"Oh, I do not mean that you may not read a storybook now and then, or amuse yourself with the magazines," he said calmly, "but anything like study I absolutely forbid."

His words fell on my ears like a sentence of doom. How could I give up my studies? My intellectual work was more to me than anything else, though of late it had become a burden, and I could not bear to renounce the hopes and ambitions on which my heart was set. For months I had been working my hardest in preparation for Matriculation. I wanted to take honours, for I thought that distinction would help me to obtain a good post as teacher in a school. I worked under disadvantages, for I had a daily engagement as governess which occupied the best part of each day. My pupils were very young, and their instruction did not involve for me any mental strain; but they were tiresome, spoiled children, and I often returned home from teaching them feeling irritated. Tea generally revived me, and I devoted the evening to study.

As the time fixed for the examination drew nearer, I sometimes rose at six, and did an hour's work before breakfast. It was not easy to leave my bed in the raw cold of the early morning and dress by gaslight. In spite of the little oil-stove which I used to kindle in my room, the cold seemed to benumb all my faculties. After a while I decided that it was better to work late at night, and I would sit up wrestling with some mathematical problem long after the other members of the household were wrapped in slumber. Soon I began to be conscious of a sick, dizzy sensation when I rose; severe headaches often interrupted my studies; it became increasingly difficult for me to concentrate my thoughts.

"How cross Nan is!" I used to hear my younger sisters whisper to each other, and my conscience told me that the words were true, and reproached me also for the way in which I lost patience with my little pupils.

At last there came an hour when everything faded from me as I sat at my desk. My spirit seemed to go away to the very bounds of existence. As from a great distance I came back to consciousness, with a singing in my ears and a feeling of deadly sickness, and beheld the faces of mother, Olive, and our maid-of-all-work looking down on me.

"What is the matter? What is it all about?" I asked vaguely.

"You fainted, darling—just an ordinary fainting-fit, nothing more," mother said.

It was such an unusual thing for mother to use terms of endearment that I knew when she called me "darling" that I must have alarmed her very much, and I almost fainted again from the shock of finding myself such a centre of anxious interest. Mother gave me a strong dose of sal-volatile, which soon brought me round. I was put to bed, but for the rest of the evening, some one kept watch beside me. My swoon had lasted a long time, and, since even ordinary fainting fits do not occur without a cause, Dr. Algar was on the morrow called in to examine me, with the result recorded above.

"I hate story-books," I said crossly. "Cannot you give me a tonic that will pick me up?"

He shook his head as he smiled on me with a very kindly look in his eyes.

"The tonic you need, my dear, is rest and play, or at least the change of work which is said to be as good as play. She wants to go out to grass, and kick up her heels like a young pony, Mrs. Darracott. You should send her into the country, and give her a bicycle, or let her go where there are golf links, and learn to play. In fact, she needs to live an open-air life as far as that is possible in our climate."

I looked at mother and tried to smile, but merely succeeded, I believe, in making a dismal grimace. How unreasonable the old doctor was! He might as well have ordered champagne and oysters for a dweller in the slums. How could my parents afford to send me into the country for an indefinite period? Mother's face wore a troubled expression as she said gently:

"I understand, doctor. I will talk it over with her father, and we will see what we can do. I blame myself for not seeing that Annie was doing too much; but she takes such delight in her studies that I fancied they would not overtax her strength. You will not, then, give her medicine?"

"Yes," he said, "I will write a prescription for her that will steady her nerves and help her to sleep. You have not been sleeping well of late, my dear."

I looked at him, wondering how he knew this, for it was true. I had not been actually wakeful, but my work had followed me into the land of dreams, and I had been adding up never-ending columns of figures or struggling with incomprehensible problems in a state of semi-consciousness. Tears sprang to my eyes as I admitted that he was right.

"Never mind, my dear," said the old doctor as he patted me on the shoulder, and looked down on me with eyes full of sympathy. "You feel badly now, I know, but you'll soon be better. Do as I tell you, and in twelve or fifteen months' time you will be able to take up your work again."

Twelve or fifteen months! Had he the least idea how long a period that seems to a girl of nineteen? And I had so counted on the result of my examination. The aerial edifice I had reared on this foundation tumbled in ruins about me and I was in despair.

He must have discerned my state of mind, for he said quickly, "Now mind, you must not brood over your troubles, or you will retard your recovery. Find some light employment that will occupy your thoughts. Do you care for gardening?"

"I hate it," I said pettishly, as I recalled certain tiresome half-hours I had spent in pottering round his garden with Uncle George and undertaking irksome tasks at his request.

"Well, well," said the doctor soothingly, "you can't know much about it here in London. Are you fond of needlework?"

I shook my head with a sense of disgust, and mother laughed a low, mirthless laugh. She knew how I detested needlework.

Dr. Algar refrained from further suggestions, and presently took his departure. When he had gone mother and I looked at each other for a moment, and then I fell to sobbing. All my strength seemed to have departed from me when I fainted, and I felt in a state of utter collapse. Dr. Algar spoke of it as "nervous prostration."

"Come, come, Nan, this won't do," said my mother severely; "you must be brave and face your trouble like a woman. It's a great disappointment, I know, but crying won't help matters, and it might be so much worse."

"I can't see how it could be worse," I cried perversely.

"Can't you?" said mother, with a quaver in her voice. "I can very clearly."

Then, as I continued to sob, she fetched me a glass of hot milk and a biscuit, for the doctor had advised my taking as much light nourishment as possible. Certainly I felt better when I had taken it, though the prospect of the future did not brighten.

"Mother," I said, "what nonsense Dr. Algar talks! How could you send me away into the country? And I am sure I do not want to go. I should be miserable away from you all."

"That would depend on where you went," said my mother. "I wish I could ask your Aunt Patty to take you; but with her husband so sadly she will not want another invalid on her hands."

"Oh, mother, don't call me an invalid!" I exclaimed impatiently.

She smiled and went on as if I had not spoken.

"No, if your uncle were well, it would be different; but as things are, I cannot send you. I do not see what is to be done; but I must talk it over with your father."

Then she went away to attend to her domestic duties, and I lay back on my pillows, feeling utterly limp and wretched. Mother had bidden me be brave, but I was far from brave at that hour. My mood was one of flat rebellion against the doctor's decree. A whole year without study! How could I bear it? It was preposterous. He need not think I was going to obey him. It would mean that I should be earning nothing all that time, a burden on my parents' straitened means, an additional care to my mother, whose anxieties were so numerous.

