PHYLLIS

THE DUCHESS

CHICAGO, NEW YORK, AND SAN FRANCISCO;

BELFORD, CLARKE & CO.,PUBLISHERS.

TROW'S PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, NEW YORK.

PHYLLIS

BY THE DUCHESS.

Author of "Molly Bawn," "The Baby," "Airy Fairy Lilian," etc., etc.

"Ah! Love was never without
The pang, the agony, the doubt."—BYRON.

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[Transcriber's Note: spelling and punctuation are eccentric. Exclamation marks and dashes are copious inside sentences. Occasional British and archaic spellings are used (ploughboys, dulness). Some words are invented or unusual ('decenter' to mean more decent; 'irrevelantly'). I have attempted to correct misprints and mistakes without changing the spirit of the original.Thanks to https://babel.hathitrust.org for the original scan and OCR.]

CHAPTER I.

"Billy, Billy!" I call, eagerly, and at the top of my healthy lungs; but there is no reply. "Where can that boy be?"

"Billy, Billy!" I shout again, more lustily this time, and with my neck craned half-way down the kitchen-stair-case, but with a like result. There is a sudden movement on the upper landing, and Dora, appearing above, waves her hand frantically towards me to insure attention, while she murmurs, "Hush! Hush!" with hurried emphasis. I look up, and see she is robed in her best French muslin, the faint blue and white of which contrasts so favorably with her delicate skin.

"Hush! There is some one in the drawing-room," says my lovely sister, with the slightest possible show of irritation.

"Who?" I ask, in my loudest whisper, feeling somewhat interested. "Not—not Mr. Carrington—surely?"

'Yes,' returns Dora, under her breath; "and really, Phyllis, I wish you would not give yourself the habit of—-"

"What? Already!" I interrupt, with a gasp of surprise. "Well, certainly he has lost no time. Now, Dora, mind you make a conquest of him, whatever you do, as, being our landlord, he may prove formidable."

Dora blushes—it is a common trick of hers, and she does it very successfully—nods, smiles and goes on to victory. The drawing-room door opens and shuts; I can hear a subdued murmur of voices; some one laughs. It is a man's laugh, and I feel the growth of curiosity strong within my breast. Oh, for some congenial soul to share my thoughts! "Where on earth is Billy?"

I am about to prosecute my search for him in person, when he suddenly appears, coming towards me from a totally unexpected direction.

"What's up?" he asks, in his usual neat style.

"Oh, Billy, he is here—Mr. Carrington I mean," I exclaim, eagerly. "Dora and mamma are with him. I wonder will they ask him about the wood?"

"He'd be sure to refuse if they did," says Billy, gloomily. "From all I hear, he must be a regular Tartar. Brewster says he is the hardest landlord in the county turns all the tenants out of doors at a moment's notice, and counts every rabbit in the place. I'm certain he is a mean beast, and I hope Dora won't ask any favor of him." I shift the conversation.

"Did you see him come? Where have you been all this time?"

"Outside. There's a grand trap at the door, and two horses. Brewster says he is awfully rich, and of course he's a screw. If there's one thing I hate it's a miser."

"Oh, he is too young to be a miser," say I, in the innocence of my heart. "Papa says he cannot be more than eight-and-twenty. Is he dark or fair, Billy?"

"I didn't see him, but I'm sure he's dark and squat, and probably he squints," says Billy, viciously. "Any one that could turn poor old Mother Haggard out of her house in the frost and snow must have a squint."

"But he was in Italy then: perhaps he didn't know anything about it," I put in, as one giving the benefit of a bare doubt.

"Oh, didn't he?" says Billy, with withering contempt. "He didn't send his orders, I suppose? Oh, no!" Once fairly started in his Billingsgate strain, it is impossible to say where my brother will choose to draw a line, but fortunately for Mr. Carrington's character, Martha, our parlor servant, makes her appearance at this moment and comes up to us with an all-important expression upon her jovial face.

"Miss Phyllis, your ma wants you in the drawing-room at once," she says. "The strange gentleman is there, and—-"

"Wants me?" I ask, in astonishment, not being usually regarded as a drawing-room ornament. "Martha, is my hair tidy?"

"'Tis lovely!" returns Martha. And, thus encouraged, I give my dress one or two hasty pulls and follow in Dora's footsteps.

A quarter of an hour later I rush back to Billy, and discover him standing, with bent head and shoulders, in a tiny closet that opens off the hall, and is only divided from the drawing-room by the very frailest of partitions. His attitude is crumpled, but his face betrays the liveliest interest as he listens assiduously to all that is going on inside.

"Well, what is he like?" he asks in a stage whisper, straightening himself slightly as he sees me, and pointing in the direction of the closet.

"Very nice," I answer with decision, "and not dark at all—quite fair. I asked him about the wood when I got the chance, and he said we might go there whenever we chose, and that it would give him great pleasure if we would consider it as our own. There! And it was not he turned out old Nancy Haggard: it was the wretch Simmons, the steward, without any orders; and Mr. Carrington has dismissed him, and—-"

Here Billy slips off a jam-pot, on which he has been standing, with a view to raising himself, stumbles heavily, and creates an appalling row; after which, mindful of consequences, he picks himself up silently, and together we turn and flee.

CHAPTER II.

I am seventeen—not sweet seventeen; there is nothing sweet about me. I am neither fair nor dark, nor tall nor short, nor indeed anything in particular that might distinguish me from the common herd. This is rather hard upon me, as all the rest of us can lay claim to beauty in one form or another. Thus, Roland, my eldest brother, is tall, very aristocratic in appearance, and extremely good to look at; Dora, who comes next, is small and exquisitely pretty, in a fresh fairy-like style; while Billy, the youngest born, has one of the handsomest faces imaginable, with liquid brown eyes of a gentle, pleading expression, that smile continually, and utterly belie the character of their owner.

Why I was born at all, or why, my creation being a settled matter, I was not given to the world as a boy, has puzzled and vexed me for many years. I am entirely without any of the little graceful kittenish blandishments of manner that go far to make Dora the charming creature she is; I have too much of Billy's recklessness, mixed up with a natural carelessness of my own, to make me a success in the family circle. To quote papa in his mildest form, I am a "sad mistake," and one not easy to be rectified, while mother, who is the gentlest soul alive, reproves and comforts me from morning until night, without any result to speak of.

I am something over five feet two, with brown hair and a brown skin, and eyes that might be blue or gray, according to fancy. My feet are small and well shaped, and so are my hands; but as for seventeen years I have borne an undying hatred towards gloves, these latter cannot be regarded with admiration. My mouth is of goodly size, and rather determined in expression; while as to my figure, if Roland is to be believed, it resembles nothing so much as a fishing-rod. But my nose—that at least is presentable and worthy of a better resting-place; it is indeed a most desirable nose in every way, and, being my only redeeming point, is one of which I am justly proud.

Nevertheless, as one swallow makes no summer, so one feature will not beautify a plain face; and in spite of my Grecian treasure I still remain obscure. If not ornamental, however, I manage to be useful; I am an excellent foil to my sister Dora. She is beyond dispute our bright particular star, and revels in that knowledge. To be admired is sun and air and life to Dora, who resembles nothing in the world so much as an exquisite little Dresden figure, so delicate, so pink and white, so yellow-haired, and always so bewitchingly attired. She never gets into a passion, is never unduly excited. She is too pretty and too fragile for the idea, else I might be tempted to say that on rare occasions she sulks. Still, she is notably good-tempered, and has a positive talent for evading all unpleasant topics that may affect her own peace of mind.

Papa is a person to be feared; mother is not; consequently, we all love mother best. In appearance the head of our family is tall, lean, and unspeakably severe. With him a spade is always a spade, and his nay is indeed nay. According to a tradition among us, that has grown with our growth, in his nose—which is singularly large and obtrusive—lies all the harshness that characterizes his every action. Indeed, many a time and oft have Billy and I speculated as to whether, were he suddenly shorn of his proboscis, he would also find himself deprived of his strength of mind. He is calm, and decidedly well-bred, both in manner and expression—two charms we do not appreciate, as, on such frequent occasions as when disgrace falls upon one or all of the household, the calmness and breeding become so terrible that, without so much as a frown, he can wither us beyond recognition.

I am his particular bete noire; my hoydenish ways jar every hour of the day upon his sensitive nerves. He never tires of contrasting me unfavorably with his gentle elegant Dora. He detests gushing people, and I, unhappily for myself, am naturally very affectionate. I feel not only a desire to love, but at times an unconquerable longing to openly declare my love; and as Roland is generally with his regiment, and Dora is a sort of person who would die if violently embraced, I am perforce obliged to expend all my superfluous affection upon our darling mother and Billy.

Strict economy prevails among us; more through necessity, indeed, than from any unholy desire to save. Our annual income of eight hundred pounds goes but a short way under any circumstances, and the hundred pounds a year out of this we allow Roland (who is always in a state of insolvency) leaves us "poor indeed." A new dress is, therefore, a rarity—not perhaps so strange a thing to Dora as it is to me—and any amusement that costs money would be an unheard of luxury. Out-door conveyances we have none, unless one is compelled to mention a startling vehicle that lies in the coach-house, and was bought no one remembers when and where. It is probably an heirloom, and is popularly supposed to have cost a fabulous sum in the days of its youth and beauty, but it is now ancient and sadly disreputable, and not one of us but feels low and dejected when, tucked into it on Sunday mornings, we are driven by papa to attend the parish church. I even remember Dora shedding tears now and then as this ordeal drew nigh; but that was when the Desmonds or the Cuppaidges had a young man staying with them, who might reasonably be expected to put in an appearance during the service, and who would be sure to linger and witness our disgraceful retreat afterwards.

Of course papa has his two hunters. We have been taught that no gentleman could possibly get on without them in a stupid country place, and that it is more from a noble desire to sustain the respectability of the family than from any pleasure that may be derived from them, that they are kept. We try to believe this—but we don't.

We see very few neighbors, for the simple reason that there are very few to see. This limits dinner parties, and saves expense in many ways, but rather throws us younger fry upon our own resources. No outsiders come to disturb our uninteresting calm; we have no companions, no friends beyond our hearthstone. No alarming incidents occur to season our deadened existence; no one ever elopes with the wife of his bosom friend. All is flat, stale and unprofitable.

It is, then, with mingled feelings of fear and delight that we hear of Strangemore being put in readiness to receive its master. Mr. Carrington, our new landlord—our old one died about five years ago—has at length wearied of a foreign sojourn, and is hastening to the land of his fathers. So ran report three weeks before my story opens, and for once truly. He came, he saw, he—No, we have all arranged ages ago—it is Dora who is to conquer.

"He is exceedingly to be liked," says mamma that night at dinner, addressing papa, and alluding to our landlord, "and so very distinguished-looking. I rather think he admired Dora; he never removed his eyes from her face the entire time he stayed." And mother nods and smiles approvingly at my sister.

"That must have been rather embarrassing," says papa, in his even way; but I know by his tone he too is secretly pleased at Mr. Carrington's rudeness.

Dora blushes, utters a faint disclaimer, and then laughs—her own low cooing laugh, that is such a wonderful piece of performance. I have spent hours in my bedroom endeavoring patiently to copy that laugh of Dora's, with failure as the only result.

"And he is so good-natured!" I break in, eagerly. "The very moment I mentioned the subject, he gave us permission to go to Brinsley Wood as often as ever we choose, and seemed quite pleased at my asking him if we might; didn't he, mother?"

"Yes, dear."

"Could you find no more interesting topic to discuss with him than that?" asked papa with contemptuous displeasure. "Was his first visit a fitting opportunity to demand a favor of him? It is a pity, Phyllis, you cannot put yourself and your own amusements out of sight, even on an occasion. There is no vice so detestable as selfishness."

I think of the two hunters, and of how long mother's last black silk has been her best gown, and feel rebellious; but, long and early training having taught me to subdue my emotions, I accept the snub dutifully and relapse into taciturnity.

"It was not he turned out poor old Mother Haggard after all, papa," puts in Billy; "It was Simmons; and he is to be dismissed immediately."

"I am glad of that," says papa, viciously. "A more thorough going rascal never disgraced a neighborhood. He will be doing a really sensible thing if he sends that fellow adrift. I am gratified to find Carrington capable of acting with such sound common sense. None of the absurd worn-out prejudices in favor of old servants about him. I have no doubt he will prove an acquisition to the county."

Altogether, it is plainly to be seen, we every one of us intend approving of our new neighbor.

"Yes, indeed," says mother, "it is quite delightful to think of a young man being anywhere near. We are sadly in want of cheerful society. What a pity he did not come home directly his uncle died and left him the property, instead of wasting these last five years abroad!"

"I think he was right," returns papa, gracefully "there is nothing like seeing life. When hampered with a wife and children, he will regret he did not enjoy more of it before tying himself down irretrievably."

An uncomfortable silence follows this speech. We all feel guiltily conscious that we are hampering our father—that but for our unwelcome existence he might at the present hour be enjoying all the goods and gayeties of life: all that is, except Billy, who is insensible to innuendoes, and never sees or feels anything that is not put before him in the plainest terms. He cheerfully puts an end now to the awkward silence.

"I can tell you, if you marry Mr. Carrington, you will be on the pig's back," he says, knowingly addressing Dora. Billy is not choice in his expressions. "He has no end of tin, and the gamest lot of horses in his stables to be seen anywhere. Brewster was telling me about it."

Nobody says anything.

"You will be on the pig's back, I can tell you," repeats Billy, with emphasis. Now, this is more than rashness, it is madness on Billy's part; he is ignorantly offering himself to the knife. The fact that his vulgarity has been passed by unnoticed once is no reason why leniency should be shown towards him a second time. Papa looks up blandly.

"May I ask what you mean by being 'on the pig's back'?" he asks, with a suspicious thirst for information.

"Oh, it means being in luck, I suppose," returns Billy, only slightly taken aback.

"I do not think I should consider it a lucky thing if I found myself on a pig's back," says papa, still apparently abroad, still desirous of having his ignorance enlightened.

"I don't suppose you would," responds Billy, gruffly; and, being an English boy, abhorrent of irony, he makes a most unnecessary clatter with his fork and spoon.

"I know what papa means," says Dora, sweetly, coming prettily to the rescue. One of Dora's favorite roles is to act as peacemaker on such public occasions as the present, when the innate goodness of her disposition can be successfully paraded. "It is that he wishes you to see how unmeaning are your words, and how vulgar are all hackneyed expressions. Besides"—running back to Billy's former speech—"you should not believe all Brewster tells you; he is only a groom, and probably says a good deal more than—than he ought."

"There!" cries Billy, with wrathful triumph, "you were just going to say 'more than his prayers,' and if that isn't a 'hackneyed expression,' I don't know what's what. You ought to correct yourself, Miss Dora, before you begin correcting other people."

"I was not going to say that," declares Dora, in a rather sharper tone.

"Yes, you were, though. It was on the very tip of your tongue."

"I was not," reiterates Dora, her pretty oval cheeks growing pink as the heart of a rose, while her liquid blue eyes changed to steel gray.

"That's a—-"

"William, be silent," interrupts papa, with authority, and so for a time puts a stop to the family feud.

CHAPTER III.

THE next day Mr. Carrington calls again—this time ostensibly on business matters—and papa and he discuss turnips and other farm produce in the study, until the interview becomes so extended that it occurs to the rest of us they must be faint. Mamma sends in sherry as a restorative, which tranquillizes our fears and enables us to look with more cheerfulness towards the end.

Before leaving, however, Mr. Carrington finds his way to the drawing-room, where Dora and I are seated alone, and, having greeted us, drags a chair lazily after him, until he gets within a few feet of Dora. Here he seats himself.

Dora is tatting. Dora is always tatting; she never does anything else; and surely there is no work so pretty, so becoming to white fingers, as that in which the swift little shuttle is brought to bear. Nevertheless, though he is beside my sister, I never raise my head without encountering his blue eyes fixed upon me.

His eyes are very handsome, large and dark, and wonderfully kind, eyes that let one see into the true heart beyond, indeed, his whole face is full of beauty. He makes no unwise attempt to hide it, beyond the cultivation of a fair brown mustache that does not altogether conceal the delicately-formed mouth beneath, the lips of which are fine and almost sensitive enough to be womanish, but for a certain touch of quiet determination about them and the lower jaw. He is tall and rather slightly molded, and has a very clean-shaped head. His hands are white and thin, but large, his feet very passable.

"Do you know," he is saying to sympathetic Dora, while I take the above inventory of his charms, "I have quite an affection for this house? I was born here, and lived in it until my father died."

"Yes, I knew that," said Dora softly, with a liquid glance. "And all yesterday, after you had left, I kept wondering whether you felt it very strange and sad, seeing new faces in your old home."

"Did you really bestow a thought upon me when I was out of sight?" with mild surprise. "Are you in earnest? Do you know, Miss Vernon, I begin to believe it is a foolish thing to stay too long away from one's native land—away from the society of one's own countrymen; a man feels so dangerously pleased with any little stray kind word that may be said to him on his return. I have been living a rather up-and-down sort of life, not quite so civilized as might have been, I fear, and it now seems absolutely strange that anyone should take the trouble to think about me." He says all this in a slow, rather effective tone, looking pensively at Dora the while.

Here is an opportunity not to be wasted, and Dora instantly blushes her very best blush; then becoming charmingly confused, lets her glance once more fall on her tatting.

"That is awfully pretty work you are doing," says Mr. Carrington, taking up the extreme edge of it and examining it with grave interest. "I like to see women working, when their hands are soft and white. But this looks a difficult task: it must have taken you a long time to master the intricacies."

"Oh, no. It is quite simple—just in and out, you see like this. Any one could learn it, if they just put their mind to it."

"Do you think you could teach me, if I put my mind to it?" asks Mr. Carrington. And then their eyes meet; their heads are close together over the work; they smile, and continue the gaze until Dora's lids droop bashfully.

I am disgusted. Evidently they regard me in the light of a babe or a puppy, so little do they allow my presence to interfere with the ripple of their inane conversation. I am more nettled by their indifference than I care to confess even to myself, and come to the uncharitable conclusion that Mr. Carrington is an odious flirt, and my sister Dora a fool.

"When you left this house, where did you go then?" asks Dora presently, returning to the charge.

"To Strangemore—to my uncle. Then Ada—that is my sister, Lady Handcock—married, and I went into the Guards. You see I am determined to make friends with you," he says pleasantly, "so I begin by telling you all I know about myself."

"I am glad you wish us to be your friends," murmured Dora innocently. "But I am afraid you will find us very stupid. You, who have seen so much of the world, will hardly content yourself in country quarters, with only country neighbors." Another glance from the large childish eyes.

"Judging by what I have already seen," says Mr. Carrington, returning the glance with interest, "I believe I shall feel not only content, but thoroughly happy in my new home."

"Why did you leave your regiment?" I break in, irrelevantly, tired of being left out in the cold, and anxious to hear my own voice again, after the longest silence I have ever kept.

Dora sighs gently and goes back to the tatting. Mr. Carrington turns quickly to me.

"Because I am tired of the life; the ceaseless monotony was more than I could endure. So when my uncle died and I came in for the property, five years ago, I cut it, and took to foreign travelling instead."

"I think if I were a man I would rather be a soldier than anything," I say, with effusion. "I cannot imagine any one disliking the life; it seems to me such a gay one, so good in every respect. And surely anything would be preferable to being an idler."

I am unravelling a quantity of scarlet wool that has been cleverly tangled by Cheekie, my fox-terrier, and so between weariness and the fidgets—brought on by the execution of a task that is utterly foreign to my tastes—I feel and have pointed my last remark. Dora looks up in mild horror, and casts a deprecating glance at our visitor. Mr. Carrington laughs—a short, thoroughly amused laugh.

"But I am not an idler," he says; "one may find something to do in life besides taking the Queen's money. Pray Miss Phyllis, do not add to my many vices one of which I am innocent. I cannot accuse myself of having wasted even five minutes since my return home. Do you believe me?"

I hasten to apologize.

"Oh, I did not mean it, indeed," I say earnestly; "I assure you I do not. Of course you have plenty to do. You must think me very rude."

I am covered with confusion. Had he taken my words in an unfriendly spirit I might have rallied and rather enjoyed my triumph; but his laugh has upset me. I feel odiously, horribly young, both in manner and appearance. Unaccustomed to the society of men, I have not had opportunities of cultivating the well-bred insouciance that distinguishes the woman of the world, and therefore betray hopelessly the shyness that is consuming me. He appears cruelly cognizant of the fact, and is evidently highly delighted with my embarrassment.

"Thank you," he says; "I am glad you exonerate me. I felt sure you did not wish to crush me utterly. If you entertained a bad opinion of me, Miss Phyllis, it would hurt me more than I can say."

A faint pause, during which I know his eyes are still fixed with open amusement upon my crimson countenance. I begin to hate him.

"Have you seen the gardens?" asks Dora musically. "Perhaps to walk through them would give you pleasure, as they cannot fail to recall old days, and the remembrance of a past that has been happy is so sweet.'' Dora sighs, as though she were in the habit of remembering perpetual happy pasts.

"I shall be glad to visit them again," answers Mr. Carrington, rising, as my sister lays down the ivory shuttle. He glances wistfully at me, but I have not yet recovered my equanimity, and rivet my gaze upon my wool relentlessly as he passes through the open window.

CHAPTER IV

It is four o'clock. There is a delicious hush all over the house and grounds, a hush that betrays the absence of the male bird from his nest, and bespeaks security. Billy and I, hat in hand, stand upon the door-step and look with caution round us, preparatory to taking flight to Brinsley Wood. Ever since my unlucky confession of having asked Mr. Carrington's permission to wander through the grounds—thereby betraying the pleasure I feel in such wanderings—we have found it strangely difficult to get beyond the precincts of our home. Obstacles the most unforeseen crop up to stay our steps, some supernatural agency being apparently at work, by which papa becomes cognizant of even our most secret intentions.

To-day, however, brings us such a chance of freedom as we may not have again, business having called our father to an adjoining village, from which he cannot possibly return until the shades of evening have well fallen. Our evil genius, too, has for once been kind, having forgotten to suggest to him before starting the advisability of regulating our movements during the hours he will be absent. We are, therefore, unfettered, and with a glow of pleasure not unmixed with triumph we sally off towards the deep green woods.

It is that sweetest month of the twelve, September—a glorious ripe September, that has never yet appeared so sweet and golden-brown as on this afternoon, that brings us so near the close of it. High in the trees hang clusters of filberts, that have tempted our imagination for some time, and now, with a basket slung between us, that links us as we walk, we meditate a raid.

As with light, exultant footsteps we hurry onwards, snatches of song fall from my lips—a low, soft contralto voice being my one charm. We are utterly, carelessly, recklessly happy, with that joyous forgetfulness of all that has gone before, and may yet follow, that belongs alone to youth. Now and then Billy's high, boyish notes join mine, making the woods ring, until the song comes to sudden grief through lack of memory when gay laughter changes the echo's tone. Here a bunch of late and luscious blackberries claim our attention. And once we have a mad race after a small brown squirrel that evades us cleverly, and presently revenges itself for its enforced haste by grinning at us provokingly from an inaccessible branch.

At last the wood we want is reached; the nuts are in full view; our object is attained.

"Now," asks Billy, with a sigh of delight, "at which tree shall we begin?" It is a mere matter of form his asking me this question, as he would think it derogatory to his manly dignity to follow any suggestion I might make.

All the trees are laden: they more than answer our expectations. Each one appears so much better than the other it is difficult to choose between them.

"At this," I say, at length, pointing to one richly clothed that stands before us.

"Not at all," returns Billy, contemptuously: "It isn't half as good as this one," naming the companion tree to mine; and, his being the master-mind, he carries the day.

"Very good: don't miss your footing," I say, anxiously, as he begins to climb. There are no lower branches, no projections of any kind to assist his ascent: the task is far from easy.

"Here, give me a shove," calls out Billy, impatiently, when he had slipped back to mother earth the fourth time, after severely barking his shins. I give him a vigorous push that raises him successfully to an overhanging limb, after which, being merely hand-over-hand work, he rises rapidly, and soon the spoiler reaches his prey.

Down come the little bumping showers; if on my head or arms so much the greater fun. I dodge; Billy aims; the birds grow nervous at our unrestrained laughter. Already our basket is more than half full, and Billy is almost out of sight among the thick foliage, so high has he mounted.

Slower, and with more uncertain aim come the nuts. I begin to grow restless. It is not so amusing as it was ten minutes ago, and I look vaguely around me in search of newer joys.

At no great distance from me I spy another nut-tree equally laden with treasure and far easier of access. Low, almost to the ground, some of the branches grow. My eyes fasten upon it; a keen desire to climb and be myself a spoiler seizes upon me. I lay my basket on the ground, and, thought and action being one with me, I steal off without a word to Billy and gain the wished-for spot.

Being very little inferior to Billy in the art of climbing—long and dearly-bought experience having made me nimble, it is at very little risk and with small difficulty I soon find myself at the top of the tree, comfortably seated on a thick arm of wood, plucking my nuts in safety. I feel immensely elated, both at the eminence of my situation and the successful secrecy with which I have carried out my plan. What fun it will be presently to see Billy looking for me everywhere! He will at first think I have gone roaming through the woods; then he will imagine me lost, and be a good deal frightened; it will be some time before he will suspect the truth.

I fairly laugh to myself as these ideas flit through my idle brain—more, perhaps, through real gayety of heart than from any excellence the joke contains—when, suddenly raising my head, I see what makes my mischievous smile freeze upon my lip.

From my exalted position I can see a long way before me, and there in the distance, coming with fatal certainty in my direction, I espy Mr. Carrington! At the same moment Billy's legs push themselves in a dangling fashion through the branches of his tree, and are followed by the remainder of his person a little later. Forgetful of my original design, forgetful of everything but the eternal disgrace that will cling to me through life if found by our landlord in my present unenviable plight, I call to him, in tones suppressed indeed, but audible enough to betray my hiding-place.

"Billy, here is Mr. Carrington—he is coming towards us. Catch these nuts quickly, while I get down."

"Why where on earth—-" begins Billy, and then grasping the exigencies of the case, refrains from further vituperation, and comes to the rescue.

The foe steadily advances. I fling all my collected treasure into Billy's upturned face, and seizing a branch begin frantically to beat a retreat. I am half-way down, but still very, very far from the ground—at least, so far, that Billy can render me no assistance—when I miss my footing, slip a little way down against my will, and then sustain a check. Some outlying bough, with vicious and spiteful intent, has laid hold on my gown in such way that I can not reach to undo it.

"Come down, can't you?" says Billy, with impatience "you are showing a yard and a half of your leg."

"I can't!" I groan; "I'm caught somewhere. Oh, what shall I do?"

Meantime, Mr. Carrington is coming nearer and nearer. As I peer at him through the unlucky branches I can see he is looking if anything rather handsomer than usual, with his gun on his shoulder and a pipe between his lips. As he meets my eyes riveted upon him from my airy perch he takes out the pipe and consigns it to his pocket. If he gets round to the other side of the tree, from which point the horrors of my position are even more forcibly depicted, I feel I shall drop dead.

