CHAPTER I.

FAIRY GOLD

_By_ CHRISTIAN REID

_Author of "Véra's Charge," "Philip's Restitution," "A Child of

Mary," "His Victory," etc._

[Illustration]

THE AVE MARIA PRESS

NOTRE DAME, INDIANA

COPYRIGHT, 1897,

BY

D.E. HUDSON.

FAIRY GOLD.

PRELUDE.

"Claire! do stop that tiresome practicing and come here. Helen and I

want you."

The voice was very clear and vibrating, and had a ring of command in it

as it uttered these words; while the summer dusk was dying away, and

the summer air came soft and sweet into the school-room of a convent,

that, from the eminence on which it stood, overlooked a city at its

feet, and the rise and fall of Atlantic tides. It was drawing toward

the close of the exercise-hour, but the two girls who stood together

in school-girl fashion beside an open window, and the third, who in an

adjoining music-room was diligently practicing Chopin, were not the

only ones who had neglected its observance and incurred no rebuke;

for was not to-morrow the end of the scholastic year, and did not

relaxation of rules already reign from dormitory to class-room?

Many hearts were beating high at the thought of the freedom which that

morrow would bring; many dreams were woven of the bright world which

lay beyond these quiet shades; of pleasures which were to replace

the monotonous round of occupation in which youth had so far been

spent--the round of lessons from teachers whose voices were gentle as

their faces were holy and serene; of quiet meditations in the beautiful

chapel, with its sculptured altar and stained-glass windows and

never-dying lamp; of walks in the green old garden, and romps along its

far-stretching alleys. They were ready to leave it all behind, these

careless birds, eager to try their new-fledged wings; and when the heat

and burden of the day should come down upon them, how much they would

give for one hour of the old quiet peace, the old happy ignorance!

And among them all no face was more bright with triumphant hope--or

was it triumphant resolve?--than hers whose voice went ringing through

the almost deserted school-room, in the half-entreaty, half-command

recorded above.

The sound of the piano ceased on the instant; a slight rustling

followed, as of music being put away; and then a girl came down the

middle aisle of desks, toward the window which overlooked the garden

and faced the glowing western sky, where the two girls were standing,

both of whom turned as she advanced.

"You must pardon me," she said, in a tone of apology. "I did not mean

to stay so long, but I forget myself when I am at the piano, and I

could scarcely bear to think that this was my last hour of practice."

"I am quite sure that it will not be your last hour of practice," said

the girl who had spoken first. "You are too fond of drudgery for that.

But how can you talk of not bearing to think of its being the last

_here_, when Helen and I have been congratulating each other on the

fact until we exhausted all our expressions of pleasure, and had to

call on you to help us?"

"Then you would have done better to let me finish my practicing,"

said the other, with a faint smile; "for I cannot help you with one

expression of pleasure: I am too sorry."

"Sorry!"--it was the one called Helen who broke in here. "Oh! how can

you say that, when we are going home to be so happy?"

"_You_ are going home, dear," remarked Claire, gently.

"And are not you? Is not my home your home, and will I not be hurt if

you do not feel it so?"

"You are very kind, dear," said Claire; "but you cannot give me what

God has denied. Perhaps I too might be glad of to-morrow, Helen, if I

had your future or Marion's courage; but, lacking both, I only feel

afraid and sad. I feel as if I should like to stay here forever--as if

I were being pushed out into a world with which I am not able to cope."

"But a world which shall never harm you so long as my love and Marion's

courage can help you," said Helen, as she passed her disengaged arm

around the slender form. "You know we three are pledged to stand

together as long as we live; are we not, Marion?"

"I know that Claire is very foolish," answered Marion. "If I had her

talent I should be eager to go into the world--eager to cope with and

overcome it. Everyone says that she is certain to succeed, and of all

the gifts in the world fame must be the sweetest."

"I suppose it is," said Claire; "but I know enough of art--just

enough--to be aware that it is a long journey before one can even dream

of fame. I love to paint--oh! yes, better than anything else,--but I

know what difficult work lies before me in becoming an artist."

"Yet you do not mind work," observed Helen, in a wondering tone.

"No." answered the other, "not here, where I had help and encouragement

and the sense of safe shelter. But out in the world, where I shall have

only myself to look to, and no one to care whether I fail or not--well,

I confess my courage ebbs as I think of that."

"How strange!" said Marion. "If my hands were as free as yours are, I

should like nothing better than for them to be as empty--if you can

call hands empty that have such a power."

