That finality of all things, whether of happiness or of misery, brought Jean's long illness to a close—and the pleasure Mrs. Dorriman had in seeing her recover was often now tinged with sorrow when she thought of the separation that must follow.

Her brother had been forbearing, but his patience must not be overtaxed. Mrs. Dorriman knew nothing of those changes of feeling which softened Mr. Sandford towards her and any one she loved. She stood no longer to him in the antagonism he himself had placed her in. If she was acting against him in any way, if she knew what he dreaded, she might know he was satisfied that the knowledge had come without understanding. Her great sweetness of temper was something soothing to him, her kindness to her old servant, the unfailing cheerfulness towards her, was a sort of surprise to him. He found her no longer, in his eyes, a weak woman, whom he could keep by him, and under his authority, but a woman full of unexpected tenderness. Towards himself the habit of years gave her a certain submissiveness; he began to wish, as he lay, often wakeful, that this could be changed. But affection! He had no hope, no belief, in this as possible from her to him. He had blighted her life; her crushed spirits were a standing proof of this; and then he would laugh himself to scorn.

His illness must have left some weakness—why was he now beginning to think in this way? All his life, since his wife's death, he had given no love anywhere, and expected none. Then an uncomfortable remembrance of the doctor's speech about recurring illness made him shiver. If he were to be ill how could he carry out his plans, how could he rise to the position he intended to rise to?

He was a far richer man than any one thought, and he was accumulating money. When he had made what he intended to make safe out of all the risks of trade which he liked so little, he would buy the place where his wife's people once had lived. They had scorned him till they found he was rich, and he chiefly wished to sit in their "high places" for this reason. He intended winning an election, being returned for the county, and then—he could not think of marriage. The one pure unselfish feeling he had was the love for his wife, and his devotion to her memory. He could never think of placing another beside him.

His sister would be there, and then he would go off into long reflections about the girls: Grace who was beginning to be so oppressive to him, and Margaret who was a little like her.

All unconscious of his softened feelings towards her, poor Mrs. Dorriman, in the meantime, was cruelly troubled and perplexed. What she was to do about poor Jean, she did not know. Inchbrae was not her home, she had followed her mistress from the old place thither; besides, what comfort could there be in seeing strange faces and strange people there? It was Jean herself who cut the Gordian knot and brought things to a climax.

She was much too high-spirited a woman to remain one moment anywhere as an unwelcome guest, and she determined that she would herself seek Mr. Sandford and say a word of gratitude to him for the shelter he had given her, and, if she found him "quiet," she intended pleading her own cause; a cause which, if hers, was also Mrs. Dorriman's. Jean had that strong belief in herself which is the mainspring of many a brave action. She was, above and beyond this, a woman whose prayers went up with a faith which was beautiful and pure. Though religious phrases were more in her heart than on her lips, every action of her life was in a great degree guided by this great and secret strength. She was single-minded, full of prejudices, and had a keen sense of humour, seeing much to amuse her in ordinary things. She was passionately devoted to Mrs. Dorriman, and though she was too proud of her, in a right way, to allow it to any one, she knew that she required some one near her to befriend her—that, to use her own expression about many another person, she "gave in" too easily.

It was the very day Mr. Drayton was expected. Mr. Sandford, who was ruffled about some trifle, made an unusual fuss about something at breakfast which was not well done, and sent it out with orders that it was to be made over again.

Mrs. Chalmers, already making much of that something extra which falls heavily where all is as a rule on a simple footing—lost her temper: and, with all the delight of being able to reach the man whose uncomplimentary remarks about her performances were so frequently gall and wormwood to her, declared she would go there and then and would do nothing more for the household. She arrayed herself in her bonnet and shawl, and sat firmly upon her box, hoping and indeed expecting that she would be asked to stay—at any rate for that day—in view of the expected visitor, and fully resolved upon obtaining concessions if she did remain.

But Mr. Sandford, with all the ignorance of a man who had never been obliged to think of details, never for one instant thought about the dinner, took her at her word, and insisted on her going there and then.

Mrs. Dorriman's dismay first taught him that he had acted hastily, and annoyed and worried by the whole affair he went off to his own room.

He was trying to forget it all, and was turning over some papers, when a loud knock, evidently given by a determined hand, came to disturb him.

In walked Jean, her bonnet on, her shawl over her arm, looking like going, in complete ignorance of any disturbance, as she never put her foot downstairs.

Mr. Sandford glared at her, he was not "quiet" she saw, so she intended to express her gratitude, which was the right thing to do, and then depart and not say that word about remaining which she would fain have done.

