One secret was soon out, even before the cruel parting of Fly and Mysie, which it greatly mitigated.

Clipston was to be repaired and put in order, to be rented by the Merrifields. It was really a fine old substantial squire’s house, though neglected and consigned to farmers for four generations. It had great capabilities—a hall up to the roof, wainscoted rooms—at present happy hunting-grounds to boys and terriers—a choked fountain, numerous windows, walled up in the days of the ‘tax on light,’ and never reopened, and, moreover, a big stone barn, with a cross on the gable, and evident traces of having once been a chapel.

The place was actually in Rockstone Parish, and had a hamlet of six or seven houses, for which cottage services were held once a week, but the restoration of the chapel would provide a place for these, and it would become a province for Lady Merrifield’s care, while Sir Jasper was absolutely entreated, both by Lord Rotherwood and the rector of Rockstone, to become the valuable layman of the parish, nor was he at all unwilling thus to bestow his enforced leisure.

It was a beautiful place. The valley of daffodils already visited narrowed into a ravine, where the rivulet rushed down from moorlands, through a ravine charmingly wooded, and interspersed with rock. It would give country delights to the children, and remove them from the gossip of the watering-place society, and yet not be too far off for those reading-room opportunities beloved of gentlemen.

The young people were in ecstasies, only mourning that they could not live there during the repairs, and that those experienced in the nature of workmen hesitated to promise that Clipston would be habitable by the summer vacation. In the meantime, most of the movables from Silverfold were transported thither, and there was a great deal of walking and driving to and fro, planning for the future, and revelling in the spring outburst of flowers.

Schoolroom work had begun again, and Lady Merrifield was hearing Mysie read the Geruasalemme Liberata, while Miss Vincent superintended Primrose’s copies, and Gillian’s chalks were striving to portray a bust of Sophocles, when the distant sounds of the piano in the drawing-room stopped, and Valetta came in with words always ominous—

‘Aunt Jane wants to speak to you, mamma.’

Lady Merrifield gathered up her work and departed, while Valetta, addressing the public, said, ‘Something’s up.’

‘Oh!’ cried Primrose, ‘Sofi hasn’t run away again?’

‘I hope Kalliope isn’t worse,’ said Mysie anxiously.

‘I guess,’ said Valetta, ‘somebody said something the other day!’

‘Something proving us the hotbeds of gossip,’ muttered Gillian.

‘You had better get your German exercise, Valetta,’ said Miss Vincent. ‘Mysie, you have not finished your sums.’

And a sigh went round; but Valetta added one after-clap.

‘Aunt Jane looked—I don’t know how!’

Whereat Gillian nodded her head, and looked up at Miss Vincent, who was as curious as the rest, but restrained the manifestation manfully.

Meantime Lady Merrifield found her sister standing at the window, and, without turning round, the words were uttered—

‘Jasper was right, Lily.’

‘You don’t mean it?’

‘Yes; he is after her!’—with a long breath.

‘Mr. White!’

‘Yes’—then sitting down. ‘I did not think much of it before. They always are after Ada more or less—and she likes it; but it never has come to anything.’

‘Why should it now?’

‘It has! At least, it has gone further than ever anything did before, except Charlie Scott, that ridiculous boy at Beechcroft that William was so angry with, and who married somebody else.’

‘You don’t say that he has proposed to her?’

‘Yes, he has—the man! By a letter this morning, and I could see she expected it—not that that’s any wonder!’

‘But, my dear, she can’t possibly be thinking of it.’

‘Well, I should have said it was impossible; but I see she has not made up her mind. Poor dear Ada! It is too bad to laugh; but she does like the having a real offer at last, and a great Italian castle laid at her feet.’

‘But he isn’t a gentleman! I don’t mean only his birth—and I know he is a good man really—but Jasper said he could feel he was not a gentleman by the way he fell on Richard White before his sister.’

‘I know! I know! I wonder if it would be for her happiness?’

‘Then she has not answered him?’

‘No; or, rather, I left her going to write. She won’t accept him certainly now; but I believe she is telling him that she must have time to consider and consult her family.’

‘She must know pretty well what her family will say. Fancy William! Fancy Emily! Fancy Reginald!’

‘Yes, oh yes! But Ada—I must say it—she does like to prolong the situation.’

‘It is not fair on the poor man.’

‘Well, she will act as she chooses; but I think she really does want to see what amount of opposition—No, not that, but of estrangement it would cause.’

