Events came on rapidly that spring. Mr. White was anxious that his marriage should take place quickly—afraid, perhaps, that his prize would escape him, and be daunted by the passive disapproval of her family, though this was only manifested to him in a want of cordiality. This, being sincere people, they could not help; and that outbreak to Kalliope had made the sisters so uneasy, that they would have willingly endured the ridicule of a broken engagement to secure Adeline from the risks of a rough temper where gentlemanly instincts were not inbred.

Adeline, however, knew she had gone too far to recede, though she would willingly have delayed, in enjoyment of the present homage and shrinking from the future plunge away from all her protectors. Though the strong, manly will overpowered hers, and made her submit to the necessities of the case and fix a day early in July, she clung the more closely to her sisters, and insisted on being accompanied by Jane on going to London to purchase the outfit that she had often seen in visions before. So Miss Mohun’s affairs were put in commission, Gillian taking care of them, and the two sisters were to go to Mrs. Craydon, once, as Marianne Weston, their first friend out of their own family, and now a widow with a house in London, well pleased at any recall of old times, though inclined, like all the rest, to speak of ‘poor Ada.’

Lord Rotherwood was, as his cousins had predicted, less disgusted than the rest, as in matters of business he had been able to test the true worth that lay beneath the blemishes of tone and of temper; and his wife thought the Italian residence and foreign tincture made the affair much more endurable than could have been expected. She chose an exquisite tea-service for their joint wedding present; but she would not consent to let Lady Phyllis be a bridesmaid; though the Marquis, discovering that her eldest brother hated the idea of giving her away to the stonemason, offered ‘not to put too fine a point on it, but to act the part of Cousin Phoenix.’

Bridesmaids would have been rather a difficulty; but then the deep mourning of Kalliope and Maura made a decided reason for excluding them; and Miss Adeline, who knew that a quiet wedding would be in much the best taste, resolved to content herself with two tiny maidens, Primrose and the contemporary Hablot, her own goddaughter, who, being commonly known as Belle, made a reason for equipping each in the colour and with the flowers of her name, and the idea was carried out with great taste.

Valetta thought it hard that an outsider should be chosen. The young Merrifields had the failing of large families in clannish exclusiveness up to the point of hating and despising more or less all who interfered with their enjoyment of one another, and of their own ways. The absence of society at Silverfold had intensified this farouche tone, and the dispersion, instead of curing it, had rendered them more bent on being alone together. Worst of all was Wilfred, who had been kept at home very inconveniently by some recurring delicacy of brain and eyes, and who, at twelve years old, was enough of an imp to be no small torment to his sisters. Valetta was unmercifully teased about her affection for Kitty Varley and Maura White, and, whenever he durst, there were attempts at stings about Alexis, until new game offered itself on whom no one had any mercy.

Captain Henderson was as much in the way as a man could be who knew but one family in the place, and had no resource but sketching. His yellow moustache was to be seen at all manner of unexpected and unwelcome times. If that great honour, a walk with papa, was granted, out he popped from Marine Hotel, or a seat in the public gardens, evidently lying in ambush to spoil their walk. Or he was found tete-a-tete with mamma before the five-o’clock tea, talking, no doubt, ‘Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,’ as in the Royal Wardour days. Even at Clipston, or in the coves on the beach, he was only too apt to start up from some convenient post for sketching. He really did draw beautifully, and Mysie would have been thankful for his counsels if public opinion had not been so strong.

Moreover, Kitty Varley conveyed to Valetta the speculations of Rockstone whether Gillian was the attraction.

‘Now, Val,’ said Mysie, ‘how can you listen to such nonsense!’

‘You said so before, and it wasn’t nonsense.’

‘It wasn’t Aunt Jane.’

‘No, but it was somebody.’

‘Everybody does marry somebody; but it is no use for us to think about it, for it always turns out just the contrary to all the books one ever read; so there’s no going by anything, and I don’t believe it right to talk about it.’

‘Why not? Every one does.’

‘All the good teachings say one should not talk of what one does not want one’s grown-ups to hear.’

‘Oh, but then one would never talk of anything!’