She was a handsome and imposing figure, her kind and homely face, pale from the effects of her recent illness, was surrounded by a full-plaited border of lace, her print gown was a purpose-like gown, and she had a shawl folded neatly across her chest. She was the picture and type of the good, unspoiled, old-fashioned, country servant. Her manner was full of respect, and free from any servility.

"I am come to speak my thanks to you, sir, before I go;" she began, "I have been a great trouble. Now I am well, I will thank you and go my way."

"My sister, not I, looked after you," he said.

"She did that, but there's no one like her in the world."

The two looked at each other, her keen brave blue eyes saw the expression in his and could not understand it.

"You think much of my sister."

"I think all the world of her. She has need of love and care, and kindness—I will always give her what I can."

"What are you going to do when you leave this?" he asked abruptly.

"I am going to get a place somewhere near. Yes, maister Sandford, you will not like it, but it is my only pleasure to be near her, and she needs me."

"What place will you get in Renton itself? There are no gentlefolks there."

"I'll get some place; I can put my hand to anything, the Lord will provide for me," said Jean in a low voice.

"Why need you go? Since you and my sister cannot live apart, stay," he said; and, trying to hide the fact of his giving in from kindly motives, he continued sternly, "I do not choose my sister to be running through Renton streets at all hours—as you and she won't part, stay!"

"I am not sure, sir."

"What do you mean, you are not sure?"

"I must be guided by Mrs. Dorriman's wishes, and other things."

"Well," he said, roughly, "I have asked you to stay, and you can speak to Mrs. Dorriman and do as you like."

He was conscious of a great wish that she should stay; but he could think of nothing more to say.

"There is no room for me, sir, and I am afraid you say it now, and will be sorry afterwards; and the end would then be worse than the beginning. It would hurt Mrs. Dorriman more."

"You can do as you like," he said, more determined she should stay, since she opposed his will, "but I cannot reconcile your affection for Mrs. Dorriman with your determination to leave her."

"Can you not?" said Jean, her blue eyes flashing a little. "Can you not, sir? Can you not see that the bread of dependence is bitter to her and bitter to me? You took her from her own home, and her own quiet life—for some reason of your own—but I know it was ill done. If I am here, it is another weight upon the wrong side."

"Do as you like, and leave me, in Heaven's name!" he exclaimed, impatiently.

"Heaven had not much to do with her being taken away," said Jean, firmly, "but I do not wish to speak about what I know imperfectly after all. What I wish to speak about is just this—Do you really want me to stay, and is it all for her sake? or is there something else?"

"The woman will drive me mad!" said Mr. Sandford. "What else could there be? No! I do wish you to stay; and with regard to Inchbrae," he said, in a lower voice, "had I known she cared so much——"

"She did care," said Jean; "she greeted till I thought she would wear herself out; but she is getting over it a bit, and she knows that one day she will go back."

"Ah!" said Mr. Sandford, "what is that about going back? The place is sold."

"Yes, it is sold," said Jean composedly, "and can be bought back any time. Your sister knows the prophecy, and she'll go back to it in God's good time. Till then we are content—she and I."

"Some old woman's story," muttered Mr. Sandford. "Now you will be good enough to go and leave me."

"I will wish you good day, sir; it's not good-bye, till I know Mrs. Dorriman's wishes."

Jean left the room, and Mr. Sandford took his hat and went out. Nothing Jean said held much meaning for him, but her manner impressed him; and he went off to look into some business matters, never for a moment thinking it curious that his changed feeling towards his sister had made him try to persuade her old servant to stay in his house.

When he went home Mrs. Dorriman's face was more cheerful than he had yet seen it.

"I should like to know how we are to get any dinner," he said, afraid of her thanks.

"Oh! brother, there is Jean."

"Well! what of that?"

"She is a first-rate cook, and she has agreed to stay; and she is getting on with everything; and it is like a dream," said the poor woman, in a perfect flutter of gratitude, and relief, and happiness.

Her brother looked at her wonderingly.

"You are an odd little woman," he said, but not unkindly. "It does not take very much to upset you," but he was glad all the same.

He had always felt uncomfortable about Jean since he had found out how much his sister was wrapped up in her; and he now felt rather grateful to her for coming in to his plan so readily.

It was dark when Mr. Drayton arrived, and only Mrs. Dorriman was waiting to receive the two, who came in together.

Mr. Drayton was a pleasant-looking middle-aged man, with a countenance wanting expression, a manner very nearly as undecided as poor Mrs. Dorriman's; fair curly hair, which was beginning to turn grey, and a child-like way of speaking. Any one judging him at first sight would have said at once he was one of the men who go through the world unsuccessfully. Sanguine to a fault, perpetually disappointed, only perpetually to spring up again.

