Meantime the brougham had bowled swiftly away and its two occupants had settled themselves down comfortably as though they were preparing for a long drive.

“Are you warm enough, my child? Better let me have this window down, and you put yours up,” said Mrs. Boniface, glancing with motherly anxiety at the fair face beside her.

“You spoil me, mother dear,” said Cecil. “And indeed I do want you not to worry about me. I am quite strong, if you would only believe it.”

“Well, well, I hope you are,” said Mrs. Boniface, with a sigh. “But any way it’s more than you look, child.”

And the mother thought wistfully of two graves in a distant cemetery where Cecil’s sisters lay; and she remembered with a cruel pang that only a few days ago some friend had remarked to her, with the thoughtless frankness of a rapid talker, “Cecil is looking so pretty just now, but she’s got the consumptive look in her face, don’t you think?” And these words lay rankling in the poor mother’s heart, even though she had been assured by the doctors that there was no disease, no great delicacy even, no cause whatever for anxiety.

“I am glad we have seen Doctor Royston,” said Cecil, “because now we shall feel quite comfortable, and you wont be anxious any more, mother. It would be dreadful, I think, to have to be a sort of semi-invalid all one’s life, though I suppose some people just enjoy it, since Doctor Royston said that half the girls in London were invalided just for want of sensible work. I rather believe, mother, that is what has been the matter with me,” and she laughed.

“You, my dear!” said Mrs. Boniface; “I am sure you are not at all idle at home. No one could say such a thing of you.”

“But I am always having to invent things to do to keep myself busy,” said Cecil. “Mother, I have got a plan in my head now that would settle my work for five whole years, and I do so want you to say ‘yes’ to it.”

“It isn’t that you want to go into some sisterhood?” asked Mrs. Boniface, her gentle gray eyes filling with tears.

“Oh, no, no,” said Cecil emphatically. “Why, how could I ever go away from home and leave you, darling, just as I am getting old enough to be of use to you? It’s nothing of that kind, and the worst of it is that it would mean a good deal of expense to father, which seems hardly fair.”

“He wont grudge that,” said Mrs. Boniface. “Your father would do anything to please you, dear. What is this plan? Let me hear about it.”

“Well, the other night when I was hearing all about those poor Grantleys opposite to us—how the mother had left her husband and children and gone off no one knows where, and then how the father had forged that check and would certainly be imprisoned; I began to wonder what sort of a chance the children had in the world. And no one seemed to know or to care what would become of them, except father, and he said we must try to get them into some asylum or school.”

“It isn’t many asylums that would care to take them, I expect,” said Mrs. Boniface. “Poor little things, there’s a hard fight before them! But what was your plan?”

“Why, mother, it was just to persuade father to let them come to us for the five years. Of course it would be an expense to him, but I would teach them, and help to take care of them; and oh, it would be so nice to have children about the house! One can never be dull where there are children.”

“I knew she was dull at home,” thought the mother to herself. “It was too much of a change for her to come back from school, from so many educated people and young friends, to an ignorant old woman like me and a silent house. Not that the child would ever allow it.”

“But of course, darling,” said Cecil, “I wont say a word more about it if you think it would trouble you or make the house too noisy.”

“There is plenty of room for them, poor little mites,” said Mrs. Boniface. “And the plan is just like you, dear. There’s only one objection I have to it. I don’t like your binding yourself to work for so many years—not just now while you are so young. I should have liked you to marry, dear.”

“But I don’t think that is likely,” said Cecil. “And it does seem so stupid to let the time pass on, and do nothing for years and years just because there is a chance that some man whom you could accept may propose to you. The chances are quite equal that it may not be so, and then you have wasted a great part of your life.”

“I wish you could have fancied Herbert White,” said Mrs. Boniface wistfully. “He would have made such a good husband.”

“I hope he will to some one else. But that would have been impossible, mother, quite, quite impossible.”

“Cecil, dearie, is there—is there any one else?”

“No one, mother,” said Cecil quietly, and the color in her cheeks did not deepen, and Mrs. Boniface felt satisfied. Yet, nevertheless, at that very moment there flashed into Cecil’s mind the perception of the real reason which had made it impossible for her to accept the offer of marriage that a week or two ago she had refused. She saw that Frithiof Falck would always be to her a sort of standard by which to measure the rest of mankind, and she faced the thought quietly, for there never had been any question of love between them; he would probably marry the pretty Miss Morgan, and it was very unlikely that she should ever meet him again.

“The man whom I could accept must be that sort of man,” she thought to herself. “And there is something degrading in the idea of standing and waiting for the doubtful chance that such a one may some day appear. Surely we girls were not born into the world just to stand in rows waiting to get married?”

“And I am sure I don’t know what I should do without you if you did get married,” said Mrs. Boniface, driving back the tears which had started to her eyes, “so I don’t know why I am so anxious that it should come about, except that I should so like to see you happy.”

“And so I am happy, perfectly happy,” said Cecil, and as she spoke she suddenly bent forward and kissed her mother. “A girl would have to be very wicked not to be happy with you and father and Roy to live with.”

“I wish you were not cut off from so much,” said Mrs. Boniface. “You see, dear, if you were alone in the world people would take you up—I mean the style of people you would care to be friends with—but as long as there’s the shop, and as long as you have a mother who can’t talk well about recent books, and who is not always sure how to pronounce things—”

“Mother! mother!” cried Cecil, “how can you say such things? As long as I have you, what do I want with any one else?”

Mrs. Boniface patted the girl’s hand tenderly.

“I like to talk of the books with you, dearie,” she said; “you understand that. There’s nothing pleases me better than to hear you read of an evening, and I’m very much interested in that poor Mrs. Carlyle, though it does seem to me it’s a comfort to be in private life, where no biographers can come raking up all your foolish words and bits of quarrels after you are dead and buried. Why, here we are at home. How quick we have got down this evening! As to your plan, dearie, I’ll just talk it over with father the very first chance I have.”

“Thank you, mother. I do so hope he will let us have them.” And Cecil sprang out of the carriage with more animation in her face than Mrs. Boniface had seen there for a long time.

Mrs. Boniface was a Devonshire woman, and, notwithstanding her five-and-twenty years of London life, she still preserved something of her western accent and intonation; she had also the gentle manner and the quiet consideration and courtesy which seem innate in most west-country people. As to education, she had received the best that was to be had for tradesmen’s daughters in the days of her youth, but she was well aware that it did not come up to modern requirements, and had taken good care that Cecil should be brought up very differently. There was something very attractive in her homely simplicity; and though she could not help regretting that Cecil, owing to her position, was cut off from much that other girls enjoyed, nothing would have induced her to try to push her way in the world,—she was too true a lady for that, and, moreover, beneath all her gentleness had too much dignity and independence of character. So it had come to pass that they lived a very quiet life, with few intimate friends and not too many acquaintances; but perhaps they were none the less happy for that. Certainly there was about the home a sense of peace and rest not too often to be met with in this bustling nineteenth century.

The opportunity for suggesting Cecil’s plan to Mr. Boniface came soon after they reached home. In that house things were wont to be quickly settled; they were not great at discussions, and perhaps this accounted in a great measure for the peace of the domestic atmosphere. Certainly there is nothing so productive of family quarrels as the habit of perpetually talking over the various arrangements, household or personal, and many a good digestion must have been ruined, and many a temper soured by the baneful habit of arguing the pros and cons of some vexed question during breakfast or dinner.

Cecil was in the drawing-room, playing one of Chopin’s Ballads, when her father came into the room. He stood by the fire till she had finished, watching her thoughtfully. He was an elderly man, tall and spare, with a small, shapely head, white hair and trim white beard. His gray eyes were honest and kindly, like his son’s, and the face was a good as well as a refined face. He was one of the deacons of a Congregational chapel, and came of an old Nonconformist family, which for many generations had pleaded and suffered for religious liberty. Robert Boniface was true to his principles, and when his children grew up, and, becoming old enough to go thoroughly into the question, declared their wish to join the Church of England, he made not the slightest objection. What was more, he would not even allow them to see that it was a grief to him.

“It is not to be supposed that every one should see from one point of view,” he had said to his wife. “We are all of us looking to the same sun, and that is the great thing.”

Such division must always be a little sad, but mutual love and mutual respect made them in this case a positive gain. There were no arguments, but each learned to see and admire what was good in the other’s view, to hold stanchly to what was deemed right, and to live in that love which practically nullifies all petty divisions and differences.

“And so I hear that you want to be mothering those little children over the way,” said Mr. Boniface, when the piece was ended.

Cecil crossed the room and stood beside him.

“What do you think about it, father?” she asked.

“I think that before you decide you must realize that it will be a great responsibility.”

“I have thought of that,” she said. “And of course there is the expense to be thought of.”

“Never mind about the expense; I will undertake that part of the matter if you will undertake the responsibility. Do you quite realize that even pretty little children are sometimes cross and naughty and ill?”

She laughed.

“Yes, yes; I have seen those children in all aspects, and they are rather spoiled. But I can’t bear to think that they will be sent to some great institution, with no one to care for them properly.”

“Then you are willing to undertake your share of the bargain?”

“Quite.”

“Very well, then, that is settled. Let us come across and see if any one has stepped in before us.”

Cecil, in great excitement, flew upstairs to tell her mother, and reappeared in a minute or two in her hat and jacket. Then the father and daughter crossed the quiet suburban road to the opposite house, where such a different life-story had been lived. The door was opened to them by the nurse; she had evidently been crying, and even as they entered the passage they seemed conscious of the desolation of the whole atmosphere.

“Oh, miss, have you heard the verdict?” said the servant, who knew Cecil slightly, and was eager for sympathy. “And what’s to become of my little ones no one seems to know.”

“That is just what we came to inquire about,” said Mr. Boniface, “We heard there were no relations to take charge of them. Is that true?”

“There’s not a creature in the world to care for them, sir,” said the nurse. “There’s the lawyer looking through master’s papers now, sir, and he says we must be out of this by next week, and that he must look up some sort of school where they’ll take them cheap. A school for them little bits of things, sir, isn’t it enough to break one’s heart? And little Miss Gwen so delicate, and only a lawyer to choose it, one as knows nothing but about parchments and red tape, sir, and hasn’t so much as handled a child in his life, I’ll be bound.”

“If Mr. Grantley’s solicitor is here I should like to speak to him for a minute,” said Mr. Boniface. “I’ll be with you again before long, Cecil; perhaps you could see the children.”

He was shown into the study which had belonged to the master of the house, and unfolded Cecil’s suggestion to the lawyer, who proved to be a much more fatherly sort of man than the nurse had represented. He was quite certain that his client would be only too grateful for so friendly an act.

“Things have gone hardly with poor Grantley,” he remarked. “And such an offer will be the greatest possible surprise to him. The poor fellow has not had a fair chance; handicapped with such a wife, one can almost forgive him for going to the bad. I shall be seeing him once more to-morrow, and will let you know what he says. But of course there can be but one answer—he will thankfully accept your help.”

Meanwhile Cecil had been taken upstairs to the nursery; it looked a trifle less desolate than the rest of the house, yet lying on the table among the children’s toys she saw an evening paper with the account of the verdict and sentence on John Grantley.

The nurse had gone into the adjoining room, but she quickly returned.

“They are asleep, miss, but you’ll come in and see them, wont you?”

Cecil had wished for this, and followed her guide into the dimly lighted night nursery, where in two little cribs lay her future charges. They were beautiful children, and as she watched them in their untroubled sleep and thought of the mother who had deserted them and disgraced her name, and the father who was that moment beginning his five years of penal servitude, her heart ached for the little ones, and more and more she longed to help them.

Lancelot, the elder of the two, was just four years old; he had a sweet, rosy, determined little face with a slightly Jewish look about it, his curly brown hair was long enough to fall back over the pillow, and in his fat little hand he grasped a toy horse, which was his inseparable companion night and day. The little girl was much smaller and much more fragile-looking, though in some respects the two were alike. Her baby face looked exquisite now in its perfect peace, and Cecil did not wonder that the nurse’s tears broke forth again as she spoke of the little two-year-old Gwen being sent to school. They were still talking about the matter when Mr. Boniface rejoined them; the lawyer also came in, and, to the nurse’s surprise, even looked at the sleeping children. “Quite human-like,” as she remarked afterward to the cook.

“Don’t you distress yourself about the children,” he said kindly. “It will be all right for them. Probably they will only have to move across the road. We shall know definitely about it to-morrow; but this gentleman has very generously offered to take care of them.”

The nurse’s tearful gratitude was interrupted by a sound from one of the cribs. Lance, disturbed perhaps by the voices, was talking in his sleep.

“Gee-up,” he shouted, in exact imitation of a carter, as he waved the toy-horse in the air.

Every one laughed, and took the hint: the lawyer went back to his work, and Mr. Boniface and Cecil, after a few parting words with the happy servant, recrossed the road to Rowan Tree House.

“Oh, father, it is so very good of you,” said Cecil, slipping her arm into his; “I haven’t been so happy for an age!”

“And I am happy,” he replied, “that it is such a thing as this which pleases my daughter.”

After that there followed a delightful evening of anticipation, and Mrs. Boniface entered into the plan with her whole heart and talked of nursery furniture put away in the loft, and arranged the new nursery in imagination fifty times over—always with improvements. And this made them talk of the past, and she began to tell amusing stories of Roy and Cecil when they were children, and even went back to remembrances of her own nursery life, in which a stern nurse who administered medicine with a forcing spoon figured largely.

“I believe,” said the gentle old lady, laughing, “that it was due to that old nurse of mine that I never could bear theological arguments. She began them when we were so young that we took a fatal dislike to them. I can well remember, as a little thing of four years old, sitting on the punishment chair in the nursery when all the others were out at play, and wishing that Adam and Eve hadn’t sinned.”

“You all sound very merry,” said Roy, opening the door before the laugh which greeted this story had died away.

“Why, how nice and early you are, Roy!” exclaimed Cecil. “Oh! mother has been telling us no end of stories, you ought to have been here to listen to them. And, Roy, we are most likely going to have those little children over the way to live with us till their father is out of prison again.”

Roy seemed grave and preoccupied, but Cecil was too happy to notice that, and chattered on contentedly. He scarcely heard her, yet a sense of strong contrast made the home-likeness of the scene specially emphasized to him. He looked at his father leaning back in the great arm-chair, with reading-lamp and papers close by him, but with his eyes fixed on Cecil as she sat on the rug at his feet, the firelight brightening her fair hair; he looked at his mother on the opposite side of the hearth, in the familiar dress which she almost always wore—black silk with soft white lace about the neck and bodice, and a pretty white lace cap. She was busy with her netting, but every now and then glanced up at him.

“You are tired to-night, Roy,” she said, when Cecil’s story had come to an end.

“Just a little,” he owned. “Such a curious thing happened to me. It was a good thing you caught sight of me at Hyde Park Corner and stopped to ask about the trial, Cecil, for otherwise it would never have come about. Who do you think I met just as you drove on?”

“I can’t guess,” said Cecil, rising from her place on the hearth-rug as the gong sounded for supper.

“One of our Norwegian friends,” said Roy. “Frithiof Falck.”

“What! is he actually in England?” said Cecil, taking up the reading-lamp to carry it into the next room.

“Yes, poor fellow,” said Roy.

Something in his tone made Cecil’s heart beat quickly; she could not have accounted for the strength of the feeling which suddenly overwhelmed her; she hardly knew what it was she feared so much, or why such a sudden panic had seized upon her; she trembled from head to foot, and was glad as they crossed the hall to hand the lamp to Roy, glancing up at him as she did so, apprehensively.

“Why do you say poor fellow?” she asked. “Oh, Roy, what is the matter? what—what has happened to him?”