‘Did you see the letter?’

‘Yes; no doubt you will too. I told her I should come to you, and she did not object. I think she was glad to be saved broaching the subject, for she is half ashamed.’

‘I should have thought she would have been as deeply offended at the presumption as poor Gillian was with the valentine.’

‘Lily, my dear, forty-two is not all one with seventeen, especially when there’s an estate with an Italian countship attached to it! Though I’m sure I’d rather marry Alexis than this man. He is a gentleman in grain!’

‘Oh, Jenny, you are very severe!’

‘I’m afraid it is bitterness, Lily; so I rushed down to have it all out with you, and make up my mind what part to take.’

‘It is very hard on you, my dear, after you have nursed and waited on her all these years.’

‘It is the little titillation of vanity—exactly like the Ada of sixteen, nay, of six, that worries me, and makes me naughty,’ said Jane, dashing off a tear. ‘Oh, Lily! how could I have borne it if you had not come home!’

‘But what do you mean about the part to take?’

‘Well, you see, Lily, I really do not know what I ought to do. I want to clear my mind by talking to you.’

‘I am afraid it would make a great difference to you in the matter of means.’

‘I don’t mean about that; but I am not sure whether I ought to stand up for her. You see the man is really good at heart, and religious, and he is taking out this chaplain. The climate, mountains, and sea might really suit her health, and she could have all kinds of comforts and luxuries; and if she can get over his birth, and the want of fine edge of his manners, I don’t know that we have any right to set ourselves against it.’

‘I should have thought those objections would have weighed most of all with her.’

‘And I do believe that if the whole family are unanimous in scouting the very idea, she will give it up. She is proud of Mohun blood, and the Rotherwood connection and all, and if there were a desperate opposition—well, she would be rather flattered, and give in; but I am not sure that she would not always regret it, and pine after what she might have had.’

‘Rotherwood likes the man.’

‘Like—but that’s not liking him to marry his cousin.’

‘Rotherwood will not be the person most shocked.’

‘No. We shall have a terrible time, however it ends. Oh. I wish it was all over!’

‘Do you think she really cares for the man—loves him, in fact?’

‘My dear Lily, if Ada ever was in love with anybody, it was with Harry May, and that was all pure mistake. I never told anybody, but I believe it was that which upset her health. But they are both too old to concern themselves about such trifles. He does not expect it!’

‘I have seen good strong love in a woman over forty.’

‘Yes; but this is quite another thing. A lady of the house wanted! That’s the motive. I should not wonder if he came home as much to look for a lady-wife as to set the Stebbings to rights; or, if not, he is driven to it by having the Whites on his hands.’

‘I don’t quite see that. I was going to ask you how it would affect them.’

‘Well, you see, though she is perfectly willing and anxious to begin again, poor dear Kally really can’t. She did try to arrange a design that had been running in her head for a long time, and she was so bad after it that Dr. Dagger said she must not attempt it. Then, though she is discreet enough for anything, Mr. White is not really her uncle, and could not take her about with him alone or even with Maura; so I gather from some expressions in his letter that he would like to take her out with them, spend the summer at Rocca Marina, and let her have a winter’s study at Florence. Then, I suppose she might come back and superintend on quite a different footing.

‘So he wants Ada as a chaperon for Kalliope?’

‘That is an element in the affair, and not a bad one, and I don’t think Ada will object. She won’t be left entirely to his companionship.’

‘My dear Jane! Then I’m sure she ought not to marry him!’ cried Lady Merrifield indignantly. ‘Here comes Jasper. May I tell him?’

‘You will, whether you may or not.’

And what Sir Jasper said was—

At which both sisters, though rather angry, could not help laughing, and Lady Merrifield explained that they had always said the events had gone on in a concatenation, like the house that Jack built, from Gillian’s peep through the rails. However, he was of opinion that it was better not to make a strenuous opposition.

‘Adeline is quite old enough to judge for herself whether the incongruities will interfere with her happiness,’ he said; ‘and this is really a worthy man who ought not to be contemned. Violent contradiction might leave memories that would make it difficult to be on affectionate terms afterwards.’

‘Yes,’ said Jane; ‘that is what I feel. Thank you, Jasper. Now I must go to my district. Happily those things run on all the same for the present.’

But when she was gone Sir Jasper told his wife that he thought it ought to be seriously put before Adeline that Jane ought to be considered. She had devoted herself to the care of her sister for many years, and the division of their means would tell seriously upon her comfort.

‘If it were a matter of affection, there would be nothing to say,’ he observed; ‘but nobody pretends that it is so, and surely Jane deserves consideration.

‘I should think her a much more comfortable companion than Mr. White,’ said Lady Merrifield. ‘I can’t believe it will come to anything. Whatever the riches or the castle at Rocca Marina may be, Ada would, in a worldly point of view, give up a position of some consideration here, and I think that will weigh with her.’

As soon as possible, Lady Merrifield went up to see her sister, and found her writing letters in a great flutter of importance. It was quite plain that the affair was not to be quashed at once, and that, whether the suit were granted or not, all the family were to be aware that Adeline had had her choice. Warned by her husband, Lady Merrifield guarded the form of her remonstrances.

‘Oh yes, dear Lily, I know! It is a sacrifice in many points of view, but think what a field is open to me! There are all those English workmen and their wives and families living out there, and Mr. White does so need a lady to influence them.’

‘You have not done much work of that kind. Besides, I thought this chaplain was married.’

‘Yes, but the moral support of a lady at the head must be needful,’ said Ada. ‘It is quite a work.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said her sister, who had scarcely been in the habit of looking on Ada as a great moral influence. ‘But have you thought what this will be to Jane?’

‘Really, Lily, it is a good deal for Jane’s sake. She will be so much more free without being bound to poor me!’—and Ada’s head went on one side. ‘You know she would never have lived here but for me; and now she will be able to do what she pleases.’

‘Not pecuniarily.’

‘Oh, it will be quite possible to see to all that! Besides, think of the advantage to her schemes. Oh yes, dear Jenny, it will be a wrench to her, of course, and she will miss me; but, when that is once got over, she will feel that I have acted for the best. Nor will it be such a separation; he means always to spend the summer here, and the winter and spring at Florence or Rocca Marina.’ It was grand to hear the Italian syllables roll from Adeline’s tongue. ‘You know he could take the title if he pleased.’

‘I am sure I hope he will not do anything so ridiculous!’

‘Oh no, of course not!’ But it was plain that the secret consciousness of being Countess of Rocca Marina was an offset against being plain Mrs. White, and Adeline continued: ‘There is another thing—I do not quite see how it can be managed about Kalliope otherwise, poor girl!’

It was quite true that the care of Kalliope would be greatly facilitated by Mr. White’s marriage; but what was absurd was to suppose that Ada would have made any sacrifice for her sake, or any one else’s, and there was something comical as well as provoking in this pose of devotion to the public good.

‘You are decided, then?’

‘Oh no! I am only showing you what inducements there are to give up so much as I should do here—if I make up my mind to it.’

‘There’s only one inducement, I should think, valid for a moment.’

‘Yes’—bridling a little. ‘But, Lily, you always had your romance. We don’t all meet with a Jasper at the right moment, and—and’—the Maid of Athens drooped her eyelids, and ingenuously curved her lips. ‘I do think the poor man has it very much at heart.’

‘Then you ought not to keep him in suspense.’

‘And you—you really are not against it, Lily?’ (rather in a disappointed tone), as if she expected to have her own value enhanced.

‘I think you ought to do whatever is most right and just by him, and everybody else. If you really care for the man enough to overlook his origin, and his occasional betrayals of it, and think he will make you better and happier, take him at once; but don’t pretend to call it a sacrifice, or for anybody’s sake but for your own; and, any way, don’t trifle with him and his suspense.’

Lady Merrifield spoke with unwonted severity, for she was really provoked.

‘But, Lily, I must see what the others say—William and Emily. I told him that William was the head of our family.’

‘If you mean to be guided by them, well and good; if not, I see no sense in asking them.’

After all, the family commotion fell short of what was expected by either of the sisters. The eldest brother, Mr. Mohun, of Beechcroft Court, wrote to the lady herself that she was quite old enough to know what was for her own happiness, and he had no desire to interfere with her choice if she preferred wealth to station. To Lady Merrifield his letter began: ‘It is very well it is no worse, and as Jasper vouches for this being a worthy man, and of substantial means, there is no valid objection. I shall take care to overhaul the settlements, and, if possible, I must make up poor Jane’s income.’

The sister, Lady Henry Grey, in her dowager seclusion at Brighton, contented herself with a general moan on the decadence of society, and the levelling up that made such an affair possible. She had been meditating a visit to Rockquay, to see her dear Lilias (who, by the bye, had run down to her at Brighton for a day out of the stay in London), but now she would defer it till this matter was over. It would be too trying to have to accept this stonemason as one of the family.

As to Colonel Mohun, being one of the younger division of the family, there was no idea of consulting him, and he wrote a fairly civil little note to Adeline, hoping that she had decided for the best, and would be happy; while to the elder of the pair of sisters he said: ‘So Ada has found her crooked stick at last. I always thought it inevitable. Keep up heart, old Jenny, and hold on till Her Majesty turns me off, and then we will see what is to be done.’

Perhaps this cool acquiescence was less pleasing to Adeline Mohun than a contest that would have proved her value and importance, and her brother William’s observation that she was old enough to know her own mind was the cruellest cut of all. On the other hand, there was no doubt of her swain’s devotion. If he had been influenced in his decision by convenience or calculation, he was certainly by this time heartily in love. Not only was Adeline a handsome, graceful woman, whose airs and affectations seemed far more absurd to those who had made merry over them from childhood than to a stranger of an inferior grade; but there was a great charm to a man, able to appreciate refinement, in his first familiar intercourse with thorough ladies. Jane began to be touched by the sight of his devotion, and convinced of his attachment, and sometimes wondered with Lady Merrifield whether Adeline would rise to her opportunities and responsibilities, or be satisfied to be a petted idol.

One difficulty in this time of suspense was, that the sisters had no right to take into their confidence the young folks, who were quite sharp-eyed enough to know that something was going on, and, not being put on honour, were not withheld from communicating their discoveries to one another in no measured words, though fortunately they had sense enough, especially under the awe of their father, not to let them go any further than Mysie, who was entertaining because she was shocked at their audacious jokes and speculations, all at first on the false scent of their elder aunt, who certainly was in a state of excitement and uncertainty enough to throw her off the even tenor of her way and excite some suspicion. When she actually brought down a number of the Contemporary Review instead of Friendly Work for the edification of her G.F.S., Gillian tried not to look too conscious when some of the girls actually tittered in the rear; and she absolutely blushed when Aunt Jane deliberately stated that Ascension Day would fall on a Tuesday. So Gillian averred as she walked up the hill with Jasper and Mysie. It seemed a climax to the diversion she and Jasper had extracted from it in private, both wearing Punch’s spectacles for the nonce, and holding such aberrations as proof positive. Mysie, on the other hand, was much exercised.

‘Do you think she is in love, then?’

‘Oh yes! People always do those things in love. Besides, the Sofi hasn’t got a single white hair in her, and you know what that always means!’

‘I can’t make it out! I can’t think how Aunt Jane can be in love with a great man like that. His voice isn’t nice, you know—’

‘Not even as sweet as Bully Bottom’s,’ suggested Gillian.

‘You’re a chit,’ said Jasper, ‘or you’d be superior to the notion of love being indispensable.’

‘When people are so very old,’ said Mysie in a meditative voice, ‘perhaps they can’t; but Aunt Jane is very good—and I thought it was only horrid worldly people that married without love.’

‘Trust your good woman for looking to the main chance,’ said Jasper, who was better read in Trollope and Mrs. Oliphant than his sisters.

‘’Tis not main chance,’ said Gillian. ‘Think of the lots of good she would do! What a recreation room for the girls, and what schools she would set up at Rocca Marina! Depend upon it, it’s for that!’

‘I suppose it is right if Aunt Jane does it,’ said Mysie.

‘Well done, Mysie! So, Aunt Jane is your Pope!’

‘No; she’s the King that can do no wrong,’ said Gillian, laughing.

‘Wrong—I didn’t say wrong—but things aren’t always real wrong that aren’t somehow quite right, said Mysie, with the bewildered reasoning of perceptions that outran her powers of expression.

‘Mysie’s speeches, for instance,’ said Jasper.

‘Oh, Japs, what did I say wrong?’

‘Don’t tease her, Japs. He didn’t mean morally, but correctly.’

The three were on their way up the hill when they met Primrose, who had accompanied Mrs. Halfpenny to see Kalliope, and who was evidently in a state of such great discomposure that they all stood round to ask what was the matter; but she hung down her head and would not say.

‘Hoots! toots! I tell her she need not make such a work about it,’ said Mrs. Halfpenny. ‘The honest man did but kiss her, and no harm for her uncle that is to be.’

‘He’s a nasty man! And he snatched me up! And he is all scrubby and tobacco-ey, and I won’t have him for an uncle,’ cried Primrose.

‘I hope he is not going to proceed in that way,’ said Gillian sotto voce to Mysie.

‘People always do snatch up primroses,’ said Jasper.

‘Don’t, Japs! I don’t like marble men. I wish they would stay marble.’

‘You don’t approve of the transformation?’

‘Oh, Japs, is it true? Mysie, you know the statue at Rotherwood, where Pig-my-lion made a stone figure and it turned into a woman.’

‘Yes; but it was a woman and this is a man.’

Mysie began an exposition of classic fable to her little sister, while Mrs. Halfpenny explained that this came of Christian folk setting up heathen idols in their houses as ‘twas a shame for decent folk to look at, let alone puir bairnies; while Jasper and Gillian gasped in convulsions of laughter, and bandied queries whether their aunt were the statue ‘Pig-my-lion’ had animated, as nothing could be less statuesque than she, whether the reverse had taken place, as Primrose observed, and she had been the Pygmalion to awaken the soul in the man of marble. Here, however, Mrs. Halfpenny became scandalised at such laughter in the open street; and, perceiving some one in the distance, she carried off Primrose, and enjoined the others to walk on doucely and wiselike.

Gillian was on her way to visit Kalliope and make an appointment for her mother to take her out for a drive; but as they passed the gate at Beechcroft out burst Valetta and Fergus, quite breathless.

‘Oh, Gill, Gill! Mr. White is in the drawing-room, and he has brought Aunt Ada the most beautiful box you ever saw, with all the stoppers made of gold!’

‘And he says I may get all the specimens I like at Rocca Marina,’ shouted Fergus.

‘Ivory brushes, and such a ring—sparkling up to the ceiling!’ added Valetta.

‘But, Val, Ferg, whom did you say?’ demanded the elders, coming within the shadow of the copper beeches.

‘Aunt Ada,’ said Valetta; ‘there’s a great A engraved on all those dear, lovely bottles, and—oh, they smell!’

‘Aunt Ada! Oh, I thought—’

‘What did you think, Gill?’ said Aunt Jane, coming from the grass-plat suddenly on them.

‘Oh, Aunt Jane, I am so glad!’ cried Gillian. ‘I thought’—and she blushed furiously.

‘They made asses of themselves,’ said Jasper.

‘They said it was you,’ added Mysie. ‘Miss Mellon told Miss Elbury,’ she added in excuse.

‘Me? No, I thank you! So you are glad, Gillian?’

‘Oh yes, aunt! I couldn’t have borne for you to do anything—queer’—and there was a look in Gillian’s face that went to Jane’s heart, and under other circumstances would have produced a kiss, but she rallied to her line of defence.

‘My dear, you must not call this queer. Mr. White is very much attached to your aunt Ada, and I think he will make her very happy, and give her great opportunities of doing good.’

‘That’s just what Gillian said when she was afraid it was you,’ said Mysie. ‘I suppose that’s it? And that makes it real right.’

‘And the golden stoppers!’ said Valetta innocently, but almost choking Jasper with laughter, which must be suppressed before his aunt.

‘May one know it now?’ asked Gillian, sensible of the perilous ground.

‘Yes, my dears; you must have been on tenter-hooks all this time, for, of course, you saw there was a crisis, and you behaved much better than I should have done at your age; but it was only a fait accompli this very day, and we couldn’t tell you before.’

‘When he brought down the golden stoppers,’ Jasper could not help saying.

‘No, no, you naughty boy! He would not have dared to bring it in before; he came before luncheon—all that came after. Oh, my dear, that dressing-case is perfectly awful! I wouldn’t have such a burthen on my mind—for—for all the orphans in London! I hope there are no banditti at Rocca Marina.’

‘Only accepted to-day! How did he get all his great A’s engraved?’ said Jasper practically.

‘He could not have had many doubts,’ said Gillian. ‘Does Kalliope know?’

‘I cannot tell; I think he has probably told her.’

‘He must have met Primrose there,’ said Jasper. ‘Poor Prim!’ And the offence and the Pig-my-lion story were duly related, much to Aunt Jane’s amusement.

‘But,’ she said, ‘I think that the soul in the marble man is very real, and very warm; and, dear children, don’t get into the habit of contemning him. Laugh, I suppose you must; I am afraid it must look ridiculous at our age; but please don’t despise. I am going down to your mother.

‘May I come with you! said Gillian. ‘I don’t think I can go to Kally till I have digested this a little; and, if you are going to mamma, she won’t drive her out.’

Jane was much gratified by this volunteer, though Jasper did suggest that Gill was afraid of Primrose’s treatment. He went on with the other three to Clipston, while Gillian exclaimed—

‘Oh, Aunt Jane, shall not you be very lonely?’

‘Not nearly so much so as if you were not all here,’ said her aunt cheerfully. ‘When you bemoaned your sisters last year we did not think the same thing was coming on me.’

‘Phyllis and Alethea! It was a very different thing,’ said Gillian. ‘Besides, though I hated it so much, I had got used to being without them.’

‘And to tell you the truth, Gill, nothing in that way ever was so bad to me as your own mother going and marrying; and now, you see, I have got her back again—and more too.’

Aunt Jane’s smile and softened eyes told that the young niece was included in the ‘more too’; and Gillian felt a thrill of pleasure and affection in this proof that after all she was something to the aunt, towards whom her feelings had so entirely changed. She proceeded, however, to ask with considerable anxiety what would be done about the Whites, Kalliope especially; and in return she was told about the present plan of Kalliope’s being taken to Italy to recover first, and then to pursue her studies at Florence, so as to return to her work more capable, and in a higher position.

‘Oh, how exquisite!’ cried Gillian. ‘But how about all the others?’

‘The very thing I want to see about, and talk over with your mother. I am sure she ought to go; and it will not even be wasting time, for she cannot earn anything.’

Talking over things with Lady Merrifield was, however, impeded, for, behold, there was a visitor in the drawing-room. Aunt and niece exchanged glances of consternation as they detected a stranger’s voice through the open window, and Gillian uttered a vituperative whisper.

‘I do believe it is that dreadful Fangs;’ then, hoping her aunt had not heard—‘Captain Henderson, I mean. He threatened to come down after us, and now he will always be in and out; and we shall have no peace. He has got nothing on earth to do.’

Gillian’s guess was right. The neat, trim, soldierly figure, with a long fair moustache and pleasant gray eyes, was introduced to Miss Mohun as ‘Captain Henderson, one of my brother officers,’ by Sir Jasper, who stood on the rug talking to him. Looks and signs among the ladies were token enough that the crisis had come; and Lady Merrifield soon secured freedom of speech by proposing to drive her sister to Clipston, while Sir Jasper asked his visitor to walk with him.

‘You will be in haste to sketch the place,’ he said, ‘before the workmen have done their best to demolish its beauty.’

As for Gillian, she saw her aunt hesitating on account of a parochial engagement for that afternoon; and, as it was happily not beyond her powers, she offered herself as a substitute, and was thankfully accepted. She felt quite glad to do anything obliging towards her aunt Jane, and in a mood very unlike last year’s grudging service; it was only reading to the ‘mothers’ meeting,’ since among the good ladies there prevailed such a strange incapacity of reading aloud, that this part of the business was left to so few that for one to fail, either in presence or in voice, was very inconvenient. All were settled down to their needlework, with their babies disposed of as best they might be. Mr. Hablot had finished his little lecture, and the one lady with a voice had nearly exhausted it, and there was a slight sensation at the absence of the unfailing Miss Mohun, when Gillian came in with the apologies about going to drive with her mother.

‘And,’ as she described it afterwards ‘didn’t those wretched beings all grin and titter, even the ladies, who ought to have had more manners, and that old Miss Mellon, who is a real growth of the hotbed of gossip, simpered and supposed we must look for such things now; and, though I pretended not to hear, my cheeks would go and flame up as red as—that tasconia, just with longing to tell them Aunt Jane was not so ridiculous; and so I took hold of For Half a Crown, and began to read it as if I could bite them all!’

She read herself into a state of pacification, but did not attempt to see Kalliope that day, being rather shy of all that might be encountered in that house, especially after working hours. The next day, however, Lady Merrifield’s services were required to chaperon the coy betrothed in an inspection of Cliff House and furniture, which was to be renovated according to her taste, and Gillian was to take that time for a visit to Kalliope, whom she expected to find in the garden. The usual corner was, however, vacant; and Mr. White was heard making a growl of ‘Foolish girl! Doesn’t know which way her bread is buttered.’