He had a very absent manner, and frequently missed hearing important facts, because he was thinking of other things. Passionate and kind-hearted, only believing in himself to a certain extent, led by any stronger mind than his own, and making mistakes he himself laughed at when it was too late to remedy them. He was tall, extremely slight, had very sloping shoulders, and was inconsistent in his dress—at one time wearing rough and ill-made country clothes, and at another particular to a fault about the cut of his things and the shape of his boots.

His father had made the money, and had left it all to him. He had been an affectionate son and a most disappointing partner. People said the business would not hold together two years; he had now held it together six since his father's death, because Mr. Drayton had a warm affection for the manager, Mr. Stevens, was guided by him, and did nothing of any importance without consulting him.

Mr. Sandford had, at that time, a great project in hand, a project requiring far more capital than he could furnish without disturbing his own investments.

He had met Mr. Drayton once or twice and looked upon him as a man through whom and by whom a great deal might be done.

He had urged his coming to Renton for two very different reasons; he intended him to marry Grace Rivers, and he arranged it so completely in his own mind that he never even put the case conditionally. He was beginning to dislike Grace extremely, she interfered in so many little things. It was all very well for Mrs. Dorriman to allow it; she was, and always had been, one of the women born to be ruled by every one round her, but he objected to the perpetual assertion of herself which forced Grace to be always, so to speak, on the disc of the family life, to the exclusion of the others.

She annoyed him, and he had, from the first moment of this discovery, resolved to marry her to some one who would take her off his hands, since, in these days, getting rid of her in any other way might lead to comment. He was resolved that Mr. Drayton, who always declared he must marry, and who, in his lighter moments, declared himself to be too much bewildered by the enormous amount of beauty and accomplishment he met with to be able to choose, should have no such bewilderment now. What Grace Rivers would do, whether she would like or dislike the man, was to him a matter of no moment, he never thought of the marriage as affecting her in any way; and had Mr. Drayton been repulsive and hideous, or even much older, it would not in any way have made the slightest difference in his arrangements. Grace out of the way, Margaret would be all by herself with his sister, and he was beginning to love Margaret; indeed, the society of the women round him was both softening his character and developing a certain kindness in him which no one had ever given him credit for. The one soft place in his hard heart had been his love for his wife, and since that time the only disinterested kindness had been shown to her orphan nieces. Though he told himself that it had all been for her sake, and that it did not increase his happiness, yet, when he was coming home after a long and wearisome day, it was pleasant to know that there was some one to meet him, some one who looked after things for him. The gentle face of Margaret was always a pleasant thing to look forward to, and, even as regarded his sister, her even temper and great sweetness had taught him, as we have seen, a sort of respect, and his suspicions about her were lulled to rest. He had hurried home to be in time to go himself to the station and meet Mr. Drayton.

Little did that individual know of the many plans made in connection with him. He was a little bored by the length of his journey and glad to get out of the train. He was too good-tempered a man to be cross, and he was flattered by the importance Mr. Sandford attached to his coming. This was something like success, he said to himself, to be sought by a man of so much influence.

Sending his portmanteau on to the house, the two men walked up together, and soon Mr. Sandford was taking his guest upstairs, to find no one there but Mrs. Dorriman. This rather disconcerted him; he had intended to find a look of comfort and home and the three sitting as he usually found them, and there was only his sister.

"Where are Grace and Margaret?" he asked, with the frown upon his forehead which bespoke displeasure.

"They have gone to their room," she said, in a deprecating manner; "it is later than you think."

"Ah, you are punctual, I see," exclaimed Mr. Drayton, with an unrestrained laugh which accompanied most of his remarks. "I shall have to take care; I could fancy your brother a terrible tyrant in the household, so strict. I am right, eh?" and he laughed again, still more cheerfully than before, not having the vaguest idea that he had spoken that true word in jest which is often a painful enough truth.

Mrs. Dorriman found her conversation more terribly common-place than ever. She had made much of the slowness of the train and had been met with another laugh, as though some indescribably funny joke was wrapped up in its tediousness. She had asked if the country round Mr. Drayton's house was like Renton; was it equally smoky? and he, laughing as ever, asserted it was worse, much worse, and then a pause had come. The poor woman was growing nervously aware of the silence and she resolved to break it, dreading to say something which would bring that laugh back, quite unaware that Mr. Drayton was himself shy, and that he laughed because it was the only way of concealing his shyness.

What terrible sufferings a man must go through afflicted with shyness; a woman may suffer but at any rate she is in her rights. She may be timid and shy and self-conscious, it is all part of a quality belonging to her, though in an exaggerated form—but a shy man!

