QUEENIE'S WHIM

"So she loved, and she was happy,
As if walking in Paradise;
Nay, as heaven he seemed above her,
This love of her own heart's choice.
It was not his birth or riches,
But that he was born to bless,
With the treasure of his wisdom,
And the wealth of his tenderness."
Isa Craig-Knox.

Dora's sleep was quite peaceful and unbroken, while Garth tossed restlessly on his bed half the night, staring open-eyed into the darkness. She came down in the morning in her pretty travelling dress looking as fresh and bright as possible. She was not even pale as she had been the previous evening; possibly the excitement of last night had stimulated her, and roused her from her sadness.

She was thinking more of Flo than of Garth this morning. With all her coolness of judgment, and her disposition to meddle in all things spiritual and material, Dora dearly loved her young sisters, and was warmly beloved by them in return. Beatrix was at times almost too much for her, with her helplessness and impulsive ways, but Flo was to her as the apple of her eye.

"My poor Flo, I hope they will not have cut off her hair, papa," she observed, tenderly; "she has such pretty hair, though it is darker than mine."

"Ah, Dorrie, my dear, it is a bad business I fear," returned her father mournfully. "I always said that I disliked those foreign schools; and then those German doctors!"

"Now, papa, it is only Beattie's absurd letter has made you so faint-hearted," replied Dora cheerfully, "as though girls of seventeen are to be trusted, and Beattie especially!"

"I think Beatrix is remarkably sensible for her age," observed Garth in a caustic tone. "I cannot understand your always under-valuing her; in my opinion she has twice the amount of common sense that Florence has," he went on in a contradictory manner.

Garth had slept badly, a rare occurrence in his healthy, well-regulated life, and one that he was likely to remember for a long time with a sense of injury; and he was irritable in consequence, and in a bad humor with himself and all the world. Nothing would have pleased him better this morning than a downright quarrel with Dora; but Dora's perfect temper was invulnerable.

"That only shows how men judge of girls' characters," she returned, with a little shrug and an amused smile. "Because Beattie is better looking, and has a nice complexion, she is endowed with a double portion of common sense. Oh, you men!" shaking her head and laughing in a pitying sort of way.

"We men are tolerably hard in our judgment sometimes," returned Garth, looking at her with a gleam of anger in his eyes; but Dora took no notice of the ill-concealed sarcasm.

It was so natural for him to feel sore, poor fellow, under the circumstances. She thought it would want a good deal of coaxing and finesse to charm him into good humor again. She was very considerate and mindful of his comfort throughout the whole of breakfast-time, sweetening and preparing his coffee with extra care, and even bringing him some favorite sauce with her own hands; but her little overtures towards reconciliation were all rejected. Garth put the sauce away somewhat ostentatiously, and bore himself as though he had received an injury for which there could be no forgiveness. He stood aloof as the servants crowded round the door and the young mistress dispensed her parting injunction. When the luggage was on the carriage, and the Vicar had taken down his felt hat, he came forward and handed Dora into the carriage with much dignity.

"I hope you will have a tolerably pleasant journey, and find the invalid better," he said very gravely; "please give my love to Beatrix." He had not spoken more than a dozen words throughout the whole of breakfast time, but he could not forbear this parting thrust.

"And not to Flo! not to poor darling Flo!" returned Dora, looking; at him with reproachful sweetness. "Oh, you poor fellow, I am so sorry for you," her eyes seemed to say, as she waved her hand, and the carriage disappeared down the village.

Garth threw his portmanteau into the dog-cart somewhat vehemently when it came up to the door. The old nurse put her hand on his arm with the familiarity of a trusted friend, and tried to detain him, but he was in no mood for her garrulity.

"Dear Miss Dora, she is a blessing to us all, is she not, Mr. Clayton? such a pretty creature, and with such wise, womanly ways; for all the world like her mother," cried nurse, with the ready tear of old age trickling down her wrinkled cheek. "The others are dear girls, bless their sweet faces, but they are not equal to Miss Dora."

"Of course not, nurse; there could not be two such paragons in one house," returned Garth, squeezing the old woman's hard hand, and trying to whistle as he mounted to his seat and took the reins in hand, but the whistle was a failure. He looked up at the porch-room somewhat bitterly as he drove off. He was shaking off the dust of the place from his feet, so he told himself, but there was a hard, resentful pain at his heart as he did so.

No one knew what to make of the young master when he appeared hot and dusty at the works. Two or three of the men had been soundly rated for some slight omission of duty, and one of the severest lectures that he had ever received from his brother had been dinned into Ted's astonished ear.

"I am sick of your laziness and want of punctuality; if you cannot fulfil your duties properly you must find work elsewhere," stormed the young master of Warstdale. With all his sweet temper, Ted had much ado not to flare up and get into a passion.

"Haven't we all caught it nicely at the works! there is a screw loose somewhere," observed Ted confidentially to his sisters that evening, as Garth drove the dog-cart round to the stables.

The brothers had driven home from the quarry in perfect silence, and Ted, who was still a little sore over the rating he had received, had made no attempt to promote cheerfulness.

"I hope there is nothing wrong between him and Dora," observed Langley, dropping her work a little anxiously.

Poor soul, her own troubles had made her nervous; but on that point Ted could not enlighten her. Evidently Garth had attempted to recover his temper, for he came in presently, and greeted his sisters affectionately.

"I hope you have lost your headache, Langley?" he said, as he took up the paper knife and the latest periodical, and withdrew with them to the window.

"Did you see them off? Have they had any better accounts of Florence? You look tired and done up, Garth," enquired his sister anxiously.

"Yes; they went off all right. Miss Cunningham sends her love to you and Cathy. They made me very comfortable as usual, and gave me my old room."

Garth was trying to read by the evening light, and his face was hidden.

"One is always comfortable at the Vicarage; Dora is such a capital manager," returned Langley, feeling her way in feminine fashion. "Poor girl, Florence's illness must be a sad trial to her."

"Humph! she takes it as coolly as she does most things. When are the lights coming, and what has become of tea?" demanded Garth, a little irritably; and Langley knew that she was not to ask any more questions.

A good night's rest did much towards restoring Garth's outward equanimity, but he still chafed secretly under the mortification he had undergone with a soreness that surprised himself. The check he had received had angered and embittered him. He was not in love with Dora, after the usual interpretation of the word; nevertheless, her yoke lay heavy upon him. The friendship between them had grown with his growth; he had learned to see with her eyes, and read with her judgment. In a cool, temperate sort of way he had loved and wooed her from his earliest manhood. He had been a trifle indifferent to women in general. When the time came to take a wife, that wife should be Dora.

