Etheldred May and Meta Rivers were together in the drawing-room. The timepiece pointed towards ten o’clock, but the tea-things were on the table, prepared for a meal, the lamp shone with a sort of consciousness, and Ethel moved restlessly about, sometimes settling her tea equipage, sometimes putting away a stray book, or resorting by turns to her book, or to work a red and gold scroll on coarse canvas, on the other end of which Meta was employed.

“Nervous, Ethel?” said Meta, looking up with a merry provoking smile, knowing how much the word would displease.

“That is for you,” retorted Ethel, preferring to carry the war into the enemy’s quarters. “What, don’t you know that prudent people say that your fate depends on her report?”

“At least,” said Meta, laughing; “she is a living instance that every one is not eaten up, and we shall see if she fulfils Tom’s prediction of being tattooed, or of having a slice out of the fattest part of her cheek.”

“I know very well,” said Ethel, “the worst she said it would be, the more you would go.”

“Not quite that,” said Meta, blushing, and looking down.

“Come, don’t be deceitful!” said Ethel. “You know very well that you are still more bent on it than you were last year.”

“To be sure I am!” said Meta, looking up with a sudden beamy flash of her dark eyes. “Norman and I know each other so much better now,” she added, rather falteringly.

“Ay! I know you are ready to go through thick and thin, and that is why I give my consent and approbation. You are not to be stopped for nonsense.”

“Not for nonsense, certainly,” said Meta, “but”—and her voice became tremulous—“if Dr. May deliberately said it would be wrong, and that I should be an encumbrance and perplexity, I am making up my mind to the chance.”

“But what would you do?” asked Ethel.

“I don’t know. You should not ask such questions, Ethel.”

“Well! it won’t happen, so it is no use to talk about it,” said Ethel. “Fancy my having made you cry.”

“Very silly of me,” said Meta, brightening and laughing, but sighing. “I am only afraid Mrs. Arnott may think me individually unfit for the kind of life, as if I could not do what other women can. Do I look so?”

“You look as if you were meant to be put under a glass case!” said Ethel, surveying the little elegant figure, whose great characteristic was a look of exquisite finish, not only in the features and colouring, the turn of the head, and the shape of the small rosy-tipped fingers, but in everything she wore, from the braids of black silk hair, to the little shoe on her foot, and even in the very lightness and gaiety of her movements.

“Oh, Ethel!” cried Meta, springing up in dismay, and looking at herself in the glass. “What is the matter with me? Do tell me!”

“You’ll never get rid of it,” said Ethel, “unless you get yourself tattooed! Even separation from Bellairs hasn’t answered. And, after all, I don’t think it would be any satisfaction to Norman or papa. I assure you, Meta, whatever you may think of it, it is not so much bother to be prettier than needful, as it is to be uglier than needful.”

“What is needful?” said Meta, much amused.

“I suppose to be like Mary, so that nobody should take notice of one, but that one’s own people may have the satisfaction of saying, ‘she is pleasing,’ or ‘she is in good looks.’ I think Gertrude will come to that. That’s one comfort.”

“That is your own case, Ethel. I have heard those very things said of you.”

“Of my hatchet face!” said Ethel contemptuously. “Some one must have been desperately bent on flattering the Member’s family.”

“I could repeat more,” said Meta, “if I were to go back to the Commemoration, and to the day you went home.”

Ethel crimsoned, and made a sign with her hand, exclaiming, “Hark!”

“It went past.”

“It was the omnibus. She must be walking down!” Ethel breathed short, and wandered aimlessly about; Meta put her arm round her waist.

“I did not think this would be so much to you,” she said.

“Oh, Meta, it seems like dear mamma coming to see how we have been going on. And then papa! I wish I had gone up to the station with him.”

“He has Richard.”

“Ay, but I am afraid Margaret is listening and will be restless, and have a palpitation; and I can’t go and see, or I shall disturb her. Oh, I wish it were over.”

Meta stroked her, and soothed her, and assured her that all would do well, and presently they heard the click of the door. Ethel flew into the hall, where she stopped short, her heart beating high at the sound of overpoweringly familiar accents.

She was almost relieved by detecting otherwise little resemblance; the height was nearly the same, but there was not the plump softness of outline. Mrs. Arnott was small, thin, brisk and active, with a vivacious countenance, once evidently very fair and pretty, but aged and worn by toil, not trouble, for the furrows were the traces of smiles around her merry mouth, and beautiful blue eyes, that had a tendency lo laugh and cry both at once. Dr. May who had led her into the light, seemed to be looking her all over, while Richard was taking the wraps from her, and Ethel tried to encourage herself to go forward.

