The long July days were at hand, so much longer in the Highlands than in other parts of Great Britain, and which most people, living in that favoured spot, think more than makes up for the shorter winter days. Over everything lay the beauty of summer. Where the heat is not too intense for enjoyment, what a delicious thing is a long, summer day!

At Inchbrae, where the sea kept the air cool, it was perfect; by the side of the burn and down by the waterfall, ferns sprinkled with spray, showed a perpetual verdure, a thousand flowers lingered within the freshness of the burn-side; honeysuckle and sweetbriar rivalled each other in fragrance.

The garden near the house was in perfection, for, though spring flowers come late, they make up for it when they arrive—and roses and geraniums made bright colour, and caught the sunshine to enhance their beauty.

Mrs. Dorriman had felt much on arriving at the little place where she had gone through so much sorrow. Inchbrae, to her, was second to the old home, where she had many memories, but she loved it, and it was her very own, and the fact of possession gives a certain touch of pride in everything.

Christie had welcomed her with all the heartiness of an old Highland friend and dependent. She had scrubbed and cleaned, and Mrs. Dorriman, while missing Jean at every turn, was full of gratitude.

"Eh, my dear, time has stood still for you," Christie said to her, as she watched her quick movements to and fro; "you are a different woman to what you were when you went away."

"I am happier, Christie."

"Aye, you are happier, but you have to get more yet; there's more good to come to you yet."

Mrs. Dorriman laughed softly.

"Are you prophesying a husband to me at my age, and another husband too?" and then she blamed herself for laughing.

"Your age is no hindrance; but I was not thinking of marrying; I was thinking of the old house, of the old home."

"Oh, don't," said Mrs. Dorriman, raising her hands as though pushing the thought from her; "do not make me unhappy by making me think of that. The old place is sold, Christie, and gone from us, gone from me, and I mean to be happy here."

"It will come back to you," Christie said, persistently; "you will see that it will be yours again some day, and it's not a far-off day, either," she added, more to herself than to Mrs. Dorriman.

Mrs. Dorriman turned away. At that moment, with the broad sea rippling and sparkling beneath, taking a thousand hues as it reflected the moving clouds, and the sea-breeze coming upon her with its exquisite freshness, she felt horribly ungrateful for giving a lingering thought to that other home.

But here, with all its beauty, there was a charm lacking—the charm of memory.

Inchbrae had no associations for her, and in that other home there was the dear, kind face of the father, who would doubtless have done more for her had he only had it in his power.

She stood silently trying to stifle any regrets, and to be thankful and grateful for this, the little home she had to offer Margaret.

Margaret had done a good deal, but not all she had hoped to do. She had seen sights that had made her heart sore, and she had helped in many ways, following lines already laid down, and enabling many charities to extend their action. Children learned to watch for her, and those standing round marvelled at the tenderness and skill of her way of handling them.

Knowing her to be childless they were surprised.

Margaret seldom spoke of her little one now. Deep down in her heart she cherished its memory—for a true mother never forgets—but she could not open the wound to strangers or explain why a sick child commanded her strongest compassion.

Her own name was never brought forward, and all the money arrangements were made for her by Mr. Stevens.

She found the other plan she wished to carry out with regard to Grace much more difficult.

Lady Lyons had spoken the truth as regarded finding the "great lady," with whom alone Grace imagined she would find perfect happiness, and be "in the swim." She could hear of no one who had the slightest ambition to chaperone a young lady who was not very beautiful, not very rich, and nobody in particular. Grace had more than one interview with what she called hopeful people; and she was too fond of a joke, even against herself, not to repeat them, and even act the scenes, for Margaret's benefit.

But the plain fact remained that she could hear of nothing the least like what she wanted; and Grace, at no time a miracle of patience, got extremely irritable, and accused the world in general of combining together to defeat her.

Margaret, coming home full of the terrible scenes to which she could not accustom herself, was worried beyond description. The sharp contrast between this unfulfilled longing on the part of her sister for mere amusement, and the terrible—sometimes horrible—realities, to which she had just before perhaps been standing face to face, struck her painfully. She was but human herself, and there arose between them sometimes angry words and sharp retorts that filled her with dismay afterwards.

In characters so widely apart as theirs, it was only to be expected that a day would come when some tremendous crisis would show each how strained the sisterly chords now were.

After a scene between them, however, it was Margaret who tried to make amends for a recognised deficiency in her affection, by giving Grace something she wished for.