But now the plan of his life was disarranged. He had waited long enough, and now he told himself that no more time should be given her; he would shake off the dust of the place from his feet; he would bear himself as a stranger towards her and her belongings; but even while his indignation was hot within him, he knew that such resolution would be vain. Not even now had he wholly relinquished all hopes of her. True, she had sinned against him, and the gravity of the offence demanded a fitting punishment. Well, he would hold aloof from her, and treat her on all occasions with studied coldness, until she would rid herself of this womanish folly, and capitulate on his own terms. Then, and then only, would he forgive her, and raise her to the former measure of his favor. The surrender on her part must be total. There should be no softness, no half-measures, no conciliating persuasion on his; for the future it should be yea, yea, or at least nay, nay, between them. Garth was just in that dangerous mood when a straw might decide the current of his will, when a trifle might widen the breach which a word at one time could have spanned. Dora had little idea of the danger she risked when she sent her lover from her discontented and dissatisfied. "You may find it very difficult to recall me, Dora," he had said to her, with some instinctive prevision of the truth, but she had not believed him.

For the first time the young master of Warstdale found himself restless and unhappy; his sleepless night still abided in his mind as an undeserved and lasting injury. The next day had set in wet and stormy; heavy autumnal rains swept across the moors, and flooded the country road, and the little straggling town of Hepshaw. Garth had driven himself and Ted in the same taciturn fashion from the quarry, and both had entered the house, shivering and uncomfortable, in their dripping garments.

"Oh you poor dear creatures," cried Cathy, flying out into the hall to receive them; but Ted waved her off gravely, and shook himself like a wet Newfoundland.

"'Talk not of wasted young raindrops! these raindrops never
are wasted.
If they enrich not the coat of my brother, their waters returning
Back to my hat, shall fill it full of brown moisture;
For that which the Ulster sends forth returns again to the
oil-cloth.
Patience, accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy shaking, my
brother;
Broad-cloth and buckskin are strong, and patience and muscle
are stronger."

"Bosh," growled Garth in a sulky undertone, as he pushed past him somewhat curtly.

Ted shook his head mournfully.

"'I knew a young man nice to see,'"

continued the incorrigible boy;

"'Beware! beware!
Trust him not, he will bully thee;
Take care! take care!'"

"Whatever is the matter with him, Teddie dear?" asked his sister coaxingly.

"Hush!" in a melodramatic tone; "meddle not with mysteries that belong not to thy female province, Catherina mia. How do you know what dark deed fetters the conscience of that unhappy young man? Did you remark the gleam in his eye, the frown on his brow, as he rushed past me just now? remorse only could have kindled that fury. Dora and despair speak in every feature."

"Oh do be quiet, you ridiculous boy, and give me a sensible answer."

But nothing was farther from Ted's purpose. His aggravated feelings needed some outlet. And when Garth made his appearance, refreshed and re-habited, he found Cathy sitting on the stairs in fits of merriment, while Ted strutted to and fro spouting pages of nonsense.

He stopped and looked a little foolish at this sudden apparition; but his brother took no notice of his confusion.

"If you keep your wet things on any longer you will have an attack of rheumatism," he remarked coldly, as he made his way past them to the hall door. Both of them started as it slammed violently after him.

"Where has he gone in all this rain?" asked Cathy, in much distress, but Ted only shrugged his shoulders, and tried not to look pleased. For once his brother's absence was a relief.

Garth was in no mood to-night for his sisters' society and Ted's ceaseless fire of puns. The quiet home evening, with its work and music, and gentle gossip, would have jarred on him in his present state of mind. It was true, Langley's tact was seldom at fault, and the others could be chided and frowned into silence; but still he would have been loath to mar their enjoyment. He was jaded and tired; the day's work had been done against the grain, and he needed rest and refreshment sorely. Some impulse, for which he could not account, led him across to the cottage.

The rain was still-falling heavily as he plodded down the miry lane; but a warm, welcoming gleam shone enticingly from one lattice window across the road. He would step in and surprise them, he thought, as he gently lifted the latch. He and Cathy often stole upon them in this way; they liked to see Emmie's delighted clap of the hands and Queenie's pleased start when they looked up and saw their friendly intruder.

The door of the parlor stood open. He was in full possession of the pretty, homely picture long before they saw him standing on the threshold. Tea was on the little round table, but the candles were still unlighted; Emmie was curled up on the rocking-chair, watching Queenie, as she knelt on the rug with a plate of crisp white cakes in her hand.

They were evidently some chef-d'œuvre of her own. She was still girded with her cooking apron; the firelight shone on her white, dimpled arms and flushed face; all sort of ruddy gleams touched her brown hair. She gave a little satisfied laugh as she regarded the cakes.

"They are just as light as Mrs. Fawcett's, are they not, Emmie?"

"Yes, they are lovely; you are quite a genius, Queen; but do go on with the story, we have just come to the interesting part. Poor Madeleine! you must make it end happily. I never, never could bear a sad finish."

"Those sort of stories never end happily," returned Queenie, in a musing tone, shielding her face from the flame; "they are just like life in that. We have no King Cophetuas now-a-days to endow poor maidens with their nobleness; it is all matter-of-fact prose now."

"Why did you make poor Madeleine love the squire then? the village carpenter would have suited her much better; and then she and he, and that dear little sister Kitty, could all have lived in that pretty cottage under the chestnuts. Can't you alter the story, Queen?"

Queenie shook her head remorselessly. "It is a pity, but one can't alter these sort of things, Emmie. Poor Madeleine loved, and suffered, and lost, as other women have done since this world began; but she would not have been without her suffering for all that."

"I can't understand you," returned the child, with tears in her eyes. "It was such a beautiful story, quite your best, and now you have spoiled the ending."

"Life is full of these sad finishes," replied the young story-teller, oracularly; "there is a fate in such things, I believe. Don't be unhappy, darling, poor Madeleine would have been miserable in that cottage under the chestnuts; she would much rather have lived in her attic with dear little Kitty, and watched the young squire riding by on his grey horse. Evening after evening, as they disappeared in the distance, she would think of the lovely young wife that awaited him. You may be sure that her heart was full of blessings for them both, even though she felt a little sad and lonely sometimes."

"But she would not have been quite happy, even with Kitty," persisted the child in a troubled tone; "and then poor little Kitty would have been so sorry."

What was there in the child's artless words that made Queenie suddenly flush and tremble?

"Hush, you must not say that; it is only a story we are telling, it is not true, any of it. No one is perfectly happy in this world; there are always wishes unfulfilled, unsatisfied longings, troubles everywhere."

"Yes, I know; but somehow it reminded me of you and me," interrupted Emmie, with a little sob. "If you were ever unhappy, Queen,—in that way I mean,—I think I should break my heart."

"Oh, hush, my darling!" snatching the thin hands, and covering them with kisses, "it is only a story; you must not fret. Do you think Madeleine would have been wicked and made herself miserable, just because she loved the noblest man that ever lived? No, no, my pet; not when she had her own little sister to love and cherish."

"Do you always tell stories in the gloaming? that seems a very pretty one. I suppose I ought to apologize for being an uninvited auditor," observed Garth, as he quietly walked in and took possession of the hearth.

Emmie gave a little shriek of surprise as her sister hurriedly disengaged herself from her embrace.

"How long have you been standing there? Did you mean to startle us? You are very naughty; you have made Queenie look quite pale, and she had such a color the minute before."

"Have I startled you? that was very wrong of me," returned Garth, taking her hand.

Garth was speaking and looking in his usual way; but in reality he was taken aback by Queenie's evident agitation. She had always met and greeted him brightly; why had she grown so strangely pale at the sight of him this evening? The brown eyes that had often haunted him had not yet been lifted to his face.

"Have I startled you?" he persisted, still detaining her until she should answer him.

"A little. I am sorry you should have heard all that foolish talk," she stammered, growing suddenly hot over the remembrance, and not venturing to encounter his candid glance.

What had possessed her to concoct such a story? Would he read the secret meaning?

"I must make the tea, the kettle has been singing for the last half-hour," she observed hurriedly, glad of an excuse to move away and recover herself.

Garth did not ask any more troublesome questions; he turned his attention to Emmie, taking possession of the rocking-chair, while the child took her little stool beside him.

Queenie left them to themselves for a long time. All sorts of preparations seemed needful before the meal was declared ready. The candles were still unlighted, and she made no attempt to kindle them. Garth threw on another pine knot, and the warm ruddy light was soon diffused through the little room. As Queenie moved about, contriving endless errands for herself, she had no idea that Garth was furtively watching her.

"Why had she grown so pale? what was there in his sudden appearance to confuse her?" the young man was asking himself with a little throb of curious excitement. Somehow this unusual agitation on Queenie's part soothed and tranquillized him; he began to think less bitterly of Dora; some subtle influence, half painful and half pleasurable, seemed to steep his senses.

Garth was quite unconscious why he wanted Queenie to look at him. He watched her graceful movements about the room with quiet satisfaction. Two days before his fancy had been taken by the soft whiteness of a dress that flowed smoothly and did not rustle, and by the shining of golden hair in the lamp-light; and now a black serge dress with snowy collars and cuffs charmed him with its nun-like simplicity.

What was there in these two women, so utterly dissimilar, that fascinated him? As far as he knew he was not in love with either, although he had given the preference to Dora—Dora, who allured and yet repelled him, and for whom he now felt such bitterness of resentment.

"Why are you so quiet, Mr. Garth? no one has been telling you sad stories," cried Emmie, lifting her kitten on to his knee. "I wish you would speak to Queen, she always makes things end so badly."

"I am afraid your sister draws from life," he returned absently. He spoke without intention, but a shadow swept over Queenie's sensitive face.

"You ought not to have listened," she said reproachfully. "It was only some nonsense to please Emmie. I make up things, any rubbish pleases her; sometimes it is a fairy story, or some odd bits one picks out of books; nothing comes amiss," she went on, bent on defending herself.

"And you think a girl can make herself happy with an unrequited love preying on her?" he observed in a quizzical tone. "I don't know what women would say to such heresy. I think Emmie was right, and that little Kitty would have a great deal to bear."

Queenie was silent.

"Confess that you don't believe such a thing could be possible."

"As what?" looking up at him with varying color.

"That a girl, that Madeleine, for example, could make herself comfortable under the circumstances."

"Did I say a word about comfort?" she returned with spirit. "Of course Madeleine thought her trouble a trouble, and never called it by any other name."

"And of course she made herself and little Kitty miserable?" he rejoined, enjoying the play of words, but watching her keenly all the time.

"She did nothing of the kind," flaring up with sudden heat. "You have not heard half my story, or you would not say such a thing."

"Suppose you enlighten me," with some raillery in his tone. "Your heroine is not different from the ordinary run of women; and most of them make themselves miserable under the circumstances."

"Not women like my Madeleine," with a sudden lighting-up of earnestness in her face. "I don't think men are quite like that; they don't understand."

"What is it they don't understand?" he asked, somewhat puzzled.

"The blessedness of giving," she returned simply; "the privilege of being able to see and love what is highest and best without hope or thought of return. Some women feel like that."

"But not many," he replied, touched by her earnestness, and conscious again of that strange thrill.

"No, not many," looking at him gravely. "The great number dread suffering, and fear to enter into the cloud. They let men spoil their lives, and then the disappointment hardens and embitters them; instead of which they ought to go on simply loving, and being sorry, but not too sorry, about things."

"But suppose the object is not worthy? You know how often that is the case," he demanded gravely.

"Ah, that is the greatest pity of all. There is no trouble like that, to see the degradation of one we love; indeed, that must be terrible!"

"Ah, your golden rule of giving will not hold there!"

"Why not?" she asked quietly. "I heard a sad story once, when Emmie and I were at Granite Lodge. One of the governesses had had a dreadful trouble. She was engaged for some years to a man who professed a great affection for her, and suddenly the news of his marriage reached her."

"Well?"

"Well, she staggered under the blow, but she bore it somehow. It would have nearly killed some women. She just took up her life and did the best she could with it. 'I am keeping it all for him,' she said to me once, with such a mournful smile; 'when he wants it, it will be ready for him, but it will not be here.'"

"Keeping what?" asked Garth, somewhat absently.

"Why the love he had thrown away as worthless," she returned with kindling eyes. "Don't you think the faith of that poor German governess had something noble in it? She had forgotten her own wrongs and his fickleness. In the world to come it should be all right between them."

"Wasn't that rather far-fetched?"

"Not at all," returned the girl warmly; "those who have sympathy here must have sympathy there. There will be no broken lives in heaven."

"No; of course not," feeling himself a little out of his element, but strangely attracted by the eloquence of Queenie's eyes.

As for Queenie, she had almost forgotten to whom she was speaking. She was wrapped up, absorbed in her subject; all sorts of deep thoughts stirred within her.

These things were true to her, but she felt with a kind of wonder that he did not understand. Perhaps he felt with a young man's reverence the mystery of the world to come. Some men have a great dread of touching sacred things with unconsecrated hands; but Queenie's young eyes had the fearlessness of the eagle, they looked unblenchingly up at the light. What was the use of separating things spiritual from things material in her creed? Love was the ladder that Jacob saw reaching from earth to heaven; evermore there were angels ascending and descending. The doctrine of the communion of saints had infinite readings.

"Those that have sympathy here have sympathy there," she had asserted with entire faith and simplicity. Why did not he, why did not everybody, understand?

As for Garth, he felt a little moved and excited, stirred by her earnestness, yet not wholly comprehending it, and quite out of his element.

CHAPTER II.
"DO YOU LIKE ME AS WELL AS YOU DID THEN?"

"The true one of youth's love, proving a faithful helpmate in those years when the dream of life is over, and we live in its realities."—Southey.

Garth pondered somewhat heavily over Queenie's words that evening. In spite of his warm human sympathies his imagination was still undeveloped. Under the margin of those brief sentences lay unexplored meanings, whole worlds of thought and fancy that he only dimly comprehended, and yet he felt himself stirred by the girl's enthusiasm.

"You have done me good," he said to her, when tea was over and Emmie had betaken herself to Patience. He had risen to take leave, but he still lingered, as though loath to break the tranquillity of the scene. "Something had worried me and put me into a bad humor with myself and all the world, but now I feel better."

"I am glad I have done you good," she returned simply.

When he had left her she knelt down by the hearth again and shielded her face from the flame. All sorts of bright, visionary pictures danced under the light of the spluttering fir-knots; thoughts almost too great and beautiful to be grasped brushed past her like wings.

Queenie was only dreaming, as girls will sometimes, only somehow her dreams were better than other women's realities. She was thinking of Garth, marvelling a little over his manner that evening. He had been kinder, gentler, and yet somehow different.

She was not quite so sure, after all, that he meant to marry Dora. She had mentioned her name once, and he had answered her in a constrained manner, and had then changed the subject. Could Miss Cunningham have given him cause for displeasure?

Queenie was not sufficiently experienced in the ways of the world to know how quickly hearts are caught at the rebound. She had no idea of the real state of the case, and that Garth's first thought in his mortification had been to seek solace in her friendship. She only knew that somehow Garth had been nicer, and she had done him good.

"What does it matter if one is disappointed here?" thought the young visionary in that first sweet gush of satisfaction, "that it is all giving and no return—at least, not the return that one wants? life will not last for ever. In that bright hereafter there will be no marrying or giving in marriage, the Bible tells us that. Nothing but love, which, after all, is another name for life. We are only hiding our treasures now, heaping them up in silence and darkness, like that poor Fraulein Heldrig. By-and-by, up there, those whom we love will call to us and stretch out their hands, and we shall come bearing our sheaves with us."

Queenie was weaving all manner of pure womanish fancies as Garth went back through the rain. The young man's pulses still throbbed with excitement. His sluggish imagination had been quickened and stirred within him; he felt with a curious, indefinable sensation that he had drifted long enough down the tide of circumstance, and that his fate approached a crisis. Would it be different to what he had planned all these years?

And that night he thought less of Dora.

How inexplicable are the ways of mankind, even the best of them. Garth, with all his uprightness and integrity, failed to see that his conduct lay open to questioning when, after this evening, he began to haunt the cottage. He was only seeking solace and forgetfulness, a healing compensation for the hurt under which he still smarted at intervals; but he had no idea that such self-indulgence might be fraught with peril to another's peace!

Queenie could not tell him if the intercourse between them were too pleasant to be perfectly harmless. The fault lay with him, not her. It was not for her to receive her benefactor coldly; and then if she could do him good.

It was true Garth seldom came alone, either Cathy or Langley or Ted were with him; but the invitations to Church-Stile House became more frequent and pressing.

"Garth likes to see you and Emmie amongst us of an evening," Cathy said to her more than once. "You know what men are, my dear; they get tired of their sisters' company, and then Dora is away. I suppose that makes him so discontented and restless. Poor Florence is worse, and there is no possibility of Dora's return at present."

"So your brother informed me," returned Queenie demurely; but not to Cathy did she dare hint that Miss Cunningham's absence was a relief. She was somewhat afraid of questioning her own feelings too closely at this time. The incubus that had weighed upon her spirits was removed, at least temporarily. Life was passing pleasantly with her just now; she had work enough to occupy her; a pretty cottage where she and Emmie lived like disguised princesses, and friends whom she loved and trusted to brighten her leisure hours.

"Shall I ever be so happy again in my life?" she said once to Cathy. "I think this summer is the sunniest I have ever known. When one is so thoroughly satisfied one dreads a change."

"I like change," returned Cathy, boldly. "I think a long lease of monotonous happiness would stupefy me. Life is not a mere table-land; there are mountains to ascend before one can see the view, broad rivers to cross, and long deserts to traverse; he is a poor traveller who fears either."

"You forget Emmie and I are already footsore with our rough pilgrimage," rejoined Queenie, with her bright quaintness. "We have been through the Slough of Despond and the Valley of Humiliation."

"And the other valley that was worse," put in Emmie, who was listening to them; "but you only stood at the entrance, Queen; it was I who had to fight with all the hobgoblins."

"Hush, my sweet. Yes, I know," hastily kissing her, for Queenie could never bear to be reminded even by a word of Emmie's past danger. "Well, we are in our land of Beulah now, the land flowing with milk and honey."

"It strikes me that you are very thankful for small mercies," observed Cathy, gruffly, who could never feel quite reconciled to her friend's humble employment, and who was ready to quarrel with Dora for her patronage and condescension.

"Supposing we were one day to spread golden wings and fly away," rejoined Queenie, gaily. "Supposing some one were to leave us a fortune, and Emmie and I suddenly became grand people, would you like me better then, Cathy?"

"No; I should dislike to see you so spoiled," she returned, frowning at the idea. "I believe Garth and I have a monomania on that subject, we hate rich people so. I would not have you and Emmie a bit different; but, Queen," changing her manner and speaking rather nervously, "I can't help thinking that you are a little extravagant; Langley said so the other day."

"Extravagant!" repeated Queenie, opening her eyes wide.

"Yes; I think Garth put it into her head, for Langley never notices those sort of things. He found out that you had hired that piano from Carlisle, and then you are always ordering pretty things for Emmie. Garth has such a horror of debt, and, as he said, two hundred a-year will not buy everything; and you have not got nearly that, have you, Queen?"

"I must be more careful," returned Queenie, evading the question. "I am very much obliged to your brother for the hint; but there will be no fear of my getting into debt, you may assure him of that. I have had a terror of that from a child, ever since I saw the misery it involved."

"I am thankful to hear you say so," returned her friend, much relieved.

She had been a little bewildered by Queenie's purchases. The ménage of the cottage had been perfectly simple, and, with the exception of that Gainsborough hat, Queenie had kept her own and Emmie's dress strictly within bounds. But the fifty-pound note had burned a hole in her pocket, and she had begged Caleb to forward some amusing books and games for the child's entertainment; and the expensive selection made had caused dismay to her friends at Church-Stile House when Emmie displayed her treasures.

Queenie laughed at her friend's lecture, but it caused her a little anxiety. What would they think of her playful deception? would they consider themselves at all aggrieved at it? Garth too, with his horror of heiresses and his exaggerated notions of independence! She felt a little sinking of heart at the thought.

The autumn had set in cold and rainy, ceaseless down-pours still flooded the country; the field path to the Vicarage was impassable, and the lane almost a grey mire. Garth and Ted plodded past the cottage daily in their leathern gaiters, and Dr. Stewart shook his head ruefully when he encountered Queenie in his rounds.

"Why don't you give your scholars a holiday, such constant wettings are good for no one?" he asked; but Queenie only laughed, and drew her old grey waterproof closer round her. After Cathy's sermon she dared not invest in a new one. She looked so bright and good-humored, there was such a fresh radiance about her, that Dr. Stewart failed to notice the shabbiness of the garment. He only carried away with him an impression of youthful brightness that lingered long with him.

"And Miss Faith used to look like that," he thought a little bitterly, as he rode homeward in the darkness.

Dr. Stewart had by no means ceased his visits to the Evergreens. He still dropped in at odd times, and kept up a running fire of argument with Miss Charity, and still maintained a rigid surveillance of the books that lay on the table beside her. There was not much conversation between him and the younger sister; a hand shake and a brief word was often all that passed between them. His praises of Jean, and the merits and demerits of her housekeeping, were all retailed into Miss Hope's sympathizing ear; while to the somewhat grim Miss Prudence belonged the privilege of pouring out his tea and providing the crisp griddle cakes that his soul loved. Faith felt herself somewhat out in the cold; she was younger and more attractive, but she had not Charity's wit and cleverness; in spite of all those long hours of reading, she was often at a loss to comprehend the subject which they were discussing. She sat by a little silent and heavy-hearted over her work; it was not for her to speak if he had ceased caring to listen.

Faith was growing paler and more worn every day; the renewal of her intercourse with Dr. Stewart had brought disappointment as well as pleasure with it. True, he had brightened her life in many ways, and his brief visit was the chief event of the day, but it often left behind it a strange restlessness and sadness. In a vague sort of way she began to understand that she had not fulfilled the promise of her younger days; that he was disappointed in his ideal. The old Faith had been a brighter and more hopeful one; and at this thought the sweet face grew more troubled and downcast.

"What's to do with you, Faith? you always seem in a maze about something when Dr. Stewart is here," Miss Charity would say sharply, when their visitor had taken himself off with a curt nod that included the whole sisterhood. It was Miss Prudence who generally let him out now; Faith did not offer to stir from her corner. How did she know whether he wanted her.

"It seems so strange that a woman of your age should find so little to say," continued Miss Charity, with a displeased jerk of her thin ringlets.

"He only talks to you, Cara; you neither of you seem to want me," returned poor Faith, with the least possible trace of bitterness in her tone.

She did not often retaliate, for hers was a quiet, peace-loving nature, but to-day she felt chafed even to soreness.

Never had her sister's yoke oppressed her so bitterly; never had those readings in that close hot room seemed so tedious. The novels had been replaced by biographies, all of Dr. Stewart's choice; but the pure English and the nobility of the lives delineated were lost upon Faith, chafing under a secret sense of injury, and longing to be alone with her burthen. How hard is enforced companionship, even to the most patient of us. Faith looked out wearily at the driving rain that kept her a prisoner, and deprived her of the one thing she most prized—a solitary walk.

But at night she had it out with her thoughts. She would lie awake for hours, covered round by the sacred darkness, thinking out the problem of her life.

Why had Dr. Stewart crossed her path again? to what intent and purpose? She had become resigned to her life in a weary sort of way, and that one bright summer had only lingered in her memory like a dream of good to be prized. True, it was her most precious possession, the one thing that redeemed her life from blankness; but still time had in a great measure healed the wound of her disappointment.

But now they had met again as friends, who had once been something closer to each other. True, there had been no spoken understanding between them; but there had been looks that had been as plain as words, half sentences that conveyed whole meanings, glances of mutual trust and sympathy. Was all this to go for nothing? was he to be free, to put away the past, and forget and come again, while she alone had been faithful?

Dr. Stewart took no apparent notice of her changed looks; he came and went in his blunt way, and left her alone in her quiet corner. Sometimes his evenings were spent at Church-Stile House or the Vicarage; now and then they heard of him at the cottage, making one of a merry party, and welcomed warmly everywhere.

The day after Faith had uttered her little protest to her sister the weather showed signs of breaking. The rain had abated towards afternoon, but the low grey skies and wet roads were very uninviting. Faith looked out at the prospect a little disconsolately, it seemed to her an emblem of her own life, and then she turned to her sister.

"The rain has stopped, I think I shall go out now, Cara; it will do my head good."

"I thought Dr. Stewart was coming this afternoon," returned Miss Charity, clicking her knitting-needles busily as she spoke; "he promised to bring us more new books. You heard him say so yourself, Faith."

"Yes, I know; but he will not miss me; he has got you to talk to him, Cara, and I feel I must have a walk. I am sure he will understand," she returned deprecatingly.

"Well, if you like to be so ungracious it is not my business to interfere," retorted Miss Charity in a displeased tone. "If you are only going to sit in the corner and not open your lips when he comes in, you may just as well be out. But he won't have a high opinion of your politeness."

"I cannot help that," returned Faith, wearily.

Another afternoon of needle-work and her sister's sharp speeches was not to be borne. She began to feel a dread of these visits, they made her so uncomfortable.

"Well, put on your waterproof, if you must go," snapped Miss Charity, aggravated at Faith's unwonted resolution. "The rain will only keep off for an hour, and you will get nicely soaked." And Faith meekly acquiesced.

The waterproof was not a becoming garment, it was almost as shabby as Queenie's; the shapeless folds quite disguised her neat figure. She had on her old brown hat too, that suited her less well than her little Quaker bonnets; but Faith knew she would have one of Charity's sharp lectures on extravagance if she got her nice bonnet ribbons soiled, for, with their modest expenditure, even bonnet ribbons had to be considered.

It was a severe shock to her womanly vanity when, a little way down the road, she met Dr. Stewart. The grey waterproof might be considered fit raiment for such an uncertain afternoon, but the old brown hat! Faith smarted with mortified vanity down to her finger-ends.

He was on foot, as it happened, and he turned back and walked with her a little way, but he scanned the cloak and the hat rather quizzically as he did so.

"So you went out to avoid me, did you, Miss Faith," he said good-humoredly; but the sudden question grazed the truth so closely that Faith's pale cheeks flamed up in a moment.

"I have not been out for three days, and then my head has been so bad," she stammered. She was not asking for his sympathy, but she wished to defend herself from all charge of rudeness.

"Do you always suffer from these headaches?" he asked suddenly.

"No, not always; but they have been pretty bad lately," she returned indifferently. "I suppose the close room does it. Cara is so afraid of draughts, and so much reading does not suit me."

"I think the others ought to take their turn. I mean to tell Miss Charity so some day."

"Oh, no; pray do not," in much distress. "It does not really hurt me, not much; and Cara does so dislike Hope's reading, it is too loud and fast for an invalid."

"She must be taught to read slower then."

"Oh, no; you must not say anything about it," imploringly. "I have nothing else to do but to wait upon Cara, it is right for me to do it; and if it hurts me what does it matter? We cannot live for our own pleasure," continued Faith, walking fast and nervously, but he checked her.

"Slower, please; I had no idea you were such an energetic walker. I want to talk to you, not that you ever honor me with many words. I am not to be included in the list of your duties, eh?" with a sidelong glance of mingled fun and earnestness.

"I am afraid you have thought me very rude," in a subdued voice.

"No; I have only found you a little depressing. What's been the matter with you all this time, Miss Faith? I am an old friend, and you might be frank with me."

"There is nothing the matter," she returned in much confusion, thereby burthening her conscience with a whole falsehood. But how could she hint to him the reason of her weariness?

Dr. Stewart pocketed the falsehood with perceptible distrust.

"You are growing thinner and more nervous every day and there is no cause for it? Do you expect me to believe that?" with an incredulous laugh. "I mean to put a stop to these pernicious readings, so look out for yourself, Miss Faith."

"Oh, you must not; indeed you must not, Dr. Stewart," she implored, with tears in her eyes. "It is Cara's one pleasure, and I cannot have it interfered with. You have no right to interfere," she continued, turning upon him with the fierceness of the dove.

Poor Miss Faith! she was trying to work herself up into anger against her friendly tormentor, but somehow the anger failed to come.

"Have I no right? are you sure of that?" he demanded gravely. "You know better than I, Miss Faith; you must question your own heart and memory on that point."

"What do you mean?" she asked, growing suddenly pale, but walking still faster; but he put out his hand and stopped her.

"What do I mean? Have you forgotten Carlisle? It is ten years ago, and we have both grown older since then; but I fancy we have neither of us forgotten. Do you like me as well as you did then, Miss Faith? Do you think you could make up your mind to exchange the Evergreens for Juniper Lodge?"

Faith gave a startled glance into his face, but what she saw there left her in no doubt of his meaning. It was as though an electric shock had passed through her. She had been accusing him in her own mind of fickleness and forgetfulness, and all the time he had meant this!

"I thought that it was you that did not care, that had forgotten," she gasped, not answering his very plain question in her first dizziness of surprise.

"Then you thought wrong," he returned coolly. "Women are not the only faithful beings in creation, so you need not lay claim to that extra virtue. It was you who left me, remember that, Miss Faith."

"But you might have followed; you might have asked what had become of me," she faltered.

"What was the use?" was the uncompromising answer, "I had a mother and sister to maintain. A wife is too expensive a luxury for a poor man, and I was poor enough, in all conscience. Well, so it is settled, and we understand each other at last, Faith?"

"Yes, I suppose so," she returned, softly.

The wooing had been brief and matter-of-fact on Dr. Stewart's side; but apparently he was quite satisfied with the result, for he walked on in a brisk, contented sort of way.

Faith walked beside him, dizzy, and with her head throbbing with nervous pain. She had forgotten all about her old brown hat and her waterproof. The low, grey skies still foreboded rain, and the wet pools shone under her feet; but if a miracle had transformed them into rosy wine she would scarcely have been more astonished. That he should have meant this all that time!

"And I thought you had forgotten, Dr. Stewart," she said presently, in the tone of one that craved forgiveness.

"Humph! you will find Angus more to your purpose," he returned, curtly. "How about Miss Charity and the readings now, Faith," with a merry twinkle.

"Cara! oh, what shall we do with her?" she exclaimed, clasping her hands in sudden despair. "It is I who have forgotten now. My poor Cara!"

"Leave Cara to me," was Dr. Stewart's only answer, as they turned their faces homeward.

CHAPTER III.
"CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME."

"Beseech your Majesty,
Forbear sharp speeches to her; she's a lady
So tender of rebukes, that words are strokes,
And strokes death to her."—Shakespeare.

"Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,
Shall win my love."—Shakespeare.

Faith's nervous trepidation returned in full force when they came in sight of the Evergreens. She cast a piteous glance at the bay-window and then at Dr. Stewart, which secretly moved him to inward laughter, though not a muscle of his face betrayed amusement.

"There are no white slaves in England, leave Miss Charity to me," he said again, and the masculine assurance of his voice gave her a delicious sense of security.

The quiet way, too, in which he relieved her of her cloak in the hall, and bade her lay aside her hat, brought with it a strange new feeling of protection and care. There had been on his part no protestations, no vehement declaration of affection; but for a matter-of-fact, middle-aged wooer, rather new to his duties, Dr. Stewart was doing remarkably well.

Miss Charity was alone when they entered. The other sisters were in the habit of indulging in an afternoon nap, which they enjoyed in strict seclusion; but Miss Charity's bright eyes never closed till night, and not always then. The poor lady could have published many a volume of midnight meditations, when she and pain held their dreary converse together during those ten long years of suffering.

She looked up rather sharply over her knitting-needles as the two made their appearance. She was still put out at Faith's unusual manifestation of self-will, and an afternoon's lonely cogitations had not sweetened her acerbity.

"So you have come back at last, Faith," she remarked ironically; "I hope you have enjoyed your wet walk. I wish you would cure Faith, Dr. Stewart, of her absurd restlessness and love of wandering; she goes out in all weathers, and that is such a ridiculous thing in a woman of her age," finished Charity, who, in certain moods, was given to remind her sister that she would never see thirty-five again.

But the taunt was lost for the first time on Faith, for had she not received this afternoon a fresh lease of youth?

"What does it matter about age, we have had a beautiful walk," returned Faith, laughing a little nervously as she hung over the back of her sister's sofa so that her face was hidden. The conjunction, so sweet to newly-engaged people, had slipped out by mistake. Miss Charity looked up testily.

"Who do you mean by we? I wish you would speak plainly. Has the doctor joined you in your hunt after dripping hedges. If one does not learn common sense when one has turned thirty-five last March I don't suppose it will ever be learned," grumbled the invalid, who, with all her sharpness, had not an idea of the real state of the case.

Dr. Stewart's eyes began to twinkle wickedly; he was enjoying the fun. Miss Charity's humors always amused him. He generally let her fret and fume to her heart's content without attempting to contradict her, but a glance at Faith's nervous face determined him to give her a "clincher," as he called it.

"Yes; I met Faith, and we had a walk together," he commenced blandly, but Miss Charity began to bridle.

"You met my sister, Dr. Stewart. I suppose you did not mean—to say what you did," she was about to finish, but the doctor interrupted her cheerfully.

"Well, I call her Faith because we are old friends, and because we have settled our little matters between ourselves this afternoon. When two people have decided to become man and wife there is no further need for formality, eh, Miss Charity."

"Man and wife!" responded Miss Charity with a faint shriek, and then she covered her face with her hands.

"Yes; have we startled you?" he continued more gravely, for her surprise and agitation were very great. "Faith was unprepared for my speaking, or she would have given you a hint. It seems we have cared for each other, in a sort of a way, for the last ten or eleven years; there's constancy for you! Why I have been all over the world, and have yet come back to my old sweetheart."

"Where are you, Faith? Why do you let Dr. Stewart do all the talking?" demanded Miss Charity, uncovering her pale face, but speaking in her old irritable manner. "If you have accepted him, and you are going to be what he said," shivering slightly, for the words brought back a dreary past and void of her own, "there is nothing for me or any one to say. You're not a girl," with an hysterical laugh; "I suppose you know your own mind."

"Oh, Cara!" cried poor Faith, with tears in her eyes, "I don't know how I can be so selfish as to wish to leave you, but it is all true that he says. It was coming back to nurse you that put a stop to everything ten years ago; and now he has come back, and it seems as though we were meant for each other, and—and—" here she broke into nervous sobbing.

"Pooh, pooh," returned the doctor, but his eyes glistened a little in sympathy; "Juniper Lodge is only next door, you are not going to be separated. Come, Miss Charity, you are a kind soul, and have courage enough for ten Faiths, say something comforting to your sister, to give her a good heart over this."

Dr. Stewart knew how to treat Miss Charity. Underneath the sharpness and irritability there was the true metal of a good womanly nature, and a courage few women could boast. Years ago she had fought out her own battle, and had laid herself down on her bed of pain with a breaking heart but unmurmuring lips. Had she ever forgotten poor George since the day she had given him up? had she ever believed the stories they had brought her of his unworthiness?

The small world of Hepshaw only saw in Miss Charity a little bright-eyed woman, with a caustic tongue and a temper soured by disappointment and suffering; but no one but Faith, and perhaps Dr. Stewart, knew what the martyred body and nerves bore day and night.

"I feel sometimes like St. Lawrence on his gridiron; I wish it were a bed of roses to me too," she said once grimly to her sister; but not even to her did she speak of the slow agonies that consumed her. What would be the use, she thought; pain is sent to be borne, not to be talked about.

Neither to Faith did she speak of the strange thoughts and dreams that haunted her nights. Sometimes, half lulled by opiates, it would seem to her as though the walls and roof of her chamber were thrown down; through the room rushed the cold winds of heaven; above her was the dark midnight sky seamed with glittering stars. How they wavered and shone! Voices sounded through them sometimes. Grey and white shadows moved hither and thither, silent, but with grave, speaking eyes pitying and full of love. "Poor Charity!" they seemed to say, "still fastened to the cross and waiting for the angel of peace and rest. Will he be long?" And the echo seemed to be caught up and passed on shuddering: "will he be long?"

Ah, yes; those were her parents! and poor George, how plainly she could see him! He had died a drunkard's death they had told her, with a sorry attempt at comfort. He had ridden after a night's debauch, and his seat and hand had been unsteady; but she had shaken her head incredulously. What mattered how he died? he was at rest, she knew that, she was sure of it; he could not have sinned as they said he had—her poor George, on whom she had brought such misery!

And now, because her cup was not yet full, this farther sacrifice was demanded of her. She must give up Faith, the patient nurse and companion of all these years of suffering. True, she was often cross and irritable, but could any one be to her what Faith was? could any one replace that soft voice and gentle hand that had lulled and made bearable many an hour when the pain threatened to be intolerable? would any other bear her harsh humors with such patience and loving resignation? The thought of this new deprivation paled the poor invalid's cheek and swelled in her throat as Dr. Stewart uttered his persuasive protest.

"Oh, Cara! I shall never have the heart to leave you when it comes to the point," cried Faith, clinging to her with fresh tears. What did it matter that they were middle-aged women, and that Cara's hair, at least, was streaked with grey, and that Dr. Stewart was regarding them with eyes that alternately twinkled and glistened. Had they not their feelings? was not Cara her own sister? "Oh, Cara! I never shall be able to leave you!"

"Nonsense," returned Miss Charity, pushing her away, but with tears in her eyes too. "Get up, Faith, do; what will Dr. Stewart think of us? Of course you must have him if you want him; and a good husband at your age is not to be despised, let me tell you that."

"But what will you do without me? and Hope reads so badly," sighed her sister.

Miss Charity winced a little over the idea, but she returned bravely,

"Oh, I shall get along somehow; Hope is not so bad if you put cotton wool in one ear; and she always knows what she is reading," with an accent of reproach to denote Faith's wandering attention. "There, there, it is all right," patting her shoulder kindly. "Juniper Lodge is not a hundred miles off, and I dare say Dr. Stewart will often spare you to us; and all I have to say to him is, that a good sister will make a good wife, and that he will soon find out for himself;" and with that Miss Charity composed herself to her knitting again, and shortly after that Dr. Stewart took his leave.

"Must you go yet? I hoped you would have waited and seen Hope and Prudence," faltered Faith timidly, as she followed her lover into the little hall and watched him invest himself in his shaggy great coat; but Dr. Stewart only smiled and shook his head.

"Not to-night; give my kind regards to them. To-morrow afternoon if it holds up we will have another walk together and discuss future arrangements. You will want this evening to get your thoughts in order, eh, Faith?" with a look of such thorough understanding and good-humor that her color rose.

"Miss Charity is enough for one afternoon, I could not quite stand the other cardinal virtues," he said to himself as he sat down contentedly to his solitary tea.

Jean, excellent woman, knowing his ways, had lighted the fire and brought down his slippers to warm. "I am not so badly off as a bachelor that I need be in such a hurry to change my state," he went on, stretching out his feet to the blaze; "but how is a man to enjoy comfort and the pleasure of a good conscience knowing that a human creature is dying by inches next door? and though that's rather strong, I do believe she gets thinner every day, with all that worry and reading nonsense. When she is my wife no one can interfere with her, and I can keep Miss Charity within bounds. Poor soul! one is bound to pity her too. I felt quite soft-hearted myself when Faith was kneeling there looking so pitiful. Well, she is a dear woman, and I don't repent of what I have done; for, in spite of Jean's excellent management, one feels a trifle dull sometimes now the old mother's gone and Edie is married. By-the-bye, I must write and tell Edie about this, she will be so delighted."

Faith returned a little soberly to the parlor when Dr. Stewart had taken his departure. She would gladly have slipped away to her own room to dream over this wonderful thing that had happened, but she knew that would have been an offence in her sisters' eyes. There were Hope and Prudence to be enlightened, and a gauntlet of sisterly criticism to be run. Dr. Stewart was such a favorite with them all, that she knew that in whatever light they might regard her acceptance of his offer that it would not be unfavorable.

Miss Charity broke the ice herself in her usual trenchant fashion.

"A fine bit of news I've got for you two while you have been napping," she began, knitting in an excited manner. "Here's Faith, who is old enough to know better, has gone and made a match of it with Dr. Stewart."

"What!" ejaculated Miss Hope, and then she broke into one of her loud hearty laughs that always jarred on the invalid's nerves. "Well done, Faith; so you don't mean to be an old maid like the rest of us. Well, three in a family is enough to my mind, and plenty, and you never had quite the proper cut. So it is mistress of Juniper Lodge you mean to be! Well, well, this is a rare piece of news to be sure; nothing has happened in the family worth mentioning since Charity took up with poor George."

"Well, there will be one mouth less to feed," put in Prudence in her usual strong fashion; "and with the present exorbitant price of meat that's something for which to be thankful."

But though the speech was not sympathetic Miss Prudence's lean brown hand trembled a little as she unlocked the tea-caddy and measured out the scanty modicum of tea. Poor Miss Prudence! there was still a warm woman's heart beating under the harsh, unloving exterior, though it seldom found utterance. Her one object in life had been to eke out a narrow income, and bring down her own and her sisters' wants to the limits of penury. A small saving constituted her chief joy; the low standard had dwarfed her moral stature; petty cares had narrowed and contracted her; the mote in her eye hindered the incoming of heart sunshine, and made her life a hard, unlovely thing.

For it is a sad truth and a painful one to many of us, that in a great measure we form our own lives. The wide blanks, the vacuum that nature abhors, are all self-created. Outside the void, the chaos, the central abyss of self, there wait all manner of patient duties, joys, griefs, possible sufferings, a world of human beings to be loved, to replenish emptiness and the waste of spent passion.

Miss Prudence was one of those unhappy beings who read the meanings of life by the light of a farthing dip. Within her secret sanctuary the small god Economy dwelt as a favored deity. She would sweep her house like the woman in the parable for the smallest possible missing coin, and go to bed in despair for the loss of it; but she left her own inner chambers miserably unclean and full of dust and cobwebs.

And yet, as in many other persons, Miss Prudence's faults were only caricatures of virtues. She was miserly, but it was for her sisters' sakes more than for her own. To keep the little house bright and respectable she toiled from morning till night; but I do not know that any of them loved her better for it. It was Prue's vocation, her one taste. If she could only have read to Miss Charity, and taken her share in the nursing, Faith would have been more grateful to her.

She fretted, as was natural, over that little speech of Miss Prudence's, for she was faint with excessive happiness, and thirsted for a pure draught of sisterly sympathy.

"Is that all you have to say to me, Prue?" she demanded in an injured tone.

"What have I got to say," returned poor Miss Prudence, looking greyer and grimmer, "except that it is a fine thing to be Dr. Stewart's wife and the mistress of Juniper Lodge, and not be obliged to count your pence till your eyes ache with trying to make out that five are equal to six? That's what I've been doing all my life, Faith, and no thanks to me either; and it does not always agree with one."

"There, there, take your tea, Faith," interrupted Miss Charity, testily; "we've wasted more than an hour already over this business of yours, and we shall get through very little reading to-night."

"Nonsense, Charity; let Faith have her talk out," observed Hope, in her good-humored way. "We don't have weddings every day in the family, and it is hard if we don't make much of them when they come. Well, and is the day fixed, Faith?"

"No, indeed! What are you thinking about?" returned Faith, quite terrified at the idea.

She sat at the tea-table a little sad and confused as Miss Hope plied her with good-natured jokes and questions. Why did not Cara want her to talk? why was Prudence so snapping and hard? and why could they not all leave her alone with her thoughts?

"I think I will read now," she said, taking up the book and sinking with a sigh into her usual seat.

As the soft harmonious voice made itself heard Miss Charity's eyes filled with tears and her forehead contracted as though with pain. "And she must lose this her one consolation," she thought. Faith's reading was to her as David's harp to the sick soul of Saul—it drove away the evil spirit of despondency. "It is giving the widow's mite—all I have," thought Miss Charity, with a little thrill of pathos.

As for Faith, she went through her allotted task with an outward semblance of patience and much inward rebellion, reading mechanically, without perceiving the drift of the sense. "And he meant this all the time," she said to herself. "Oh, how little I deserve him and my happiness."

Faith's evening, on the whole, had been disappointing, but before many hours were over she found that things were not to be arranged to her liking. The moment it came to a clashing of wills she soon discovered that Dr. Stewart's was to be paramount.

Faith had certain old-fashioned views on the subject of courtship and matrimony. The one must not be too brief or the other too sudden in her opinion. Dr. Stewart's views were in direct opposition.

"When a man gets on to middle age, and has knocked about the world as much as I have done," he said to her the following afternoon as they again plodded through the miry roads, only now a pale uncertain sunshine followed them, "he finds courtship just a trifle difficult. I am a plain man, and speak my mind plainly, Faith. We've known each other, or at least thought about each other, these ten years. We are neither of us young, and we are not likely to get younger; so if you're ready I'm more than willing, and we will just say the middle of November, and talk no more about it."

"But, Angus, that is only just six weeks!" faltered his fiancée.

"Yes, and that's a fortnight too much," he returned bluntly. "Shall we make it the end of October then?" at which alarming alternative Faith had only just strength to gasp out a faint negative, and subside into startled silence. After all, was not this exchanging one sort of tyranny for another?

Queenie's whim, Volume 3 (of 3)

QUEENIE'S WHIM

CHAPTER I.IN THE GLOAMING.

CHAPTER II."DO YOU LIKE ME AS WELL AS YOU DID THEN?"

CHAPTER III."CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME."

CHAPTER I.
IN THE GLOAMING.

CHAPTER II.
"DO YOU LIKE ME AS WELL AS YOU DID THEN?"

CHAPTER III.
"CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME."