"MY dear Kathleen, do try and be reasonable. To hear your grumbling, any one might think the rain had been sent on purpose to disappoint you of your ride. Remember, child. This is the fourth of November, not midsummer, and the rain is seasonable."

"It may be seasonable, but it is just as disagreeable and disappointing as if it were not. I do not need to be reminded that this is the fourth of November, for everybody has been dinning the date into my ears for a fortnight past. I have not exchanged words with a single creature without being reminded that this day's meet at Hollingsby will be the finest sight of the kind that Woldshire has witnessed since the old earl died."

"The first meet of the season is always a fine spectacle, my dear."

"Yes, aunt, but this will be a record meet. The young earl has just come of age, and everybody is bent on making it a gathering to be remembered for generations to come. It is to stand first in the annals of the Hollingsby Hunt."

"I dare say you are right, Kathleen. All the gentry will be at the breakfast; the large tenants will be guests, and all the smaller fry will put the best foot foremost. Men and horses will make a brave show, in spite of these drenching showers which keep coming down to spoil the turn-out. However, I for one do not envy them what they are pleased to call 'sport.' I cannot forget the foxes' side of the question."

"As if foxes were of any use," replied Kathleen, with a curl of her pretty lip.

"In a way, they do not seem to be, but I never like to assume that about any living thing. I cannot imagine that any creature, however humble its place in nature, however repulsive it may seem to some of us, was made without being destined to fill some useful niche in the great Creator's plan. I do not pretend to know all about these things. But if one grasps, in ever so little a way, the idea how great and good and kind God is, and how His wisdom is shown in every work of His hands, one may believe that the meanest of all has its use."

"Of course the fox is useful for hunting, and is, in a way, the cause of to-day's meet," replied Kathleen.

"Ah, my dear, I am thankful that I at least have no taste for such barbarous practices. To destroy a wild animal that is harmful to man and to useful creatures, is surely right. But to preserve foxes on purpose to be hunted by a pack of yelling hounds, and then cut to pieces alive, is a sport worthy only of savages. I am afraid I was glad when, once last season, the suffering fox bit the cruel hand that was torturing it, and that Huntsman Tom was unable to torment another for some time to come."

"Aunty, you do take an extreme view. To talk about those beautiful creatures as 'yelling hounds!'"

"What else are they, Kathleen? Not that I blame them, they are trained to the work, and squires and ladies fair enjoy the sport to which horse, hound, and wretched fox contribute. You may smile, Kathleen, but I know that look of contempt is only for your old aunt's old-fashioned ideas, not for herself. But, however long I may live, I trust I shall never find pleasure in what causes suffering to the meanest of God's creatures."

Kathleen rushed impulsively towards her aunt, threw her arms round her neck, and kissed her again and again.

"You old darling!" she exclaimed; "of course the smile was at your ideas about fox-hunting. I should be the most ungrateful creature living if I could be capable of feeling anything but love and reverence for your dear self. Yes, I have pushed your cap nearly off your head by rushing at you and hugging you, after the manner of a bear. But never mind. I will put you nicely to rights again. The cap was a wee bit on one side before. I always have to straighten it about six times a day."

Mrs. Ellicott looked up at the fair face which was bending over her, then drew it nearer still, and returned her niece's caress with more gentleness but no less affection than Kathleen had shown.

"And you, Kathleen," she said, "only make believe that you have any sympathy with those who follow a cruel custom. You like to see the gay turn-out, the gallant pack, the daring riders, the eager horses, and to note all the bonne camaraderie of the hunt. But there are other cruelties inseparable from this sport, and one instance out of many gave me a dislike to it which nothing can conquer. I shall never forget how I felt when I heard the tale, years before you were born, my dear."

"What was it, aunt?"

"It was about the late earl's sister. She was a most daring huntress, but professed to be very fond of her horses, one in particular, a beautiful creature that was gentleness itself, and was petted like a dog. In the excitement of the hunt, and when determined to be foremost at the death of the miserable fox, she urged on the beautiful animal by savage use of whip and spur, and compelled it to keep up a pace which no horse could continue for long. When Lady Lois drew rein at Hollingsby the animal reeled, and as her feet touched the ground he fell dead. A few seconds in dismounting, and she would have been crushed beneath her ill-used steed. She was just down in time to save her life."

"How horrible! if the tale be really true," said Kathleen, turned for the moment from contemplating her own special grievance.

"It is true, dear. There were eye-witnesses enough, and many would have cried shame on a humbler rider. There was enough said, though, as Lady Lois Holwynd was the culprit, people spoke with bated breath of her fault, and found excuses for it in a louder key."

"She was young. Such a daring rider, and the very life of the hunt. So generous in supporting it, so kind in many ways. Open-handed to a fault. Thus people excused her; but though Lady Lois has passed away, the memory of that day's cruelty abides, and will be talked of for many a year to come."

Whilst Mrs. Ellicott was speaking, Kathleen was busily engaged in replacing the refractory cap, and with gentle fingers pushing back stray locks of the silvery hair which framed so fittingly the kind face of her aunt.

"There now, you look a picture of tidiness. Kiss me for playing the part of a deft lady's-maid, and putting you to rights again."

The kiss was given, but Mrs. Ellicott bade Kathleen remember that it was not earned.

"My cap would have been all right but for your boisterous embrace, Kitty, and having upset its equilibrium, you were bound to restore it. However, darling, I shall never quarrel with you for being too affectionate," a remark which resulted in another caress of a gentler sort, and the application of Kathleen's hands to Mrs. Ellicott's head.

"Turn to the window, aunty, and look at the sunshine. It is positively pouring in. That last heavy shower has cleared the sky, and there are sheets of blue everywhere. All the labour I have bestowed on your cap will be thrown away now, for you cannot refuse to drive in the direction of Hollingsby. I do want to see all I can, though I must not ride, I suppose?"

"You know, Kathleen, that it was your dear father's wish that you should never take part in the Hollingsby Hunt, or even go to the meet on horseback."

"I know that, aunt. I have surely been told it often enough. Now you get ready for the drive. Let Cameron help you, and I will order the carriage. I can be ready in three minutes. I will try and rout Ger from her books, and make her come with us, or you might ask her on your way upstairs."

Mrs. Ellicott rose to comply with both requests. She felt that Kathleen must not be denied any reasonable pleasure, especially as the time was not far distant when she would be her own mistress.

"I will speak to Geraldine, but I doubt if she will join us," she said.

"You propose, and I will second vigorously," said Kathleen, "when I have interviewed old Mountain."

Away she tripped in the direction of the stables, being too impatient to send her message to the coachman, who was by no means old, and who worshipped his young mistress. She did not forget to take with her some bread and an apple, wherewith to regale her own favorite mare, Polly, whose head was at the bars the moment Kathleen's voice was heard addressing Mountain.

"Get the horses in as quickly as possible," said Kathleen. "We will drive towards Hollingsby, and see what we can. Don't I wish I might ride you, my beauty!" she added, turning to Polly and patting her arched neck with one hand, as she held out the other for the mare to feed from.

Polly gave a little assenting neigh, and then put her velvet lips forward to take the apple and bread—her special dainties.

"How gentle she is! A baby might feed her. Mountain, you do groom her beautifully. Her coat is perfect; black, and shining like a rook's plumage in the sunshine."

"She is a beauty, miss, and as good for go and temper as a lady's horse should be. But then there'll be as good 'uns as Polly out to-day, that'll come home with their sides bleeding and marked with lashes, in spite of them doing their best. And as to their coats, they'll be that muddy that you cannot tell the colour of 'em by more than half their bodies. The other half is just clay itself."

"I would not hurt you, Polly. Your mistress would not mark you with cruel spur or whip. But I must run, or aunt will be ready first. Take this last bit, my pet."

Pushing another piece of bread between Polly's willing lips, Kathleen raced back to the house, and ran panting to her room, where she quickly made ready for her drive.

Her cousin Geraldine was not to be coaxed to join in the drive, so Kathleen, after a brief hesitation, ran up another flight of stairs and stretched herself on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of a spot where three roads met. Most of the riders going to the meet would pass this point on their way to Hollingsby, and Kathleen, though she would not have owned it for the world, had placed herself at this coign of vantage in hope of seeing one of them.

She did see more than one scarlet-coated horseman in the distance, but without recognizing any. So she was quite sure that Captain Torrance was not amongst them. She could not mistake another for him, or him for another. Besides, he did not ride in scarlet. She had heard him say that, having once put it off, he would never wear it again.

"DON'T I WISH I MIGHT RIDE YOU, MY BEAUTY!" SHE ADDED,

TURNING TO POLLY AND PATTING HER ARCHED NECK.

Captain Torrance had worn a red coat until the colour had become monotonous, and he was no longer in the army, though everybody still gave him his old rank in speaking to or of him.

As Kathleen watched she was conscious that her face was all aflame with blushes. She was ashamed of her eagerness to see the most daring member of the Hunt, and one who was acknowledged to be the handsomest man in that division of the shire. There were, however, wise old heads which were shaken dubiously when Captain Torrance was named, and remarks were made about looks not being everything. There were some, too, who could tell tales about the captain's past career which were not altogether to his credit; but most of these were whispered, for he was not a man to be lightly made an enemy of. So such stories had never reached the innocent ears of Kathleen Mountford, who was watching with more anxiety than she owned to herself, for a glimpse of the handsome ex-captain of dragoons.

"It is a perfect riding-lesson just to see how he sits that beautiful hunter of his," she murmured, certain that no one was within hearing, even if she did utter her thoughts aloud. "But why need I trouble myself about riding-lessons? I know enough to guide Polly in such jog-trot excursions as I am allowed to make. I can never understand why my father imposed such restrictions on me. He was the dearest, kindest of parents, I know, and I am sure he meant to make me happy, if he could. But it is always the same. If a girl has money, some condition is attached to it which crosses her in one aggravating way or another. At one time she is bidden to marry a particular person whom she does not know, and if she did, would be sure to hate him. At another she is forbidden to marry the person whom she would choose from all the world. Or she must live in a place she detests, or—"

At this moment Mrs. Ellicott's voice was heard calling—

"Kitty, where have you hidden yourself? You who boasted that you only needed three minutes to dress in. I am ready, and Mountain is at the door. I wonder you did not hear the carriage wheels."

"Coming, aunty," cried Kathleen, as she raced downstairs two steps at a time. "Well, you have been expeditious. I was so certain that you would be at least five minutes longer, that I ran to the west window at the very top, to try and see what I could see. Result: a few streaks of scarlet at the crossing, as a few riders shot past on their way to Hollingsby. What a pity Geraldine will not leave her books to enjoy such a drive as we shall have! It will be just lovely, and you will like it as much as I shall. You cannot help it."

"I shall enjoy the drive, dear, of course, and Geraldine will find her pleasure after her own fashion, so do not trouble about her, Kitty. Who could have dreamed an hour ago that the country would look so beautiful?"

Mrs. Ellicott might well cast admiring glances at the hedgerows and the trees, on which autumn leaves still remained. Some were bare, but on others there was quite a wealth of gorgeous colouring, made all the more vivid by the lingering moisture which the recent rain had left. Hip, haw, and bryony berries were all ablaze in the bright sunshine, though differing in their shades of red. The tallest privet spikes were mostly crowned with cones of shining berries, intensely black, and perfect in shape. These seemed stretching above the other shrubs which made up the hedges, as if challenging competition with the more gaudy reds beneath.

Browns and yellows were not wanting on thorn and wild briar; and dusky reds and flame colour were on maple bush and bramble leaf, with more berries, shading from purple to black.

Green asserted its claims, as the glossy holly leaves shone out, draped with lace which the spiders had flung across them to soften their prickly stiffness. Draperies cunningly contrived to catch drops of rain for the sun to shine upon, and turn into liquid diamonds.

As to the ivy! It was everywhere. Creeping slyly in hedge bottoms, twisting fearlessly round bramble and briar, racing up the tallest tree, and waving its flower chaplets high out of reach, as if daring the boldest climber to rob it of its graceful coronets.

From many a bush and tree came the rich bold song of the robin, the little musician putting himself well to the front, and looking round, as he sang, with fearless eyes that seemed to defy the possibility of his having an enemy, human or otherwise. Sights and sounds were alike exhilarating. The clear blue overhead, and the freshness which had followed the heavy rain, were all the more delightful, because a couple of hours before the aspect of the sky had been so hopeless.

The horses seemed to have caught the infection from their surroundings, and stepped out bravely, tossing their arched necks, as though despising the muddy roads and extra dose of water in ruts and hollows.

Kathleen's face had been animated enough when she left home, but something she saw soon after reaching the cross-roads already mentioned brought a cloud to her brow. This was a Mrs. Stapleton, a neighbour of hers, and only a few years older, who was evidently on her way, not merely to witness the meet, but to share in the day's sport. She nodded merrily to Kathleen as she passed, then made a little grimace suggestive of pity for her girl neighbour, who was shut up in a carriage, instead of sharing what she regarded as the real pleasure of the day.

Kathleen could not suppress a sigh of mingled anger and disappointment as the little cortège passed. Mrs. Stapleton's beautiful figure showed to perfection on horseback, and her habit might have grown upon it, so exact was the fit. The horse was worthy of its graceful rider. Beside her rode her little daughter Blanche, a child of seven, and a miniature of her mother. The little creature's face was full of glee, and she evidently knew no fear, but sat her spirited pony as easily as any older rider.

It was plain that Mr. Stapleton was at the meet breakfast, for the groom in attendance led a fine powerful animal, ready saddled for his master's use.

"Even little Blanche can ride her pony to Hollingsby," said Kathleen. "It is horrid that I should see a child like that enjoying a pleasure that I am forbidden. It would be something to ride Polly instead of being imprisoned here on such a morning."

"Oh, my dear, you looked so bright when we started, that I really thought you were going to enjoy the drive," said Mrs. Ellicott, in a rueful tone.

"I meant to do so, aunty, and I know I am a horribly unthankful, discontented creature, and I quite hate myself for showing such a dog-in-the-manger spirit. I ought to be thinking of all the good things I have, instead of mentally harping on my one grievance. I ought to put on a cheery look and to talk pleasantly to you, who are always ready to take the good and bad alike, instead of spoiling your drive by my petulance. But when Mrs. Stapleton rode by, looking so perfect that she might have sat for a model of Diana, and that little chit Blanche tossed her head in triumph as she passed, I felt just as spiteful and wicked as possible. I almost wished that mother and child might get a good roll in the mud before the day was over, and—but I will not tell you all the naughty thoughts that flashed through my mind. You know what I am by long experience."

"I know, dear, that you are quick-tempered and impulsive, but I also know that my dear Kitty is not capable of really wishing harm to any human being. You say I take good and bad alike, but I do not. I have many a fight with myself, and when that comes which I do not wish for, and which brings sorrow along with it, I too have to fight hard against a rebellious spirit. I have to seek strength, and ask for patience and submission also, that I may be kept in mind of the fact, that whatever befalls me can be overruled for good by Him who permits it to happen. We might as well ask ourselves, 'What? Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?' Surely, my dear child, your share of good things is large indeed."

[CHAPTER II]

CAPTAIN JACK

KATHLEEN MOUNTFORD was silent for a few moments after listening to what she called "one of aunty's sermons." But in her heart she owned the truth of it, and her generous nature impelled her to speak.

"I think you always come off conqueror in a fight with self," she said. "Every one who knows you would say that you are ever ready to speak of your blessings, and that your trials are kept to yourself. I, on the contrary, have but a single grievance, and I take every opportunity of airing it. Most girls would be so glad and thankful to be placed as I am, that they would forget they had an excuse for grumbling at all."

"I am going to try not to spoil your drive, dear, but, like the parrot we have all read about, I am afraid I shall 'think the more.'"

"However, I will confess beforehand the spirit that is in me. I am seeing Mrs. Stapleton and her surroundings all the time. I am forced to own that her turn-out is perfection, but I am certain my Polly is equal to her Princess any day; that I should look as well as she does, and equal her at managing my horse, if I had the chance; that Polly would fly over the ground, and, as I am a lighter weight, would pass her steed like the wind. And all the while we are lumbering on in a carriage with old Mountain on the box, as if I were a dowager of seventy, instead of a girl not quite twenty. I have everything, but I am debarred from what I most long for, and the 'but' spoils the rest. I have done now, aunty. Said all that was in my mind. Now I shall struggle after a more contented spirit, and, whether I get it or not, I mean to be outwardly amiable for your sake."

Kathleen laid her hand on Mrs. Ellicott's. The latter pressed it lovingly, and no more was said about the girl's grievance.

Old Mountain, on the box, had thoughts very similar to those which exercised the mind of his young mistress, when Mrs. Stapleton cantered past.

"She looks a picture, a real pretty picture," thought he. "But our young miss would beat her on Polly. It does seem a pity she should be inside a carriage instead of outside a horse, though anybody might be proud to drive the like of Miss Kathleen. She's the image of her mother, and has a deal of her spirit too. No doubt the master saw it, and felt it would be best to make her promise as he did. Whether she likes it or not, he meant it for her good, and her poor mother paid dearly for breaking her word, though I don't suppose Miss Kathleen knows about that."

The coachman was right. Kathleen only knew that a few years ago, before the death of her father, he had exacted a promise from her to the effect that, so long as she remained unmarried, she would never join the Hollingsby or any other hunt.

"I say, so long as you are unmarried, Kathleen; for I hold that the wishes of the father, whether living or dead, must yield to those of the husband, when the daughter becomes a wife. But give me this promise, and a pledge that you will never appear on horseback, at meet or in the hunting-field, so long as you are Kathleen Mountford, and never after you change your name, except by the wish of your husband, and under his protection."

Kathleen readily gave the promise, which seemed a light one to the girl of fifteen. Mr. Mountford was ailing at the time, and she would have done anything in the world to give him pleasure. Then, after his death, and the contents of his will became known, the girl was hurt to find that Mr. Mountford had not contented himself with simply exacting a promise from her. He had attached certain penalties to any breach of Kathleen's pledge, and had she disobeyed his command, she would have paid for doing it by the loss of a large portion of her property.

Here was the sting of the whole affair.

"He might have trusted me," sobbed the girl. "I never broke my word to him, and now he is gone, a promise made to him is ever so much more sacred in my eyes. It will always be love for my father, not the thought of what I should lose, which will keep me from breaking my word, though he is no longer here to know that I do it."

A very thin thorn in the flesh will give pain quite out of proportion to its size. So with Kitty Mountford's grievance. Because it was a solitary one, it was perpetually making itself felt.

In a famous hunting county like Woldshire she was constantly reminded of it. All through the two last seasons she had writhed under the condolences of her unwise, but well-meaning friends. To one and all she gave jesting replies, answered with a ringing laugh, and made light of the whole affair.

"I am quite certain I should never care to join in a hunt, were I not prohibited from doing it. I am a daughter of Mother Eve, and my case is like hers. I have all but that one tree in my earthly paradise. I trust, nay, I feel sure, that I shall not follow Eve's example, in putting out my hand for the forbidden fruit."

Or Kathleen would vary her answer—

"The Hunt is my Bluebeard's chamber. But I will not unlock the door and suffer, as Mrs. Bluebeard had nearly done. You may risk your necks and steeds if you choose, and, provided you return unharmed, you shall come and tell me of your hairbreadth 'scapes and gallant doings in pursuit of a miserable fox. I can listen without envy, and Aunt Ellicott shall lift up her hands in horror, and lecture you roundly for joining such a barbarous crew as go to make up the Hollingsby Hunt."

Thus much for the past, as explaining the present mood in which Miss Mountford found herself.

As the carriage rolled on, Kathleen saw many a rider in black or scarlet, with snowy buckskins and shining spurs, on the way to the meet. Humbler riders there were, who made no brave show, either in person or dress, but whose horses, viewed by a judge, would have been deemed likely to hold their own through a long day's sport.

Vehicles of all sorts were carrying spectators, and it was quite impossible not to be pleased at the sight of trim huntsmen and merry faces.

All at once Kathleen's cheeks flushed crimson, as a pair of riders came abreast of the carriage. The elder of the two, Captain Torrance, would have liked Mountain to stop his horses, but the coachman was obstinately blind to his signal, and, if anything, increased the speed, to Kathleen's hardly-veiled annoyance. The girl could not suggest a pause. At the first glimpse of Captain Torrance, Mrs. Ellicott had become absorbed in the prospect at the opposite side of the way.

Kathleen could only return the salute of the rider, who bared and bent his handsome head, until it nearly touched the saddle.

Captain Jack, as he was usually called, was not disconcerted. He was quite contented with the sight of Mrs. Ellicott's bonnet-crown only. By her turning away she had enabled him to look Kathleen full in the face with undisguised admiration. He quickly noted the flush of pleasure which overspread it when he approached.

"Ignore me as you like, old lady," he said to himself, "so long as your fair ward's face lights up when I come near, and its expression is so eloquent, I care not which way your head is turned, or whether you smile or frown at Jack. Torrance. Come on, Ralph, or we shall be late," he said aloud, addressing a handsome, boyish imitation of himself, suitably mounted.

The little fellow looked gleefully at his father, and urged his pony on. It was a spirited little thing, and, like its youthful rider, had chafed at the momentary slackening of speed, when abreast of Miss Mountford's carriage, so away went the pair of riders at a rapid pace.

Captain Torrance was a widower with this one boy of nine years. Parent and child were almost inseparable, the child being taken everywhere that it was possible for him to go with his father.

"More's the pity," said many, who saw Captain Jack and little Ralph so constantly together.

"That young chip is the very model of the old block," thought Mountain, as he glanced at the boy. "Same black eyes, curly hair, and dreadnought look with him. And it stands to reason that the child will be like his father in ways, growing up with such a pattern always beside him. Captain Jack is fond of the lad, according to his lights; pity he doesn't show his love by sending Master Ralph to a good school a long way off, where his father wouldn't find it convenient to call too often. There's the making of a fine man in him; but he'll be marred;¹ he'll be marred past the mending. His mother was a sweet young lady, too, with a fine fortune. But she is gone, and if all tales be true, it is gone, or pretty nearly so, while Monk's How, the captain's property, is mortgaged to the full worth of it."

¹Spoiled.

"They do say the captain is on the look-out for another wife with plenty of money. There are not so many of that sort about, and girls, with fathers and mothers to see that they don't throw themselves away, will be kept out of his reach as far as possible."

Mountain's thoughts became a prayer, and he murmured, "God grant that Captain Torrance may not set his mind on my dear young mistress, or, if he does, that her eyes may be opened to see what he is, and what her life would be as his wife!"

"But then girls can seldom look farther than a man's face, if it is a handsome one, and if it's ugly, they won't look at it at all, however good a heart may be shining through it."

"I saw what the captain was after when he came by just now. He would have liked me to stop, so as he might poke his head in at the window and tell Miss Kathleen what a cruel shame it was that she must not ride Polly to the meet. But I can be a match for the captain when I'm on the box. I was not going to stop for the lifting up of his hand. There's none so blind as them that won't see, and I only pretended I didn't see him, and whatever Miss Kathleen may feel about it, I know the old mistress would be pleased, for anybody can tell that she cannot abear the captain."

Mountain laughed and chuckled to himself at the thought of having out-manoeuvred clever Captain Torrance, but he was not wholly successful in the long run. Later on, when Miss Mountford was looking with mingled envy and admiration at the gay gathering in front of Hollingsby Captain Jack found the opportunity which he had vainly sought on the road.

He brought his boy to the side of the carriage, and managed to say all the sympathetic words to Kathleen which were certain to have an irritating effect upon her.

By way of showing her vexation at not being allowed to display her pretty figure and fine horsemanship, and thus divide the honours with Mrs. Stapleton, she manifested her interest in little Ralph Torrance, and detained him and his father until the last minute before the start for Helmer Wood. She praised the boy's dress, seat, pony, looks, in short, everything about him, and when Ralph asked, "Why do you not ride, Miss Mountford?" she answered, "I am not old enough to be trusted, Ralph," with an upward glance at the captain, half expressive of indignation, half of amusement.

"Why, you are grown-up, and ever so much older than I am. I was nine last week, you know, but of course you are a girl—a lady, I mean—and you couldn't go by yourself, could you?"

"Not very well, Ralph; but I think somebody might be found to take care of me," replied Kathleen. "Only I must not ride for all that."

"I see," said Ralph, gravely. "You have no father like I have. Father has taken such care of me, and shown me how to ride so well, that now I'm not a bit afraid. I could almost take care of you. Anyway, father would, I'm certain, for he says I want scarcely any looking after. You would look after Miss Mountford, would you not?" said Ralph, turning his bright eyes from Kathleen's face to his father's. Then he added, "Wouldn't it be just lovely for us three to go together?"

"Quite too lovely," replied the captain, as he gave his boy's curly head a pat. "Bravo, Ralph! You know how to contrive matters. I should be glad indeed if I were privileged to take care of Miss Mountford. I hope she knows that I would shield her from harm at the cost of my life."

The speaker did not look at the boy, but at Kathleen, as he answered the questions. The last sentence reached her ears only, and her face was all aglow in an instant, for the captain's look was more eloquent than were his words.

It was well that at this instant the huntsman's horn gave the signal for starting. Ralph was far too eager to disobey it, and, with a farewell salute to Kathleen and a laughing glance at the high-spirited lad who was already in advance of him, the captain joined the gay cavalcade on the way to Helmer Wood.

Kathleen bent from the carriage window, and watched until the gay procession was lost in the wood-then the order was given to Mountain to turn his horses homeward.

Kathleen lay back in the carriage seemingly lost in thought. The sky might keep its blue or become cloudy, the sun might shine, and leaf and berry glow with bravest colouring, but all were lost upon her now. Still, her thoughts must have been pleasant ones, for now and then a smile flitted across her face, and it kept the colour summoned to it by the questions of Ralph and the responses of his father.

Mrs. Ellicott was thoroughly annoyed. She strongly disliked Captain Torrance, or rather the character of the man, and she was not a little afraid of him. Who could look at his handsome face and perfect turn-out, and hear his well-turned compliments, without dreading the effect of them on a girl like Kathleen?

It was said of the captain that he gave way to outbursts of passion, and that he was overbearing and tyrannical to a degree, where servants and dependants were concerned. That to such his speech was coarse, and often profane. That the boy, so like him in person, resembled him also in his faults, and that both were on the high-road to ruin.

These things were, however, all matters of hearsay to Mrs. Ellicott, for in the company of ladies who so courtly as Captain Jack? Who so gentle in speech, winning in manner, delicate and apt in paying compliments and doing honour to the sex as he? So, whilst the young admired and listened with pleased faces and heightened colour, prudent mothers hovered round their daughters whenever the captain approached them.

During the few minutes that he held converse with Kathleen at the carriage window, Mrs. Ellicott had shown as plainly as possible that his presence was anything but agreeable to herself. A stiff inclination of the head in response to his low bow, as brief replies as were consistent with civility to his inquiries after her health, and a reserve and stiffness of manner very much unlike Mrs. Ellicott, marked her reception of Captain Torrance.

These indications of the elder lady's feelings only amused Captain Jack, and again he asked himself, "What care I whether the aunt frowns or not, so long as Kathleen smiles, and a little compliment from my lips can bring that lovely colour to her cheeks? She is pretty enough and sweet enough for a man to give his heart to, quite irrespective of her more substantial attractions," mused the captain. "If I were a rich man, instead of being worse than poor, in debt, I should delight to lay my fortune at her feet. Knowing this, I have less compunction about taking hers, if I can get it, along with her sweet self. How like her mother she is! Fair, and with the same lovely Irish eyes that poor Mrs. Mountford had. I could never name the colour, and sometimes I thought they were deep grey, at others violet, but both mother's and daughter's were of the tint that I never saw except in an Irish girl's head. They remind one, by their liquid brightness, of the glorious nights we see now and then, when the stars seem as if they were fairly trembling and quivering with light. My Adela was handsomer than most fair women, but she was not to name beside Kathleen Mountford."

"I wish Ralph were like his mother, instead of being such a ridiculous image of me. I do not want the boy to grow up another Captain Jack, and sometimes I think, if his face were a reflection of Adela's, it would help me to be a better man, by reminding me of all she was to me. I love the boy even more for his mother's sake than for his own." No one could doubt the captain's affection for his son, however much opinion might be divided as to his manner of showing it. The redeeming trait in his past life had been his unswerving devotion to his wife, during the few years they spent together. He might well love her when living, and reverence her memory when dead.

She had given him her whole heart, when men and women were looking coldly upon him. She had refused to listen when friends would have told her hard truths and whispered words of warning. She had repaired his damaged fortune by the gift of her own, and thought nothing too good to bestow upon him.

Captain Torrance might spend his wife's money as recklessly as he chose; if only he were the happier for doing it, she never complained. Her single regret was, that she had no more to give. It was perhaps well for Mrs. Torrance that she did not live long enough to become fully acquainted with the darker, more selfish sides of her husband's character. These would have shown themselves, had money failed during their short married life. There was no scarcity of cash, no call for self-denial on the captain's part, so he remained an ideal husband in the eyes of Mrs. Torrance, and he really loved her as deeply as his nature permitted.

Her last look was for him. Her last words were, "I only care about dying because I have to leave you, Jack, and our child." Her last act had been to place unreservedly in his hands the small portion of her fortune which up to then she had held in her own right.

"You shall have it to the last penny, dear," she had said. "There are only you and Ralph. No fear of your failing to care well for him."

And so he did and had done, according to his idea of caring, during the years that had passed since the death of his wife.

[CHAPTER III]

A HEAVY PENALTY

CAPTAIN TORRANCE made no mistake when he spoke of the great beauty of Kathleen Mountford's mother, and of its reproduction in the girl herself.

Mrs. Mountford was under twenty when she became a wife. She was a poor, but well-born Irish girl, named Kathleen Dillon, whom Mr. Mountford met when he was past forty, and regarded by all his friends as a confirmed bachelor. After a very short acquaintance the two were married, and he proved a most devoted and indulgent husband to the young wife who was less than half his own age.

Mrs. Mountford was proud of her conquest, and truly loved her husband, but she was of an impetuous and somewhat wilful disposition. She would often take advantage of Mr. Mountford's almost unlimited indulgence, and liked to show that she had only to ask and to have, or to have without the asking, whatever she set her mind upon, whether wisely or otherwise. In time, however, Mr. Mountford realised that he might be more truly kind in refusing than in granting some of his wife's demands, and that her real happiness would be best furthered by the exercise of his own sober judgment. Then followed a sort of struggle for mastery. Mrs. Mountford had been so long used to follow the bent of her own will, that she chafed under the slightest opposition. Sometimes, when her silence led Mr. Mountford to think that she agreed with him, she would take the first opportunity of setting his orders at defiance. If he showed displeasure, she would try him sorely by keeping out of his sight, or when in it, answering only by monosyllables and resolutely declining to share in anything he might propose.

Probably Mrs. Mountford punished herself quite as much as she did her husband. For, with her lively disposition and impetuosity of temper, such a state of things was no light trial. A few hours of it, and her lovely face would look like that of a troubled child. Her eyes would fill with tears, her lips would tremble, and she would look at her husband with an expression half penitent, half reproachful, as if mutely asking—

"How can you be so cruel, and treat my little faults so seriously? I am only a child compared with one who is so wise as you."

One pleading pitiful look from those wonderful eyes, and Mr. Mountford was certain to yield unconditionally. His arms would be extended, the young wife would fly to them, and as he clasped her to his breast she would sob out complaints of his unkindness.

"You know I never want to vex you, Kenneth," she would say. "But I am just a spoiled child, and you have helped to make me worse. You will have to be ever so patient with me, and you know you ought to be, because you are older, and so very wise. When you were so cross and looked grave, I felt perfectly crushed. Oh, Kenneth, how could you be so hard?"

Mr. Mountford might conscientiously feel that he had been anything but cross or harsh, considering that his wife had deliberately disobeyed commands which were wholly for her own good. He might be certain that he was the injured party, that he ought to insist on obedience to his will, especially when it involved no privation worth the name. But his intense love for his wife made him as wax in her hands, and while conscious that he had right on his side, he was full of remorse at the thought of having pained a creature so loving and beautiful, and so like a child in her wilfulness.

After such an outbreak there would be peace for a time. Home would be a little heaven, blessed too, at length, with music of a kind unknown in paradise, that of a baby voice.

The birth of Kathleen, which did not take place until three years after her parents' marriage, brought added sunshine to the home. Mr. Mountford had hoped for a son, but was more than satisfied with the baby daughter whose face was a reflection of her mother's. Husband and wife were more devoted to each other than ever, and during Kathleen's early days Mrs. Mountford was willing to live more quietly, and gave herself up without regret to the new sweet cares her child had brought her. But when the little one was three, and there was no further addition to her family, Mrs. Mountford began to resume her old life, and longed for pleasures outside the sphere of home. Not that she wearied of her little one, but her watchfulness over Kathleen only occupied a small portion of her time, and she was incapable, owing to differences in tastes and education, of entering into many of her husband's pursuits.

Mr. Mountford was doubly indulgent, on account of the difference in age between himself and his wife. He was older than his years, she younger than hers, and he felt it alike a privilege and a duty to give her every lawful pleasure natural to her youth, without considering himself in any way.

Mrs. Mountford was a graceful, but somewhat daring rider, and her husband had delighted to mount her in fitting fashion. The horse she had ridden for a couple of years met with an accident, became lame, and was condemned as unfit for her further use. A new one was bought, and she was full of admiration at its appearance, and eager to try if its other qualities equalled its looks.

"I shall try the new horse to-morrow morning, Kenneth," she said. "He is rightly named Prince, for he is a magnificent animal. How good you are to replace poor Rajah with such another royal quadruped! You must have been sadly extravagant though, for I am sure only a high price can have bought him."

Mrs. Mountford had risen from her seat, and was about to rush towards her husband in her usual impulsive fashion, and pay him for his gift by a shower of kisses. But a word stopped her on the way.

"Never mind the price, darling. If Prince suits you, he will be well worth all I have paid for him. But you must not ride him for a day or two. His temper must be well tested before I trust my treasure on his back."

A shade of annoyance passed over Mrs. Mountford's face, and she answered quickly, "Who so fit to test the horse's temper as myself? You say he has been used to carrying a lady."

"They say so from whom I bought him, dear; but horse-dealers have been known to conceal a fault which was not to be found out except on closer acquaintance. If you were less precious to me, I should be less careful of your safety, perhaps. Nay, I will not say that. I trust I should be incapable of exposing any human being to risk of life. I would rather peril my own."

"But, Kenneth, you know how I can ride. When I was a mere child, my father would let me mount any horse he had, no matter what its temper, and say, 'If Kitty cannot ride him, no one can.' I am not afraid either of Prince or for myself."

"But I am afraid for you, my darling. Think now, if anything went wrong for want of precaution on my part, what would become of our child and me? The light of my life would be extinguished."

Mr. Mountford looked at his wife with a world of honest love in his eyes, but his voice trembled at the bare thought of such a misfortune as his words suggested.

"No fear, Kenneth. I can manage the horse well enough, and I mean to try."

She answered with a glance of defiance, in no way moved by the tender words, because they clashed with the indulgence of her own whim.

"You shall try, dear, as soon as I am satisfied that you can do so with safety. And now come, darling, and pay me in your own sweet way for your new steed."

Mrs. Mountford, however, hung back, and with a little impatient toss of her head replied, "You know the old saying, Kenneth, 'There are only two bad paymasters, those who pay in advance, and those who never pay at all.' You must wait until Prince is mine, before you ask for his price from me."

"I do not know how he can be more yours, seeing that I have paid for him."

"He is yours no doubt, Kenneth. He will only be mine when I am permitted to use him."

"Which shall be as soon as—" began Mr. Mountford, but his wife did not wait for the rest of the sentence. Without even resuming her seat or holding further conversation with her husband, she swept from the room. If she had given one look behind her, the sight of Mr. Mountford's face might have moved her. It was so full of sorrow, and all for herself. He might well have been angry, for he had spent a large sum to give her pleasure, and if he had bidden her stay her hand before taking possession of Prince, it was only to insure her safety, and she well knew this.

There was bitter disappointment, too, for the loving husband. The pair had been much more united of late, and consequently, far happier. Mrs. Mountford's old wilfulness had apparently softened down, and she had manifested greater confidence in her husband's judgment, and willingness to fall in with it.

Even in this moment of renewed trouble Mr. Mountford was chiefly anxious for his wife's pleasure.

It was the eve of the great meet at Hollingsby, and, as on the morning just described, the event of the season to which every one was looking eagerly forward. Mr. Mountford knew the keen delight with which his wife anticipated this gathering, and he had ever been proud to see her the centre of admiring eyes, as they rode to Hollingsby together.

How disappointed she would be that the new purchase had come too late for her to use! What could be done in the short time that remained? Anything rather than she should not take her usual place.

A few moments' thought, and Mr. Mountford went to his wife's room to tell her of his plan. She was not there, or in the nursery, and one of the servants said, "Mrs. Mountford is out, sir. I don't think she's off the place, for she wasn't dressed for a proper walk."

Mr. Mountford instinctively turned towards the stables, and met his wife on the threshold.

"I have been looking at your new horse, Kenneth," she said. "He really improves on acquaintance, so far as appearance goes," she added, with marked emphasis on the last words.

Mr. Mountford noticed this, but made no comment.

"I have been thinking, dear, that you might ride my hunter to-morrow, and I will take the other horse, which is as good in everything but looks."

"I shall do nothing of the kind, Kenneth. I may be selfish, but I am not so selfish as to deprive you of your usual mount. I shall not accompany you to Hollingsby. Still, I must not forget my manners. Thank you for offering me your animal."

Mrs. Mountford dropped a demure little curtsey, then turned towards the house, without heeding whether her husband followed or not. She had given him a fresh sting, she knew, but she was not in the mood to care for having hurt his feelings. As to the husband, how could he help being displeased?

"She must take her own wilful way," he decided. "For once she shall punish herself; and I know it will be no light punishment for her to stay away from the meet to-morrow."

Accordingly, Mr. Mountford made no further allusion to the subject; and when the time came he left the house after an affectionate farewell, to which his wife responded, as if she were perfectly contented to see him set out alone. He did not notice the look of determination in her face, or the mischievous light in her eyes. He was only glad that there were neither tears nor reproaches.

A few minutes after his departure, the new horse, saddled and ready for a lady's use, was led round by the groom, and Mrs. Mountford appeared in riding-dress ready to mount it.

"I beg your pardon, madam," said the groom, touching his hat, "but are you sure there's no mistake about taking this horse out? I hope I know my place, but the master spoke so particular to me, and said the new horse was on no account to be ridden by anybody without his orders."

"I am not anybody, James. I suppose you know that Prince has been bought specially for my use, and naturally Mr. Mountford would not wish it to be used by any one else. We talked about the animal last night, and I told him I should try Prince this morning."

"Of course, madam, you know best, and if you and my master settled it, no doubt it will be all right. He cannot blame me."

"Why should you be blamed for doing as I tell you?" asked Mrs. Mountford sharply. "Have you ever been found fault with for obeying me?"

"No, madam. I would not have said a word, only the master was so very particular in giving the order. He seemed anxious to make sure of Prince's temper by more than hearsay. And besides, I never knew him change his mind about any order he had given without letting me know, until now, and I've lived fifteen years with him."

"When your master comes back you can ask him whether I told him or not, that I should ride Prince this morning, and see what he will say to you. Long service will hardly excuse your impertinence even in his eyes. When I join him at the appointed place, I will prepare him for your question."

"I've done it," said James, to a stable-boy who had listened open-mouthed to the conversation, wondering the while how anybody dared cross the mistress.

"She'll do you no harm. Everybody says that she just flies up for a minute, and then it's all over."

"I didn't mean that I was afraid of the mistress. I'm only afraid that, after all, I've done wrong in letting her have the new horse. I wish I'd locked the stable door and set my back against it, and shouted the master's orders straight at her, instead of doing as she told me. I should be almost glad if she were to get a bit of a tumble, only it would hurt him worse than her."

In the meanwhile Mrs. Mountford was taking a roundabout route to Hollingsby, so as to approach the meeting-place by another entrance, and not to arrive until after her husband. She had some qualms of conscience, but Prince was so easy to ride, and looked such a perfect animal, that the enjoyment was worth risking something for.

"Kenneth would feel angry at first, but—" and then a laugh followed the thought, as Mrs. Mountford looked back on the many occasions when the witchery of her ways, joined to his deep affection, had driven the cloud from his brow, and in place of fault-finding, she had met with loving words and caresses. At the worst he would only preach a little, and she was used to that. He was the dearest, best of men, only anxious about her, and graver of speech and ways, as was natural to one about twenty years her senior.

Mr. Mountford was answering inquiries about his wife, and listening to regrets on account of her absence, when a neighbour exclaimed, "Why, Mountford, you said your wife was not coming. She is here, and what an animal she is riding! A beauty to look at, but somehow I think I have seen him before, and—"

The speaker hesitated, and Mr. Mountford, hiding the surprise and indignation which agitated him, replied hastily, "She has changed her mind and followed me. I hardly thought she would have trusted herself on her new horse, and she refused to take mine, and let me ride another." In an anxious whisper he added, "I hope you know nothing against the animal. I had the best of characters with him, but he is untried, so far as my ownership goes."

"I really am not sure that I know the horse," was the somewhat hesitating reply. "In any case, if I ever saw him before, he had a lady on his back, and with Mrs. Mountford's perfect horsemanship you can hardly be anxious. She can ride anything."

Mr. Mountford thanked the speaker, and set out to join his wife. He was justly displeased, but displeasure was overborne by anxiety, and all he could think of was his wife's safety. She saw him coming, and, impelled by a spirit of mischief, evaded him again and again, showing off her horse and turning laughing glances at her friends, as if to invite them to share in her amusement.

It would be useless to tell the thoughts which occupied Mr. Mountford's mind. He felt powerless. He would not say a word which would betray the real state of the case. He would watch over his wilful darling, and hope for the best.

Later in the day that gay company saw a pitiful sight. A horse, with the bit between his teeth, and a lady on his back, was tearing at breakneck speed towards one of the most dangerous spots at which a leap could be made.

An agonised husband was following as best he might, with the sense that only a miracle could save his wife from death.

A little later still, and Mrs. Mountford lay a senseless heap on the other side of a barrier from which the most daring riders had thought it no shame to turn aside, and the horse was careering madly onward at his will.

Mrs. Mountford was not killed, but beside several lesser injuries, there was one to the spine, which rendered it improbable that she would ever walk again. And what seemed almost more terrible to herself, her eyes had come in contact with an outstretching bough, and all the skill that could be brought to bear upon them would neither preserve nor restore her sight.

Mr. Mountford's distress and self-reproach were sad to witness. It might have been thought that he had little cause to blame himself, seeing that he had striven to hedge his beautiful wife round from harm in every possible way. But true love makes, if it cannot find, excuses for the faults of its object, and is willing to share the blame, though itself guiltless, and to endure the suffering which is the result of them.

Whilst Mrs. Mountford's life was in danger her husband harassed himself with undeserved reproaches.

"Knowing her temperament as I did, I ought not to have left her. She is so young still, and what in the eyes of older people seems blamable, in hers was a girlish frolic to be laughed over and readily forgiven. I thought my orders to James were so positive that he would never dream of disobeying them, and that she would be unable to ride Prince, if she thought of doing so. But I forget that whilst I was head and master she was mistress, and that I had never brooked disobedience to her orders. If I had only stayed at home to watch over her, all would have been well. She might have been angry and pouted a little, but I could have borne these trifles, as I had often done before."

One thought brought an additional sting with it. Mr. Mountford had ascertained by what arguments his wife had induced the groom to bring out Prince for her use, and he knew that it was by an implied falsehood she had succeeded.

[CHAPTER IV]

BLIND, YET SEEING

MANY a weary day and watchful night were passed by Mr. Mountford, before his wife was pronounced out of present danger. But the sentence of hopeless blindness, and a life, probably a short one and of comparative helplessness, hung over her, and no human skill could avert these.

At length the state of the invalid was so far improved that she could be wheeled into another room on a level with that in which she slept. It was a bright morning in early spring before she reached this stage, and the air was fresh without coldness.

"Wheel me close to the window," she whispered. "I want to feel the sunshine that I shall not see again." Tears streamed from the sightless eyes, still beautiful, for the injury had left them undisfigured, though the life was gone from them.

Mrs. Mountford's wish was carried out, and the couch placed in the deep bay-window. The sun shone straight in upon her, and made the tear-drops glisten on her wan face. She thanked the nurse and her maid with a smile which brought moisture to their eyes. She had been very gentle and patient through her illness, for pain, which in some cases causes irritation, had in hers been overmastered by remorse, and all the old petulant ways were gone.

"You can leave me now, and tell Mr. Mountford I am ready for him to come," she added.

"I am here, darling," replied her husband.

"I might have known," she whispered, as he bent over her, and drawing his head down, she kissed him tenderly again and again.

He seated himself so as to be on a level with her, but again she drew his head to her breast and held him in a close embrace. Hitherto, neither of them had spoken to the other of that terrible day, but now Mrs. Mountford whispered—

"Can you ever forgive me, Kenneth? I have been longing to ask you, ever since I knew what my wickedness had brought on you. I say you, darling husband, for though I know you will place my loss of sight and helplessness as worst of all, because I have to bear them through all my life, I am sure you have suffered even more than I have. Besides, bodily pain is not the worst part, though you have borne that along with me. I understand something about what sympathy means, when such love goes with it; for whenever our little one was ill, every pain she had was a double stab to me. And once when you were ill, my husband, it was the same or worse. To see those we love suffer is so hard. It would be bliss to bear the pain, if by doing this one could spare them. If such a poor, weak, wilful creature as I am can feel in this way, what must you have endured for my sake?"

Mrs. Mountford spoke softly and slowly, still holding her husband clasped closely to her.

He could not answer, and she knew why. She passed her slender fingers over his face, and felt the tears that he could not keep back, and knew, by the heaving of his breast, that he was too much overcome by emotion to utter a word in reply.

She waited patiently for a while, dried the tears as they fell, and kissed his hair, even, as his; head lay close to her. She could not, and never would, see how it had changed of late. Where only a few silver threads had been, it was now all grey.

"Kenneth," she whispered at length, "you must not grieve. I am not worth such love and tears, but I want you to tell me I am forgiven first, and then—"

"My darling, do not speak of forgiveness. I forgave you long, long ago," said Mr. Mountford.

"That is what I wanted. I should not have liked you to say that there was nothing to forgive, because even when I was planning to deceive you on that awful day, conscience was showing me my wickedness, and striving with me, only I would not listen. Do you know, Kenneth, I was worse than wilful, defiant, and disobedient? I was untruthful. I who had always been proud to say, that whatever were my faults, falsehood in any shape had never been one of them. It was so mean, Kenneth, to deceive James, by saying that I had told you I should ride Prince that morning, and not saying that you had forbidden me to mount him until you had made sure that he was fit for me to use with safety."

"I ought to have stayed with you and made sure," said Mr. Mountford. "I have reproached myself ever since for having left you alone. It would have been no privation for me to give up the meet."

"Do not reproach yourself, Kenneth. If I had been such a wife as you had a right to expect, there would have been no need for you to stay. Looking back, it seems horrible that my wilfulness should have made it necessary for me to have a keeper as well as a husband in you, and that if I were out of your sight you were made miserable, lest I should bring harm upon myself. I shall need no watcher now," added Mrs. Mountford, with a pitiful realization of her helplessness.

"But you will have my companionship, dearest. All that I can do I will. I will be eyes to you, and tell all that is passing. Thank God, you have seen, and as I describe the changes that are going on around us, memory will enable you to picture them, though you cannot now see them. My feet shall turn whither you will, and be your messengers. My hands shall be such willing hands in your service. Every day our child will grow more able to join me in loving ministry, and her prattle will cheer you."

"I know, Kenneth dearest, what you will be. My sorest trial is that I cannot see your face and our child's. Perhaps, after all, it matters less about seeing yours, for I can never forget it, and you will grow no older to me, though I may live to be a white-haired grandmother."

Mrs. Mountford laughed at the thought, for Kathleen was but three and a half years old. But the laugh died almost as it was born, as she added with a sigh—"They say that all the other senses become more acute when sight is gone. I shall have to pass my hand over Kitty's face and hair, and measure her height from time to time, and you will tell me about everything, will you not?"

"I will, dearest."

"And when I am a little stronger you will bring poor James to see me, and I will ask his pardon for having deceived him. I shall not be quite happy till I have done that."

Mr. Mountford promised, and in due time James was taken to see his mistress and hear her confession. He came away blubbering, poor fellow, like a school-boy, and declaring that if by taking her helplessness on himself he could restore her strength, he would do it; and those who heard believed him.

But neither love nor skill could greatly prolong Mrs. Mountford's life, and four years after the accident she died.

In spite of the elements of suffering and sadness, which of necessity were always present, those four years were not unhappy ones. The outer vision of the invalid might be gone for ever, but the spiritual vision became clearer and brighter day by day, in the case of both husband and wife.

"It needed a terrible lesson to show me myself first, for I had never been conscious either of my ignorance of all that is best worth knowing, or of what I was in God's sight: I was always sorry when I grieved you, Kenneth, for I did love you, and I knew something of your love for me. But I never felt any sorrow for the real sin, or penitence towards God. I have never known or wanted to know much of Him, though I suppose I should have been shocked and angry if any one had accused me of not believing in God; but they would have told the truth. I just took it for granted there was one, and never troubled myself any more about the matter. Not knowing, how could I love Him who never came into my thoughts as a great reality? But now—oh, the blessed difference! It is true happiness to be allowed in ever so little a way to love Him who is love. The pity of it is, that now I can never show my love by service. I cannot go about amongst the poor and tell them the sweet lesson I have learned, or do them good for Christ's sake."

"My darling, you think of and care for many whom you cannot visit or cheer with your presence and kind words."

Mrs. Mountford shook her head. "The only thing I can do is to bear my blindness and helplessness with patient submission, and to thank God that I did not die without having time for repentance. If I have been patient, He has made me so in answer to prayer."

"You are patience itself, dearest. Every one feels it a privilege to wait upon and learn sweet lessons of endurance from you," replied her husband.

"Every one is good and kind. You, my husband, most of all. I see now what a precious gift God gave me in you. We have been happy, in spite of everything. We are of one mind now, and as each day brings us nearer to the parting hour we are drawn closer in love. When my place on earth is empty, you will always remember that God sees us both, though we cannot see each other."

"I shall not forget, but I hope to keep you and minister to you for years to come."

"Better say 'wish;' for you can hardly hope now. I remember how I used to say so glibly, 'I believe in the communion of saints,' when I repeated the creed in church, along with others. But now I know what the words mean. When you praise God on earth, Kenneth, and I, by His grace, in the home above, there will still be communion."

"True, but communion which will be perfected when we meet again, dear wife."

"Yes, to us; but I suppose it will be always perfect to Him who sees and hears us both."

Such conversations were frequent between the husband and wife, and gave them great comfort. Both were deeply anxious about little Kathleen. It cheered the dying mother to think that, as her child was nearly eight years old, she was not likely to forget her altogether.

"Keep my memory green with Kitty," she would say. "The child is so constantly with you, and will be more so, if possible, when I am gone. Do not let her forget her mother, though she will only picture me as blind and helpless."

"No fear of her forgetting you whilst I live," replied Mr. Mountford, and he ever took the greatest pains to carry out his wife's wish. One thing was, however, carefully kept from Kathleen, not only when she was a child, but afterwards. She knew that her mother had been injured by being thrown from her horse, but the story of her wilfulness and disobedience was never repeated in Kathleen's presence.

Mrs. Ellicott, the widowed sister of Mr. Mountford, had been invited to remain with him after his wife's death. The sisters-in-law had always been great friends, and it had comforted Mrs. Mountford to think that Kathleen would have sweet motherly influences around her as she grew up to girlhood and womanhood.

So long as her father lived, the girl was fairly amenable to these, but she was only fifteen when she lost him, and before that time he had noted with some anxiety the great resemblance between her and her mother, as he had first known her. In one sense the likeness gave him pleasure, in another pain.

Kathleen had almost equal beauty and the same high spirits and winsome ways. But sometimes Mr. Mountford caught glimpses of wilfulness and an ungovernable temper, such as had cost her mother so dear. She would be a great heiress, for though a generous man, Mr. Mountford was a prudent one. From the date of his wife's accident he had lived very quietly, and he continued to do so after her death. His property was not entailed, and he never contemplated leaving any portion of it to a male relative. It was all for Kathleen, and would be hers absolutely when she was twenty-one, or married with the consent of her guardians. These were Mrs. Ellicott, who with her daughter, Geraldine, would, he hoped, live at Hollingsby Hall with Kathleen, at least, until she attained her majority.

Her other guardian was a young man of only twenty-two at the time of his appointment to this somewhat onerous position. His father, Mr. Mountford's oldest friend, had been originally selected, but whilst willing to accede to the request made, he pleaded unsuitability on account of age.

"When people appoint guardians and executors, they need not only to consider the character and business qualities of the individuals chosen, but whether they will be likely to see the trust to an end. I am ten years older than you, and much less vigorous in many ways. Humanly speaking, you are far more likely to outlive me than I you, and I trust you will see your bright girl developed into a noble woman. I will, however, consent to be named as your executor and Kathleen's guardian, if my son may be associated with me in the trust. Then you will have an old head and a pair of young shoulders, but not united in the same individual."

The speaker, Mr. Matheson, of Westhill, noticed a peculiar look on his friend's face as he made this suggestion, and without waiting for a reply he continued: "I see that amused look, Mountford, and I know what it means. You think that to appoint a young fellow of two-and-twenty to be co-guardian with his father of a beautiful girl only eight years younger than himself, and an heiress to boot, is suggestive of match-making in the future."

"I do not deny it," replied Mr. Mountford, "but I will add more than the smile expressed. Knowing what Aylmer is, I could wish nothing better for Kathleen than to be the wife of such a man. But all the same, I would not by word or act influence the choice of my child or your son."

"And by appointing Aylmer as one of her trustees, you raise a very effectual barrier to any nearer union between him and Kathleen. Though I say it, and he is my only son, Aylmer Matheson will put every thought of self aside in his fulfilment of the trust reposed in him, if he should have to act as Kathleen's guardian. But I fervently hope that no one will have to take a father's place to her."

This wish was not fulfilled, and though Mr. Mountford died before his old friend, Mr. Matheson only survived him about two years.

From the age of seventeen, Kathleen had been under the joint guardianship of Mrs. Ellicott and Aylmer Matheson, the latter combining the double qualifications of young shoulders and the wise head which is not generally supposed to accompany them. In appearance he was tall and well-proportioned, rather fair than dark, with rebellious brown hair which no amount of cutting and brushing would deprive of its natural wave and tendency to curl. It was, however, carried well back from a broad and high forehead, and a pair of dark grey eyes, whose expression betokened courage and honesty. A brown moustache and otherwise clean-shaven, rather pale face, and the description is fairly complete. Perhaps, however, the paleness was rather comparative, as it was only noticeable in contrast with the colour which was never lacking on the face of Captain Torrance, between whom and Aylmer Matheson, it was commonly said, there was no love lost.

Those who knew these two men were not surprised at the saying, and would have deemed anything like friendship between them as equally impossible and absurd. Unlikeness is often a help to friendship rather than otherwise. Weakness, whether of character or person, generally looks for strength in its chief friend. Beauty often honestly admires ugliness, or while admiring the other qualities of a plain-visaged friend, is secretly glad that in her she has a foil which enhances her own charms by contrast, instead of a rival.

The waverer is thankful to be taken possession of and managed by the friend who can promptly decide whether to say "Yes" or "No," and who is equally able to give a reason for her answer.

And so on ad infinitum; but in friendship as in marriage, it is only when opposite qualities in the individuals concerned tend to mutual well-being, and the formation of a harmonious whole, that satisfactory results can be hoped for.

Candour cannot be friends with cunning, honesty with fraud, truth with falsehood. The nature which delights in good-doing, even when it demands self-sacrifice, can never join hands with one whose sole aim is self-indulgence and self-aggrandisement. The merciful and the cruel, the liberal and the churlish, the brave and the cowardly, are in each case separated by barriers none the less real because they are invisible to the eye.

The higher nature may pity the lower and long to elevate it, but the two cannot work as friends without such assimilation.

There must at least be kindred principles strong enough to overcome, or even utilize the many minor points of difference which may exist, without proving any bar to a real friendship, or the closer union of which marriage should be the precursor.

Alas, that so close a union should not always mean true unity of hearts, aims, hopes, and lives!

Of Captain Torrance's character something has already been told. Of Aylmer Matheson's only good can be written.

An only son and idolized by his father, he repaid this affection by filial devotion. A man of scholarly attainments and refined tastes, whose society was much sought after, Aylmer was content to share the country pursuits in which his father delighted, and to live almost wholly at Westhill after leaving Oxford. Whilst at college he had been the generous friend and helper of young men who needed such aid. In society he was self-possessed, but modest; in manners as courteous and considerate to the lowly as to those who filled high places.

In one respect Aylmer and his father closely resembled each other. Unlike too many young men, Aylmer was not ashamed to confess Christ before the world, but gladly acknowledged that his chief desire was to be numbered amongst His true soldiers and servants, and to spend and be spent in doing His will.

It will be easily imagined that friendship between Captain Jack Torrance and Aylmer Matheson could hardly exist.

[CHAPTER V]

UNDER WATCH AND WARD

IT seemed strange that the huge building which was the country residence of the Honourable Edmund Arthur Holwynd, Earl of Waybridge, should be simply Hollingsby, whilst the smaller, but far prettier home of the Mountfords, should be styled Hollingsby Hall. But so it was, and though ignorant strangers would sometimes call the latter Little Hollingsby by way of distinction, such were always sternly rebuked by the older dwellers in the neighbourhood.

Everybody knew that the earl was only the representative of a very modern peerage, and that his rambling house, red brick with white stone facings, was no old family-seat, but the outcome of a large expenditure of money with the minimum of taste on the part of his father, the first peer.

The Hall, on the contrary, was known to occupy part of the site of a much larger building that had stood there centuries ago, and always this spot had been owned by a Mountford.

Kathleen's father had told her a good deal about her home and those who had owned it.

"You ought to know all about it, Kitty," he said, "for it will be yours some day. The estate which goes with the Hall is not a large one, but it is large enough to keep up a house of this size. You have heard of estates being burdened, and even lost, because some foolish owner could not be satisfied without building a place too large for his means. The Mountfords of old were wiser in their day and generation."

"One of them, four grandfathers back, I believe, was living like some who had gone before, in the old Hall, or rather part of it, for it was too big for the income. So like a wise man he saved enough to pull it down and to build this pretty nest in which you were born."

"The Mountfords have been very jealous about their lands, and proud of their name. They would never entail the estate, but trusted to each generation to pass it on intact to the next. So it has been hitherto, though, so far, an heir has never been lacking. Now the good name of the old Mountfords will have to be kept up by a slip of a girl when I am gone. Remember, dear, ours is an honest name. We have prided ourselves on living within our means, that we might have something wherewith to show our love to God by helping our neighbour; on hating debt and keeping aloof from habits and associates who were likely to lead us into it."

"Kitty darling, when you are mistress of Hollingsby Hall, keep to the old Mountford traditions, and show that in all that is lovely and of good report, a woman need not be a whit behind the men of her family. If I should be taken from you, you will be lovingly guarded, and I trust you will look on those to whose care you are committed as representing your parents, for they have been prayerfully chosen, and are worthy of your esteem."

Of course Kathleen had wept when she heard these words, and had thrown herself into her father's arms, ready to promise anything, and feeling resolved that the old name, home, and estates should never be lowered, lost, or lessened through her. All the same, she hoped that the dear father would live to see her quite old, a wish not destined to be realized.

Mr. Mountford had directed that Kathleen should be educated at home, and, as Mrs. Ellicott's daughter, Geraldine, or Ger, as her cousin called her, was only two years older, the girls would study together happily enough. A liberal income was to be set aside for the maintenance of the home, and Kathleen was to be brought up with the same surroundings as she would have been had her father lived.

"Better she should be accustomed to all that her means justify, than be deprived of what she has been used to from childhood, and then placed in absolute possession of a large fortune when she comes of age," he had said.

So Hollingsby Hall showed little change during Kathleen's girlhood. All the old servants stayed on under Mrs. Ellicott's rule; but the large sum of money which Mr. Mountford had left to his daughter in addition to the estate became larger each year, as the income from the latter more than met all expenses.

A wilful ward

"I SHALL NOT BE LIKELY TO CHOOSE AGAIN, KATHLEEN."

A WILFUL WARD

BY RUTH LAMB

Author of

"Only a Girl Wife," "Her Own Choice,"

"In the Twilight Side by Side,"

"Not Quite a Lady," etc.

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard

CONTENTS