"And are not your hands as free as mine?" asked the other. "We are both

orphans, and both--"

"Poor," said Marion, frankly. "Yes, but with a difference. Most people,

I suppose, would think the difference in my favor; _I_ think it is in

yours. You have no family obligations to prevent your doing what you

will with your life, from following the bent of your genius; while

I--well, it is true I have no genius, but if I had it would be all the

same. My uncle would never consent to my doing anything to lower the

family dignity, and I owe him enough to make me feel bound to respect

his wishes."

"It is well to have some one whose wishes one is bound to respect,"

said Claire gently, and then a silence fell.

They were decided contrasts, these three girls, as they stood together

by the open window, and looked out on the bright sunset and down into

the large garden;--decided contrasts, yet all possessed in greater or

less degree the gift of beauty.

It was certainly in greater degree with Marion Lynde, whose daily

expanding loveliness had been the marvel of all who saw her for two

years past;--the marvel even in this quiet convent, where human aspect

was perhaps of less account than any where else on all God's earth. The

little children had looked with admiration on her brilliant face, the

older girls had gazed on it with throbs of unconscious envy; the nuns

had glanced pityingly at the girl who bore so proudly that often fatal

dower; and many times the Mother Superior had sent up a special prayer

for this defiant soldier of life, when she saw her kneeling at Mass or

Benediction with a many-tinted glory streaming over her head.

As she stood now in her simple school dress, Marion was a picture

of striking beauty. Tall, slight, graceful, there was in her grace

something imperial and unlike other women. Her white skin, finely

grained and colorless as the petal of a lily, suited the regular,

clear-cut features; while her eyes were large and dark--splendid eyes,

which seemed to carry lustre in their sweeping glance,--and her hair

was a mass of red gold. Altogether a face to study with a sense of

artistic pleasure,--a face to admire as one admires a statue or a

painting; but not a face that attracted or wakened love, as many less

beautiful faces do, or as that of her cousin, Helen Morley, did.

For everyone loved Helen--a winsome creature, with lips that seemed

formed only for smiles, and hands ever ready to caress and aid; with

endearing ways that the hardest heart could not have resisted, and

a heaven-born capacity for loving that seemed inexhaustible. It was

impossible to look on the bright young face and think that sorrow could

ever darken it, or that tears would ever dim the clear violet of those

joyous eyes. From the Mother Superior down to the youngest scholar, all

loved the girl, and all recognized how entirely she seemed marked out

for happy destinies. "You must not let the brightness of this world

veil Heaven from your sight, my child," the nuns would say, as they

laid their hands on the silken-soft head, and longed to hold back from

the turmoil of life this white dove, whose wings were already spread

for flight from the quiet haven where they had been folded for a time.

Least beautiful of the three girls was Claire Alford,--a girl whose

reserved manner had perhaps kept love as well as familiarity at bay

during the years of her convent tutelage. Even Marion, with all her

haughty waywardness, had more friends than this quiet student. Yet

no one could find fault with Claire. She was always considerate and

gentle, quick to oblige and slow to take offense. But she lived a life

absorbed within itself, and those around her felt this. They felt that

her eyes were fixed on some distant goal, to which every thought of her

mind and effort of her nature was directed.

The only child and orphan of a struggling artist--a man of genius, but

who died before he conquered the recognition of the world,--Claire knew

that her slender fortune would hardly suffice for the expenses of her

education, and that afterward she must look for aid to herself alone.

Usually life goes hard with a woman under such circumstances as these.

But Claire had one power as a weapon with which to fight her way. Her

talent for painting had been the astonishment of all her teachers, and

it was a settled thing that she would make art the object and pursuit

of her life. If least beautiful of the three girls who stood there

together, an observant glance might have lingered longest on her. There

was something very attractive in the gray eyes that gazed so steadily

from under their long lashes, and in the smile that stirred now and

then the usually grave and gentle lips.

It only remains to be added that both Claire and Helen were Catholics,

while Marion had been brought up in Protestantism, which resulted, in

her case, in absolute religious indifference.

The silence had lasted for some time, when Helen's voice at last broke

it, saying:--

"You are right, Claire. It does make one sad to think that we are

standing together for the last time in our dear old school-room. We

have been so happy here! I wonder if we shall be _very_ much more happy

out in the world?"

"I doubt if we shall ever be half as happy again," answered Claire.

"Oh, you prophet of evil! Why not?"

