"What is the matter, Lilias? I did not do anything wrong."

The speaker was Augusta Wyndham.

Three years have passed away since she last appeared in this story; she is grown up now, somewhat lanky still, with rather fierce dark eyes, and a somewhat thin pronounced face. She is the kind of girl who at eighteen is still all angles, but there are possibilities for her, and at five and twenty, if time deals kindly with her, and circumstances are not too disastrous, she might be rounded, softened, she might have developed into a handsome woman.

"What is it, Lilias?" she said now. "Why do you look at me like that?"

"It is the same old story, Gussie," replied Lilias, whose brown cheeks were paler, and her sweet eyes larger than of old; "you are always wanting in thought. It was thoughtless of you to make Valentine walk home, and with little Gerry, too. She will come in fagged and have a headache. I relied on your seeing to her, Gussie; when I asked you to take the pony chaise I thought of her more than you, and now you've come back in it all alone, without even fetching baby."

"Well, Lilias." Augusta paused, drew herself up, leant against the nearest paling, crossed her legs, and in a provokingly petulant voice began to speak.

"With how much more of all that is careless and all that is odious are you going to charge me?" she said. "Oh, of course, 'Gussie never can think.' Now I'll tell you what this objectionable young woman Augusta did, and then you can judge for yourself. I drove to Netley Farm, and got the butter and the eggs, and then I went on to see old James Holt, the gardener, for I thought he might have those bulbs we wanted ready. Then I drew up at the turnstile, and waited for that precious Mrs. Val of yours."

"Don't," said Lilias. "Remember whose——"

"As if I ever forget—but he—he had others beside her—he never had any Augusta except me," two great tears gathered in the great brown eyes; they were dashed hastily aside, and the speaker went on.

"There's twice too much made of her, and that's a fact. You live for her, you're her slave, Lilias. It's perfectly ridiculous—it's absurd. You have sunk your whole life into hers, and since Marjory's wedding things have been worse. You simply have no life but in her. He wouldn't wish it; he hated anyone to be unselfish except himself. Well, then—oh, then, I won't vex the dear old thing. Have you forgiven me, Lil? I know I'm such a chatter-pate. I hope you have forgiven me."

"Of course I have, Gussie. I'm not angry with you, there's nothing to be angry about. You are a faulty creature, I admit, but I also declare you to be one of the greatest comforts of my life."

"Well, that's all right—that's as it should be. Now for my narrative. I waited by the turnpike. Valentine and baby were to meet me there. No sign of them. I waited a long time. Then I tied Bob to the gate, and started on discovery bent. You know it is a pretty lane beyond the turnpike, the hedges hid me. I walked along, whistling and shaking my whip. Presently I was assailed by the tuneful duet of two voices. I climbed the hedge and peeped over. I looked into a field. What did I see? Now, Lilias the wise, guess what I saw?"

"Valentine and our little Gerald," responded Lilias. "She was talking to him; she has a sweet voice, and surely there never was a dearer little pipe than wee Gerry's. They must have looked pretty sitting on the grass."

"They looked very pretty—but your picture is not quite correct. For instance, baby was sound asleep."

"Oh, then, she had him in her arms, and was cooing to him. A lovelier scene than ever, Augusta."

"A very lovely scene, Lilias; only, one woman's voice would not make a duet."

Something in Augusta's eyes caused Lilias to droop her own. She turned aside to pick a spray of briony.

"Tell me what you saw," she said abruptly.

"I saw Valentine and Adrian Carr. They were sitting close together, and baby was asleep on his breast, not on hers, and he was comforting her, for when I peeped over I saw him touch her hand, and then I saw her raise her handkerchief and wipe away some tears. Crocodile's tears, I call them. Now, Lilias, out of my way. I mean to vault over this gate."

"What for, dear?"

"To relieve my feelings. Now I'm better. Won't you have a try?"

"No, thank you, I don't vault gates."

"Aren't you going to show anything? Good gracious, I should simply explode if I had to keep in things the way you do. Now, what's the matter? You look white all the same; whiter than you did ten minutes ago. Oh, if it was me, I couldn't keep still. I should roar like a wounded lion."

"But I am not a wounded lion, Augusta, dear."

Lilias laid her hand on her sister's shoulder.

"I am older than you," she continued, "and perhaps quieter. Life has made me quieter. We won't say anything about what you saw, Augusta. Perhaps none of us have such a burden to bear as Valentine."

"Now, Lilias, what stuff you talk. Oh, she's a humbug, and I hate her. There, I will say it, just for once. She took Gerald away, and now she wants to take Adrian from you. Oh, I know you're an angel—you'd bear anything, but I'm not quite a fool."

"They are coming; you must hush," said Lilias, putting her hand across her young sister's lips.

Augusta cast two wrathful eyes behind her, lightly vaulted back over the gate, and vanished from view round the first corner. Lilias opened the gate, and went slowly to meet the group who were coming down the dusty country road.

Valentine was in black, but not in widow's weeds. She had a shady hat over her clustering bright hair, and round this hat, the baby, little Gerry, had stuck quantities of leaves and grasses and what wild flowers his baby fingers could clutch. With one hand she was holding up her long dress; her other held a basket of primroses, and her face, bright now with color in the cheeks, laughter on the lips, and the fire of affection in the eyes, was raised to where her sturdy little son sat on Carr's broad shoulder.

The child was a handsome little fellow, cast in a far more masculine mould than his father, to whom he bore scarcely any resemblance.

As Lilias, in her dark grey dress, approached, she looked altogether a more sorrowful and grief-touched figure than the graceful, almost childish young widow who came to meet her.

So Carr thought, as with a softened light in his eyes he glanced at Lilias.

"A certain part of her heart was broken three years ago," he inwardly commented. "Can I—is it in my power—will it ever be in my power to comfort her?"

But Lilias, knowing nothing of these feelings, only noted the happy-looking picture.

"Here we are!" said Carr, catching the boy from his shoulder and letting him jump to the ground. "Run to your auntie now, little man."

Off waddled the small fat legs. Lilias stooped and received the somewhat dusty embrace of two rounded arms, while cherub lips were pressed on hers.

"You do comfort me, little Gerry," she gasped under her breath.

Then she rose, almost staggering under his weight.

"Let me carry him for you," said Carr, coming up to her.

"No, thank you, I like to have him," she said; and she turned and walked by Valentine's side.

"Are you tired, Val? I did not mean you to walk home. I sent Augusta with Bob and the basket chaise. I thought you knew they were to meet you at the turnpike."

"I'm afraid I forgot," answered Valentine. "I met Mr. Carr, and we came to a delicious field, full of primroses, and baby wanted to pick lots, didn't you, treasure? We sat and had a rest; I am not very tired, and Mr. Carr carried this big boy all the way home. Hey-ho," she continued, throwing off her hat, and showing a head as full of clustering richly-colored hair as of old, "what a lovely day it is, it makes me feel young. Come along, baby, we'll race together to the house. It's time for you to go to sleep, little master. Now, then—baby first, mother after—one, two, three and away!"

The child shouted with glee, the mother raced after him, they disappeared through the rose-covered porch of the old rectory. Lilias raised two eyes full of pain to Carr's.

"Is she beginning to forget?" she asked.

"No; why should you say so? She will never forget."

"She looked so young just now—so like a child. Poor Val! She was only twenty-two her last birthday. Mr. Carr. I don't want her to forget."

"In one sense rest assured she never will—in another—would you wish her to endure a life-long pain?"

"I would—I would. It was done for her—she must never forget."

"You always allow me to say plain words, don't you?" said Carr. "May I say some now?"

"Say anything you please, only don't teach her to forget."

"What do you mean?"

The man's eyes blazed. Lilias colored all over her face.

"I mean nothing," she said hurriedly. "Come into the flower-garden. We shall have a great show of roses this year. Come and look at the buds. You were going to say something to me," she added presently.

"Yes. I was going to prepare you for what may come by-and-bye. It is possible that in the future—remember. I don't know anything—but it is possible that in the future your young sister-in-law may once more be happy. I don't know how—I am not going to prognosticate anything, but I think as a rule one may safely infer that the very bitterest grief, the most poignant sorrows which come before twenty are not abiding. Mrs. Wyndham has her child. It would not do for the child to associate only sorrow with the mother's face. Some time in the future she will be happy again. It is my opinion that your brother would be glad of this."

"Hush; you don't know. My brother—my only brother! I at least can never be the Lilias of old."

"I believe you," said Carr much moved by her tone. "You, too, are very young; but in your heart, Miss Wyndham, in your heart, you were an older woman, a woman more acquainted with the grave side of life, than that poor young thing was when the blow fell."

Lilias did not answer for a moment or two.

"I am glad Marjory is out of it all," she said then. "You know what a long nervous illness she had at the time. Dear old Marjory, she was such a tempestuous darling."

"But she is happy now."

"Oh, yes, she has her husband. Philip is very good, he suits Marjory. Yes, she is quite happy now, and I am not miserable—you mustn't think it. I know in whom I have believed."

Her eyes were raised to the sky overhead.

"I know He won't fail me. Some day Gerald and I shall meet."

"Some day, assuredly," answered Carr.

"And in the meantime, I am not unhappy, only I don't intend ever to forget. Nor shall she."

"One question," said Carr. "Have you heard news lately of Mrs. Wyndham's father?"

"I believe he has recovered. He never comes here. I must own I have a great antipathy to Valentine's father. I don't want to hear of him nor to think of him."

"I can understand that. Still, if it will not trouble you greatly I should like to ask you a question or two with regard to him. He was very ill, at the—at the time, wasn't he?"

"He was very ill, mentally, he was quite off his head for several months."

"Don't you think that was rather strange?"

"I never thought much about it, as far as he was concerned. Of course he must have had a dreadful shock."

"But not such a shock as you had. Not a shock to be named with what that poor girl, his daughter, went through. Your brother was not his own son, and—and——"

"I never thought about it, Mr. Carr. I heard that he was ill, and that the illness was mental. He has been quite well again for some time."

"I assure you you're mistaken. I met him a fortnight ago in town. I never saw a man so completely altered in the whole course of my life."

"Please don't tell me about him. It never was, nor could be, an interesting subject. Ah, there is my dear father calling me. I must run to him."

The rector was seen approaching. His figure was slightly more bent, and his hair whiter than of old. Lilias linked her hand within his arm, and Carr turned away.

"I can never have it out with her," he said to himself. "I never seem to have the courage when I'm with her. And besides, I don't believe she'd leave her father. But if she did—if I ever could hope to win her for my wife, then I might venture to whisper to her some of my suspicions. How little she guesses what my thoughts are. Can I act in any way without consulting her? I have a good mind to try."