At this moment, with that curious disregard to the fitness of things which distinguishes some people, Lady Lyons made a successful effort to see Margaret—with a purpose.

As we know, poor Lady Lyons was one of those mothers who possess no real knowledge of their sons' characters, and she fancied that Paul (who never accused himself of it) was probably too shy to say a few necessary words to show Margaret that, when time had made things a little pleasanter for everybody, he hoped to find her able to respond to his devotion.

She thought that now movement was in the air, and Margaret was talking of going to Scotland, it would considerably help matters if she could say some little thing to arouse Margaret's attention, and to let her see that though Paul kept away (out of delicacy) he was hovering, so to speak, upon the horizon.

Lady Lyons therefore arrived upon the scene one day, and came into the drawing-room, to find Margaret much perturbed and Grace crying upon a sofa.

This was very interesting. Had the sisters been indulging in plain speaking, a matter in which the best of sisters occasionally show more of the licence of their relationship, than of the bond of union supposed to exist between them?

She was always distinctly maternal towards Margaret, hoping she understood, while a little disappointed that Margaret never sufficiently unbent to enable her to embrace her.

Margaret, when in good spirits, was inclined to make fun of her to Grace as rather "a gushing old lady," and the intended maternal impression was, so far, unsuccessful.

Before Lady Lyons had arranged her ideas entirely, Grace, much to her sister's surprise, took Lady Lyons into their counsel, and spoke openly to her of her hopes, her disappointments, and all else, and ended by saying—

"You were quite right, Lady Lyons—no one will have anything to say to me."

"My dear Miss Rivers," said the mistaken woman, and speaking in a most patronising tone, "Don't be afraid, your day will come. You will see, your day will come."

"You are all wrong," said Grace, very much annoyed with her; "I am talking of a chaperone."

"Grace, there is really no use in troubling Lady Lyons with our private affairs," said Margaret, in a tone she trusted would check Grace's indiscretion.

"Nonsense!" said Grace, coolly. "Now, Lady Lyons, here is the whole thing. I want to go and have a little peep at London" (Grace's ideas had become a little modified); "I do not expect to go to royal garden-parties, and all those very swell things, but I want to go to balls and do pleasant things. I am pining to have some fun."

"I am sure it is very natural," said Lady Lyons, a little touched by these girlish sentiments.

"Margaret does not agree with you," said Grace. "She is quite happy spending her time in hospitals and very gruesome places, where she looks after sick people—that is her idea of happiness. It is not mine."

"But, my dear Miss Rivers, a very wealthy person has every right to have some whims, and dear Mrs. Drayton may perhaps come round after a bit," said Lady Lyons, nodding her head at Margaret with effusiveness.

"You don't understand her," said Grace, who would not stop her confidences—because she wanted to tease her sister—"you call her rich, but she is not at all rich. She has given away all her money, Lady Lyons; she has sent thousands here, there, and everywhere. She will not touch it. I call it a horrid shame!" and Grace buried her face in her handkerchief.

To say that Lady Lyons was speechless is to say very little. She had the most extraordinary feeling, as though in some way Paul had been defrauded.

"It is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard in my life!"

Margaret rose and held out her hand, and wished her good-bye.

"There is no reason it should not be known," she said, with a heightened colour, "though I think my sister might have told the story differently."

Lady Lyons shook hands with her, and the change in her manner would have been most amusing had any one been there to see it.

When Margaret had left the room a sudden idea came to the excellent woman she had left sitting there. She moved a little nearer to Grace and said emphatically,

"Tell me, my dear Miss Rivers, now do be frank with me. How did that dear, good Mr. Sandford take your sister's marriage? Was he angry?"

"He was furious," answered Grace. "It was very ridiculous of him, as he brought the horrible man to the house in the first place, so he is the very last person who ought to find fault."

"And, when Mrs. Drayton goes to Scotland, she does not mean going to stay with Mr. Sandford?"

"Of course not. In that case I shall not be able to go to her eventually."

"And it really was a great deal of money that she has given up."

"It was thousands," said Grace, "and I must say, Lady Lyons, I think it was very selfish, she might have thought of me."

"I think she might indeed."

"Because she does not care for money that is no reason why I do not. I hate poverty."

"Most people do, it seems a very great pity," said Lady Lyons, feelingly, with a sigh.

"I do not pretend to be like Margaret, I do care for pretty things. I think I love clothes," said Grace, reflectively; "and, what is more, I never intend marrying any one who is not as rich as rich can be!"

