While these inquiries about her flight were going on, May Churchill was safely sheltered in the home John Temple had provided for her in town. This she found to be an extremely comfortable one, and the two ladies of the establishment the most amiable of women.

May had arrived at King’s Cross terminus nervous, yet determined. She had left a home where she was no longer happy, and she was going to be married to the man she loved. What matter was it, she told herself, that for the present this marriage had to be a secret one? She had a perfect trust in John Temple, and she knew he would never deceive her.

She easily got her small belongings collected, and then directed the cab driver to convey her to the address in Bayswater that John Temple had given her. She found herself there before she expected, and after the cabman had rung the doorbell it was quickly opened, and no less than four people appeared to welcome her. A servant first; behind, two middle-aged ladies; and behind the middle-aged ladies, a tall young man.

This young man, however, hurried to the front, opened the cab door, and said, in a pleasant voice:

“Miss Churchill, I presume? My aunts are expecting you.”

“Yes,” gasped May, nervously. “Is this Miss Webster’s house?”

“Yes, my dear, it is!” screamed one of the middle-aged ladies from the top of the door-steps. “This is our house, mine and sister Eliza’s, and we expect you are Mr. Temple’s cousin.”

“Yes,” faltered May.

By this time the young man had handed May out, and she was standing on the flags, purse in hand, ready to pay the cabman.

“Never mind the cabman!” again screamed the lady from the door-steps. “Nephew Ralph will pay him, and get in your luggage. Come in, my dear, and welcome; any friend of Mr. Temple’s is most welcome here.”

May accordingly ascended the door-steps, and her hand was shaken most warmly, first by Miss Webster, and then by Miss Eliza. They were thin, elderly women, with pleasant faces, and were evidently pleased to see their young guest.

“You must be tired with your long journey, and hungry, too,” continued Miss Webster. “We have a little bit of hot supper ready for you. Jane,” this was to the servant, “tell cook to dish up the partridges, and mind she has the plates hot. Come in, my dear—this is the dining-room—or would you rather go upstairs and take off your hat first?”

May accepted the last offer, and was accordingly ushered into a most comfortable bedroom, where everything was ready for her occupation. After pointing out the hot water, and telling her to be sure to ring for what she wanted, Miss Webster then withdrew. Upon this May bathed her face, and let down her long hair, and in a few minutes appeared down-stairs, looking so fresh and bright no one would have supposed that she had just had a long journey.

The tall young man was standing on the hearth-rug as she entered the dining-room, for a cheerful fire was burning in the grate, and he bowed when May appeared, and offered her a chair.

“This is our nephew, Mr. Ralph Webster,” said Miss Eliza, for Miss Webster happened to be out of the room, looking after the supper. “Miss Churchill, Mr. Webster.”

Miss Eliza having accomplished this introduction to her satisfaction, sighed softly, and looked first at May’s blooming face and then at her nephew’s.

“What a handsome couple!” she was thinking, and again she sighed. By some mischance, Miss Eliza’s proper destiny had never been fulfilled. She ought to have been one of the couple, and her whole nature pointed in that direction. She was sentimental, tender-hearted, and affectionate, and yet in her middle-age she was still unwedded. But she had no jealousy of younger women. On the contrary, the suppressed maternal instincts in her heart seemed to bloom forth when she beheld a fair young face. She also regarded her tall nephew with something like the affection of a mother.

But though he might be so in her eyes, Mr. Ralph Webster could not justly be called “handsome.” He had, however, an intelligent, clever face, with marked features and dark gray penetrating eyes. His manner was self-reliant and quick. Altogether a keen-looking man, with a face well-suited to his profession, for he was a barrister; a hard-working barrister, who had already accomplished a fair amount of success.

“And you have had a long journey?” he said, leaning on the back of a chair and addressing May Churchill.

“Yes, rather,” answered May, moving uneasily, for she did not know what John Temple had said to the Websters about her home, and Ralph Webster noticed this slight uneasiness.

“The country must be looking beautiful just now,” he continued, with his keen eyes fixed on her changing face; “this is the season of holidays, and I am longing for mine.”

“I like the autumn, too,” said May.

“Well, I think I like the spring best,” mildly remarked Miss Eliza; “in the autumn one feels that the winter is so near; you should like the spring best, too, my dear,” she added, looking at May; “you, who are in your spring-time.”

“Dear sentimental Aunt Eliza!” laughed Mr. Webster. “I am sure you are thinking of the lambkins skipping about the green fields, while I am thinking—”

“Of what, my dear?”

“I dare hardly say—lamb in another form, I am afraid.”

“Oh! Ralph,” gently rebuked Miss Eliza.

But here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the supper and Miss Webster. Miss Webster was the managing lady of the house, and though only two years older than Miss Eliza, regarded her as greatly her junior. She was more energetic and practical than the younger sister, but their affection for each other was very strong.

“I hope you are hungry, my dear,” said Miss Webster, now addressing May. “Ralph, will you set a chair for Miss Churchill, and carve the partridges?”