‘Oh, Val! I won’t be sure, but I don’t believe I should mind mamma’s hearing all I say.’

‘Yes; but you’ve never been to school, and I heard Bee Varley say she never saw anybody so childishly simple for her age.’

This brought the colour into Mysie’s face, but she said—

‘I’d rather be simple than talk as mamma does not like; and, Val, do on no account tell Gillian.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘And don’t; don’t tell Wilfred, or you know how horrid he would be.’

There was a tell-tale colour in Valetta’s cheeks, by which Mysie might have discerned that Valetta had not resisted the charm of declaring ‘that she knew something,’ even though this was sure to lead to tortures of various kinds from Wilfred until it was extracted. Still the youth as yet was afraid to do much worse than look preternaturally knowing at his sister and give hints about Fangs’ holding fast and the like, but quite enough to startle her into something between being flattered and indignant. She was scarcely civil to the Captain, and felt bound to express her dislike on every possible occasion, though only to provoke a grin from Wilfred and a giggle from Valetta.

Lady Merrifield’s basket-carriage and little rough pony had been brought from Silverfold, and she took Kalliope out for quiet drives whenever it was possible; but a day of showers having prevented this, she was concerned to find herself hindered on a second afternoon. Gillian offered to be her substitute.

‘You know I always drive you, mamma.’

‘These are worse hills than at Silverfold, and I don’t want you to come down by the sea-wall.’

‘I am sure I would not go there for something, among all the stupid people.’

‘If you keep to the turnpike you can’t come to much harm with Bruno.’

‘That is awfully—I mean horribly dusty! There’s the cliff road towards Arnscombe.’

‘That is safe enough. I don’t think you could come to much real damage; but remember that for Kally a start or an alarm would be really as hurtful as an accident to a person in health.’

‘Poor old Bruno could hardly frighten a mouse,’ said Gillian.

‘Only take care, and don’t be enterprising.’

Gillian drove up to the door of Cliff House, and Kalliope took her seat. It was an enjoyable afternoon, with the fresh clearness of June sunshine after showers, great purple shadows of clouds flitting over the sea, dimpled by white crests of wave that broke the golden path of sunshine into sparkling ripples, while on the other side of the cliff road lay the open moorland, full of furze, stunted in growth, but brilliant in colour, and relieved by the purple browns of blossoming grasses and the white stars of stitchwort.

‘This is delicious!’ murmured Kalliope, with a gesture of enjoyment.

‘Much nicer than down below!’

‘Oh yes; it seems to stretch one’s very soul!’

‘And the place is so big and wide that no one can worry with sketching.’

‘Yes, it defies that!’ said Kalliope, laughing.

‘So, Fa—Captain Henderson won’t crop up as he does at every sketchable place. Didn’t you know he was here?’

‘Yes, Alexis told me he had seen him.’

‘Everybody has seen him, I should think; he is always about with nothing to do but that everlasting sketching.’

‘He must have been very sorry to be obliged to retire.’

‘Horrid! It was weak, and he might have been in Egypt, well out of the way. No, I didn’t mean that’—as Kalliope looked shocked—‘but he might have been getting distinction and promotion.’

‘He used to be very kind,’ said Kalliope, in a tone of regretful remonstrance. ‘It was he who taught me first to draw.’

‘He! What, Fa—Captain Henderson?’

‘Yes; when I was quite a little girl, and he had only just joined. He found me out before our quarters at Gibraltar trying to draw an old Spaniard selling oranges, and he helped me, and showed me how to hold my pencil. I have got it still—the sketch. Then he used to lend me things to copy, and give me hints till—oh, till my father said I was too old for that sort of thing! Then, you know, my father got his commission, and I went to school at Belfast.’

‘And you have never seen him since?’

‘Scarcely. Sometimes he was on leave in my holidays, and you know we were at the depot afterwards, but I shall always feel that all that I have been able to do since has been owing to him.’

‘And how you will enjoy studying at Florence!’

‘Oh, think what it would be if I could ever do a reredos for a church! I keep on dreaming and fancying them, and now there really seems a hope. Is that Arnscombe Church?’

‘Yes, you know it has been nicely restored.’

‘We had the columns to do. The reredos is alabaster, I believe, and we had nobody fit to undertake that. I so longed for the power! I almost saw it.’

‘Have you seen what it is?’

‘No; I never had time.’

‘I suppose it would be too tiring for you now; but we could see the outside.’

Gillian forgot that Arnscombe, whose blunt gray spire protruded through the young green elms, lay in a little valley through which a stream rushed to the sea. The lane was not very steep, but there were loose stones. Bruno stumbled, he was down; the carriage stood still, and the two girls were out on opposite sides in a moment, Gillian crying out—

‘Don’t be frightened—no harm done!’—as she ran to the pony’s head. He lay quite still with heaving sides, and she felt utterly alone and helpless in the solitary road with an invalid companion whom she did not like to leave.

‘I am afraid I cannot run for help,’ said Kalliope quietly, though breathlessly; ‘but I could sit by the horse and hold his head while you go for help.’

‘I don’t like. Oh, here’s some one coming!’

‘Can I be of any use?’

Most welcome sound!—though it was actually Captain Henderson the ubiquitous wheeling his bicycle up the hill, knapsack of sketching materials on his back.

‘Miss Merrifield! Miss White! I trust no one is hurt!’

‘Oh no, thank you, unless it is the poor pony! Kally, sit down on the bank, I insist! Oh, I am so glad you are come!’

‘Can you sit on his head while I cut the traces?’

Gillian did that comfortable thing till released, when the pony scrambled up again, but with bleeding knees, hip, and side, though the Captain did not think any serious harm was done; but it was even more awkward at the moment that both the shafts were broken!

‘What is to be done?’ sighed Gillian. ‘Miss White can’t walk. Can I run down to the village to get something to take her home?’

‘The place did not look likely to supply any conveyance better than a rough cart,’ said their friend.

‘It is quite impossible to put the poor pony in anyhow! I don’t mind walking in the least; but you know how ill she has been.’

‘I see. Only one thing to be done,’ said the Captain, who had already turned the carriage round by the stumps of the shafts; ‘you must accept me in lieu of your pony.’

‘Oh yes, thank you!’ cried Gillian eagerly. ‘I can lead poor Bruno, and take care of your bicycle. Jump in, Kally!’

Kalliope, who had wisely abstained from adding a useless voice to the discussion, here demurred. She could not think of such a thing; they could very well wait in the carriage while Captain Henderson went on to the town on his bicycle and sent out a midge.

But there were showers about, and a damp feeling in the lane. Both the others thought this perilous; besides that, there might be rude passengers to laugh at their predicament; and Captain Henderson protested that the weight was nothing. He prevailed at last; and she allowed him to hand her into the basket, when she could hardly stand, and wrap the dust-cloth about her. Thus the procession set forth, Gillian with poor drooping Bruno’s rein in one hand and the other on the bicycle, and the Captain gallantly drawing the carriage with Kalliope seated in the midst. He tramped on so vigorously as quite to justify his declaration that it was no burthen to him. It was not a frequented road, and they met no one in the least available to do more than stare or ask a question or two, until, as they approached the town and Rockstone Church was full in view, who should appear before their eyes but Sir Jasper, Wilfred carrying on his back a huge kite that had been for many evenings in course of construction, and Fergus acting as trainbearer.

Thus came on the first moment of Gillian’s explanation, as Sir Jasper took the poor pony from her and held counsel over the damage, with many hearty thanks to Captain Henderson.

‘I am sure, sir, no one could have shown greater presence of mind than the young ladies,’ said that gentleman; and her father’s ‘I am glad to hear it!’ would have gratified Gillian the more, but for the impish grimace with which Wilfred favoured her behind Kalliope’s impassive back.

The kite-fliers turned, not without an entreaty from the boys that they might go on alone and fly their kite.

‘No, no, boys,’ said their father—‘not here; we shall have the kite pulling you into the sea over the cliffs. I must take the pony home; but I will come if possible to-morrow.’

Much disappointed, they went dolefully in the rear, grumbling sotto voce their conviction that there would be no wind to-morrow, and that it was all ‘Fangs’s’ fault in some incomprehensible manner.

