So Lady Chetwoode goes down to The Cottage in her carriage, and insists upon carrying Cecilia back with her,—to which, after a slight demur, Cecilia gladly assents.

"But how to get Cyril," says practical Lilian, who is with them.

"He is in Amsterdam," answers Cecilia, with some hesitation. "Colonel Trant told me so in his letter."

"Colonel Trant is the most wonderful man I know," says Lilian; "but Amsterdam of all places! What on earth can any one want in Amsterdam?"

At this they all laugh, partly because they are still somewhat nervously inclined, and partly because (though why, I cannot explain) they seem to find something amusing in the mere thought of Amsterdam.

"I hope he won't bring back with him a fat vrouw," says Miss Chesney. And then she runs up-stairs to tell Kate to get ready to accompany her mistress.

Turning rather timidly toward Lady Chetwoode, Cecilia says:

"When Cyril returns, then,—you will not—you do not——"

"When he returns, my dear, you must marry him at once, if only to make amends for all the misery the poor boy has been enduring. But,"—kindly—"you must study economy, child; remember you are not marrying a rich man."

"He is rich enough for me," smiling; "though indeed it need not signify, as I have money enough for both. I never spoke of it until now, because I wished to keep it as a little surprise for him on—on our wedding-day, but at Mr. Arlington's death I inherited all his fortune. He never altered the will made before our marriage, and it is nearly four thousand a year, I think," simply: "Colonel Trant knows the exact amount, because he is a trustee."

Lady Chetwoode colors deeply. This woman, whom she had termed "adventuress," is in reality possessed of a far larger fortune than the son she would have guarded from her at all hazards; proves to be an heiress, still further enriched by the priceless gifts of grace and beauty!

To say the very least of it, Lady Chetwoode feels small. But, pride coming to her rescue, she says, somewhat stiffly, while the pleasant smile of a moment since dies from her face:

"I had no idea you were so—so—in fact, I believed you almost portionless. I was led—how I know not—but I certainly was led to think so. What you say is a surprise. With so much money you should hesitate before taking any final step. The world is before you,—you are young, and very charming. I will ask you to forgive an old woman's bluntness; but remember, there is always something desirable in a title. I would have you therefore consider. My son is no match for you where money is concerned." This last emphatically and very proudly.

Cecilia flushes, and grows distressed.

"Dear Lady Chetwoode," she says, taking her hand forcibly. "I entreat you not to speak to me so. Do not make me again unhappy. This money, which up to the present I have scarcely touched, so hateful has it been to me, has of late become almost precious to my sight. I please myself with the thought that the giving of it to—to Cyril—may be some small return to him for all the tenderness he has lavished upon me. Do not be angry with me that I cherish, and find such intense gratification in this idea. It is so sweet to give to those we love!"

"You have a generous heart," Lady Chetwoode answers, moved by her generous manner, and pleased too, for money, like music, "hath charms." "If I have seemed ungracious, forget it. Extreme wonder makes us at times careless of courtesy, and we did not suspect one who could choose to live in such a quiet spot as this of being an heiress."

"You will keep my secret?" anxiously.

"I promise. You shall be the first to tell it to your husband upon your wedding-day. I think," says the elder lady, gracefully, "he is too blessed. Surely you possessed treasure enough in your own person!"

* * * * * * *

So Cecilia goes to Chetwoode, and shortly afterward Lady Chetwoode conceives a little plot that pleases her intensely, and which she relates with such evident gusto that Lilian tells her she is an intrigante of the deepest dye, and that positively for the future she shall feel quite afraid of her.

"I never heard anything so artful," says Taffy, who has with much perseverance wormed himself into their confidence. In fact, after administering various rebuffs they all lose heart, and confess to him the whole truth out of utter desperation. "Downright artful!" repeats Mr. Musgrave, severely. "I shouldn't have believed you capable of it."

But Cecilia says it is a charming scheme, and sighs for its accomplishment. Whereupon a telegram is written and sent to Cyril. It is carefully worded, and, though strictly truthful in letter, rather suggests the idea that his instant return to Chetwoode will be the only means of saving his entire family from asphyxiation. It is a thrilling telegram, almost bound to bring him back without delay, had he but one grain of humanity left in his composition.

It evokes an answer that tells them he has started on receipt of their message, and names the day and hour they may expect him, wind and weather permitting.