"Why not, Helen!" repeated Claire. "Because I doubt if we shall ever

again feel so entirely at peace with ourselves and with others as we

have felt here."

"It is a very nice place," observed Helen; "and I love the Mother

Superior and all the Sisters dearly. But, then, of course, I want to

see mamma and Harry and little Jock. I want to ride Brown Bess again,

and I do want to go to a party Claire."

"Well," said Claire, smiling, "I suppose there is no doubt that you

will go to a good many parties, and I hope you will enjoy them."

"There is no doubt of her enjoyment," interposed Marion, speaking in

her usual half satiric tone, "if Paul Rathborne is to be there."

"I was not thinking of Paul Rathborne, and neither, I am sure, was

Helen," said Claire.

"That is likely!" cried Marion, laughing. "Don't, Helen! I would not

tell a story to oblige Claire, if I were you."

But Helen had apparently little idea of telling the story. Even in the

dusk, the flush that overspread her face was visible, and the lids

drooped over the violet eyes.

"At all events, we will not talk of him," said Claire, decidedly. "We

will talk of ourselves and our own futures. We are standing on the

threshold of a new life, and surely we may spare a little time in

wondering how it will fare with us. Marion, what do you say?"

"If one may judge the future by the past, I should say, so far as I am

concerned, badly enough," Marion replied. "But whether I alter matters

for better or for worse, I don't mean to go on in the same old way; I

shall change the road, if I don't mend it."

"Change it in what manner?"

"I don't know exactly. Circumstances will have to decide that for

me. But I don't mean to go back to my uncle's, to share the family

economics, and hear the family complaints, and wear Adela's old

dresses; you may be sure of that, Claire!"

"But how can you avoid it," asked Claire, "when you have just said that

you will not disregard your uncle's wishes by attempting to support

yourself?"

"I shall not do anything to hurt the Lynde pride," answered the girl,

mockingly. "I shall only take my gifts of body and mind into the world,

and see what I can make of them."

"Make of them!" repeated Helen. "In what way?"

"There is only one way that I care about," returned the other,

carelessly: "the way of a fortune."

"Oh! I understand: you mean to marry a rich man."

"I mean that only as a last resort. The world would think worse of me

if I robbed a man of his fortune; but I should think worse of myself,

and wrong him more, if I married him to obtain it. No, Helen, I shall

not do that--if I can help it."

"But you would not be wronging him, Marion, if you loved him."

"And do you think," demanded the young cynic, "that one is likely to

love the man it is best for one to marry?"

"Yes, I think so--I know so."

"Ah! well, perhaps it may be so to such a child of happy fate as you

are, but it is never likely to occur to me."

"And is a fortune all that you mean to look for in life?" asked Helen.

"Why should I look for anything more? Does not that comprise

everything? Ah! you have never known the bitterness of poverty, or

you would not doubt that when one has fortune, one has all that is

necessary for happiness."

"But I have known poverty," broke in Claire; "and I know, Marion, that

there are many worse things in life than want of money, and many better

things than possessing it."

"That is all you know about the matter," replied Marion, with an air

of scorn. "Perhaps I, too, might be able to feel in that way, if I had

known only the poverty that you have--a picturesque, Bohemian poverty,

with no necessity to pretend to be what you were not. But genteel

poverty, which must keep up appearances by a hundred makeshifts and

embarrassments and meannesses--have you ever known _that_? It has been

the experience of my life,--one which I shudder to recall, and which I

would sooner die than go back to."

"Poor darling! you shall not go back to it," cried Helen.

But Marion threw off her caressing hand.

"Don't, Helen!" she said, sharply. "I can't bear pity, even from you.

But I have talked enough of myself. You both know what I am going to

do: to make a fortune by some means. Now it is your turn, Claire, to

tell your ambition."

"You know it very well," answered Claire, quietly. "I am going to be an

artist, and perhaps, if God helps me, to make a name."

"Yes, I know," said Marion, gloomily. "Yours is a noble ambition, and I

think you will succeed."

"I hope so," responded Claire, looking out on the sunset with her

earnest eyes. "At least I know that I have resolution and perseverance,

and I used to hear my father say that with those things even mediocre

talent could do much."

"And yours is not mediocre. Yet you talk of being sorry to leave here,

with such a prospect before you."

"Such a battle, too. And people say that the world is very hard and

stern to those who fight it single-handed."

"So much the better!" cried Marion, flinging back her head with an air

of defiance. "There will be so much the more glory in triumph."