“Ay!” said the doctor, kissing her. “I see you, Flora, now. I have found you again.”

“I found you as soon as I heard your voice, Richard,” said she. “And now for the bairnies.”

“Here is one, but there is but a poor show forthcoming to-night. Do you know her?”

There was an unspeakable joy in being pressed in Aunt Flora’s arms, like a returning beam from the sunshine of seven years ago.

“This must be Ethel! My dear, how you tower above me—you that I left in arms! And,” as she advanced into the drawing-room—“why, surely this is not Margaret!”

“A Margaret—not the Margaret. I wish I were,” said Meta, as Mrs. Arnott stood with an arm on her shoulder, in the midst of an embrace, Dr. May enjoying her perplexity and Meta’s blushes. “See, Flora, these black locks never belonged to Calton Hill daisies, yet a daisy of my own she is. Can’t you guess?”

“Miss Rivers!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnott; and though she kissed her cordially, Meta suspected a little doubt and disappointment.

“Yes,” said Dr. May. “We change Mary for this little woman as Flora’s lady-in-waiting, when she and her husband go out yachting and shooting.”

“Flora and her husband! There’s a marvellous sound! Where are they?”

“They are staying at Eccleswood Castle,” said Ethel; “and Mary with them. They would have been at home to receive you, but your note yesterday took us all by surprise. Norman is away too, at a college meeting.”

“And Margaret—my Margaret! Does not she come downstairs?”

“Ah! poor dear,” said Dr. May, “she has not been in this room since that sultry day in July.”

“The eighteenth,” said Richard; the precision of the date marking but too well the consciousness that it was an epoch.

“We can keep her quieter upstairs,” said Dr. May; “but you must not see her to-night. She will enjoy you very much to-morrow; but excitement at night always does her harm, so we put her to bed, and told her to think about no one.”

Mrs. Arnott looked at him as if longing, but dreading, to ask further, and allowed her nephew and niece to seat her at the table, and attend to her wants, before she spoke again. “Then the babies.”

“We don’t keep babies, Gertrude would tell you,” said Dr. May. “There are three great creatures, whom Ethel barbarously ordered off to bed. Ethel is master here, you must know, Flora—we all mind what she says.”

“Oh, papa,” pleaded Ethel, distressed, “you know it was because I thought numbers might be oppressive.”

“I never dispute,” said Dr. May. “We bow to a beneficial despotism, and never rebel, do we, Meta?”

Seeing that Ethel took the imputation to heart, Meta rejoined, “You are making Mrs. Arnott think her the strong-minded woman of the family, who winds up the clock and cuts the bread.”

“No; that she makes you do, when the boys are away.”

“Of course,” said Ethel, “I can’t be vituperated about hunches of bread. I have quite enough to bear on the score of tea.”

“Your tea is very good,” said Richard.

“See how they propitiate her,” maliciously observed the doctor.

“Not at all; it is Richard standing up for his pupil,” said Ethel. “It is all very well now, with people who know the capacities of mortal tea; but the boys expect it to last from seven o’clock to ten, through an unlimited number of cups, till I have announced that a teapot must be carved on my tombstone, with an epitaph, ‘Died of unreasonable requirements.’”

Mrs. Arnott looked from one to the other, amused, observant, and perceiving that they were all under that form of shyness which brings up family wit to hide embarrassment or emotion.

“Is Harry one of these unreasonable boys?” she asked. “My dear Harry—I presume Ethel has not sent him to bed. Is there any hope of my seeing him?”

“Great hope,” said Dr. May. “He has been in the Baltic fleet, a pretty little summer trip, from which we expect him to return any day. My old Lion! I am glad you had him for a little while, Flora.

“Dear fellow! his only fault was being homesick, and making me catch the infection.”

“I am glad you did not put off your coming,” said Dr. May gravely.

“You are in time for the consecration,” said Richard.

“Ah! Cocksmoor! When will it take place?”

“On St. Andrew’s Day. It is St. Andrew’s Church, and the bishop fixed the day, otherwise it is a disappointment that Hector cannot be present.”

“Hector?”

“Hector Ernescliffe—poor Alan’s brother, whom we don’t well know from ourselves.”

“And you are curate, Ritchie?” said his aunt—“if I may still call you so. You are not a bit altered from the mouse you used to be.”

“Church mouse to Cocksmoor,” said Dr. May, “nearly as poor. We are to invest his patrimony in a parsonage as soon as our architect in ordinary can find time for it. Spencer—you remember him?”

“I remember how you and he used to be inseparable! And he has settled down, at last, by your side?”

“The two old doctors hope to bolster each other up till Mr. Tom comes down with modern science in full force. That boy will do great things—he has as clear a head as I ever knew.”

“And more—” said Ethel.

“Ay, as sound a heart. I must find you his tutor’s letter, Flora. They have had a row in his tutor’s house at Eton, and our boys made a gallant stand for the right, Tom especially, guarding the little fellows in a way that does one good to hear of.”

“‘I must express my strong sense of gratitude for his truth, uprightness, and moral courage,’” quoted Meta.

“Ah, ha! you have learned it by heart! I know you copied it out for Norman, who has the best right to rejoice.”

“You have a set of children to be proud of, Richard!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnott.

“To be surprised at—to be thankful for,” said Dr. May, almost inarticulately.

To see her father so happy with Mrs. Arnott necessarily drew Ethel’s heart towards her; and, when they had bidden him goodnight, the aunt instantly assumed a caressing confidence towards Ethel, particularly comfortable to one consciously backward and awkward, and making her feel as intimate as if the whole space of her rational life had not elapsed since their last meeting.

“Must you go, my dear?” said her aunt, detaining her over her fire. “I can’t tell how to spare you. I want to hear of your dear father. He looks aged and thin, Ethel, and yet that sweet expression is the same as ever. Is he very anxious about poor Margaret?”

“Not exactly anxious,” said Ethel mournfully—“there is not much room for that.”

“My dear Ethel—you don’t mean?—I thought—”

“I suppose we ought to have written more fully,” said Ethel; “but it has been very gradual, and we never say it to ourselves. She is as bright, and happy, and comfortable as ever, in general, and, perhaps, may be so for a long time yet, but each attack weakens her.”

“What kind of attack?”

“Faintness-sinking. It is suspended action of the heart. The injury to the spine deranged the system, and then the long suspense, and the shock—It is not one thing more than another, but it must go on. Dr. Spencer will tell you. You won’t ask papa too much about it?”

“No, indeed. And he bears it—”

“He bears everything. Strength comes up out of his great lovingness. But, oh! I sometimes long that he may never have any more sorrows.”

“My poor child!” said Mrs. Arnott, putting her arm round her niece’s waist.

Ethel rested her head on her shoulder. “Aunt Flora! Aunt Flora! If any words could tell what Margaret has been ever since we were left. Oh, don’t make me talk or think of ourselves without her. It is wrong to wish. And when you see her, that dear face of hers will make you happy in the present. Then,” added Ethel, not able to leave off with such a subject, “you have our Norman to see.”

“Ah! Norman’s project is too delightful to us; but I fear what it may be to your father.”

“He gives dear Norman, as his most precious gift, the flower and pride of us all.”

“But, Ethel, I am quite frightened at Miss Rivers’s looks. Is it possible that—”

“Aunt Flora,” broke in Ethel, “don’t say a word against it. The choicest goods wear the best; and whatever woman can do, Meta Rivers can. Norman is a great tall fellow, as clever as possible, but perfectly feckless. If you had him there alone, he would be a bee without a queen.”

“Well, but—”

“Listen,” continued Ethel. “Meta is a concentration of spirit and energy, delights in practical matters, is twice the housewife I am, and does all like an accomplishment. Between them, they will make a noble missionary—”

“But she looks—”

“Hush,” continued the niece. “You will think me domineering; but please don’t give any judgment without seeing; for they look to you as an arbitrator, and casual words will weigh.”

“Thank you, Ethel; perhaps you are right. When does he think of coming out?”

“When he is ordained—some time next year.”

“Does she live with you?”

“I suppose she lives with Flora; but we always manage to get her when Norman is at home.”

“You have told me nothing of Flora or Mary.”

“I have little real to tell. Good old Mary! I dare say Harry talked to you plentifully of her. She is a—a nice old darling,” said Ethel fondly. “We want her again very much, and did not quite bargain for the succession of smart visits that she has been paying.”

“With Flora?”

“Yes. Unluckily George Rivers has taken an aversion to the Grange, and I have not seen Flora this whole year.”

Ethel stopped short, and said that she must not keep Margaret expecting her. Perhaps her aunt guessed that she had touched the true chord of anxiety.

The morning brought a cheering account of Margaret; and Mrs. Arnott was to see her directly after breakfast. In the meantime, the firm limbs, blue eyes, and rosy face of Gertrude seemed a fair representation of the little bride’s-maid, whom she remembered.

A very different niece did she find upstairs, though the smiling, overflowing eyes, and the fond, eager look of recognition, as if asking to be taken to her bosom, had in them all the familiarity of old tenderness. “Auntie! dear auntie! that you should have come back to me again!”

Mrs. Arnott fondly caressed her, but could not speak at first, for even her conversation with Ethel had not prepared her for so wasted and broken an appearance. Dr. May spoke briskly of Margaret’s having behaved very well and slept like a good child, told Margaret where he had to go that morning, and pointed out to Mrs. Arnott some relics of herself still remaining; but the nervous tremulousness of manner did not much comfort her, although Margaret answered cheerfully. Nothing was so effectual in composing the aunt as Aubrey’s coming headlong in to announce the gig, and to explain to Margaret his last design for a cathedral—drawing plans being just now his favourite sport.

“Architecture is all our rage at present,” said Margaret, as her father hurried away.

“I am so glad to have come in time for the consecration!” said Mrs. Arnott, following her niece’s lead. “Is that a model of the church?”

“Oh, yes!” cried Margaret, lighting up. “Richard made it for me.”

“May I show it to Aunt Flora?” said Aubrey.

“Bring it here, if you can lift it,” said Margaret; and, Aunt Flora helping, the great cumbersome thing was placed beside her, whilst she smiled and welcomed it like a child, and began an eager exhibition. Was it not a beautiful little pierced spire?—that was an extravagance of Dr. Spencer’s own. Papa said he could not ask Captain Gordon to sanction it—the model did it no justice, but it was so very beautiful in the rich creamy stone rising up on the moor, and the blue sky looking through, and it caught the sunset lights so beautifully. So animated was her description, that Mrs. Arnott could not help asking, “Why, my dear, when have you seen it?”

“Never,” said Margaret, with her sweet smile. “I have never seen Cocksmoor; but Dr. Spencer and Meta are always sketching it for me, and Ethel would not let an effect pass without telling me. I shall hear how it strikes you next.”

“I hope to see it by and by. What a comfortable deep porch! If we could build such churches in the colonies, Margaret!”

“See what little Meta will do for you! Yes, we had the porch deep for a shelter—that is copied from the west door of the minster, and is it not a fine high-pitched roof? John Taylor, who is to be clerk, could not understand its being open; he said, when he saw the timbers, that a man and his family might live up among them. They are noble oak beams; we would not have any sham—here, Aubrey, take off the roof, and auntie will see the shape.”

“Like the ribs of a ship,” explained Aubrey, unconscious that the meaning was deeper than his sister could express, and he continued: “Such fine oak beams! I rode with Dr. Spencer one day last year to choose them. It is a two-aisled church, you see, that a third may be added.”

Ethel came up as Aubrey began to absorb the conversation. “Lessons, Aubrey,” she said. “So, Margaret, you are over your dear model?”

“Not forestalling you too much I hope, Ethel dear,” said Margaret; “as you will show her the church itself.”

“You have the best right,” said Ethel; “but come, Aubrey, we must not dawdle.”

“I will show you the stones I laid myself, Aunt Flora,” said Aubrey, running off without much reluctance.

“Ethel has him in excellent order,” said Mrs. Arnott.

“That she has; she brings him on beautifully, and makes him enjoy it. She teaches him arithmetic in some wonderful scientific way that nobody can understand but Norman, and he not the details; but he says it is all coming right, and will make him a capital mathematical scholar, though he cannot add up pounds, shillings, and pence.”

“I expected to be struck with Ethel,” said Mrs. Arnott; “and—”

“Well,” said Margaret, waiting.

“Yes, she does exceed my expectations. There is something curiously winning in that quaint, quick, decisive manner of hers. There is so much soul in the least thing she does, as if she could not be indifferent for a moment.”

“Exactly—exactly so,” said Margaret, delighted. “It is really doing everything with all her might. Little, simple, everyday matters did not come naturally to her as to other people, and the having had to make them duties has taught her to do them with that earnest manner, as if there were a right and a wrong to her in each little mechanical household office.”

“Harry described her to me thus,” said Mrs. Arnott, smiling: “‘As to Ethel, she is an odd fish; but Cocksmoor will make a woman of her after all.’”

“Quite true!” cried Margaret. “I should not have thought Harry had so much discernment in those days. Cocksmoor gave the stimulus, and made Ethel what she is. Look there—over the mantelpiece, are the designs for the painted glass, all gifts, except the east window. That one of St. Andrew introducing the lad with the loaves and fishes is Ethel’s window. It is the produce of the hoard she began this time seven years, when she had but one sovereign in the world. She kept steadily on with it, spending nothing on herself that she could avoid, always intending it for the church, and it was just enough to pay for this window.”

