It was a raw, gusty afternoon towards the end of March when May and her grandmother arrived in London. There had been some difficulty about the journey, arising from Mrs. Dormer-Smith's objection to her niece's travelling alone, and insisting on her being properly attended. In reply to a suggestion that May would be quite safe in a ladies' carriage, and under the care of the guard, she wrote:—"It is not that I doubt her being safe; but I cannot let my servants see her arrive alone when I meet her at the station. Why not send a maid with her?" To which Mrs. Dobbs made answer that she could not send a maid, having only one servant-of-all-work, but that she herself would bring her grand-daughter to London. "I shall go up by one train, and come down by the next," said she to Jo Weatherhead. And when he remonstrated against her incurring that expense and fatigue, she answered, "Oh, we won't spoil the ship for a ha'porth of tar. If I make up my mind to part with the child, I'll start her as well as I can."

The travellers found Mrs. Dormer-Smith awaiting them at the railway station. She greeted May affectionately, and Mrs. Dobbs amiably. "My servant has a cab here for the luggage," she said. "But"—hesitatingly—"how shall we manage about——? I'm afraid the brougham is too small for three." Mrs. Dobbs settled the question by declaring that she did not purpose going to Mrs. Dormer-Smith's house. She would get some dinner at the station, and return to Oldchester by an evening train. "Oh dear, I'm afraid that will be very uncomfortable for you!" said Pauline, politely trying to conceal her satisfaction at this arrangement. "Will you not come and—and lunch with us?" But Mrs. Dobbs stuck to her own plan.

While the footman was superintending the placing of May's luggage on the cab, her grandmother drew her into the waiting-room to say "good-bye." "God bless you, my dear, dear child! Write to me often, keep well, and be happy!" she said, folding the girl in her arms. Mrs. Dormer-Smith stood by, not unsympathetic, but at the same time relieved to know James was busy with the luggage, so that he could not witness the parting, nor hear May's exclamation, "Darling granny! darling granny!" Indeed, it might be hoped that he would never know the relationship between this stout, common-looking old woman and Miss Cheffington; nor be able to report it in the servants' hall. She felt that Mrs. Dobbs was behaving very properly, and said with gracious sweetness, "I'm sure we ought all to be very much obliged to you for the care you have taken of my niece. It was most good of you to undertake this tiresome journey."

Mrs. Dobbs looked up with a flash in her eyes. "I only hope," she returned hotly, "that you will take as good care of my grandchild as I have taken of your niece." The next moment she repented of her retort, and said quite humbly, "You will be kind to her, won't you? Poor motherless lamb! You will be kind to her, I'm sure!"

"Indeed I will," answered Mrs. Dormer-Smith, with unruffled gentleness. "I have always wished for a daughter, and she shall be like my own daughter to me." And, with a motherly caress, she drew May to her side.

"Don't be afraid for me, granny dear!" said May, smiling with tearful eyes. "I shall be very happy with Aunt Pauline. Besides, I shall see you again very soon."

Mrs. Dobbs laid her hand on the girl's shoulder and pushed her gently, but firmly, out of the waiting-room, standing herself in the doorway until May and her aunt had disappeared. Then she sat down by the fire, untied her bonnet-strings, pulled out her handkerchief, and sobbed unrestrainedly. The waiting-room attendant looked at her curiously; for she had noticed that Mrs. Dobbs did not belong to the same class as that elegantly dressed lady, attended by a servant in livery, with whom the young girl had gone away. Presently she drew near, on pretence of poking the fire, and said—

"You're very fond of the young lady, ain't you? But don't take on so. You'll see her again very soon, I dare say. Don't cry, poor dear!"

"I have cried," said Mrs. Dobbs, getting up and drying her eyes resolutely. "I have cried, and it's done me good. And now I'll go and get a bit of food."

But she only trifled with the modest dinner set before her; and, as she sat in a corner of the second-class carriage which conveyed her back to Oldchester, her handkerchief was soaked with silent tears.