"I think you are quite right, my dear, quite right, and having no money of your own."

"But I have plenty of money of my own," and Grace opened her eyes very wide, "I mean I have as much as I want from Mr. Sandford, but I should like to be extravagant."

"Excuse me, my dear Miss Rivers, pray excuse me, but you are a little inconsistent, you say you have money, plenty of money, and then you are angry because your sister gives hers away."

"I have plenty for a girl, that is, Margaret gives me everything I want, but I should like to have a house in London, horses, carriages, to be able to throw away money, to feel really rich! Now Margaret always puts such a disagreeable question to me. When I say I want something, she says 'Can you do without it?' Why one never would buy decent clothes if one said that," and Grace gave a very heavy sigh.

"Supposing, my dear Miss Rivers, only supposing, that you found a lady willing to be your chaperone, what share in the household expenses would you take?" Lady Lyons fixed her eyes with great eagerness on the girl's face.

"None!" said Grace, calmly.

Lady Lyons started.

"But if a lady went to London and took a house, and got carriages and servants, all on your account, she would expect you to share expenses."

"Then she would be quite wrong, and I have no idea of going to London with any one who knows nobody, who has not made even a beginning. For instance," and Grace spoke laughingly, "supposing you yourself thought of such a thing, why there would be no use; I daresay you know a few people, but all your acquaintances are very likely ... fossils," and Grace burst into a hearty fit of laughter. Lady Lyons drew her cloak round her and put on her most dignified manner.

"I will wish you good morning, Miss Rivers; of course my health alone would prevent my ever thinking of undertaking such a charge!"

"Now you are offended with me, Lady Lyons. Of course I was wrong to say fossils, but the word somehow slipped out. I do beg your pardon—you know I am a dreadful goose—do forgive me!"

Lady Lyons was not very easily appeased. She was naturally very irate at the word used, and she was deeply offended also at having been in a way rejected before she had proposed anything, but she wished to think over this idea of Grace Rivers. She had always had a hankering for London doctors, feeling vaguely that in some wonderful way health and strength and even youth might be renewed by their united skill.

Though Grace had so decidedly put her upon one side, she knew that this was not final. She was shrewd enough to see that if the girl could not carry out her plan in any other way she might be asked to undertake the task; and, though she was an invalid, so much of her ailment was on her nerves, that cheerful society might do her good.

She extended the hand of forgiveness to Grace, therefore, with a tinge of patronage, and peace was so far established between them.

Much to Margaret's indignation Grace insisted upon advertising, and her advertisement caused no little discussion between the sisters.

"I shall put it, 'A young lady of position, and of good birth, wishes to reside with a lady of ...' I am afraid if I put in 'rank' it will look snobbish," she said, reflectively, "and I do not care if she has rank or not. I only want to be with somebody who knows every one!"

"I do not see how you can word it so as to express your whole meaning," said Margaret; "and you really do not know, yourself, what you want."

Grace smiled.

"Oh, yes, I do. I want plenty of really good society. Why go over it all again?"

"Because you are asking what I fancy is an impossibility. If you were an heiress, then all would be easy enough; but with moderate means, I repeat, no one with a position will be troubled with such a charge."

Grace however persisted, and when the advertisement had been for some days staring her in the face she received two answers.

"Lady Turnbull will be glad to afford an interview to the young lady wishing to go into society, and wishes to know what sum the young lady proposes to contribute in return for chaperonage, board, lodging, and anxiety of mind."

"The woman must be mad!" exclaimed Grace. "Anxiety of mind! I never heard anything so ridiculous."

The other letter was from a Mrs. Geoffrey Lansdowne Bill, who used her name in extenso through it, from end to end.

"Mrs. Geoffrey Lansdowne Bill, having rather a more roomy house than she requires, would resign two rooms to the young lady who advertised for a happy and refined home and chaperonage. Mrs. Geoffrey Lansdowne Bill, having married two of her daughters well, would be quite prepared to farther the young lady's views in that direction.

"The society among which she moves is mixed, partaking of the literary and fashionable equally. Mrs. Geoffrey Lansdowne Bill of course expects to be very handsomely remunerated for her trouble, and I wish to hear from the young lady at once."

Even Margaret laughed heartily over this effusion.

"A pity one of her literary friends did not help her to write her letter," she said, laughing, as she looked it over, "and keep her tenses in order."

"I should think the society was 'mixed,'" exclaimed Grace, wrathfully, "and I know what you are thinking—you think that these two failures will prove me to be quite wrong—you imagine that this will convince me that my plan is an impossible one—but I mean to do it somehow."