I was the second in a family of five girls and one small pickle of a boy. We lived in a long, uninteresting road, which, being treeless, was called an avenue, running between Wandsworth Road and Clapham Common. Ours was a refined but by no means a luxurious home. My father was a man of science and the curator of a learned society. His position was an honourable one, and brought him into connection with many eminent and interesting persons, but, unfortunately for his wife and children, the salary attached to the office was small. So it was that in our home there was a never-ending struggle to make ends meet. Sometimes the ends gaped hopelessly wide apart, and strain as we would, it was impossible to bring them together. Then it became a question of what we could do without.

It is wonderful how many things with which we cumber our lives are really unnecessary and can be dispensed with if we choose. I remember that once we did without a servant for twelve months. It was a question of doing so, or of taking me from school a year sooner than my parents had intended, and there was no doubt in my mother's mind as to which was the more important, the progress of my education or the smoother running of the domestic machinery. She and Olive did the work of the house with the help of a rough girl who came in for a few hours every morning. Olive had been attending a cookery class, and she hailed this opportunity of showing her skill. So dainty were the dishes she set before us that we children rather liked the change of administration.

It was a happy circumstance that we were all fairly gifted with a sense of humour. As charity covereth a multitude of sins, so this gift, said to be rare in womankind, enables one to combat successfully with a host of petty annoyances. We laughed together over the pinchings of our poverty, and we took pride in the contrivances by which we presented a brave front to the world. Thus it was that our pecuniary straits made us neither sordid nor sour. There are many worse experiences than that of being poor. As I look back on those old days, I am often moved to thank God that we had not an easy, luxurious upbringing. The difficulties that marked our home life were unheroic, but they drew us closely together and taught us many useful lessons we might not otherwise have learned.

Olive, the eldest of the family, was mother's right hand. She was not only, as I have said, a clever cook; her skill in needlework surpassed her culinary accomplishments. I have rarely seen finer sewing and stitching than Olive could put into her daintiest work. Moreover, she could boast a valuable attainment in a household of girls, the art of dressmaking. It was wonderful how cleverly she would remodel old garments and make them look like new ones. What we owed to this gift of hers I cannot tell. Between us all we kept her needle busy.

Happily Olive had an engagement to act as reader and amanuensis for an old lady, which took her from home every afternoon and thus prevented her becoming a slave of the needle. Mrs. Smythe, who lived in a large house overlooking the Common, was a cultured woman, with a fine literary taste, so Olive learned much in her society, and was saved from the narrowness and barrenness of mind which is too often the fate of the domestic drudge.

Not that Olive was exactly one's idea of a drudge. She was a tall, well-set-up girl, with fine, dark eyes, and an abundance of brown hair which was always beautifully dressed. The last statement might be made of Olive herself. Her clothes were never costly, unless the cost had been defrayed by some one else, but they were always smart. She knew how to wear them, as people say. Sewing or cooking, whatever Olive was about, her appearance was sure to be neat and trim, her dress adapted to the occasion and eminently becoming.

Dear old Olive! What a blessing she was to us all! Old she was not at this time, though, for she had not yet passed her twenty-first birthday. She and I were great chums. I think she understood even better than mother what this disappointment was to me. I read it in her eyes when presently she brought her work—a frock she was finishing for Ethel, the youngest of the five—and seated herself beside my bed, for the doctor had advised my lying still all that day. But Olive did not say much by way of sympathy. Like mother she bade me be brave. Mother herself was the bravest of women, and we had all been trained to despise cowardice, physical or moral.

"After all, Nan, you won't need pity if you go into the country early in the year," she said. "It's not very nice in London just now. You will escape the dreadful March we get in town, and be able to watch the gradual on-coming of the spring in the woods and lanes. I wish you could go to 'Gay Bowers.'"

"Yes," I said drearily; "it would be more endurable if I were with Aunt Patty."

She was our father's only sister, and our favourite aunt. We were less fond of her husband, some twenty years her senior, and now getting old and infirm. He was a great sufferer from gout, an affliction that is not conducive to serenity and amiability of mind. I had always admired the patience with which my aunt bore with his outbursts of temper.

"Poor Aunt Patty!" said Olive. "I guess she is having a rough time of it now. She said in her last letter, which came the day before yesterday, that uncle was worse than she had ever seen him."

"Then she certainly does not want me there as I am now," I sighed. "Oh, Olive, I feel like a washed-out handkerchief! It is awful to be utterly useless, only a burden on father and mother, when I had hoped soon to be earning a good salary and able to support myself entirely."

"It seems hard, no doubt," said Olive; "but what you've got to do now, Nan, is just to trust. This must be one of the 'all things' that are going to work for your good. Now is the time to show that your faith in God is real and not a mere profession."

I looked at Olive in surprise. Such words had never fallen from her lips before. Frank and free of speech as she appeared, she was not one to say much of the things she held most sacred. But I did not need words to assure me of the reality of my sister's religion.

Just then mother's voice was heard from below calling urgently for Olive. She ran off to obey the summons, and I lay still with closed eyes, wondering whether I had any true faith in God. I had long believed, as I thought, in the love of God, but to what extent had that faith been a living influence in my life? Was it now weighed in the balance and found wanting? The opening of the door made me look up. There stood Olive wearing her hat and coat, and an expression which told me something had happened.

"What is the matter, Olive?" I asked hastily.

"Where are you going?"

"To the museum to take father this telegram, which has just come from 'Gay Bowers,'" she said. "It brings sad news, Nan. Uncle George is dead."

"Oh!" I exclaimed, inexpressibly shocked, "and we were just talking of him. How dreadful for Aunt Patty!"

"Yes; we think the end must have come suddenly," Olive said. "But I cannot stay to talk now."

And she was gone.

"YOU SHOULD SEND HER INTO THE COUNTRY,

AND GIVE HER A BICYCLE."

I saw nothing more of mother or Olive for some hours. Father came home early, and they were busy speeding his departure to catch a train at Liverpool Street, for he wanted to go to his sister in her trouble without delay. The children, Dora, Ethel, and Fred, came to visit me when they returned from their walk, and lingered in the room longer than I desired their company. It seemed to gratify them to see me lying in bed at that unusual hour. I do not think they believed much in my illness.

They were disposed to discuss Uncle George's death from every point of view. Fred particularly wanted to know whether uncle had made a will, and if I knew who would have his horses and cattle and the dogs, of which my young brother was particularly fond. He leaned his whole weight on the footboard of my bed, and swung to and fro as he asked those questions, thus inflicting the utmost torture on my shattered nerves. I was summoning what little firmness I yet retained in order to insist on their leaving me at once, when, to my relief, father appeared and sent them away.

It was like father that in the bustle of departure, he found leisure to come and sit beside me for a few minutes and express his tender sympathy.