There is, to begin with, a feeling as though it were not a misfortune but a fault; it is contrary to all preconceived notions of what a man's character should be; it is out of place, and the unfortunate man who is so afflicted seldom meets with pity or sympathy. With an inkling of this truth, Mr. Drayton concealed his shyness by an overpowering amount of cheerfulness. He was consistently, perpetually, oppressively cheerful; and having once assumed this character, it soon became a confirmed habit. After all, to be incessantly cheerful, and in apparently superabundant high spirits, is a less afflicting thing than the habit of looking at life through a smoky glass, and depressing every one round one by melancholy facts and a lengthened face.

Mr. Sandford came now to the rescue unintentionally, by carrying Mr. Drayton off to dress, and, with a sigh of relief, the poor little woman went off to her own room.

Dinner was ready, the guest—with an immense expanse of shirt front, was standing on the rug, talking to Mr. Sandford, when the door opened, and Mrs. Dorriman and the two girls came in.

The moment they saw him all interest in him vanished. They saw only a prosperous middle-aged man, whose laugh was noisy and vulgar. He was Mr. Sandford's friend, so they need have expected nothing better, they thought.

Mr. Drayton, who had never understood that the people living with Mr. Sandford were young girls, was astonished. They took so little notice of him that he was piqued. He was a man accustomed to consideration from every one—especially from the young ladies he knew. The indifference he now met astonished him. His most amusing stories, which he told with tears in his eyes and roars of laughter afterwards, were received with rounded eyes, and not a smile in sight. The girls, indeed, thought him ridiculous, and Margaret's grave young face never relaxed for a moment.

From indifference, Grace's expression rose to disdain, and Mrs. Dorriman, as usual, had the whole brunt upon her shoulders.

How that poor little woman tried to do her duty! to show a polite interest, and to smile, when smiles were expected; while the ungrateful man counted her interest and approbation as nothing, and tried to win, at any rate, attention from the other two.

Even to Mr. Sandford, not himself an acute observer, there was something strained in Mr. Drayton's laughter, something unfriendly in Grace's expression. The moment he discovered it—the instant he read tacit disapproval and opposition—he was the more resolved that these two should bow to his decision, and accept his arrangement.

He observed, also, that it was Margaret who attracted most of his guest's attention. That must, of course, not be allowed; he must give him to understand at first that Margaret was out of the question. He did not wonder at it, however. There was a winning sweetness in Margaret's expression that must please every one. Young as she was, there was a composure, a repose of manner, wanting in her sister. It was the difference between one character absolutely forgetful of self and one full of self-consciousness.

Conversation is never more difficult, than when it ought to be there, never more spasmodic than when people meet—who know nothing of each other's likings or dislikings—and who have none of that light talk which dwells on politics, great events, and the last new song in one and the same breath.

Grace was intent upon the impression she was making. He was uninteresting, but, all the same, her silent disapproval of his noisy manner would put her in the position of being superior to all this uncalled-for merriment.

Margaret watched Grace, and felt sorry for the unconscious Mr. Drayton—so sorry that she began to talk to him—listening with a sense of completely missing the jokes when his laugh broke into his speech.

There was one subject of satisfaction to Mr. Sandford, the dinner was excellent; and this fact went far to soothe him. Men, though superior beings, are apt to feel this important affair, and Mr. Sandford was one of the men who felt any failure in this direction with great acuteness.

After discussing with playful heaviness those topics of conversation started by Margaret, Mr. Drayton threw a bomb-shell down by saying to Mrs. Dorriman—

"I saw a pretty little place you lived at till lately. I went over to see a boat I had heard of. A pretty place, but lonely. I dare say you got tired of the sea. The sea is a very dreary thing to me; I am ill when on it; cold when near it, and I hate it when I see it. Ah! ah! ah!"

"I love the sea," said Mrs. Dorriman; "it is to me a friend and a companion. There is always something grand to me in its monotony, as in its angry moods. I love it best when it sends showers of spray up into the air, and comes dashing in in all its might."

"Then what made you——My dear Mr. Sandford, are you aware that you gave me a violent and painful kick just then? I wish to goodness you would take care, if you knew what a start you gave me!"

"I am sorry," said Mr. Sandford, as the ladies rose and left them.

"I am sorry I hurt you, but you must not speak of Inchbrae to my sister. She lost her husband there, and altogether it is a painful subject."

"But she did not seem to dislike my talking about it."

"She conceals her feelings, but it is, I assure you, not a subject she cares to discuss."

"All right! I'll accept your view, but upon my word your kick is still painful."

"I had no other way of stopping you."

