"Of course it is hateful pride and horrid ingratitude," she cried. "But

I did not see it in that way before; I only felt overwhelmed with your

kindness, and that it was all too much for you to do for my sake. I

have had shamefully ungrateful thoughts about being left here, and have

felt angry at mamma and Laura, and generally rebellious on account of

my lot, instead of just accepting it as from God's hand, and making the

best of it. And all the while He was ordering everything for my good,

putting it into your heart to be so kind to me, and planning that I

should be invited to the place I longed to visit above every other in

the world. I am ashamed of myself."

"That is right, darling," replied Mrs. Worsley. "Now you are looking

at things in a proper light, and there is nothing to be done but to

continue our preparations."

After this the hours seemed to fly, so much had to be done; but further

help was obtained to sustain the "reed." Williams returned in due time,

the boys set out for Cumberland in the highest of spirits, and a couple

of hours later Mrs. Worsley carried off Nettie, and arrived in the

early afternoon at the station nearest to Broadlands.

On the platform were three or four of Mrs. Worsley's nephews and

nieces, wild with delight at seeing her with Nettie in charge, and at

the cry of the first, "Here's Nettie! Hurrah!" The shout was taken

up by the others, who each cheered in a different key, and made the

station resound with their shrill young voices.

There was another person who met the train, and handed the ladies out,

and who, though he did not join in the cheer raised by the juniors,

managed to express his pleasure at sight of the travellers in no less

eloquent language. Truly if ever eyes spoke of gladness, the fine grey

ones of Arthur Boyd told Nettie Clifford that the sight of her bright,

blushing face had vastly increased his present feeling of happiness.

What halcyon days followed! Broadlands itself, with just its regular

inmates, would have been a paradise to Nettie, nestling, as it did,

among glorious woods which sheltered without hiding it, and yet within

walking distance of the sea on one side and a lovely undulating country

on the other three. There were endless drives and plenty of pleasant

neighbours within reach, nearest of all Ferndene, the residence of old

Sir Henry Boyd, Arthur's uncle, with whom Nettie was a prime favourite.

He and his dear old wife were deeply attached to their nephew and heir,

very anxious for him to marry, and yet in great dread lest he should

fall a victim to a mere pretty face.

They had a horror of fastness and flirtation. They believed in one

true, ever-growing holy love which should become stronger and more

self-devoting through each year of wedded life, as theirs had done.

Their nephew would be independent of money considerations; they wanted

him to have a fortune in the wife herself; and so, when twelve months

before they thought their nephew was learning to care for Nettie

Clifford, they were ready to give their hearty consent if he would only

ask it.

"Just the girl for Arthur," they had said to each other. Well born

and educated, with good health, good looks, a pure mind, and habits

untainted by fashion and folly, yet as bright as a bird; one in whose

society young and old found pleasure. What could they desire better?

Yet the girl's visit had come to an end, and Arthur had not spoken. The

hopes of the old couple had died away, and twelve months had come and

gone in the meanwhile.

Now Nettie was again at Broadlands, and day by day she and Arthur met.

Lookers-on began to whisper, and some that had hoped Sir Henry's heir

would seek a wife in a different direction lost hope.

At last a day came when the young man opened his heart to the relatives

who had been as father and mother to him, and asked their consent and

blessing on his union with Nettie Clifford, provided he could win hers.

They answered him together: "May God bless you as we do, and speed

your wooing! 'A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband.' We could

desire no better fortune for our boy than to win such a wife as Annette

Clifford."

With a light heart Arthur set out for Broadlands. There was to be a

garden party in the lovely grounds that afternoon, and he had no doubt

that he should find an opportunity of telling Nettie all that was in

his mind. He did not, however, see her immediately on his arrival. The

grounds were extensive, and before Arthur Boyd made one amid the crowd

of guests who kept pouring through the wide gateway, Nettie had been

pounced upon and carried off to take part in a game at tennis.

[Illustration]

The decisive set was just at an end when he caught sight of her,

flushed and smiling, after a hard-won victory. But bright as was the

colour on the girl's cheek, it deepened at his approach, and it was

with a look of frank pleasure that she laid her hand in his and bade

him welcome.

But while Nettie's roses deepened, those on Arthur's face died away,

and he became deadly pale as he glanced at the girl's extended hand,

for there, glittering on her "engaged finger," was a superb diamond, a

beautiful single stone of bluish white, a stone of great value, as the

merest ignoramus could tell. Surely the presence of such a jewel in

such a place could have only one meaning.

Arthur hardly knew what he said. He knew that Nettie looked half

frightened, and asked if he were ill, and that he had answered in the

negative, and got away out of sight. True, she seemed to look wistfully

after him, and her lips moved, as if she were begging him to stay.

Probably she was shocked at what she had done, and wished to deprecate

the grief and resentment his face must have expressed.

All their happy hours, all her sweet girlish ways, all the tell-tale

blushes at his coming, all that he had thought he read in the shy eyes

that were wont to droop when he looked too steadily in their direction,

all these things were as nothing to him any more than others.

Someone—Arthur thought he knew who—had offered, and been promptly

accepted by the portionless girl, who was bound to marry well, whether

true love were included in the bargain or not.

Arthur could not leave Broadlands at once, as he longed to do, for his

aunt and uncle, with other friends, were to come later, and he had

promised to wait for and return with them. So he strolled away to a

lonely part of the grounds, and having passed a miserable hour there,

once more bent towards the entrance-gates, where he met Nettie.

Surely the girl must have been miserable too, for she looked pale and

troubled, and there were signs about her usually bright eyes that were

suggestive of recent tears. And lo! As he glanced at her hand which

hold up a parasol, he saw that it was unadorned. The ring was gone.

"There must have been some stupid mistake," he thought. "I have taken

for granted what had probably no reality. Only Nettie's own lips shall

convince me that she is other than the pure, true-hearted girl I have

ever judged her to be."

To think was to act. There was no one else very near, so Arthur joined

Nettie, and a new light came to her sweet face, and new roses sprang

into being on her cheeks. He began to tell his tale, strolling the

while into a by-path, and had got as far as the ring.

"I came on purpose to speak to you to-day, Nettie, bringing with me

the blessing and approval of my dear aunt and uncle, who would welcome

you with open arms as my wife," he said. "There was only one person

for me amongst all the guests, and when I saw you, darling, sweet, and

fair, and true, I longed to clasp you to my heart and tell you that I

gave you my whole best love a year ago. And then I looked at something

sparkling on your finger, and saw a ring, and feared that someone had

been beforehand with me, so went away miserable, without a word. What

did the ring mean, dear, for you wear it no longer?"

Nettie glanced at her hand as Arthur alluded to the ring, and gave a

cry of horror.

"What shall I do?" she cried. "I did not know it was gone. I would not

lose it for anything. Please do not stop me!"

Away fled Nettie towards the house, leaving Arthur with his love story

unfinished, and to put what construction he chose upon her precipitate

retreat. To pursue the girl would have been to cause remark, and Arthur

went more slowly in the direction taken by Nettie, his mind full of

half-formed plans for an immediate voyage to the Antipodes.

Mrs. Worsley was sitting on the terrace, and Annette must have passed

her on her way to the house. Arthur stood by her for a little while,

talking of the party, the lovely weather, and the manifest enjoyment

of the guests, but his manner was constrained, and his answers often

irrelevant. He was on the point of turning away, when Annette once more

appeared, tripping lightly towards them, with a radiant face.

"Aunty, dear aunty, please take this back with my best thanks, and

never, if you love me, ask me to wear borrowed feathers again. I have

been in dreadful trouble. I missed it from my finger, or rather Mr.

Boyd did, and I thought I had lost it in the park. Then I remembered

I had been to my room to wash my hands after preparing some fruit for

the children, and I left Mr. Boyd very unceremoniously, to see if I

had laid it on the dressing-table. It was not there, and I was almost

in despair, when where do you think I found it? Exactly fitted into

the centre hole of the drainer which covers the sponge bowl. How glad

I was! I am not fit to be trusted with valuables, you see, for, being

unaccustomed to them, I forget that I have them. Thank you a thousand

times for the loan of the ring, aunty, and most of all for freeing me

from the awful responsibility of having valuables not my own to take

care of. I will never wear borrowed feathers again as long as I live."

As Nettie spoke, she placed the ring which had caused Arthur's misery

in Mrs. Worsley's hand, and then gave a sweet, shy, upward glance at

the young man, which seemed to say that the story he had begun to tell

would now find an attentive listener.

Mrs. Worsley, with a laughing face, told Arthur how she had insisted on

Nettie's wearing one of her rings because the girl possessed scarcely

any ornaments of her own. "It will be hers some day," she added, "but I

must take care of it until she is fit to be trusted with the custody of

valuables."

Arthur mentally dissented from Mrs. Worsley's statement that Nettie

possessed few ornaments. He thought that truth, modesty, unselfishness,

a pure, tender nature, and a warm, faithful heart were better

adornments and possessions than all the jewels in the world. But he did

not trouble to tell her so, for some friends were approaching, whom

Mrs. Worsley joined. And Arthur told his thoughts to Nettie instead,

and completed the story begun a little while before.

He must have had faith, too, in Nettie's powers to take care Of a

ring, for when the young people met the party from Ferndene, there

glittered on the girl's engaged finger a most beautiful specimen of

the jeweller's art, the diamonds in which were worthy to follow the

borrowed gem.

Thus Arthur Boyd won Nettie for a wife; and the dear old couple at

Ferndene rejoiced that their adopted son would soon give them the

daughter they coveted above all others. And there was rejoicing at

Scarborough, and Mrs. Clifford wrote that her darling Nettie had more

than fulfilled her most cherished hopes by making so wise a choice.

That Mrs. Worsley played the true mother's part to her goddaughter

need hardly be told, or that it was on her breast that the girl shed

the glad tears which came from a heart almost too full of happiness as

she said, "How can I be thankful enough for God's great goodness to

me? How be ashamed enough of my old want of faith, my repinings, and

discontent?"

Mrs. Arthur Boyd has no lack of jewels now, and has long since been

accustomed to the charge of articles of value of her very own. But

if she had never possessed any, her friends think that those better

ornaments which her husband valued most would have been conspicuous in

her life and actions. Also that the one lesson would have sufficed to

prevent her from ever making a second appearance in "borrowed feathers."

[Illustration]

A STORY OF AN ANGLE WINDOW

CHAPTER I.

"STEPBROTHER DICK."

"You will have to be father, mother, and brother to the girls, Dick. It

is a great charge, but you will not shirk it. I know what you are, dear

boy, and now, more than ever, I thank God, who took my only son, that

He left me you."

The speaker had not long to live, and she knew it. She had four girls

to leave motherless, and she had been ten years a widow. He to whom she

spoke was her stepson, Richard Maynard Whitmore, who was sitting by her

bed and looking in her wan face with loving, troubled eyes. His answer

was not long in coming. Holding the invalid's thin hand in a gentle,

caressing clasp, the young man replied, "As you have been a true mother

to me, so will I be to the girls all you say, as God shall enable me."

A beautiful glad light overspread Mrs. Whitmore's face as the words

fell on her ear. Dick's honest eyes were turned towards her, and though

he spoke quietly, his tone was solemn and earnest, as befitted the

occasion and the responsibility he was taking upon himself.