To May the separation naturally seemed far less terrible than it did to Mrs. Dobbs. She had no idea that it was to be a long, much less a permanent, one. She found it agreeable to sit in the well-hung, neatly appointed brougham, with a cushion at her back and a hot-water tin under her feet, and to look through the clear glasses at the bustle and movement of London. Her aunt Pauline was very pleasant and sympathetic. May thought that she might come to love her father's sister very dearly. She admired her already. Mrs. Dormer-Smith's gentle manner, her soft, low voice, the quiet elegance of her dress, and even the delicate perfume of violets which hung about her, were all appreciated by May.

"My cousin is not at home, is he, Aunt Pauline?" she asked after a little silence.

"No; Cyril is at Harrow. There are only the children."

"Oh, children!" cried May, with brightening eyes. "I'm so glad! I love children. I didn't know you had any children besides Cyril."

Mrs. Dormer-Smith laughed her peculiar little guttural laugh, consisting of several ha, ha, ha's, slowly and softly uttered, and made no answer.

"Are they boys or girls? How many are there? How old are they?" questioned May eagerly.

"Two little boys. Harold is—let me see—Harold is six, and Wilfred five. It is very awkward having two little things in the nursery so many years younger than their elder brother. Cyril is turned fifteen. It is like beginning all one's troubles over again," said Pauline plaintively. The birth of these two children was, indeed, a standing grievance with her.

May thought this an odd way of talking, and said no more on the subject of her little cousins. But she looked forward to seeing them with pleasant expectation.

The sight of the house in Kensington brought back vividly to her mind the day after the dowager's funeral, when she had arrived there from school, feeling very strange and forlorn. She remembered, too, the abrupt departure next morning with her father, and her impression that the Dormer-Smiths had not behaved well, and that her father was very angry with them. May was shown into a bedroom at the back of the house, overlooking some gardens. The maid, having asked if she could do anything for Miss Cheffington, and having mentioned that the luncheon-gong would sound in ten minutes, withdrew, and left May alone. She examined the room with girlish interest. It was very pretty, she thought. Perhaps, in point of solid comfort, the old-fashioned furniture of her room in Friar's Row might be superior; but in Friar's Row there was no such ample provision of looking-glasses as there was here. She was still contemplating herself from head to foot in a long swing mirror, which stood in a good light near the window, when the gong sounded.

May ran downstairs, and in the dining-room she found her aunt and a heavy-looking man with grizzled, sandy hair, and dull blue eyes, who asked her how she did, and supposed she would hardly recognize him.

"Oh yes, I do, Uncle Frederick!" she answered.

And again an uncomfortable recollection of her father's angry departure from that house came over her. But whatever quarrels there might have been in those days, her aunt and uncle appeared to have forgotten all about them. Mr. Dormer-Smith told May more than once that he was pleased to see her.

"You're not a bit like your father, my dear," said he, with an approving air not altogether flattering to Augustus.

"Oh yes, Frederick!" interposed his wife. "There is a family expression."

"It's an expression I have never seen on your brother's face. No, nor any approach to it."

Mrs. Dormer-Smith laughed the soft little laugh which was habitual with her when embarrassed or disconcerted, and changed the conversation. "I hope you like your room, May?" she said.

"Oh yes, very much indeed, thank you, Aunt Pauline."

"I wish I could have come upstairs with you. But I am obliged to mÉnager my strength as much as possible."

"Are you not well, Aunt Pauline?" asked May with ready sympathy.

"I am not strong, dear."

"You would be better if you exerted yourself more," said Mr. Dormer-Smith. "Your system gets into a sluggish state from sheer inactivity."

"Ah, you don't understand, Frederick," answered his wife, with a plaintive smile.

And May felt indignant at her uncle's want of feeling. But the next minute she relented towards him when he said, as he rose from table—

"I'll go round to the chemist's myself for Willy's medicine, and bring it back with me, as I suppose you will be wanting James to go out again with the carriage by-and-by."

"Is one of the little boys ill?" asked May.

This time it was her aunt who replied calmly, "Oh no. The child has a little nervous cough; it is really more a trick than anything else."

"Huggins doesn't think so lightly of it, I can assure you. He tells me great care is needed," said Mr. Dormer-Smith.

"Can I—would you mind—might I see my little cousins?" asked May, with some hesitation. She was puzzled by these discrepancies of opinion between husband and wife.

Mr. Dormer-Smith turned round with a look almost of animation. "Come now, if you like. Come with me," he said. And May followed him out of the room, disregarding her aunt's suggestion that it would be better for her to lie down and rest after her journey.

The nursery was a large room—in fact, an attic—at the top of the house. May noticed how rapidly the elegance and costliness of the furniture and appointments decreased as they mounted. If the dining-room and drawing-rooms represented tropical luxury, the bedrooms cooled down into a temperate zone; and the top region of all was arctic in its barrenness. The nursery looked very forlorn and comfortless, with its bare floor, cheap wall-paper dotted with coarse, coloured prints, and its small grate with a small fire in it, which had exhausted its energies in smoking furiously, as the smell in the room testified. At a table in the middle of the room sat a hard-featured young woman, with high cheek-bones, and a complexion like that of a varnished wooden doll, mending a heap of linen; and in one corner, where stood a battered old rocking-horse and a top-heavy Noah's Ark, two little boys were kneeling on the floor, building houses with wooden bricks. On their father's entrance, they looked up languidly; but when they saw who it was, they scrambled to their feet with some show of pleasure, and came to stand one on each side of him, holding his hands. They were both like him, blue-eyed and sandy-haired, and both looked pale and sickly. Harold, the elder, seemed the stronger of the two. Wilfred was a meagre, frail-looking little creature, with a half-timid, half-sullen expression of face. Their father kissed them both, and, sitting down, drew the younger child on his knee, whilst Harold stood pressing close against his shoulder.

"Well, do you know who this is?" asked Mr. Dormer-Smith, pointing to May.

Apparently they had no wish to know, for they nestled closer to their father, and sulkily rejected May's proffered caresses.

"Oh, come, you mustn't be shy," said their father. "This is your cousin May; kiss her, and say, 'How d'ye do?'"

But nothing would induce either of the boys to give May his hand, nor even to look at her; and at length she begged her uncle not to trouble himself, and hoped they would all be very good friends presently.

"And how do we get on with our lessons, ma'amselle?" asked Mr. Dormer-Smith of the hard-featured young woman, who, beyond rising from her chair when they came in, had hitherto taken no notice of them.

"We haven't had no lessons to-day," put in Harold, with a lowering look at "ma'amselle."

"No, monsieur, it has been impossible till now; I have had so much sewing to do for madame. See!" and she pointed to the heap of linen. "But we will have our lessons in the afternoon."

"I don't want lessons; I want to go out with papa. Take me with you, papa," cried Harold. Whereupon little Wilfred lisped out that he too would go out with papa, and set up a peevish whine.

"It is too cold for you, my man," said the father. "The sharp wind would make you cough. Harold will stay with you, and you can play together, and do your lessons afterwards, like good boys."

But the children only wailed and cried the louder, whilst mademoiselle, with her eyes on her needlework, monotonously repeated in her Swiss-French, "What is this? Be good, my children," and apparently thought she was doing all that she was called upon to do under the circumstances.

May thought her little cousins peculiarly disagreeable children; but she could not help feeling sorry for them and for their father, who looked quite helpless and distressed. "Would you like me to tell you a story?" she said. "I know some very pretty stories."

A wail from Wilfred and a scowl from Harold were all the answer she received from them. But her uncle caught at the suggestion eagerly.

"Oh, that would be very kind of Cousin May," he said. "A pretty story! You'll like that, won't you?"

"No, I shan't! I want to go with papa," grumbled Harold.

"I want to go wis papa," sobbed Wilfred.

"It is always so when monsieur comes to the nursery," said the Swiss, coolly going on with her sewing. "The children are so fond of monsieur."

"Poor little fellows!" cried May.

Then kneeling down beside her uncle, she began softly to stroke Wilfred's hair, and to speak to him coaxingly. After a while, the child glanced shyly into her face, and ceased to sob. Presently he allowed himself to be transferred from his father's knee to May's. The Noah's Ark was brought into requisition. May ranged its inmates—all more or less dilapidated—on the floor, and began to perform a drama with them, making each animal's utterances in an appropriate voice. A smile dawned on Wilfred's pale little face, and Harold drew near to look and listen with evident interest.

"Now, Uncle Frederick, if you have to go out, I will stay and play with the children, until lesson-time. They are going to be very good now; ain't you, boys?"

"Ve'y good now," assented Wilfred, his attention still absorbed by the Noah's Ark animals.

"Well, if you'll make the pig grunt again, I will be good," said Harold, with a Bismarckian mastery of the do ut des principle.

Mr. Dormer-Smith's face beamed with satisfaction. "It's very good of you, my dear," said he. "If you don't mind, it would be very kind to stay with them a little while; that is, if you are not too tired by your journey?" And as he went away, he repeated, "It's very good of you, my dear; very good of you!"

But May found that her aunt took a different view.

"Dear May," said she, when she learned where her niece had been spending the two hours after luncheon, "this is very imprudent! You should have lain down and taken a thorough rest instead of exerting yourself in that way."

"Oh, I'm not in the least tired, Aunt Pauline."

"Dear child, you may not think so; but a railway journey of three or four hours jars the nerves terribly."

"Oh, I was very glad to amuse the children, Aunt Pauline. They were crying to go out with their father, so I tried to comfort them. They got quite merry before I left them."

Mrs. Dormer-Smith slowly shook her head and smiled. "You will find them extremely tiresome, poor things!" said she placidly. "They are by no means engaging children. Cyril was very different at their age."

"Oh, Aunt Pauline! I think they might be made—I mean I think we shall come to be great friends. I couldn't bear to see them cry, poor mites!"

"That is all very sweet in you, dear May, but I fancy it is best to leave their nursery governess to manage them. Her French is not all that I could wish. But a pure accent is not so vitally important for boys. It is much if an Englishman can speak French even decently. And Cecile makes herself very useful with her needle."

Pauline then announced that she would not go out again that afternoon, but would devote herself to the inspection of May's wardrobe. "Of course you have no evening dresses fit to wear," she said; "but we will see whether we cannot manage to make use of some of your clothes. Smithson, my maid, is very clever."

"Why, of course granny would not have sent me without proper clothes!" protested May, opening her eyes in astonishment. "And I have an evening frock—a very pretty white muslin, quite new."

To this speech Aunt Pauline vouchsafed no answer beyond a vague smile. She scarcely heard it, in fact. Her mind was preoccupied with weighty considerations. As she seated herself in the one easy-chair in May's room, and watched her niece kneeling down, keys in hand, before her travelling trunk, she observed with heartfelt thankfulness that the girl's figure was naturally graceful, and calculated to set off well-cut garments to advantage.

"Oh!" exclaimed May suddenly, turning round and letting the keys fall with a clash as she clasped her hands, "above everything I must not miss the post! I want to send off a letter, so that granny may have it at breakfast time to-morrow for a surprise. Have I plenty of time, Aunt Pauline?"

"No doubt," answered her aunt absently. She was debating whether the circumference of May's waist might not be reduced an inch or so by judicious lacing.

"Perhaps I had better get my letter written first, Aunt Pauline. I wouldn't miss writing to granny for the world, and any time will do for the clothes."

To which her aunt replied with solemnity, and with an appearance of energy which May had never witnessed in her before, "Your wardrobe, May, demands very serious consideration. April is just upon us. You are to be presented at the second Drawing-room. Dress is an important social duty, and we must not lose time in trifling."