When Rhoda got home that morning, she found that Mrs. M’Alister had already begun to pack. Ned was to go to Plymouth almost at once, and Mr. Price was anxious that his sister and the younger boys should return with him on the following Saturday. Little Hugh was to stay at Leyton for the present; Rhoda was to bring him down when she came for her holiday in August.

Mrs. M’Alister did not guess how hard Rhoda found it to be cheerful as she helped with the packing. A great load was lifted off her heart by the ready way in which the girl had acquiesced in the new arrangements. Much as it grieved her to part with Rhoda, she could not help looking forward with delight to going back to the dear old farmhouse in which her childhood had been spent. And Rhoda understood exactly how she felt. There was no bitterness in her heart; but, brave and cheery as she was, she dreaded to think of the lonely days that lay before her.

She did not go down to Woodcote till Thursday afternoon. Miss Merivale had asked her to come early and spend the day, but she had written to explain how it was that she could not spare the time; her aunt wanted her help in packing.

The old house looked more beautiful and peaceful than ever, steeped in the golden afternoon sunlight. Rhoda thought with a thrill of wonder of Rose’s words about her home. How could she have spoken so!

Miss Merivale was in the library, with all the windows open to the garden. Rhoda was tremulously surprised at her greeting. She kissed her, and even when they sat down she did not leave her hand go, but held it tight, looking anxiously at her.

“I want you to tell me more about your aunt,” she said. “I did not quite understand your letter. You are not going to Devonshire?”

“Oh no; I am going on with my work here,” Rhoda said hastily. And after a pause she added, impelled by the yearning kindness in Miss Merivale’s eyes, “Mr. Price wishes me to stay here. It is not as if I was his own niece, you see. And I am nearly twenty; I am quite able to earn my own living.”

Miss Merivale dropped her hand suddenly, and rose and went to the window. The quiver in Rhoda’s voice was more than she could bear. She spoke without turning round. “I see they are carrying the tea into the garden. Let us go out. I thought it would be pleasanter to have it out of doors. And afterwards you shall tell me what you mean to do. I should like”—

But she checked herself. She wanted to say that she would like Rhoda to come to Woodcote; but she saw how strange such a wish would seem, both to Rhoda and to Tom and Rose. She must wait a little. She must content herself with helping her in other ways.

Tom had been obliged to go to Guilford that day on farm business; but somehow he had managed to get back early, and he strolled into the garden just as they sat down to tea, not looking in the least as if he had just ridden twelve miles at headlong speed.

A faint smile crossed Miss Merivale’s pale face as she saw him. It was what she had been hoping for.

She left the talk during tea-time to him and Rhoda, who had plenty to say to each other. They were both enthusiasts about a garden, and found it intensely interesting to compare notes. After tea, Tom was eager to show Rhoda some white violets in the wood close by. He found she had never seen any.

They went off together, and Miss Merivale could hear their eager, happy voices as they searched about the wood looking for the violets, just like two children. She leant back in her chair, closing her eyes. For the moment the ache at her heart was stilled. She was hoping that all might yet come right.

Rhoda went home that evening feeling like a different creature. Mrs. M’Alister had a jealous pang or two as she listened to her account of the happy time she had had.

“Don’t you trust too much to her promises, child,” she said anxiously. “She’s taken a sudden fancy to you, that’s clear enough; but it mightn’t last. She might take a fancy to somebody else next week, and forget all about you. I have heard of people like that.”

“I don’t think Miss Merivale is a bit like that,” returned Rhoda stoutly. “Hasn’t she a sweet, kind face, Aunt Mary? I wish she didn’t look so ill.”

“Don’t rest your hopes on her too much,” repeated Mrs. M’Alister, shaking her head gloomily. “James will be in again to-night, and you will hear what he says. He has heard of a firm that wants a lady-clerk. We think you’d better try for it, Rhoda. I’d like to see you settled before we go away. I’ve been wishing and wishing this afternoon that you could go with us.”