Ralph did both. He carved well, for he nearly did everything well that he tried, and he had the good sense if he did not do a thing well soon to leave off trying.

“One should never go on failing,” he used to say, “or you get into the way of it. If one thing doesn’t succeed, another may; there should be successful careers for us all—even for crossing-sweepers.”

He, in fact, had made up his mind to succeed in life, and he knew the way was to work hard. He spent his evenings as a rule in reading dry books, instead of amusing himself like many of his compeers. He was equipping himself for the legal battles he meant to fight, and was determined to have his armor ready when it came his turn to put it on. And he knew his turn would come. A man like this has sometimes to wait for his chance, but as a rule he does not wait long. Sagacious eyes mark the rising juniors, and are glad to push them on. Ralph Webster was already by no means an unknown man in legal circles.

“He will rise, and rise high,” a good judge of human nature had predicted of him, and certainly he was doing his best to fulfill this prophecy.

His good aunts were not a little proud of him, and he was in a way fond of these two simple, kindly women. They were the only relatives he had in town, and he sometimes used to stay with them, though as a rule he lived in the Temple. He was staying with them now, and to his great amusement had been told of the expected arrival of Mr. John Temple’s “country cousin” before May Churchill came. Now, when she had arrived, he sat looking at her with admiration and curiosity.

“She’s the prettiest girl I ever saw,” he said to his aunts, after he had lit his pipe, and May had retired for the night.

“It’s a sweet face certainly,” sighed Miss Eliza.

“It’s more than a sweet face,” answered Ralph Webster, in his energetic way; “it’s a beautiful face. What did Temple say about her to you, Aunt Margaret, when he wrote?”

“He said she was his cousin, his young cousin, and would we take her in, and be kind to her for a fortnight or so, when he would come up to town to join her.”

“Lucky dog!” laughed Ralph Webster.

“And,” continued Miss Webster, with a sudden blush spreading over her faded complexion, “he inclosed a check, a ridiculously large check, for her expenses, and asked us to take her out a little to see the sights, as she has never been in London before. It’s a bad time of the year certainly for sights; but still perhaps you will help us a little, Ralph, to amuse her till you go on your holiday?”

“For a young woman who has never been in town there are always plenty of ‘sights,’ as you call them, to be seen in London. Yes, Aunt Margaret, I shall be glad to escort you and Aunt Eliza and the country cousin anywhere you like during the next few days.”

“How good of you, Ralph!” exclaimed Aunt Margaret.

“So good!” chimed Aunt Eliza.

“Good to myself, I should suggest,” said Ralph Webster. And then after one or two vigorous puffs at his pipe he drew it out of his lips for a moment or two.

“By the by,” he said, “how was it you got to know this Mr. Temple? I forget.”

“Oh, my dear,” answered Aunt Margaret, with another sudden blush spreading over her faded skin, which was also reflected on Aunt Eliza’s gentle face, “it was at the time—well, when our dear father was taken from us, and of course the pecuniary advantages of his living expired with him. We were thus left very badly off, and had our dear mother to consider. Therefore, when Mrs. Mason, our dear mother’s only sister, heard of our position she proposed that we should take a house in town, and bring the furniture up, and—well, try to take in lodgers or boarders. It was, of course, a great trial to my dear sister and myself, but we felt it was our duty, and we did it, and Mr. Temple, who was a much younger man then, stayed with us three years, and we have regarded him with sincere friendship ever since. He is quite a gentleman, in word and deed, and it was a pleasure to have him with us, though, considering poor Aunt Mason’s ample means, and that she had no family of her own, I almost wonder she liked her nieces to receive strangers under their roof; particularly when she meant to leave us independent a few years afterward, which she did.”

“So this was how you got to know Mr. Temple?” said Ralph Webster, after listening to Miss Margaret’s long explanation. “He’s a barrister, you say, but does not practice? I must look up his name.”

“He never practiced; he was well off, but not rich, and then some months ago he came into a great windfall. A little boy, the heir of the head of the family, Mr. Temple of Woodlea Hall, was accidentally killed at football, and Mr. John Temple became the heir of the property, and when he called the last time he was in town he told us that some day, if he lived, he would be a very rich man; but his good fortune did not seem to elate him, did it, Eliza?”

“No, indeed,” replied Aunt Eliza, “Mr. Temple is quite above anything of that kind.”

“I wonder where he picked up the country cousin?” said Ralph Webster, thoughtfully.

“Most probably at his uncle’s, the squire of Woodlea. Where do you think we could take her to-morrow, Ralph?”

“Wait until we see what to-morrow brings forth in the way of weather,” answered Ralph Webster, and they settled it thus, and shortly afterward the two sisters retired to rest, and their nephew was left to his reflections.

The next morning was fine, and when Ralph Webster saw May Churchill by daylight he decided she was prettier than ever. She had rested well; she was fresh and fair, and she carried on an animated conversation with Ralph Webster during the whole of the breakfast time.