“Most suitable,” said Mrs. Arnott.

“Yes; Mr. Wilmot and I persuaded her into it; but I do not think she would have allowed it, if she had seen the application we made of it—the gift of her girlhood blessed and extended. Dear King Etheldred, it is the only time I ever cheated her.”

“This is a beautiful east window. And this little one—St. Margaret I see.”

“Ah! papa would not be denied choosing that for his subject. We reproached him with legendary saints, and overwhelmed him with antiquarianism, to show that the Margaret of the dragon was not the Margaret of the daisy; but he would have it; and said we might thank him for not setting his heart on St. Etheldreda.”

“This one?”

“That is mine,” said Margaret, very low; and her aunt abstained from remark, though unable to look, without tears, at the ship of the Apostles, the calming of the storm, and the scroll, with the verse:

Beneath were the initials, “A. H. E.,” and the date of the year, the only memorials of the founder.

Margaret next drew attention to St. Andrew with his cross—Meta’s gift. “And, besides,” she said, “George Rivers made us a beautiful present, which Meta hunted up. Old Mr. Rivers, knowing no better, once bought all the beautiful carved fittings of a chapel in France, meaning to fit up a library with them; but, happily, he never did, and a happy notion came into Meta’s head, so she found them out, and Dr. Spencer has adapted them, and set them all to rights; and they are most exquisite. You never saw such foliage.”

Thus Margaret proceeded with the description of everything in the church, and all the little adventures of the building, as if she could not turn away from the subject; and her aunt listened and wondered, and, when called away, that Margaret might rest before nurse came to dress her, she expressed her wonder to Meta.

“Yes,” was the answer; “it is her chief occupation and interest. I do not mean that she has not always her own dear full sympathy for every one’s concerns, but Cocksmoor is her concern, almost more than even Ethel’s. I think she could chronicle every stage in the building better than Dr. Spencer himself, and it is her daily delight to hear his histories of his progress. And not only with the church but the people; she knows all about every family; Richard and Ethel tell her all their news; she talks over the school with the mistress every Sunday, and you cannot think what a feeling there is for her at Cocksmoor. A kind message from Miss May has an effect that the active workers cannot always produce.”

Mrs. Arnott saw that Meta was right, when, in the afternoon, she walked with her nieces to see Cocksmoor. It was not a desolate sight as in old times, for the fair edifice, rising on the slope, gave an air of protection to the cottages, which seemed now to have a centre of unity, instead of lying forlorn and scattered. Nor were they as wretched in themselves, for the impulse of civilisation had caused windows to be mended and railings to be tidied, and Richard promoted, to the utmost, cottage gardening, so that, though there was an air of poverty, there was no longer an appearance of reckless destitution and hopeless neglect.

In the cottages, Mrs. Taylor had not entirely ceased to speak with a piteous voice, even though she told of the well-doing of her girls at service; but Granny Hall’s merry content had in it something now of principle, and Sam had married a young Fordholm wife, who promised to be a pattern for Cocksmoor. Every one asked after Miss May, with a tenderness and affection that Mrs. Arnott well appreciated; and when they went into the large fresh school, where Richard was hearing a class, Cherry Elwood looked quite cheered and enlivened by hearing that she had been able to enjoy seeing her aunt. Mrs. Arnott was set to enlighten the children about the little brown girls whom she was wont to teach, and came away with a more brilliant impression of their intelligence than she might have had, if she had not come to them fresh from the Antipodes.

She had to tell Margaret all her impressions on her return, and very pretty smiles repaid her commendations. She understood better the constant dwelling on the subject, as she perceived how little capable Margaret was of any employment. The book, the writing materials, and work-basket were indeed placed by her side, but very seldom did the feeble fingers engage in any of the occupations once so familiar—now and then a pencilled note would be sent to Flora, or to Hector Ernescliffe, or a few stitches be set in her work, or a page or two turned of a book, but she was far more often perfectly still, living, assuredly in no ordinary sphere of human life, but never otherwise than cheerful, and open to the various tidings and interests which, as Ethel had formerly said, shifted before her like scenes in a magic lantern, and, perhaps, with less of substance than in those earlier days, when her work among them was not yet done, and she was not, as it were, set aside from them. They were now little more than shadows reflected from the world whence she was passing.

