"I wish I could sing like you," Nellie said, taking her arm

affectionately.

"I wish I could paint like you," said Sara, laughing. "We must be

content with our own gifts, must we not?"

"We can all sing in our hearts," said the Rector, and he murmured to

himself. "We'll sing, and we'll learn to endure."

His wife caught the words.

"I suppose you have to endure me," she said, half-laughing, half-vexed.

"And I consider I have to endure much more from you than you do from

me. Because I let you go your own way, and never interfere with you,

but you won't let me go mine. Fancy, Miss Darlington, they're making a

new golf course at Manstead, and he doesn't want me to become a member!

Now what possible harm can golf do me?"

"We won't discuss that subject now," said the Rector, uneasily.

"No," said Sara, quietly; "a third person ought never to be brought

into a discussion between two. It isn't fair, especially if she wants

to remain a friend of those two!"

Nellie laughed.

"But you see I want you to take my part. John thinks it right to

deprive me of so many pleasures. I should like to ride out with the

hounds. May has offered to mount me, and I can ride a little, but it is

tabooed. They are going out to-morrow. Would you like to come to the

meet with me? I am going on foot. They meet at Spelding's Cross. It

will be a nice walk—just two miles from here."

"No, I am afraid I can't go to-morrow," said Sara. "Nurse is having a

day out, so I have the baby."

"Oh, that blessed baby! Well, I won't say anything against him, for I

know you adore him, and he is a darling. I do allow that."

Then the Rector began to talk of the Squire's library, and as he and

Sara were both book lovers, they waxed enthusiastic over it, whilst

Nellie laughed at them both.

As they parted with Sara at the gate, the Rector said—

"I hope you will bring your guitar over to us one day. I haven't

enjoyed an evening so much as I have to-night for a long while."

And as they went along the lane, Nellie called out—

"You were the success of the evening, Miss Darlington. Good night."

Sara smiled.

"Ah!" she said to herself. "How little they know what a poor creature I

am at heart! But I will be glad. I have plenty to make me so. Life is

full, and I have found very pleasant friends in this quiet little spot."

The next afternoon, she was in her sitting-room trying to soothe her

little nephew who was teething and rather fractious in consequence,

when her door burst open, and Mrs. Shiplake appeared panting with

excitement.

"Oh, ma'am, what do you think! My Frankie has just run in with the

news. Our poor dear Squire has broken his neck out hunting! It's given

me such a turn, I be tremblin' to where I stand."

Sara stood up. She could not believe her ears.

"Not dead!" she cried. "Oh, he can't be dead!"

"But 'tis Gospel truth, ma'am—he were carried home an hour ago, and two

doctors wired for, and my Frank stayed till he heard the head groom say

'twas all over! What an awful situation for the whole lot of us!"

Sara felt quite dazed. She recalled the Squire's last words to her on

the previous night. How little she thought that she would never see him

alive again, and then her whole heart went out to May. How would she

bear this awful blow? Had she been with him when the accident occurred,

she wondered. She felt glad that May had her aunt staying with her, but

she knew what a terrible shock it would be to them all.

Later on she heard further particulars from Frank. It was in taking

a high fence that the Squire's horse came down, and flung his master

against the trunk of a tree. Death was instantaneous, and May riding on

in front was absolutely unconscious of what had occurred. Her cousin

broke the news to her, and every one said her calmness and composure

astonished them all. She walked home by the side of her father's dead

body, and when they arrived at the house issued all necessary orders

with an unfaltering voice.

Sara knew the reaction would come, but during the next few days, May

was still the ruling spirit in the house.

The Rector came over to Sara with a white shaken face. He had been over

to the Hall to see the last of his old friend, and had found May very

cold and grave, very absorbed in necessary business, and not in any

respect broken down with grief at her loss.

"I cannot understand her," he said to Sara; "her aunt is absolutely ill

with the shock of it, but May talks as if she is arranging a funeral

for some outside stranger. Has she no feelings, do you think?"

"I am sure she has," said Sara, earnestly; "she and her father were

devoted to each other. She will feel it more by and by. I expect the

shock has for the time stunned her."

"I asked her if I could do anything to help her, but she said her

cousin, Captain Talbot, was seeing to everything for her. She seems as

if she wants no sympathy from any one. I was allowed to give her no

comfort."

"The time for that is not just yet," said Sara, thoughtfully. And she

was right.

It was not till after the funeral had taken place, and after all the

relatives and friends had left the house, that May began to realize her

loss.

Her aunt remained with her, but even she got upon May's nerves. She

longed to be quite alone, and at last, frankly told her aunt so.

Miss Agnew was much hurt, but she herself wanted to get home, and was

glad to have the excuse of leaving her niece.

"I will come down to you later," she said; "for you are too young to be

left long in this big place alone, and it would not be the thing. But

for the present, if you want to nurse your grief in solitude, you can

do it!"

Sara had written a little note of sympathy to May, and she had a line

acknowledging it. But she did not see her till three weeks after the

funeral, and then May surprised her one day by walking in whilst she

was at tea.

Sara was shocked to see how white and ill she looked. But she held her

head high, and spoke much as usual.

"You always look so cosy here! How is the baby? For once I find you

without him!"

"He is very well, thank you. He is asleep in the nursery now. I am so

glad to see you. I did not come up to you, because I thought you would

not care to see visitors."

"I don't count you as a visitor. But I have been frightfully busy, and

Mr. Dane, our lawyer, is still in the house. I suppose you know my aunt

has left me?"

"I heard she had. Are you sorry?"

May gave a wintry smile.

"No, I'm glad; she worried me. I have never been accustomed to have

women fussing over me, and I could not appreciate it. She threatens

to come back to me, says it's improper my living alone! Now, isn't

that very Early Victorian? What do you think? Tell me frankly. I am

expecting my brother back in three months' time. His ship is still

at Hong Kong, but till he comes, I shall keep everything going as it

always has been. Why on earth should I require a chaperon?"

"It isn't necessary," said Sara, slowly, "but I think it would be

pleasanter for you. It would leave you freer to have your friends at

the house."

"You don't think I am going to entertain at present, do you? Now, look

here. I want to ask you a favour. I've been thinking over things, and

I suppose I had better not run the risk of having Aunt Maria coming

back just yet. Will you come up and stay with me? I'm perfectly certain

we should get on. You would go your way and I should go mine, and you

never worry nor fuss."

"My dear! I don't think I can. It is not possible. I should not like to

leave my small nephew down here without me."

"But, of course, you can bring him with you. There are the old

nurseries. We could make him and his nurse quite comfortable. At all

events, you can stay with me till Alan comes back. Do try to do it. I

won't press you for an answer to-day. There's no hurry; think it over."

Sara looked at May without speaking for a moment, then she said—

"I'll do it if I can, if it will be any help to you, I'll come. It is

very generous and good of you to take us all in. Could I bring Lacy as

my maid, do you think?"

"Of course."

May was drinking a cup of tea. She put it down hastily, and got up to

go.

"I can't stay. I have business to do with Mr. Dane before dinner.

Thanks awfully. You don't know how I shall like it."

She shook hands abruptly with Sara, but when she reached the door, she

turned—

"Do you know what father said to me before we went to bed that last

evening? I suppose you know how struck he was with your singing. He

said of you,—

"'That's a most charming woman, May. I should like to see more of her.

One feels the better for having her near one. Couldn't we ask her to

stay in the house?'

"And I said I was afraid you wouldn't leave the baby."

She broke off, slipped out of the door, and was gone, leaving her

sentence unfinished.

Sara understood. She knew that the mention of her father, and the

memory of that last evening of his, had proved too much for her

self-control.

It was the remembrance of the Squire's words to herself that had made

her accept May's invitation so promptly.

"He would like it, dear old man!" she thought. "He asked me to be her

friend and help her; and God helping me, I will."

She knew that there would be difficulties in her way, and she found

that it needed a good deal of talk and persuasion to make both nurse

and Lacy willing to accompany her. Mrs. Shiplake was aggrieved too, for

she had quite looked forward to having her as a permanent lodger all

the winter. However, Sara managed to soothe them all, and a week later

she went up to the Hall.

Nellie Peel was very excited over the news.

She met Sara out one afternoon, and told her that she had just heard of

the plan from her father who had been up to the Hall.

"I do think May might be a little more friendly with me. She hasn't

been near us, and we are quite her oldest friends here. She is so

self-important now. One would think that she was squiress. It all

belongs to her brother, and some people say he is engaged to some girl

out abroad. If he leaves the Navy and comes home and marries, May may

find herself without a home. I wonder how she will like that!"

"She would bear it as other women have before her," said Sara, quietly.

"We will hope, for her sake, that she will not be turned out of her old

home just yet."

"I don't wonder that she has sent for you," said Nellie, quickly, not

liking the pained look in Sara's eyes. "If I ever get into a hobble

about anything, I should do the same—I wonder how you will like it up

at the Hall? I always love staying there. It is so luxurious!"

But the luxury and comfort did not appeal to Sara, who had only one

overwhelming longing, and that was to comfort this sorrowful lonely

girl in the hour of her trouble.

CHAPTER VI

AN EVENING TALK

"YOU don't mind sitting up here in the evening, do you?" May asked this

question of Sara after dinner the first evening.

They were in the library. The Squire's chair was drawn up to the fire

just as when he was there, but Sara noticed that May never sat in it.

In the same way, the chair at the head of the dining-table was always

there, but it was never used. May drew a low chair up to the fire

by Sara's side. It was the first time they had been alone. At May's

suggestion the lamps had not been lighted. Only the wax candles on the

big carved writing-table gave light besides the fire, but the flames

flickered and danced merrily up the wide chimney, and touched with

golden sparkles the books in the bookcases, the pictures on the walls,

and the handsome copper and silver ornaments about the long room.