Maura, however, came running up, and said to Gillian, ‘Please come this way. She is here.’

‘What has she hidden herself for?’ demanded Mr. White. ‘I thought she might have been here to welcome this—Miss Adeline.’

‘She is not very well to-day,’ faltered Maura.

‘Oh! ay, fretting. Well, I thought she had more sense.’

Gillian followed Maura, who was no sooner out of hearing than she began: ‘It is too bad of him to be so cross. Kally really is so upset! She did not sleep all night, and I thought she would have fainted quite away this morning!’

‘Oh dear! has he been worrying her?’

‘She is very glad and happy, of course, about Miss Ada! and he won’t believe it, because he wants her to go out to Italy with them for all next winter.’

‘And won’t she? Oh, what a pity!’

‘She said she really could not because of us; she could not leave us, Petros and all, without a home. She thought it her duty to stay and look after us. And then he got cross, and said that she was presuming on the hope of living in idleness here, and making him keep us all, but she would find herself mistaken, and went off very angry.’

‘Oh, horrid! how could he?’

‘I believe, if Kally could have walked so far, she would have gone down straight to Mr. Lee’s. She wanted to, but she was all in a tremble, and I persuaded her not, though she did send me down to ask Mrs. Lee when she can be ready. Then when Alexis came home, Mr. White told him that he didn’t in the least mean all that, and would not hear of her going away, though he was angry at her being so foolish, but he would give her another chance of not throwing away such advantages. And Alexis says she ought not. He wants her to go, and declares that he and I can very well manage with Mrs. Lee, and look after Petros, and that she must not think of rushing off in a huff for a few words said in a passion. So, between the two, she was quite upset and couldn’t sleep, and, oh, if she were to be ill again!’

By this time they were in sight of Kalliope lying back in a basket-chair, shaded by the fence of the kitchen-garden, and her weary face and trembling hand showed how much this had shaken her in her weakness. She sent Maura away, and spoke out her troubles freely to Gillian. ‘I thought at first my duty was quite clear, and that I ought not to go away and enjoy myself and leave the others to get on without me. Alec would find it so dreary; and though Mr. and Mrs. Lee are very good and kind, they are not quite companions to him. Then Maura has come to think so much about people being ladies that I don’t feel sure that she would attend to Mrs. Lee; and the same with Petros in the holidays. If I can’t work at first, still I can make a home and look after them.’

‘But it is only one winter, and Alexis thinks you ought; and, oh, what it would be, and how you would get on!’

‘That is what puzzles me. Alexis thinks Mr. White has a right to expect me to improve myself, and not go on for ever making white jessamines with malachite leaves, and that he can look after Maura and Petros. I see, too, that I ought to try to recover, or I might be a burthen on Alexis for ever, and hinder all his better hopes. Then, there’s the not liking to accept a favour after Mr. White said such things, though I ought not to think about it since he made that apology; but it is a horrid feeling that I ought not to affront him for the sake of the others. Altogether I do feel so tossed. I can’t get back the feeling I had when I was ill that I need not worry, for that God will decide.’

And there were tears in her eyes.

‘Can’t you ask some one’s advice?’ said Gillian.

‘If I were sure they quite understood! My head is quite tired with thinking about it.’

Not many moments had passed before there were steps that made Kalliope start painfully, and Maura appeared, piloting another visitor. It was Miss Mohun, who had escaped from the survey of the rooms,—so far uneasy at what she had gathered from Mr. White, that she was the more anxious to make the offer previously agreed to.

‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I am afraid you look tired.’

‘They have worried her and knocked her up,’ said Gillian indignantly.

‘I see! Kally, my dear, we are connections now, you know, and I have heard of Mr. White’s plan. It made me think whether you would find the matter easier if you let me have Maura while you are away to cheer my solitude. Then I could see that she did her lessons, and, between all Gillian’s brothers, we could see that Petros was happy in the holidays.’

‘Oh, Miss Mohun! how can I be grateful enough? There is an end of all difficulties.’

And when the inspecting party came round, and Adeline bent to kiss the white, weary, but no longer distressed face, and kindly said, ‘We shall see a great deal of each other, I hope,’ she replied, with an earnest ‘thank you,’ and added to Mr. White, ‘Miss Mohun has made it all easy to me, sir, and I am very grateful!’

‘Ay, ay! You’re a good girl at the bottom, and have some sense!’