* * * * * * *

It is night,—a rather damp, decidedly unlovely night. The little station at Truston is almost deserted: only the station-master and two melancholy porters represent life in its most dejected aspect. Outside the railings stands the Chetwoode carriage, the horses foaming and champing their bits in eager impatience to return again to their comfortable stables.

Guy, with a cigar between his lips, is pacing up and down, indifferent alike to the weather or the delay. One of the melancholy porters, who is evidently in the final stage of depression, tells him the train was due five minutes ago, and hopes dismally there has been no accident higher up on the line. Guy, who is lost in thought, hopes so too, and instantly offers the man a cigar, through force of habit, which the moody one takes sadly, and deposits in a half-hearted fashion in one of his numerous rambling pockets to show to his children when he gets home.

"If ever I do get home," he says to himself, hopelessly, taking out and lighting an honest clay that has seen considerable service.

Then a shrill whistle rings through the air, the train steams lazily into the station, and Guy, casting a hasty glance at the closed blinds of the carriage outside, hastens forward to meet Cyril, who is the only passenger for Truston to-night.

"Has anything happened?" he asks, anxiously, advancing to greet Sir Guy.

"Yes, but nothing to make you uneasy. Do not ask me any questions now: you will hear all when you get home."

"Our mother is well?"

"Quite well. Are you ready? What a beastly objectionable night it is! Have you seen to everything, Buckley? Get in, Cyril. I am going outside to finish my cigar."

When Guy chooses, he is energetic. Cyril is not, and allows himself to be pushed unresistingly in the direction of the carriage.

"Hurry, man: the night is freezing," says Guy, giving him a final touch. "Home, Buckley."

Guy springs up in front. Cyril finds himself in the brougham, and in another instant they are beyond the station railings, rolling along the road leading to Chetwoode.

As Cyril closes the door and turns round, the light of the lamps outside reveals to him the outline of a dark figure seated beside him.

"Is it you, Lilian?" he asks, surprised; and then the dark figure leans forward, throws back a furred hood, and Cecilia's face, pale, but full of a glad triumph, smiles upon him.

"You!" exclaims he, unsteadily, unable through utter amazement to say anything more, while with his eyes he gathers in hungrily each delicate beauty in that "sweetest face to him in all this world."

Whereupon Cecilia nods almost saucily, though the tears are thick within her lovely eyes, and answers him:

"Yes, it is even I. Are you glad or sorry, that you stare so rudely at me? and never a word of greeting! Shame, then! Have you left all your manners behind you in Amsterdam? I have come all this way, this cold night, to bid you welcome and bring you home to Chetwoode, and yet—— Oh, Cyril!" suddenly flinging herself into his longing arms, "it is all right at last, my dear—dear—dear, and you may love me again as much as ever you like!"

When explanations have come to an end, and they are somewhat calmer, Cyril says:

"But how is it that you are here with Guy, and going to Chetwoode?"

"I am staying at Chetwoode. Your mother came herself, and brought me back with her. How kind she is, how sweet! Even had I never known you, I should have loved her dearly."

This last assurance from the lips of his beloved makes up the sum of Cyril's content.

"Tell me more, sweetheart," he says, contented only to listen. With his arms round her, with her face so close to his, with both their hearts beating in happy unison, he hardly cares to question, but is well pleased to keep silence, and listen to the soft, loving babble that issues from her lips. Her very words seem to him, who has so long wearied for them, set to tenderest music. "Like flakes of feathered snow, they melted as they fell."

"I have so much to tell, I scarcely know where to begin. Do you know you are to escort me to a ball at Mrs. Steyne's next week? No? why, you know nothing; so much for sojourning in Amsterdam. Then I suppose you are ignorant of the fact that I have ordered the most delicious dress you ever beheld to grace the occasion and save myself from disgracing you. And you are to be very proud of me, and to admire me immensely, or I shall never forgive you."

"I am pretty certain not to deserve condign punishment on that score," fondly. "Darling, can it be really true that we are together again, that all the late horrible hopelessness is at an end? Cecilia, if this should prove a dream, and I awoke now, it would kill me."

"Nay, it is no dream," softly. Turning up her perfect face, until the lips are close to his, she whispers, "Kiss me, and be convinced."