"You never seem to think of failure," observed Claire, with a smile.

"But now Helen must tell us what she desires her future to be."

"Mine?" said Helen. "Oh! I leave all such things as fortune and fame to

you and Marion. I mean only to be happy."

"To be happy!" repeated Marion. "Well, I admire your modesty. You have

set up for yourself a much more difficult aim than either Claire's or

my own. And how do you mean to be happy? That is the next question."

"I don't know," replied Helen, with a laugh. "I just mean to go home to

enjoy myself; that is all. And how happy it makes me to think that you

are both going with me!"

"Dear little Helen!" said Claire, caressingly. "But it will not make

you unhappy to hear that I am not going with you, will it? I have just

found out that I can not go."

"Not go!" repeated Helen. The deepest surprise and disappointment were

written on her face. "O, Claire, it is impossible that you can mean

it--that you can be so unkind! Why do you say such a thing?"

"I say it because it is true, dear; though it is a greater

disappointment to me than to you. I have just had a letter from my

guardian, telling me he has found an opportunity to send me abroad with

a lady, an acquaintance of his own; and I have no choice but to go."

"I should think you would be delighted to find such an opportunity,"

said Marion. "But surely the lady is not going to Rome at this season?"

"No: she is going to Germany for the summer, and to Italy in the

autumn; which is a very good thing, for I shall see the galleries of

Dresden and Munich before I go to Rome. Of course I am glad--I must be

glad--to find the opportunity at once; but I had promised myself the

pleasure of a quiet, happy month with Helen and you, and I am sorry to

lose it."

"It is too bad," said Helen, with a sound as of tears in her voice. "I

had anticipated so much pleasure in our all three being together! And

now--why could not your guardian have waited to find the lady, or why

does she not put off going abroad until the autumn?"

"Why, in short, is not the whole scheme of things arranged with

reference to one insignificant person called Claire Alford?" replied

Claire, laughing. "No, dear; there is no help for it. I must give up

the idea of a short rest before the combat."

"And now there is no telling when we shall all be together again!" said

Helen. "I could not have believed that such a disappointment was in

store for me."

"I hope you will never know a worse one," remarked Claire. "But if we

live, we must meet again some day. We are too good friends to suffer

such trifles as time and space to separate us always."

"But you are going so far away, one cannot tell when or where that

meeting will be," said Helen, still mournfully.

"Perhaps it may be when Marion has made her fortune, and asks us to

visit her castle," answered Claire. "Marion, have you formed any plans

as to where it is to be situated? Marion, don't you hear?"

"What is it?" asked Marion, starting. "I beg your pardon, but I was

thinking. Did you say, Claire, that this visit, which you could not

make, would have been a rest before the combat to you? I was wondering

if it will be a rest to me or a beginning."

She spoke half dreamily, and neither of the others answered. They only

stood with the sunset glow falling on their fair young faces, their

wistful gaze resting upon each other, and quite silent, until a bell

pealed softly out on the twilight air, and their last school-day ended

forever.

CHAPTER I.

There is nothing specially attractive about Scarborough--a town which

nestles among green hills near the foot of the Blue Ridge,--except its

salubrious and delightful climate, which has long drawn summer visitors

from the lower malarial country; but if it had been as beautiful as

Naples or as far-famed as Venice, it could not have wakened more loving

delight than that which shone in Helen Morley's eyes as she drew near

it. For that deeply-rooted attachment to familiar scenes--to those

aspects of nature on which the eyes first opened, and which to the

child are like the face of another mother--was as strong in her as it

is in most people of affectionate character. For several miles before

the train reached Scarborough, she was calling Marion's attention to

one familiar landmark after another; and when finally they stopped at

the station on the outskirts of the town, her eagerness knew no bounds.

"Come, Marion; here we are!" she cried, springing up hastily. But at

that moment the car was burst open by a tall young man, who entered,

followed by two small boys, upon all three of whom, as it seemed to

Marion, Helen, with a glad little cry, precipitated herself. There were

embraces, kisses, inquiries for a moment; then the young man turned

and held out his hand, saying, "This is Miss Lynde, I am sure?"

"Yes," said Helen, turning her flushed, smiling face. "And this is my

cousin, Frank Morley, Marion. And here is my brother Harry, who has

almost grown to be a man since I went away; and here is little Jock."