"Then you did it on purpose!" and this new light upon the subject sent Mr. Drayton into the loudest and longest fit of laughter he had yet indulged in.

It was not till next day that Mr. Sandford had an opportunity of saying that word to Mr. Drayton which should make him understand that Margaret was out of his reach.

Mr. Drayton's idea of making himself pleasant to the young ladies was buying some of those endless and useless trifles to be found in what are called fancy warehouses; and Mr. Sandford, meeting him when his own work was done, found him surveying with much satisfaction some gilt goats dragging a wobbling mother-o'-pearl shell car all on one side, with gilt wire wheels.

"I think Miss Margaret will like this," he said, his face beaming with satisfaction.

Mr. Sandford's face was a study. That a rational being with money waiting for investments, which fact alone was sufficient to fill any man's mind, could be enchanted with a trumpery toy, and actually spend money upon it, was an amazing idea to him, and he looked at Mr. Drayton closely, as though he might see something in his countenance calculated to explain it to him.

"You need not trouble to take gifts to my nieces," he began, gruffly, "especially not to Margaret."

"Why especially not to Margaret?" asked Mr. Drayton, as he once more looked at his purchase with admiring eyes.

"Because Margaret's a mere child, and her life is pretty well arranged for her."

"Well, that is a pity. I think she is a great deal the nicest of the two. I doubt Miss Grace has a touch of pride in her. She looks as if she thought a deal of herself; always begging your pardon for saying so," he added, laughing heartily.

"I am not sure I think pride unbecoming in a girl," said Mr. Sandford, after a moment's reflection, "Miss Rivers is good-looking."

"Now, I don't think her a patch on Miss Margaret," said Mr. Drayton. "Well, it's just as well you told me that her future is settled; I am not at all sure, not at all sure, I might not have been hit."

They left the subject and plunged into other matters, but Mr. Sandford quite forgot to take into account one thing, that the very way to encourage any one to like or care for anything is to put it out of his reach—forbidden fruit is as tempting now as in the days of our first parents, and he never, as far as his own wishes were concerned, did a more unwise thing than in adding this incentive to the slight dawning of admiration Mr. Drayton had for Margaret Rivers.

In the meantime the girls discussed him with all the intemperate feelings of youth, added to the disappointment of his being so exactly the opposite of that coming prince who was to rescue poor Grace from the uncongenial home.

"His laugh goes quite through my head," said Grace, pettishly, as she sat in front of the little mirror, and unplaited her hair for Margaret to brush. "What an odious man he is."

"No, not odious, for he is good-natured," said Margaret, gently, "but I wish he did not laugh so; it makes me feel so melancholy; and oh, Grace, how difficult he is to talk to."

"Difficult! say impossible. And Margaret, we thought it might be the prince," and Grace folded her hands, laid her chin upon them, and stared at herself in the glass.

"The prince will come, Grace; you will see."

"No, Margaret! I do not believe in him. I believe in nothing now. All my hopes are dead. What have they to live on? We shall go on living here for ever till we are quite old and grey, and we shall never see any one younger than Mr. Sandford and his friends, and never see the world, or know any other life," and she lowered her head in a fit of despair.

"Grace, darling! you do not really think that all your many perfections were given to you only to be thrown away; this despair is unlike your usual bright brave spirit; and we are not so unhappy now. You are not so miserable here, now, Grace?"

"Yes," said Grace, fiercely, "I am miserable. I am sick of my life here; of the ugliness of everything. I hate it, Margaret. I hate it more than I can say."

"And I was growing contented," said poor Margaret, with a little suppressed sob; "I am so much less gifted than you, darling, so much less full of restless life; you must forgive my being so different, so easily satisfied—it was selfish, I might have thought of you." She put her arms round Grace affectionately.

The sisters sat in silence and then Grace spoke again—

"The only good thing I know about Mr. Drayton is that he lives in the South; I envy him that, I envy his being near London; it is the only merit he has."

"When I said he was good-tempered," rejoined poor Margaret, anxious as ever to bring her own conclusions, even about trifles, into harmony with those held by her sister, "I think he is good-tempered as a rule, but I fancy if he were to be vexed or disappointed in any way he would be persistently angry. I do not think he would forgive easily."

"In other words you think him vindictive. Well, Margaret, I think you are right. And I also think him not worth talking about, I think him hateful," and Grace rose and stood before her dressing-table again. "Oh!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together, "what it would be, to me, to leave this place, to go away, once again to England; though school was tiresome, it was better than this. I would give all I am worth in the world to get away. Sometimes I dream, Margaret—I dream of floating away—of hearing beautiful music and lovely voices. I am so happy! Then I wake—and I am here!"