At Cliff House Kalliope was carefully handed out by Sir Jasper, trying, but with failing voice, to thank Captain Henderson, and declaring herself not the worse, though her hand shook so much that the General was not content without giving her his arm up the stairs, and telling Maura that he should send Mrs. Halfpenny up to see after her. The maimed carriage was left in the yard, and Captain Henderson then took charge of his iron horse, and the whole male party proceeded to the livery stables; so that Gillian was able to be alone, when she humbly repeated to her mother the tale parents have so often to hear of semi-disobedience leading to disaster, but with the self-reproach and sorrow that drew the sting of displeasure. Pity for Bruno, grief for her mother’s deprivation, and anxiety for Kalliope might be penance and rebuke sufficient for a bit of thoughtlessness. Lady Merrifield made no remark; but there was an odd expression in her face when she heard who had come so opportunely to the rescue.

Sir Jasper brought a reassuring account of the poor little steed, which would be usable again after a short rest, and the blemish was the less important as there was no intention of selling him. Mrs. Halfpenny, too, reported that her patient was as quiet as a lamb. ‘She wasn’t one to fash herself for nothing and go into screaming cries, but kenned better what was fitting for one born under Her Majesty’s colours.’

So there was nothing to hinder amusement when at dinner Sir Jasper comically described the procession as he met it. Kalliope White, looking only too like Minerva, or some of those Greek goddess statues they used to draw about, sitting straight and upright in her triumphal car, drawn by her votary; while poor Gillian came behind with the pony on one side and the bicycle on the other, very much as if she were conducting the wheel on which she was to be broken, as an offering to the idol.

‘I think,’ said Mysie, ‘Captain Henderson was like the two happy sons in Solon’s story, who dragged their mother to the temple.’

‘Only they died of it,’ said Gillian.

‘And nobody asked how the poor mother felt afterwards,’ added Lady Merrifield.

‘I thought they all had an apotheosis together,’ said Sir Jasper. ‘Let us hope that devotion may have its reward.’

There was a little lawn outside the drawing-room windows at Il Lido. Lady Merrifield was sitting just within, and her husband had just brought her a letter to read, when they heard Wilfred’s impish voice.

‘Jack—no, not Jack—Fangs!’

‘But Fangs’s name is Jack, so it will do as well,’ said Valetta’s voice.

‘Hurrah—so it is! Jack—’

‘Hush, Wilfred—this is too foolish!’ came Gillian’s tones in remonstrance.

‘To draw! Oh, that’s lovely!’ interrupted Valetta.

‘He is always drawing,’ said Gillian, with an odd laugh.

‘He was brought up to it. First teeth, and then “picturs,” and then—oh, my—ladies home from the wash!’ went on Wilfred.

‘But go on, Will!’ entreated Valetta.

‘No, no,’ put in Wilfred—‘that’s wrong!

‘I didn’t moan—’

‘Oh, you don’t know how disconsolate you looked! Moaning, you know, because her Fangs had to draw the other young woman—eh, Gill? Fangs always leave an aching void, you know.’

‘You ridiculous boy! I’m sure I wish Fangs would leave a void. It wouldn’t ache!’

The two parents had been exchanging glances of something very like consternation, and of the mute inquiry on one side, ‘Were you aware of this sort of thing? and an emphatic shake of the head on the other. Then Sir Jasper’s voice exclaimed aloud—

‘Children, we hear every word you say, and are shocked at your impertinence and bad taste!’

There was a scatter. Wilfred and Valetta, who had been pinioning Gillian on either side by her dress, released her, and fled into the laurels that veiled the guinea-pigs; but their father’s long strides pursued them, and he gravely said—

‘I am very sorry to find this is your style of so-called wit!’

‘It was only chaff,’ said Valetta, the boldest in right of her girlhood.

‘Very improper chaff! I am the last person to object to harmless merriment; but you are both old enough to know that on these subjects such merriment is not harmless.’

‘Everybody does it,’ whined Valetta, beginning one of her crying fits.

‘I am sorry you have been among people who have led you to think so. No nicely-minded girl will do so, nor any brother who wishes to see his sisters refined, right-feeling women. Go in, Valetta—I can’t suffer this howling! Go, I say! Your mother will talk to you. Now, Wilfred, do you wish to see your sisters like your mother?’

