THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. XX.—No. 1006.]

[Price One Penny.

APRIL 8, 1899.

[Transcriber’s Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]

[ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.]
[THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.]
[HER KINGDOM OF DREAMS.]
[SHEILA.]
[FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS.]
[“OUR HERO.”]
[ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.]

[ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.]

By JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters Three,” etc.

AT THE CROSS ROADS.

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER XXVII.

Arthur kept his word, and tried manfully not to let his own disappointment interfere with the enjoyment of Christmas Day. The party at the vicarage was smaller than usual, for Rob and Oswald had both gone home for the festive season, and he knew well that the knowledge that “Arthur was coming” had seemed the best guarantee of a merry day to those who were left behind. Peggy too—poor little Peg, with her bandaged hands and tiny white face—it would never do to grieve her by being depressed and gloomy!

“Begone, dull care!” cried Arthur to himself then, when he awoke on Christmas morning, and promptly wrapping himself in his dressing-gown, he sallied out on to the landing, where he burst into the strains of “Christians, awake!” with such vigorous brush-and-comb accompaniment on the panels of the doors as startled the household out of their dreams.

“Miserable boy! I was having such a lovely nap! I’ll never forgive you!” cried Mrs. Asplin’s voice in sleepy wrath.

“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” shouted the girls, and Peggy’s clear pipe joined in last of all. “And many of them! Come in! Come in! I was lying awake and longing to see you!”

Arthur put his ruffled head round the door and beamed at the little figure in the bed, as if he had never known a trouble in his life.

“What a wicked story! I heard you snore. Merry Christmas, Peg, and a Happy New Year! And don’t you go for to do it again never no more! It’s a jolly morning. I’ll take you out for a toddle in the garden when we come home from church, if you are a good girl. Will you have your present now, or wait till you get it? It begins with a B. I love my love with a B., because she’s a——”

“Oh, Arthur!” interrupted Peggy regretfully. “I haven’t half such a nice present for you as I expected. You see I couldn’t work anything, and I couldn’t get out to the shops, and I hadn’t nearly as much money as I expected either. If Bob and I had won that prize, I should have had ten pounds; but the stupid editors have put off announcing the result week after week. They say there were so many competitors; but that’s no consolation, for it makes our chance less. I do hope it may be out next week. But, at any rate, I didn’t get my ten pounds in time, and there I was, you see, with little money and practically no hands, a—er—a most painful contingency, which I hope it may never be your lot to experience. You must take the will for the deed.”

“Oh, I will!” agreed Arthur promptly. “I’ll take the will now, and you can follow up with the deed as soon as you get the cash. But no more journeys up to London, my dear, if you love me, and don’t use such big words before seven o’clock in the morning, or you’ll choke. It’s bad for little girls to exert themselves so much. Now I’m going to skate about in the bath for a bit, and tumble into my clothes, and then I’ll come back and give you a lift downstairs. You are coming down for breakfast, I suppose?”

“Rather! On Christmas morning! I should just think I was!” cried Peggy emphatically, and Arthur went off to the bath-room, calling in at Max’s room en route to squeeze a sponge full of water over that young gentleman’s head and pull the clothes off the bed by way of giving emphasis to his “Get up, you lazy beggar! It’s the day after to-morrow, and the plum pudding is waiting!”

Peggy was the only one of the young folks who did not go to church that morning; but she was left in charge of the decoration for the dinner-table, and when this was finished, there was so much to think about that the time passed all too quickly.

Last year she and Arthur had spent Christmas with their mother; now both parents were away in India, and everything was strange and altered. As Peggy sat gazing into the heart of the big gloomy fire, it seemed to her that the year that was passing away would end a complete epoch in her brother’s experiences and her own, and that from this hour a new chapter would begin. She herself had come back from the door of death, and had life given, as it were, afresh into her hands. Arthur’s longed-for career had been checked at its commencement, and all his plans laid waste. Even the life in the vicarage would henceforth take new conditions, for Rob and Oswald would go up to Oxford at the beginning of the term, and their place be filled by new pupils. There was something solemnising in the consciousness of change which filled the air. One could never tell what might be the next development. Nothing was too unexpected to happen—since Arthur’s success had ended in failure, and she herself had received Rosalind’s vows of love and friendship.

“Good things have happened as well as bad,” acknowledged Peggy honestly, “but how I do hate changes! The new pupils may be the nicest boys that were ever born, but no one will ever be like Rob to me, and I’d rather Arthur had been a soldier than anything in the wide world. I wish one could go on being young for ever and ever. It’s when you grow old that all these troubles and changes come upon you.” And Peggy sighed and wagged her head, oppressed with the weight of fifteen years.

It was a relief to hear the clatter of horses’ hoofs, and the sound of voices in the hall, which proved that the church-goers had returned home. Mr. and Mrs. Asplin had been driven home from church by Lord and Lady Darcy, and the next moment they were in the room, greeting Peggy with demonstrative affection.

“We couldn’t go home without coming to see you, dear,” said Lady Darcy fondly. “Rosalind is walking with the rest, and will be here in a few minutes. A merry Christmas to you, darling, and many, many of them. I’ve brought you a little present which I hope you will like. It’s a bangle bracelet—quite a simple one that you can wear every day—and you must think of me sometimes when you put it on.”

She touched the spring of a morocco case as she spoke, and there on the satin lining lay a band of gold, dependent from which hung the sweetest little locket in the world—heart-shaped, studded with pearls, and guarding a ring of hair beneath the glass shield.

Lady Darcy pointed to it in silence—her eyes filling with tears, as they invariably did at any reference to Rosalind’s accident, and Peggy’s cheeks flushed with pleasure.

“I can’t thank you! I really can’t,” she said. “It is too lovely. You couldn’t possibly have given me anything I liked better. I have a predilection for jewellery, and the little locket is too sweet, dangling on that chain! I do love to have something that waggles!” She held up her arm as she spoke, shaking the locket to and fro with a childlike enjoyment, while the two ladies watched her with tender amusement. Lord Darcy had not spoken since his first greeting, but now he came forward, and linking his arm in Peggy’s led her to the further end of the room.

“I have no present for you, my dear—I could not think of one that was good enough—but yesterday I really think I hit on something that would please you. Robert told us how keenly you were feeling your brother’s disappointment, and that he was undecided what to try next. Now, I believe I can help him there. I have influence in the Foreign Office, and can insure him an opening when he is ready for it, if your father agrees that it is desirable. Would that please you, Peggy? If I can help your brother, will it go some little way towards paying the debt I owe you?”

“Oh—h!” cried Peggy rapturously. “Oh!” She clasped Lord Darcy’s hands in her own and gazed at him with dilated eyes. “Can you do it? Will you do it? There is nothing in all the world I should like so much. Help Arthur—give him a good chance—and I shall bless you for ever and ever! I could never thank you enough——”

“Well, well, I will write to your father and see what he has to say. I can promise the lad a start at least, and after that his future will be in his own hands, where I think we may safely leave it. Master Arthur is one of the fortunate beings who has an ‘open sesame’ to all hearts. Mr. Asplin assures me that he is as good at work as at play; I have not seen that side of his character, but he has always left a most pleasing impression on my mind, most pleasing.” The old lord smiled to himself, and his eyes took a dreamy expression as if he were recalling to memory the handsome face and strong manly presence of the young fellow of whom he was speaking. “He has been a favourite at our house for some years now, and I shall be glad to do him a service, but remember, Peggy, that when I propose this help, it is in the first instance at least, for your sake, not his. I tell you this because I think it will give you pleasure to feel that you have been the means of helping your brother. Talk it over with him some time when you are alone together, and then he can come up and see me. To-day we must leave business alone. Here they come! I thought they would not be long after us——”

Even as he spoke voices sounded from the hall, there was a clatter of feet over the tiled flooring, and Mellicent dashed into the room.