“You mustn’t say that to Mr. Price, Aunt Mary,” Rhoda said quickly. “You know how it vexes him. And he is very kind. You heard him tell me that I was to ask him for any money I wanted. But I don’t think I shall want any. Miss Merivale said again this afternoon that she would be able to get me as much work as I could do. She is going to write to me on Monday. I am quite sure she meant it. And I don’t want to try for work in an office if I can help it. I should feel in prison.”

Miss Merivale had spoken very vaguely of the work she was going to give Rhoda. She had, in truth, made up her mind that Rhoda must come to Woodcote. She was only waiting till Rose came home to arrange it. However much she surprised Rose and Tom, however difficult it would be to explain why she wanted Rhoda, Rhoda must come to her. She could not leave Lydia’s girl alone in London. And Tom’s surprise, at least, would have no element of annoyance in it. It was quite plain already that Rhoda’s company was delightful to him.

It had been arranged that Tom should go and fetch his sister on Friday, but by the first post on Friday morning Miss Merivale got a letter from Rose, saying that Pauline would return with her that afternoon, and that there was no need for Tom to come to London. It was at Pauline’s instigation Rose had written the letter. Those few charmed days in the little flat had made Rose more passionately desirous than ever to get away from Woodcote, and Pauline had suggested that she should go home with Rose and beg her aunt to allow her to pay a longer visit a little later in the year.

“May is the best month of the year in London, Rose. You shall spend May with me. The flat will have to be given up then, if I cannot get anyone to share it with me. Lady Desborough only took it till the end of April. But we will have a lovely May together. I am sure your aunt will not refuse to let you come.”

“I couldn’t possibly stay away for a month,” Rose said firmly, but with the air of a martyr. “Aunt Lucy looked heartbroken when I asked for a week this time. She has got to depend on me for everything.”

“Just so. But if you were away she would do things for herself, and it would be a thousand times better for her. She won’t have missed you this time as much as you fear, Rosie. And won’t you think of me a little bit? Just think how lonely I shall be!”

“Oh, I know. And I want to come again,” Rose said piteously. “I might get away for a week in May. If you spoke to Aunt Lucy”—

“Trust it to me entirely, dear. I know exactly what to say. And I feel sure your aunt will let you be free when she understands how much you want it. For a week or so, I mean,” she added hastily, as she saw Rose’s anxious look. “I mustn’t ask for more, I suppose.”

“It wouldn’t be a bit of good to ask,” sighed Rose. “If Aunt Lucy said I might stay longer, she would look so miserable about it I should not like to take her at her word. But I might be spared for a week, I should think. That will be something to look forward to.”

They reached Woodcote early in the afternoon, and Pauline was soon furnished with an opportunity to plead Rose’s cause with Miss Merivale. Tom had bought a new pony which he wanted Rose to see, and they went away to the stables, leaving their aunt and Pauline alone. Pauline had laughingly refused to accompany them.

“I am going to tell Miss Merivale what Mrs. Metcalfe said about your music, Rose,” she said. “It would make you vain if you were to hear it.”

“Who is Mrs. Metcalfe?” asked Tom, when they got outside. “Is she a great authority, Rose?”

“She is Lady Desborough’s sister,” returned Rose, with dignity. “Pauline and I went to tea there yesterday. She lives in Grosvenor Square.”

“Ah, I understand now why Miss Smythe spoke of her with bated breath,” returned Tom in the light, bantering tone which so often irritated Rose. “I might have known she lived in Grosvenor Square.”

Rose refused to take notice of his raillery. “It was Mrs. Metcalfe who got Miss Sampson for Clare. She heard of her through some agency. What has made Aunt Lucy take such an interest in her, Tom? She was down here again yesterday, wasn’t she?”

“Yes. Have you seen her, Rosie?”

“For a moment or two. She looked nice, I thought. But I can’t imagine what Aunt Lucy can find for her to do.”

“Aunt Lucy is sure that she must be related to Cousin Lydia’s husband. It is natural that she should take a great interest in her. She is coming down again next week to stay for a day or two. Aunt Lucy told me this morning that she meant to ask her. I am sure you will like her, Rosie.”