"I am very sorry for you, Nan," he said, "but you must not fret. It is a comfort to me to know that the doctor says you have no organic disease. It is just a question of taking it easy for a while, and, at your age, you can spare the time."

"Oh, can I?" was my reply. "I don't think so, father."

"Perhaps not," he said, with a melancholy smile, "but when you are my age you will know what a blessed thing it is to be young. All things are possible to the young in the present age, it seems to me. Think of your poor Aunt Patty now. What a sorrow to lose the one who has shared her life for thirty years!"

"I am very sorry for her, father. Will you give her my love and tell her so?"

He nodded gravely.

"She has been a good wife to George Lucas, and he was good to her, though a bit grumpy at times," he said. "Poor fellow! I believe he suffered more than we knew. And he had a good deal to worry him. I don't know what your aunt will do. I am afraid she will be poorly off, for farming has been so bad of late, and your uncle, owing to his ill-health and growing infirmities, has let his affairs get into a sad muddle. I should not wonder if she has to leave 'Gay Bowers.'"

"Oh, I hope not, father," I said. "Could she not stay on there and take 'paying guests,' as Mary Dakin's mother does?"

"'Paying guests,'" repeated my father impatiently. "What an absurd expression that is! If a man pays for his board and lodging, how can he be a guest? When will people learn to use words with some respect for their meaning? The word boarder is good enough for me. I like to call a spade a spade."

"But it is much more elegant to call it an 'implement of husbandry,'" I returned, with a smile.

Father laughed, kissed me, bade me be careful to follow the doctor's instructions and was gone. It never entered my head that the suggestion I had so carelessly made could be of the least value, and I was far from dreaming how it would affect my own life.

[CHAPTER II]

MY EQUIPMENT

FATHER was away nearly a week, for he could not leave Aunt Patty until after the funeral.

Meanwhile the day on which I had expected to go up for my examination arrived and found me in a most dismal and unhappy frame of mind. My health as yet showed no signs of improvement, and I could not face my misfortune philosophically. Having no longer any stimulus to exertion, I sank into a state of apathy and became a mere bundle of irritated nerves. Mother would not let me stay in bed; but it was torture to me to join the family circle. The children's high voices and Fred's tiresome ways almost drove me distracted. They thought me a dreadful fidget, and even Olive, I believe, would have liked to scold me; but mother seemed to understand. She had more patience with me than I had with myself, for though I really could hardly help getting cross or crying at the least thing, I was dreadfully vexed to be such a baby.

When mother saw how weak I was, she had a fire lighted early in the day in my own room, so that I could keep away from the others as much as I liked, with the result that I spent the greater part of each day there. Yet I fretted at the thought that I was thus adding to the household expenses and proving but a care to mother. The weather was very bad at this time, so no one urged me to the unwelcome exertion of taking a walk. Perhaps I should have been better if I had gone out; but I fancied I could not walk even so far as the Common.

It was late in the afternoon, and I was sitting alone by the fire in my bedroom, when I became aware from the bustle below that father had come home. I had been crying a good deal that day and felt that a very little would upset me again, so, though I longed to see father and to hear for myself what he had to say, I could not persuade myself to go downstairs. But father had not been many minutes in the house ere he found his way to my room. Tears sprang to my eyes as he kissed me and asked how I was in his grave, kindly fashion. I said as little about myself as I could, for there was nothing pleasant to say.

"How is Aunt Patty?" was my first question.

"Oh, she is bearing up bravely," he said; "but it was a terrible shock for her. Your uncle's end came so unexpectedly. The gout attacked his heart and he was gone in half-an-hour."

"Oh, poor auntie! How dreadful for her!" I replied.

"Ay; I did not like leaving her this morning. I fear she grieved sorely when I was gone. I wanted her to come with me and stay here awhile; but she said the going back to a desolate home would be too painful."

"I wish she had come," I said with all sincerity, for Aunt Patty was one whose presence I knew would not jar on my weakened nerves, and, besides, I was truly sorry for her. But my father's next words startled me considerably.

"I had a little talk with your aunt about the future yesterday, Nan, and she seems disposed to follow your advice."

"My advice, father?" I repeated in amazement. "I have never given her any advice."

"Have you forgotten what you said about her taking paying guests?" he asked.

"Oh, just that word!" I exclaimed. "Does she really think of doing so?"

"She does indeed, for she is very loath to leave 'Gay Bowers,' and that seems the only way in which she can remain there," said my father. "I doubt myself if many persons would care to visit such an out-of-the-world place; but she says a fair number of artists go to Greentree every summer, and she thinks she might make a connection. In that case she would sell or let a good part of her land, and would probably find it easy to do so, since Squire Canfield has long set covetous eyes on the meadows that adjoin his park. In short, Nan, she is inclined to make the experiment, if you will help her."

"I, father? How can I help her?" I said.

"By going to 'Gay Bowers,' of course," he replied, "and becoming her assistant in the enterprise."

"But I-Oh, father, it is impossible!" I cried. "I am not that sort of girl at all. I could not help her. Olive would be the one."

"Olive will not be the one," said my father emphatically. "Your mother could not spare her, and no doctor has ordered her off to the country. You must be the one to go, my dear Nan. It is the very thing for you."

"Oh, how can you say so?" I protested. "I am not a bit domesticated. I can't cook, and I am not fond of sewing."

"Then it is quite time you learned how to cook and look after a house," was my father's dictum. "You could not have a better teacher than your Aunt Patty. Did not Dr. Algar say you were to have some light employment that would occupy your thoughts without taxing your brain? Here it is, then. You will not be always hard at work. Your aunt will need some one to amuse her guests, to take them for walks, teach them to play croquet, and the like."

"But that is worse still!" I cried in dismay. "You don't know how stupid I am in company. Olive is the one to make herself agreeable to strangers, not I. I can never think of anything to say, unless it is the wrong thing. I am clever at saying that."

"Then you really must begin to acquire the art of being agreeable," said my father with a laugh. "It's all right, Nan, I have promised your aunt you shall go to her as soon as your mother thinks you are fit for the journey."

When father spoke in that tone I knew it was of no use to protest. He went away, leaving me to ponder this wholly unexpected solution of the problem of the future. The more I thought of it the less I liked it. I was a bookish girl, somewhat dull and absent-minded in general society, and inclined to despise people whose tastes were not intellectual. But, since books were now forbidden me, and country air was what I needed, I really had no excuse for objecting to the arrangement father had made. Mother and Olive were just as sure as he that it was the very thing for me. And when a sweet letter came from Aunt Patty, saying how sorry she was to learn from father of my ill-health, and consequent disappointment, and what a comfort it would be to her, if I would make "Gay Bowers" my home for twelve months, I felt bound to go.

A girl can seldom go anywhere without the subject of clothes demanding consideration. It did not seem that I should require an extensive wardrobe in such a quiet country house; but, while she declared she could not afford to put all her girls into black, mother feared that my aunt might be hurt if I did not make my appearance attired in mourning. The idea gave me an agreeable, though transient, sense of importance, for to have new clothes was an event in the lives of us girls.

I was rather dismayed when mother said she could only give me one new frock, but Olive came to my relief by deciding that my everyday dress of dark blue could be dyed and "done up" to look as good as new. Fortunately my winter coat was black, and I had a black felt hat in good condition. Olive said I need not wear mourning more than three months, and she promised to overhaul my summer clothes, and send me a change of raiment in the spring. Finally, she produced an elderly black chip hat of her own, which she placed on my head, and pronounced the right shape for me, and then proceeded to brush over with a black decoction, the exact nature of which I cannot pretend to explain, though I can testify that it had a remarkably renovating effect on the chip. She had set the hat to dry in front of my fire, and was turning over a box of odds and ends in the hope of finding some trimming for it, when Peggy burst into the room with the air of one who brings tidings.

I have said nothing yet of this sister. We sometimes spoke of her as the "happy medium," since she was the middle one of our band of five sisters, and "happy" was an adjective which suited her excellently. Her name had given rise to some controversy in our family circle. When she was born father wished to name her Martha, after his only sister; but mother had protested that the name was too old-fashioned. No one would call her Martha, she declared, and we did not want two Pattys in the family. So father allowed her to choose the infant's name. She bestowed on her the queenly name of Margaret, and now we all persisted in calling her "Peggy," much to mother's disgust.

Peggy was sweet seventeen. She had a round, merry face, with laughing blue eyes, and her nose tilted upwards in a way that gave a charming piquancy to her expression. She had left school a year before, and was working hard at a school of art, for she aimed at becoming a clever artist in black and white. She was rather short, and it was a trial to her that people often took her to be younger than she was.

"Oh, what do you think?" she cried as soon as she was within the room. "Aunt Clara has sent us another box of fig-leaves!"

This was our poetic way of describing the consignments of cast-off clothes Aunt Clara sent us out of her affluence from time to time. She was mother's only sister, who had married money, while mother had merely married brains. It was curious that each congratulated herself on having made the better match. Mother would speak of Mr. Redmayne somewhat contemptuously as the "Manchester man" or the "Cotton spinner." She never forgot that he was a self-made man, though she was wont to say that this fact was to his credit.

Aunt Clara and her husband occasionally came to town; but they always stayed at the Grand Hotel and seldom bestowed much of their time on us. She did not resemble mother in the least. Large and stout, and magnificently attired, she seemed to fill our small drawing-room when she condescended to pay us a visit, and to make our stairs and passages shrink as she passed along them. She would assume a pitiful air, which was very irritating, ask innumerable questions, and show clearly her belief that she could have managed in every way better than our mother did. But what excited within us the most indignation was her betrayal that she held our father in light esteem as a man whose talents were wasted because he had not made money by them.

So Mrs. Redmayne's visits were distinct trials, and we were thankful they did not occur often. She had five children, three of whom were girls, but we knew almost nothing about our cousins except what could be gathered from an inspection of their abandoned finery, parcels of which frequently arrived for our use. Mother had too much good sense to refuse what was really a help; but I think it galled her pride to see how extravagantly our cousins were attired, though we all decided that their style of dress showed a sad lack of taste.

"Hurrah!" cried Olive as she heard Peggy's announcement. "What could be more opportune! Now we shall be able to set you up, Nan."

I shook my head.

"Not in black," I said, "if red or yellow were considered mourning in this country we might find something useful. Have you forgotten the riddle you once propounded, Olive—why is Aunt Clara like the virtuous woman of the Book of Proverbs?"

"I never heard that riddle!" cried Peggy. "What is the answer?"

"Because all her household are clothed with scarlet," I replied.

Peggy laughed and clapped her hands, but Olive said:

"That is a slight exaggeration. I don't despair of finding something that may be useful for you, Nan. Run and bring the box up here, there's a dear, Peggy. You don't mind, Nan?"

"Not at all," I replied, sitting up quite alert. Already I was feeling better. In spite of my fears for the future, the immediate prospect of a change had raised my spirits.

Peggy ran off eagerly and soon reappeared, hot and breathless, bearing, with Fred's assistance, a fair-sized dress-box into the room. We knew the box well, it went to and fro between London and Manchester pretty frequently.

Fred was as eager to see the contents of the box as any of us; but I was for turning him out of the room before we opened it.

Peggy, however, suggested that it would be a kindness to mother, who was trying to write letters below, if we let him remain, so on condition that he kept as still as he possibly could, and tried nothing on, we allowed him to share our diversion.

Funnily enough, the first things that came to light were a scarlet silk blouse and a coat of the same hue. But below was a handsome black silk gown which Aunt Clara must have worn herself, and a black cloth coat trimmed with astrachan. Evidently it had occurred to our aunt that mother would need to put on mourning.

"That will make mother a beautiful dress," said Olive, with pleasure in her voice. "It's yards too big, of course, but I can alter that. And she wants a new coat badly too. This scarlet coat will do nicely for Ethel, and this blouse I think I will do up for myself, since I am the only one of the 'grown-ups' that looks well in scarlet. Ah! look at this odious brown and yellow check Who can wear that?"

"I shall, I expect," said Peggy plaintively. "I generally have to take what nobody else likes. Oh dear! I do wish my cousins would let me choose their clothes, since I have to wear them afterwards."

I laughed at this absurd suggestion, then said:

"You see I was right, Olive; there is nothing that will do for me."

"Don't you be so sure," said Olive, diving again into the box. "I have not got to the bottom yet. Ah, what is this? A black silk sash! The very thing to trim that hat."

"That is fortunate," I said, regarding it with satisfaction; then a cry from Peggy made me turn my eyes again upon the box.

"Oh, look," she said, "at this gorgeous frock—pink satin and tulle and sequins! What a show!"

It was an evening gown of a colour far too vivid for my taste. The skirt was trampled and soiled. It had evidently done duty at several parties.

"I believe something might be made of this, Nan," said Olive, examining it with a critical air. "Veiled with black grenadine or something diaphanous, it would make you a charming evening gown. You will need one, you know, when the guests come. It is a fortunate thing that your hair is such a pretty colour and your complexion so clear that you look your best in black. And pink suits you too. See, this colour is not at all startling subdued by black."

"Oh, thank you, Olive," I said. "It is not often you are so complimentary. You generally find something wrong with my appearance."

"Because you are so careless of it," she said as she closely examined the pink bodice. "This must have been Cousin Agneta's. Aunt said she was the slightest of the three, and this waist is barely twenty inches. I hope she does not tight-lace. Ah, what are these spots on the front? I declare it looks as if she were crying bitterly when she last wore this. Poor girl!"

"Rich girl, you mean," said Peggy. "I don't believe she was crying. What can she have to cry about?"

"A good many things, I dare say, if we only knew," replied Olive. "Surely, Peggy, you are not so idiotic as to think that money is all people want to make them happy!"

"Well, rather not," said Peggy with a grimace, "seeing that we manage to be very happy without it."

"I guess one girl's heart is very much like another's," said Olive rather incoherently, "even if she does wear purple and fine linen and fare sumptuously every day. But now I must get on with this hat. Put the things back in the box and take it away, there's a dear, Peggy."

"Oh, yes; I'm always a dear when you want me to do anything," Peggy replied; but she packed them up all the same, for she was nothing if not good-tempered.

Dear old Olive put in a good many stitches for me during the next few days, and so did mother. Between them they got me ready in a week.

I felt very miserable when the hour of departure came. It was a raw, cold day, and the very thought of the journey made me feel faint and sick. I behaved like a baby at the last and Olive had to be very stern and resolute with me. She drove with me to Liverpool Street, where father met us and saw me into the express for Chelmsford. It was due there in fifty minutes, so the journey was nothing to mind if I had not been so exceedingly weak. I soon began to revive, however, and my spirits rose as the train bore me farther and farther from the gloom of London out into the heart of the clear, cold country.

[CHAPTER III]

"GAY BOWERS"

THE old country house known as "Gay Bowers," which had been my aunt's home ever since she married, was situated some five miles from Chelmsford and no nearer to the railway. It was still early in the afternoon when I reached that station, but the air struck me as rather more than fresh as I stepped out of the train. I shivered as I buttoned my coat more tightly about me and looked round, hoping to discern a friendly face amid the bustling crowd on the platform, for I felt sure that my aunt would send some one to meet me.

"Nan!" said a voice beside me, and I turned to see a tall, well-set-up young fellow looking down on me with bright merry eyes. For a moment I was bewildered, then I recognised the face, which was still boyish in spite of the carefully cultivated moustache and the height from which he gazed on me. This was Jack Upsher, son of the Vicar of Greentree, the parish to which "Gay Bowers" belonged. He had been my playfellow when, as a child, I spent my summer holidays at "Gay Bowers"; but of late years he had been absent from the vicarage whenever I happened to visit aunt. So we had not met since we were both grown-up, and it was rather audacious of him to address me in that familiar way, but I did not resent it, especially as he hastened to add:

"I beg your pardon; I should have said 'Miss Darracott,' but you have altered so little from the 'Nan' I used to know, that the name sprang of itself to my lips."

"Indeed I hoped I had altered a good deal," was my reply. "But you are just the same, Jack, except that you have grown so immensely."

He laughed heartily as he shook my hand.

"That's right, Nan; call me 'Jack,' and snub me as you always did, and we shall feel quite at home together. How like you to tell me that I've grown, just as if I were a schoolboy home for the holidays!"

"It is perfectly true," I said.

"Exactly," he returned, "and I always had the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth from you. To be accurate, I stand precisely six feet in my socks."

"Then you have attained your highest ambition?" I said.

"Not quite," he replied; "but now you mention it, I remember that as a kid I always aspired to be six feet high. What have you in the way of luggage, for Mrs. Lucas has kindly granted me permission to drive you home, and the trap is waiting outside?"

I quickly found my trunk, and he directed a porter to carry it to the conveyance. Well did I know the high, old-fashioned phaeton which stood outside the station; but the horse which drew it was a recent acquisition and a more mettlesome creature than the Vicar usually drove. She would hardly stand while the porter strapped my trunk to the back of the vehicle and Jack helped me up and saw to my comfort.

"I am told that you require the greatest care," he said gravely, as he shook out a big, fur-lined cloak auntie had given him, and proceeded to envelop me in it, drawing the huge collar so high above my chin that little could be seen of me save my eyes and the tip of my nose. Then he placed a hot stone jar beneath my feet, drew a thick rug well over my knees and tucked it carefully in.

"How does that do?" he asked, surveying me with some satisfaction.

"First-rate," I said. "I feel ready for a journey to the North Pole."

"That's all right," he said as he sprang up beside me and signed to the groom to stand back. The man scrambled up behind us and we were off at a smart pace.

"What a splendid horse, and how it goes!" I said, in rather a shaky voice. It had never been my way to indulge in nervous qualms, indeed I had been contemptuous of girls who were easily frightened; but one effect of illness is to humble pride, and to my shame I now realised that I was sick with fear as Jack guided his high-stepping, swift bay mare through the market-traffic of the narrow streets of Chelmsford. For a few moments I heartily wished that Aunt Patty had engaged one of the slow, rumbling old station flys to bring me to her house.

"Yes, Bess is a beauty," said Jack proudly. "It was I who persuaded father to buy her. He was half afraid of her at first, indeed I rather think he is so still; but I hate to drive a horse that is as tame as a donkey."

He glanced at me as he spoke and added quickly, with a sudden change of manner, "You are not afraid, Nan, are you?"

"Of course not," I said hurriedly, jeopardising the character for speaking the truth with which he had credited me. I rallied my courage with the recollection of how in my childhood I had never been afraid of anything when Jack led the way, and as I saw the skill with which he drove, my fears soon vanished. We were leaving the town behind, and I began to enjoy the drive. Thanks to my aunt's thoughtfulness I was so wrapped up as to be scarce conscious of the cold. I only felt that the air was deliciously fresh and clear, a delightful contrast to the dull, foggy atmosphere of London.

Many persons regard Essex as a flat and uninteresting county, but I had always found beauty in the woods and lanes. Even on this January day as we drove along muddy roads with brown hedges on either side, where sapless twigs and leafless roots waited for the touch of spring, the country did not lack charm for me. I marked with pleasure the beauty of "wintry boughs against a wintry sky," and the emerald freshness of pasture-lands thrown into relief by the rich brown of the upturned earth across which strong, shaggy horses were drawing the plough. We passed woods in which the ivy—surely a well-meaning if harmful parasite—was doing its utmost to clothe the bare trunks and limbs of trees with a garment of vivid green. And every now and then we caught a broad view of the open country and saw the woods and meadows melt into the exquisite blue haze of distance.

I should have been content to gaze and enjoy in silence, but Jack Upsher had always an abundant supply of small talk, and as we drove along, he told me in the most amusing fashion the news of the countryside.

"But how is it you are here now?" I asked. "I expected to hear that you were at Woolwich."

Jack's colour rose, and he shrugged his shoulders rather awkwardly.

"That's where I ought to be," he said, with a rueful air; "but unluckily I got ploughed in my exam. The governor was awfully mad with me; but it was not my fault that I could not answer the idiotic questions. Brains were never my strong point."

It was true that no one would credit Jack with scholarly tastes, but he was by no means stupid in his own line of life. I imagined that he had fair abilities, and it surprised me to hear of his failure, for I had always understood that the entrance examination for Woolwich was not an unduly stiff one.

"But how was it?" I asked. "Of course you worked hard."

"But I did not," he said; "that's the honest truth, Nan, so I suppose you will say it was my fault, after all. You see I was sent to a coach in town. Father thought I should work better there than at home, but it did not answer. I found it awfully jolly to be free to do as I liked in town after vegetating in sleepy little Greentree. There were the circuses and shows, and no end to see and do. With lots of lively fellows in the house I enjoyed myself immensely, but did not get much work in. Ah, Nan! I see you want to scold me."

"Indeed I do," I said severely. "I don't know what you mean by saying you were free to do as you liked, when your father sent you to London to study."

"Oh, well, I meant that we were free to arrange our hours as we liked," replied Jack. "Our tutor did not treat us as schoolboys. We were supposed to be in by eleven at night, but we could always get leave for an extra hour if we liked to ask for it, and, if not, we could contrive to get into the house without knocking at the front door. But I did work, Nan, quite hard sometimes, after old Rooke had given me a lecture. He warned me that I should not pass, but I quite hoped I should scrape through somehow."

I was silent, marvelling at the difference in the feelings with which Jack and I had contemplated our respective examinations. He would have been content to scrape through, while I aspired to win honours! I am afraid my thoughts at that moment had a tinge of pharisaism, for I certainly congratulated myself that, had I gone in for Matriculation and failed, I should have had the satisfaction of knowing that I had done my best, and no self-reproach would have embittered my disappointment.

It may be that Jack guessed what was passing in my mind, for, after a few moments, he said:

"By the by, Mrs. Lucas told me that you had been working for an exam—overworking, I believe she said, and have reduced yourself to a condition that only country air and rural repose can mend. That was not wise, Nan. You would do well to follow my example, for I can confidently affirm that I have never been guilty of that folly!"

"I can well believe it," I responded with a laugh, "but you can't think what a dreadful disappointment it has been to me to give up my exam."

"No, I can't!" he said decidedly. "I don't think girls should go in for exams. I know I would not if I were a girl."

"You think it one of the difficult undertakings we should leave to the superior sex, who so easily beat us in all high achievements, mental or physical?" I said.

He coloured, but laughed good-naturedly at my sarcasm.

"That's right, Nan, don't spare me! I know I deserve it. Smite hard, just as the little Nan used to do. She always got the better of me in every encounter of wits. All the same, I don't see why girls should bother themselves over exams."

"Don't you?" I said. "Then it shows a sad lack of discernment on your part. You forget that a great many women have to earn their own livelihood, and the test of an examination furnishes them with a credential which is of the utmost importance to them."

"I hold it a shame that any woman should have to work for herself!" he said hotly, and I returned with equal heat:

"And I call it a shame for man or woman not to work, and a positive sin if they waste their opportunities—"

"Ah, you have me there!" he broke in. "The cap fits, and I put it on. But, indeed, I mean to work better in the future."

"What are you going to do?" I asked, somewhat abashed by the readiness with which he took my words home.

"Oh, I have yet another chance of getting into the Artillery," he said. "I can go up again in six months' time. Meanwhile, I am working at home under the governor's supervision. There's a man at Chelmsford who is coaching me, and I go up to town for extra lessons."

We were driving rapidly across a breezy common, and, as he spoke, the wind caught my cloak and blew it across my face. He leaned forward to pull it down, and to tuck the rug more closely about me, and I caught an unusually serious look from his dark eyes as he said:

"I mean to be good now, Nan. I have promised Mrs. Lucas. She was talking to me only yesterday. She is an angel—a veritable angel, and so sad and lonely now at 'Gay Bowers.' I am glad you have come to be with her. You will cheer her."

"I should like to cheer her," I said, and then fell silent, for we were almost at "Gay Bowers," and I was beginning to dread the meeting with my aunt. Like many another young girl, I felt a morbid shrinking from any one on whom a heavy stroke of bereavement had fallen. I felt incapable of giving true sympathy, and was nervous lest I should do or say the wrong thing.

It was a story told against me at home that once, some years before, when mother sent me to carry a parcel to a poor woman who had just lost her husband, and she said to me, "Oh, miss, it's a terrible thing to be left a widow with four children—" all I could say by way of consolation was, "Yes, but you know it might have been worse—you might have been left with eight!" Certainly my suggestion had the desired effect, for she responded briskly, "You're quite right, miss, so I might!" Yet my matter-of-fact condolence long furnished Olive with a joke at my expense.

We had left the common and were descending a long, narrow lane with trees on either side. The mud was rather slippery, and Jack had to give all his attention to his horse. Then we mounted a shorter hill, and the white gate came in sight. It had been set open in anticipation of our arrival, and we drove at once up the short drive to the door of the long, low, red-bricked house, a very ordinary-looking abode with five straight windows piercing the upper part, and below two on each side of the white porch, yet not without a certain individuality of its own. In summer, green creepers and climbing roses beautified the front of the house, but now their branches showed bare and brown as they clung to it.

I need not have dreaded the meeting with my aunt. She came smiling to the door as Jack helped me down from the phaeton. Her face looked pale and thin, but there was the sweet, loving look in her eyes I had always seen there, and every sign of sorrow was resolutely held in check. Always slight in appearance, she looked slimmer than ever in her plain, black gown. It was strange to see her wearing the little gauzy cap with its long, white streamers, but it did not take me long to decide that it was eminently becoming to my aunt's winsome face, at once so gentle and so strong.

"I am very glad to see you, dearest Nan," she said. "It is so good of you to come to me."

"Good of me to come" when it had been "Hobson's choice" as far as I was concerned! But it was like Aunt Patty to put it in that way.

Jack did not stay a minute after he had seen my luggage carried into the house. He drove off, saying that he would be sure to see me again before long.

With her arm about me, aunt led me across the wide hall. The little room to the left of the entrance had been uncle's peculiar sanctum, and Sweep, his favourite dog, a black retriever, lay on the mat outside it. She viewed my arrival with indifference, and only faintly wagged her tail when I bent to pat her. With her forepaws extended and her muzzle resting on them she crouched in an attitude of profound dejection.

"You must be dreadfully tired, dear Nan," aunt said. "A cosy tea will be ready in a few moments. Perhaps you had better not go upstairs till afterwards."

But I was too excited just then to know how tired I was, and I elected to go to my room. The house had the pure, sweet aroma I always associate with country houses, but it seemed strangely quiet and bare as we went upstairs. I saw that uncle's coats and hats had disappeared from the spot where they used to hang, though his guns and sticks still kept their places in the hall. A feeling of awe came to me with the sense of missing him.

Several rooms opened on to the spacious landing at the head of the stairs. I was pleased to find that aunt had given me the one above the porch, adjoining her own. It was a fair-sized room, but not so large as most of the bedrooms in the house. The window opened on to the top of the porch, which formed a little balcony on which it was possible to sit. The fact that this had been forbidden ground in my childhood probably accounted for the attraction the room had for me.

With a bright fire glowing on the hearth, and thick, soft-hued curtains draping the window, the room looked delightfully cosy at this hour. I detected various little improvements which auntie had made with a view to my comfort. A bunch of snowdrops adorned the dressing-table, and a tiny bookcase to the right of the bedstead presented a charming array of volumes. Remembering the doctor's prohibition, I was thankful that Aunt Patty had not thought it necessary to banish these.

"Oh, auntie, what a sweet room!" I cried. "It all seems so restful and quiet after London. Oh, you don't know how I have longed for rest and quiet!"

"I can well imagine that there is little quiet in your home during the children's holidays," she said. "Well, you will find it quiet enough here, dear, and can rest as much as you please."

"But I want to help you too, auntie," I said quickly.

"So you shall, dear," she replied; "we will help one another."

Her voice was a trifle tremulous, and I saw there were tears in her eyes. But the next minute she was smiling as she helped me off with my coat.

[CHAPTER IV]

LAYING OUR PLANS

THE journey and the excitement of my arrival had exhausted me more than I imagined. I woke the next morning with a terrible headache and was unable to leave my bed all day. Nor could I quit my room on the following day, but when it was over, I enjoyed such a long, restful night as I had not known for months.

On the following morning I felt like a new creature, and by mid-day I was seated by the fire in the dining-room, enjoying a glass of delicious milk and such sponge cake as was never bought in London, for aunt's cook had made it specially for me.

The windows of the dining-room looked on to the large garden at the back of the house. With its fruit trees, strawberry bed, and wealth of flowers it was a delightful place in summer, but when presently I moved to the window and stood looking out for a few minutes, I found that in winter it did not lack charm. The early morning had been grey, but now the sun was breaking through the clouds, and each leaf and blade of grass, gemmed by hoar-frost, glittered gloriously beneath its rays. Aunt Patty never failed to spread crumbs for the birds on cold mornings, and I was amused to watch the movements of the thrushes, blackbirds and starlings which came in search of these, and occasionally quarrelled over her bounty.

A long stretch of lawn ran through the garden, and a few years before, not without some grumbling from Uncle George, aunt had instituted lawn-tennis for the benefit of her young friends. There was room, too, for croquet and bowls, so Aunt Patty's guests need not lack outdoor diversion in fine weather.

As I turned from the window I heard the house door open, and the next moment auntie came into the room wearing her bonnet and cloak. I had not seen her since I came downstairs. The servant who brought me the milk told me that her mistress had gone to the village. Aunt was looking pale and tired, but she smiled brightly on me as she said:

"I am glad to find you downstairs, Nan, and, really, you look better already. Our bracing air will soon work wonders for you, I can see."

"It seems very cold air," I said with a shiver, as I bent nearer to the fire.

"It is certainly keener than London," she replied; "but you will soon get used to that, and begin to feel the good of it. I have enjoyed my brisk walk."

Then she told me she had been to the village to see a poor woman whose husband had died suddenly.

"Oh, auntie," I said, feeling shocked, "that was very sad for you."

"Oh, no," she responded. "I felt that I must go to her, because, you see, I can understand. It helped her to feel that I had known the same shock of trouble and was enduring the same loss."

Certainly, if ever woman had "a heart at leisure from itself," auntie had. She would make even her sorrows helpful to others. It was with wonder that I realised how deeply she had loved Uncle George and how truly she mourned him. To us younger people he had always seemed a disagreeable old man, and most persons, I fancy, found it difficult to get on with him. But Aunt Patty's was the love which "taketh no account of evil," but wraps the one beloved in a mantle of goodness and grace which others judge misplaced, though it may fit better than they think. I often marvelled at her capacity for love, and the conclusion to which it invariably led me was that I could never love any one in that way.

Later aunt discussed with me her plans for the future. She told me she had decided to sell all the land with the exception of the pastures immediately adjoining the house, and all her cattle except two cows, which would supply her house with milk and butter. She would keep one horse to draw the wagonette, which would be needed to take people to and from Chelmsford, and a pony for the little chaise. One man-servant would be necessary to drive and look after the stable, and the old gardener also would be retained.

"The garden must not be neglected," said Aunt Patty, "for I shall rely on that to supply us with fruit and vegetables for the table. People have a right to expect good rural fare when they come to sojourn in the country, and I mean that my guests shall have it. I have little fear that cook will not consent to remain with me, for she has often lamented that this place gave her so little opportunity of displaying her talents. She is really clever at made dishes and sweets, but, as you know, your uncle's health obliged him to be very careful in his diet, and I never cared to have anything on the table that might tempt him to break the restrictions imposed by his doctor. But now, if I were so fortunate as to get my house full of 'paying guests,' I should wish her to make plenty of dainty dishes to set before them."

"How many guests could you take, auntie?" I asked.

"Let me see," she said; "there are seven bedrooms besides the servants'. Taking away yours and mine, five are left for the guests; but they are such good-sized rooms that two beds could be placed in most of them. I must hope to have visits from friends and relatives who will be willing to share a room. I could easily accommodate ten persons in that way, and that, I think, would be as many as I should desire to have. I don't know what Jenny would say to waiting upon so many, but, of course, I should help her as much as I could."

"And I would, too," I said, as in duty bound, though in truth I felt very reluctant to take up domestic tasks, and disliked the idea of "Gay Bowers" being invaded by ten strangers. But I had sense enough to know that if I hated the thought of "all sorts and conditions" of people—within certain limits—being free to make their home in the dear old house, it must be inexpressibly more painful to Aunt Patty herself. But I could see that she fought against the feeling and was resolved to face the inevitable bravely. It was the only way in which she could remain in the home she loved, and it was not clear what she could do if she gave it up.

"I have come to think that this is God's will for me," she said quietly. "I have put my future into His hands and asked Him to show me the path He would have me tread. You know I believe that He will give us His guidance, if we seek it, even in the smallest details of our life. Perhaps it is the door into new service for Him. I should like to welcome some of His worn and weary ones to rest here."