Yet her home was not sad. When Dr. Spencer came in the evening, and old Edinburgh stories were discussed, Dr. May talked with spirit, and laughed with the merry note that Mrs. Amott so well remembered, and Meta Rivers chimed in with her gay, saucy repartees, nor, though Richard was always silent, and Ethel’s brow seemed to bear a weight of thought, did it seem as if their spirits were depressed; while there was certainly no restraint on the glee of Blanche, Aubrey, and Gertrude, who were running into Margaret’s room, and making as much noise there as they chose.

Mrs. Arnott was at home with the whole family from the first, and in every one’s confidence; but what she enjoyed above all was, the sitting in Margaret’s room in the morning, when there was no danger of interruption, the three children being all safe captives to their lessons, and Meta, in Richard’s workshop, illuminating texts on zinc scrolls for the church.

Margaret came out more in these interviews. It had been a kind of shyness that made her talk so exclusively of the church at the first meeting; she had now felt her way, and knew again—and realised—the same kind aunt with whom she had parted in her childhood, and now far dearer, since she herself was better able to appreciate her, and with a certain resemblance to her mother, that was unspeakably precious and soothing to one deprived, as Margaret had been, at the commencement of her illness and anxiety.

She could hardly see her aunt come near her, without thanking her for having come home, and saying how every time she awoke it was with the sense that something was comfortable, then remembering it was Aunt Flora’s being in the house. She seemed to have a feeling, as if telling everything to her aunt were like rendering up her account to her mother, and, at different times, she related the whole, looking back on the various decisions she had had to make or to influence, and reviewing her own judgments, though often with self-blame, not with acuteness of distress, but rather with a humble trust in the Infinite Mercy that would atone for all shortcomings and infirmities, truly sorrowed for.

On the whole it was a peaceful and grateful retrospect; the brothers all doing so well in their several ways, and such a comfort to their father. Tom, concerning whom she had made the greatest mistake, might be looked upon as rescued by Norman. Aubrey, Margaret said, smiling, was Ethel’s child, and had long been off her mind; Hector, to her quite a brother, would miss her almost more than her own brothers, but good honest fellow, he had a home here; and, whispered Margaret, smiling and glowing a little, “don’t tell any one, for it is a secret of secrets. Hector told me one evening that, if he could be very steady, he hoped he might yet have Blanche at Maplewood. Poor little White Mayflower, it won’t be for want of liking on her part, and she so blushes and watches when Hector comes near, that I sometimes think that he might have said something like it to her.”

Mrs. Arnott gave no opinion on the plan for Norman and Meta; but Margaret, however, took all for granted, and expressed warm hopes for their sakes, that they would go out with Mrs. Arnott; then, when the suggestion seemed to astonish her aunt, who thought they were waiting for his ordination, she said, “The fact is, that he would like to be ordained where he is to work; but I believe they do not like to say anything about the wedding because of me. Now, of all persons, I must chiefly rejoice in what may help to teach in those islands. I cannot bear to be a hindrance. Whatever happens, Aunt Flora, will you take care that they know this?”

As to her father, Margaret was at rest. He had much more calmness than when he was more new to grief, and could bear far more patiently and hopefully than at first. He lived more on his affections above, and much as he loved those below, he did not rest in them as once, and could better afford to have been removed. “Besides,” said Margaret serenely, “it has been good for him to have been gradually weaned from depending on me, so that it is Ethel who is really necessary to him.”

For herself, Margaret was perfectly content and happy. She knew the temptation of her character had been to be the ruler and manager of everything, and she saw it had been well for her to have been thus assigned the part of Mary rather than of Martha. She remembered with thankful joy the engagement with Alan Ernescliffe, and though she still wore tokens of mourning for him, it was with a kind of pleasure in them. There had been so little promise of happiness from the first, that there was far more peace in thinking of him as sinking into rest in Harry’s arms, than as returning to grieve over her decline; and that last gift of his, the church, had afforded her continual delight, and above all other earthly pursuits, smoothed away the languor and weariness of disease, as she slowly sank to join him. Now that her aunt had come to bring back a sunbeam of her childhood, Margaret declared that she had no more grief or care, except one, and that a very deep and sad one—namely poor Flora.

Mrs. Arnott had at first been inclined to fear that her goddaughter was neglecting her own family, since she had not been at home this whole year, but the slightest betrayal of this suspicion roused Margaret to an eager defence. She had not a doubt that Flora would gladly have been with her, but she believed that she was not acting by her own choice, or more truly, that her husband was so devoted to her, that she felt the more bound to follow his slightest wishes, however contrary to her own. The season had been spent in the same whirl that had, last year, been almost beyond human power, even when stimulated by enjoyment and success; and now, when her spirits were lowered, and her health weakened, Meta had watched and trembled for her, though never able to obtain an avowal that it was an overstrain, and while treated most affectionately, never admitted within her barrier of reserve.