"Father and I always sat here after dinner," said May, gently. "And I

like to think that his spirit is here still. You will not laugh at me

if I tell you something. Yesterday, all day long, I was hunting for

an important paper which Mr. Dane wanted. I knew father had had it in

his hand in this room the day before—before his accident. I came up

here, and I searched everywhere for it. I turned out the drawers in the

writing-table, I ransacked the bureau for it, I searched everywhere.

And last night as I was sitting here alone, I felt that father was near

me. I said out loud:

"'If only you would tell me where you put it!'

"This morning I came here again and had another hunt, and, do you know,

when I opened his writing-table drawer—there was the paper just doubled

in half on the very top! Now don't you think he came back and put it

there himself?"

Sara, looking at May's pale earnest face, could not answer her for a

moment, and May, quick to read faces, exclaimed—

"I see you don't believe it. You will say I hadn't looked properly,

that it was a coincidence. Well, you can think what you like. But I

know, and am perfectly certain, that there was no coincidence about it."

A little silence fell on them. Then May said, abruptly—

"Where is he, Miss Darlington? He was taken so suddenly. He was alive

to his finger tips! What an awfully cruel thing death is! How can he

be silent towards me if the best part of him is living still. And what

is he doing? And what is he thinking? Oh, I wish I knew! I don't doubt

where he is! Father was always so very good, though he never talked

much. Do you know, he used to read a chapter out of mother's Bible

every night before he went to sleep? And I shall never forget his

saying to me in this very room the first night after I came home from

school:

"'My dear, your mother was a good woman, and she isn't here to teach

you. I want you to be like her. Will you always say your prayers and

read your Bible in the quiet of your bedroom every day? I promised your

mother I would do it, and I want you to do it too.'

"Of course I promised."

"It is a great comfort to have such memories as that," said Sara with

a little smile. "And I should trust your father to God's own keeping,

dear May. Don't have an anxious or unhappy thought about him. He was

spared a long illness, which is so trying to men."

"Oh yes," May said listlessly. "I do believe he is all right. It is

not his fate which depresses me, but my own. I have lost everything

with him! He and I enjoyed everything together, now I shall never enjoy

anything without him. I have lost my appetite. Can you understand me?

Nothing interests me now. I try to do everything as I have always

done, and I am struggling to take over a good deal that he did. There

is plenty to keep me occupied, but deep down in my heart is the awful

blank which will never be filled."

"I think I can understand," said Sara, tenderly. "I have gone through

the same experience myself."

"Not exactly the same, have you? And I am not brave enough to face my

future. Let me tell you. It is a relief to talk to some one. Shall I

bore you?"

"My dear child!"

Sara's little caressing touch on her arm made May exclaim—

"You're the only person who seems to care a bit about me! I don't

know if you have heard about my brother Alan. He is in the Navy, and

just lately he has become engaged to an old friend of ours, Lilian

Rush. Everything is left to him—house, property, and every penny of

money. I have nothing but three hundred a year left me by my mother.

I suppose father considered that enough, but then he expected that I

shall be dependent on Alan for a home. I know he will retire from his

profession, and settle down here at once. He will marry, of course. I

cannot, and will not, stay here with them, so it means a break-up of

all I value and love. Aren't women at a disadvantage? It seems so cruel

to be turned out of my home and give my place to a stranger, one not of

the same blood, and who can never love the family things as I do? Mr.

Peel talked to me the other day of comfort coming to me. I thought how

little he knew my circumstances to imagine I could 'ever' be comforted."

She spoke with passion. Clasping her hands round her knees, she looked

into the glowing embers of the fire with gloomy sullen eyes.

And then Sara spoke.

"My dear, I don't often talk about myself, but I want you to listen to

me now. I suppose you look upon me as a happy woman?"

"The personification of happiness!" said May, looking at the sweet

sunny face opposite her. "Everybody says you carry a fund of sunshine

about with you. Though I'm so miserable myself, I felt I couldn't stand

long-faced tearful people about me. That's why I asked you to come to

me. I have been wading through hundreds of letters of consolation, and

there hasn't been one with a spark of brightness in it. Resignation

they all preach, and at present, I am full of resentment."

"It is some years now since I lost my father," said Sara, slowly and

softly. "Strange to say you and I are much alike in our experience.

I had a country home like you. I hunted with my father, and after my

mother's death did everything with him. Then he died, and not only did

I lose him, but my home went as well. We had to sell the estate, and

my brother and I went to London and had a hard struggle to live whilst

he was an unknown briefless barrister. Then gradually he got on in his

profession, and when I fancied we were settling down to a comfortable

life together, he met a girl whom he liked, and my second home was

broken up. These are just the facts of my life, but I want to tell you

something more.

"In the early days, when the crash came, and I had to see all our

family belongings sold, when I was leaving my home, and all the people

I cared about, I was like you, rebellious and miserable. I could not,

and would not, see any light for myself anywhere. And then one day, our

Rector preached a sermon. I have never forgotten it.

"'The joy of the Lord is, your strength.'

"He told us first of all how joy in the heart carried people on the

crest of the wave in time of storm and stress, how it strengthened and

braced all the weakness in them, how absolutely impossible it was for

them to sink under the biggest trouble that could come to them in this

world if they had joy inside them. He compared it to a life-belt.

"'Joy won't let you drown,' he said, 'but take care that it is not a

spurious imitation of the genuine article.'

"And then, having made our mouths water for this wonderful attribute,

he told us how we could get it."

May looked interested.

"I never realized you had been through a bad time like mine," she said.

"I suppose you got this joy, and have kept it ever since."

"You can have it too, dear."

"Oh, I know! I know! Do you remember your little song? Isn't it an

extraordinary thing you sang that on the eve of our trouble? I remember

father saying he loved it. How did it go? I remember something about a

maid in a black gown who was singing because she had joy in her heart!

But nothing can bring me joy, nothing!"

"Oh yes, May, you could obtain as I did."

"How did you get it?"

"I went down on my knees in church, and again when I got home, and

besought for my poor desolate empty heart to be flooded with the love

and joy that only my Saviour could give me. He came in Himself, and

took possession of me. It's the knowledge of His love that brings the

joy, May. You can bear anything if you lean hard on Him, and realize

that He is with you through it all. If we can't understand the reason

why, He stills our questionings by telling us we shall see the way He

has led us by and by, and acknowledge that it all has worked out for

our good. If you know a person loves you very much, you can't help

trusting him."

May was silent. She was naturally reserved, and Sara knew that this was

an opportunity that she might not get again. So she went on talking in

her soft happy voice, and at last, her words began to impress May with

an inexplicable conviction of their truth and reality.

"It may seem a strange thing to be talking about joy to you at this

time," concluded Sara, "but our Lord did it to His disciples in the

darkest hour of their lives, and when His agony was just coming upon

Him. It's one of the Heavenly paradoxes, that when we're full of

trouble, we can be full of joy. And it's such exquisite, unseen joy,

that only we ourselves know about."

"The knowledge that our Lord was close to me could bring me no joy,"

said May, slowly, "for I don't love Him."

"But He loves you," Sara said quickly; "that's what brings the joy."

Then they were silent, the firelight flickering upon their faces, upon

May's troubled eyes and hard shut mouth, upon Sara's tender, glowing

gaze.

When they parted for the night a little latter, May kissed Sara very

warmly.

"You're a wonderful person!" she said. "As a rule, I hate jaws from

pious people, but with you it seems so simple and natural, a part of

yourself, that nothing jars. You have given me something to think

about. It's rather queer your life altering after hearing that text.

For our Rector quoted it to me when talking about you the other day. He

said he always said to himself when he looked at you, 'The joy of the

Lord is her strength.'"

"Oh," said Sara with tears in her eyes; "I'm a very poor creature, but

the poorest creatures can be made happy, and can tell others how they

have been made so."

May said nothing more. She rather avoided another heart-to-heart talk

in the evenings afterwards. And Sara was quite content to leave her

alone. She never forced her views upon any one. And certainly she and

her baby nephew brought brightness into the sad house.

May would often steal away to the nursery. She was very fond of

children and Baby Oliver was a friendly little soul. He learnt to know

her and look for her, and his chubby arms would be extended at once to

be taken up and amused. They saw very little of outside neighbours.

Nellie came up to the Hall occasionally, but as she told Sara when she

met her out one day, she was not good at talking to people when they

were in trouble.

"I'm jealous of May. She has taken possession of you altogether. I have

nobody to go off to, and pour out all my woes and troubles to now. And

John and I do get so tired of each other. How long are you going to

stay here? Till Captain Agnew comes home?"

"I think so," replied Sara.

And then Nellie had laughed and gone off calling out—

"It will be my turn then to have you."

Sara at this time was rather taken up with the news that Mrs. Laird was

giving her in her letters.

Eva's serious illness was a great surprise to her.

Then one day the following letter came:—

"MY DEAREST SARA,

"You will be surprised and pleased to hear that Eva has of her own

accord sent for me to come and see her. I told you, did I not? that

she is in bed now, and too weak to get up. Graham is wonderful. He is

always with her, when he is not at his office, and I do not expect to

see much of him. I went round to Eva this afternoon. She looks very

ill, and has attacks of pain which are distressing to witness. But she

rallies wonderfully from them. She has altered very much. As I looked

at her, and then at my boy, I could not help noticing that there was a

calm peacefulness and serenity about their faces that used not to be

upon them. I suppose they have learnt to fit into each other's ways,

and to love each other. Graham left us together, and Sara, the last bit

of anger and dislike to Eva left me. When she put her hand into mine

and said, 'I want to be quite sure of your forgiveness, Cousin Rachael.

