do my duty."

He turned abruptly and left her; he had hoped for something more, and yet what reason had he to expect it?

When Jean got better and required less attention, Mrs. Dorriman found that all her powers were wanted in a different direction.

Between a spoiled undisciplined nature like that of Grace Rivers, and a character whose salient feature was love of power, such as Mr. Sandford possessed, it was impossible for the constant association to go without friction. Margaret was in a state of perpetual alarm, giving her sister right always, from habit and unreasoning affection, and therefore no real use to her, and the first day Mrs. Dorriman found herself able to take up her round of daily duties, she found Grace, not Margaret, waiting to speak to her, Grace in a state of excitement she did not try to repress, who plunged into the subject of her troubles with an abandonment and vehemence which went far to frighten the gentle little woman, who was expected to console, and understand, and sympathise all in a breath, at a moment's notice.

"Your brother hates me, why does he have us here?" Grace began; "it is cruel! Why does he not let us go where at any rate we might be free and lead our own lives, Margaret and I."

She paced up and down, her hands clasped before her, an angry flush upon her face—pausing every now and again to look at Mrs. Dorriman whose delicate forehead was ruffled, and whose attitude spoke of weariness.

"Has any thing happened? What is the matter? What has gone wrong?" Her voice sounded cold and unsympathetic to Grace's ears. It acted like a drop of cold water on heated iron.

"Of course you don't care," she burst out with, "you care for nothing; nothing seems to move you; nothing rouses you; but can you not see my sister and I are miserable and wretched?"

"Grace," said the elder woman, and her voice was full of real kindness, "would you mind sitting down, it tries me sorely to see you dashing about this way, and—I'm not very strong just now. I have had a good deal of fatigue lately."

"I am sorry," the girl said in somewhat a hard tone, throwing herself into a chair, feeling that all she had to say was more difficult to say when she was deprived of her manner of saying it.

"Let us talk it all out, Grace; all the bitterness, all the disappointment, everything that is making you wretched. What is it you wish to do? What is it particularly you complain of?"

"Mr. Sandford is so unkind: he speaks so harshly to me. I know he hates me."

"And you have tried to win his affection, you have done all on your side to make him like you?"

"I know it is no use. And he does not appreciate me in any way."

"Appreciate you?"

"At school I was always first and everyone knew I was clever—since—and—here he takes no notice. If he dislikes us, why must we live here, why may we not go?" Grace persisted, anxious to cling to her point and gain it.

"I am afraid you have never quite understood your position, Grace; that you really know nothing about it; and if I explain it to you you will perhaps be very angry."

"I think I understand our position," said Grace, with a slight toss of the head, "we are his wards, Margaret and I; he is our guardian."

"You are quite wrong, Grace; he is nothing of the sort."

"Then why does he arrange for us? I was always told he was our guardian," and Grace opened her eyes wide, and looked at Mrs. Dorriman, surprised out of her usual self-assertion.

"You know he, my brother, is in no way related to you, except by marriage?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"When your mother died—your father being long dead, poor child—there was nearly nothing——" Mrs. Dorriman hesitated. It seemed so hard to tell this girl what she had to tell her.

"Nothing! but we have an income, Grace and I?"

"You have a small income, because my brother gave up his wife's, your aunt's, little fortune, and added to the little, the very little, there was, and managing it skilfully—there is as you say a little income, but Grace, my dear child, do you suppose that such an income would enable you two to live in any comfort as you have been accustomed to live? There is little over one hundred a year."

"Is that all?" asked Grace, her face crimson; "we thought that was only an allowance out of our money, we never dreamt there was nothing else. You are quite sure?" she asked, her face paling again; she felt this a blow she could never recover from.

"My brother welcomes you to his house, he makes me give up my pretty and quiet home to come and be here so that all should go well. He has a rough and a hard manner, but to you, Grace, he has been good, to you and Margaret he has been very generous."

"Is this really the truth?" asked Grace; "do you mean to say that we have nothing, Margaret and I, and we are not his relations? Why, why has he done this? He does not care for us. What is his motive?"

"He cared for your mother's sister, Grace. He loved his wife with a passionate affection time has not changed. Her anxiety was about you, left to the world's mercy. Is it fair to him that his kindness should be met with scorn, and that, owing him what you do, you should take exception to his manner and defy him openly?"

Grace was silent, kept silent by surprise and by a passionate and impatient remonstrance against the position she was placed in. It was intolerable to her to have this weight of obligation with no affection to lighten it.

"He weighs us down with the sense of obligation," she said at length; "if he were really generous he would make the load lighter."