“I suppose you row, play tennis, and hunt, and have all sorts of country occupations?” asked Ralph.

“I play tennis, but I neither row nor hunt,” answered May, smiling.

“What! you are not one of those manly young ladies who intend to annihilate us poor male creatures off the face of the earth, or at least our occupations and professions?”

“Not quite; but I think it a very good thing that women nowadays can find occupations and professions for themselves.”

“It’s not fair to men, it’s really not,” answered Webster, smiling also. “Just take my profession, for instance, which I fully expect will be invaded by the female element in no time. Now I ask you what chance has a judge to be just, to say nothing of the susceptible bosoms of the twelve good men in the jury box, when confronted with a lovely creature in silk pleading the cause of some ruffian? She’d talk them all over. She’d paint the blackest crimes white, and it would certainly come to this, that the handsomest female barristers would get all the briefs, because it would be only too well known that no man could resist them.”

“But I thought,” said May, who was very much amused, “that before barristers wear silk that they are not quite so young as they once were? Suppose, then, an elderly female barrister, with her brow wrinkled with thought, and her sallow cheeks lined with study, were to confront the jury, do you think that she would have any more effect than a man?”

Webster laughed.

“You draw an appalling picture,” he said; “for my part I can only answer I don’t think she would.”

“Yet you see she would be earning her living; and what can poor women do?”

“They should marry, and men should work for them.”

“But they can’t all marry; hundreds of things may prevent them marrying. I often wish I had been brought up to a profession.”

“Please turn your eyes away from mine; I do not wish to be cut out.”

“My dear, you are sure to marry,” said Aunt Eliza, mildly.

“Nothing is sure, Miss Webster,” laughed May, but she blushed so charmingly at the same time that Ralph Webster felt a new strange sensation that he did not quite understand.

“The day is lovely,” he said, starting up from the breakfast table and going to the window. “Suppose we all go down the river?”

The expedition was soon settled after this. The river was all new to May, and its reedy, willowy shores, its shining waters, and placid flow seemed delightful to her as she sat side by side with Aunt Eliza, or dipped her little hands into the cool stream.

Ralph Webster was a good oarsman, and presently he insisted that May should try to learn to row, and began instructing her. The girl was an apt pupil, and her strong young frame was quite capable of the fatigue. She enjoyed it, and when Aunt Eliza produced her luncheon basket, and they rowed in to have lunch, May declared she had never been so hungry before. Altogether they had a very pleasant day, and returned to Pembridge Terrace for dinner, where Aunt Margaret awaited them with a substantial and well-cooked repast.

“The day is not done,” said Ralph Webster, when dinner was over; “let us go to one of the theaters.”

His aunts looked at him in mild surprise.

“My dear,” they said, almost together, with a slight variation of words, “Miss Churchill will be tired.”

But May declared she was not tired, and her blooming face betokened the truth of her words. So to one of the theaters they went, though Aunt Eliza was tired if May was not. And the next day they went somewhere else, and Ralph Webster suddenly ceased to talk about going on his holiday. But on the third day of May’s stay in Pembridge Terrace Miss Webster received a letter which caused her to look a little grave.

It was from John Temple, and inclosed a letter for May. And it struck Miss Webster’s simple mind at once to wonder why he should not write to his “young cousin,” as he called her, direct. And something—she knew not what—induced Miss Webster not to give this letter to May in the presence of Ralph Webster.

Perhaps she felt that his keen eyes would see more in it than there really was. At all events she put it into May’s hand when they were alone, and she noticed the quick blush and the glad look with which the girl received it.

May retired at once with her new letter to her own room, and when she got there she read as follows in John Temple’s handwriting:

“My Dear One—My Dear Little Sweetheart: I have been thinking of you so much to-day that I must write. But I think it safer to send it under cover to dear kind Miss Webster, as one never can tell what spies there are about, and your disappearance from home has naturally created a great sensation here. The morning after you left your father came to Woodlea, and asked to see my uncle, and then me. He questioned me pretty sharply, and asked when I had last seen you. I risked it, and said at church, and that you had said nothing to me about leaving your father’s house. Then Mrs. Temple attacked me on the subject, and finally yesterday I met that brute young Henderson, and I wish you had seen the desperate look he gave me as he passed me on the road. They say he drinks heavily, and is altogether going to the bad, and that he made a frightful scene when he heard you were gone. So you see altogether we can not be too careful. I dare not in fact leave here at present, or people—Henderson, and Mrs. Temple I am certain—would suspect I was going to join you.

“Therefore, my dear one, we must wait a little while yet before I can go to you. For the reasons I told you of our marriage must be a secret one for the present, though this is very hard both on you and me. But I hope you are happy with Miss Webster, and I need not tell you that the moment I can do so with safety that I will join you, and then we can be married at once. Brighter days are, I am sure, in store for us, my Mayflower, but in the meantime when you write will you give your letters to Miss Webster to inclose to me, as it would not do for your letters to come here. Always devotedly yours,

John Temple.”