I've had an unhappy past, but God has forgiven me and given me His

peace, and I'm not afraid to go to Him now.' She told me the end might

come in any one of these heart attacks, and she was longing to go. Then

she added: 'I have selfishly made Graham's life very unhappy this last

year, but I am not sorry he married me, and I do not think he will be,

when he remembers what he has done for me.' All her peevishness and

discontent has gone.

"I came away from her, feeling that a miracle had been performed, and

then I suddenly thought of myself and of what I was like a couple of

years ago, and I began to see that what changed my outlook, has changed

hers. Graham walked home with me. He was very silent, but very dear.

He told me that Eva's little girl was coming home from school for the

holidays, that her mother wanted to see her. I have never seen the

child, but I remember you spoke of her as a dear little thing. I have

a strong feeling that Eva may not be with us at Christmas. God only

knows. This is a dull stupid letter. I get a great longing for you,

Sara, sometimes. When shall we see each other again?

"Much love,

"Your loving old friend,

"RACHAEL LAIRD."

Sara was hardly surprised to hear a fortnight later of Eva's death.

For a day or two there was a shadow upon her spirit, which impressed

itself upon her face. Even May noticed it, but she asked no questions.

Sara was peculiarly reticent about her life with the Lairds. She rarely

mentioned them; in some way she felt a shrinking from doing so. And yet

now in the time of his trouble, Graham was continually in her thoughts.

She wondered if his faith in God had increased during the time when he

must have gone down for part of the way with his wife into the Valley

of the Shadow of Death. And she longed to be able to send him some bit

of comfort. She could only pray for him, and that she never failed to

do.

About Christmas time, she got a long letter from Mrs. Laird—

"MY DEAREST SARA,

"It seemed to me that poor Eva's funeral was no sooner over than Graham

came to me to ask me my advice about her child.

"'I promised Eva I would be a father to her,' he said, 'and I have

written to her, and she must spend her holidays with me. It will be

dull for a small child alone in that big house.'

"He paused, and, Sara, I knew what he hoped. And I could not bring

myself to say it. I have never had a child in the house since my little

Dorrie died. A child of Eva's, with her mother's nature—well, I will

not write as I felt! The old Adam dies hard, Sara! Then I asked Graham

if he was going to live in that big house by himself. And he sighed and

said he felt he must, until he could let it. 'The child must have a

home, mother,' he said. 'Well,' I said, 'after her holidays, you might

come back to me for a little.' And he smiled. The first smile that has

crossed his lips since Eva died. 'I think I might, mother,' he said.

And my heart kindled at his words.

"Yesterday the child arrived. He met her at the station and brought

her to see me on their way home. As they passed the house, it seemed

natural to him to do it, but I felt irritated at first—until I saw her.

I was sitting in the big drawing-room. Graham had run upstairs first to

ask me if he could bring her up. I hope he did not see my hesitation.

Then he went back, and a moment afterwards, she softly crept in at the

door and stood looking at me shyly and wistfully. Such a tiny slim

little thing in her deep black!—with big blue eyes and very fair hair.

"I held out my hand, and she came sedately across to me. I kissed her,

Sara. She did not say one word. I wondered if my face was grim and

set, and if she was frightened of me. Somehow or other a sense of her

loneliness took possession of me.

"'Have you had a nice journey?' I asked her for want of something

better to say. She looked at me, then clasped her small hands across

her chest.

"'I felt,' she said, 'like Mummy used to—in a lonely world without

nobody to love me. And Mummy had me, and I have nobody.'

"Great tears were in her eyes. I was going to put my arms right round

her and take her to my heart, when suddenly her little face became

perfectly radiant, and she sprang towards the table on which your

picture was—the one you sent me with your little nephew in your arms.

'Why!' she cried. 'It's my dearest Miss Darling! Does she live with

you? Mummy told me she had gone away.'

"'So she has,' I said. But she did not hear me, she was hanging over

the picture in ecstasy. Then she turned to Graham who was following

her in. 'Oh!' she cried. 'My Miss Darling has got a baby! It's the one

thing I mean to have direck'ly I'm growed up. How very kind of God to

send her one.'

"Graham smiled.

"'Come along,' he said, 'we mustn't keep the cab waiting.'

"She turned towards me at once, and put up her face for a good-bye kiss.

"'Please, what may I call you? And may I, if I'm very good, come to see

Miss Darling's picture another day? She was a very special fren' of

mine, and I lost her so very soon.'

"I tell you, Sara, I longed to keep the child for good and all. And I

said in a voice that astonished myself—'You may call me Grannie, dear.'

"'Good night, Grannie dear,' she repeated, softly, and then Graham took

her away.

"And now, Sara, I have been unpacking a box of Dorrie's books and

playthings, for if she and Graham do not come and live with me, I shall

go and live with them.

"I can write no more. Much love,

"Your loving old friend,

"RACHAEL."

"Ah!" murmured Sara to herself as she read and re-read this letter. "I

do not feel sorry for Graham if he has little True to share his big

empty house with him. She will cheer both him and his mother!"

And she wrote a long letter in reply to Mrs. Laird, in which she begged

her to use her influence over the motherless child.

"True responds so quickly if you talk to her. She has had so little

religious teaching that I always wonder that her faith in God is so

sure and strong."

Mrs. Laird acted upon Sara's suggestion. And day by day she and little

True drew nearer to each other, until the old lady was never happy away

from her.

True said to her stepfather—

"Grannie and I understand alike about some things, you know. I tell

her about fairyland, and she tells me about Heaven, and I really think

they're the same place, don't you?"

And Graham looked at the child in amused astonishment. She often

reduced him to helpless silence.

CHAPTER VII

TOWN LIFE AGAIN

CHRISTMAS passed; a very sad time at the Hall, and Sara was glad when

it was over. May sometimes seemed to her to be possessed with the fever

of unrest. She never sat still unless at meals; she never opened a

book to read, and rarely a newspaper. Sometimes in the evenings she

would throw herself down in a fit of exhaustion upon the couch in

the library, and ask Sara to read her the news. All day long she was

either shut up in the study conning accounts, and doing business with

her father's bailiff; or else she was going round her father's farms,

trying to keep the reins of each in her hand.

"Alan will never cope with it," she said to Sara one day. "He is too

easy-going. I expect he will have an agent. Father never had one.

He has kept on John Whiting as his working bailiff, and has always

superintended everything himself."

"Yes, but, May dear, you are wearing yourself out. No woman can have

the same grip as a man. It is too much for you."

"I mean to keep everything going without any change till Alan comes

back. And I am happier working hard. I have not so much time to think."

She and Sara were thoroughly content with each other's company, and

they did not see much of any one else, except occasionally Nellie Peel.

One day Nellie wrote a note to Sara, imploring her to come to tea with

her.

"I shall be quite alone," she wrote; "and I have something of great

importance to tell you. My husband has gone to a clerical meeting and

won't be home till quite late. Don't disappoint me. May has so much of

you that she can well spare you to me this afternoon."

Sara went, and found Nellie looking very bright and happy, with flushed

cheeks, and an important turn of her head.

"Come and sit down in this easy-chair. Now then for my news. I don't

believe you would ever guess, and a year ago I should have thought it

bad news. Now I don't. I think it is seeing you with your little nephew

that has made me alter my mind."

"Ah," said Sara, softly. "If my guess is a right one, I do indeed think

it good news. Is it that you are going to be a mother one day?"

"Yes," whispered Nellie, "and I am glad. Of course John is delighted.

He has been so nice to me. I thought I must tell you before any one

else."

"I am so very glad, Nellie dear. It is just what you want. Some little

life to tend and care for and train. You will have no more dull empty

days. And it will bring such a lot of fresh thoughts and ideas to you."

"It has done that already," said Nellie, gravely. "I mean to turn over

a new leaf, and be a model wife and mother. I do want to be good, Miss

Darlington, but I hate being a long-faced Pharisee. You are not that.

You enjoy life, don't you? It doesn't matter where you are, or what

you are doing, you always look absolutely radiant, and I don't want my

child to think his mother a selfish pig!"

Sara laughed heartily. But this was a prelude to a very nice little

talk together, and she left the rectory with great content in her

heart, for she knew that Nellie's rather shallow sleepy little soul was

at last waking up to realities.

The winter passed, and spring came. Slowly and gradually May was

creeping back to her normal life. She was not averse to seeing visitors

now. Occasionally she returned their calls. She and Sara always enjoyed

their evenings together. They would read and talk, and many long

earnest discussions they had on matters of science and theology, which

always led them to spiritual things.

One day May heard from her brother on his way home, and strangely

enough, by the same mail, Sara heard from hers. Arnold's friend had

fractured his ankle, and they were returning to England before their

year was over.

"It seems as if our circumstances are fitting in like a puzzle!" said

Sara, laughing.

"My brother will want me in town very soon; and you will be wanting me

no longer."

"Don't say that! I think I shall always want you. But I know what you

mean. Oh, Sara, what shall I do, when I am forced to leave this dear

old house? I have so much to interest and occupy me here. Imagine me

at a loose end in town! I always feel like a fish out of water there.

Where shall I live? What shall I do? You made your plans before your

brother married, but I can't do that. I know he will want help when

he first comes back. He knows nothing of the working of the estate. I

should like to take a cottage in the village and stay on as his agent.

I wonder if I could?"

"I don't think it would be wise. Your brother would not get to know his

tenants so well if you did, and though it is delightful for you to be

able to look after everything in his absence, it wouldn't be the same

thing if he were here. It would place him in a false position."

"Yes, I expect you are right. I had better make myself scarce, as soon

as ever he knows his way about."

"I don't see why you shouldn't live in the neighbourhood still. You

need not separate yourself from them altogether, need you?"

"The fact is, I know I should not be able to keep from interfering if

things went wrong," said May, laughing. "And Lilian is quite as fond of

managing as you say I am. I am afraid we should not get on if we lived

close to one another; whereas now we are great friends, and I should

always be able to pay them a visit in the summer."

"I wish you would come and pay me a visit," said Sara. "I shall settle

down in town. My brother will have to be there, and it would be very

nice to have you, before you decided about your future."

"I should love to come to you. May I really? Now, that makes my way

clear. I shall come straight off to you directly I leave this."

A heavy sigh followed. May tried valiantly to keep up a brave heart,

but as yet she had not always succeeded.

In a very little time her brother arrived.

Sara liked him, and though May had perhaps the stronger character of

the two, Alan was a clear-headed straightforward young fellow. He told

Sara he was bitterly sorry to leave his profession. He had always had a

passion for the sea from a boy, but his father only let him enter the

Navy on condition that he would leave it, and take possession of the

property when it came to him.

"And I mean to do my best," he said, "but I shall never run the show

like my father did. He was a born farmer, and loved his land as I love

the sea. I don't know much about farming, but I shall learn, and I mean

to have an agent. It wasn't necessary with my father. It will be with

me."

Then he spoke of his sister.

"She's a fine woman, isn't she? A born ruler. I'm sorry she means to

turn out. The house will hold us both, and Lilian and she are very fond

of each other. But I must leave her a free hand. Women can't be coerced

these days, eh, Miss Darlington?"

Then came the day for Sara and her little nephew to return to London.

She left the Hall with sincere regret, but looked forward to seeing May

according to her promise later on.

And when she got back to town, she found her brother awaiting her. He

was delighted at the growth of his baby son, who was now a year old,

and a most intelligent and amusing little mortal.

Sara, with her usual adaptability, soon settled down in the town house

again, and life went on much the same as it had done before.

Then one day she heard from Mrs. Laird, asking her if she could ever

spare time to run down to Folkestone and see little True, who had gone

back to school, but who had not been well.

"Graham tells me I fuss too much over her," she wrote, "but she's

rather a delicate child, and she has had cold upon cold this winter.

I don't think the children are looked after carefully enough at her

school, and I want Graham to take her away and let me have her. There's

a very good day school she could attend here. If you could see her, I

should be so glad, for you could tell me what you thought of her."

So one sunny day, Sara went down to True's school, and was allowed to

take her out for the whole day.

The child was white and thin, but full of spirit, and delighted to see

her "Miss Darling" again.

They went down to the beach, had lunch at a restaurant, and then went

for a drive in the afternoon, and True's little tongue was busy the

whole time. She spoke quite simply and a little sadly of her mother.

"I never saw her go to Heaven, that's what made me so sorry, she didn't

tell me she was so very ill, and I wanted to wish her good-bye. It's

so dreadful to lose your Mummy, because you can't get another, and I

did love Mummy very much. I used to bother her, she often said so, but

I truefully tried not to. She didn't like having to explain things to

me—and I always feel I must know things; don't you, Miss Darling? And

now I've got two quite new people that I belong to, at least, Dad isn't

quite new. I've always knowed him, since we stayed at the farm near the

beautiful lake, and he says I can call him Dad."

She paused for breath.

"I'm sure you will get very fond of him," Sara said. "He will be always

good and kind."

"Oh, my dear," said True in her old-fashioned way, "him and me are the

greatest fren's. We talk to each other about everything, and I tidy

out his pockets, and fill his pipe, and pour out his tea for him. He

came upstairs and sat with me when I went to bed with the earache, and

we said some hymns together. He likes some hymns and I like others.

And when I couldn't help crying for the pain, he wrapped me up in a

blanket, and set me on his knee by the fire. It was so comforting. He

has such nice big shoulders to rest your head against. I'm sure you

would think so, Miss Darling, if you did it. We used to talk about you

sometimes, and make out what you were doing. I said you were nursing

your baby and singing to it; he said you were making dark places light."

"And what about Grannie?" asked Sara.

"Oh, I just adore her!"

True clasped her hands.

"She spoils me, Dad says, but you've no idea what things I do with her.

She lets me tidy her boxes and drawers and have bits of ribbon and silk

to make dolls' frocks, and she tells me stories, and I play all sorts

of games with her. And we sit by the fire when it gets dark and see

pictures in the coals, and I tell her stories about them sometimes. I'm

very happy in Dalby, Miss Darling, but I do wish you'd come there too."

It was hard to say which of them enjoyed that day the most. Sara was

always devoted to children; and she took a peculiar interest in True.

When she took her back to her school, she had a long talk with her

schoolmistress, who frankly said the child would be better at home than

at school.

"Her brain is too quick and active, she works feverishly and excitedly,

she is always top of her class, and we have to keep her back. I do

not like the headaches she gets. She is too small to have them, and

I find they are the result of a high temperature. Of course whenever

she has one, she is put to bed and kept quiet. I think the necessary

competition in our classes is bad for her."

Sara wrote this to Mrs. Laird. She hoped that True would be taken away;

she seemed to her much too small and delicate to be at such a big

boarding-school.

Then one day when she was sitting at tea, Graham Laird was announced.

The suddenness of his coming brought a flush to her cheeks, and his

quiet determined handshake discomposed her for a moment.

"How nice to see you!" she said. "Do sit down and let me give you some

tea. How is Mrs. Laird?"

"Wonderfully well. I had to come to town on business, and I have come

to take away the child from school. It was good of you to take her out

for the day. A long account was written to me of the joys of that day."

"She is a darling little thing," said Sara, warmly. "Are you going to

take her away before the Easter holidays? They are very late this year."

"They are breaking up this week and expect me. My mother and I are

living together again, and she says she would like the charge of her."

"Are you still going to live right in the town?" asked Sara.

He looked at her with a little smile.

"You wonder at our taste," he said. "The fact is houses are difficult

to get. I am keeping my eyes open, for I'm sure the child would be much

better in country air, and my mother would like it too. As I have my

car, I could easily live a few miles out."

He took his tea from Sara's hands. He was conscious, as he always was

in her presence, of the freshness and fragrance of her atmosphere.

She was dressed in a blue lavender cloth gown, her soft bright hair

seemed to be touched with sparkles of sunshine, her grey eyes as she

looked at Graham were the same sweet, steadfast ones that he remembered

so well. Her room was full of flowers, her surroundings had that

peculiarly homelike comfortable look which was characteristic of every

room which she occupied.

And Sara, as she looked at the face that had never left her memory, saw

a change in it. Graham had streaks of grey in his dark hair; his face

was thinner and a little sharper in outline, but there was a serenity

and peacefulness in his eyes that never used to be there.

"How are you?" he asked. "My mother will ask a good many questions

about you when I return. You must give me all the information that you

can. Are you going to stay in town all this summer?"

"I am very well, thank you. We are thinking of going down to our farm

in Devonshire—baby and I—when the hot weather sets in."

"Why don't you come up our way? My mother would enjoy seeing you again."

Sara did not answer for a moment. The idea was delightful to her, but

hardly feasible.

"I want your mother to come and see me," she said pleasantly. "She and

little True might like to pay a visit to Devonshire this summer."

A shadow came into his eyes.

"Perhaps they might," he said quietly.

And Sara was vexed with herself for making the suggestion.

"How is dear Ina?"

"Very well. She and the Colonel are very busy people. She still keeps

her fingers in some of my pies and so does he. I don't think any of my

cousin's good works have been allowed to drop."

"How nice!"

Then he said abruptly—.

"Do you think the child looking very delicate?"

"Not particularly, but I do think she would be better at home and not

at school."

"Yes, and we want to have her with us. She is very good company. She

stayed with me for a couple of weeks, before my mother came to me, and

she seemed perfectly happy and able to take care of herself."

"I think her mother brought her up to be useful," said Sara; then she

added softly—

"I was so sorry to hear of your trouble. Was it not very sudden?

Perhaps you would rather I did not speak of it?"

"No, I would like to tell you. She and I both knew that her days were

numbered when we married. She was very lonely and afraid, and I think

I was able to comfort her—latterly. Her doctor told her he would

give her two years, but he told me that was the possibility, not the

probability."

He paused. Sara's quick woman's intuition in an instant filled out that

short sketch of his married life. She knew his chivalrous nature; she

realized that Graham had married Eva out of tender compassion, because

he believed that he could help her. She had always known that Eva was

fond of him.

But she was speechless.

And after a moment or two, Graham went on—

"I expect you would like to know that her end was a very peaceful and

happy one. She died in her sleep. But she was absolutely prepared and

ready for death."

"I am so glad."

Sara murmured the words.

"Yes," he said in the same clear grave tone; "and though we were

married such a short time, though one can consider it but an interlude,

I shall never to the end of my life regret the step we took. For it was

then—"

He was interrupted. Arnold Darlington came into the room.

Sara introduced the two men, and they chatted together on various

subjects before Graham left.

He told Sara he was staying in town the following day, which was

Sunday, and going down to Folkestone on the Monday.

Arnold asked him to lunch, and he accepted the invitation.

When he was gone, Arnold looked at his sister with a whimsical smile.

"So that is Laird with whom you lived in the wilds so long!"

"I lived with his mother," corrected Sara.

"It comes to the same thing. I like him. He's a strong able man."

Sara said nothing. She felt she could not discuss him with her brother.

CHAPTER VIII

GRAHAM'S VISIT

GRAHAM came to lunch, had a smoke and chat with Arnold in his study,

and then hearing that Sara was going to the Abbey service, asked if he

might accompany her. They walked across St. James's Park, which was

looking bright with bulbs and spring flowers.

Sara found conversation rather difficult. Graham was peculiarly silent,

he seemed to her to be in dreams, but in reality every moment of his

time with her was precious to him. If he was in dreams, she formed the

centre of those dreams.

They reached the Abbey, and managed to get seats in the Choir. The

service was exquisitely rendered, and the anthem that afternoon was,

"Thou hast put gladness in my heart, more than in the time that their

corn and their wine increased." One boy's voice rang out with such

thrilling power and sweetness that tears came to Sara's eyes.

When they came out, Graham said—

"I haven't enjoyed a service like that for many years. It seems to lift

one up to the heights."

"Yes," said Sara; "I've had a very happy hour. I always come here in

the afternoon. I let nurse go out in the evening and stay with my small

nephew then."

"May I, if we have spare time on our hands, come and see you on our

way home? True is always talking of you. I shall put up at an hotel

to-morrow night and then bring her up to town Tuesday. Will you be in

that afternoon?"

"I shall make an engagement of it," said Sara with her happy smile.

Then they talked of some of the philanthropic ventures of Graham's

cousin. He seemed to know all the weak points in them, and had already

remedied a good deal.

"You are more interested in this part of the work than you were," said

Sara, presently.

He looked at her.

"I have had my outlook changed," he said quietly. Then he added—

"I always used to wonder if your happiness was just a habit, if it was

cultivated, or whether it was spontaneous, the bubbling up of a spring

inside. I know it is the spring overflowing. That anthem explains it,

doesn't it? I'd like you to know that the first bit of it has become my

experience."

Before Sara could speak, he was holding out his hand. They had come to

her brother's house and he was saying good-bye.

"No, thank you, I won't come in, but we'll hope to see each other next

Tuesday."

"Mr. Laird, you 'must' let me say how glad I am!"

Sara's shining eyes made Graham's heart throb. He was putting great

restraint upon his feelings.

"I knew you would be," he said simply, and then he turned away.

And Sara went indoors with unspeakable joy filling her heart.

She almost counted the moments to Tuesday, and then took herself to

task for being so glad.

"Still," she argued to herself, "I am wronging no woman by thinking of

him and loving him, even if he has left off loving me. And I shall see

him once more, and I shall have the memory of it afterwards."

Tuesday came, and between three and four, Graham came into Sara's

drawing-room leading little True by the hand.

The child seemed to make the situation easy at once. She flung her arms

round Sara's neck.

"Isn't it lovely what's happening? Me leaving school and always going

to live with Dad and Grannie! And we've done some shopping. And I

choosed some new gloves for Dad, and we're taking Grannie a beautiful

basket to put her knitting in, with cherries hanging over it."

"Shopping is a tremendous undertaking with True," said Graham, his

eyes alight with humour: "she thinks that every shopwalker and all the

assistants ought to gather round and witness our purchases."

"I made Dad get some new gloves," said True, shaking her curls at him

in a motherly fashion. Then she darted to his side, and plunged her

hand into one of his coat pockets. Drawing out a stout, well-worn

leather pair of gloves, she held them up before Sara to see.

"Now, did you ever see such disgusting, shabby gloves?" she cried.

"Grannie and me has to look him all over to see he is tidy when he

comes to church with us!"

Sara's laughing eyes met Graham's.

"Yes," he said; "I'm well managed, I can tell you!"

He sat down and took True on his knee. The little girl subsided when

her stepfather and Sara began to talk to each other, but at last she

said in suppressed excitement—

"Miss Darling, may I see your dear little baby? Dad says he hasn't seen

him, but we both know him by his picture. I know you aren't his real

mother now. Grannie explained it to me. I thought you know that—"

But Sara had hastily risen, and rung the bell.

"Yes, True darling, you shall see him at once. I will have him brought

down. He is getting quite a big boy now."

Little Oliver appeared in his nurse's arm. He struggled to get to Sara,

and when in her lap, True advanced to make friends with him. He was

quite willing to be friends, and presently he scrambled down to the

floor, where he crawled very quickly towards Sara's guitar case.

"Moo, moo, moo!" he called out.

"There, isn't that clever?" cried Sara in delight. "He's beginning to

talk already. He loves music, and I play and sing to him when he comes

down. Now he quite expects it."

"Don't disappoint him," said Graham. "True and I would like to hear

you."

For a moment, Sara hesitated, then she opened her case. The baby sat on

the floor looking up expectantly.

And then she broke into one of her pretty gay little songs called

"Fairybells."

The tinkles of the bells were so realistic that True laughed and

clapped her hands, and the baby joined her, beating his hands on the

floor.

Graham looked on. If this visit was enjoyed by Sara, to him it was a

dream of delight.

"Ah!" he said. "We must tell Grannie about that song, True."

He asked Sara to sing again, and she did so, and then tea came in.

True hardly wanted to have hers. She was so engrossed in playing with

the baby on the floor that she wanted nothing else. And when his

nurse came in to take him away, she parted with him with the greatest

reluctance.

"I wish you and baby would come and visit us," she said, when at last

she was seated up at the table enjoying some jam sandwiches.

"Dad, dear, she'd come if you asked her, I expect."

But Graham shook his head gravely.

"I have asked her already and she has refused me. And I don't like to

be refused anything that I set my heart upon, True. Perhaps one day I

may ask her again, and then she may say 'Yes.'"

"And when she comes, we'll never let her go again," cried True, gaily.

Sara blushed, and she was conscious that Graham noted her blush.

"Baby's father wants us both," she said in a cheerful tone. "I have my

brother to look after, just as you look after Dad, True."

"Have you reely? Is he as untidy as Dad? I'm always tidying his

pockets, and his writing-table."

They talked away, and then Graham carried True off with him to his

hotel. They were going to start for the North early the next morning.

Good-bye was hard to say, and Sara's voice faltered a little as she

sent love and messages to Mrs. Laird and Ina.

Graham held her hand in his as if he could not let it go, but his words

were few—

"Good-bye. If ever I am up in town again, may I come and see you?"

"Of course. I am always glad to see old friends."

She could not, and would not, meet his gaze.

When they had gone, she sat wrapt in dreamy meditation. And it was not

till her brother came in and claimed her attention that she roused

herself.

The next few days found her restless and preoccupied. Then, happily for

her, she heard from May, asking her if she could have her for a short

visit, and Sara brightened up again, and prepared to welcome her warmly.

May arrived late one afternoon. Arnold did not see her till she came

into the drawing-room before dinner. She swept in with her usual

proud graceful carriage. She was clad in a thin, black gown, which

intensified the whiteness of her neck and arms. Her hair was coiled up

on the top of her head. She wore no jewelry of any sort, but she was a

girl who could not fail to be noticed anywhere. And her easy grace, and

clever, amusing talk, made her always a favourite with men. Sara was

not surprised to see her brother fall under her spell.

May had lost the harassed look of gloom that she had after her father's

death. She gave Sara an amusing account of her brother's efforts to

understand and manage his tenants.

"I came across him one day haranguing a very uppish farmer. They were

both red in the face, and were going at it hammer and tongs.

"'I tell you,' Alan was shouting, 'I may not know as much about soil

and mangels as you do, but I do know that you've one of the best farms

on the property, and are putting by more money than most of us about

here. My father knew what a fair rent was, and I'm not going to reduce

it by one penny!'

"They stopped when I came up. I asked Alan afterwards if it was nice to

show such heat in discussing such matters with a tenant, and he said:

"'Only to hide my ignorance, my dear. I'm not going to let them

browbeat me! And as to shouting, we all shout at sea, it's second

nature!'

"Oh, he'll get on with them soon. And I feel that you are right, Sara.

It is best that I should leave him to weather it out alone."

"Have you made any plans yet?" asked Sara.

"I want to do something in town. Work of some sort."

"What a passion you all have for work nowadays!" said Arnold. "Why have

you such abundant energy? Women used not to possess it."

"I suppose we are stronger, physically," said May, thoughtfully. "And

our schools train us in a wider way, and give us a broader outlook,

and a higher idea of our capabilities. I am not one of those who would

leave home to work. But my home has left me. And I can't sit down with

folded hands and do nothing. I have led a very active life at home, and

I want to be active still."

"So many girls come to London to find work," said Arnold. "I see scores

of them going about the city. Typewriting and clerking gives them

stooping shoulders and weary-lined faces—old before their time. If I

were your brother, Miss Agnew, I would not allow you to do it."

"There speaks a despot," said May, laughing; "how could you prevent me?"

"I have prevented Sara. She had those ideas when we first left home,

but I persuaded her that I was going to the bad living alone in town.

So she swallowed the bait, and settled down with me as meek as Moses!"

Sara laughed.

"Yes, he is right in what he says, May. But men are very helpless

without women to look after them; and I have learnt that filling empty

corners and helping those who need help is as much work as anything

else."

"Yes," said May, her expressive dark eyes shadowing a little, "but then

nobody wants me. I have no empty corner to fill."

Arnold had been standing at the open window as he talked. He now

stepped out upon the balcony, and gazed with troubled brooding eyes

over the quiet square in front of his house.

"I wonder," he said to himself, "whether I dare to hope that she might

fill mine."

May had not been with them a week before her cousin, Captain Talbot,

discovered her, and came round to take her out. She was away the best

part of one day with him, and came back in very low spirits.

Sara and she were dining alone that evening. Arnold was out.

When they were in the drawing-room together after dinner, May said—

"Aren't men tiresome, Sara? I think I must tell you. My cousin asked me

to marry him this afternoon. I have always been very fond of him as a

cousin, but nothing more. Now this spoils everything. I hoped to see a

good deal of him when I was up here. I have other relations, but they

are very gay; I never do care much for incessant amusement, and just

now, of course, I should not go anywhere. I had made up my mind that

Charlie and I would do several little quiet expeditions together, and

now that is all over. I have lost my cousin and my friend."