"Kiss me, dear Dick."

Richard rose and bent his tall figure until his lips touched those of

his stepmother. She made an effort to clasp her thin arms round his

neck, and after kissing him again and again, she held him for a few

moments in a close embrace. Thus was the compact sealed.

Mrs. Whitmore knew well what a noble nature was covered under Dick's

quiet, undemonstrative manner. The few words he had just spoken were

quite enough to remove every anxious thought from her mind—save one.

Even before they were spoken the mother had said to herself, "The girls

will be safe so long as they are sheltered by Dick's roof. He will be a

true guardian, and will watch over and guide them aright, if they will

be guided. He is good and wise beyond his years, and so unselfish."

"The three will be manageable enough, for they love him. My only fear

is for Gertrude, and I dread her influence over the rest."

It seemed strange and sad that at such a time Mrs. Whitmore's thoughts

should be disturbed by anxiety about her eldest daughter, and that her

whole trust should be placed on the only one of her husband's children

who was not also her very own son.

It was evident that Richard Whitmore read a story of hidden trouble in

his mother's face, for, after her arms released him, he noted that the

glad look called forth by his assurance had faded, and given place to a

different expression. There was something yet unsaid, and he asked her,

gently, "What is it, dear mother?"

"You read me like a book almost, Dick. I have been hesitating whether

to say any more or no, but it is due to your goodness that I should

withhold no thought from you which has relation to your sisters.

Indeed, I have no wish to do it. My anxiety is on Gertrude's account.

She has never been like the rest, especially to you, and never treated

you as she ought to have done since that miserable visit. When I am

gone it may be that she will try to prejudice the younger ones, and

that they will listen to her, and then—"

Tears began to flow down the wan cheeks, and the speaker was unable to

continue.

"I know all, and I have no fear. We will not trouble ourselves about

'maybes,'" returned Richard, in a cheery, hopeful tone, though he was

not wholly without forebodings on the same account.

"Do not think I have made my promise to you without asking for help

to enable me to keep it. That is enough for to-day. As future days

pass one by one into the present, I shall seek strength for each as it

comes. Let this thought comfort you, dear mother, when you are inclined

to remember how young I am to undertake such a responsibility. Say to

yourself, 'Dick does not stand alone. His father's God is his God also,

and trusting in Him for strength according to his day, he can never be

desolate or in doubt as to the course he should take.'"

"May that God bless you abundantly, my dear boy!" replied Mrs.

Whitmore, fervently. "As I lie here weak and helpless, I feel that

if I had only you to thank Him for, my heart would be filled with

gratitude. He took my only boy, but left me one of the best of sons in

you. I cannot fret or trouble about the future. It seems to me that in

the solemn last days of life a clearer understanding of our Father's

dealings with us is vouchsafed, to make up for the fading away of

earthly interests. I see how kindly I have been dealt with through ten

years of widowhood, and how I have been spared till the youngest of the

girls is past mere childhood, and you are grown old enough for them to

look up to as brother, guardian, friend."

Richard answered by a few more loving words, and then, after tenderly

kissing his stepmother, left her to rest.

Mrs. Whitmore might well think much of Dick, and he of her in return.

She was the only mother he could remember, having become his father's

second wife when the boy was barely three years old.

She had come to the home a fair young creature, who had, happily for

herself and the child, been brought up in an atmosphere of love, and

was ready to pour a whole wealth of affection upon little Dick.

From the very day that she entered Mr. Whitmore's house as his wife,

she brightened the life of her tiny stepson in every possible way. She

was so young herself—very little over twenty—and to Dick, who had been

under the charge of a faithful but somewhat prim nurse, her lovely face

was like that of an angel.

The loss of her first baby, the only boy born of this second marriage,

drew the loving bonds between her husband's child and herself closer

still. It was such a comfort to feel his little arms round her neck,

to have him for her companion, and to hear his childish prattle as he

coaxed her out into the garden and fields, and persuaded her to join

again in his baby games, as she did before the little one came and went.

Dick was only six years old when Gertrude, the eldest of the girls, was

born, so that there was no great difference between his age and theirs,

and all seemed to belong to one family on both sides. A looker-on could

not have distinguished which of the five was Mrs. Whitmore's own child,

either when all were little ones, or when they were comparatively

grown-up.

Before Mr. Whitmore brought his second wife home, he had wisely

explained to her his position and that of Dick with regard to the

property on which they lived.

"Most of it came with my wife," he said, "and will eventually go to

the boy, though while I live two-thirds of the income from the estate

will be mine. Until he is of age, the whole of it passes through my

hands, though, of course, a liberal portion is to be expended on his

maintenance and education. When Richard is twenty-one, he will have

a third for his own absolute use and until my death, when all his

mother's property will be his. As his future is thus amply provided

for, all that I have shall be yours for life, if you survive me, and

afterwards go to our children, if we have others beside Dick. It will

not be much in comparison, but would keep you in a modest way."

Pretty Amy Christie had been accustomed to simple surroundings, and

was willing to trust her future in the hands of Mr. Whitmore. She was

transplanted to a luxurious home, but as she looked around her, from

the first she accustomed herself to think, "We owe the greater part of

the good things we enjoy to little Dick's mother, and they are really

held in trust for the boy."

There was no envious feeling in Mrs. Whitmore's mind as she thought

of this. On the contrary, she rejoiced that the boy whom she had been

privileged to train was daily developing into a noble character: true,

loving, brave, unselfish. A little too quiet if anything, save to those

who had the key to his inmost heart; and perhaps even more than to the

father whom he loved and reverenced, did Richard Whitmore reveal it to

his stepmother.

He was only sixteen when his father died, and the four girls were mere

children: Gertrude ten, Mina (short for Wilhelmina) eight, Josephine

six, and Florence Mary, or Molly, as everybody called her, only four.

With Mr. Whitmore's death went a large portion of the income, to

accumulate and make Dick richer still, when he should come of age.

What the husband had the power to bequeath to his widow seemed a mere

pittance in comparison with what had been spent on the household,

though he had saved out of it and left a little nest-egg, in the shape

of ready money thus accumulated, absolutely to his widow.

The father had faith in Dick, though he was but a lad of sixteen, and

to him, he commended his still young stepmother and the girls.

The trustees consented that Dick's home should still be shared by

them, and made a liberal allowance. The ready money alluded to helped

to tide over the time until he came of age, so that the interval was

passed without much change in the surroundings of Mrs. Whitmore and

her children. Only there was one unfortunate incident, which helped

to spoil the perfect unity which had hitherto subsisted in the little

family.

When Gertrude was about seventeen, she paid a visit to the home of

a schoolfellow who lived at no very great distance. Whilst there,

and as the girls strolled in the sweet spring sunshine, exchanging

confidences, Gertrude's friend began to talk to her of the home she had

lately left.

"I think Mere Side is just the most charmingly-situated house, and

altogether the loveliest spot I ever saw. I always envied you your home

until I knew."

"Knew what?" asked Gertrude, turning sharply round with an expression

of utter astonishment on her handsome face. It was reflected on that of

her friend, Pauline Tindall, who had spoken without having an idea that

she was trenching on forbidden ground.

"You must know what I mean, dear," she replied, "and surely you are not

angry at me for alluding to it. I would not pain or annoy you for the

world," and she clung coaxingly to Gertrude, who was a full head above

her in height.

"I do not understand you. I was surprised, not angry, when you said

those words, 'until I knew,' and I want to know the meaning of them

also. Tell me, Pauline, if you are really my friend!"

"If! Oh, Gertrude, can you doubt me? I am and shall always be your true

friend, I hope. It is impossible that you should not know already far

more than I can tell. I was only thinking that if Mr. Richard—I should

say Mr. Whitmore now, as he is the only gentleman in the family—were

to marry, how sad it would be for you all. If I lived at Mere Side on

the same terms, I should be haunted with a perpetual dread of receiving

notice to gait, and should feel as if a sword were hanging over my head

whenever my brother spoke to a girl."

Still there was a look of perplexity and bewilderment on Gertrude

Whitmore's face, and at last it dawned on her friend's mind that facts

which were known to all the country round must be unknown to her.

It was perfectly true. No outsider had ever spoken to these Whitmore

girls about the difference between Dick's worldly circumstances and

their own. Everybody knew that the main portion of the money and the

whole of the estate had come by Dick's mother, and that Mr. Whitmore

had only a life interest in these. Of course, all had belonged to the

young man himself since he came of age, and that was two years ago,

when Gertrude was fifteen.

And everybody took it for granted that what was so generally known

outside was equally so to the young people who lived so comfortably

with stepbrother Dick. It was of no use alluding to such matters. The

girls were happy and well cared for, and Richard Whitmore was the best

of sons to his charming stepmother, and of brothers to the quartet of

bonnie lasses at Mere Side. No doubt they would marry in good time, or

if he married, he would do something towards increasing the slender

income of one to whom he gave a son's affection.

If outsiders failed to speak of the position, Richard Whitmore was

still less likely to name it. It was this lad of sixteen, who, when

his father died, had gone quietly to the trustees, that father's old

friends, and pleaded with them for the largest allowance that they

dared take the responsibility of granting during his minority. Not for

himself, but that Mrs. Whitmore might not want any luxury to which

she had been accustomed, or the girls feel that a needless shadow had

fallen on their young lives.

It was Richard who had said to the mother, "Do not be afraid of

spending from your own store. It will be replenished in due time,"

meaning when he should have legal power to do what he chose with his

own. And, lastly, it was he who had persuaded Mrs. Whitmore to keep the

girls in ignorance of what they owed to him.

"We are children of the same parents, for you are the only mother I

can remember," he said to her. "Do not let them think that Fortune has

made any difference in the shares she has severally allotted to us. Why

should they know? I am not likely to marry for years and years to come,

if ever, and what would my home be, without the girls and you?"

So it was Dick's doing that Gertrude first listened in such amazement

to Pauline Tindall's sympathetic remarks, and then insisted on an

explanation.

"Then, from what you tell me, I am to understand that my sisters and I

are to a great extent dependent on Richard. That, but for him, we must

live in some little poky place with one, or at most two servants, if

indeed we could afford so much. That I, but for my—" she had always

said brother before—"stepbrother's generosity—is that the right

word, Pauline?—would have to go out as a governess, or companion, or

something of the kind."

"I did not say so, dear Gertrude. I never dreamed of such a thing. I

only alluded to what I thought you knew as well as myself. Mr. Richard

is good and generous, splendidly generous. Everybody says so, and I

should think that the very fact of your having no knowledge of what he

has done, will show you what a delicate mind he must have."

There was a hard, set look on Gertrude's face as she answered, "True,

Pauline, you said nothing of the going out as a governess, or the

consequences which might follow if Richard Whitmore were to marry.

But you showed me plainly enough that, were he to bring home a wife,

there would no longer be room for the rest of us under his roof. The

remainder of the blanks were easy to fill in, and my imagination did

that quickly enough."

Again Pauline spoke soothingly and tenderly to her friend. She

felt that she had unwittingly done mischief, and was distressed

beyond measure at the impression produced on Gertrude. She pleaded

again that she could not have imagined that she was touching on a

forbidden subject, when it was one so well-known. That it was her own

enthusiastic admiration for Mere Side, which had made her express

what would be her feelings were she in Gertrude's place, at the very

possibility of having to leave it.

Then she added, "Knowing how often you have spoken of your brother

in such affectionate terms, and that he is honoured and respected

by everyone, I thought you would love to know how his beautiful

unselfishness is spoken of."

"I suppose I should appreciate it too in somebody else," replied

Gertrude, trying to repress her angry feelings, or to prevent their

being noticed. "But it has been a rude awakening for me. I have lived

in a dream of comforts, luxuries, beautiful surroundings, to a share of

which I thought I had as good a personal right as anyone who enjoyed

them with me. I have been shaken out of my pleasant sleep to find that

I can claim only a share in a mere pittance, and that I am a species of

genteel pauper—a dependant on the charity of my stepbrother."

Poor Pauline! She attempted no further explanations. She was a little,

tender, clinging creature, but withal an enthusiastic admirer of all

that was generous or noble. Richard Whitmore's had seemed to her one of

the most beautiful and unselfish of characters—a hero to be worshipped,

though he was not externally suggestive of one.

Now she had done harm, both to Gertrude and to him. She was overwhelmed

with distress, and, unable to think of anything else to say or do, she

sat down and cried bitterly.

This was more than Gertrude bargained for when she used such harsh

words, and now she found herself compelled to try and comfort Pauline.

"Dry your tears, you dear little thing," she said. "Pray do not take my

hasty words for more than they are worth. Of course I was annoyed at

first. Who would not be when they felt what they had looked on as firm

ground crumbling away beneath their feet? It was a shock to me to hear

such news for the first time, but no doubt Dick is the finest, dearest

old darling in the world, and the best of brothers. Have I not cause to

say so?"

"Oh, I am so glad you are not angry, and that you are taking things

rightly, Gertrude. You make me quite frightened. But I understand. It

was likely you should feel surprised, even angry, at the first look, as

it were. Promise now that you will not repeat what I have said, but let

all pass as if you had never heard it."

The childlike pleading tone and tearful eyes drew a smile from the

stronger-minded girl. She put her arm caressingly round Pauline, and

said, "I will promise not to say a word more about this matter until

to-morrow morning, and then only to you. And you must promise that you

will not repeat either my hasty expressions or anything that we have

been talking about, until the same time."

Pauline promised gladly enough, and then retreated to her own room to

try and remove the traces of tears, which were only too visible.

Gertrude walked slowly backwards and forwards in the grounds for some

time before she returned to the house. Then the sound of the dressing

bell reached her, and she went in to prepare for dinner. It was not

often that she was betrayed into such an exhibition of feeling, and

she was now angry at herself for not having shown more self-control.

She wanted time to think over what she had heard, and it was for that

purpose she had given to, and obtained from, Pauline the promise that,

until the next day, no allusion should be made to the subject which had

so agitated her.

For a girl of seventeen, Gertrude had no small amount of worldly

wisdom. People said that Miss Whitmore had great individuality of

character, she thought and decided so largely for herself, and

often got her own way by dint of steady determination. And it was a

remarkable fact that whilst each of the younger sisters had her pet

name, and were Mina, Jo, and Molly, no one would ever have presumed to

call the eldest Gerty.

CHAPTER II.

"SILENCE IS GOLDEN."

GERTRUDE went early to bed that evening. She wanted to think over her

conversation with Pauline, and felt that for such a purpose there could

be nothing like the quiet of her own room. She was, beside, of an

eminently practical turn of mind, and had no desire to look weary and

hollow-eyed on the morrow, when there was to be a picnic specially got

up in her honour, as the guest of the Tindalls.

"I am just a little tired," she said to Mrs. Tindall, "and as I want

to look my best and be ready for any amount of rambling, I will say

good-night now."

"This is very early, my dear, but I am sure you are wise, and Pauline

will do well to follow your example. If only young people would believe

it, there is no better preserver of good looks than early hours,"

replied Mrs. Tindall.

Gertrude assented, and managed to get her thinking done soon enough

to allow of some "beauty sleep." She came down in the morning in a

charming but simple dress, looking as gay and bright as though nothing

had occurred to disturb her on the preceding day.

She was especially affectionate to Pauline, and answered her friend's

inquiring look with a frank smile. A little later, amid the bustle of

preparation for starting, she whispered in her friend's ear, "Pauline,

I was very cross and stupid yesterday. I took an altogether wrong view

of things. Forgive my ill-tempers, darling, and, if you can, forget

them, as I want to forget what caused them."

Pauline's face brightened. "I am so glad," she replied. "I felt quite

distressed last night, because I had been the cause of the trouble. I

never meant it. I could not have guessed that you—"

"Hush, darling!" and Gertrude placed her hand playfully on Pauline's

lips. "Do not let us go over the ground again. The only thing I ask is

that you will not say another word about it. You could only suppose I

knew all as well as yourself. I understand the kindness which kept my

position and that of the girls at home a secret from ourselves. I was

a very naughty child, and you the sweet, sympathetic little friend you

always are."

"And shall you not say a word at home—I mean to your mother, or Mr.

Richard?"

"Not a word. I decided last night, before I went to sleep even, that

since my mother and stepbrother had not chosen to speak about money

matters, neither would I. Do you not think I may be well content to

go on as I have hitherto done, enjoying the good things of this world

without troubling to ask myself who paid for them?"

"I think so, Gertrude, dear—that is, in one sense. When the good things

are given by such a kind hand as that of your brother, there can be no

painful feeling of obligation in taking. I do believe he is just one

of those whose 'heart grows rich in giving,' and that he delights in

making everybody happy—most of all his mother and sisters."

"My mother, not his, really," replied Gertrude.

"That makes it all the nicer, does it not? Who could tell that they

were not really mother and son? Why think about the fact at all, when

he so willingly forgets it, and Mrs. Whitmore loves him as her own? Do

you know, Gertrude, you called him your 'stepbrother' to-day. I never

heard you use the term before, and to me it sounded horribly harsh,

seeing you are all children of one father."

"Did I?" replied Gertrude. "Ah, well, only one heard it; and, if you

please, we will now have done with this matter, once and for all. Mrs.

Tindall is wanting our help. It is shocking to desert her, even for a

few moments."

Gertrude hastened to offer her assistance in packing some sweets which

required careful handling, and soon she and the rest of the party were

on their way to the place selected for the picnic.

Never had Pauline seen her friend more apparently gay and

light-hearted, and the girl rejoiced that the impression produced by

her unfortunate allusions had already passed away. She was, however,

mistaken.

Gertrude did not, and could not, forget. Through that day and after

came again and again the haunting thought, "I am only a pensioner

on Richard's bounty. Only one of the second wife's children—the

portionless wife of a man who had little to leave for her and his

daughters. It is plain what people think. How grateful we ought to be

that we are allowed to live as if we were rich, when we have next to

nothing! I wish, how I wish, that I, at any rate, had been justly dealt

with, and brought up with a full knowledge that I am a poor girl, who

may at any time, be sent out into the world to battle for my daily

bread."

In spite of these bitter thoughts, Gertrude was quite in earnest when

she told Pauline that she should say nothing of what she had learned

through her words. The girl liked her life of luxury, her beautiful

surroundings, her freedom from present care. She was not prepared to

give up these, even while she inwardly rebelled against receiving as

her brother's gift what she had always deemed her own by right of being

her father's daughter, as Richard was his son. So she shut up all these

thoughts in her own mind, and returned home to live the old life and

enjoy as best she might the sweets of it, though sometimes the one

bitter drop would partly spoil the flavour of the rest.

Much, however, as Gertrude might strive to conceal what she felt,

everyone noticed a change in her manner towards her brother, though

none could account for it. "Brother Dick" was the term hitherto used

by all the girls in speaking of him, but the bare "Richard" became

Gertrude's substitute for the more endearing expression, ever after her

return home.

Once, to Mrs. Whitmore's intense surprise, she called him her

stepbrother to some visitors at Mere Side.

"Gertrude, why did you speak of Dick by that name?" asked her mother,

with a pained look on her face.

"It is right, is it not? Surely there was no harm in using the correct

term for once!" she replied in half-jesting, half-defiant tone.

"Richard is my stepbrother."

"Undoubtedly he is. But, dear child, consider what he has been to me,

to us all. I could not bear to call him my stepson. I rejoice, I am

proud, thankful that I have had one like him to stand by me and give

to me a mother's name and a son's love. I would not have him hear you

speak of him as you did to-day for the world."

"I did not mean to trouble you, mother; you may be sure of that. I will

always call him Richard; and I am sure I wish he were my real brother,

instead of being only half and half."

The words jarred on Mrs. Whitmore's ear, though she echoed Gertrude's

wish without realising its double meaning. But the sarcastic laugh

which the girl gave, and a certain hardness of manner when Richard was

spoken of, alike grieved and puzzled her mother. She hardly knew how to

speak on the subject, but kept hoping that if during Gertrude's absence

from home she had received some undesirable impression, it would be

best removed by time and the absence of any allusion to it.

But three years passed, and still an unseen barrier stood between

Richard and his eldest sister; yet though everyone felt its existence,

and dated it from Gertrude's visit to the Tindalls, she had adhered to

her resolve, and never named the cause of her changed manner. Indeed,

she would have felt ashamed to lay bare her thoughts, even to her

mother. She could not help being conscious of her unreasonableness in

feeling indignant at Richard, simply because he had alike the power

and the will to shower good things upon them all, and did it with a

large-hearted affection which never allowed the thought to intrude

itself, that they had no legal claim to share equally with him.

Selfishness would not permit Gertrude to relinquish what she so

thoroughly enjoyed, but her appreciation did not stir her to

thankfulness to God or gratitude to her brother. Often, instead of

these, she would shed bitter tears at the thought of her dependence on

Richard's pleasure, and call herself a mere pauper in the sight of the

world.

If ever there was a time when the nobility of Richard Whitmore's

character shone out with greater lustre than at others, it was in his

dealings with his sister Gertrude. He could not be unconscious that she

regarded him with less affection than of old; and if he guessed the

cause of the change, he said nothing. He simply met it with unvarying

kindness, snaking no difference between one and another of the girls,

except that she, as the eldest, had in some respects more and handsomer

dresses than the younger ones, as became a lady after her introduction

to society.

So three years passed, and brought about little change in the relations

between the two, but at the end of the time came the day when Richard

stood beside Mrs. Whitmore, and soothed her last hours by the promise,

"As you have been a true mother to me, so will I be to the girls all

that you say—God helping me." Then he had driven away her anxieties

about the future by brave and trustful words, and Mrs. Whitmore put

from her mind the last anxious thought by repeating to herself what he

had bidden her remember, "Dick does not stand alone. His father's God

is his God also, and trusting in Him for strength, according to his

day, he can never be desolate, or in doubt as to the course which is

right."

Yet it was a solemn responsibility for so young a man to take upon

himself. Dick was just twenty-six and Gertrude twenty, the others

following at intervals of two years each, so that Molly, his special

darling, was fourteen when left without father and mother.

She was a warm-hearted, impulsive creature, to whom Dick had been from

her earliest days playfellow, friend, confidant, and protector, as well

as brother. To Molly there was no one in the world like Richard. As a

child she would have left any person or thing only to be by his side,

to wait his leisure, or to trot patiently up and down after or for him.

It was to him she fled for comfort in trouble at all times, and

especially when this crowning sorrow of her young life came upon her.

The three elder girls wept together. Molly stole into the library,

where Dick sat alone after he had given the needful orders and spoken a

few loving words to the rest. She did not trouble him with passionate

tears or outbreaks of wailing and sobbing, but in truly unselfish

fashion tried to repress these for his sake.

Dick drew the child on his knee, and, clasping her in his arms, the two

sat in silence in a great low chair in the library. Many a time had she

coiled herself up in it, and fallen asleep by his side, when he was

busy or deep in study, and could not give her immediate attention; for,

while nominally of no profession, and leading the life of a country

gentleman, his time was fully and usefully employed.

In the depths of Molly's favourite chair and encircled by Dick's loving

arms, the child found the best of earthly comfort. As her head rested

on his breast, he could note the effort she made to suppress her sobs,

while little guessing that Dick was also exercising equal self-control

for her sake. He could feel the heaving of her breast as they thus sat

in silence, and from time to time, as she clung more closely to him, he

would smooth back the shining curls and kiss her tenderly.

At last Molly could no longer restrain her tears.

"We did so love her, Dick, didn't we?" she said, as if in excuse for

breaking down.

"We did, darling Molly, and we do, for the end of life here is not the

end of all things for us. We shall meet our dear mother again. But it

is natural to weep, because we are left outside, whilst mother has

passed through the golden gates before us."

And then he spoke to his favourite of the Father's home above, and

happy meetings there, and the absence of sorrow and tears for all those

who had been taught by the Holy Spirit to trust in Jesus as a precious

Saviour. He pictured their joy in meeting Him who had loved them and

given Himself for them, until at last Molly was carried away from the

sad realities of present bereavement to picture in her mind also what

Dick was telling her about. At last, wearied with all she had gone

through, the child fell asleep, and sooner than disturb her, Richard

sat on until the room was dark, and his limbs cramped with keeping them

in the same position for so long a time.

The others found them at last, and even Gertrude's heart was touched as

she looked at the pair of true friends—one watching, the other sleeping

profoundly.

"Oh, Richard, we have wondered where you could be!" she said. "There

was no light, or we should have looked for you here, but we knew

wherever you were we should find Molly. How tired you must be holding

that great girl in your arms asleep."

"I could not bear to wake her," said Dick, simply. "Whilst the dear

child sleeps, she forgets."

CHAPTER III.

RICHARD'S WARDS.

RICHARD WHITMORE was left sole executor and guardian to his sisters.

This was to be expected, as Mrs. Whitmore had the power to appoint,

in accordance with the will of her late husband. And who could be so

fit for such a trust as Dick? Indeed, the mother was beyond measure

thankful that he was of an age to undertake it.

As to the little property which their father had it in his power to

bequeath, that was to be equally divided amongst the girls after the

mother's death, each taking her share as she came of age.

The division would present no difficulty, as the property was purely

personal, and had been carefully invested during Mr. Whitmore's

lifetime. In the meanwhile, outsiders who knew the circumstances of the

younger members of the family, wondered what arrangements Richard would

make for the girls. Would all go on as before, or would a difference be

made now the mother was gone? So long as Richard remained a bachelor

it might answer very well to keep the girls about him, to brighten the

home as of old. But were he to marry, how would a young wife like to

come amongst such a tribe of sisters? And seven years must pass before

Molly, the youngest of them, would be of age.

They were fine, handsome, and intellectual girls, and some of them

might soon marry, for Gertrude was now twenty and Mina eighteen. But

they had not much to bring in the way of dowry, and girls brought up

as they had been—"shamefully indulged," said one lady of vinegarish

aspect—were no wives for poor men.

"Perhaps Mr. Richard will do something more for his sisters," suggested

a listener, little Miss Pease.

"Better teach them to do with less, and especially Miss Gertrude; not

to act as if they were heiresses, and could carry all before them.

Remember, they have no claim on Richard Maynard Whitmore. All he has,

came from the Maynards, and through his mother. To be sure, they are

children of the same father, but from Mr. Whitmore Dick does not get

a penny-piece. They have his share of the father's little property to

swell their portions, seeing it is divided into four parts instead of

five. Richard's property has been taxed enough already, for they have

all lived upon it from the time of his mother's marriage until now. It

was not what Mr. Whitmore had that kept the family in princely style at

Mere Side. They have had no trifle out of Richard Whitmore," retorted

Miss Sharp, the keen-visaged lady alluded to.

"I do not believe he ever made such a calculation in his life," replied

the other. "He only considers how much happiness he can give to others,

and especially his sisters."

"They are only half-sisters," persisted Miss Sharp.

"It would be a pity to remind him of the fact. He would feel so much

the poorer," answered Miss Pease, with a smile. She understood Richard

Whitmore.

"What an extraordinary remark! I should think that he would be much

poorer in reality, for having that tribe of girls hanging on him.

Besides, he knows they have no claim on him, and that they are

half-sisters, whatever you or anybody else may say."

"Happily for them and himself, he does not give them a half share of

brotherly love. I believe he would be deeply wounded if they, or anyone

else, alluded to him as their stepbrother. You see they have been so

entirely brought up together, and Richard's own mother died so soon,

that she seemed to have slipped out of the family, so to speak, before

there was any question of calculating kinship."

"What an absurd speech, my dear Miss Pease, if you will forgive my

saying so! Of course the first Mrs. Whitmore was gone, or there could

not have been a second. And a very good thing for Amy Christie that her

husband did not marry her first, and that Miss Maynard that was, Dick's

mother, could not take her money with her. But do you think things

will go on just in the old way at Mere Side? I do not envy Dick the

guardianship of Miss Gertrude. That girl will plague him yet."

"I cannot tell," replied Miss Pease. "Though we are great friends,

Richard has not mentioned his plans to me, probably because he has made

none. Knowing him as I do, I should think he will try to make the home

all that it has hitherto been to the girls, only without the mother,

and that his great sorrow will be that he has her the less to love and

care for."

Miss Pease was right in her judgment of Richard. As to three out of the

four girls their minds were disturbed by no anxieties. So far, their

lives had been as happy as love could make them. They could have no

fears for the future, when they thought of what Richard had been in the

past.

"We cannot bring our dear mother back by our tears and sorrow," said

Dick, his voice trembling and his kind eyes moist with tears, for he

was so manly that he was not ashamed to weep with the rest. "All we can

do is to remember the beautiful example she set us, her loving ways and

wise words, and to love each other all the more for her dear sake."

They kissed him and each other, Gertrude amongst the rest, and were

thankful, oh, so thankful that they had Dick—no one but Dick—to look up

to in the place of the parents who were gone.

If Miss Sharp could have read his thoughts, she would have found that,

instead of calculating how long it would be before Molly's majority

would enable him to wash his hands of all legal responsibility about

"that tribe of girls," he was rejoicing that for seven years to come

he could claim the precious privilege of watching over the youngest

darling. As to the others, this was what Dick said in his heart—

"In the nature of things, I must part with them by degrees. They are

sure to be sought after for their own sakes, and I can easily save, to

increase their little portions. We shall live very quietly for the next

twelve months, at any rate. What a blessing it is that families are

scattered by degrees I can hardly lose more than one at a time; and as

for Molly, seven years is a good while to look forward to."

After the first days of sorrow were over, Gertrude's mind was much

exercised as to what would be her own position in the family. Would

Richard allow her to sit in her mother's seat and act as mistress? If

he did this then she would acknowledge him as a brother indeed, though

conscience told her that she did not deserve such confidence.

Richard, however, had no intention of placing his sister in such a

position. He felt that she was too young to be looked up to by the

girls nearest in age to herself, or to guide the reins of a large

establishment like that at Mere Side, and he frankly told her so.

"If it were a matter of looking graceful and pouring out tea, or doing

a host of feminine matters, I know of no one who would do better than

yourself. But the housekeeping would be too heavy a weight for such

young shoulders. Wait a moment, dear—" for Gertrude was about to

protest that she was able for all, if he would trust her. "I am not old

enough or wise enough to be father and mother. I can only be the big

brother to you girls. We must have a good woman in the house for all

our sakes."

Then Richard told her that he had thought of Miss Pease, their mother's

friend, and of similar age, but he had not spoken to her as yet.

"I want you girls to think if there is any one whom we could all like

better. You are the eldest, Gertrude, and so I have named this to you

first, that you may talk it over with the rest. You know there must be

some motherly lady to act as your chaperone and my friend, but I will

not ask Miss Pease unless there is a unanimous vote in her favour."

There was such a vote. Miss Pease was invited to come to Mere Side,

and, as Richard put it to herself, "to be as much of a mother to all of

us as you possibly can."

The little lady almost said "No" to begin with, but she was persuaded

to take time, and finally said "Yes."

Miss Sharp found plenty to occupy her in criticising this arrangement,

since she could not alter it, and declared that she could now

understand Miss Pease's persistent praise of Richard Whitmore. Mrs.

Whitmore had long been delicate, and no doubt she had reckoned on being

asked to fill her shoes after a fashion.

"She has fawned on Mrs. Whitmore and praised up Richard in the most

bare-faced manner," said Miss Sharp. "What a pity it is that the owner

of Mere Side is such a young man, and that Miss Pease is old enough to

be his mother, or else she might perhaps have hung up her bonnet there

once and for altogether."

There are always Miss Sharps in the world, ready to misjudge their

neighbours, and to attribute motives for the conduct of those who

are better than themselves, which would never have entered into the

minds of those they criticise. The speaker was as unable to understand

Miss Pease as she was to appreciate Richard Whitmore. Little did she

guess that, so far from being eager to take such a responsibility on

herself, it was with fear and trembling, and after much thought and

many prayers, that she consented to live at Mere Side as a friend and

companion to the family.

Gertrude consented to the arrangement, not because she wished it, but

because she was convinced from Richard's manner that it would either

be Miss Pease or somebody else, and she know of no one whom she would

prefer to her mother's friend.

"I am sure I could have managed the housekeeping," she said, "with

Wharton's help. She has spent most of her life in the family, and

really does all the practical part, Richard."

"But, my dear, you forget, just as I am apt to do, that after all I am

a young man and a bachelor. How could you have your young girl friends

here if there were no older lady to beam propriety over the domestic

circle?"

"I thought of that at once, Dick," said Mina. "Of course, there must

be some one who will be a little like the dear mother, and to whom we

can go as we used to do to her. Jo and I thank you very much for Miss

Pease, and if mother could have chosen for us, she would have said the

same."

"Perhaps she did choose," replied Dick. "Only I wanted to know how you

felt as well. You may like her all the better for being told that our

mother, foreseeing that she would have to leave us, herself suggested

the friend she loved as most suitable to fill the place in one sense.

I had to tell Miss Pease this before she agreed to come. What do you

think about it, Molly?"—to the girl who was clinging to his arm.

"That what mother and you settled must be the very best thing," she

replied, squeezing the arm a little more closely.

There was only one discordant echo, and that was not in word, but in

thought. Gertrude said to herself—

"I shall not put Miss Pease in my mother's place, or consult her and

make her a confidante. She will be housekeeper and chaperone, if needs

must, but that will be all. As to other girls coming here, I want none

of them."

It was after some deliberation in her own room that Gertrude spied her

brother in the garden, and asked for a few moments' quiet talk with

him, and she found it rather difficult to begin when they both met in

his little room; but Richard's kindly, "What is it, dear?" and the way

in which he sat down beside her, so as to take away all appearance of

formality from their talk, emboldened her to speak.

"I thought," she said, "that we should be told something about our

circumstances. I know my mother had no need to make a will, but we

girls are quite ignorant about our father's affairs, and as to what

means we shall have of our very own. I wish you would tell us."

[Illustration]

"Do the others—I mean, Mina and Jo—want to know?" asked Dick, rather

nervously.

Gertrude would not say yes, for she could not, so she replied—

"I am sure they would like to be told. It is only natural."

Dick hesitated a moment; then in a half-jesting way he answered—

"For a year to come even you are my ward, and I am the guardian of

your property and dear self, Gertrude. The others will be in the same

position for longer periods—that is, until they are of age or marry

with my consent."

"Do you mean to say I should have to ask it too?"

"I suppose so, Gertrude, since I am your lawfully appointed guardian.

It does seem absurd, does it not? But there could hardly be a

difference made between you and the rest. You need not mind that, dear;

for if the fairy prince should come, we will receive him with all due

honour."

The girl could scarcely listen patiently. She felt more angry than ever

at the position in which she found herself. She had hoped by concealing

her knowledge of her comparative dependence, that possibly she might be

allowed to rule as mistress of Mere Side, until she should leave it for

a home of her own. Instead of that, she was in double leading-strings,

under Dick and Miss Pease, and must endure them for a year to come.

She, however, preserved an appearance of calmness, and asked another

question.

"Tell me, Richard, what I have to look forward to? I know my father

left something to be divided amongst us girls, and surely I am old

enough to be informed what?"

"For a year to come you can have—from our father's property, I mean—an

allowance of one hundred and twenty-five pounds. That is a settled

amount. After that a principal sum will be absolutely yours—how much

I cannot tell at present; it will depend on circumstances. Only you

may believe me, dear, that your interests are in safe hands, and that

whatever you are entitled to will not diminish during the next twelve

months. You know," he added, "there is no longer the dear mother to

require a share of it."

Gertrude appeared satisfied.

"Thank you, Richard," she said. "I hope you have not thought me very

troublesome or needlessly inquisitive. It was natural I should ask, was

it not?"

"Quite natural, Gertrude. Never hesitate to speak to me about anything.

I am only too glad when you come to me for any information I can give."

The girl left him, and Dick's face assumed a brighter expression.

"That is well over," thought he. "I have been rather dreading this,

and I am glad I have been able to satisfy her quite truthfully without

telling her too much. In a year's time I shall be better prepared to

speak, and in seven I shall only be thirty-three. I can do a great deal

by contriving matters in seven years. Besides, I am not tied to keep

every acre; I can sell some if I choose."

Gertrude went straight to her room without troubling herself to impart

what Richard had told her to Mina and Jo. She threw herself on a couch,

and burst into a perfect passion of tears.

"I know," she said, speaking aloud in her anger. "He could not deceive

me. The money I am to receive as an allowance is the interest of my

fortune—the exact sum to which I am lawfully entitled. All the rest I

owe to charity. My fortune, indeed! It is a shame! A cruel shame!"

If only the girl's vision had been clearer, if she could but have

judged rightly, she would have seen that the only one on whom the

shadow of shame rested was herself, because of her unthankfulness for

past and present blessings, and worse than ingratitude to the true

heart whose unselfish affection only desired to continue them, without

even allowing her to know that she owed them to him.

Three days later a tall, graceful girl, dressed in deep mourning and

closely veiled, applied in the proper quarter for a sight of the

late Mr. Whitmore's will. It was Gertrude, who, being at Salchester,

the county town, with Miss Pease, managed to obtain the wished-for

opportunity by asking to be left in the cathedral, whilst her gentle

chaperone went on a shopping expedition.

"I cannot bear to be in the streets and business places," she said. "I

will wait for you here."

"I can quite understand your feelings, dear Gertrude," replied Miss

Pease. "I will come back for you as soon as possible."

The office at which Gertrude wished to call was within the Close, and

long before Miss Pease returned the girl had effected the object for

which she had really accompanied her to Salchester. The result of the

search was exactly what she had expected. The sum total of her father's

property would bring in a trifle less than five hundred a year. Richard

was dealing generously with her in giving her a full fourth of that

amount for her private use, as it was all on which she had any legal

claim.

CHAPTER IV.

THE ANGLE WINDOW.

MERE SIDE deserved all the praises bestowed upon it by Pauline

Tindall. The house was really almost new, and had replaced one that

was old-fashioned and inconvenient. It had been built and partially

furnished out of some of the funds which had accumulated during Dick's

minority. When people admired it, he was accustomed to say, "The mother

and I built it. We were planning it for a couple of years before I came

of age, so we were ready to begin at once when I had sufficient command

of money. It owes far more to her than it does either to the architect

or myself."

Truly there were plenty of more pretentious-looking places round about,

for that portion of Saltshire abounded in handsome country residences.

Mere Side was so delightfully homely that people scarcely thought of

its costliness, but rather of the thought and taste expended upon it.

There was nothing of glare or glitter about it, and it would certainly

have disappointed a vulgar rich owner, whose great object might have

been to secure as much show as possible in return for the expenditure.

But every article of furniture was exactly suited, both for the place

it occupied and for comfort and use.

Ask Richard to name the style of architecture, and he answered, "It

is peculiar to the county. We call it 'Old Saltshire,' because the

best really old houses that remain are in this style; only we have

had to make some innovations to meet modern requirements. It is a

sort of Early English. You see the lower half is in red brick and

the upper half timbered, but the ivy has run up so fast that it has

nearly covered the red, and already touches the black and white. We

shall not allow it to stretch any higher. Now this angle window is

genuine Saltshire. You never meet with just the same thing in any other

county." And he would pause before one of his favourite corners.

This angle window was in the morning-room, and was perhaps the most

delightful nook in the place. It was thrown across the corner of the

room to the right of the tiled fireplace, just where two walls formed

a right angle. It was, indeed, a square bay, and to sit in it was

like being out of doors, as it was glazed to within two feet of the

floor and nearly to the ceiling, the upper part in delicately tinted

glass, the lower sashes being plain and opening lengthwise. The view

from it was picturesque and extensive, owing to its peculiar position,

which commanded two sides. Two dainty low chairs and a little writing

table furnished this recess. One seat was sacred to Mrs. Whitmore's

use whilst she lived. The other was called Brother Dick's, but, like

everything else supposed to belong to him, was common property, and

very largely appropriated by the rest in turn.

The angle window was entered from the room by an archway, draped in

summer with exquisite lace curtains. In winter these were supplemented

by others of rich Oriental stuff, lined with pale blue silk. Most of

the happy talks between Dick and the mother took place in the angle

window, and there she would sit, especially during the last weeks,

watching him busy amongst the roses. He was an enthusiast about

flowers, and she would smile and sympathise when he brought some dainty

bloom to offer her, carrying it tenderly, as became one who loved these

fair creations.

Dick was so used to her gentle presence there that, as he told Miss

Pease, "I can hardly bear to look up at the angle now, I was so

accustomed to see her there and meet her smile, or go to stand on the

slope and chat with her from time to time. It was my favourite corner;

but the charm has in great part gone, though the girls all like it, and

Molly coaxes me into it sometimes. You must take care, now the dark

evenings are coming on and the heavy curtains hung up, that you do not

talk secrets in the morning-room without first looking to see that no

one is hiding behind them. Two persons might be concealed there, and

their presence be unsuspected when the curtains are down."

"I am not likely to say anything that others might not hear, and if I

began telling secrets, no one in this house would hide for the purpose

of listening. I hope, however, the vacant seat will one day be worthily

filled by a younger Mrs. Whitmore."

"Thank you. I am sure you mean it, and I hope so too. But I must wait

a few years to accomplish a purpose of mine. There will be time enough

after that, if I live, and I am keeping no one waiting, for I have not

yet seen her whom I should like to place in the dear mother's chair. It

is ten months since we lost her, and how much the girls and I owe to

you! You have got on wonderfully well with them."

"Yes, they have been very sweet and kind to me. Only Gertrude's manner

puzzles me as much as ever. One would think she would wish for the

society of other girls of similar age; but I think, if she might have

her way, she would not allow any to cross the threshold of Mere Side.

Mina and Jo are quite different, and yet for some reason they give in

to their eldest sister."

"I sometimes think," said Dick, in a half-musing way, "that Gertrude

dislikes the idea of being even nominally under my authority, though

I cross her in nothing. In another two months she will be her own

mistress. Then we shall see if there is a change."

It was only a few days after this, that the three elder girls were

talking together in the morning-room. They entered it in the twilight,

the curtains being already drawn, and sat down by the fire to talk.

Mina was evidently annoyed about something.

"I am tired of this, Gertrude," she said. "Of course it was right, and

we all felt it as much as yourself, that we should live quietly for

a good while after we lost mother. But if it had not been for going

abroad, and having a change from home now and then, I could scarcely

have endured the sort of isolation to which you would condemn us. Dick

does not wish it. Miss Pease urges us to have young friends to stay

with us; but you always oppose every suggestion of the kind, until

Mere Side is like a nunnery. And you look mysterious, and drop hints

about something which, if we knew, would make us feel with you. I hate

secrets and mysteries. Tell us why you want to shut the door in the

face of every girl friend."

"Because I realise, and you do not, what would be the consequence to us

all if Richard were to marry."

Mina and Jo burst into a fit of ringing, girlish laughter.

"If Dick wanted to marry, do you think he would be hindered by you? You

may make the house as dull as you please, but you cannot lock him up in

it."

"I know that, but I diminish probabilities. Richard studies so much,

and seems so contented without the company of dangerous characters,

that I do not see why we should bring them into his presence."

"You really are too ridiculous, Gertrude, and, if I must say it,

abominably selfish," said Jo. "If Brother Dick had a wife to-morrow,

she would till her own lawful place in his heart, and we should keep

ours. Why, Gertrude, you are jealous of a shadow."

"Am I?" was the cool response.

"Well, tell us if there is a substance in the case," said Mina. "Don't

be mysterious. What would happen to us if Dick took to himself a wife?

I say it would be delightful to have a nice sister-in-law—only in that

case, I suppose, we could not keep darling Miss Pease."

"Do you suppose we girls should have a home here with Richard and his

wife?" asked Gertrude.

"If not, we should have a good one somewhere near, with Miss Pease to

take care of us; for perhaps we should be too many to stay with Dick,

though I believe nothing would persuade him to part with Molly."

"You simpletons! Richard can afford to be generous now, as an unmarried

man; but you would soon find out, were he to take a wife. I may as well

tell you what I have known for some years past. We four girls have only

a mere pittance of our very own. Mere Side is Richard's, with all the

land and money, except about ten thousand pounds. That, divided into

four, will be the fortunes of Mr. Whitmore's daughters."

"I always understood that the home was Dick's." said Mina. "Knowing

that, I gave myself no trouble. Whilst he has it, we have a home too."

"Not if he marries. I only hope you may not find out the mistake you

are making in trusting to Richard's continued generosity. He has been

good so far. He could hardly have turned us out; but it will come to

that some day, and it is better we should accustom ourselves to the

prospect."

Gertrude rose and left the room; the others followed; and when all was

still, and the sound of their footsteps could be heard no longer, a

scared-looking young face, fringed with sunny hair, peeped from between

the curtains which hid the angle window.

It was Molly's. The girl had been sitting watching the sunset, and

remained to enjoy the lovely tints after it had disappeared. When her

sisters entered, she remained quiet, never dreaming of listening, and

then she felt as if she could not move from the spot. Gertrude's hard

words about darling Brother Dick roused her indignation, and her heart

swelled within her at the thought of her selfishness.

Released by the departure of the speakers, Molly rushed away from her

hiding-place and across the hall to the library. Without waiting a

moment, the impulsive girl ran towards her brother, and exclaimed—

"Dick, I have done a horridly mean thing; but I did not intend to do

it. I must tell you all about it."

With an eagerness that would not be checked, she told him all that had

passed.

"It was all Gertrude," she added, "not a bit Mina or Jo. You ought

to know why she is so strange, and wants the others to be like her.

And, Dick, if you do get married you will not send us all away from

Mere Side. Jo said you would never part with me, and you will not,

dear Dick. Say you will not. And oh! I want us to be together always.

Forgive me for staying to hear. I could not help it."

"Molly, I am sorry, in one sense, that you listened, yet not sorry that

I know what you heard. But you and I must keep all this to ourselves.

Poor Gertrude! Some day she will be sorry, and will know me better."

"Thank you, Dick. I will not say a word," and Molly ran away with a

lightened heart, leaving her brother to finish his letters, but only

after she had received his solemn assurance that he would never part

with her, until she should give somebody else leave to carry her

off, ever so many years hence. He could not lecture her, because he

knew Molly too well to think that the listening had been an act of

deliberate meanness.

Gertrude's twenty-first birthday came and went.

She refused to have it made an occasion for special festivity, but it

was marked by loving gifts from each and all the rest.

To Richard's relief his sister said nothing about her little fortune,

and Molly's revelation proved to him that by some means or other she

was already well informed about pecuniary matters, and knew that she

was receiving the interest of the amount she was entitled to on her

coming of age.

"She is becoming more reasonable," thought he. "Poor girl! It does

seem hard that one son should have so much, and that the others, who

are children of the same father, so little in comparison. I think she

is gradually beginning to trust me, and to be content that I should

make up the deficiency. It is my privilege to do it for the mother's

sake—not an unwelcome burden, to be lightened as much as possible."

As to Gertrude, she was silent from motives of policy, or, to give it a

right name, pure selfishness.

"If I appeared to know, I should be miserable. I will go on as I have

done and say nothing," was the resolution which marked her twenty-first

birthday.

Richard also came to a firm decision with regard to social matters. He

was determined that Gertrude's influence should not be allowed to mar

the brightness of the home, and he took open counsel with Mina, Jo, and

Miss Pease as to inviting friends to Mere Side, and forming plans for

their enjoyment.

He gave Gertrude every opportunity for joining in each and all of

these, but she listened quietly and simply stood aloof.

She could hardly do this when longer days came round, and the disused

tennis-lawn was pronounced to be in perfect condition. So again the

lovely grounds were peopled by young forms, and the sound of merry

voices and laughter were heard, Dick sometimes joining vigorously in a

tennis tournament, or rowing the elder guests on the little lake, the

most timid professing to feel safe under his guardianship.

As the days passed, and no harm seemed to be done, but rather good,

Gertrude decided that perhaps there was safety in numbers, for Richard

appeared to be equally kind to all the girl guests. So she, too, became

more genial in her ways, and enjoyed the society of old friends, and

was, to Dick's special delight, a girl once more.

One day Gertrude ran towards her brother, with her handsome face

flushed with exercise and success, to tell him of a tennis victory she

had just won.

He congratulated her, and taking hold of her hands in his, he held her

at arm's length for a moment, whilst he surveyed her with a look of

frank admiration.

"Gertrude, you have been growing younger and bonnier every day since

you arrived at woman's estate," he said. "People say that girls are

always in a hurry to reach twenty-one, and afterwards would count

backwards if they could. You seem to be counting backwards in looks,

dear. Talk about Mere Side roses! There are none amongst them, lovely

as they are, that deserve to be named beside my cluster of sisters. I

must be the envy of the countryside."

Gertrude felt not a little self-reproached as she looked at that kind,

true face, and knew that Richard meant all he said, and that she was

unworthy of his unselfish, brotherly affection. A feeling to which she

had long been a stranger moved her to lessen the distance between him

and herself, and to lift her face to kiss him.

His arms were round her in a moment, and he held her to him in a loving

clasp, then releasing her after another kiss, he said, softly, "God

bless you, Gertrude, now and always! He knows I am happy in seeing you

so."

"You are the best of brothers, Dick," she replied, and then ran away,

dashing a suspicious moisture from her eyes as she went.

And Richard said to himself, "Love must conquer in the end. We are

brother and sister once again."

If it had but lasted!

CHAPTER V.

MEETING AND PARTING.

THERE was one thing about Miss Pease's conduct which even Miss Sharp

could not find fault with. She brought none of her own relatives to

stay at Mere Side.

At stated times she visited them, but on one fine morning at the

beginning of July the little lady was thrown into a flutter of

excitement by the receipt of an Indian letter.

Eager to impart her good news, she said, "My brother, James, is coming

home at last. He is on his way now. How delighted I am at the prospect

of seeing him, for it is ten years since we met, and he is my only

brother living! And I shall see Norah too, my pet and goddaughter, such

a dear child she is. You have heard me speak of her."

Everybody rejoiced with Miss Pease, whose life had been a lonely one

before she took up her abode at Mere Side, and congratulated her on the

happy prospect before her.

"But Norah is not with her father," said Mina.

"Oh dear no. She has been with my brother William's widow, who

has two girls and a boy. Norah and her cousins have been educated

together. William left his family very well-off, and since his death

my sister-in-law has had no settled home, but has travelled from place

to place, in order to give her young people every possible educational

advantage."

"Then I suppose they will come to London to meet your brother,"

suggested Richard.

"They cannot at present, and James could scarcely expect it. No. He

has arranged for Norah to be sent to England under safe convoy, and he

wants me to meet her in London on the 4th of July. Dear me, how sudden!

And this is the 2nd. I scarcely know what to do, though it would be

very awkward not to go."

"My dear Miss Pease, you must not think of anything else," said

Richard. "You must go to-morrow, and I will run up to town with you,

for I should have gone this week in any case. Just put the domestic

reins into Gertrude's hands in the meanwhile. She is a grown-up young

lady now, remember, and will hold them firmly as well as gracefully."

Gertrude's smile was pleasant to behold, and so the matter was settled,

Richard having announced that he should only be one night absent.

"Is your niece like any of us?" asked Molly, who felt a special

interest in the "dear child," whose name was so often on Miss Pease's

lips whilst she was preparing for her journey.

"She is most like you, Molly—very fair and slender, but not skinny, you

know. In fact, as a little thing she always reminded me of a kitten,

she was so round and graceful, whilst her cousin Nelly, who is the same

age, was spoken of as 'all elbows.'"

"Has she red hair, like mine?" asked Molly, desirous of a more

particular description.

"Yours is not red, my dear. It is a lovely shade, and Norah's is

not unlike it, and just as abundant, or at least it was four years

ago. Your hair, Molly, is what, I have heard my German friends call

the 'Gretchen' shade, because they associate it with the heroine in

'Faust.'"

"I wish you could bring her back with you."

"I wish I could, but Norah's father will want her to himself for some

time to come. They have been so long parted, and she is all he has."

"Where is Norah coming from, Miss Pease?"

"Somewhere in Switzerland. They spent the winter in Italy, then came

further north as it grew warmer. Norah will have the one long journey

between Geneva and Paris, rest a few hours, and then come on to London."

From all that had been said the Whitmore girls concluded that Norah

Pease was about Molly's age, namely, In her sixteenth year, but she was

really nineteen.

The little lady thought and talked of the girl as if Time had stood

still with her since they last met, and had really forgotten the change

that must have taken place.

Richard Whitmore returned without having seen either Colonel Pease or

his daughter, so was unable to answer the volley of questions by which

he was assailed.

"Miss Pease was comfortably established at the hotel selected by her

brother, and had received a telegram announcing his arrival. She hoped

to see him almost immediately. I thought it better not to intrude upon

such a meeting by staying until he came," he replied.

Miss Pease wrote letters which showed that she was brimming over with

gladness; but as the days went on a difficulty arose as to her return

to Mere Side.

"My brother has much business to attend to, and will have a great deal

of travelling before he can settle down. There is no one but myself to

look after Norah. What can I do but stay with the child?"

"Bring her here, I should say," suggested Mina. "By all accounts she

knows very little of her native country, for she went to India a tiny

child, came back, lost her mother, and since then has wandered to and

fro on the earth under her aunt's wing. May she come here, Dick, and

enjoy a summer holiday in England?"

"I can have no objection, dear. In fact, it is the best possible

solution to the difficulty. Then we shall get our dear little

house-mother back again, and as soon as Colonel Pease can spare time

for a rest he shall come too, if he will. Mere Side will be a real home

for him amongst you girls, until he can fix on one for himself. He

means to buy a handsome place somewhere."

Miss Pease was delighted when the cordial invitation came, and actually

written in Gertrude's hand. She was longing for the dear niece to meet

the girls to whom she was so warmly attached, and she was utterly weary

of hotel life after a fortnight's experience, and with but little of

her brother's society, owing to unavoidable causes. So she sent a

grateful acceptance on North's behalf, and herself carried to Mere Side

a message from Colonel Pease, who promised to spend his first spare

week there.

The little lady was warmly welcomed by the Whitmore girls on her

return, and her niece was also received in a manner that charmed both.

They were all, however, surprised to find that the new guest, though a

girl, was about Mina's age, instead of Molly's.

The latter expressed what the rest felt when, after embracing Miss

Pease with equal vigour and affection, she exclaimed, "Why, your niece

is a grown-up young lady. I thought she was a girl like me, and that we

should all call her Norah."

"She will be very much distressed if you call her anything else," said

the girl herself. "I am very sorry for the misapprehension, but you

must please not blame my aunt for it. The mistake she made was not a

wilful one."

"The fact is, Molly dear, that I never calculated on Norah being

grown-up any more than you did, but kept picturing her as very much the

same as when I last saw her, forgetting that Time had not stood still

with the child any more than with the rest of us."

They felt that Miss Pease had been herself mistaken, and when she

added, "You must not like my Norah any less on account of her aunt's

blunder," a chorus of welcoming words came from the girls, after which

the young guest was conveyed to her room.

"I think she is one of the most charming young creatures I ever saw,"

said Jo, and Mina echoed the expression.

"What do you think of Norah, Gertrude?"

"I quite agree with you both," was the answer; and in her heart she

added, "I wish she were not so charming."

Richard was absent when the arrival took place, but on his return in

the early evening, he glanced towards the doorway, and saw not only his

pet Molly on the look-out for his coming, but a sort of glorified Molly

near her.

It was a girl with hair of the same shade and a very fair complexion,

but taller and slenderer than his robust young sister. He could see

the perfect profile, and was sure the eyes were beautiful, though he

could not discern their colour. But whilst the features were so fine

and delicately cut, there was nothing of the mere statue-like beauty

in the face as a whole. On the contrary, those who might be at first

attracted by the almost perfect features, would forget these in the

greater beauty of expression and the wonderful charm of manner which

Norah Pease possessed.

Richard Whitmore did not see all this at once. But he noted the figure

of a girl in a simple dress of dainty Dacca muslin, only relieved by

pale blue bows, and he thought it exactly suited the place. Norah was

not looking in his direction, but towards something which Molly was

pointing out in the distance, and he slackened his steps in order to

take in the sweet picture more fully.

Miss Pease saw him coming, and met him at the door to exchange

greetings, and to be welcomed back by Richard himself. As they crossed

the hall together, Molly, who had become aware of her brother's

presence, rushed to meet him.

"Come, Dick," she said, "and be introduced to Norah. She is older than

I am by more than three years, and not a schoolgirl, but she is just as

nice."

[Illustration]

Miss Pease was about to introduce Norah to her host in due form, but

Molly spared her the trouble by saying, "Norah, this is Brother Dick.

He is such a darling, and so is she, Dick. You are sure to like one

another. Are they not, Miss Pease?" turning to her elder friend.

"Indeed I hope so," said Richard; and, quite naturally, Norah echoed

the wish.

"I can hardly feel strange here," she added, "for my aunt has written

so much, and, since we met, talked so much about every one at Mere

Side, that I almost thought I was going to meet five more cousins, and

had a sense of extra riches in consequence."

"Cousins do not seem such very near relatives after all," said Molly,

in a meditative tone. "Sisters are better. I should like you for one,

Norah."

Miss Pease was just a little scandalized at Molly's freedom of speech,

and said, "My dear, you talk too fast. I am afraid Richard spoils you

too much."

But there was no trace of self-consciousness on Norah's face as she

thanked Molly for her willingness to adopt her as a relative on such

very short acquaintance. Then Richard, Miss Pease, and she talked

on quite unrestrainedly, and the girl was enthusiastic about the

loveliness around her. Somehow, the aunt and niece drifted into the

angle window, while Dick stood just within, his arm round Molly, and

told his young guest the names of the hills which bounded the view, and

various other particulars about the landscape before them.

"This window is the most charming nook I ever saw," said Nora. "I can

scarcely bear to leave it. And what a wealth of roses you have! The

varieties seem endless."

"If you are not too tired, will you come and look at them before

dinner? You want some flowers to wear, do you not? My sisters always

like to have them and to choose for themselves."

"That is the best of all," said Norah. "I would rather have a knot of

wild-flowers that I gathered for myself than the finest bouquet that

could be bought ready put together by an accomplished gardener."

She turned to leave the recess, but at the instant something struck

violently against the glass and startled her. On looking she could see

nothing.

"Do not be alarmed," said Richard. "This is a thing which,

unfortunately, often happens. A poor bird has flown against the pane,

and probably wounded itself so badly that it will die. As the creatures

can see through the glass, they cannot understand that it offers a

solid obstacle to their flight, and many are killed in this way. It is

the only drawback to my enjoyment of this window. Will you not come out

this way?" And Richard stepped out through the open sash, and offered

his hand to assist Norah in following.

There upon the ground, feebly fluttering, lay a fine thrush, wounded to

death. Tears sprang into Norah's eyes as she saw it, but, happily, the

pains of the injured bird were not of long duration. A moment after she

first saw it the movement ceased.

Richard picked up the dead thrush, and gently stroked its glossy

feathers, then laid it down amongst some shrubs, saying, "It shall be

buried by and by. You may think me sentimental for a man, but I do not

like to cover the poor little body with earth whilst it is warm with

the life that has but just fled."

"I think you feel just as I do. Why should a man be less pitiful than a

girl?" replied Norah.

Richard smiled in reply, and led the way to the roses, for his guest

to make choice amongst them. At first he had felt sorry that Norah

should be with only her aunt and Molly, beside himself, for the other

girls were engaged at a tennis party, to which they had been invited

before they knew when Miss Pease would return. But he never forgot

that evening which seemed to bring the girl guest and himself so near

together, and that night he dreamed of the slender white-robed figure

framed by the angle window.

Day followed day, and each developed some new charm in Norah. She had

travelled much, and had a well-stored mind, without the smallest taint

of pedantry. She was a born musician, but though her voice was well

cultivated, she owed less to her teachers than to her natural gifts,

and when she sang, none could help listening with delight.

The Whitmore girls loved her. Even Gertrude felt the spell, for with

all Norah was so sweet, frank, tender, and natural, that she won hearts

without effort. She had won one that hitherto had never been stirred in

like manner, for Richard Whitmore had given to Norah all the love of

which his large heart was capable.

Outsiders began to smile as they saw the young master of Mere Side so

constant in his attendance on his graceful guest. Miss Sharp found

something new to talk about, and whispered to gossips like herself,

that any one could see what Miss Pease had brought Norah to Saltshire

for. She had fished for an invitation for her niece in order to get her

a rich husband. How hard it would be for those four girls to give place

to a chit like that!

Gentle Miss Pease had her qualms of conscience lest she might be

misjudged in this matter, though she knew her brother's only child

would be a rich heiress, and no unsuitable mate in that respect for

Richard Whitmore.

And Gertrude! She was not blind. She guessed her brother's secret, but

said nothing, though a fierce combat was going on within her. Self was

battling against her love for Richard, and that which Norah had wrung

from her in spite of her will. She felt how well suited they were to

each other, and yet she could not endure the idea of Richard taking to

himself a wife.

The other girls had no such feelings, but would have welcomed Norah as

a sister with open arms.

Week followed week, and it was near the end of August. Still Norah

stayed on at Mere Side, and waited in expectation of her father's

coming, and still he was prevented from joining her there. His letters

were frequent and full of regrets, though he expressed the hope that

present self-denial would lead to satisfactory results, and that when

these business matters were settled, a future of rest would be before

him.

One morning, however, Norah received a letter which scattered dismay

amongst the family at Mere Side.

She could not bear to tell the contents, but passed it for her aunt to

read aloud, and Miss Pease began, "My dearest Eleanor."

"I thought your name was just Norah," said Molly. "I am always called

so, because—"

Someone entered at the moment, and stopped the girl from telling why

her name had been thus abridged, and Miss Pease continued—

"I am really grieved that after all I cannot at present join you

at Mere Side, and have the pleasure of personally thanking Mr.

Whitmore and his sisters for all their kindness and of making their

acquaintance. I must hope for this at some future time."

"You, dear Eleanor, must come to me with as little delay as possible.

I should like you to meet me on Thursday, and on Saturday I purpose

going on to Paris, where your aunt and cousins now are. A family matter

requires that we should meet. Indeed, she wants my help, and, after all

her goodness to you, it would ill become me to hesitate, if I can be of

use to her. Nelly and Beatrice are in a state of wild delight at the

prospect of seeing you."

"Your aunt's maid, Carter, has been visiting her old mother in

Lincolnshire, and I have arranged that she shall bring you from Mere

Side, or rather from Salchester, where she will meet with you, travel

to town with you, and cross with us to the Continent. This plan will

prevent your causing any inconvenience to your aunt."

There were further messages of thanks, regards, and regrets, and then

the letter ended, amid a chorus of groans from the listeners.

Norah's face had grown pale, and Richard's had on it an expression of

pain that was unmistakable.

He had waited, like the honourable man he was, for the coming of

Colonel Pease before speaking to Norah. He thought it would not be

right to declare his affection for the daughter until the father had

seen him, and had an opportunity of judging of his character.

He must not speak now, for this was Wednesday, and on the morrow the

girl was to leave. The bustle of preparation had to be got over, and at

ten o'clock in the morning Norah must be ready to depart.

So much had to be crowded into so short a time that there was little

leisure for uttering vain regrets, though a running fire of these was

kept up on all sides through the day and during the gathering together

of Norah's belongings.

"Shall you have any spare time?" asked Richard at luncheon. "Or will it

be all bustle until you step into the carriage?"

"I shall have the whole evening," replied Norah; "all the time, I mean,

from four o'clock. I could not do without a last happy night to look

back upon. I can never thank you all for your kindness to me."

"Thank us by coming back and bringing your father as soon as possible.

For the present, I, for one owe you much, Norah; so the balance is

really on the other side. My home was never so graced before," he

added, with a smile and a look which made a flush cover the girl's fair

face, "or seemed so bright a place to me."

But she looked bravely up at him in return, and said—

"I will certainly come back to Mere Side, if I may, and bring my father

too. You ought to know each other. You only need to meet to be friends."

That afternoon they all had early tea on the terrace, and as they sat

there the old swallows circled round and round, feeding their young

ones in the air, and exercising them preparatory to the long flight

before them. Down they came, skimming the surface of the lake, which

was all aglow with the rays of the declining sun, dipping in its

waters, and then gathering on the roof to plume themselves after their

bath.

"The swallows are getting ready for flight, like you, Norah," said

Richard. "A little while and they will all be gone. See, that is a hawk

in the distance. I hope he will not carry off any fledgling to-night."

"You know everything," she replied. "Birds, bees, trees, flowers are

all familiar. You only need a glance to name them."

"I have lived among them always. A country life has interest enough

for me; but I do sometimes wish to see more than these familiar

objects, and, but for an outcry among the girls, I should have joined

a scientific expedition this last spring. I could not leave the mother

awhile back, or my sisters in their sorrow. Perhaps I may give up the

idea altogether," he added in a musing fashion, "though there is such

an expedition annually in connection with a society to which I belong."

"I hope you will not be away when I—when my father comes to Mere Side,"

said Norah.

And Dick responded emphatically—

"I certainly shall not."

Later on in the twilight Norah sat at the piano and sang one song after

another, and then they stole an hour from sleep, and all talked of the

happy days they had spent together, and of their hope of meeting again.

At the same time on the following evening the swallows were skimming to

and fro, but Norah was gone, and the house seemed empty to its master,

though all the rest were left. But as he sat in the library, with his

head leaning on his hand, Richard saw neither books nor aught around

him.

He was picturing that slender, white-robed figure as he first saw it in

the doorway. He heard none of the sounds going on around, though the

tennis-players were on the lawn and the bold song of the robins came

from every bush. What he heard was a sweet voice flooding the room with

a richer song, and one that spoke more to his heart than theirs.

And Richard smiled to himself as he said, "The seat in the angle

window, the mother's seat, will be filled again, and I shall hear the

dear voice that makes my heart thrill as no other can, in place of the

echo which memory gives me now. For I felt her little hand tremble in

mine, and though she said 'good-bye' in a brave voice to all the rest,

she could not say it to me, though her lips parted and closed. I had

her last look, and tears were shining in her eyes as she gave it. They

are speaking eyes, and they said to me, 'I am sorry to go, but I will

not forget my promise. I will come again.'"

CHAPTER VI.

THE FRAME HAS A PICTURE ONCE MORE.

NORAH wrote as soon as possible to tell of her arrival at Paris, and

pour forth on the same sheet her regrets at parting from the Whitmores,

and her pleasure in being with all her kith and kin. At first there

seemed a prospect of their returning to England; but later on, instead

of hearing that a time was fixed for their coming, news arrived of a

contrary character. The doctors advised Colonel Pease to winter at

Cannes, in order that after so many years spent in India, he might not

be too suddenly exposed to the severity of the season in England.

Richard Whitmore heard this, and began to meditate on the possibility

of taking Miss Pease and his sisters to spend the winter in the

Riviera, but he decided to let January come first, and then to journey

South for the three following months.

Once more came a message from the angle window which put an end to his

plans and froze to the death the glad hopes that he had been nourishing

in his heart.

Gertrude was sitting there with Miss Pease, reading a letter aloud,

when he entered the morning-room. She was not very fond of pet names,

and often called her sisters by theirs at fall length instead of using

the diminutives, Mina and Jo, and roused Molly's wrath by calling her

Florence Mary. Since she had been aware that Norah was only short for

Eleanor, Gertrude usually spoke of their late guest by her full name

also.

As Richard entered the room he heard his sister say, "So Eleanor is

actually engaged to Sir Edward Peyton. Is it not rather a sudden

affair?"

"Perhaps it may be deemed so in respect to the engagement itself, but

they have been long acquainted. While Norah was here she often spoke of

his frequent visits and attentions when we were alone, but so long as

there was nothing definite it was scarcely likely she would allude to

such things before others."

Richard paused a moment to recover himself after the blow. Then

he advanced towards Miss Pease, saying, "I was not an intentional

eavesdropper, but I heard the news of your niece's engagement, and I

suppose I must congratulate you on the event."

"Yes, Eleanor is engaged," said the little lady, all sympathetic smiles

and blushes. "Sometimes I think when such events occur, condolences

would be more fitting for those they leave behind. When there is but

a single parent and few children, or only one, a break brings pain as

well as pleasure, even though caused by marriage."

Richard begged Miss Pease to give his congratulatory messages, and then

stole away into the library to think over what he had heard, and find

comfort as best he might.

There was only one picture that came constantly before him, and that

was the angle window without an occupant, and a dying bird on the

terrace below.

And Richard whispered to himself, "Just another wounded bird. I could

almost wish that I, too, had been injured even unto death. If it were

not that I am needed, specially by Molly, I should say it in earnest.

As it is, I must run away, lest the rest should see the wound."

Richard's mind was promptly made up. There was to be an expedition

for the purpose of observing a total eclipse of the sun, visible in

Southern latitudes, but not in England. He announced his intention of

joining it, pleaded that he wanted a shake-up, that he was growing old

and rusty by dint of over-petting and self-indulgence; and, in short,

that he must go.

Before Miss Pease received another letter conveying a message of thanks

for his congratulations, Richard had completed his arrangements and was

on his way to Mauritius.

Whilst there he saw in the "Times," for February 27, an announcement

of the marriage, at Cannes, of Sir Edward Peyton, Bart., and Eleanor

Pease. It was simply worded, and as the "Queen" did not fall into his

hands, Richard missed many details about dresses, bridesmaids, etc.,

some of which might have proved interesting.

He wondered a little that almost nothing was said in subsequent home

letters about this marriage. Miss Pease did just mention that Eleanor's

wedding had taken place, and there were allusions in some of his

sisters' epistles to the good match made by her niece, but Norah, as

the Norah of Mere Side, was not mentioned, or only in the most cursory

way.

"Perhaps they guess," thought Richard, "and are silent for my sake.

Thank God, for Norah's! From all I have been able to ascertain she has

married a good man, and I pray that she may be happy. I would not

grudge her to the husband of her choice, but somehow I cannot believe

that any tie existed when she was with us. If I had only spoken, or

gone when she did to meet her father—but it is too late."

It was not until the May twelve months after leaving home that Richard

Whitmore set foot in England again.

He joined one scientific party after another, and went to and fro,

adding much to his store of knowledge, and finding in change of scene

and the habit of close observation, which gave him work for every day,

the best remedy for the wound which healed but slowly.

Then he had to come home, to open his hands for more wealth. A distant

cousin had left him thirty thousand pounds. When the news reached him

he said, "This, divided into four and added to the little belonging to

the girls, will give each of them ten thousand pounds, for the Maynards

do not want it. There will be more for them by and by, from their

bachelor brother, for I shall never marry now."

He did not tell them this, or even about the legacy at first. He had

to hear of all that had passed during his absence, to note that Molly,

now turned seventeen, was more like Norah Pease, slenderer and more

thoughtful-looking than of old.

It was Dick's absence that had made her the last. Little Miss Pease's

hair was greyer, but it just suited her delicately fresh complexion.

Nina and Jo had altered less than Molly, but Gertrude was the most

changed of all.

There was a new light in her eyes, a softer flush on her cheek, a

gentleness of manner foreign to the old Gertrude. Molly's welcome was

not more hearty than hers, or her sisterly embrace more tender or more

entirely voluntary than was Gertrude's.

Nobody had told Richard anything, but he looked at his eldest sister

and guessed her secret rightly.

The girl had given her heart to a good, but not a rich man, one who at

first feared to offer his own to Miss Whitmore, of Mere Side, lest he

should be suspected of seeking a rich bride whose wealth would make

amends for his own small means.

For once Miss Sharp's tongue did good service without its being

intended. Her keen eyes, ever on the watch, detected something in

Gertrude's manner favourable to Mr. Kemble, of whose views she decided

there could be no doubt.

"He is in the Civil Service, and has an income of three hundred a

year," said Miss Sharp. "I dare say he thinks Gertrude Whitmore is an

heiress, but I shall open his eyes, and show that proud minx what he is

really looking after."

Miss Sharp carried out her resolution, and managed to let Mr. Kemble's

sister and niece, visitors in the neighbourhood, know the exact amount

to which Miss Whitmore was entitled under her father's will. The result

astonished her.

Instead of packing up and departing at once, Mr. Kemble manifested the

greatest delight. He would have shrunk from the heiress, but he dared

to ask the girl he loved to share his lot, when he found out that there

was not much disparity in their means, and none in social standing; and

she accepted him with this proviso, that Richard must give his consent,

though she was of age.

Gertrude told her brother this, sitting in the angle window, and with

the moon shining in thereat.

Dick kissed her, rejoiced with her, and told her there was no need to

wait for the advance of salary which Kemble was sure of in another year.

"True hearts should not be parted without a needs-be, my dear, and

none exists in your case," he said. Then he told her how he had always

put by a considerable portion of his income, in order that his sisters

might not be dowerless maidens.

"I counted on this sort of thing coming to one of you at a time, you

know, and I was fairly ready for your first turn, my dear, before

something else happened, which has given me at a stroke enough for you

all."

He told her of the legacy, and the share he had mentally appropriated

to herself, then added, "As I am a cut-and-dried old bachelor, there

will be more for you in the long run."

He was not prepared for what followed.

Gertrude broke into a flood of passionate tears and sobs, and between

these she cried, "Dick, dear brother Dick, can you forgive me? I

do not deserve anything from you. I have been hard and selfish and

ungrateful. I have tried to make the others so, and cared nothing for

your happiness, only how I could keep all good things to myself. It was

when I learned to love Bertram that I knew what I had done to you."

The girl sank on her knees and hid her tearful face in her hands as she

bowed her head over Dick's lap, and her frame shook with sobs.

Love had conquered at last, as he always believed it would, and

Richard's face looked beautiful in the moonlight, as he bent over his

sister and insisted on raising her from the ground and drawing her head

on his breast.

"You do forgive me, Dick. Your kind touch tells me so without words;

but please listen, I want you to know everything—" and the girl went on

and laid bare all the envy, ingratitude, and selfishness that had begun

during that visit to the Tindalls, and how these things had grown and

for a long time influenced her life for evil. "Then," she said, "you

were so persistently loving that I began to see the beauty of your life

and disposition, and to loathe the ugliness of my own—till Norah came."

[Illustration]

Richard started at the mention of that name, and Gertrude felt his

heart beat fuller and faster.

"No one, not even I, could help loving Norah," she said, "and often

I thought what a perfect mate she would be for you, dear Dick; but I

could not endure the idea of her coming here as mistress and turning

us all out of Mere Side. I thought you cared for her, and she for you,

but nothing came of it, only I was glad when she went away, though I

expected you and she would soon meet again. You would have done so if

you had not set out for Mauritius, for we were invited to the wedding,

only we did not go as you were absent."

"How could I have gone?" asked Dick, with a groan of anguish that went

to the listener's heart and told her something of what he had suffered.

"Then you did think it was Norah who married Sir Edward Peyton. I

thought you misunderstood, and yet I purposely held my tongue. I know

what my silence has done. I felt it when I realised what it would be

if I were called on to part with Bertram. You will never forgive me,

never."

"For pity's sake tell me what you mean, Gertrude! I am not often so

impatient, but suspense will drive me mad. Is Norah married?"

"No, Dick, neither has she ever been engaged. Do you remember that

morning when Miss Pease was reading the colonel's letter, in which he

called his daughter 'Eleanor'? Nora was going to explain why she was

never addressed by it at her aunt's, but someone interrupted. She told

me afterwards that Eleanor was her grandmother's name, and that her

elder cousin bore it as well as herself. To distinguish between them,

one was called Nelly; that was the girl whom Miss Pease described as

having been 'all elbows' when she was just in her teens, and the other,

our Eleanor, was Norah to everybody. Nelly is Lady Peyton, and Norah is

Norah Pease to-day."

An irrepressible thanksgiving broke from Richard's lips, and confirmed

Gertrude's conviction, whilst it increased her penitence.

"You must know all," she added. "All the rest believed that you knew

which of the girls was engaged to Sir Edward Peyton. I led them to

think so, without directly saying it; and though they had thought you

cared for Norah, when you went away so suddenly they concluded either

that they had made a mistake or that she had refused you. This is why

they scarcely named her in letters."

"Are Colonel Pease and Norah in England?" asked Richard, in a voice

unlike his own, so moved was he.

"Yes; and they are coming here to-morrow. They were to have come

together so long ago, but they have been wintering abroad and

travelling about with the other family ever since."

There was a short silence, and again Gertrude faltered out—

"Can you forgive me, now you know all?"

"Thank God, I can, as I hope to be forgiven. He has overruled all for

good—even my rashness and blindness."

For a little moment Richard still held the weeping girl to his breast,

and then he kissed her once more, and, gently placing her on the seat

whence he had risen, left her alone in the moonlight.

The next day brought Norah and her father, and the first sight of the

dear fair face told Richard as plainly as words that she had come back

unchanged, and was glad to be there.

A few more happy days, and then Richard told the story of his love, and

knew that the treasure he desired above all others was his very own,

with her father's full consent.

He spoke and she listened, in the fittest place of all—the angle

window, which is no longer a frame without a picture. A white-robed

figure sits on what was once the mother's seat, and gives her husband

an answering smile when he looks in that direction from amongst the

roses.

Colonel Pease has bought a fine estate in Saltshire, with a house on

it ready to his hand, and his gentle little sister presides over his

domestic arrangements.

Gertrude's home is in the outskirts of London; Mina will soon follow

her sister's example, and go to a new nest. The other girls will do

as they have done since Dick's marriage—flit between Mere Side and

Overleigh, the colonel's home; for the old soldier is never happier or

Miss Pease more in her element than when they have young faces about

them.

It is said that Miss Sharp has greatly affected the society of Miss

Pease since she began her rule at Overleigh; but there is no fear for

the colonel; he is too old a soldier.

Brother Dick is as truly blessed as his unselfish nature deserves to

be, now he has quite recovered from the wound he received through the

angle window.