"Why don't you get that lazy boy to do the troublesome part of the business for you?" calls out our welcome friend, while yet at some distance. Then, becoming suddenly aware of my dilemma, "Are you in any difficulty? Can I help you down?"

He has become preternaturally grave—so grave that it occurs to me he may possibly be repressing a smile. Billy, I can see, is inwardly convulsed. I begin to feel very wrathful.

"I don't want any help" I say, with determination. "But for my dress I could manage—-"

"Better let me assist you," says Mr. Carrington, making a step forward. In another moment he will have gained the other side, and then all will be indeed lost.

"No, no!" I cry, desperately; "I won't be helped. Stay where you are."

"Very good," returns he, and, immediately presenting his back to me, makes a kind pretense of studying the landscape.

Now, although this is exactly the thing of all others I most wish him to do, still the voluntary doing of it on his part induces me to believe my situation a degree more indecent than before. I feel I shall presently be dissolved in tears. I tug madly at my unfortunate dress without making the faintest impression upon it. Oh, why is it that my cotton—that up to this has been so prone to reduce itself to rags—to-day should prove so tough? My despair forces from me a heavy sigh.

"Not down yet?" says Mr. Carrington, turning to me once more. "You will never manage it by yourself. Be sensible, and let me put you on your feet."

"No," I answer, in an agony; "it must give way soon. I shall do it, if—if—you will only turn your back to me again." It is death to my pride to have to make this request. I nerve myself to try one more heroic effort. The branch I am clinging to gives way with a crash. "Oh!" I shriek frantically, and in another moment fall headlong into Mr. Carrington's outstretched arms.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, gazing at me with anxious eyes, and still retaining his hold of me.

"Yes, I am," I answered, tearfully. "Look at my arm." I pull up my sleeve cautiously and disclose an arm that looks indeed wonderfully white next the blood that trickles slowly from it.

"Oh, horrible!" says our rich neighbor, with real and intense concern, and, taking out his handkerchief, proceeds to bind up my wound with the extremest tenderness.

"Why didn't you let him take you down?" says Bill, reproachfully, who is rather struck by the blood. "It would have been better after all."

"Of, course it would," says Mr. Carrington, raising his head for a moment from the contemplation of his surgical task to smile into my eyes. "But some little children are very foolish."

"I was seventeen last May," I answered promptly. It is insufferable to be regarded as a child when one is almost eighteen. There is a touch of asperity in my tone.

"Indeed! So old?" says our friend, still smiling.

"Mr. Carrington," I begin, presently, in a rather whimpering tone, "you won't say anything about this at home—will you? You see, they—they might not like the idea of my climbing, and they would be angry. Of course I know it was very unladylike of me, and indeed"—very earnestly this—"I had no more intention of doing such a thing when I left home than I had of flying. Had I, Billy?"

"You had not," says Billy. "I don't know what put the thought into your head. Why, it is two years since last you climbed a tree."

This is a fearful lie; but the dear boy means well.

"You won't betray me?" I say again to my kind doctor.

"I would endure the tortures of the rack first," returns he, giving his bandage a final touch. "Be assured they shall never hear of it from me. You must not suspect me of being a tale-bearer, Miss Phyllis. Does your arm pain you still? have I made it more comfortable?"

"I hardly feel it at all now," I answer, gratefully. "I don't know what I should have done but for you—first catching me as you did, and then dressing my hurt. But how shall I return you your handkerchief?"

"May I not call to-morrow to see you are none the worse for your accident? It is a long week since last I was at Summerleas. Would I bore you all very much if I allowed myself there again soon?"

"Not at all," I answered warmly, thinking of Dora; "the oftener you come the more we shall be pleased."

"Would it please you to see me often?" He watches me keenly as he asks this question.

"Yes, of course it would," I answer, politely, feeling slightly surprised at his tone—very slightly.

"How long have you known me?"

"Exactly a month yesterday," I exclaim, promptly; "it was on the 25th of August you first came to see us. I remember the date perfectly."

"Do you?" with pleased surprise. "What impressed that uninteresting date upon your memory?"

"Because it was on that day that Billy got home the new pigeons—such little beauties, all pure white. They were unlucky, however, as two of them died since. That is how I recollect its being a month," I continue, recurring to his former words.

"Oh! I suppose you would hardly care to remember anything in which Billy was not concerned. Sometimes—not always—I envy Billy. And so it is really only a month since first I saw you? To me it seems a year—more than a year."

"Ah! what did I tell you," I say, speaking in the eager tone one adopts when triumphantly proving the correctness of an early opinion. "I knew you would soon grow tired of us. I said so from the beginning."

"Did you?" in a curious tone.

"Yes. It was not a clever guess to make, was it? Why, there is literally nothing to be done down here, unless one farms, or talks scandal of one's neighbor, or—-"

"Or goes nutting, and puts one's neck in danger," with a smile. "Surely there can be nothing tame about a place where such glorious exploits can be performed?" Then, changing his manner, "You have described Puxley very accurately, I must confess; and yet, strange as it may appear to you, your opinion was rashly formed, because as yet I am not tired of either it or—you."

"And yet you find the time drag heavily?"

"When spent at Strangemore—yes. Never when spent at Summerleas."

I begin to think Dora has a decided chance. I search my brain eagerly for some more leading question that shall still further satisfy me on this point, but find nothing. Billy, who has been absent from us for some time, comes leisurely up to us. His presence recalls the hour.

"We must be going now," I say, extending my hand; "it is getting late. Good-bye, Mr. Carrington—and thank you again very much," I added, somewhat shyly.

"If you persist in thinking there is anything to be grateful for, give me my reward," he says, quickly, "by letting me walk with you to the boundary of the wood."

"Yes, do," says Billy, effusively. Still Mr. Carrington looks at me, as though determined to take permission from my eyes alone.

"Come, if you wish it," I say, answering the unspoken look in his eyes, and feeling thoroughly surprised to hear a man so altogether grown up express a desire for our graceless society. Thus sanctioned, he turns and walks by my side, conversing in the pleasant, light, easy style peculiar to him, until the boundary he named is reached. Here we pause to bid each other once more good-bye.

"And I may come to-morrow?" he asks, holding my hand closely.

"Yes—but—but—I cannot give you the handkerchief before mother and Dora," I murmur, blushing hotly.

"True, I had forgotten that important handkerchief. But perhaps you could manage to walk with me as far as she entrance-gate, could you?"

"I don't know," I return doubtfully, "If not, I can give it to you some other day."

"So you can. Keep it until I am fortunate enough to meet you again. I shall probably get on without it until then."

So with a smile and a backward nod and glance, we part.

For some time after he has left us, Billy and I move on together without speaking, a most unusual thing, when I break the silence by my faltering tones.

"Billy," I say, trembling with hope and fear, "Billy tell me the truth. That time, you know, did I show very much of my leg?"

"Not more than an inch or two above the garter," he answers, in an encouraging tone, and for a full minute I feel that with cheerfulness I could attend the funeral of my brother Billy.

I am mortified to the last degree. Unbidden tears rise to my eyes. Even though I might have known a more soothing answer to be false, still with rapture I would have hailed it. There is a brutal enjoyment of the scene in his whole demeanor that stings me sorely. I begin to compare dear Roly with my younger brother in a manner highly unflattering to the latter. If Roland had been here in Billy's place to day, instead of being as he always is with that tiresome regiment in some forgotten corner, all might have been different. He at least being a man, would have felt for me. How could I have been mad enough to look for sympathy from a boy?

Dear Roland! The only fault he has is his extreme and palpable selfishness. But what of that? Are not all men so afflicted? Why should he be condemned for what is only to be expected and looked for in the grander sex? What I detest more than anything else is a person who, while professing to be friends with one, only—-

I grow morose, and decline all further conversation, until we come so near our home that but one turn more hides it from our view.

Here Billy remonstrates.

"Of course you can sulk if you like," he says in an injured tone, "and not speak to a fellow, all for nothing; but you can't go into the house with your arm like that, unless you wish them to discover the battle in which you have been engaged."

I hesitate and look ruefully at my arm. The sleeve of my dress is rolled up above the elbow, having refused obstinately to come down over the bandage, and consequently I present a dishevelled, not to say startling appearance.

"I must undo it, I suppose," I return, disinclination in my tone, and Billy says, "Of course," with hideous briskness. Therewith he removes the guarding-pin and proceeds to unfold the handkerchief with an air that savors strongly of pleasurable curiosity, while I stand shrinking beside him, and vowing mentally never again to trust myself at an undue distance from mother earth.

At length the last fold is undone, and, to my unspeakable relief, I see that the wound, though crimson round the edges, has ceased to bleed. Hastily and carefully drawing the sleeve of my dress over it, I thrust the stained handkerchief into my pocket and make for the house.

When I have exchanged a word or two with Dora (who is always in the way when not wanted—that being the hall at the present moment), I escape upstairs without being taken to task for my damaged garments, and carefully lock my door. Nevertheless, though now, comparatively speaking, in safety, there is still a weight upon my mind. If to-morrow I am to return the handkerchief to its owner, it must in the meantime be washed, and who is to wash it?

Try as I will, I cannot bring myself to make a confidante of Martha: therefore nothing remains for me but to undertake the purifying of it myself. I have still half an hour clear before the dinner-bell will ring: so, plunging my landlord's cambric into the basin, I boldly commence my work. Five minutes later. I am getting on: it really begins to look almost white again; the stains have nearly vanished, and only a general pinkiness remains. But what is to be done with the water?—if left, it will surely betray me, and betrayal means punishment.

I begin to feel like a murderess. In every murder case I have ever read (and they have a particular fascination for me), the miserable perpetrator of the crime finds a terrible difficulty in getting rid of the water in which he has washed off the traces of his victim's blood. I now find a similar difficulty in disposing of the water reddened by my own. I open the window, look carefully out, and, seeing no one, fling the contents of my basin into the air. "It falls to earth I know not where," as I hurriedly draw in my head and get through the remainder of my self-imposed duty.

After that my dressing for dinner is a scramble; but I get through it in time, and come down serene and innocent, to take my accustomed place at the table.

All goes well until towards the close of the festivities, when papa, fixing a piercing eye on me, says, generally,—-

"May I inquire which of you is in the habit of throwing water from your bedroom windows upon chance passers by?"

A ghastly silence follows. Dora looks up in meek surprise. Billy glances anxiously at me. My knees knock together. Did it fall upon him? Has he discovered all?

"Well, why do I receive no answer? Who did it?" demands papa, in a voice of suppressed thunder, still with his eye on me.

"I threw some out this evening," I acknowledge, in a faint tone, "but never before—I—-"

"Oh! it was you, was it?" says papa, with a glare. "I need scarcely have inquired; I might have known the one most likely to commit a disreputable action. Is that an established habit of yours? Are there no servants to do your bidding? It was the most monstrous proceeding I ever in my life witnessed."

"It was only—-" I begin timidly.

"'It was only' that it is an utterly impossible thing for you ever to be a lady," interrupted papa, bitterly. "You are a downright disgrace to your family. At times I find it a difficult matter to believe you a Vernon."

Having delivered this withering speech, he leans back in his chair, with a snort that would not have done discredit to a war-horse, which signifies that the scene is at an end. Two large tears gather in my eyes and roll heavily down my cheeks. They look like tears of penitence, but in reality are tears of relief. Oh, if that tell-tale water had but fallen on the breast of his shirt, or on his stainless cuffs, where would the inquiries have terminated?

Billy—who, I feel instinctively, has been suffering tortures during the past five minutes—now, through the intensity of his joy at my escape, so far forgets himself as to commence a brilliant fantasia on the tablecloth with a dessert-fork. It lasts a full minute without interruption: I am too depressed to give him a warning glance. At length,—-

"Billy, when you have quite done making that horrid noise, perhaps you will ring the bell," says Dora, smoothly, with a view to comfort. Certainly the tattoo is irritating.

"When I have quite done I will," returns Billy, calmly, and continues his odious occupation, with now an addition to it in the form of an unearthly scraping noise, caused by his nails, that makes one's flesh creep.

Papa, deep in the perusal of the Times, hears and sees nothing. Mother is absent.

"Papa," cries Dora, whose delicate nerves are all unstrung, "will you send Billy out of the room, or else induce him to stop his present employment?"

"William," says papa, severely, "cease that noise directly." And William, casting a vindictive glance at Dora, lays down the dessert-fork and succumbs.

CHAPTER V.

I have wandered down to the river side and under the shady trees. As yet, October is so young and mild the leaves refuse to offer tribute, and still quiver and rustle gayly on their branches.

It is a week since my adventure in the wood—five days since Mr. Carrington's last visit. On that occasion having failed to obtain one minute with him alone, the handkerchief still remains in my possession, and proves a very skeleton in my closet, the initials M. J. C.—that stand for Marmaduke John Carrington, as all the world knows—staring out boldly from their corner, and threatening at any moment to betray me: so that, through fear and dread of discovery, I carry it about with me, and sleep with it beneath my pillow. Looking back upon it all now, I wonder how I could have been so foolish, so wanting in invention. I feel with what ease I could now dispose of anything tangible and obnoxious.

There is a slight chill in the air, in spite of the pleasant sun; and I half make up my mind to go for a brisk walk, instead of sauntering idly, as I am at present doing, when somebody calls to me from the adjoining field. It is Mr. Carrington. He climbs the wall that separates us, and drops into my territory, a little scrambling Irish terrier at his heels.

"Is this a favorite retreat of yours?" he asks, as our hands meet.

"Sometimes. Oh, Mr. Carrington, I am so glad to see you to-day."

"Are you, really? That is better news than I hoped to hear when I left home this morning."

"Because I want to return you your handkerchief. I have had it so long, and am so anxious to get rid of it. It—it would probably look nicer," I say, with hesitation, slowly withdrawing the article in question from my pocket, "if anybody else had washed it; but I did not want any one to find out about—that day: so I had to do it myself."

Lingering, cautiously, I bring it to light and hold it out to him. Oh, how dreadfully pink and uncleanly it appears in the broad light of the open air! To me it seems doubly hideous—the very last thing a fastidious gentleman would dream of putting to his nose.

Mr. Carrington accepts it almost tenderly. There is not the shadow of a smile upon his face. It would be impossible for me to say how grateful I feel to him for this.

"Is it possible you took all that trouble," he says, a certain gentle light, with which I am growing familiar, coming into his eyes as they rest upon my anxious face. "My dear child, why? Did you not understand I was only jesting when I expressed a desire to have it again? Why did you not put it in the fire, or rid yourself of it in some other fashion long ago? So"—after a pause—"you really washed it with your own hands for me?"

"One might guess that by looking at it," I answer, with a rather awkward laugh: "still, I think it would not look quite so badly, but that I kept it in my pocket ever since, and that gives it its crumpled appearance."

"Ever since? so near to you for five long days? What a weight it must have been on your tender conscience! Well, at all events no other washerwoman"—with a smile—"shall ever touch it. I promise you that." He places it carefully in an inside pocket as he speaks.

"Oh, please do not say that!" I cry, dismayed: "you must not keep it as a specimen of my handiwork. Once properly washed, you will forget all about it: but if you keep it before your eyes in its present state—- Mr. Carrington, do put it in your clothes-basket the moment you go home."

He only laughs at this pathetic entreaty, and throws a pebble into the tiny river that runs at our feet.

"Why are you alone?" he asks, presently. "Why is not the indefatigable Billy with you?"

"He reads with a tutor three times a week. That leaves me very often lonely. I came here to-day just to pass the time until he can join me. He don't seem to care much about Greek and Latin," I admit, ingenuously; "and, as he never looks at his lessons until five minutes before Mr. Caldwood comes, you see he don't get over them very quickly."

"And so leaves you disconsolate longer than he need. Your sister, Miss Vernon—does she never go for a walk with you?"

Ah! now he is coming to Dora.

"Dora? Oh, never. She is not fond of walking; it does not agree with her, she says. You may have noticed she is not very robust, she looks so fragile, so different from me in every respect."

"Very different."

"Yes, we all see that," I answer, rather disconcerted by his ready acquiescence in this home view. "And so pretty as she is, too! Don't you think her very pretty, Mr. Carrington?"

"Extremely so. Even more than merely pretty. Her complexion, I take it, must be quite unrivaled. She is positively lovely—in her own style."

"I am very glad you admire her; but indeed you would be singular if you did not do so," I say, with enthusiasm. "Her golden hair and blue eyes make her quite a picture. I think she has the prettiest face I ever saw: don't you?"

"No; not the prettiest. I know another that, to me at least, is far more beautiful."

He is looking straight before him, apparently at nothing, and to my attentive ear there is something hidden in his tone that renders me uneasy for the brilliant future I have mapped out for my sister.

"You have been so much in the world," I say, with some dejection, "and of course in London and Paris and all the large cities one sees many charming faces from time to time. I should have remembered that. I suppose, away from this little village, Dora's face would be but one in a crowd."

"It was not in London or Paris, or any large city I saw the face of which I speak. It was in a neighborhood as small—yes, quite as small as this. The owner of it was a mere child—a little country-girl, knowing nothing of the busy world outside her home, but I shall never again see any one so altogether sweet and lovable."

"What was she like?" I ask, curiously. I am not so uneasy as I was. If only a child she cannot, of course, interfere with Dora. "Describe her to me?"

"What is she like, you mean. She is still in the land of the living. Describe her I don't believe I could," says my companion, with a light laugh. "If I gave you her exact photograph in words, I dare say I would call down your scorn on my benighted taste. Who ever grew rapturous over a description? If you cross-examine me about her charms, without doubt I shall fall through. To my way of thinking beauty does not lie in features, in hair, or eyes, or mouth. It is there, without one's knowing why; a look, an expression, a smile, all go to make up the indescribable something that is perfection."

"You speak of her as though she were a woman. I don't believe she is a child at all," I say, with a pout.

"She is the greatest child I ever met. But tell me—-" Then, breaking off suddenly, and turning to me, "By the bye," he says, "what may I call you? Miss Vernon is too formal, and Miss Phyllis I detest."

"Yes," return I, laughing, "it reminds me of Martha. You may call me Phyllis if you like."

"Thank you; I shall like it very much. Apropos of photographs, then, a moment ago, Phyllis, did you ever sit for your portrait?" He is looking at me as he speaks, as though desirous of photographing me upon his brain without further loss of time.

"Oh, yes, twice," I answer, cheerfully; "once by a travelling man who came round, and did us all very cheaply indeed (I think for fourpence or sixpence a head); and once in Carston. I had a dozen taken then; but when I had given one each to them all at home, and one to Martha, I found I had no use for the others, and had only wasted my pocket-money. Perhaps"—diffidently—" you would like one?"

"Like it!" says Mr. Carrington, with most uncalled-for eagerness: "I should rather think I would. Will you really give me one, Phyllis?"

"Of course," I answer, with surprise: "they are no use to me, and have been tossing about in my drawer for six months. Will you have a Carston one? I really think it is the best. Though, if you put your hand over the eyes, the itinerant's is rather like me."

"What happened to the eyes?"

"There is a faint cast in the right one. The man said it was the way I always looked, but I don't think so myself. You don't think I have a squint, do you, Mr. Carrington?"

Here I open my blue-gray eyes to their widest and gaze at my companion in anxious inquiry.

"No, I don't see it," returns he, when he has subjected the eyes in question to a close and lingering examination, Then he laughs a little, and I laugh too, to encourage him, and because at this time of my life gayety of any sort seems good, and tears and laughter are very near to me; and presently we are both making merry over my description of the wanderer's production.

"What o'clock is it," I ask, a little later. "It must be time for me to go home, and Billy will be waiting."

Having told me the hour, he says:

"Have you no watch, Phyllis?"

"No."

"Don't you find it awkward now and then being ignorant of the time? Would you like one?"

"Oh, would I not?" I answer, promptly. "There is nothing I would like better. Do you know it is the one thing for which I am always wishing."

"Phyllis," says Mr. Carrington, eagerly, "let me give you one."

I stare at him in silent bewilderment. Is he really in earnest? He certainly looks so; and for a moment I revel in the glorious thought. Fancy! what it would be to have a watch of my very own; to be able every five minutes to assure myself of the exact hour! Think of all the malicious pleasure I should enjoy in dangling it before Dora's jealous eyes! what pride in exhibiting it to Billy's delighted ones! Probably it would be handsomer than Dora's, which has seen service, and, being newer, would surely keep better time.

Then the delight passes, and something within me whispers such joy is not for me. Of course he would only give it to me for Dora's sake, and yet I know—I cannot say why I feel it—but I know if I accepted a watch from Mr. Carrington all at home would be angry, and it would cause a horrible row.

"Thank you," I say mournfully. "Thank you very, very much, Mr. Carrington, but I could not take it from you. It is very kind of you to offer it, and I would accept it if I could, but it would be of no use. At home I know they would not let me have it, and so it would be a pity for you to spend all your money upon it for nothing."

"What nonsense!" impatiently. "Who would not let you take it?"

"Papa, mamma, every one," I answer, with deepest dejection. (I would so much have liked that watch! Why, why did he put the delightful but transient idea into my head?) "They would all say I acted wrongly in taking it, and—and they would send it back to you again."

"Is there anything else you would like, Phyllis, that I might give you?"

"No, nothing, thank you. I must only wait. Mother has promised me her watch upon my wedding morning."

"You seem comfortably certain of being married, sooner or later," he says, with a laugh that still shows some vexation. "Do you ever think what sort of a husband you would like, Phyllis?"

"No, I never think of disagreeable things, if I can help it," is my somewhat tart reply. My merry mood is gone: I feel in some way injured, and inclined towards snappishness. "And from what I have seen of husbands I think they are all, every one, each more detestable than the other. If I were an heiress I would never marry; but, being a girl without a fortune, I suppose I must."

Mr. Carrington roars.

"I never heard anything so absurd," he says, "as such mature sentiments coming from your lips. Why, to hear you talk, one might imagine you a town-bred young woman, one who has passed through the fourth campaign; but to see you—- You have learned your lesson uncommonly well, though I am sure you were never taught it by your mother. And how do you know that you may not lose your heart to a curate, and find yourself poorer after your marriage than before?"

"That I never will," I return, decisively. "In the first place, I detest curates, and in the next I would not be wife to a poor man, even if I adored him. I will marry a rich man, or I will not marry at all."

"I hate to hear you talk like that," says Mr. Carrington, gravely. "The ideas are so unsuited to a little loving girl like you. Although I am positive you do not mean one word of what you say, still it pains me to hear you."

"I do mean it," I answer defiantly; "but as my conversation pains you, I will not inflict it on you longer. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye, you perverse child; and don't try to imagine yourself mercenary. Are you angry with me?" holding my unwilling hand and smiling into my face. "Don't, I'm not worth it. Come, give me one smile to bear me company until we meet again." Thus abjured, I laugh, and my fingers grow quiet in his grasp. "And when will that be?" continues Mr. Carrington. "To-morrow or next day? Probably Friday will see me at Summerleas. In the meantime, now we are friends again, I must remind you not to forget your promise about that Carston photo."

"I will remember," I say; and so we separate.

CHAPTER VI.

On my return home, to my inexpressible surprise and delight, I find Roland. During my absence he has arrived, totally unexpected by any member of the household; and the small excitement his appearance causes makes him doubly welcome, as anything that startles us out of our humdrum existence is hailed with positive rapture. Even mother, whose mind is still wonderfully fresh and young, considering all the years she has passed under papa's thumb, enters freely into the general merriment, and forgets for the time being her daily cares.

"You see, I found I would be here almost as soon as a letter," explains Roland; "and, as I hate writing like a nightmare, I resolved to take you a little by surprise."

Mother, radiant, is sitting near him, regarding him with humid eyes. If dear mother had been married to an indulgent husband she would have been a dreadful goose. Even as it is she possesses a talent for weeping upon all occasions only to be equalled by mine.

"How did you manage to get away so soon again, Roly?" I ask, when I have embraced him as much as he will allow.

"I hardly know. Luck, I fancy—and the colonel—did it. The old boy, you see, has a weakness for me which I return by having a weakness for the old boy's daughter. Mother"—languidly—"may I marry the old boy's daughter? She is an extremely pretty little girl, young, with fifteen thousand pounds; but I would not like to engage myself to her without your full consent."

Mother laughs and passes her hand with a light caressing gesture over his charming face.

"Conceited boy!" she murmurs, fondly; "there is little chance you will ever do so much good for yourself."

"Don't be too sure. At all events, I have your consent?"

"Yes, and my blessing, too," says mother, laughing again.

"Thanks. Then I'll turn it over in my mind when I go back."

"Roly," I break in with my accustomed graciousness, "what brought you?"

"The train and an overpowering desire to see Dora's young man."

A laugh and a blush from Dora.

"I met him just now," I say, "down by the trout-river. What a pity he did not come home with me, to satisfy your curiosity without delay!"

"Mother, do you think it the correct thing for Phyllis to keep clandestine appointments with her brother-in-law? Dora, is it possible you do not scent mischief in the air? A person, too, of Phyllis's well-known attractions—-"

"What was he doing at the trout-river?" asks Dora, with a smile. She is too secure in the knowledge of her own beauty to dread a rival anywhere, least of all in me.

"Nothing, as far as I could see. He talked a little, and said he was coming here next Friday."

"The day after to-morrow. I shall ask him his intentions," says Roly. "It is most fortunate I am on the spot. One should never let an affair of this kind drag. It will doubtless be a thankless task; but I make a point of never shirking duty; and when we have put our beloved father comfortably under ground—-"

"Roland," interrupts mother, in a shocked tone. There is a pause.

"I quite thought you were going to say something," says Roland, amiably. "I was mistaken. I will therefore continue. When we have put our beloved father well under the ground I will then be head of this house, and natural guardian to these poor dear girls and, with this prospect in view, I feel even at the present moment a certain responsibility, that compels me to look after their interests and bring this recreant gallant to book."

"Roland, my dear, I wish you would not speak so of your father," puts in mamma, feebly.

"Very well, I won't," returns Roly; "and he shan't be put under ground at all, if you don't wish it. Cremation shall be his fate, and we shall keep his precious ashes in an urn."

"I don't believe Mr. Carrington cares a pin for Dora," says Billy, irrevelantly. "I think he likes Phyllis twice as well." This remark, though intended to do so, does not act as a bombshell in the family circle; it is regarded as a mere flash in the pan from Billy, and is received with silent contempt. What could a boy know about such matters?

"I have a month's leave," Roland informs us presently. "Do you think in that time we could polish it off—courtship, proposal, and wedding? Though," reflectively, "that would be a pity, as by puffing off the marriage for a little while I might then screw another month out of the old boy."

"Just so," I answer, approvingly.

"He is such a desirable young man in every way," says mother, a propos of Mr. Carrington; "so steady, well-tempered, and his house is really beautiful. You know it, Roland—Strangemore—seven miles from this?"

"I think it gloomy," Dora says, quietly. "When I—if I were to—that is—-"

"What a charming virtue is modesty!" I exclaim, sotto voce.

"Go on, Dora," says Roland, in an encouraging tone. "When you marry Mr. Carrington, what will you do then?"