"Don't you really care for him?" asked Sara, sympathetically. "I only

saw him that one evening, but I thought he seemed such a delightful

man."

"Not as a husband. I know him too well. I feel very down to-night,

Sara. Will you sing to me? It is so desolate to be without a home,

isn't it? I feel I can never settle in town. It's far lonelier than the

country. I have absolutely no object in life. If only I had, I should

be happier."

Sara got up to get her guitar.

Then she sang very sweetly and softly—

"I've been to the familiar places,

The dear old ways;

But there were no familiar faces

That met my gaze.

The green woods were too lonely,

I, there alone,—I only.

"I climbed among the mountain ridges

Beyond the town,

And on its crowded streets and bridges

Looked sadly down.

The mountain was too lonely,

I stood alone,—I only.

"But looking up, not down, Faith traces

A City Fair,

And sees the dear, familiar faces

That gather there;

None stand deserted, lonely,

Yet still my own,—mine only.

"And strange! while gazing on that City

New life is found,—

My heart is filled with yearning pity

For men around.

I must not enter lonely,

Nor bring one,—one only.

"I will go forth, to sinners telling

That Christ has come,—

I will go forth, by love compelling

The wanderers home;

Pointing the lost and lonely

To Christ alone,—Christ only!" *

* S. L. F., _Lyra Christiana._

There was dead silence when the last note died away.

May sat in a dusky corner of the drawing-room, and she was shading her

eyes with her hand. At last, she broke the silence.

"I can't think where you get your songs from! You have one suitable for

every occasion."

Her words were lightly spoken, but there was a little break in her

voice. Then in a gentler tone she added—

"I do like that immensely, Sara; you live the last verse out, and

I'd like you to know that you haven't pointed in vain as far as I'm

concerned. But I can't imagine myself taking up that role; I know so

little, I am so ignorant. I only know that beneath all the loneliness

and sorrow, I have real deep peace and assurance that I belong to

Christ and that He loves me."

"Dear May, the rest will follow. You need not try to teach before you

have learnt, but you will soon realize the compelling force of love. I

hoped that you were happier. But I waited till you felt you could tell

me about it."

"It's intensely comforting," said May, slowly, "but oh, I have such a

longing for father. Sara, do you believe that we can hold no communion

with the dead upon this earth?"

"Personally I don't believe God wishes us to do so, but may I tell

you what has been a tremendous comfort to me? A few years ago I lost

a very dear school friend. She and I were friends for many years, in

fact we wrote to each other every day. She married and went to India,

but we never stopped writing to each other. She helped me in spiritual

things more than any one else on earth. She died suddenly in India from

fever, and a blank came into my life. I found myself longing to tell

her things. And at last, I seemed to realize that it could not be wrong

when I was praying, to ask that God Himself, if He saw fit, would give

her a message from me, or let her know what I was so anxious she should

know. It is so perfectly easy for Him, is it not? And He loves to have

us pour out our hearts before Him. It must be the better way, rather

than resort to spiritualism as so many do. That, we know from the

Bible, is directly opposed to God's will. If, as we believe, our loved

ones are in God's keeping, surely we can ask Him to speak to them about

anything that we feel they would like to know. I feel that if it is

good for them to know it, they will be told, and if not, we must rest

content with God's will in the matter."

"That's very interesting," said May, thoughtfully; then she added—

"You always give me food for thought when we talk together. Now let me

give you an idea of mine. I should like to go and live in a settlement

in the East End for a short time. I should learn a good deal there—be

helped myself, and perhaps be able to help others."

"I think it would be splendid for you, but I should like you to get

into the right kind of settlement. Some of them are so much more

helpful than others. Don't plunge in anywhere, will you? Let us make

inquiries together first."

"Yes. I will not be in a hurry. You see, Sara, I am not like you. I

don't think I am sympathetic enough to have any personal influence

amongst people in my own class. I'm not very fond of girls, you know. I

like visiting the poor. I have always done it, and it comes natural to

me."

Sara did not tell her friend that she would find the London poor rather

different to her father's country tenants. She knew that she must buy

her experience, but as they parted that night for bed, Sara put both

her hands on her shoulders, and said tenderly—

"Dear May, I shall go to sleep very happy to-night. Doesn't it make

life fuller and deeper to you?"

"Very much," said May, gravely. "You know I'm not a demonstrative

person, Sara, but I understand as I never understood before how it is

you are such a persistently happy person. And I can never thank you

enough for having shared your wonderful secret with me."

CHAPTER IX

A DAY OF SUNSHINE

MAY soon found a settlement in which she promptly established herself.

She came to see Sara as often as she could. Once when she arrived

early in the afternoon, she found Sara out. So she betook herself

to the nursery. Little Oliver dearly loved a romp with her, and May

always had a bewitching way with children. She was in the midst of a

game with him, when the door opened and Arnold appeared. He looked his

astonishment.

"I came up here to find Sara. I've had tickets for a private view of

pictures in Bond Street, and thought she would like to come with me.

The artist is a friend of mine."

"She is out," said May, putting her hands up to her hair which Oliver

had loosened in his play. "I was very disappointed to find her gone, so

I came up here and Oliver is consoling me."

"Would you like to come instead?"

His tone was eager.

May looked at him and considered.

"How long will it take? I have only two hours off. I must be back at

half-past five."

"Come along. We can do it."

And off they went together, and when Sara came home, she was amused,

and rather pleased to hear it. It was not the last time that Arnold

took May about town. He gradually lapsed into a very happy comradeship

with her. And May accepted his attentions, but apparently took them as

she had taken her cousin's, and thought nothing of them.

In August, Sara took Oliver again to the farm; and there they stayed

for a couple of months.

May was at the Hall for a part of the time; and it was a very enjoyable

time to all. Nellie Peel was a great deal with Sara. She was much

softer and sweeter in manner, and was full of the little one who was to

arrive two months later.

Sara heard very often from Mrs. Laird. She seemed happy and well. True

was the delight of her heart. Sara wondered sometimes whether Graham

would ever want anything else in his life than he had at present. He as

well as his mother was devoted to his little stepdaughter.

Sara returned to town in the autumn, and May went back to her work. The

winter passed quietly and happily.

Then one bright afternoon in April, Graham suddenly appeared upon the

scene again. Sara was just going out when he was announced.

She welcomed him with her usual happy ease.

"Now I am not going to keep you in this lovely day," he said at once.

"Have you an engagement?"

"No, I was simply going out for the good of my health," said Sara.

"Then may I come with you?"

She assented, and after a little discussion, Graham hailed a taxi, and

they drove off to Kensington Gardens. Then they got out and walked.

The fresh green budding trees and the bright spring flowers were

always a keen delight to Sara, but to-day they seemed to be especially

exhilarating. She was hearing all the Dalby news.

"I have found a house at last," said Graham. "It has only just become

vacant. A Colonel Dewar has been living in it. He commands the

district, and his time is up, and his successor, an unmarried man, is

going to live in barracks."

"Do tell me what it is like. Is it in the country?"

"Yes, close to the moor, but in a sheltered hollow, about a mile and

a half away from Jack Fleming. It is not exactly a pretty-looking

house. My mother says it is not. I never know what women do consider

attractive, but it has a delightful garden, and is enclosed with old

red brick walls, which are for the most part covered with fruit trees."

"That sounds delicious. What does True say to it?"

"She's in the seventh heaven of delight. She has planned out all the

rooms. Of course she has chosen one for you. She thinks the size of the

house no disadvantage, because she says the more rooms we have, the

more of our friends we can have to stay with us. The list of True's

friends grows alarmingly! And they are a cosmopolitan crew, from

dustmen and crossing sweepers to shopmen and policemen, and there isn't

a soul with whom we come in contact that True doesn't know. She has

their family histories at her finger ends!"

"Dear little True! Now describe the house."

"I have brought you a snapshot. It is a square red brick house covered

with creepers in the summer. I saw it for the first time in the autumn,

and the sun blinds were down over the windows, and I took a snapshot of

it then."

"Shall we sit down here? It is so warm."

They took a seat in a very secluded part of the gardens. Only happy

children's voices could be heard in the distance, and a far-away rumble

of traffic that might be the distant roar of the ocean waves. As they

sat there, the trees hid all houses, all disfiguring chimney pots, and

the birds were singing ecstatically in the branches.

"We might be miles out of London," said Sara. "What a boon these

gardens are! Now may I see your snapshot? Oh, what a sweet old family

house! I should have lost my heart to it. It looks so truly comfortable

and cheerful."

Then Graham wasted no more time.

"I have my house, Sara, but unless you become its mistress, it will be

an empty house to me. I am venturing to speak to you again. Will you

give me a kind answer this time?"

Sara did not look up. She understood now why the gardens had seemed so

full of sunshine to-day. And she knew that this moment was going to be

the most exquisite one of her life.

She just put her hand over his, and said—

"I feel I would do anything to make you happy."

He held her hand tightly, and Sara could feel the throbbing of his

pulses.

"Then you are going to give yourself to me for good and all? Look up.

Let me see your dear eyes."

And as Sara raised her head, she saw that Graham's stern face was

illumined with radiance.

"I can hardly believe my good fortune," he said. "You know my heart

has always been yours from the first day I saw you. I told Eva that.

I would not let her marry me under false pretences. At that time, I

felt you would never relent, that our paths would be apart all our

lives. But later, when in God's infinite goodness, He brought me to the

knowledge of Himself, I began to wonder whether in time I would speak

to you again. And your God is my God now, Sara. There will be nothing

between our spirits, and we shall have all eternity together."

And then Sara's soft grey eyes suddenly filled with tears.

"Oh, Graham, I had a hard time after I had sent you away. I can hardly

believe the long waiting time is over. It seems too good to be true. I

have had to stand aside, outside your life—when my heart and soul was

in it."

Much more they said, and then slowly they retraced their steps home.

Sara found that her brother had just come in, so she made Graham

accompany her to his smoking-room and they gave him their news

together. He was not surprised.

"I knew I shouldn't keep her long when you arrived upon the scene last

spring. I only wonder you've taken so long to speak."

But Sara knew that it was in honour of Eva's memory that Graham had

waited more than a year to come and claim her.

He surprised her by his impatience now.

"Why should we not get a special licence and be quietly married in town

within the next few days? There is nothing to wait for. We know each

other through and through. We have lived in the same house together for

over a year!"

"I cannot do that," said Sara. "What is to become of my small nephew?

You do not realize that I shall be leaving my brother in a very awkward

position. Some women might not feel they could leave him. But I place

you and your wants before him. And I think that he will not be left

alone for very long. But there are many arrangements that I must make!"

"Then will you do this? I have business that will keep me in town till

the end of the week. Will you come back with me to Dalby for a short

visit? Just to see the house, and give me an idea how you would like

it decorated and furnished. It is to be your home. You have a right to

advise and help me in making it beautiful for you. It will be such joy

to my mother to have you with her again as a visitor."

"I think I might do that," said Sara, slowly, but light sprang into her

eyes as she spoke. She knew what a joy such a visit would be to her.

Then she added—

"That is, if I can leave Arnold happy and comfortable without me.

I have the baby to think of, you know, but his nurse is a very

responsible steady person, and would manage perfectly without me for a

week or two."

Arnold was quite willing to spare his sister.

And so it came to pass that three days afterwards, Sara was journeying

up North with Graham. She wondered sometimes if she were dreaming. Her

happiness almost felt unreal in its intensity. Graham had not written

telling his mother that she was returning. It was Mrs. Laird's birthday

the following day, and he and Sara had planned her visit as a surprise.

He and Sara had a compartment to themselves. And they had so much to

say to one another that Sara was quite sorry when the journey was over.

When they reached Dalby, Graham was told that his car was waiting for

him. They went outside the station, and there found True sitting up in

state on the front seat of the car.

"Grannie said I might come and meet you, Dad. It seems years since you

went away."

Then she caught sight of Sara, and screamed with delight.

"She's going to be a birthday surprise to Grannie," said Graham.

"Oh, how loverly! Oh, Miss Darling, let me hug you. What a birthday

Grannie will have! Have you brought your baby?"

"No, he is staying at home helping to amuse his daddy," said Sara.

"Why, True, you are getting quite fat and rosy!"

"Ah, you wait and see me when we live in the country!" said the child

dimpling with smiles. "All the wishes of my life are coming true.

It's almost as good as fairyland to me, that house is! There's an

orchard where a swing can be put, and there's a loft and woodshed and

henhouses, and a pond for ducks. And now you've come, couldn't we all

go and see the house to-morrow for a birthday treat for Grannie?"

"I really think we might," said Graham. "We'll all take a holiday,

True."

The child clapped her hands. Then she looked thoughtful.

"Where are you going to hide Miss Darling till to-morrow morning? If

she's a birthday present, she mustn't be given to Grannie till then."

"Do you think I ought to be made a parcel of?" asked Sara, laughing.

"Wrapped in brown paper and laid on the breakfast table?"

True did not laugh.

"There's only one person who could lift you in his arms and carry you,

if you were a parcel, and that is Daddy," she said gravely.

And then Graham and Sara laughed out together.

"No," said Graham, presently; "you and I will go and tell Grannie that

her birthday present is waiting outside the door. That it has come

overnight to be sure to be in time."

"Yes, and Grannie will go outside and find her."

True was quite excited in thinking about it.

"My birthday present will be nothing," she said, "'nothing' after this.

I've got Grannie some coloured pockethandkerchers, Miss Darling. Three

lovely ones with pictures on them, there's a boat on a sea on one, and

a man grinding a organ on another, and a boy and a windmill on the

other, and I really don't know which I like the best of them!"

"I'm sure Grannie will like them all," said Sara, comfortingly.

They reached the house. Sara looked at it with interest. Mrs. Laird had

never moved from her cousin's house, and Graham had come back to her

there. There was no garden in front. It faced the street, but it was

at the quiet end of the High Street, and most of the traffic was lower

down. The drawing-room was upstairs.

True with delighted face crept upstairs on tiptoe. Graham and Sara

followed.

Then Sara stayed outside in the long narrow passage, whilst the others

went into the room.

They left the door ajar, and she heard Mrs. Laird's pleased welcome.

She also heard—

"And did you see my dear Sara in town?"

Then True's eager little voice—

"And Daddy's brought you such a big birthday present, Grannie, that we

couldn't carry it in, and it's waiting for you outside the door."

"Oh, Graham, you have not been wasting your money on me?"

True burst into giggles of delight. She danced up and down.

"Go and fetch it in, Grannie! Fetch it in quick, quick!"

The door opened, and Mrs. Laird appeared with a puzzled smiling face.

Then she and Sara were in each other's arms.

"Oh, my dear! My dear! How I have prayed and longed for you!"

She drew her in, and when True's excitement had subsided a little, she

was sent upstairs to tidy herself for tea.

Then Graham drew near, and took Sara's hand in his.

"She has only come for a very short visit now, mother, but she is going

to be your daughter, and coming to us for good and all very soon."

And then Mrs. Laird was quite overcome, and began to wipe away the

tears of joy that were springing to her eyes.

"I have felt lately that joy was coming to us," she said. "It has not

been only the lovely spring weather. I had a strange feeling that good

was on the way to us!"

She sat down in her easy-chair, and held Sara by the hand as if she

could not let her go.

"Oh, Sara, I have sometimes felt that life has been an effort without

you. How good God is to give you back to us!"

"Dear Mrs. Laird," whispered Sara, "my heart has been with you all the

time."

When tea came in, they talked in soberer fashion. Graham sketched out

plans for the next day. A picnic lunch was to be taken in the car, and

eaten in the house that was to become their home. Then they could have

leisure to look over it in every detail, and he would ask his builder

and decorator to come out in the afternoon and discuss all necessary

repairs and alterations.

Mrs. Laird was as pleased as True with the prospect. Later on, she

carried off Sara to her bedroom, and there they sat and talked till

nearly dinnertime.

"You are going to make my boy happy at last. If any one deserves you,

I consider he does. And oh, Sara dear, he has so softened since poor

Eva's death. I wonder if he has told you, as he did me, how it was her

pitiful appeals to him that made him marry her? At first, he was very

reticent about it, until one day when we were talking about you, I

said I feared you would consider that Eva had taken your place in his

affections. Then he said, with a hurt look in his eyes—

"'Oh, mother, if you had seen her stabbed to the heart by a surgeon's

blunt truthfulness, if you had heard her sobs, and realized her

weakness and loneliness and dread of life, lived on without a soul to

cheer or speak to her, you wouldn't have wondered at my consent. She

was unnerved or she would not have let me see her heart. I knew it

would be but a very short time. I couldn't resist her appeals for help

and comfort. And though I felt afterwards that I might have made a

mistake, the time came when I saw that I had not.'

"He really was led to see things differently, Sara, through reading the

Bible to his wife. You forgive him for that tragic marriage?"

"Forgive him, dear Mrs. Laird? There is no forgiveness needed. It has

only shown me his chivalrous tenderness to a dying woman. He had no

thought for himself, only for her. I don't believe another man in the

world would have acted so!"

That was a very happy evening.

Sara was taken all over the house, and shown the wing which was devoted

to clubrooms and classrooms for the colliers and their wives and

children.

She asked Graham what he thought of doing with the old house.

"You will keep on the clubs and classes, will you not?"

"Most emphatically. My idea is to keep the wing of this house exactly

as it stands, and put a caretaker into it. I can let off the private

part of the house very easily. You see we have a car, and whenever you

or my mother want to come into town, you can do so."

Then Mrs. Laird said very quietly—

"Of course we have not discussed everything yet. I am wondering if

you two had not better start your married life alone. A mother and

mother-in-law is not always a success in the house. And I have been

living alone until lately. I can do so again."

Sara shot a quick look at Graham, who just smiled at her.

"Dear Mrs. Laird," she said, slipping her hand into Mrs. Laird's arm,

"I will not marry Graham unless you live with us; and if you ask him,

he will say the same. We want the rest of your life to be a blaze of

sunshine. We do not want you to have the slightest shadow across your

path. It will be one of my joys to see you happy. We all love each

other so much, that our lives would be spoiled away from each other."

"And True and I have chosen a lovely sunny room for Grannie's

sitting-room," said Graham; "so that when she wants quiet and rest, she

can have it."

Then Mrs. Laird said, smiling through the tears that came so easily

this evening—

"Don't you think that there will be rest and comfort wherever Sara is?

She has made our happiness in the past, and she wouldn't be Sara if she

does not make it still."

Graham turned to Sara with a smile.

"There!" he said. "Those are our sentiments. I can't add more, except

that it will be my part to take care of you, and to try to do it as

well as you take care of others!"

CHAPTER X

THEIR FUTURE HOME

MRS. LAIRD'S birthday welcomed her with bright sunshine and a cloudless

blue sky. True was in her bedroom long before breakfast time,

presenting her wonderful handkerchiefs, and chattering gaily about the

delights in front of them.

"Run away, chatterbox," said Mrs. Laird at length, "or Grannie will be

late for breakfast."

"I'll go this very minute."

But her hand on the door handle, she paused.

"Isn't it a very comfortable feeling, Grannie, that Miss Darling is in

our house? I thought about it direckly I woke."