‘They’ll never be that, if they live to a hundred!’

‘Do not you hinder it, then; and never let that insulting nickname pass your lips again.’

Wilfred’s defence as to universal use in the family was inaudible, and he was allowed to slouch away.

Gillian had fled to her mother, entreating her to explain to her father that such jests were abhorrent to her.

‘But you know, mamma, if I was cross and dignified, Wilfred would enjoy it all the more, and be ten times worse.’

‘Quite true, my dear. Papa will understand; but we are sorry to hear that nickname.

‘It was an old Royal Wardour name, mamma. Harry and Claude both used it, and—oh, lots of the young officers!’

‘That does not make it more becoming in you.’

‘N—no. But oh, mamma, he was very kind to-day! But I do wish it had been anybody else!’

And her colour rose so as to startle her mother.

‘Why, my dear, I thought you would have been glad that a stranger did not find you in that plight!’

‘But it makes it all the worse. He does beset us, mamma; and it is hard on me, after all the other nonsense!’

Lady Merrifield burst out laughing.

‘My dear child, he thinks as much of you as of old Halfpenny!’

‘Oh, mamma, are you sure?’ said Gillian, still hiding her face. ‘It was not silliness of my own; but Kitty Varley told Val that everybody said it—her sister, and Miss Mohun, and all. Why can’t he go away, and not be always bothering about this horrid place with nothing to do?’

‘How thankful I shall be to have you all safe at Clipston!’

‘But, mamma, can’t you keep him off us?’

Valetta’s sobbing entrance here prevented more; but while explaining to her the causes of her father’s displeasure, her mother extracted a good deal more of the gossip, to which she finally returned answer—

‘There is no telling the harm that is done by chattering gossip in this way. You might have learnt by what happened before what mistakes are made. What am I to do, Valetta? I don’t want to hinder you from having friends and companions; but if you bring home such mischievous stories, I shall have to keep you entirely among ourselves till you are older and wiser.’

‘I never—never will believe—anybody who says anybody is going to marry anybody!’ sobbed Valetta desperately and incoherently.

‘Certainly no one who knows nothing about the matter. There is nothing papa and I dislike much more than such foolish talk; and to tease your sister about it is even worse; but I will say no more about that, as I believe it was chiefly Wilfred’s doing.’

‘I—told—Will,’ murmured Valetta. ‘Mysie begged me not, but I had done it.’

‘How much you would have saved yourself and everybody else if you had let the foolish word die with you! Now, good-night, my dear. Bathe your eyes well, or they will be very uncomfortable to-morrow; and do try to cure yourself of roaring when you cry. It vexes papa so much more.’

Another small scene had to follow with the boy, who was quite willing to go off to bed, having no desire to face his father again, though his mother had her fears that he was not particularly penitent for ‘what fellows always did when people were spooning.’ He could only be assured that he would experience unpleasant consequences if he recurred to the practice; but Wilfred had always been the problem in the family.

The summer twilight was just darkening completely, and Lady Merrifield had returned to the drawing-room, and was about to ring for lights, when Sir Jasper came in through the window, saying—

‘No question now about renewal. Angelic features, more than angelic calmness and dignity. Ha! you there, young ladies!’ he added in some dismay as two white dresses struck his eye.

‘There’s no harm done,’ said Lady Merrifield, laughing. ‘I was thinking whether to relieve Gillian’s mind by telling her the state of the case, and Mysie is to be trusted.’

‘Oh, mamma, then it is Kalliope!’ exclaimed Gillian, already relieved, for even love could not have perceived calmness and dignity in her sitting upon Bruno’s head.

‘Has she ever talked about him?’ asked Lady Merrifield.

‘No; except to-day, when I said I hoped she was safe from him on that road. She said he had always been very kind to her, and taught her to draw when she was quite a little girl.’

‘Just so,’ said Lady Merrifield. ‘Well, when she was a little older, poor Mr. White, who was one of the most honourable and scrupulous of men, took alarm, and saw that it would never do to have the young officers running after her.’

‘It was an uncommonly awkward position,’ added Sir Jasper, ‘with such a remarkable-looking girl, and a foolish unmanageable mother. It made poor White’s retirement the more reasonable when the girl was growing too old to be kept at school any longer.’

‘And has he been constant to her all these years? How nice!’ cried Mysie.

‘After a fashion,’ said Lady Merrifield. ‘He made me the receptacle of a good deal of youthful despair.’

‘All the lads did,’ said her husband.

‘But he got over it, and it seemed to have passed out of his life. However, he asked after the Whites as soon as we met him in London; and now he tells me that he never forgot Kalliope—her face always came between him and any one whom his mother threw in his way; and he came down here, knowing her history, and with the object of seeing her again.’

‘And he has not, till now?’

‘No. Besides the absolute need of keeping her quiet, it would not exactly do for him to visit her while she is alone with Maura at Cliff House, and I wished him first to see her casually amongst us, for I dreaded her not fulfilling his ideal.’

‘Oh!’

‘When I think of her at fourteen or fifteen, with that exquisite bloom and the floating wavy hair, I see a very different creature from what she is now.’

‘Peach or ivory carving,’ said Sir Jasper.

‘Yes; she is nobler, finer altogether, and has gained in countenance greatly; but he may not think so, and I should like her to be looking a little less ill.’

‘Well, I can’t help hoping he will be disappointed, and be too stupid to care for her!’ exclaimed Gillian.

‘Indeed?’ said her father in a tone of displeased surprise.

‘He is so insignificant; he does not seem to suit with her,’ said Gillian in a tone of defence;’ and there does not seem to be anything in him.’

‘That only shows the effect of nursing prejudice by using foolish opprobrious nicknames. Henderson was a good officer, he has shown himself an excellent son, always sacrificing his own predilections for the sake of duty. He is a right-minded, religious, sensible man, his own master, and with no connections to take umbrage at Miss White’s position. It is no commonplace man who knows how to honour her for it. Nothing could be a happier fate for her; and you will be no friend to her if you use any foolish terms of disparagement of him because he does not happen to please your fancy.’

‘I am sure Gillian will do no such thing, now that she understands the case’ said her mother.

‘Oh no, indeed! said Gillian. ‘It was only a first feeling.’

‘And you will allow for a little annoyance, papa,’ added Lady Merrifield. ‘We really have had a great deal of him, and he does spoil the children’s walks with you.’

Sir Jasper laughed.

‘I agree that the sooner this is over the better. You need have no doubts as to the first view, now that Gillian has effected the introduction. No words can do justice to her beauty, though, by the bye, he must have contemplated her through the back of his head!’

‘Well, won’t that do! Can’t he be sent off for the present, for as to love-making now, with all the doubts and scruples in the way, it would be the way to kill her outright.’

‘You must take that in hand, my lady—it is past me! Come, girls, give us some music!’

The two girls went up at bed-time to their room, Mysie capering and declaring that here was real, true, nice love, like people in stories, and Gillian still bemoaning a little that, whatever papa might say, Fa—Captain Henderson would always be too poor a creature for Kalliope.

‘If I was quite sure it was not only her beauty,’ added Gillian philosophically.

Lady Merrifield went up to Cliff House as early as she could the next day. She found her patient there very white and shaken, but not so much by the adventure of yesterday as by a beautiful bouquet of the choicest roses which lay on the table before her sofa, left by Captain Henderson when he had called to inquire after her.

‘What ought I to do, dear Lady Merrifield?’ she asked. ‘They came while I was dressing, and I did not know.’

‘You mean about a message of thanks?’

‘Yes; my dear father was so terribly displeased when I wore a rose that he gave me before the great review at Belfast that I feel as if I ought not to touch these; and yet it is so kind, and after all his wonderful kindness yesterday.’

The hand on the side and the trembling lip showed the painful fluttering of heart, and the voice died away.

‘My dear, things are very different now. Take my word for it, your father could not be displeased for a moment at any kindness between you and Captain Henderson. Ten years ago he was a very young man, and his parents were living, and your father was bound in honour, and for your sake too, to prevent attentions from the young officers.’

‘Oh yes, I know it would have been shocking to have got into that sort of thing!’

‘But now he is entirely at his own disposal, and a man of four or five-and-thirty, who has gone through a great deal, and I do not think that to send him a friendly message of thanks for a bunch of flowers to his old fellow-soldier’s daughter would be anything but what Captain White would think his due.’

‘Oh,’—a sigh of relief,—‘please tell him, dear Lady Merrifield!’ And she stretched out her hand for the flowers, and lovingly cooled her cheek with their petals, and tenderly admired them singly, venturing now to enjoy them and even caress them.

Lady Merrifield ventured on no more; but she carried off ultimately hopeful auguries for the gentleman who had been watching for her, very anxious to hear her report. She was, however, determined on persuading him to patience, reinforcing her assurances with Dr. Dagger’s opinion, that though Kalliope’s constitution needed only quiet and rest entirely to shake off the effects of the overstrain of that terrible half-year, yet that renewed agitation would probably entail chronic heart-complaint; and she insisted that without making any sign the lover should go out of reach for several months, making, for instance, the expedition to Norway of which he had been talking. He could not understand at first that what he meant to propose would not be the best means of setting that anxious heart at rest; and Lady Merrifield had to dwell on the swarm of conscientious scruples and questions that would arise about saddling him with such a family, and should not be put to rest as easily as he imagined. At last, by the further representation that she would regard her mother’s death as far too recent for such matters to occupy her, and by the assertion of the now fixed conviction that attentions from him at present could only agitate and distress her harmfully, and bring on her malicious remarks, the Captain was induced to believe that Rocca Marina or Florence would be a far better scene for his courtship, and to defer it till he could find her there in better health.

He was brought at last to promise to leave Rockquay at once, and dispose of himself in Norway, if only Lady Merrifield would procure him one meeting with Kalliope, in which he solemnly promised to do nothing that could startle her or betray his intentions.

Lady Merrifield managed it cunningly. It had been already fixed that Kalliope should come down to a brief twelve-o’clock service held at St. Kenelm’s for invalids, there to return thanks for her recovery, in what she felt as her own church; and she was to come to Il Lido and rest there afterwards. Resolving to have no spectators, Lady Merrifield sent off the entire family for a picnic at Clipston, promising them with some confidence that they would not be haunted by Captain Henderson, and that she would come in the waggonette, bringing Fergus as soon as he was out of school, drink tea, and fetch home the tired.

Sir Jasper went too, telling her, with a smile, that he was far too shy to assist her in acting chaperon.

‘Dragon, you had better say—I mean to put on all my teeth and claws.’

These were not, however, very visible at the church door when she met Kalliope, who had come down in a bath-chair, but was able afterwards to walk slowly to Il Lido. Perhaps Captain Henderson was, however, aware of them; for Kalliope had no knowledge of his presence in the church or in the street, somewhat in the rear, nor did he venture to present himself till there had been time for luncheon and for rest, and till Kalliope had been settled in the cool eastern window under the verandah, with an Indian cushion behind her that threw out her profile like a cameo.

Then, as if to call on Lady Merrifield, Captain Henderson appeared armed, according to a wise suggestion, with his portfolio; and there was a very quiet and natural overlooking of his drawings, which evidently gave Kalliope immense pleasure, quite unsuspiciously. Precautions had been taken against other visitors, and all went off so well and happily that Lady Merrifield felt quite triumphant when the waggonette came round, and, after picking up Fergus, she set Kalliope down at her own door, with something like a colour in her cheeks and lips, and thanks for a happy afternoon, and the great pleasure in seeing one of the dear old Royal Wardours again.

But, oh mamma,’ said Gillian, feeling as if the thorn in her thoughts must be extracted, ‘are you sure it is not all her beauty?’

‘Her beauty, no doubt, began it, and gratifies the artist eye; but I am sure his perseverance is due to appreciation of her noble character,’ said Lady Merrifield.

‘Oh, mamma, would he if she had been ever so good, and no prettier than other people?’

‘Don’t pick motives so, my child; her beauty helps to make up the sum and substance of his adoration, and she would not have the countenance she has without the goodness. Let that satisfy you.’