“If I could see poor Flora comforted, or if even she would only let me enter into her troubles,” Margaret said, sighing, “I should be content.”

The consecration day came near, and the travellers began to return. Meta was in a state of restlessness, which in her was very pretty, under the disguise of a great desire to be useful. She fluttered about the house, visited Margaret, played with Gertrude, set the drawing-room ornaments to rights—a task which Ethel was very glad to depute to her, and made a great many expeditions into the garden to put together autumn nosegays for the vases—finally discovering that Ethel’s potichomanie vases on the staircase window must have some red and brown leaves.

She did not come back quite so soon with them, and Mrs. Arnott, slyly looking out of window, reported, “Ha! he is come then! At least, I see the little thing has found—”

“Something extremely unlike itself,” said Dr. May, laughing. “Something I could easily set down as a student at Edinburgh; thirty years ago. That’s the very smile! I remember dear Maggie being more angry than I ever saw her before, because Mr. Fleet said that you smiled to show your white teeth.”

“That is the best shadow of Maggie I ever saw,” said Dr. May. “She has taught the lad to smile. That is what I call a pretty sight!”

“Come, Richard, it is a shame for old folks like us to stand spying them!”

“They care very little for me,” said Dr. May, “but I shall have them in. Cold winds blowing about that little head! Ah! here they are. Fine leaves you gather, miss! Very red and brown.”

Meta rather liked, than otherwise, those pretty teasings of Dr. May, but they always made Norman colour extremely, and he parried them by announcing news. “No, not the Bucephalus, a marriage in high life, a relation.”

“Not poor Mary!” cried Ethel.

“Mary! what could make you think of her?”

“As a hen thinks of her ducklings when they go into waters beyond her ken,” said Ethel. “Well, as long as it is not Mary, I don’t care!”

“High life!” repeated Meta. “Oh, it can be only Agatha Langdale.”

“There’s only Lord Cosham further to guess,” said Ethel.

“Eh! why not young Ogilvie?” said Dr. May. “I am right, I see. Well, who is the lady?”

“A Miss Dunbar—a nice girl that I met at Glenbracken. Her property fits in with theirs, and I believe his father has been wishing it for a long time.”

“It does not sound too romantic,” said Meta.

“He writes as if he had the sense of having been extremely dutiful,” said Norman.

“No doubt thinking it needful in addressing a namesake, who has had an eye to the main chance,” said the doctor. “Don’t throw stones, young people.”

“Well!” exclaimed Meta; “he did not look as if he would go and do such a stupid thing as that!”

“Probably, it is anything but a stupid thing,” said Dr. May.

“You are using him very ill among you,” said Norman eagerly. “I believe her to be excellent in every way; he has known her from childhood; he writes as if he were perfectly contented, and saw every chance of happiness.”

“None the less for having followed his father’s wishes—I am glad he did,” said Ethel, coming to her brother’s side.

“I dare say you are right,” was Meta’s answer; “but I am disappointed in him. He always promised to come and stay with you, and made such friends at Oxford, and he never came.”

“I fancy there was a good deal to hinder him,” said Norman; and, as Mrs. Arnott proceeded to inquiries after the Ogilvies in general, the master of Glenbracken was allowed to drop.

Meta, however, renewed the subject when walking to the minster that evening with Norman.

“You may defend Mr. Ogilvie, Norman, but it is not what I should have expected from him. Why did he make promises, and then neglect his relations?”

“I believe that conscientiously he did not dare to come,” said Norman. “I know that he was greatly struck with Ethel at the time of the Commemoration, and therefore I could never again press him to come here.”

“Oh, Norman, you hard-hearted monster! What a bad conductor!”

“I do not wish to be a conductor,” said Norman. “If you had seen Glenbracken and the old people, you would perceive that it would not have been suitable on our part to promote anything of the kind.”

“Would they have been so violent?”

“Not violent, but it would have been a severe struggle. They are good, kind people, but with strong prejudices; and, though I have no doubt they would have yielded to steady attachment on their son’s part, and such conduct as Ethel’s would have been, I could not lead in that direction.”

“Is that pride, Norman?”

“I hope not.”

“It is doing by others as you were doing by yourself,” half whispered Meta; “but, after all, if he had no constancy, Ethel had an escape.”

“I was afraid that she had been rather touched, but I am glad to find myself mistaken.”