Tom spoke without looking at his sister, and hurried forward to open the gate of the stable yard for her without waiting to get an answer. But Rose had no answer ready. The tone in which Tom had spoken took her breath away. He seemed to think it was a matter of importance whether she liked Miss Sampson or not.

When they got back to the house, Tom went off to his own den, and when Rose entered the drawing-room she found Pauline alone.

The latter ran towards her and caught her by both hands. Her eyes were sparkling joyfully. “My Rose, I have delightful news for you. Now, confess that I am the cleverest person in the world! I have made your aunt as anxious as you are about your music. She wants you to spend two months with me in London. Two whole long, lovely months! Think of it, Rosamunda mia! And you can come next week. It is far, far more than I ever hoped for. And, who knows, you might get an extension of leave after that. We may spend the whole summer together in the flat. Well, why don’t you say something? Aren’t you pleased?”

“But, Pauline, I can’t go. Aunt Lucy couldn’t do without me. I”—

“My dear, she wants you to go,” returned Pauline impatiently. “Go up and speak to her, and you will find it is so. Miss Sampson is to come here as her companion. She isn’t the person I should choose for a companion, but chacun À son goÛt.”

“Did you suggest that she should come here?” asked Rose. “Oh, Pauline, don’t look at me like that! It is so sudden. And Aunt Lucy can’t bear strangers. I don’t think it is a good plan at all.”

Pauline dropped her hands with one look, and turned away. Her lips were quivering; her face had the stricken look of one who has received a cruel blow. She did not speak, but Rose was full of remorse instantly.

“Oh, Pauline, you know I want to come to you. It would be too lovely. But it is so sudden. I can’t believe Aunt Lucy would like to have Miss Sampson with her.”

“You had better speak to your aunt,” returned Pauline in an icy voice. “I wash my hands of the matter altogether. I did my best for you; but I see I was mistaken in thinking that you really cared about our being together. It does not matter I can give up the flat and go back to Mrs. Jephson’s.”

“Pauline, don’t speak like that,” begged Rose, with tears in her eyes. “You know how I love being with you. If I could be certain Aunt Lucy would not fret for me, I should be only too delighted to get away. I never feel more than half-alive here. But Miss Sampson could not do for her what I do.”

“Don’t you think you may exaggerate your usefulness to your aunt, dear?” Pauline returned, with a sneer. But with an effort she controlled her temper, and spoke the next words in a different tone. “Miss Merivale seems really anxious for you to have a change, Rose. I think she understands that you are bored and unhappy here.”

“Oh, Pauline, you did not say that to her?” cried Rose, the blood rushing, up into her face.

“Of course not, darling. It was your music I spoke most of. But she does want you to come to me. Go up and speak to her; you will see that she really wants it. You won’t make difficulties, Rose? Can’t you see it is best for both of you to be apart for a time? Your aunt will learn to do without you. When you come back you will be able to lead a much freer life. And think of the happy time we shall have!”

But Rose’s face did not light up as Pauline had expected, and it was with a very sober step that she went up to her aunt’s room. She had made up her mind to tell her aunt that she did not want to go and stay with Pauline—that she had never really thought of leaving her. She expected to be clasped and fondly kissed for being so ready to give up her visit; but she found, to her hurt surprise, that Pauline had been right, and that her aunt was bent on her going away for a time.

“It is a chance that may not happen again, Rosie,” she said, tenderly stroking her bright hair. “I have wanted you to have some really good music lessons for a long time, and Pauline and Mrs. Metcalfe will be able to see that you get the best. And you have been looking pale lately. You want a change; I know it has been dull for you. And I should like to have Rhoda here for a time. I have just been talking to Tom about it. He thinks it an excellent plan. You would like to go next week, wouldn’t you, darling? Pauline is very anxious to have you. Before she goes away we must settle how long you are to stay. Two months, I thought of. I can’t spare you longer than that, Rosie.”

But, affectionate as these words were, and loving the kiss that accompanied them, Rose went downstairs again with a sore heart. She was like those who pluck Dead Sea apples, and find the fruit that looked so fair when out of reach turning to ashes in their hands.