"Very well," said Margaret, very quietly.

Only two days after this Grace came into the room, with a rush, and announced that Mr. Stevens was there and wished to see her; and, in the same breath, she added, "I have seen Lady Lyons, and she is going to look after me, she has gone to London to see about rooms, and now nothing remains but for you to say how much money you can give me. I shall want plenty, you know, and do not keep me a moment in suspense." Before Margaret could answer her she was gone.

There was always a bitter sense of humiliation to poor Margaret when the question of her husband's money had to be touched upon.

She had seldom seen Mr. Stevens, though they had a great deal of correspondence. He never could understand her views. Having married Mr. Drayton for his money in the first instance, why did she refuse to benefit by his will afterwards?

This apparent inconsistency troubled him; he had judged her harshly before they had met, and now he had learned to like her so well that he wanted some explanation of her conduct that would satisfy him.

He came to see her, now, because some things had remained unexplained, and he felt that much trouble and correspondence might be saved by a personal interview.

Margaret never saw him without emotion. She had that sort of instinct, we most of us have, about the liking or disliking an acquaintance has for us, and she knew that, though he showed her civility and even compassion, she had not his approval.

How could he approve of her, knowing only the bare fact of her marriage? Sometimes she longed to tell him at any rate so much as might set her right in his eyes, because the disapprobation of an essentially just man was painful to her.

But the circumstances that had led to her marriage, and which she had judged to be so important at the time, had been proved to possess no real importance. She had yielded to her sister's weak dread of a poverty she detested, and her hope of escaping to a more congenial atmosphere; and, when she found that Margaret's sacrifice had not altered her conditions, she calmly accepted them as the inevitable, and poor Margaret felt that all she had suffered had not been in reality demanded of her.

In this lay the sting of it all—and she could not now bring herself back to that excitement of feeling and agony of mind about Grace which had pushed her into an action she now so bitterly regretted.

"You have resigned all Mr. Drayton's money now, Mrs. Drayton," said Mr. Stevens, after a long conversation. "This last cheque to the Children's Hospital is the last balance, as far as regards you. Of course your sister's remains untouched, and, I suppose, as the investment is a good one, she will not care to disturb it."

"My sister's?" inquired Margaret, wonderingly. "What money do you refer to?"

"Do you not remember? Mr. Drayton told me you made a great point of it—that you asked him to settle something on her—that in the event of his death she should be provided for."

Margaret did remember it now with a hot blush of shame. Yes, it had been part of her bargain.

"How much is there?" she asked in a low voice.

Mr. Stevens looked at her in surprise.

"There are fifteen thousand pounds; the life interest is left to you only; the money becomes hers at your death. You see, therefore, you cannot alienate this sum. You cannot give it away."

"I am sure my sister will think with me...." she began, and then stopped suddenly; she had a conviction that Grace would think very differently.

"I do not know if you can enter into my feeling about Mr. Drayton's money," she said, hurriedly. "It is no whim, no distaste for the comforts and luxuries of life, but I cannot!" she continued, with a tone of passion surprising to him in one usually so quiet and impassive before him. A great sob broke her voice. She felt ashamed of betraying emotion before one she conceived to be unsympathetic, and in a moment or two she checked all signs of it, and said in a calmer tone: "I trust my sister will see all this as I do."

"I do not think she will," said Mr. Stevens, who felt intensely for her, and who liked her better than he had ever thought possible. "But I do not think that her action in the matter need disturb you, people are so differently constituted. I myself fully appreciate your feeling in the matter; it is honourable to you, if you will allow me to say so."

"I am so glad you understand," said Margaret, simply. "I have been afraid that you could not approve...."

She stopped short, afraid of again breaking down; and then, in a calmer voice, turned to the subject of those scenes she had so lately visited, and the wants of the poor children she was so interested in.

He was more and more charmed with her; here was no high-flown nonsense, no exaggerated sentiment, but all her schemes were practical and full of common sense.

He stayed long, then he said,

"The only thing to be settled now is, whether the interest from the fifteen thousand pounds you will have nothing to do with is to be applied to charitable purposes or paid to your sister?"

"I will write to you."

"Do; and Mrs. Dorriman, do you know, is trusting to me to see you safe through the perils of your long journey."

"But it will give you so much trouble."

"Not at all;" he spoke in such a kind tone that Margaret felt she had gained him as a friend.

"Dear Mrs. Dorriman," she said softly, "what a lesson she is to us all; so unselfish and so perfectly unconscious of all her own virtues!"

He was silent, and after a few moments he left her and she waited for Grace, full of a certain vague unrest, not knowing what she would do, more than half afraid that she would see nothing but satisfaction in the fact of having an income, unable to sympathise with the difference that lay between them, forgetting that Grace knew, after all, very little of those dreadful months, and that it was quite impossible for her to see things from her point of view.

She turned to pleasanter things. Lying on the table was a small parcel. She well knew what it was, as she had a letter from the publisher that morning.

The proofs of her poem lay before her. Though she had concealed her name her first idea was one almost of fear. She had poured out her whole heart in these lines—her sorrows, her bitter mourning over the past. Reading it all now, how vividly it all came back to her! The lines on her child's death touched her with fresh sorrow; again she felt the terribly blank feeling of loss, and stretched once more her empty arms towards an unanswering grave.

It was into this wave of feeling that Grace's voice broke, and it jarred upon her even more than usual.

With a hurried knock, as though a formality she might dispense with, and without waiting for an answer, Grace came in, all her clothes and her light fluffy hair in a state of discomposure.

"Margaret!" she exclaimed, "I am going away; either I leave the house or Jean—that most tiresome, provoking, aggravating, old Scotchwoman. I will not stay here if she remains!"

"What in the world has happened now?" said poor Margaret, worried and troubled, and speaking with a certain sharpness not habitual to her.

"You need not speak to me like that. Of course you will take her part; but she has been so impertinent I will not stand it!"

"I ask you again," said Margaret, "what has she done? She nursed you faithfully and most kindly. What offence has she given you now?"

"She called me a Jezebel, and then said I had a leg in the grave."

"I doubt her saying this, and—oh, Grace, how can you?" and Margaret got up and looked steadily at her sister, her own face flushing red as she spoke.

"It is nothing to make a fuss about," said Grace, trying to laugh it off, "and it is you yourself who are to blame; you do not know how trying it is to hear you say one day I am looking very pale and am I well, and another day something of the same kind. I will not be ill, Margaret, do you hear?"

"I hear," said poor Margaret, in a low voice, shocked and distressed. To her primitive ideas the fact of Grace using rouge was a degradation she could not get over.

"You are as bad as Jean," said Grace, angrily: "and I have been waiting for that tiresome man to be gone to tell you my plans. What in the world had he to talk about to-day?"

"His business referred more to you than to me," and Margaret, still annoyed and ruffled, spoke very coldly.

Grace was in one of her most provoking moods; she was trying to hide any discomposure she felt by an air of bravado, and she resented Margaret's sharpness as though her sister was injuring her deeply by her tone.

"Did he come to offer me his hand?" she asked, drawing herself up and looking at Margaret with raised eyebrows; "perhaps, middle-aged as he is, he may think as one sister——Oh, forgive me, darling Margaret! I am hateful and detestable! No one but you would have patience with me! I will go and ask Jean's pardon! I will do anything only don't look so!"

She flung herself upon her knees by Margaret, weeping passionately.

"Grace, there are only we two; let us love each other, and not drift into unkindness," whispered Margaret, and Grace checked her weeping and got up.

"Now tell me," she said, "what you mean, darling. In what way did his visit refer to me?"

"Mr. Drayton, it seems, to please me," began Margaret.... "No," she said, "I must put it to you truthfully. When I agreed to marry him I stipulated that out of his wealth he should provide for you in such a way that if I died or he died you should be beyond want."

"And what did he do?" asked Grace, breathlessly, her eyes sparkling with eagerness.

"He left fifteen thousand pounds to you and the life interest to me, Grace."

"And he left nothing to me outright! What a shame!" and Grace's eyes filled with angry tears.

"He knew that so long as I lived you would share anything I had," said Margaret, gently.

"Which it seems is little enough, as you are reducing yourself to a state of pauperism by degrees," said Grace, bitterly.

"You have all you want, and Mr. Sandford's liberal allowance is more than sufficient for us both."

"And as I do not wish you to die, darling, and you are stronger than I am, it is a very empty compliment."

"I do not wish to touch this money, Grace. I hope you will not touch it either."

"How can I touch it if it is yours?"

"But if I do not take the income it will either accumulate for you or I believe you could have the interest now."

"Delightful!" exclaimed Grace. "Now, Margaret, you may spare yourself any remarks. I have this money within my reach and I intend to take it,—there!"