The smallest details of our life the objects of God's care! That was a strange thought to me. I could hardly receive it, yet I felt then, and know assuredly now, that it is an uplifting and ennobling conception of life, and one that makes the whole of it sacred and grand. Could it be that there was a divine purpose in the ill-health which had frustrated my hopes and brought me to this quiet, out-of-the-world, country place to share my aunt's changed lot? I felt awed as I contemplated the possibility, and my heart put up a prayer that it might be for good that I had come here. There was in my heart a vague longing to know more of God. Absorbed in my intellectual work, I had neglected the study of God's Word and suffered my prayers to become merely formal. Even on Sundays, I had often read for my examination, and both body and spirit had suffered in consequence. I knew now what a mistake I had made.

In the afternoon Aunt Patty's solicitor drove out from Chelmsford and kept her occupied with business matters for more than an hour. I was not dull however, for Jack Upsher came to see how I was. He persuaded me to put on over-shoes and one of auntie's thickest wraps, and go round the garden with him. Together we revisited all the old nooks which had been the delightful haunts of our childhood, and I had great fun in recalling some of our most foolish adventures, and the plights into which they brought us. Then we went into the house and chatted by the fireside till aunt brought in Mr. Crowther to have tea. When he had gone, Jack still lingered, till Aunt Patty rather pointedly reminded him of his studies, upon which he reluctantly took his departure.

"I was grinding away for three hours this morning," he grumbled, "and now I deserve a little relaxation."

"Which you have had," aunt said promptly. "So you will be ready for another three when you reach home."

"Why, I declare you are as bad a slave-driver as the governor," retorted Jack, "and with this fearful example—" indicating me—"of the dangers of over-work before your eyes."

Aunt Patty gave a little laugh.

"Oh, Jack, there is no such danger in your case!" she said, shaking her head. "I almost wish there were."

"What!" he exclaimed. "You would like to see me with a pale, lank visage and reduced to a long-drawn-out shadow! Who would have believed you were so heartless?"

"I have no fear of seeing you 'sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,'" she replied, "and I do want you to work so steadily as to make a second failure impossible."

"I will indeed. I have promised it, and I mean to keep my promise," he said resolutely, and was gone.

Aunt Patty smiled and then sighed as she looked after him.

"Poor dear fellow!" she said. "I wish he were not so idle, for there is much that is good in him. If only his father understood him better!"

"Don't they get on well together?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"They never could. You must remember how severe the Vicar was with him when he was a boy."

"I know he liked always to be here," I said, "and never seemed to care to go home."

"Just so; the poor lad never knew a mother's love, nor what it is to have a happy home," said my aunt. "Mr. Upsher's housekeeper is a very worthy woman, but not in the least fit to look after a young fellow like Jack. The Vicar cares only for his books. He likes to shut himself up in his study, and is almost a stranger to his son, except that he has a keen perception of his faults. And yet he is a good man, and, I am sure, loves Jack in his way."

"Jack is very fond of you, auntie," I said. "You have been almost a mother to him."

"I have always felt a great longing to 'mother' him," she said. "People talk against step-mothers, but it might have been a happy thing for Jack if he had had a step-mother."

"Does the Vicar still preach such dry sermons?" I asked.

"I cannot say that they have improved, Nan," replied my aunt with a smile.

"Humph," I said, "then we cannot offer the 'paying guests' the attraction of good preaching, though they will be able to worship in a beautiful old church."

Upon which we reverted to the subject we were destined to discuss again and again during the ensuing weeks.

Aunt decided to lose as little time as possible in preparing for the reception of her guests. She hoped that she might be able to secure some for Easter, which fell early this year.

As she had prophesied, the strong, fresh country air proved an excellent tonic for me. My nerves regained tone; I slept and ate well, and soon felt so strong that I was inclined to think slightingly of Dr. Algar's diagnosis of my case. I enjoyed the spell of sharp, clear weather we had in February. Jack and I had some delightful skating on the river. I was rather out of practice, for I had not skated for years, and I was very timid at first, but with his help I soon conquered my fears, and enjoyed immensely the excitement of skimming over the silvery ice with my arm linked in his.

Aunt and I were very busy as Easter drew near. We had to re-arrange and re-furbish the rooms. Many a shopping expedition took us to Chelmsford. Of course, it was necessary to advertise for our boarders, and the drawing-up of the advertisement cost us much thought, while it evoked many absurd suggestions from Jack. We were anxious to make the most of our attractions, yet there was danger in being too explicit, since what would attract one person might induce another to stay away. It is curious how many ways there are of putting things, and how various were the forms I drew up for aunt's consideration. I made my head ache with the effort to put a great deal in a few words. At last we were satisfied with something like this:

"Paying guests received in old country house in pleasant rural neighbourhood. Fine air, excellent farm produce, and all home comforts. Large garden with tennis and croquet lawns. Good fishing. Desirable residence for any needing quiet and rest."

It seems simple enough as I write it now, but, oh, the deliberation with which we weighed each word! Aunt Patty was for describing her home as "desirable for invalids," but I was certain that would frighten away every healthy person under sixty, and I did want some young people to come.

I made several copies of this advertisement, and sent them to such of the London newspapers as we judged best suited for our purpose. Aunt also wrote to many of her friends and acquaintances, telling them of the attempt she was making, and asking their kind assistance. Then we waited, I eagerly, she anxiously, for the result. She hoped to hear from gentle widows, worn-out governesses and the like. I hardly knew what to expect. But our first response when it came was a surprise to us both.

[CHAPTER V]

A RESPONSE TO THE ADVERTISEMENT

"I BEGIN to think that the money I have spent on advertisements is just money thrown away," said Aunt Patty, rather ruefully one morning as we sat in the breakfast-room at the close of our early meal.

I looked up from the letter which had absorbed my attention. It was a lively and lengthy epistle from Peggy, giving me all the home news, and I had been so delighted to get it that I failed to observe that the post had brought my aunt nothing. It was very disappointing. During the whole of the past week, the advertisement to which we had given so much thought had appealed to people from the columns of London newspapers, and not a single person had been moved to respond to it. To be sure, the weather had not been such as to make the idea of visiting the country attractive. The March winds had been sharp and boisterous, and sudden squalls were often accompanied by sleet.

Aunt Patty's paying guests

PAULINA THREW HERSELF ON HER KNEES BESIDE ME.

Frontispiece.

AUNT PATTY'S

PAYING GUESTS

BY

EGLANTON THORNE

Author of "Her Own Way," "The Blessedness of Irene Farquhar,"

"My Brother's Friend," etc.

WITH FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. RAINEY, R.I.

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard E.C.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS