Ross Carmichael, Esq., of Carm Hall, Beverbridge, was not a punctual person at the best of times, but on this particular morning he was the cause of his servants' despair, for never had he been so late in coming down to breakfast. The cook had begged the footman to let her have back the bacon to 'hot up,' but he had replied that he dared not remove the dish from the table: 'Master might come down any minute now, and it would never do for him to have to wait while the dish was carried upstairs again.'

Now Mr. Carmichael had never been known to lose his temper with a servant, so their alarmed anxiety would have appeared ridiculous to any one ignorant of the peculiar awe that old gentleman inspired. He never scolded harshly, nor raised his voice in remonstrance, but his reproof would have been sarcasm, and the memory of the fault would have lingered for days in his mind. His expression was severe generally; only those persons who had not been so unfortunate as to offend him nearly always found out that his face did not do his heart justice.

A man of prejudices, and keen, though controlled passions, was Ross Carmichael, very self-sufficient, and terribly unwilling to forgive or forget the smallest injury.

This morning, however, he did not mind whether his bacon were well or ill-cooked, hot or cold, and the fact that one egg was boiled too hard quite escaped his attention.

His 'Good-morning, James,' was spoken as usual, then he sat down to the breakfast-table and ate the habitual meal in silence. James began to grow anxious about his master. He was not often so taciturn. At the end of a quarter of an hour the man ventured to inquire whether his master felt the room cold and would like a fire.

Mr. Carmichael lifted his eyes from his plate (fine, dark eyes they were, in striking contrast to the bent white brows above them), checked a desire to frown at the interruption to his reflections, and answered:

'No, James, thank you. A fire? You know I never have one lit in this room until October. This is only September.'

'Yes, sir; but unusually cold to-day is.'

Mr. Carmichael returned to his breakfast and meditation. In a few seconds, however, he looked up again and smiled.

'Do you remember that it was in September, ten years ago, that we returned from Australia, you and I, James?'

'Yes, sir, that I do. It was a capital journey, so we was told, but the sea was a deal too playful for my tastes.'

'Tut, tut; the sea was smooth—perfectly smooth—most of the time. You will not have forgotten the "station" then, the homestead, and little Miss Catherine?'

'The young lady as used to ride better than most men do over here, sir? It was a sight, and no mistake, to see her clearing the paling round that place they called the Gum Paddock—and she not more than fourteen or fifteen, or thereabouts.'

'I never gossip,' said the old gentleman, after another pause.

'No, sir; of course not.'

'I had a reason when I spoke about the journey to and from Australia, and the "homestead" where I stayed, You have served me tolerably well, and I am sure loyally, to the best of your ability for so long now, James, that I feel able to talk to you as I would to none of your fellow-servants.'

'I'm sure I hope so, sir,' cried the man, sorely puzzled, and not a little hurt by the dictatorial and patronising tone of his master.

His chagrined look touched Mr. Carmichael's heart.

'Why, certainly, James; I regard you as a proved friend. Don't look as though I had called you a murderer. We've faced perils together, and—and——'

Suddenly the 'squire' discovered that he was speaking strangely after the manner of his brother (Catherine's Uncle Jack), and this surprising fact made him break down altogether in his speech. The question to which he had been gently leading up, in order not to surprise James into feeling curious about it, burst without any warning from his lips.

'Do you think Miss Catherine liked me—was fond of me—in those days, James?'

'Indeed, yes, sir; why, she was for ever talking about her uncles.'

'Ah! but which did she prefer?'

'Which uncle, sir?'

'Yes. It was her Uncle John, was it not, James?'

'Mr. Jack, sir? Well, she was certainly remarkably attached to him, but then so she was to you, sir, and she seemed able to do anything she liked with you, sir, and it's not many people that could be said of.'

The squire pondered the answer, until he chuckled over it. The chuckle ended with a sigh, though.

Rising from the table, he drew a letter from his pocket and said shortly:

'Wrongly addressed; send Newton at once with it. And, James, after all you may light the fire here, and another in the drawing-room, for I expect Miss Catherine to see me this morning.'

James gave a start of surprise. Before he had recovered from his amazement sufficiently to reply, the squire had left the room, and was shut up in the library.

'"Miss Catherine" coming to Carm Hall! Why, "Miss Catherine" must be quite grown up by this time!'

Then James read the address on the letter in his hand:

'Colonel J. Carmichael,

Carm Hall,

Beverbridge.'

'Poor Mr. Jack! She reckoned he would be still here, in the old home!' sighed the man to himself, as he hurried away to send Newton at once with the missive. 'Strange, too, as the postman didn't know better than to deliver his letter here; but no doubt he only looked at the address, that's plain enough,—and where he ought to be too!'

The elder Mr. Carmichael was not studying in the library. His account-books lay untouched on his secretary-table; his morning papers were not cut yet; the huge volumes of reference stood upright on the shelves. He was sitting in his 'office-chair' before the desk, and there was a lot of business correspondence awaiting his attention; but he was only reading and re-reading the letter from his niece Catherine.

'Woodley Cottage,

'Beverbridge.

'My dear Uncle Ross,—

'I am coming to see you to-morrow morning—a few hours after you will receive this! Since I wrote to you, last Christmas, my worldly circumstances have undergone such a tremendous change that I am obliged to earn my own living; for which fact many kind-hearted, well-meaning folk have pitied me. I wonder why they think me so unfortunate? At the homestead I worked fifty times harder than my duties as Mrs. Arderne's companion oblige me to do now; and, after all, work is happiness, when God sanctions it. You shall hear no grumbles from me, I promise you! My stepfather is not dead, only bankrupt, and the station has passed into other hands. Mother's money, the little fortune she left me, has vanished, and Alice is married. Mrs. Arderne offered me a home just when I found myself without one. The dear kind soul has no real need of a "companion," so I tell her often; yet, as she does not wish me to leave her, I feel justified in remaining under her roof. This is a hired roof, by-the-bye, uncle—a furnished villa, taken for six months, because she has friends in the neighbourhood. Is it not a splendid opportunity for me to see you both again? It is ten years since we last met, when I rode with you as far as the boundary-rider's hut on the Curra Paddock. We said good-bye at Wattle Creek, do you recollect? Uncle Jack, seeing that I was nearly crying, tried to cheer me by inviting me to Beverbridge for next Christmas; but I went home in tears, because I knew I shouldn't be allowed to go to England all by myself. Yet here I am—ten years later! I'm grown up now, though; not "little Catherine" any longer!

'My pen has been running on, while I ought to have reserved all my news to tell you to-morrow, when I see you again; and I have not been able to resist writing to Uncle Jack as well as to you.

'Good-bye again, dear uncle, for a very short time now.

'Your affectionate niece,

'Catherine Carmichael.'

'Ha!—couldn't resist writing to "Uncle Jack" as well!'

The squire sighed and frowned as he pondered this admission.

Ten minutes later the library door behind him opened and shut, and he was startled by a voice which cried:

'Uncle, you didn't want me to wait ceremoniously in the drawing-room, did you?'

'Bless my soul, it is you, Catherine!'

The girl let both her hands remain in his grasp, and stood facing him, smiling, scrutinizing his face eagerly.

'Yes, Catherine at twenty-five instead of fifteen! You look very little older, only your beard has turned quite white!... How is Uncle Jack? Shall I see any difference in him? Is he as upright as ever?'

'He—I—I really do not know, my dear.'

'Not know? Oh, you mean that people who are always together are easily deceived on such points.'

'No, I did not, Catherine. It is three years since your Uncle John and I were always together!'

'Your own, only brother! Perhaps he is abroad, serving his Queen and country?'

'He lives in Beverbridge still, but not here. Your letter has been sent on to him by one of my servants, though I might reasonably have returned it to Jenkins, the postman, who should have known his business better than to have delivered it wrongly. Now come into the drawing-room, my dear; there is a fire there.'

'Please let us stay here. You look at home in this room. The drawing-room will be a chilly-looking place, I know, in spite of the fire.'

Mr. Carmichael's gaze softened as it rested on the merry pleading face.

'Still the same roguish young lady, Catherine? Bent on having your own way, even in trivial matters! Ah, well, you ought to have it, if it doesn't spoil you.'

'That latter sentence was an after-thought, uncle! Thank you! Remember, I am not a spoilt child of fortune any longer, but poor Miss Carmichael, the companion!'

Her hearty laugh was not echoed by her relative. In his opinion the loss of money was a great evil,—a few years earlier he would have been disposed to think it the greatest possible, only he was beginning to realize that riches are less powerful than is usually supposed. Catherine, being quick to note changes of expression in those dear to her, cried suddenly:

'Uncle! you are sorry for me!'

'Is that so remarkable, my dear?'

'Perhaps not, only I—I regret it. Why should you worry over my case, when it does not in the least distress me? If I were very rich, I should worry about the responsibility of such a stewardship, for fear I might not make the best use of it, and so disappoint God.'

Mr. Carmichael smiled involuntarily.

'You have an extraordinarily familiar way of speaking of God!'

'Because I used the words "disappoint God"? Does He not yearn over sinners? Did Christ not weep over Jerusalem? Are we not told, "Ye have wearied the Lord with your words"? If you, uncle, had showered love and wonderful gifts upon a creature who cast away the affection and the help, would not you be disappointed?... Oh, forgive me! My thoughtlessness has hurt you! I—I forgot Loring!'

Her penitence was very real, and tears had come into her eyes. She felt desperately angry with herself for having reminded Uncle Ross of the nephew who had run away to be a soldier.

'Loring certainly disappointed me—he has left my home lonely; and you are right in supposing that I prefer not to speak of him.' The old man's brow had contracted with a frown, which deepened as he went on speaking. 'While we are upon the subject, Catherine, let me remind you that, had not Loring despised money, as you seem to do, he would not have behaved badly to me. I consider that men and women ought to desire and respect wealth.'

It was the office-chair in which Catherine was sitting. She swung it round, that she might face her uncle, who was standing beside her, and impulsively laid her hand on his, as she answered:

'It is difficult to be quite frank with you, yet sincerity is always best, isn't it? I don't despise money,—indeed, I do desire it,—at least I should like more than I have, because—because I am engaged to a very poor hard-working man, and we shall not be able to marry until his circumstances have improved.'

'Engaged, Catherine?'

She blushed and nodded.

'But please let me make my explanation first,—I will tell you all about him presently. Some one suggested to me that—that some people might suppose that I—expected help from you, or—or——Oh, please understand, uncle dear, without any more explaining!'

'Some one suggested that the pretty niece was going to see a rich old uncle who would probably make her his heiress,—was that it? In this cynical world motives are generally misjudged, my dear girl.'

'I told the person (it was not Brian) that my Melbourne cousins were nearer kin to you than I,—I am only a stepniece, though we have the same surname,—and also that you have resolved to leave your fortune to charities, as you told me by letter. All the same, I was foolishly nervous lest you might misunderstand me; so I assured you, too bluntly, that I am quite happy with Mrs. Arderne, and enjoy earning my own living.'

The frown had gone from the squire's brow. It was with a serene smile that he asked, pressing Catherine's hand:

'And I may believe without undue vanity, that you wanted to see the old uncle again for his own sake?'

'Yes; yes, indeed!'

'Now tell me about this Brian. Is he worthy of you?'

'Of course he is!'

'That reply was expected.'

'You mustn't tease me, if you want to hear about my first and last romance!'

Catherine was not used to speaking much about herself, so it was the relation of Brian North's merits, talents, and history which she told Uncle Ross, rather than the story of how she had learned to love this man to whom her promise was plighted.

The squire paid most attention to the description of Brian's abilities; in fact, the moneyed gentleman was trying to calculate the author's worth by estimating his possible financial success or failure.

'If the young fellow has tact and imagination, and a practised pen, he may win you a fortune yet, my dear; but if, as I suspect, he is one of the large army of obstinate, blind, proud geniuses, then he isn't likely to be able to offer you a home at all; in which case, I can only trust you will grow tired of believing in him.'

Catherine felt that her pleasure in meeting this uncle again was all gone—dissipated by a few unsympathetic words! Yet, being genuinely fond of him, and knowing that his worldly wisdom was far more on his lips than in his heart, she tried to make allowances for him. Still, her feelings had been really hurt.

'You would not mistrust him if you knew him, uncle!' she cried eagerly. 'You wouldn't like me to have given him a half-hearted kind of love, would you? If I didn't believe in him, trust him wholly, I should not have promised to be his wife.'

'Girls are too tender-hearted,' said the squire. 'And where their affections are concerned they are utterly incapable of judgment. I will try to believe in your impecunious betrothed, Catherine, and soon you must make him come down to Beverbridge to see me, or rather that I may see him.... In the meantime we will not discuss him. You will stay and spend the day with me, of course?'

'No, I cannot, uncle. I am sorry, but my time is not my own, you know. I have to be back for lunch at one o'clock.'

'Then you certainly need not spring up now! Sit down again, and I will ring for my housekeeper, Mrs. Marlin,—a worthy soul,—to relieve you of your hat and jacket.'

'But it is a four-mile walk home, and—I must go to see Uncle Jack.'

Again the frown came on Mr. Ross Carmichael's brow, and his voice regained a cynical tone as he replied:

'You are not likely to find my brother indoors in the morning; I believe he employs his time in the office of the 3rd Battalion of the Royal Beverbridge Volunteers. He will not have received your letter yet. If you can bear to postpone your visit to him until evening, you had better do so, unless indeed you want to spend some hours alone with Agatha.'

'Poor Agatha! How is she?'

'Worse, I believe. A life like that is better ended.'

'God doesn't think so, that is evident,' said Catherine.