“P—P—P—Postman!” she stammered breathlessly. “He is coming! Round the corner! Heaps of letters! Piles of parcels! A hand-cart, and a boy to help him! Here in five minutes! Oh! oh! oh!” She went rushing back to the door, and Rosalind came forward, looking almost her old beautiful self, with her cheeks flushed by the cold air, and the fur collar of her jacket turned up so as to hide the scarred cheek.

“Merry Christmas, Rosalind! How—how nice you look!” cried Peggy, looking up and down the dainty figure with more pleasure in the sight than she could have believed possible a few weeks before. After being accustomed for four long weeks to gaze at those perfectly cut features, Esther’s long chin and Mellicent’s retroussé nose had been quite a trial to her artistic sensibilities on her return to the vicarage. It was like having a masterpiece taken down from the walls and replaced by an inferior engraving. She gave a sigh of satisfaction as she looked once more at Rosalind’s face.

“Mewwy Chwistmas, Peggy! I’ve missed you fwightfully. I’ve not been to church, but I dwove down to meet the others, and come to see you. I had to see you on Chwistmas Day. I’ve had lovely pwesents and there are more to come. Mother has given you the bwacelet, I see. Is it what you like?”

“My dear, I love it! I’m fearfully addicted to jewellery. I had to put it on at once, and it looks quite elegant on top of the bandages! I’m inexpressibly obliged. I’ve got heaps of things—books, scent, glove-box, writing-case, a big box coming from India, and—don’t tell her—an apron from Mellicent! The most awful thing. I can’t think where she found it. Yellow cloth with dog roses worked in filoselle! Imagine me in a yellow apron with spotty roses around the brim!”

“He! He! I can’t! I weally can’t. It’s too widiculous!” protested Rosalind. “She sent me a twine bag made of netted cotton. It’s awfully useful if you use twine, but I never do. Don’t say I said so. Who got the night-dwess bag with the two shades of blue that didn’t match?”

“Esther! You should have seen her face!” whispered Peggy roguishly, and the girls went into peals of laughter which brought Robert hurrying across the room to join them.

“Now then, Rosalind; when you have quite done, I should like to speak to Peggy. The compliments of the season to you, Mariquita; I hope I see you well.”

Peggy pursed up her lips and looked him up and down with her dancing hazel eyes.

“Most noble sir, the heavens rain blessings on you—oh, my goodness, there’s the postman!” she cried all in one breath, and the partners darted forward side by side towards the front door, where the old postman was already standing, beaming all over his weatherbeaten face, as he began turning out the letters and calling out the names on the envelopes.

“Asplin, Asplin, Saville, Asplin, Saville, Saville, Miss Peggy Saville, Miss Mellercent Asplin, Miss Saville, Miss M. Saville, Miss Peggy Saville.”

So the list ran on with such a constant repetition of the same name that Max exclaimed in disgust, “Who is this Miss Peggy Saville that we hear so much about? She’s a greedy thing whoever she may be,” and Mellicent whined out, “I wish I had been at a boarding school! I wish my relatives lived abroad. There will be none left for me by the time she has finished.” Then Arthur thrust forward his mischievous face and put in a stern inquiry—

“Forbes! I say, where’s that registered letter? That letter with the hundred pound note. Don’t say you haven’t got it, for I know better. Hand it over now, without any more bother.”

The old postman gave a chuckle of amusement, for this was a standing joke renewed every Christmas that Arthur had spent at the Vicarage.

“’Tasn’t come ter-day, Muster Saville. Missed the post. ’Twill be coming ter-morrer morning certain!”

“Forbes!” croaked Arthur solemnly. “Reflect! You have a wife and children. This is a serious business. It’s ruin, Forbes, that’s what it is. R—u—i—n, my friend! Be advised by me, and give it up. The hundred pounds is not worth it, and besides I need it badly. Don’t deprive a man of his inheritance!”

“Bless yer rart, I’d bring it yer with pleasure rif I could! Nobody’d bring it quicker ran I would,” cried Forbes, for like everyone else he adored the handsome young fellow who was always ready with a joke and a kindly word. “It’s comin’ for the Noo Year, sir. You mark my words. There’s a deal of luck waitin’ for yer in the Noo Year!”

Arthur’s laugh ended in a sigh, but he thanked the old man for his good wishes, tipped him even more lavishly than usual, and followed his companions to the drawing-room to examine their treasures.

Parcels were put on one side to await more leisurely inspection, but cards and letters were opened at once, and Rob seated himself by Peggy’s side as she placed the pile of envelopes on a table in the corner.

“We are partners, you know,” he reminded her, “so I think I am entitled to a share in these. What a lot of cards! Who on earth are the senders?”

“My godfathers, and my godmothers, and all my relations and friends. The girls at school, and some of the teachers. This fat one is from ‘Buns’—Miss Baker, the one whose Sunday hat I squashed. She used to say that I was sent to her as wholesome discipline to prevent her being too happy as a hard-worked teacher in a lady’s school, but she wept buckets full when I came away. I liked Buns! This is from Marjorie Riggs, my chum. She had a squint, but a most engaging disposition. This is from Kate Strong. Now if there is a girl in the world for whom I cherish an aversion, it is Katie Strong! She is what I call a specious pig, and why she wanted to send me a Christmas card I simply can’t imagine. We were on terms of undying hatred. This is from Miss Moss, the pupil teacher. She had chilblains, poor dear, and spoke through her dose. ‘You busn’t do it, Peggy, you really busn’t. It’s bost adoying!’ Then I did it again, you know, and she sniggered and tried to look cross. This is—I don’t know who this is from! It’s a man’s writing. It looks like a business letter—London postmark—and something printed in white on the seal. What is it? ‘The Pic-Pic-Piccadilly’—Robert!” Peggy’s voice grew shrill with excitement. “‘The Piccadilly Magazine.’”

“Wh—at!” Robert grabbed at the envelope, read the words himself and stared at her with sparkling eyes. “It is! It’s the prize, Mariquita! It must be. What else would they write about? Open it and see. Quick! Shall I do it for you?”

“Yes, yes,” cried Peggy breathlessly. She craned her head forward as Rob tore open the envelope and grasped his arm with both hands. Together they read the typewritten words, together they gasped and panted, and shrieked aloud in joy! “We’ve done it! We have! We’ve won the prize! Thirty pounds! Bravo Rob! Now you can buy your microscope!”—“Good old Mariquita, it’s all your doing. Don’t speak to us; we are literary people, far above ordinary commonplace creatures like you. Thir—ty pounds! made by our own honest toil. What do you think of that, I’d like to know?”

Each member of the audience thought something different, and said it amid a scene of wild excitement. The elders were pleased and proud, though not above improving the occasion by warnings against secret work, over anxiety, midnight journeys, etc. Mellicent exclaimed, “How jolly! Now you will be able to give presents for the New Year as well as Christmas,” and Arthur said, “Dear Peggums! I always loved you! I took the ‘will,’ you know, without any grumbling, and now you can follow up with the deed as quickly as ever you like!” Each one wanted to hold the precious document in his own hands, to read it with his own eyes, and it was handed round and round to be exclaimed over in accents of wonder and admiration, while Rob beamed, and Peggy tossed her pigtail over her shoulder, holding her little head at an angle of complacent satisfaction.

The moment of triumph was very sweet, all the sweeter because of the sorrows of the last few weeks. The partners forgot all the hard work, worry, and exhaustion, and remembered only the joy of success and hope fulfilled. Robert said little, in the way of thanks, preferring to wait until he could tell Peggy of his gratitude, without an audience to criticise his words, and when his mother began to speak of returning home, it was he who reminded Mrs. Asplin of the promise that the invalid should have her first walk on Christmas Day.

“Let us go on ahead and take her with us, until the carriage overtakes us. It will do her no harm. It’s bright and dry——”

“Oh, mater, yes! I told Peg I would take her out,” chimed in Arthur, starting from his seat by Rosalind’s side, and looking quite distressed because he had momentarily forgotten his promise. “Wrap her up well, and we’ll take care of her. The air will do her good.”

“I think it will, but you must not go far—not an inch beyond the cross roads. Come, Peggy, and I’ll dress you myself. I can’t trust you to put on enough wraps.” Mrs. Asplin whisked the girl out of the room, and wrapped her up to such an extent, that when she came downstairs again, she could only puff and gasp above her muffler, declare that she was choking, and fan herself with her muff. Choking or not, the eyes of the companions brightened as they looked at her, for the scarlet tam-o’-shanter was set at a rakish angle on the dark little head, and Peggy the invalid seemed to have made way for the Peggy of old, with dimpling cheeks and the light of mischief in her eyes.

The moment that Mrs. Asplin stopped fumbling with her wraps, she was at the door, opening her mouth wide to drink in the fresh chill air, and Robert was at her side before anyone had a chance of superseding him.

“Umph! Isn’t it good! I’m stifling for a blow. My lungs are sore for want of exercise. I was longing—longing to get out. Robert, do you realise it? We have won the prize! Can you believe it? It is almost too good to be true. It’s the best present of all. Now you can buy your microscope, and get on with your work as you never could before!”

“Yes, and it’s all your doing, Mariquita. I could not have pulled it off without your help. If I make anything out of my studies it will be your doing too. I’ll put it down to you, and thank you for it all my life.”

“H—m! I don’t think I deserve so much praise, but I like it all the same. It’s very soothing,” said Peggy reflectively. “I’m very happy, and I needed something to cheer me up, for I felt as blue as indigo this morning. We seem to have come to the end of so many things, and I hate ends. There is this disappointment about Arthur which spoils all the old plans, and the break-up of our good times here together. I shall miss Oswald. He was a dear old dandy, and his ties were quite an excitement in life, but I simply can’t imagine what the house will be like without you, Rob!”

“I shall be here for some weeks every year, and I’ll run down for a day or two whenever I can. It won’t be good-bye altogether.”

“I know—I know! but you will never be one of us again, living in the house, joining in all our jokes. It will be quite a different thing. And you will grow up so quickly at Oxford, and be a man before we know where we are.”

“So will you—a woman at least. You are fifteen in January. At seventeen girls put their hair up, and wear long dresses. You will look older than I do, and give yourself as many airs as if you were fifty. I know what girls of seventeen are like. I’ve met lots of them, and they say ‘That boy!’ and toss their heads as if they were a dozen years older than fellows of their own age. I expect you will be as bad as the rest, but you needn’t try to snub me. I won’t stand it.”

“You won’t have a chance, for I sha’n’t be here. As soon as my education is finished I am going out to India to stay until father retires and we come home to settle. So after to-day——”

“After to-day—the deluge! Peggy, I didn’t tell you before, but I’m off to-morrow to stay in town until I go up to Oxford on the fourteenth. The pater wants to have me with him, so I sha’n’t see you again for some months. Of course I am glad to be in town for most things, but——”

“Yes, but!” repeated Peggy and turned a wan little face upon him. “Oh, Rob, it is changing quickly. I never thought it would be so soon as this. So it is good-bye! No wonder I felt so blue this morning. It is good-bye for ever to the old life. We shall meet again, oh yes! but it will be different. Some day when I’m old and grown up I will see in a newspaper the name of a distinguished naturalist and discoverer, and say, ‘I used to know him once. He was not at all proud. He used to pull my hair like any ordinary mortal. But he doesn’t recognise me now——’”

“Some day I shall enter a ball-room and see a little lady sitting by the door waving her hands in the air, and using words a mile long, and shall say to myself, ‘Do my eyes deceive me? Is it indeed the Peggy Pickle of the Past?’ and my host will say, ‘My good sir, that is the world-famous authoress Mariquita de Ponsonby Plantagenet Saville! Stevenson, I assure you, is not in it for flow of language, and she is so proud of herself that she won’t speak to anyone under a belted earl.’”

“That sounds nice!” said Peggy approvingly, “I should like that, but it wouldn’t be a ball, you silly boy, it would be a conversazione where all the clever and celebrated people of London were gathered together, ‘To have the honour of meeting Miss Saville.’ There would be quite a number of people whom we knew among the Lions. A very grand Lady Somebody or other, the beauty of the season—Rosalind of course—all sparkling with diamonds, and leaning on the arm of a distinguished-looking gentleman with orders on his breast. That’s Arthur. I’m determined that he shall have orders. It’s the only thing that could reconcile me to the loss of the Victoria Cross, and a dress coat is so uninteresting without trimmings! A fat lady would be sitting in a corner prattling about half-a-dozen subjects all in one moment—that’s Mellicent, and a tall, lean lady in spectacles would be imparting useful information to a dandy with an eyeglass stuck in one eye—that’s Esther and Oswald! Oh dear, I wonder—I wonder—I wonder! It’s like a story book, Rob, and we are at the end of the first volume. How much shall we have to do with each other in the second and third, and what is going to happen next—and how—and when?”

“We—we have to part, that’s the next thing,” said Rob sadly. “Here comes the carriage, and Arthur is shouting to us to stop. It’s good-bye, for the present, Mariquita; there’s no help for it!”

“At the cross roads!” said Peggy slowly, and her eye wandered to the signboard which marked the paths branching north, south, east, and west. She stopped short and stood gazing into the boy’s face, her eyes big and solemn, the wind blowing her hair into loose little curls beneath her scarlet cap, while her mind seized eagerly on the significance of the position. “At the cross roads, Rob, to go our different ways! Good-bye, good-bye! I hate to say it. You—you won’t forget, and like the horrid boys at college better than me, will you, Rob?”

Robert gave a short, strangled little laugh.

“I think—not! Cheer up, partner! We will meet again and have a better time together than we have had yet. The third volume is always more exciting than the first. I say we shall, and you know when I make up my mind to a thing, it has to be done!”

“Ah, but how?” sighed Peggy faintly. “But how?” Vague prophecies of the future were not much comfort to her in this moment of farewell. She wanted something more definite, but Rob had no time to enter into details. Even as she spoke the carriage drew up beside them, and while the occupants congratulated Peggy on having walked so far and so well, he could only grip her hand, and take his place in silence beside his sister.

Lady Darcy bent forward to smile farewell; Rosalind waved her hand, and there they were off again, driving swiftly homewards, while Peggy stood watching, a solitary figure upon the roadside.

Arthur and his companions hurried forward to join her, afraid lest she should be tired and overcome with grief by the parting with her friend and partner.

“Poor little Peg! She won’t like it a bit,” said Arthur. “She’s crying! I’m sure she is.”

“She is putting her handkerchief to her eyes,” said Mellicent. “Of course, she is crying!”

“We will give her an arm apiece, and take her straight back,” said Max anxiously, “It’s a shame to have left the poor little soul alone!”

They stared with troubled eyes at the little figure which stood with its back turned towards them, in an attitude of rigid stillness. There was something pathetic about that stillness, with just the flutter of the tell-tale handkerchief to hint at the quivering face that was hidden from view. The hearts of Peggy’s companions were very tender over her at that moment, but even as they planned words of comfort and cheer, she wheeled round suddenly and walked back to meet them.

It was an unusually mild morning for the season of the year, and the sun was shining from a cloudless sky. Its rays fell full upon Peggy’s face as she advanced; upon reddened eyes, trembling lips, and two large tears trickling down her cheeks. It was undeniable that she was crying, but she carried her head well back upon her shoulders, rather courting than avoiding observation, and as she drew nearer it became abundantly evident that Peggy had retired in honour of Mariquita, and that consolations had better be deferred to a more promising occasion.

“A most lacerating wind!” she said coolly. “It draws the moisture to my eyes. Quite piercingly cold I call it!” and even Mellicent had not the courage to contradict.

And here, dear readers, we leave Peggy Saville at a milestone of her life. In what direction the cross roads led the little company of friends, and what windings of the path brought them once more together, remains still to be told. It was a strange journey, and in their travelling they met many friends with whom all young people are acquainted. The giant barred the way, and had to be overcome before the palace could be reached; the Good Spirit intervened at the right moment to prevent calamity, the prince and princess stepped forward and made life beautiful; for life is the most wonderful fairy tale that was ever written, and full of magic to those who have eyes to see it.

Farewell then to Peggy Pickle, but if it be the wish of those readers who have followed her varying fortunes so far, we may meet again with Mariquita Saville, in the glory of sweet and twenty, and learn from her the secret of the years.

[THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.]

By ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc.

CHAPTER II.

THE FIRST OF THE “SLAINS CASTLE.”

“I am all curiosity to hear your secret, Charlie,” pleaded his wife.

“Well, as I tell you, it is your secret which has given any meaning to mine,” he said. “It is as if I picked up an odd-shaped bit of wood, which seemed a mere chip, but presently you came in with a puzzle, all fitted, save for one vacant place, and lo, my chip exactly fills it!”

He had taken up the bulky pocket-book which lay on the sofa beside him. He searched through its contents, selected one letter, and handed it to Lucy.

“Read it,” he said, “and tell me what you think.”

Lucy instinctively looked first at the envelope. The post-mark was “Peterhead”; the handwriting was strong and manly.

“Why, it is from your old acquaintance Captain Grant!” she said.

Charlie nodded.

“Read what he says,” he repeated.

It was not a long letter. The Captain, who was an old schoolfellow of Charlie’s, had heard of his illness and wrote to inquire how he was.

“It is my belief, my boy,” he said, “that all the medicine you want is a good draught of salt air taken straight off the top of the ocean waves. You can’t get it quite right on the best of shores. What a pity you can’t come with me in my fine ship the Slains Castle. We are going straight to New Zealand, and then perhaps we shall trade a little among some of the smaller islands; but the Slains Castle is a fast goer, and unless the winds are very dead against us, we shall be home well within a year. That’s the sort of thing that would really do you good, and not a petty little voyage on a passenger steamer, where you smell more of the engines and the cook-room than of the briny. Can’t you make up your mind and come with me? Health before income, old man! If you were by yourself, I’d press the idea; but, as there is the little wife, I suppose I mustn’t. For there is no room to offer to her on the ship.”

“I shall write and tell him that just because there is a little wife, he must press the idea!” cried Lucy, with shining eyes. “Why, a whole year on the open sea—you, who love it so much and are never sea-sick—it would make a new man of you!” And then her brave heart quailed secretly at the thought of the long absence, and the long silences which lay within it, and she added kindly, “But might you not find it a rough life, Charlie, and lonesome?”

Charlie laughed kindly.

“I can trust Grant’s ideas of comfort,” he said; “they are quite up to wholesome point, and I want nothing more. He is good company too, and so are sailors generally. I could not bear the thought of any very long journey in a big passenger steamer with strange men, possibly gamblers or drunkards, sharing one’s cabin, the social tone set by the smoking-room and the bar, and possibility of the truly awful solitude of living among two or three hundred people with not one of whom I might have a single idea in common! No, dear little Lucy, if I am to have a really long voyage, give me a sailing vessel, when I can secure such advantage as sailing with Alick Grant.”

“But suppose you should be ill?” suggested Lucy in a low voice. “There would be no doctor.”

“Suppose I should be ill!” answered Charlie cheerfully. “Grant would see that I was properly taken care of. All that could be done in my case, he knows how to do.”

Mr. Challoner paused.

“Even so,” he went on; “it would be better for you to think of me as lying quietly in my berth, looked after by an old friend, and an object of genuine interest to all his men, than as I should be on a passenger steamer, with an over-driven steward and stewardess running in and out, dancing going on overhead, and sounds of comic songs coming from the saloon. No, I should not like to run risks of serious illness on a big passenger steamer,” he decided.

He did not remind Lucy—but she remembered, though she kept silence—that in the one lengthy ocean voyage he had ever enjoyed—a business trip to and from New York—a passenger had met a frightful death by accident in the steamer’s saloon, and two days afterwards a flippant “charade” had been enacted, with every circumstance of levity, on the very spot.

“What did you think, Charlie, when you first got that letter?” asked his wife. “Did you wish you could go?”

Her husband shook his head.

“We do not wish for what we believe to be absolutely impossible,” he said. “As I say, I never gave it another thought till you brought out your plans this afternoon. I did not tell you a word about it, because I thought the suggestion would only worry you, when it could not be carried out.”

“But you see now that it could be done,” said Lucy bravely.

“There is another thing too,” Charlie went on; “to go in this way will cost far less than to go in any other. From what Grant has told me about other voyages, I know he takes a passenger in this way at about what one may call boarding rates, say a hundred pounds for the whole year. Now, on a steamer one could only be away about three months at most for that sum, and unless one took the return journey at once, one would also have hotel and travelling expenses. If I go with Grant, Lucy, I need not take more than one hundred and a few odd pounds with me, and I can leave you all the rest of our little hoard. So thriftily as you will manage, I believe you need not trouble about earning, and yet we sha’n’t be penniless when I get home.”

Lucy answered in nervous haste.

“Oh, but I must do all I can. It will help to pass the time; it will help me to bear your being away.”

Charlie put out his hand towards her.

“Little woman,” he said, “is this going to cost you too much in this way? What is the good of making any effort to save me which is to kill you? And perhaps I don’t need any such saving after all. Why should I go?”

Lucy rallied herself.

“Of course it will be very terrible to miss you,” she said, feeling instinctively that if the part she was playing was to be accepted, she must not overdo it. “The days will be very long without you to wait for and to talk with. I shall need all I can get to occupy me. But as for not being able to bear it, Charlie, I suppose I am made of the same stuff as other women. Plenty of them have to bear the same—and worse. Captain Grant’s wife herself has to bear it, and from her photographs she does not look as if it wore her to fiddlestrings.”

“She is used to it,” said Charlie, with a man’s easy way of “seeing a difference.”

“Certainly. I daresay she felt it worse the first time,” assented Lucy. “On the other hand, it is always going on. Almost as soon as one absence ends another begins. Now, I shall know that mine is one supreme effort, and then—reunion!”

“I wish Captain Grant’s wife were nearer at hand—in London instead of in Peterhead,” said Charlie. “It would seem cheery for you wives to be together at home, while we husbands were together on the ocean.”

“Well, perhaps she will come up and spend a month with me,” remarked Lucy. “If she comes in the Institute’s holidays, I should be at leisure to show her the sights, if she has not seen them all already. It would be great fun to have her here.” (Long afterwards Lucy remembered that little speech.)

“One thing is, if I go, I am not leaving you lonely, Luce,” mused Charlie. “There’s Florence and Brand not very far off.”

Lucy said nothing. Her husband looked up with the brightness born of a sudden thought.

“How would you like it if they invited you to stay with them while I was away?” he asked. “Hugh could play with his little cousin, and I’m sure Pollie could make herself useful, seeing what hot water they’re always in with their servants. This house would cost little shut up, and you could keep an eye on it, or even get it let as it stands for a few months out of the twelve.”

“No, Charlie,” said Lucy. There was an almost fierce decision in her voice. “No, I can bear to miss you, if I am in my own place, our place, and can be by myself when I choose, and am doing all I can to serve our future. I could not bear to sit down at dinner-parties, and to have to dress of an evening, and to talk small talk in the drawing-room. The Brands mean to be kind of course,” she added hastily; “but they like to have crowds of people about, and I don’t. Florence had thirty-five callers at her last weekly ‘afternoon’; while I’m one of those who think that ‘a world in purchase of one friend to gain.’ No, Charlie, don’t try to take care of me in these ways. Trust me with myself. I know what is good for me. There are some matters men never quite understand.”

“Well, if you are to take your own ways, you must be careful that they succeed,” said her husband. “One comfort is, you have Pollie, and can trust and depend on her. Those cheeks of yours are thin and pale. I must find round roses on them when I come back—if I go! Oh, Lucy, why did you make these plans, and why did Alick Grant write that letter? We should have gone on so happily as we are, and I should have picked up strength gradually. Why has this come into our heads?”

“I think because it is the will of God that you should go,” answered Lucy with sweet reverence. “I thought so all the while when it was only my own plans, which were working out so well. I think so more than ever now, Charlie, when I find that all the time you, as it were, were holding the other end of the same stick.”

“Shall we put the matter to one more test?” said Charlie. “Shall I write to Grant asking when he sails and if he will take me for the year at one hundred pounds, telling him that if he can, and if I can be ready by his date, I will entertain the idea.”

“You can be ready by any date if Dr. Ivery thinks you are strong enough,” said Lucy, “and we could afford more than one hundred. If this is the path of Providence, Charlie, ought we to be turned aside by these things?”

“Such a letter will not bind me either way,” returned her husband, “it is purely tentative; and yet if the date and the terms prove suitable, the leading will seem the clearer. I will write at once, and until we get Grant’s answer, we will not say a word on the matter to anybody.”

The epistle was soon written, and Lucy herself hurried on her bonnet and ran with it to the post, lest Pollie should not be quick enough to catch the night mail for the north.

“I feel sure you are to go,” said Lucy. And as two or three days passed by without an answer, she hung upon her husband’s presence as those do who count the running down sands of a dear joy. She could soothe herself only by doing something for Charlie, though it was only pathetic little preparations for the possible departure. Of course there was no use thinking of “outfit” until that departure was definitely decided. But there were “thin places” to be darned in the fine, carefully-kept underclothing, and all the three guineas she had got for her sketch, went to procure little supplementary comforts and conveniences which would be certainly useful whether Charlie went away or remained at home.

It was indeed a waiting time, and waiting times invariably try nerves and spirits, even though so strong a self-control be set upon these, that they may not tamper with temper or will. Lucy Challoner never dared to be idle for a moment. She felt that she must hold herself with a strong hand. When it seemed to her that Pollie was rather self-absorbed, less interested in her work, and indeed almost negligent, Lucy set it all down to her own imagination, fevered by restrained excitement.

In the course of that waiting time, Florence Brand put in an appearance at the little verandahed house. She came in the afternoon, and Charlie was asleep. For this Lucy was secretly thankful, being always unable to realise that Florence did not irritate Charlie—who was a woman and not his own sister—as she often did herself—a woman and a sister! Pollie was so slow to admit the visitor, or the visitor was so impatient, that the door-bell was rung twice, the second time with such vigour that Lucy feared her husband would be startled from his slumbers, and flew to open the door herself.

“What! You have to do this yourself, now, do you?” cried Mrs. Brand before she had crossed the threshold. “How’s Charlie? Getting all right, I suppose, or we should have heard. I had a fine time at the seaside, it would have done me worlds of good to have stayed there another week. But I saw so many high-class autumn sales being advertised, and I’ve so many things to buy, that I thought I’d best come straight back. If you’re busy, I sha’n’t interrupt you. I can only stay five minutes. I did not mean to call when I left home, but since I’ve been out, I’ve heard something that I’m determined you shall hear at once. Prepare for a shock!”

Lucy’s face grew so white that it startled even Mrs. Brand.

“Dear me, child,” she said, “it is not really anything; nineteen people out of twenty would not mind a bit, though they might be angry. But I know it will startle your confiding trustfulness. Your treasure Pollie is on the eve of giving you notice because she is going to be married!”

Lucy Challoner sat down. She felt her strength gone from her. In another moment she rallied, remembering that she had to hold the fort of domestic serenity for Charlie’s sake, and that she must not yet reveal to Florence the full force of the blow she had given her.

“How did you hear this?” she asked.

“I heard it at your Italian warehouse,” Florence answered. “You know Jem has an idea that they keep better curry powder than anybody else. So this afternoon I looked in there with an order, and to pay a little account. That took me to the desk, where the girl-clerk sits. She has often seen you and me together, and of course she had heard of Charlie’s illness. So says she, ‘I hope Mr. Challoner is better, ma’am?’ ‘Oh, dear, yes,’ I replied, ‘I daresay he is nearly as well as he will ever be. He will always be delicate.’ ‘I’m so sorry, ma’am,’ she said. ‘It’s so sad for Mrs. Challoner and the dear little boy, and what a pity it is she should be troubled about a new servant at such a time.’ ‘A new servant!’ I cried in amaze. ‘Oh, perhaps I should not have spoken,’ said she. ‘Hasn’t her maid given notice yet? I know she has arranged to be married at Christmas.’”

“There may be some mistake,” observed Lucy. “But thank you for telling me. I only wish Pollie had told me herself. I did not know even that she had a sweetheart.”

Mrs. Brand laughed.

“She may not have known that herself very long,” she said. “These girls are generally of an opinion that ‘happy’s the wooing that’s not long undoing.’ When do her wages fall due?”

“The day after to-morrow,” said Lucy drearily.

“This is only the first of October,” commented Mrs. Brand. “If she gives you notice now, she will be away by the first of November. I should not wonder if she doesn’t give you notice for another month. Well, you’ve had her more than seven years, so you may think yourself lucky. The worst of it is that a change comes harder in such a case than when one is always changing as I am. I must be going now, Lucy. And don’t you fret. I’ll help you to look for another girl. I rather enjoy the fun. But I sympathise with you, my dear, for I didn’t like the task once, but practice makes perfect, and now I expect nothing and am never disappointed.”

She was gone, Lucy closing the hall door softly behind her that Charlie might not be roused. She wanted to make herself more accustomed to this new aspect of life, ere the tinkle of his little handbell should summon her to his side.

The first thing was to question Pollie. “There may be some mistake,” Lucy repeated to herself. Yet she felt a secret conviction that there was none.

She did not ring the bell and “summon Pollie to her presence.” She had the thoughtful woman’s habit of seldom ringing the bell to claim the attendance of the solitary servant. She went towards the head of the kitchen stairs and lingered there a moment. She heard Pollie walk across the kitchen, and then the rattle of some tin vessels. She made up her mind to go down and face the worst at once.

Somehow the kitchen did not look quite so pleasant as usual. It was clean and fairly tidy, but the things last used were not cleared away, and the dresser lacked the glass with a few flowers which generally adorned it. Pollie was busy at the fire-place. She looked over her shoulder at her mistress, but did not turn round, and went on with what she was doing.

She was a comely personable girl with a good head and a trim figure. Perhaps there was a little hardness about her mouth, or it might be that she was setting her teeth in face of what was coming.

“Pollie,” said the mistress very gently, “I have just been told that you are thinking of leaving us and getting married?”

Pollie did not answer quickly. She went on doing something with great energy.

“Well, ma’am, yes,” she said; “it is so.”

“And when is it to be, Pollie?” asked Mrs. Challoner.

“I’m to be married at Christmas,” Pollie answered with great firmness.

“Then I am to take your notice at once?” said Mrs. Challoner.

“Well, ma’am, yes. I’d like to leave on the 1st of November. I’ve things to do. But if you would like me to stay a week or two longer, I’d be willing to oblige you.”

Mrs. Challoner reflected for a moment. It is well-nigh impossible to accept a favour from one who has suddenly cut us down to the bare legal rights of our position.

“No, Pollie, thank you,” she said; “you can go at the time that suits you best.”

“Thank you, m’m,” said Pollie, still rubbing vigorously.

Mrs. Challoner did not feel as if she could drop the matter right off here. It did not seem even fair to this girl, who had been with her and had worked faithfully for her for seven years, not to let her know exactly what feelings her present course had evoked.

“Pollie,” she began very gently, “is not all this rather sudden?”

“Well, ma’am, you’ve got your proper notice, and I’ve said I’d not stand on giving you a week or two extra. What more can I do?” said Pollie.

“That is quite true, Pollie. But look at it in this light—if you had only been with me for two or three months, you would be obliged to do as much as you are doing now. Don’t you think something else comes into the matter when people have been together for years and have grown to rely on each other and to feel as if each other would be always there, unless they knew that something was coming to part them?”

“I was not to know that you mightn’t get rid of me any day, ma’am,” said Pollie. “It seems like as if there might be changes.”

“Pollie, do you really think I would not at once have told you of any possible change which, if it occurred, might interfere with you?” asked Mrs. Challoner. “Legal notices are necessary between everybody, strangers or friends; but full and timely warning beforehand is surely due from those who have been long associated. Don’t you feel you would have had this if change had threatened from my side?”

“I don’t know, m’m,” said Pollie rather sullenly. “Ladies don’t always think of those things. Girls have to look after themselves.”

“But I am certain you would have felt hurt,” said Mrs. Challoner. “If not, you can have never had much regard for me or confidence in me.”

Pollie began to cry.

“I ain’t leaving you to go to another place, m’m,” she said. “I’d never have done that. I’ve been tempted, though you’ve never heard of it. ‘Wages isn’t everything,’ I’ve always answered. But this is different.”

“Of course it is, Pollie,” Mrs. Challoner responded patiently. “But I am the more taken by surprise because I never dreamed you had a lover. I hope you are not doing anything rashly, Pollie.”

“Oh, he hasn’t been any lover; but I’ve known him long enough!” gasped Pollie. “I didn’t know as he thought anything about me. Only when I said to him I thought there would be changes an’ I’d never take another London service, he ups and speaks out, thinking, I suppose, that I’d go away and he’d lose me altogether. And at Christmas he gets a week’s holiday, and that’s why we’ll be married then and go down to Leeds to see his mother. ‘We’ll get it over,’ says he, ‘and do the courtin’ afterwards.’ I’m sure there’s been none yet,” Pollie added with a dash of feminine scorn.

“Well, Pollie, you know I am sorry to part from you, and it is sadder still when we have just been through so much anxiety together. But I hope you’ll be happy. I wish you had told me about it yourself. It is hard to hear such things from other people.”

“Other people might mind their own business, m’m,” said Pollie, with some spirit. “There’s some people who are a deal too busy with their tongues.”

“But they only told the truth,” Mrs. Challoner suggested.

“If they hadn’t had no truth to tell, they’d have had a say about something or ’nother, I guess!” cried Pollie, heaping up negatives in her flurry.

“Well, Pollie,” said her mistress, “all I have now to ask is that you will not mention your leaving to your master—at least, at present. You can understand that we must keep all worry from him while he is regaining strength. In a day or two I will tell you my special reason for asking this silence.”

“‘He’ ought to be very good to me to be taking me from a place where I’ve been treated like as I’ve been here,” reflected Pollie when Mrs. Challoner had left the kitchen. “And here I’d have been for years, maybe—and maybe for ever—and certain never in no such hurry would I have jumped at any journeyman tailor, if it hadn’t been for that Mrs. Brand a-shaking of her head and saying I must be prepared for changes—and them soon too—she feared the master wasn’t for long, and it was a good thing the mistress had their house to turn to. And when a woman’s getting nigh thirty and changes begins to—to be talked about, it comes as a sort of Godsend when she’s asked to change her name! But how I’ll get along without Master Hugh, it beats me to know!”

That night Lucy Challoner never closed her eyes.

(To be continued.)

[HER KINGDOM OF DREAMS.]

By EDITH RUTLAR.

She saw the storm sweep down the length of the street,

And the year, growing old, dash his tears on the pane;

She heard the dull patter of wet little feet

’Midst the pitiless gusts of the wind and the rain.

An opaline light lit the clouds in the west,

And a cruel grip tightened the teeth of the blast;

The watcher’s stiff limbs sought a posture of rest

As she slipped into dreams of the days of the past.

Her toil-hardened fingers lay still on her knee,

And the light of the moon at the full lit her face;

The poor stricken seamstress of worthless degree

In the Kingdom of Dreams had a home and a place.

One hand raised itself, then fell weakly away;

So the night came apace, and the clock ticked its round:

Whilst the words the white withered lips would betray

Died into the Silence no mortal can sound.

A voice said, “She sleeps, and the work not begun”;

But a kind hand had banished “the rule and the rod”:

And another voice answered, “The work is done,

For her Kingdom of Dreams is the Kingdom of God.”

[SHEILA.]

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

By EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen Sisters,” etc.

CHAPTER I.

BROTHER AND SISTER.

call it cruel of them to separate us! They might at least have let us be together!” cried Sheila, with tears in her voice, if not in her eyes.

“Well, but we shall not be very far apart. We can see each other most days, and you will have a nice home with Uncle and Aunt Cossart—more what you have been used to—a big country house. Uncle Tom lives in the town to be near the works; but he says it is an easy walk to get out to Cossart Place.”

Sheila gave a rather scornful toss to her handsome head.

“Cossart Place! I hate that pretentious way of calling one’s house by one’s own name! Oscar, aren’t these relations of ours rather vulgar, purse-proud people? Papa must have had some reason for keeping us away from them all these years.”

Oscar was silent for a few moments, and then he said slowly—

“You know, Sheila, our father was rather a proud man. He thought a good deal of birth and family, and of being one of the Cholmondeleys of Warwickshire. He married our beautiful mother for love; but he took her right away from her family—he told me so himself as he lay dying—and she never saw any of them again. She had only quite a small fortune then. The Cossarts have got rich since her marriage. But our father’s property has been dwindling and dwindling, and he has dipped again and again into capital, and everything is mortgaged up to the hilt, as Mr. Dart calls it. Sheila, I am afraid there will be very little left for us except the little fortune of our mother’s, which was settled upon her and her children.”

Sheila understood very little of business, and Oscar not much more; but he had received confidences from their dying father, and had had interviews with the family lawyer, so that he was better acquainted with the prospect before them than the sister.

“Father thought at the last that he had made a mistake in holding aloof from the Cossarts. He wrote both to Uncle Cossart and Uncle Tom, and they are our guardians. I think they mean to be kind to us, though they could not at once get away to be here for the funeral. But Uncle Tom will come almost at once to look into things; and he is going to give me a berth at the works. He says that in his letter.”

“I call that the horridest thing of all!” flashed out Sheila. “You to be stuck down at a desk or something, in some chemical works, or whatever it is! Why can’t they let you finish your course at Oxford? Mother’s money would be lots for that!”

“Oh, yes; but then what would be the good?” asked Oscar gravely. “No, Sheila, I have seen too much of what Oxford does for poor men, to want to finish my three years there. I’ve no great gifts. I should only take an ordinary degree. I should have no chance of fellowship or tutorship there, and I’ve no gift for teaching. It’s much better really to go into business young, where one has a chance of pushing one’s way. Lots of fellows would give their ears for my chances at our uncles’ works. As I can’t be a country gentleman like our father, and be master of the dear old place, I’d sooner go right away and start fair at something altogether different.”

Sheila heaved a deep sigh as her eyes travelled from her brother’s grave face, out through the open window and across the familiar landscape of wood and water.

It was a lovely February day—one of those days which come as a foretaste of summer, when the sun shines with power, and all the air is full of scents of spring, and one forgets that winter is not yet gone, and begins to welcome the promise of the year.

“I never thought we should have to leave the dear old home. Is it certain that it must go, Oscar? Surely father could not have meant to leave things so bad for us?”

“Father was not fond of business,” said Oscar slowly. “He did not go into things carefully enough. The property was burdened when he came into it, and, you know, land has been going down ever since. We will not blame him, Sheila; other people have had losses too. Mr. Dart says that hundreds and thousands of people have been placed just as we are these last years. Indeed, we are better off than many; for there is that little fortune of our mother’s—five thousand pounds well invested—which brings us in a little income, and there may be something left from the estate when things are wound up, though it won’t be much, I can see. And we have the Cossarts, who will give us a home each. I think it is rather fine of them to come forward to help us, seeing how their sister was kept quite away from them after her marriage.”

Sheila looked up with a little quick, eager glance in her big grey eyes—those Irish eyes, which, like her name, she had inherited from her grandmother—her father’s mother—who had been a notable beauty in her day. Sheila was not a beauty; but she had an attractive face, and a winning and appealing manner. She had always been the pet and the darling of the house, and she seemed to claim affection and notice as a natural right.

“Couldn’t we live together, Oscar, just you and I together, in some dear little cottage, on our mother’s money? I would keep the house nice, and grow flowers in the garden; and you could find something to do; and we would be so happy in our little home.”

She put her hand upon his, and he stroked it and smiled; but he shook his head too.

“It sounds nice, Sheila; but it wouldn’t really be practicable. You don’t know anything about the worries of small means, and I should get no opening if I refused Uncle Tom’s offer. Besides, you see, we have no choice at present. We are both minors; I sha’n’t be of age for a year, and you are only eighteen. Our uncles are our guardians, and we have to do what they settle for us. Mr. Dart says that what they have suggested is the kindest thing possible. Some day, I hope, if you don’t marry, we shall be able to have a home of our own together. But for the next few years we must make up our minds to let other people settle things for us, and be grateful to them for taking the burden and worry off our shoulders.”

Oscar could be thankful for this. He had seen just enough of life in his year at Oxford, and in the examination, under the lawyer’s direction, into his father’s involved affairs, to be aware that its battle could be a very hard and strenuous matter, and that his father had been carried away by the tide of misfortune instead of seeking to stem it. He could almost feel thankful that he was not called upon to fight any arduous up-hill battle—that things had gone so far that nothing would avail but a clean sweep. Oscar loved his home—loved it almost as well as Sheila did. If he could have lived peacefully and prosperously there, as his fathers had apparently done before him, he would have asked nothing better, and would have sought to do his duty to those about and beneath him. But he had an elastic and hopeful temperament, and he did not dislike the prospect of a complete change in his manner of life. He had a turn for electrical engineering, and his uncle had said something about an electrical branch in the works of Cossart & Sons. Congenial employment might be found for him, he thought. He had been through much sorrow of heart and worry of mind during the past weeks since his father’s death; but now he was beginning to see his way out of the tangle, and to look forward hopefully to what lay beyond.

BROTHER AND SISTER.

Sheila’s thoughts had also gone off on a private expedition. But, after a short pause, she spoke with great decision.

“I shall never marry, Oscar. Marrying makes people stupid. I know that, because all the girls who go and get married are quite spoiled directly. It begins as soon as they are engaged. Besides, most of them go away, and one forgets about them. I shall be an old maid, and keep your house for you. It will be something to look forward to whilst I am living with Uncle Cossart. Why can’t I go to Uncle Tom’s with you? It would be so much more amusing.”

“Well, they seem to have it all arranged for us, and we can’t exactly ask them to alter. But we’ll see all about it when Uncle Tom comes. He’ll tell us everything.”

Mr. Thomas Cossart was the younger of the brothers who now were the heads of a thriving business in one of the eastern counties. Their father had begun from small means; but prudence, upright dealing, and industry, combined with shrewdness and skill, had worked up the business to something very considerable. He had died a wealthy man, but his daughter had not succeeded to any farther portion of his wealth. The old Cossart had been hurt and offended at the way in which his child had been separated from her own people through Mr. Cholmondeley’s pride. He had made no complaint, but he had felt it keenly. The sons took it more quietly. They were busy men, and possibly the knowledge that what would have been their sister’s portion had fallen to their share, disposed them to take the matter with equanimity. They used to write and send presents at Christmas, just to show there was no ill-feeling, and as long as Mrs. Cholmondeley lived she had always done the same. When it was told to the Cossart brothers that Mr. Cholmondeley had died rather suddenly, leaving his affairs in a very involved state, and asking their help and guardianship for his two children, the response had been prompt and kindly.

“I shall come as soon as I can possibly arrange to be away from the works,” Mr. Tom Cossart had written. “My brother is laid up with the gout and is unable to move, and I cannot be present at the funeral as I have too many important engagements to fulfil. But I shall come immediately afterwards and do my best to assist in the winding up of affairs.”

He had written also to his nephew, stating briefly that there would be a home for them with their relatives and a place for him in the works. Now they were waiting with some excitement of mind for the arrival of the unknown uncle, in whose hands their future seemed to lie.

“I hope he will be nice and kind!” cried Sheila, as she paced the big hall with excited steps. “I want to like him if I can; but what shall we do if he is harsh and unkind, or”—here she lowered her voice and added, as if half afraid of her own imaginings—“if he is dreadfully common and vulgar?”

“He is our mother’s brother,” said Oscar gravely. “We must try always to remember that.”

“Yes, but mother had been sent away to a good school, and father saw her and fell in love with her when she was on a visit just after she left. She had scarcely lived at home at all. I don’t think that is any proof. Oscar, shall I have to kiss him when he comes?”

“I think you had better, Sheila. He is our uncle. I think he will expect it.”

Sheila made a little grimace; but she had been petted all her life, and kissing came easily to her.

“I wonder why girls are expected to kiss everybody and be kissed? Boys get off. It isn’t quite fair. But I’ll try to be as good as I can.”

Sheila was trying to keep a brave face, though her heart was heavy to-night. The coming of Uncle Tom seemed to emphasise the fact that the father’s place was for ever empty; that it was a stranger who must in future rule their lives for them—at any rate, for the next year or two. The blank in the house was keenly felt at all times, although perhaps a little less keenly than it would have been had Mr. Cholmondeley not been much of a recluse during the latter years of his life. It seemed so strange that a visitor should be arriving, and that there should be only the son and daughter to welcome him.

Sheila choked back a sob more than once, as she stood listening for the crunch of wheels upon the gravel, which would herald the approach of the carriage.

It was like the beginning of the end. When once Uncle Tom had arrived, the old home would not seem like their own any longer. The guardian would be there to look after and arrange everything; and before very long they would have to leave—never to return.

As that thought come into Sheila’s mind, she ceased her excited pacing and came and stood beside the glowing hearth, her eyes full of unshed tears as she gazed into the heart of the fire.

Oscar saw the tears and came and put his arm about her. He knew very well the nature of the thoughts within her.

“Sheila,” he said softly, “we must try to be brave and good. We know that God will take care of us as much in one place as another.”

She nodded her head, and a great drop fell glistening down. She pulled Oscar’s hand more closely round her.

“I don’t think things are as real to me as they are to you, Oscar. I like to be taken care of by somebody I can see. Papa always did, and now he is gone, and they are going to take you away from me too.”

“I shall be quite near, Sheila; we shall always be meeting.”

“It isn’t like being in the same house.”

“You will have Uncle and Aunt Cossart, and I think there will be some cousins too. I know Uncle Tom has children; I’m not quite so sure about Uncle Cossart.”

“Perhaps I sha’n’t like them. I don’t like everybody,” began Sheila; but then she caught herself up quickly and added, “But I am going to try and be good, Oscar, I really am. Perhaps I’ve been too happy all this time—made too much of. It may be good for me to have some snubbing now. I’ll try not to mind very much—to take it patiently—like the early Christians, you know. When I was little I used to think it might be rather nice to be persecuted.”

Oscar smiled a little, and over Sheila’s face there glimmered a flickering smile, as though she were half amused at her own fancies. The firelight played over her face and form as she stood in its rosy glow. She was a little over the average height, and was growing graceful and maidenly, though a year or two back she had been rather a hoyden in appearance, with long limbs and a good many angles, and a mane of wavy brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. Now the long plain black dress, a little open at neck and wrists—for it was close upon dinner-time—seemed to give grace and dignity to the figure, and to heighten the clearness of the girl’s complexion. The plentiful brown hair was coiled about the head. The big grey eyes were arched over by brows of the same dusky tint, and the features of the face were well cut, though not quite regular, and very mobile in their play of expression. It was the constantly varying expression which gave to Sheila’s face its chief charm. It was like an April morning—always changing from gay to grave and from grave to gay. Gaiety certainly predominated in the play of lips and eyes; but there were many stormy or appealing or wistful expressions flitting constantly over the face. Sheila was accustomed to get her own way with everybody about her; and her big appealing eyes were answerable for a good deal of the spoiling she received.

Oscar was slight and tall, well-featured and very gentlemanly in appearance, with a quiet, attractive face and a very bright smile, which was, however, much more rare than Sheila’s. They were not much alike; but that seemed only to strengthen the bond between them.

“Hark!” cried Oscar quickly. “I hear the carriage!”

Sheila turned a little pale, and took a step or two forward.

“It is Uncle Tom!” she said; and the next minute the butler had thrown open the door and a figure well wrapped up for the wintry journey was seen entering the hall.

Mr. Thomas Cossart had come!

(To be continued.)

[FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS.]

PART IV.

GOING ON PILGRIMAGE.

“Still onward winds the dreary way;

I with it.”

“A glorious morning!” was our remark as we met at breakfast on March 28th. “Just the day for a pilgrimage to Mar Saba.”

The hour was early, but long before we had risen the shouts of Ameen and a muleteer mingling with the tramp of horses announced the arrival of part of our escort.

The Arab is a restless as well as a vociferating person, and cannot comprehend why the average Saxon goes to bed regularly at night, sleeps till morning, and keeps awake all day. For himself, well, the hour of repose and the nature of his couch are matters of perfect indifference. He takes his dog sleep like Sairey Gamp imbibed her spirits—“when so dispoged.”

If you tell him your wish is to start at eight in the morning, behold, he is knocking at your door before sunrise, and imploring you to make haste. He is convinced in his own mind that the intervening hours will be spent in the absurdities of washing and dressing. If you remonstrate, he shrugs his shoulders, and you may presently hear him confiding to his friend, that “the English are a strange people. True, Allah made them, but He alone can understand them!”

We were very punctual on this particular morning, and at seven o’clock had mounted our rough little horses, whose wonderful necklaces and charms formed no small part of their equipment.

The muleteer highly entertained us. He was a round-faced, scantily-clothed youth, whose evident pride in his cattle was manifest as he pointed to their decorations. He greeted us with broad grins and “Bon jour!” These words being the only scrap of a foreign tongue he had picked up, they were employed in season and out of season. Whenever one of our party looked pleased, or nodded kindly to him, he would stiffen himself, beam on her, and, with a fine air, roll out the salutation, “Bon jour!”

Our cavalcade now formed up, and we started off in high spirits, prepared for any adventure that might fall to our lot. Ameen, of course, led the van, his black horse gorgeously dressed in trappings of “barbaric splendour,” and he seated on a wondrous saddle, his purple silk shawl or kaffieh tied round his head and falling behind in graceful folds over the voluminous abbah, or cloak. The pair were imposing-looking objects in dignified contrast to the ludicrous figures of “Bon Jour” and his beast, who followed next in the procession.

His horse was a fearful and wonderful creature, carefully guarded against the influence of the evil eye by fantastic festoons of blue beads and shells which depended from his neck and mane and tail. Stacked upon his back were cooking pots, luncheon baskets, sunshades, wraps, and other gear, flanked by bursting saddle-bags. In the midst of these articles sat “Bon Jour,” complacently ambling on in the jog-trot style peculiar to his tribe, his brown legs dangling down, his leathern belt decorated with

“A bottle on each side

To keep his balance true.”

We brought up the rear demurely enough, trying to get our mettlesome steeds under control, with the help of “Bon Jour,” who, turning round and facing us, would yell in Arabic one moment to them, and the next encourage us with—

“Nods and becks, and wreathèd smiles,”

and the inevitable salutation in the French tongue, looking for all the world like a travelling showman on parade!

The first part of our journey lay along the Bethlehem road, which was fairly good, but has, I understand, been vastly improved for the German Emperor’s visit. On either side were smiling plains and grey olive groves, dressed in the lovely fresh hues of spring. Carpets of delicate flowers were spread on the roadside—for there are no hedges in Palestine—the air was soft and pleasant and everything took its colouring from the joyous morning.

The tomb of Rachel claimed our attention for a moment. We were quite familiar with its appearance from the many illustrations we had seen, so that the simple dome-like structure on the wayside seemed an old friend. Pious Jews, Christians, and Moslems offer their prayers at its shrine, and apparently derive equal benefit from their devotions.

A little beyond, on the slope of a hill, the pretty village of Beit Jala gleamed and glittered in the sunlight. The city of Kish, the father of King Saul, originally stood there. Was it to that hill, I wonder, the young, handsome Saul, after his election as King of Israel, returned when he “went home to Gibeah, and with him a band of men whose hearts God had touched”?