"As on her couch of pain a child was lying."—Song.

Lilian's injury turns out to be not only a sprain, but a very bad one, and strict quiet and rest for the sufferer are enjoined by the fat little family doctor. So for several days she lies supine and obedient upon a sofa in Lady Chetwoode's boudoir, and makes no moan even when King Bore with all his horrible train comes swooping down upon her. He is in greatest force at such times as when all the others are down-stairs dining and she is (however regretfully) left to her own devices. The servants passing to and fro with dishes sometimes leave the doors open, and then the sound of merry voices and laughter, that seems more frequent because she is at a distance and cannot guess the cause of their merriment, steals up to her, as she lies dolefully upon her pillows with her hands clasped behind her sunny head.

When four days of penance have so passed, Lilian grows triste, then argumentative, then downright irritable, distracting Lady Chetwoode by asking her perpetually, with tears in her eyes, when she thinks she will be well. "She is so tired of lying down. Her foot must be nearly well now. It does not hurt her nearly so much. She is sure, if she might only use it a little now and then, it would be well in half the time," and so on.

At last, when a week has dragged itself to a close, Lilian turns her cajoleries upon the doctor, who is her sworn vassal, and coaxes and worries him into letting her go down-stairs, if only to dine.

"Eh? So soon pining for freedom? Why, bless me, you have been only two or three days laid up."

"Six long, long days, dear doctor."

"And now you would run the risk of undoing all my work. I cannot let you put your foot to the ground for a long time yet. Well,"—softened by a beseeching glance,—"if you must go down I suppose you must; but no walking, mind! If I catch you walking I shall put you into irons and solitary confinement for a month. I dare say, Lady Chetwoode,"—smiling archly down upon Miss Chesney's slight figure,—"there will be some young gentleman to be found in the house not only able but willing to carry to the dining-room so fair a burden!"

"We shall be able to manage that easily. And it will be far pleasanter for her to be with us all in the evening. Guy, or her cousin Mr. Chesney, can carry her down."

"I think, auntie," speaking very slowly, "I should prefer Archibald."

"Eh! eh! you hear, madam, she prefers Archibald,—happy Archibald!" cackles the little doctor, merrily, being immensely tickled at his own joke.

"Archibald Chesney is her cousin," replies Lady Chetwoode, with a sigh, gazing rather wistfully at the girl's flushed, averted face.

So Lilian gains the day, and Sir Guy coming into his mother's boudoir half an hour later is told the glad news.

"Dr. Bland thinks her so much better," Lady Chetwoode tells him. "But she is not to let her foot touch the ground; so you must be careful, darling," to Lilian. "Will you stay with her a little while, Guy? I must go and write some letters."

"I shan't be in the least lonely by myself, auntie," says Lilian, smoothly, letting her fingers stray meaningly to the magazine beside her; yet in spite of this chilling remark Sir Guy lingers. He has taken up his station on the hearth-rug and is standing with his back to the fire, his arms crossed behind him, and instead of seeking to amuse his wounded ward is apparently sunk in reverie. Suddenly, after a protracted silence on both sides, he raises his head, and regarding her earnestly, says:

"May I take you down to dinner to-night, Lilian?"

"Thank you," formally: "it is very kind of you to offer, Sir Guy. But Archie was here a moment ago, and he has promised to take that trouble upon himself." Then, in a low but perfectly distinct tone, "I can trust Archie!"

Although no more is said, Guy thoroughly understands her thoughts have traveled backward to that one unlucky night when, through a kiss, he sinned past all chance of pardon. As his own mind follows hers, the dark color mounts slowly to his very brow.

"Am I never to be forgiven for that one offense?" he asks, going up to her couch and looking gravely down upon her.

"I have forgiven, but unhappily I cannot forget," returns she, gently, without letting her eyes meet his. Then, with an air of deliberation, she raises her magazine, and he leaves the room.

So Sir Guy retires from the contest, and Archibald is elected to the coveted position of carrier to her capricious majesty, and this very night, to her great joy, brings her tenderly, carefully, to the dining-room, where a sofa has been prepared for her reception.

It so happens that three days later Archibald is summoned to London on business, and departs, leaving with Lilian his faithful promise to be back in time to perform his evening duty toward her.

But man's proposals, as we know, are not always carried out, and Chesney's fall lamentably short; as just at seven o'clock a telegram arriving for Lady Chetwoode tells her he has been unexpectedly detained in town by urgent matters, and cannot by any possibility get home till next day.

Cyril is dining with some bachelor friends near Truston: so Lady Chetwoode, who is always thoughtful, bethinks her there is no one to bring Lilian down to dinner except Guy. This certainly, for some inward reason, troubles her. She sighs a little as she remembers Lilian's marked preference for Chesney's assistance, then she turns to her maid—the telegram has reached her as she is dressing for dinner—and says to her:

"A telegram from Mr. Chesney: he cannot be home to dinner. My hair will do very well. Hardy: go and tell Sir Guy he need not expect him."

Hardy, going, meets Sir Guy in the hall below, and imparts her information.

Naturally enough, he too thinks first of Lilian. Much as it displeases his pride, he knows he must in common courtesy again offer her his rejected services. There is bitterness in the thought, and perhaps a little happiness also, as he draws his breath rather quickly, and angrily suppresses a half smile as it curls about his lips. To ask her again, to be again perhaps refused! He gazes irresolutely at the staircase, and then, with a secret protest against his own weakness, mounts it.

The second dinner-bell has already sounded: there is no time for further deliberation. Going reluctantly up-stairs, he seeks with slow and lingering footsteps his mother's boudoir.

The room is unlit, save by the glorious fire, half wood, half coal, that crackles and laughs and leaps in the joy of its own fast living. Upon a couch close to it, bathed in its warm flames, lies the little slender black-robed figure so inexpressibly dear to him. She is so motionless that but for her wide eyes, gazing so earnestly into the fire, one might imagine her wrapt in slumber. Her left arm is thrown upward so that her head rests upon it, the other hangs listlessly downward, almost touching the carpet beneath her.

She looks pale, but lovely. Her golden hair shines richly against the crimson satin of the cushion on which she leans. As Guy approaches her she never raises her eyes, although without doubt she sees him. Even when he stands beside her and gazes down upon her, wrathful at her insolent disregard, she never pretends to be aware of his near presence.

"Dinner will be ready in three minutes," he says, coldly: "do you intend coming down to-night?"

"Certainly. I am waiting for my cousin," she answers, with her eyes still fixed upon the fire.

"I am sorry to be the conveyer of news that must necessarily cause you disappointment. My mother has had a telegram from Chesney saying he cannot be home until to-morrow. Business detains him."

"He promised me he would return in time for dinner," she says, turning toward him at last, and speaking doubtfully.

"No doubt he is more upset than you can be at his unintended defection. But it is the case for all that. He will not be home to-night."

"Well, I suppose he could not help it."

"I am positive he couldn't!" coldly.

"You have great faith in him," with an unpleasant little smile. "Thank you, Sir Guy: it was very kind of you to bring me such disagreeable news." As she ceases speaking she turns back again to the contemplation of the fire, as though desirous of giving him his congÉ.

"I can hardly say I came to inform you of your cousin's movements," replies he, haughtily; "rather to ask you if you will accept my aid to get down-stairs?"

"Yours!"

"Even mine."

"No, thank you," with slow surprise, as though she yet doubts the fact of his having again dared to offer his services: "I would not trouble you for worlds!"

"The trouble is slight," he answers, with an expressive glance at the fragile figure below him.

"But yet a trouble! Do not distress yourself, Sir Guy: Parkins will help me, if you will be so kind as to desire him."

"Your nurse"—hastily—"would be able, I dare say."

"Oh, no. I can't bear trusting myself to women. I am an arrant coward. I always think they are going to trip, or let me drop, at every corner."

"Then why refuse my aid?" he says, even at the price of his self-respect.

"No; I prefer Parkins!"

"Oh, if you prefer the assistance of a footman, there is nothing more to be said," he exclaims, angrily, going toward the door much offended, and with just a touch of disgust in his tone.

Now, Miss Chesney does not prefer the assistance of a footman; in fact, she would prefer solitude and a lonely dinner rather than trust herself to such a one; so she pockets her pride, and, seeing Sir Guy almost outside the door, raises herself on her elbow and says, pettishly, and with the most flagrant injustice:

"Of course I can stay here all by myself in the dark, if there is no one to take me down."

"I wish I understood you," says Guy, irritably, coming back into the room. "Do you mean you wish me to carry you down? I am quite willing to do so, though I wish with all my heart your cousin were here to take my place. It would evidently be much pleasanter for all parties. Nevertheless, if you deign to accept my aid," proudly, "I shall neither trip nor drop you, I promise."

There is a superciliousness in his manner that vexes Lilian; but, having an innate horror of solitude, go down she will: so she says, cuttingly:

"You are graciousness itself! you give me plainly to understand how irksome is this duty to you. I too wish Archie were here, for many reasons, but as it is——" she pauses abruptly; and Guy, stooping, raises her quietly, tenderly, in his arms, and, with the angry scowl upon his face and the hauteur still within his usually kind blue eyes, begins his march down-stairs.