“If you thought so, how could you make such a public announcement?”

He laughed. “I had made myself so nervous as to the effect, that, in desperation, I took her own way, and came out at once with it as unconsciously as I could.”

“Very naturally you acted unconsciousness! It was better than insulting her by seeming to condole. Not that I do, though, for she deserves more steadiness than he has shown! If a man could appreciate her at all, I should have thought that it would have been once and for ever.”

“Remember, he had barely known her a fortnight, and probably had no reason to believe that he had made any impression on her. He knew how such an attachment would grieve his parents, and, surely, he was acting dutifully, and with self-denial and consideration, in not putting himself in the way of being further attracted.”

“Umph! You make a good defence, Norman, but I cannot forgive him for marrying somebody else, who cannot be Ethel’s equal.”

“She is a good little girl; he will form her, and be very happy; perhaps more so than with a great soul and strong nature like Ethel’s.”

“Only he is a canny Scot, and not a Dr. Spencer!”

“Too short acquaintance! besides, there were the parents. Moreover, what would become of home without Ethel?”

“The unanswerable argument to make one contented,” said Meta. “And, certainly, to be wife to a Member of Parliament is not so very delightful that one would covet it for her.”

“Any more than she does for herself.”

Norman was right in his view of his friend’s motives, as well as of Ethel’s present feelings. If there had ever been any disappointment about Norman Ogilvie, it had long since faded away. She had never given away the depths of her heart, though the upper surface had been stirred. All had long subsided, and she could think freely of him as an agreeable cousin, in whose brilliant public career she should always be interested, without either a wish to partake it, or a sense of injury or neglect. She had her vocation, in her father, Margaret, the children, home, and Cocksmoor; her mind and affections were occupied, and she never thought of wishing herself elsewhere.

The new church and the expected return of her sisters engrossed many more of her thoughts than did anything relating to Glenbracken.

She could not bear to talk of Flora, though almost as uneasy as was Margaret; and not able to lay aside misgivings, lest even her good simple Mary might have had her head turned by gaiety.

Mr. and Mrs. Rivers arrived on the Saturday before the Tuesday fixed for the consecration, and stopped on their way, that they might see Margaret, deposit Mary, and resume Meta.

It was a short visit, and all that Ethel could discover was, that Flora was looking very ill, no longer able to conceal the worn and fagged expression of her countenance, and evidently dreadfully shocked by the sight of the havoc made by disease on Margaret’s frame. Yet she talked with composure of indifferent subjects—the yacht, the visits, the Bucephalus, the church, and the arrangements for St. Andrew’s Day. She owned herself overworked, and in need of rest, and, as she was not well enough to venture on being present at the consecration, she undertook to spend the day with Margaret, thus setting the others at liberty. This settled, she took her leave, for the journey had fatigued her greatly.

During the short visit, Mary had moved and spoken so quietly, and looked so well-dressed and young-lady-like, that, in spite of her comfortable plump cheeks, Ethel felt quite afraid!

But the instant the carriage had driven off, there was a skipping, a hugging, a screaming, “Oh, it is so nice to be at home again!”—and Ethel knew she had her own Mary. It was only a much better looking and more mannerly Mary, in the full bloom of seventeen, open and honest-faced, her profuse light hair prettily disposed, her hands and arms more civilised, and her powers of conversation and self-possession developed. Mary-like were her caresses of Gertrude, Mary-like her inquiries for Cocksmoor, Mary-like her insisting on bringing her boxes into Margaret’s room, her exulting exhibition of all the pretty things that Flora and George had given to her, and the still more joyous bestowal of presents upon everybody.

Her tastes were not a whit altered, nor her simplicity diminished. If she was pleased by joining a large dinner-party, her satisfaction was in the amusement of seeing well-dressed people, and a grand table; her knowledge of the world only reached to pronouncing everything unlike home, “so funny;” she had relished most freshly and innocently every pleasure that she could understand, she had learned every variety of fancy work to teach Blanche and Miss Bracy, had been the delight of every schoolroom and nursery, had struck up numberless eternal friendships, and correspondences with girls younger and shyer than herself, and her chief vexations seemed to have been first, that Flora insisted on her being called Miss May, secondly, that all her delights could not be shared by every one at home, and thirdly, that poor Flora could not bear to look at little children.

Grievous complaints were preferred by the dwellers in the attics the next morning, that Mary and Blanche had talked to an unmentionable hour of the night; but, on the whole, Blanche was rather doubtful whether Mary had made the most of her opportunities of observation.