The summer came early that year. The rectory was a charming place in the summer, and on this particular bright day in June one of the numerous school-feasts was in course of preparation, and all the young Wyndhams were working with a will and energy which could scarcely be surpassed. The feast was in full progress; the village children consumed tea and buns, as only village children can. Augusta was refusing to help the babies to any more; Joan and Betty were half-crying because she snatched the rich currant buns out of their hands; Marjory was leading the most obstreporous members of her flock away to the other end of the long meadow, where they could play orange and lemons, nuts in May, and other festive games; and Lilias, as she helped to pack away the remnants of the feast, was answering some questions of Carr's.

"We ought to have heard by now," she was saying. "My father is a little uneasy, but I am not—at least, of course, I am anxious for Valentine. The suspense must be very trying for her!"

"When did your brother's ship sail?"

"On the 25th of March."

"And this is the 15th of June. The Esperance must have been reported at Lloyd's long ago."

"How stupid of me never to think of that," said Lilias, her face brightening. "But would they not put the arrivals in the papers? I have certainly looked and never seen it."

"You have probably overlooked it. I will write and inquire for you. The Esperance, even allowing for delays, has probably reached its destination some weeks ago. On the other hand it would be scarcely possible for you to have had a letter from your brother. Yes, you are right not to be anxious; I will go and have a chat with your father presently. Is Mrs. Wyndham well?"

"I think so—fairly well. She is coming to stay with us next week."

Carr strolled away.

"What a nice comfortable young man he is turning into," said Marjory, who came up at that moment. "Ah, yes, your face is brighter already for having had an interview with him. Whisper no secrets to me. I know—I know."

Lilias' clear brown skin was transfused with color.

"Don't be silly, Marjory," she said. "I don't mind owning that Mr. Carr is a comfortable person to talk to. He has just been removing my fears about Gerald."

"Oh, I thought you had no fears."

"Well, father's fears, then. He has been saying things to me which will remove my father's fears completely."

"That is right—Heaven be praised. You and the rector are nothing but a pair of old croaks lately. Hey-ho! I am perfectly weary of your long faces and your apprehensions. Thank goodness. Val is coming; she'll wake us up a little."

Lilias opened her dark eyes.

"I did not know you cared so much for Valentine," she said.

"I admired her very much the last time I saw her. That was a month ago—she seemed so spirited and courageous. I used to think her something of a doll, but she's a woman now, and a fine one. Perhaps it's the thought of the baby coming."

"Or perhaps," said Lilias, "she has found out at last what our Gerald is."

"Both, most likely," said Marjory. "Anyhow, she's changed; and the funniest part is that that old man——"

"What old man, Marjory?"

"Don't interrupt me—her father. I always call him that old man—well, I think he's afraid of her. She doesn't pet him the way she used, but she's very gentle with him. Oh, she's a good bit altered; there's something in her now."

"I suppose there was always something in her," said Lilias. "For Gerald"—her lips trembled—"gave up so much for her."

"No more than any man gives up for any woman," said Marjory. "A man shall leave his father and mother. Oh, yes, poor old Lil, I know how you felt it. You always made an idol of Gerald. I suppose you'll marry some day; you are so pretty—and h'm—h'm—there's somebody waiting for somebody—there, I don't want to tease, only when you do marry, my pretty sister, I wonder if he'll come inside Gerald in your heart."

"I won't marry until I love some one even better than my only brother," replied Lilias in a grave voice. "That time has not come yet," she added, and then she turned away.

The games went on as fast as ever; Marjory romped with the merriest. Lilias was graver than her sister, not so fond of pastimes, perhaps not quite so generally popular. She went into the house, sat down by the organ in the hall and began to play. She had almost as much talent as Gerald; her fingers wandered over the keys, she was in a dreamy mood, and her thoughts were carrying her back to a bygone scene—to Gerald's face on that Sunday night. She heard again the rich tones of his voice, and heard his words:—

"Till in the ocean of Thy love
We loose ourselves in Heaven above."

"Oh, Gerald," she said with a kind of sob, "things have been hard for me since you went away. It was not your marriage alone, I had prepared myself for that; but it was more—it was more. The Church of God—you gave that up. Yes, yes. There has been a shut door between us. Gerald, since you and Valentine first met; and where are you now—where are you now?"

"Lilias," said little Joan running in breathlessly, "father wants you in his study, quickly. I don't think he's quite well. He has just had a letter, and he looks so queer."

"I'll go to him at once," said Lilias.

She could be apprehensive enough, but in real danger, in times of real anxiety, her head could be cool and her steps firm.

"Yes, father," she said, motioning the frightened little Joan away.

She shut the library door behind her.

"Yes, father. What is it? Jo says that you have got a letter, and that you want me."

"Oh, I don't suppose it's anything," said the rector. "That is, I don't mean to be uneasy. Here's the letter. Lilias. You ought to read it, perhaps. It's from Paget. He is evidently nervous himself, but I don't suppose there is any need. Read it, and tell me what you think."

The rector thrust a sheet of paper into his daughter's hand. Then went over to one of his book shelves and pretended to be busy rummaging up some folios. Lilias read as follows:—

My Dear Sir,—I write on a subject of some little anxiety. I did not wish to trouble you before it was necessary, but now I confess that we—I refer to my house of business—have cause to feel uneasiness with regard to the fate of the Esperance. She is quite a month overdue at Sydney; even allowing for all possible delays, she is at least that time overdue. The last tidings of her were from the Cape, and it is feared from their date that she must have encountered rough weather in the Southern Ocean. Nothing is known, however, and every hour we look for a cable announcing her arrival at Melbourne if not at Sydney. It is possible she may have been injured, which will account for the delay, but I scarcely apprehend anything worse. I ought scarcely to say that I am anxious; up to the present there is no real cause to apprehend anything worse than an accident to the vessel. Vessels are often a month behind their time, and all is satisfactorily explained at the end. I am now troubling you with regard to another matter. I do not want my daughter and your son's wife to be needlessly alarmed. It is most important that her mind should be kept free from apprehension until after the birth of their child. You kindly asked her to go to see you. Can you have her at the rectory at once? And will you send Lilias to fetch her? I know you and yours will keep all fears from her, and, poor child, she reads my face like a book.

Yours faithfully,
"Mortimer Paget."

"Well, Lilias," said the rector. "Well? He's a little over nervous, isn't he, eh? Vessels are often a month overdue. Eh, Lilias? But of course they are. Somehow I'm not nervous since I got that letter. I was before, but not now."

He rubbed his hands together as he spoke.

"It's summer now, and we'll have Gerald back before the next snow comes. I told the boy so when he bid me good-bye; he was a bit upset that night after you girls went to bed. Poor fellow, I had quite to cheer him; he's a very affectionate lad. No, I'm not nervous, and I wonder at Paget. But what do you think, Lilias?"

Lilias folded up the letter, and put it back in her old father's hand. Then she stole her arm round his neck, and kissed him.

"We will be brave," she said. "If we have fears we won't speak of them; we have got to think of Valentine now, not of ourselves."

The rector almost shook Lilias' hand from his neck.

"Fears," he said, in a light and cheerful voice, a voice which was belied by his tremulous hands, and by his almost petulant movement. "Fears! my dear girl, they really don't exist. At this moment, were we clairvoyant, we should see Gerald either rising leisurely from a good night's rest, or sitting down to his breakfast in one of those luxurious houses one reads of in Froude's 'Oceana.' Vessels like the Esperance don't go to the bottom. Now, Lil, at what hour will you go to fetch Valentine? You will go up to town to-morrow, of course."

"By the first train," replied Lilias. Her lips quivered. She turned away; there was nothing more to be said. Her father's manner did not in the least deceive her.

"Dear old man!" she said to herself. "If he can be brave, so will I. But oh, Gerald, does any heart ache more for you than the heart of your sister Lilias?"