"He is a human being and imperfect," said poor Mrs. Dorriman, who, while acknowledging the truth of this, felt it came ungratefully from the lips of Grace Rivers, who owed him so much. "Now, Grace," she went on, after a thoughtful silence on the part of each, "let us examine into your other grievances. I think I have given you good reason for accepting the home my brother offers. It is not beautiful I own. It is to me everything I most dislike, but he chooses it and there is no use in wishing it to be bettered."

"Then you, too, are dependent upon him?" said Grace; "of course you are or you would not so surrender your house, the hills and rocks and river you have talked of so much, without a strong reason."

"I am not discussing my position or my grievances," said Mrs. Dorriman, stung by a careless word flung at random and making so perfect a hit.

But Grace, this new idea in her head, found Mrs. Dorriman much more tolerable to do with. She was a fellow-sufferer, and, as such, to be felt for; there was a perceptible change in her tone when she said,

"I think at our age we might see people sometimes. I get frightened when I think that perhaps all our youth may pass in this way and no possibility of a change."

"That is a very natural thought. I also have had the same idea. I have already spoken to my brother."

"And what does he say?" asked the girl eagerly.

"He agreed to make some effort; then poor Jean was ill, and everything has been left as it was."

"And now she is better you will speak again?"

"Yes, I will speak again; and now one word more. I hope what I have told you will make you more inclined to accept my brother as he is, whatever his faults may be. However harsh he may have been to others, he has been good and kind to you."

"I must first become accustomed to the painful idea of owing him so much," said Grace, in a tone of anything but humility and full of a patronage, in her way, that made Mrs. Dorriman regret she had revealed her own position to her, and she soon rose and left the room.

Meaning to be kinder to her, Grace's manner was more of a trial to Mrs. Dorriman than it had been before. Unmerited impertinence is bad enough, but to be patronised by a girl who had no tact and a great belief in herself, was quite beyond ordinary trials.

Just at that time, before Mr. Sandford had time to note the difference in Grace's manner, he received a letter which made a change in the household eventually, though this change dawned but gradually on the minds of those who were affected by it.

The girls noticed that his manner became more important, that he read and re-read this letter during dinner several times and kept it beside his plate, a thing unknown in his previous history; then, in a pompous voice and addressing his sister, he said,

"Mr. Drayton, a person for whose family I have a high regard, comes to-morrow to consult with me on important business. We must ask him to dinner."

"Very well," answered Mrs. Dorriman, not fully aware of the importance he attached to this arrival.

"He is a man of enormous wealth, enormous wealth, and comes to consult me about some investments." He rolled out these words with immense emphasis, and looked round at the three faces to see what impression his announcement had made.

"Is he good-looking?" asked Grace, with some interest in her manner. "Is he amusing?"

"Is he a friend of yours, John?" Mrs. Dorriman asked gently. "I never heard his name before."

Margaret was mute.

"How can I tell what you consider good-looking," he answered, roughly. "He is a fine strong well-built fellow, and has seen a great deal of the world, and he is a successful man, which is more than being good-looking or amusing, let me tell you."

"If he has seen the world he will be at any rate interesting," said Mrs. Dorriman, rising; but when they had reached the door he called her back, and said in a tone of mystery:

"You spoke of society and giving the girls a chance. I don't wish Margaret away, but if George Drayton takes a fancy to Grace she will have to take him."

Mrs. Dorriman shivered: this speech recalled her own youth, when she had to "take" the husband he had chosen for her.

Instinct often gives a woman the right weapon to use, and she said now hurriedly:

"If you let her know this, if you tell her this, she will set herself against him."

He looked at her with that sort of surprise which always came to him when she showed anything of the wisdom of the serpent he considered her so completely without.

"I think you are right," he said, slowly; "but I mean this marriage to be, and you understand if you see a way of helping it I expect you to help it on."

"If I like the man—if I approve," she said, in a low voice, but with a firmness unusual to her. "And if she likes him."

Mr. Sandford laughed his usual sarcastic laugh.

"If! if! if!" he exclaimed. He was going to say something, but there was a look in her face that warned him he had better not. He turned sharply round and went off to his own room.

"Grace, my darling!" whispered Margaret to her sister as they stood in the window that night with the grimy world before them hushed into silence, and the stars shining down upon them, "perhaps this will be the Prince."

"It does not sound like it, Margaret," she answered, scornfully. "A manufacturer, and a man no longer young."

"We cannot tell," said Margaret. "But it may be, oh, I hope, I hope it may be your prince, and that he may be charming and everything your prince ought to be."

"I hope so," said Grace, whispering also, and in a voice trembling with some suppressed feeling. "For, Margaret, I am very, very wretched here, and I sometimes think if I see no escape for myself, if no change comes, I shall die. Oh!" she exclaimed, breaking into the silence of the night with a passionate cry she could not repress, "if life holds nothing more for me than this, then give me death!"