Catherine Carmichael was up and dressed next day fully two hours before any one else was stirring in Woodley Villa. Then she said her prayers, and read her Bible, and still had plenty of time left for the writing of her letter.

Softly opening the bedroom window, which was in the front of the house, she placed her desk on a small table, and sat down where she could feel the fresh wind and look out occasionally over the country scene.

A September sunrise, and an open window! Mrs. Arderne would have been horrified at Catherine's imprudence, but to this girl an open-air life had been natural in all weathers, and for early hours she had a strong preference.

'Before breakfast' was always her thinking-time. She was of opinion that men and women need leisure in which to reflect upon their lives, and to remember both the high purpose and the unimportance of earthly existence. Beginning the day thus, with happy realization of the creature's indebtedness to the Creator, she found daily crosses and perplexities much easier to bear with serenity, while joys and innocent pleasures acquired double powers of satisfaction, by being hallowed with foreseeing gratitude.

The country was very quiet at this early hour of the Sabbath; no agricultural workers were abroad, and smoke had scarcely begun to issue from the picturesquely irregular chimneys of the village. In front of the villa were fields, pasture land upon which grazed some venerable horses, and across which a path wound away to a distant wood. Over the trees hung a pearl-tinted mist, which the sunshine was beginning to dispel. When, presently, the sun contrived to peep between two barriers of cloud, the wood gleamed golden and gorgeous, as the light struck upon its copper beeches.

Catherine unconsciously smiled at the loveliness spread out before her eyes, and remembered the words of a poet:

Then she took up her pen and began to write to Brian.

This was no hard task, for she knew that he liked her letters to be rambling and unstudied, consisting of sentences from her heart, just as she loved best to make them. All her pure girl's fancies and imaginings about the higher life, all her tender anxieties—on the subject of himself usually—her fears for his health, and longings for his complete understanding of God, all her merry discoveries in her daily life, all the kindnesses she received, all her hopes for the future, these were written down simply for his interest. Fortunately, Brian North could be trusted to appreciate and reverence Catherine's sincerity. The letter, when written, was a precious revelation of a good woman's very soul.

Probably the 'good woman' herself would never guess how large an effect her letters wrought upon Brian's heart and intellect, how he was learning to accept her ideas, see God through her eyes, and exchange his worldly ambitions for her lofty content with aspirations infinitely nobler.

She was quite unconsciously setting him a lovable model of a Christian life, as all God-serving girls should be able to do for those who are dear to them.

Her pen flew over the several sheets of paper, until she felt satisfied that her lover had been given a really accurate description of her new experiences at Beverbridge. She had honestly tried not to allow her great affection for Uncle Jack to prejudice her in writing of Uncle Ross, yet she wanted Brian to be prepared to be devoted to the former.

Mrs. Arderne's suggestion that Brian would not approve of his betrothed's acceptance of Redan Cottage as 'home' scarcely occurred to Catherine this morning. She had not the least doubt that she had acted in the best way in regard to Uncle Jack's offer, and so, loyally, she felt certain that Brian must agree with her when he considered the subject.

The letter, though of even unusual length, was finished some time before the hour for breakfast, so Catherine began to write another to her cousin George in Melbourne, the cousin who had been in the same regiment with poor Loring Carmichael.

After sending messages to George's relatives, and giving him a spirited account of her experiences in London, describing the sights she had seen, she continued as follows:

'Do you remember that you used to call me "the most meddlesome of girls"?—that year when I tried to reconcile my stepfather and his men. Well, I am going to be meddlesome again, for I want, if God will let me, to make peace between our two English uncles. Would you believe that they are living in different houses in the same neighbourhood, and are still estranged because of Loring's choice of a profession? Yet I can see that they both desire to be friends again, if once their pride could be overcome. Now that Loring is dead, Uncle Jack must partly regret having persuaded him to be a soldier, and Uncle Ross should be able to forgive the choice, especially as he has been chiefly to blame for the strength to which this foolish family feud has attained. If you can tell me anything, George, about Loring's death, since you, his friend, were with him when he fell, I might be fortunate enough to effect a reconciliation through their mutual interest in the news. Did Loring send no messages to either uncle? Please let me know all you know, for I, being on the spot, can perhaps make good use of the knowledge.'

This letter was also finished, and the envelope addressed and stamped, before the breakfast bell sounded.

Catherine ran downstairs, to find Ted and Toddie awaiting her in the dining-room, two solemn-faced little people, wearing their best frocks, and standing side by side, hand in hand, on the hearth-rug.

'We've been vewwy good, an' we're so tired wiv it,' announced Toddie, with emphasis.

'We didn't fink muvver was ever comin', nor you, nor bweakfast,' explained Ted. 'Bweakfast comed first though, an' we didn't peep one bit under the cover, did we, Toddie?'

'No, but it's sausages, I fink, 'cause it smells like it.'

'Then you comed next, dearie Carr, an' we won't have to be good no longer.'

Ted's face was roguish again, and he scrambled on to Catherine's knee as she sat down in the arm-chair, while Toddie, regardless of her Sunday dress, sank down in a happy heap on the rug at her feet.

'Not good any more! Oh, Ted, you know I always want you to be good!' she exclaimed, trying to preserve discipline.

'Oh yes, of course!' cried the culprit, 'only the nurse says "Be vewwy good children," when she just wants us not to cwumple our clothes. You don't do that. You don't like us best when we're stiff, does you, Carr?'

'You mustn't spoil your nice clothes on purpose, Ted and Toddie, but you—you needn't keep on remembering them. Why, they are sensibly-chosen clothes, they will not easily take harm. Some poor little children are always dressed in silks and satins, so grand that they are expected to take great care of them, but your kind mamma likes you to be happy and able to romp about.'

'Silks an' satins!' repeated Toddie. 'Gwacious!—wouldn't we cwumple them all up!'

Mrs. Arderne came into the room, and found the usual picture awaiting her vision—Catherine and the babies laughing together, clinging together, perfectly happy in their merriment.

'Ah, chickies, plaguing "Carr" again. Catherine, dear, in a weak moment yesterday I promised those infants that they should spend Sunday with us, and come to church.'

'We'll be vewwy good.'

'We'll twy dreffully hard not to laugh.'

Catherine kissed them both as she lifted them comfortably on to their chairs close to the table.

'You must promise faithfully not to talk in church, children, not even if there is a funny-looking old lady in front of you, or any naughty little boys try to make you laugh at them.'

'Not if there's anover lady who can't find her pocket, Carr?'

'Or an old, old man wiv a spider cweeping up his back?'

'Not for any reason at all. You must promise to try to remember all the time that you are in church to please God, not to amuse yourselves.'

'But we mustn't speak pwayers out loud.'

'Muvver, you don't always 'member, does you?'

'I'se sure muvver doesn't, 'cause once she laughed an' spoke to Carr something about bonnets,' cried Toddie delightedly.

'Now you are beginning to talk too much, and about matters you do not properly understand,' said Miss Carmichael quickly. 'Say grace, and eat your breakfasts, dears.'

The mother and children, and the companion, sallied forth early to find the village church. Ted and Toddie walked most demurely, one on either side of Catherine, sometimes uttering their quaint criticisms of the people and objects they passed, and proudly carrying their Prayer-books, so that their own destination was plainly intimated to all persons curious on the subject.

'Won't look as though we was goin' no wicked walk,' explained Toddie.

The church proved to be quite a long walk away. It was a beautiful old grey brick building, wreathed and wrapped round by ivies of many species, and stood, in the midst of its little graveyard, on the summit of a hill. Two roads approached it from different sides of the country, and there was also a much-used footpath leading from a vista of park-like meadows to the vestry door.

By this path came the clergyman, a venerable-looking gentleman, whom Catherine guessed to be the Mr. Burnley of whom her uncles had told her many years ago.

Just as Catherine passed at the wicket-gate of the churchyard she became aware of the approach of Mr. Ross Carmichael, who had just stepped out of his carriage. It was a rare event for him to be seen in the precincts of a church. The tall, straight old gentleman was dressed with his accustomed care, from the glossy hat to the perfectly-fitting SuÉde gloves, and the white 'spats' over patent-leather boots. Catherine noticed that his step was very firm, unlike that of Uncle Jack, who was approaching from a greater distance, coming slowly uphill, beside Agatha's wheel-chair, which Robert was pushing. The military uncle's face had none of the deep lines which creased that of the business man, yet he seemed the elder and less strong, and his moustache was quite as silvery as was the other's short beard.

Probably Uncle Ross was aware of the approach of Uncle Jack, for he advanced quickly to greet his niece, who introduced him to Mrs. Arderne.

'This is a pleasure. I trust you will add to it by helping to fill my pew.'

Now this invitation could not easily be refused, though Catherine reflected regretfully that her other relative might object to her having accepted it. Mrs. Arderne settled the question by answering gratefully:

'That is exceedingly kind of you, Mr. Carmichael. It is sometimes so difficult for strangers to find good seats in country churches. I only hope that the children will do nothing to make you regret your considerate offer.'

Ted and Toddie were gazing in an awe-stricken manner up into the face of the austere-looking, handsome old gentleman, who now shook hands ceremoniously with them both.

Uncle Jack and Agatha were nearly at the gate by this time. Uncle Ross, after a glance over his shoulder, lingered outside the porch to ask:

'Catherine, I am anxious for another talk with you. Can you come to see me to-morrow? Will you be able to spare her, Mrs. Arderne?'

'Oh, certainly.'

'I will walk up in the afternoon then,' said the girl; adding, with a laugh and a blush, 'and if by any happy chance Brian should run down to-morrow to see me, may I bring him also?'

'It will gratify me to make his acquaintance. Excuse my leading the way into church.'

Uncle Jack and Agatha were not more than twelve steps behind now, but Catherine could not refuse to follow Uncle Ross through the porch and up the aisle. Ted and Toddie peeped across her skirts at one another, and murmured, 'Dwefful!'

'I will speak to Uncle Jack at all costs, even if I have to appear rude to Uncle Ross, after service,' Catherine decided.

She tried her utmost to forget her family quarrel, at least its difficulties and perplexing incidents, while she listened to the sermon; and endeavoured, as she prayed for God's help in her effort at peace-making, not to be conscious of the reproachful glances which Agatha, from her chair in a side aisle, was directing towards her.

Afterwards, when the congregation had nearly dispersed, Uncle Jack and Uncle Ross remained in church, each waiting for the other to move first. Each happened to be resolved not to do so. Uncle Ross wished to prevent Catherine from speaking to his brother. Uncle Jack was simply determined to speak to her, as he and Agatha both desired to do so.

At length, when the long wait was becoming ridiculous, and Ted and Toddie were beginning to fidget, Mr. Ross Carmichael rose, and walking with more than usual stiffness, led the way out of church. Immediately the colonel marched out, too, down the side aisle.

The groups joined in the porch, and passed into the open air together.

Catherine saw the two old gentlemen exchange the stiffest of bows, but her quick eyes noted also the restrained impulse of Uncle Jack's right hand, and the wistful expression in the gaze with which he regarded his brother, who was now bending courteously over Agatha's chair, inquiring after her health.

'I'm tired, and in pain, but then I always am,' said the child fretfully. 'And I've had a lot of neuralgia lately; the air seems damp and horrid down in the village, where we live.'

Uncle Ross murmured polite regrets, and after bowing to Mrs. Arderne, and reminding his niece, 'I shall expect you to-morrow afternoon, then,' turned away by the footpath across the fields.

By this time Mrs. Arderne and the colonel were chatting together.

Agatha beckoned to Catherine to come near, and whispered:

'You ought to have sat in our seat.'

'No; if I have accepted a "home" from one uncle, surely I may accept the occasional loan of a pew from the other? You must not be unreasonable, dear, if you want me to try to effect a reconciliation; you must leave me free to use my own methods.'

'Horrid old man! and you are going to him to-morrow!'

'Well, I am coming to you to-day. Mrs. Arderne has kindly promised to spare me this evening.'

'Come early, then, for I want some of you all to myself!'

Ted and Toddie ran up to the side of the wheel-chair at this moment, and scrutinized Agatha.

'Can't you get up?'

'No.'

'Never mind, though,' said Toddie, anxious to be consoling. 'You look vewwy nice, an' you must feel comfor'ble. I wish we had sofas in church. Carr wouldn't let us even kneel back'ards this mornin'.'

''Cause of the stiff old man,' Ted explained. 'Your old man's ever so much nicer!'