"And that was Grannie's first thought too," said Mrs. Laird.

The car came round very soon after breakfast. The luncheon basket

was packed in, plenty of rugs taken in case it might be chilly, and

then Mrs. Laird, Sara, and True were tucked up comfortably on the

broad seat together. Graham drove himself. They sped away through the

busy streets, past the collieries with their high shafts and smoky

surroundings, along a straight dusty road where the coal dust seemed to

begrime all the fresh green foliage of bush and tree.

Then they climbed slowly a long, steep hill, and then had a wonderful

glimpse of the moor stretching away in flat marshes and gentle

undulations of heather-covered slopes. The air was fresh and pungent;

they passed a fir wood, then some coverts, and at last turned into a

real country lane which led them slowly down to some tall iron gates

flanked by a high brick wall. Through the gates they sped up a short

avenue of beeches, and then swept round before the old red brick house.

Very sunny and homey it looked that morning. The lawn in front wanted

mowing, the flower-beds were untidy and overgrown, the drive beginning

to show weeds in great patches over it. But the house stood serene and

sweet. A white jasmine was just coming out and overhung the porch.

Japonica was framing the lower windows, and an ancient magnolia mounted

nearly to the roof on one side of the house.

Graham had the keys, and unlocked the door himself as there was no

caretaker.

The hall was broad and roomy, the oak staircase went up from it at the

back. There was a high dado of oak panelling round the hall. Out of it

on one side spread a long drawing-room with five windows. Behind it a

comfortable smoking-room overlooking a side Dutch garden with tiled

paths. On the other side of the hall was the dining-room, a similar

size to the drawing-room, with the same five windows, and behind

that a very pleasant morning-room which opened on one side into a

conservatory, and looked out at the back upon a rose garden.

Sara was delighted with this room.

"I know some people do not care to be in a room next to a conservatory,

but I love it. I remember we had a room at my old home like this, and I

remember as a child how I loved the scent of the heliotrope and lemon

verbena that grew in it."

Then they went out and looked over the kitchen premises which were

rather extensive, but all in good repair. True was anxious to explore

the garden, but Graham said that Sara must see the rest of the house

first. The rooms on the next floor were all sunny and spacious. True

pointed out to Sara the one she had chosen for her.

"You can see the dear little church and village between the hills out

of the window, and the moor is over there too. Don't you like it, Miss

Darling?"

"I like every room that I see," said Sara, enthusiastically.

And then they went to the room which had a western outlook, and which

Graham thought would suit his mother for a sitting-room. She said at

once how much she would like it. The top floor contained the nurseries,

and at the back some servants' rooms. True was delighted with the

nurseries, for they had been papered with a paper illustrating the

Nursery Rhymes, and in one corner cupboard she had found a headless

doll in an old wastepaper basket.

Mrs. Laird looked about her with a soft, tremulous smile. She was

wondering if a few years hence, pattering feet and baby voices would be

heard up here from her sitting-room below. And Sara walked through the

rooms, her hand on Graham's arm, and her grey eyes misty with dreamy

hope.

When the house was thoroughly explored, they went downstairs and

brought cushions and rugs in from the car and spread them in the sunny

drawing-room. Then the luncheon basket was unpacked, and they all did

justice to their meal. Afterwards, Mrs. Laird said she would like

to sit and rest there. Graham had found an old garden chair in the

conservatory, and he brought it in and tucked her up so comfortably in

it, that she had quite a long nap. Whilst she was resting, True was

scampering round the old garden, and Sara and Graham paced the paths

together.

"Do you like our future home?" he asked her gently. "Knowing how fond

you were of the country and of a garden, I could not bear to think

of bringing you into a town house, and when I at last found this, it

seemed to fit you."

"It is quite palatial," said Sara, laughing, "but I do like it very

much. I always think houses have their atmosphere, and I am sure this

must have had a happy one."

"In any case you would soon make it a happy one," said Graham. "Shall I

ever forget your first few weeks at Felstone Corner? What a miserable

atmosphere you came into! An ugly house, comfortless rooms, rough

ignorant servants, my poor mother in the depths of woe, and a rough

surly silent man."

"No," said Sara, quickly, "a weary sad, patient man, content to

think nothing of his own prospects and happiness, wholly absorbed in

ministering to the wants of his invalid mother. Before I had been a

week with you, I admired you from the bottom of my heart!"

Graham shook his head, then went on—

"What changes you wrought! How quietly you went to work, how slowly

but surely you brought sunshine into every dark corner of that house!

I don't know which time I loved best, the summer evenings when I came

home to find you in your cool white gown amongst your beloved flowers

tending and watering them with a look of love upon your face, or the

winter nights when I used to steal upstairs and see you sitting by

my mother's side in the firelight, with your guitar upon your knee,

singing those bewitchingly sweet little songs of yours. I was so afraid

that you would stop when you saw me that sometimes I used to slip out

of my boots at the bottom of the stairs and creep up noiselessly and

sit on the top stair outside my mother's room listening to all of it.

How did you manage to content yourself in those first miserable days?"

"I was always hoping for better times," said Sara; "and I loved the

lake and the hills and the country. And when once your mother began to

get better, how happy I was!"

"Would you like to go back there again?" asked Graham.

Sara shook her head.

"I don't think I should care to live there. It was a desolate bit of

country, wasn't it? Very beautiful, but no friends are there now. Do

you regret leaving it? Tell me truly, Graham. Does this town life suit

you?"

"I am getting to enjoy the work. I understand the men much better, and

I think they are getting to understand me. And I see now the principles

which were the mainspring of my cousin's good works. I told you once,

Sara, that I would leave all the religious part of the work to you. I

don't want to do that now."

Sara looked up at him with sweet earnestness.

"What a difference that will make to me! Don't you see, Graham, that

having the same aim and object in life, you and I will be drawn much

nearer together than if you went your way and I mine?"

"I see that you were right, as you always are, when you sent me away

from you."

Then they wandered round the garden. The long sloping lawn in front

of the house, with its group of old cedars at the farthest end, the

herbaceous borders under the old brick walls, the rose garden, and

the small Dutch garden, and the winding walk through a shrubbery of

rhododendrons and azaleas, all were visited in turn. Sara felt as if

she were in a dream. Once Graham referred to her brother.

"I pity him, when you have to leave him. What will he do?"

Sara smiled.

"He will console himself. He is very fond of May Agnew. I told you

about her, and his only fear is that she does not care for him, but

the other day I discovered that she did. And I quite understand men

marrying again. They become accustomed to women and cannot get on

without them."

Then she stopped.

"Don't think I am meaning anything personal."

"I told you," said Graham, quietly, "that I considered my marriage an

interlude. You ought to have been my first and only wife, Sara. You

know that."

Sara did not reply. She gazed over the old garden dreamily.

Graham, seeing her sweet wrapt face, asked her to give him her thoughts.

"I was resolving to make up to you, if I could, for all your lonely

barren years!"

Graham caught her in his arms and kissed her.

"One day with you now has more than compensated me for all those bygone

years," he said.

And then they were interrupted by True, who wanted to show Sara a

squirrel up a tree. They did not get any more time alone, for the

builder arrived and business was done with him for the rest of the

afternoon. They all returned home in the car in time for tea, having

had a very enjoyable day.

In the evening, Mrs. Laird asked Sara to sing to them. She willingly

did so, and many of Mrs. Laird's old favourites were asked for. Then

just before Mrs. Laird went to bed she asked for the hymn that had

first touched and quickened her soul. Sara sang it sweetly and softly

as she always did, but with passionate warmth in some parts of it, and

Graham listened entranced. It had new meaning to him now.

"'Souls of men, why will ye scatter

Like a crowd of frightened sheep?

Foolish hearts, why will ye wander

From a love so true and deep?'"

When Sara had finished it, he said—

"We shan't be able to let you go, Sara. I can't think how mother and I

have existed without you all this time."

"When will you come back?" asked Mrs. Laird.

"I am going to give her a month to get herself ready: no longer," said

Graham with determination.

Sara looked up at him with a shake of the head.

"Give me till June," she said, "the month of June! What do you say to

being married on Midsummer Day? Your builder said he could complete the

repairs and decorations by the beginning of June!"

"It's too far off."

"Time will soon remedy that."

They finally settled upon Sara's date.

Mrs. Laird retired to bed, and Sara and Graham were alone.

A little bright fire was in the grate, as the evening was chilly. She

sat in a chair, in unconscious grace, her eyes dreamily and happily

gazing into the red-hot coals. Graham stood warming his back, his dark

eyes fixed upon her.

Then he spoke slowly—

"Sara darling, we must get away alone together. I love my mother and

I love the child, but I want you, and you only. I am selfish. I have

always had to see you and talk to you before others, now I want to have

you all to myself. I will not bring you to our home directly after

marriage. Where shall we go?"

Sara looked up at him and smiled, but her heart beat quickly.

"I want a honeymoon," he said.

"Then," said Sara, "let us go back to Felstone, and see the lake once

more. I love it so. And I could see that poor old herb doctor again and

Agnes his daughter."

"I would want you to see no one but me," said Graham. "I have never

been really with you—never told you half that is in my heart. We will

go back there if you wish. I don't care where it is, as long as we are

together. Do you think I shall make you happy, Sara? Or rather shall I

add to your happiness?"

His tone was somewhat wistful.

Sara rose from her seat. Then she turned towards him—

"You have worked for the happiness of every woman you have come

across," she said with her soft laugh; "do you think that I shall be

your first failure? Oh, Graham, life has had its clouds as well as

sunshine, for both of us, but now that we belong to each other, I feel

that I can weather an eternity of storms if you are by my side."

And then Graham held her in his strong arms, and was content.

THE END

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PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY

WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.