It is rather a long march to commence, with a young woman, however slender, in one's arms. First comes the corridor, which is of a goodly length, and after it the endless picture-gallery. Almost as they enter the latter, a little nail half hidden in the doorway catches in Lilian's gown, and, dragging it roughly, somehow hurts her foot. The pain she suffers causes her to give way to a sharp cry, whereupon Guy stops short, full of anxiety.

"You are in pain?" he says, gazing eagerly into the face so close to his own.

"My foot," she answers, her eyes wet with tears; "something dragged it: oh, how it hurts! And you promised me to be so careful, and now——but I dare say you are glad I am punished," she winds up, vehemently, and then bursts out crying, partly through pain, partly through nervousness and a good deal of self-torturing thought long suppressed, and hides her face childishly against his sleeve because she has nowhere else to hide it. "Lay me down," she says, faintly.

There is a lounging-chair close to the fire that always burns brightly in the long gallery: placing her in it, he stands a little aloof, cursing his own ill-luck, and wondering what he has done to make her hate him so bitterly. Her tears madden him. Every fresh sob tears his heart. At last, unable to bear the mental agony any longer, he kneels down beside her, and, with an aspect of the deepest respect, takes one of her hands in his.

"I am very unfortunate," he says, humbly. "Is it hurting you very much?"

"It is better now," she whispers; but for all that she sobs on very successfully behind her handkerchief.

"You are not the only one in pain,"—speaking gently but earnestly: "every sob of yours causes me absolute torture."

This speech has no effect except to make her cry again harder than ever. It is so sweet to a woman to know a man is suffering tortures for her sake.

A little soft lock of her hair has shaken itself loose, and has wandered across her forehead. Almost unconsciously but very lovingly, he moves it back into its proper place.

"What have I done, Lilian, that you should so soon have learned to hate me?" he whispers: "we used to be good friends."

"So long ago"—in stifled tones from behind the handkerchief—"that I have almost forgotten it."

"Not so very long. A few weeks at the utmost,—before your cousin came."

"Yes,"—with a sigh,—"before my cousin came."

"That is only idle recrimination. I know I once erred deeply, but surely I have repented, and—— Tell me why you hate me."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know myself."

"What! you confess you hate me without cause?"

"That is not it."

"What then?"

"How can I tell you," she says, impatiently, "when I know I don't hate you at all?"

"Lilian, is that true?" taking away the handkerchief gently but forcibly that he may see her face, which after all is not nearly so tear-stained as it should be, considering all the heart-rending sobs to which he has been listening. "Are you sure? am I not really distasteful to you? Perhaps even,"—with an accession of hope, seeing she does not turn from him,—"you like me a little, still?"

"When you are good,"—with an airy laugh and a slight pout—"I do a little. Yes,"—seeing him glance longingly at her hand,—"you may kiss it, and then we shall be friends again, for to-night at least. Now do take me down, Sir Guy: if we stay here much longer I shall be seeing bogies in all the corners. Already your ancestors seem to be frowning at me, and a more dark and blood-thirsty set of relatives I never saw. I hope you won't turn out as bad to look at in your old age."

"It all depends. When we are happy we are generally virtuous. Misery creates vice."

"What a sententious speech!" He has taken up his fair burden again, and they are now (very slowly, I must say) descending the stairs. "Now here comes a curve," she says, with a return of all her old sauciness: "please do not drop me."

"I have half a mind to," laughing. "Suppose, now, I let you fall cleverly over these banisters on to the stone flooring beneath, I should save myself from many a flout and many a scornful speech, and rid myself forever of a troublesome little ward."

Leaning her head rather backward, she looks up into his face and smiles one of her sweetest, tenderest smiles.

"I am not afraid of you now, Guardy," she murmurs, softly; whereat his foolish heart beats madly. The old friendly appellation, coming so unexpectedly from her, touches him deeply: it is with difficulty he keeps himself from straining her to his heart and pressing his lips upon the beautiful childish mouth upheld to him. He has had his lesson, however, and refrains.

He is still regarding her with unmistakable admiration, when Miss Beauchamp's voice from the landing above startles them both, and makes them feel, though why they scarcely know, partners in guilt.

There is a metallic ring in it that strikes upon the ear, and suggests all sorts of lady-like disgust and condemnation.

"I am sure, Guy, if Lilian's foot be as bad as she says it is, she would feel more comfortable lying on a sofa. Are you going to pose there all the evening for the benefit of the servants? I think it is hardly good taste of you to keep her in your arms upon the public staircase, whatever you may do in private."

The last words are uttered in a rather lower tone, but are still distinctly audible. Lilian blushes a slow and painful red, and Sir Guy, giving way to a naughty word that is also distinctly audible, carries her down instantly to the dining-room.