Marion shook hands with all these new acquaintances; the boys seized

bags and baskets, and the young man led the way from the car and

assisted them to the platform outside, near which a large open carriage

was standing, with a broadly-smiling ebony coachman, whom Helen greeted

warmly. Then her cousin told her that she had better drive home at

once. "I shall stay and attend to the trunks, and will see you later,"

he said.

So Helen, Marion, and the boys were bundled into the carriage, and

drove away through the streets of Scarborough,--Helen explaining that

her home was at the opposite end of the town from the station. "Indeed

we are quite in the county," she said: "and I like it much better than

living in town."

"Who would wish to live in a town like this!" asked Marion, eying

disdainfully the rural-looking streets through which they were passing.

"I like the overflowing life, the roar and fret of a great city; but

places of this kind seem to me made only to put people to sleep,

mentally as well as physically."

"Oh, Scarborough is a very nice place when you know it!" said Helen,

in arms at once for her birth-place. "And I assure you people are not

asleep in it, by any means."

"These young gentlemen certainly look wide awake," resumed Marion,

regarding the two boys, who were in turn regarding her with large and

solemn eyes. "And so looked your cousin--very wide awake indeed."

"Oh, Frank is a delightful boy!" exclaimed Helen; "and I am very fond

of him."

"I am glad to hear it," said Marion. "I hope you will be fond enough of

him to keep him away from me; for if I abhor anything, it is a boy--I

mean" (with a glance at the two young faces before her) "a boy who

fancies himself a man."

"Frank is twenty years old," observed Harry, who, being himself barely

ten, naturally regarded this as a venerable age.

"So I imagined," replied Marion; "and twenty is not my favorite

age--for a man. Jock's age suits me better. Jock, how old are you?"

Jock replied that he was seven; but at this point an exclamation from

Helen cut the conversation short; for now they were rapidly approaching

a house situated in the midst of large grounds on the outskirts of

the town,--a shade-embowered dwelling, on the broad veranda of which

flitting forms were to be seen, as the carriage paused a moment for the

gate to be opened. Helen stood up and eagerly waved her handkerchief;

then they drove in, swept around a large circle and drew up before an

open door, from which poured a troop of eager welcomers of all ages and

colors.

It seemed to Marion a babel of sound which ensued--kisses, welcomes,

hand-shakings, questions,--then she was swept along by the tide into

the cool, garnished house, and thence on to a bowery chamber, where

she was left for a little while to herself: since Helen was, after

all, the grand object of the ovation, and it was into Helen's room

that the loyal crowd gathered, who had merely given to Marion that

cordial welcome which no stranger ever failed to receive on a Southern

threshold.

Only Helen's mother--who, having been twice married, was now Mrs.

Dalton--lingered behind with the young stranger, and looked earnestly

into the fair face, as if seeking a likeness.

"You are very little like your mother, my dear," she said at last;

"though you have her eyes. Alice was beautiful, but it was a gentle

beauty; while you--well, I think you must be altogether a Lynde."

"I know that I am very like the Lyndes," Marion answered. "I have a

miniature of my father, which I can see myself that I resemble."

"He was a very handsome man," said Mrs. Dalton, "and daring--ah! it

was no wonder that he was among the first to rush into the war, and

among the first to be killed! My child, you do not know how my heart

has yearned over you during all these years, how happy I was to hear of

your being at the convent with Helen, and now how glad I am to see you

under my own roof. I want you to feel that you are like a daughter of

the house."

"You are very kind," replied Marion, touched by the evident sincerity

of the words. "I am glad, too, to know at last some of my mother's

kindred."

"I can't help wishing that you looked more like her," said Mrs. Dalton,

returning wistfully to that point. "She was very lovely--though you--I

suppose I need not tell you what _you_ are. My dear"--and suddenly the

elder woman stooped to kiss the younger--"I am sorry for you."

"I am sorry for you!" The words lingered on Marion's ear after her

aunt's kindly presence had left the room and she stood alone, asking

herself why she was so often met in this manner. Why was it that, even

with her royal beauty, she had thus far encountered more of pity than

of admiration? Why did all eyes that had looked on the sin and sorrow

of earth regard her with compassion, and why had she heard so often in

her old life that which was her first greeting in the new--"I am sorry

for you"?

"Sorry!--for what?" The girl asked herself this with fiery and

impatient disdain. What did they all mean? Why did this keynote of

unknown misfortune or suffering meet her at every turn, like a shadow

flung forward by the unborn future? Why did this refrain always ring

in her ears? She was tired of it--so she said to herself with sudden

passion,--and she would let the future prove whether or not their pity

was misplaced.

She let down her magnificent hair as she thought this, and looked at

herself in the mirror out of a burnished cloud. Not, however, as most

beautiful women look at the fair image that smiles from those shadowy

depths--not with the gratified gaze of self-admiration or the glance of

conscious power, but with a criticism severe and stern enough to have

banished all loveliness from a less perfect face; with a cool reckoning

and appreciation, in which the innocent vanity of girlhood bore no

part. And when this scrutiny was ended, the smile that came over her

face spoke more of resolution than of pleasure.

She took up a comb then, and began arranging her hair. The task did not

occupy her many minutes; for her deft fingers were very quick, and no

one had ever accused her of caring for the arts of the toilet. On the

contrary, she had always manifested a careless disregard of them, which

puzzled her associates, and was by not a few set down to affectation.

Now, when she had piled her hair on top of her head like a coronal

of red gold, she proceeded to make her simple toilet, with scarcely

another glance toward the mirror. It was soon completed, and she had

been ready some time when a knock at the door was followed by the

appearance of Helen's beaming face.

"So you are dressed?" she said. "I came to show you the way down. I

would have come sooner, but, you know, there was so much to say."

"And to hear," added Marion. "I can imagine, though I do not know, what

such a home-coming is. And what a lovely home you have, Helen!"

"You have hardly seen it yet," answered Helen. "Come and let me show

you all over it."

It was certainly a spacious and pleasant house, built with the stately,

honest solidity of the work of former generations, but with many modern

additions which served to enhance its picturesqueness and comfort.

Marion praised it with a sincerity that delighted Helen; and, having

made a thorough exploration, they passed out of the wide lower hall

into a veranda, which, as in most Southern houses, was at this hour the

place of general rendezvous. Here a pretty dark-eyed girl came forward

to meet them.

"I was introduced to you when you arrived, Miss Lynde," she said, "but

there was such a hubbub I fancy you did not notice me, and I am glad to

welcome you again. I feel as if Helen's cousin must be my cousin too."

"Helen's cousin is much obliged," said Marion. "You are Miss Morley,

then?"

"I am the Netta of whom you have doubtless heard. But pray sit down.

Are you not tired from your journey?"

"A little. It was so warm and dusty!" answered Marion. "But this seems

a perfect place of rest," she added, as she sank on a lounge that had

been placed just under the odorous shade of the vines which overran

the front of the veranda. "I mean to indulge freely in the luxury of

idleness here."

"I hope you will," said Helen. "But I wish that you felt sufficiently

rested to come with me into the garden. I should like you to see how

lovely it is."

"I wish that I did, but I don't. Pray go yourself, however. You must

not let me begin my visit by being a bore to you. Miss Morley, pray

take her along."

After some little demur, the two girls complied with her request, and

with sincere satisfaction Marion watched them disappear down the garden

paths. She was very fond of Helen, she told herself and certainly

believed; but, none the less, a very moderate amount of Helen's society

sufficed to content, and any more to weary her. Just now she felt

particularly wearied, as if both mind and body had been on a strain;

and, sinking back on the couch, with the vines breathing their rich

perfume over her, she remained so still while the shades of twilight

began to gather, that any one who discovered her would have had to look

very closely.

This was presently proved; for the silence, which had lasted some time,

was broken by a quick step--a step which passed across the veranda and

entered the hall, where a ringing and hilarious voice soon made itself

heard.

"Where is everybody?" it inquired. "Surely I am late enough! I thought

they would all be down by this time."

"They've all been down ever so long, Frank," a child's shrill tones

replied. "They are out in the garden--Helen and Netta and Cousin

Marion."

"Oh, very good! Come along, Jock, and let us find them," said Mr. Frank

Morley. "Has your cousin Paul been here yet?"

"No--not yet."

"Ah, better still! We are before him, then. I shall go and welcome

Helen over again, and take a kiss before she can prevent it."

"Then she'll box your ears--I saw her do it once!" cried Jock, in glee.

"Oh! yes; I'll come along with you, Frank."

The tall, lithe figure, followed by the smaller one, crossed the

veranda again, and strode toward the garden, leaving Marion smiling to

herself in her shady nook.

Ten minutes later another step--this time a more sedate one--sounded

on the gravel. But keener eyes explored the veranda before their owner

entered the house. Consequently they discovered the figure under the

vines, and Marion was startled by a quiet voice which said:--

"What! all alone, Helen? I had not hoped for such good fortune--so

soon."