For fifteen years she had fought a hand-to-hand battle with want; a lonely battle, with no one to care or to comfort, and now it was meat, and drink, and health, and sunshine, to find herself of a sudden the most precious object on earth to one faithful heart! Although the General had given a promise not to be too precipitate in his wooing, it was easy to prophesy how things would end; but before the "two or three weeks" had come to an end, another event happened of such supreme importance to the Trevor household as to put in the background every other subject, interesting and romantic though it might be.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

TRYING DAYS.

One May afternoon Miles came home with the news that, through the influence of an engineering friend, he had been offered a post in connection with a new railway which the ever-increasing mining industry in Mexico had rendered necessary. The salary proposed was a handsome one for so young a man. He owed the offer entirely to Mr Owen's good offices, and would be required to sail as soon as his outfit could be got together.

Dr Trevor rejoiced in his son's success, and warmly congratulated him on having had so short a time to wait for an opening. He took a man's view of life, and felt that it was time that Miles faced the world on his own account; but the youth faded out of the mother's face as she sat in her corner and listened to the conversation.

"Luck!" They called it luck that Miles, her darling, should be sent to the other side of the world, to a wild, dare-devil country, the very name of which conjured up a dozen thrilling tales of adventure. "A five years' appointment!" The words rang like a knell in her ears!

Of course, she had known all along that a separation must come, but she had hoped against hope that an opening might be found somewhere within the borders of the United Kingdom, when she would still be able to feel within reach in case of need. Now it was indeed good-bye, since it must at best be a matter of years before she could hope for another meeting. Oh, this stirring up of the nest, how it tears the mother's heart!

Mrs Trevor looked across the room to where Miles stood, almost as tall and broad as the doctor himself, and her thoughts flew back to the time when he was a little curly-headed boy who vowed he would never leave his mother. "I won't never get married," he had announced one day. "You shall be my wife. You are daddy's wife, and I don't see why you shouldn't be wife to both your darlin's!" Another day—"I'll stay with you all my life, and when you're a nold, nold woman I'll wheel you about in a Barf chair." Later on had come the time when the first dawning of future responsibility began to weigh on the childish mind—"I can't sink how I can ever make pennies like daddy does! I can't write proper letters like grown-ups do, only the printed ones!" he had sighed, and she had bidden him be a good boy and do his best for the day, leaving the future in God's hand. "God will give you your work!" she had told him; and how she and his father had rejoiced together when his absorption in a box of tools, and his ingenuity therewith, had pointed out a congenial career. She had prayed and trusted for guidance in bringing up this dear son, and that being so, she must now believe that the offered post was the right thing, and that the distant land was just the very spot of all others where God wished him to be.

When Miles turned to his mother, she had a smile in readiness for him, and if it were rather tremulous, it was none the less sweet. She would not allow herself to break down, but threw herself heart and soul into a study of the Stores' list, which could not be delayed another day, seeing that it was suggested that Miles should sail in a week's time. A week! Only one week! Was it really possible that the following day was the last Sunday which would see a united family circle round the table?

Every female member of the household shed tears on their pillows that evening, and Betty was convinced that she had lain awake all night long, because she had actually heard the clock strike one. Mrs Trevor's vigil was real, not imaginary, and she was thankful when it was time to get up, and get ready for that quiet early service at church which would be her best preparation for the week. Her hard-worked husband was sleeping soundly, and she would not waken him, but a feeling of unusual sadness and loneliness oppressed her as she made her way through the silent house. She had depended so much on her big strong boy, had grown into the habit of consulting him on many matters, in which, by helping her, he could save his father trouble. That was all over now. She must learn to do without Miles' aid! And then suddenly from behind the dining-room door a big figure stepped forward to meet her, and Miles' voice said, in half-shamefaced tones—

"I thought—I'd come too! I thought we'd go together!"

"Oh, Miles!" cried his mother, and could say no more, but her heart leapt with thankfulness for all that that action meant—for this sign that her boy was anxious to dedicate himself afresh to Christ's service at the beginning of his new life. She passed her hand through his arm, and they went out of the house together, unconscious of the presence of a third figure which had looked down at them from an upper landing.

Betty had awakened to fresh tears, and, hearing her mother stirring, had hurried into her clothes, so as to accompany her to church; but in the very act of slipping downstairs Miles' voice had arrested her, and she had drawn back into the shadow. The Betty of a year ago would have continued her course unabashed; the Betty of to-day divined with a new humility that her presence would mar the sacredness of that last Communion of mother and son, and turned back quietly to her own room.

The days flew. The first mornings were spent at the Stores, choosing, ordering, and fitting; the afternoons in marking and packing the different possessions as they arrived. Then there were farewell visits to be paid, and to receive, and a score of letters and presents to acknowledge. Relations turned up trumps, and sent contributions towards the outfit in money and in kind; the General presented a handsome double-barrelled fowling-piece, which thrilled Miles with delight and his mother with horror. Miss Beveridge gave a "housewife" stocked with all sorts of mending materials—fancy Miles darning his own socks!—and Cynthia Alliot sent across a case containing one of the most perfect quarter-plate cameras that ever was seen.

"When this you see, Send snaps to me!"

was inscribed on the inner wrapping, which Miles quietly folded and put away in his pocket. He would not need the camera or any external aid to help him to remember his mentor of the golden hair and sweet grey eyes.

Cynthia came over very often those last few days, and diffused a little fun into the gathering gloom by constituting herself Miles' sewing- mistress, and sitting over him in sternest fashion while he fumbled clumsily at his task. Rumour had it that she even rapped his knuckles with the scissors when he took up half a dozen threads at once in his second darn; and even Mrs Trevor was obliged to laugh at her imitation of Miles' grimaces when trying to thread a needle. In the end Pam was made happy by being commissioned to thread dozens of needles with long black and white threads, and then stick them in a special needle-book, with their tails twisted neatly round and round.

As for Cynthia, she revelled in her position as instructress.

"I've suffered so much myself, that it is simply lovely to turn the tables on someone else," she announced. "I am going to see this business through in a proper and well-regulated fashion. Now that the technical course is finished, you are going to be put through a viva voce examination. Sit down in front of the work-basket, and answer without any shuffling or trying to escape. Now then! Distinguish between a darning-needle and a bodkin." She nipped up Mrs Trevor's spectacles from a side-table, as she spoke, perched them on the end of her nose, and stared over them with an assumption of great severity. Miles grinned complacently.

"Easy enough. One pricks and the other doesn't."

"A very superficial reply! To what separate and distinctive duties would you apply the two?"

"Wouldn't apply them at all if I had my way," began the pupil daringly, but a flash of his mistress's eye recalled him promptly to order, and he added hastily, "One you use to darn things up with, and the other to drag strings through tunnel sort of businesses, and bring them out at the other side."

"No engineering terms, please! Your matter is correct, but the manner leaves much to be desired. Question number two is—Which thread would you use to affix (a) a shirt, (b) a boot, (c) a waistcoat button?"

"The first that came handy," replied Miles recklessly, whereupon Pam squealed with dismay, and was for labelling all her needles forthwith, but Cynthia rapped sternly on the table, and would have each bobbin brought out in turn, and so carefully examined that its qualities could not easily be forgotten. Then, and only then, would she consent to pass on to the third question, which concerned itself with the vexed question of darning.

"Three, State clearly, and in sequence, the steps necessary for repairing a hole in the sole of your sock."

Miles shrugged his shoulders with a despairing gesture.

"Oh, if you mean how a woman does it,—drag the old thing tightly over your left arm, so that you have only one hand to work with, fill your needle with a silly stuff that breaks if you look at it, and begin see- sawing away half a mile from the scene of the accident. Stick at it until you have pulled off most of the skin on your fingers, and then turn it round and start the whole thing over again, the other way round. Then walk about and get a blister on your heel!"

The audience sputtered with laughter at this eloquent description, but Cynthia gazed down her nose with an expression of contemptuous disgust.

"And how many blisters would you have if you did not mend it, pray? May I suggest that you make the experiment and see? No marks at all for that answer! Question number four is, Work a buttonhole on the accompanying strip of linen."

But here Miles struck. No power on earth, he declared, would induce him to attempt to "festoon" a hole in the accepted fashion.

"When I want one I'll make it with the nearest implement that comes handy. There are always my teeth as a last resource. It's silly nonsense cutting out a hole and immediately proceeding to sew it up! Time enough for that when it begins to split—"

"Plucked! Hopelessly plucked!" cried Cynthia, rolling her eyes in dismay. Then the spectacles dropped off her nose, and she joined in the general laughter, and forgot her role of mentor for the rest of the evening.

But it was not only in the matter of amusement that Cynthia made herself invaluable during those last trying days; she seemed ever on the watch for opportunities of service. If anything was overlooked or late in delivery, she was ready to drive to the shop, and bring it home. She invited Pam to lunch and tea, thereby setting her elders free and keeping the child happy and occupied, and she steadily refused to accompany Miles and Betty on any of their expeditions, thereby earning her friend's undying gratitude, though perhaps Miles himself was less appreciative of her self-denial. Her turn for a quiet word came only on the last day of all, when Miles accompanied her for the few yards which intervened between the two houses, and stood on the doorstep to wish her farewell.

His face was white, and his words came out with even more than the usual difficulty.

"It's been—a jolly good thing for me—knowing you for these last months. You've been—a help! If I ever turn out anything of a man—it will be a good deal—your doing!"

Cynthia stared at him with her beautiful grave eyes.

"Mine?" she cried in amazement. "Oh, why? What have I done?"

"You've been yourself!" said Miles gruffly. "Good-bye!"

He held out his big hand, and Cynthia's little fingers closed tightly round it.

"Good-bye, Miles! I won't forget," she said simply. And with those words ringing in his ears Miles Trevor sailed away to begin his new life.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

THE GENERAL'S WOOING.

Tears and lamentations made up the story of the next few days.

"When's the washing coming home? I've cried out all my handkerchiefs, and I get scolded if I sniff!" grumbled red-eyed Jill on the evening of the third day after Miles' departure; and it appeared that most members of the family found themselves in the same predicament, for the first break in the family circle is a painful experience, especially when its members are as devoted as were the Trevors.

It was a relief to all to watch the progress of the General's wooing, and to have his genial presence among them. Now that the evenings were beginning to be really summer-like, he and Miss Beveridge would adjourn to the Square Gardens after dinner, and sit on a bench not far removed from that historic spot where he had fallen a victim to the twins' love of adventure. As a rule, so soon as dusk approached, Miss Beveridge would take an omnibus and return to her "Home," while the General would step stiffly into a cab and return to his flat, where the faithful Johnson was no doubt wondering what had happened to induce such young habits in his once stay-at-home master. One night, however, instead of separating as usual, they returned to Number 1, and the first glance at their faces showed that the denouement had been reached. The General was red, Miss Beveridge was white; he was voluble with excitement, she was too excited to speak. Mrs Trevor read the signs of the times, and thoughtfully led the way to the drawing-room, so that the formal announcement of the engagement could be made away from the somewhat embarrassing scrutiny of the young people.

"Alice has promised to let me take care of her! Congratulate me, my dear madam. I am the happiest man in the world!" cried the excited Irishman. "We have wasted enough time, but we are not going to waste any more. 'Haste to the wedding!'—that's our motto. What? Alice talks about clothes. Fiddlesticks, I tell her! We can buy the finest dress in London in half an hour's time, or my name's not Terence Digby. Then she talks about pupils. Pack of rubbish, I tell her! There are fifty women in London wanting to give lessons, for every pupil who wants to learn. Let someone else hear the 'nid, nid, nodding' for a change!" (This last was a dark reference to the Scotch air with which poor Pam had been wrestling for weeks past.) "'A June wedding!' Always said I'd be married in June if I had the chance, and it's a poor thing if I can't have my way after waiting twenty years. Don't like July—nasty, treacherous month! Best way to spend it is a honeymoon in the country. What? You'll tell the boys and girls, eh? Tell them after we've gone. Too bashful to stand the racket to-night! Besides, there's Johnson to face. Bit of a pill to face Johnson. What? Don't know what he'll say to a mistress, but it will be all right when he sees Alice. Alice will get over him fast enough!"

It was charming to see the look of proud admiration which he cast at his fiancee; charming to see her changed and softened mien; charming to see the smile of complete and happy confidence which was exchanged between the two. For the first time for many days the weight of depression lifted from Mrs Trevor's heart, and she forgot Miles' departure in rejoicing in their joy. Her face had its old bright look as she re-entered the study to tell the news to her children, who, truth to tell, were not too sympathetic in their reception.

The three elders were, of course, more or less prepared for the announcement, but Pam gasped in shocked surprise.

"Married!" she cried shrilly. "But they are so old! What's the good of being married, and having all the bother for nothing? They'll be dead so soon!"

"It's an awful fag. It won't be half so much sport going to tea," commented Jill with outspoken selfishness, while Jack shrugged his shoulders and grimaced disapproval.

"Got everything he wants—rattling good food, all his relics and things around him, and Johnson to save all bother. Can't think why he couldn't be satisfied!"

Only Betty was silent, her heart warming with a tender sympathy over the story of an old and loyal love. Miss Beveridge was quite, quite old, over forty, and her hair was grey, yet the General called her a girl, and thought her beautiful still. Somehow the thought had a direct personal comfort. Other people might feel the same; and thirty—thirty was comparatively young!

The next day the General was taken in state to call upon Nan Vanburgh, who had heard from Betty which way the wind was blowing, but had, of course, been obliged to preserve an unconscious demeanour until the engagement was a fait accompli.

"Under Providence, madam, I am indebted to you for this happiness!" cried the General, bowing over her hand in his courtly old-world fashion; and Nan looked at him with what her friends called "the shiny look" in her eyes, and said, in the honest, big-girl fashion which she never seemed to outgrow—

"And I am so happy that you are happy that I could just jump for joy! It's a perfectly beautiful ending to my Saturday afternoons. I'm only a little bit jealous that Mrs Trevor has had you to herself all this time. Now it's my turn! What about the wedding? Where is it to take place? Are you perhaps going to some relation's house?"

"No. Neither of us owns anyone very near and dear, so we prefer to stay quietly in town."

"Then it must certainly be from here! You couldn't dream of being married from the Home, Miss Beveridge! Come to me a few days before, and I'll be your tire-woman, and help to get everything ready, and you shall have a nice breakfast and invite all your friends."

But here the General interfered.

"No, no! No breakfast!" he cried. "None the less grateful to you, madam, but fuss and speechifying don't come naturally to a man of my age. I want to get my wife to myself as soon as possible, so we'll make a bolt of it from the church door. Capital plan, though, to stay with you for a bit before. What? You'd like that, Alice, wouldn't you? Need someone to fix your fal-lals. What? Another debt of gratitude, madam, which we will hope to repay, God willing, when we settle down in our new home."

Miss Beveridge gratefully accepted Nan's invitation, but when she went a step further and offered to assist in the choice of the wedding-dress, it appeared that the bridegroom had decided views of his own on the subject, and had already made his selection.

"She must wear blue! Says it ought to be grey at her age! Her age, indeed, as if she were an elderly woman! She was wearing blue when I saw her first, and she's going to be married in blue, or I'll know the reason why! Blue dress, and a hat with blue feathers; and those Trevor lassies shall be bridesmaids. Must have bridesmaids, however quiet it is. What? Besides, I owe them something, and it will be an excuse to give them their kit—white muslin and blue ribbons. That's how young girls used to dress when I was a lad, and I've never seen anything to touch it. There will be no trouble about the dresses, madam. I've decided all that. You just tell me the name of a dressmaker—a tip-top dressmaker, mind you—and we'll send in the order at once."

The bride-elect turned to her friend with a somewhat horrified expression, but Nan flashed a reassuring smile, and adroitly turned the subject in another direction.

"Don't worry!" she whispered, the first time that there was an opportunity for a quiet word. "The General shall have his way, and everything shall be charming into the bargain. I know of a dressmaker who could make sackcloth elegant. She will manufacture even the hat with blue feathers, so that you will never have had anything so becoming in your life. Fortunately the General does not confine you to one shade of blue. And the muslins and blue ribbons will be wonderful filmy creations, as different from the Early Victorian stiffnesses as anything you can possibly imagine. How Betty will enjoy herself!"

Betty did! In all the course of her eighteen years, it was the first occasion on which she had been provided with an outfit with no regard to money, but simply to what would be prettiest and most becoming. The dress, the hat, the shoes, the gloves, the basket of pale-hued roses, were all perfect of their kind, and, to crown all, on the morning of the wedding there arrived two small morocco boxes, which, being opened, displayed two miniature gold watches, encircled with turquoise, and provided with blue enamel bows, by which they could be attached to the dress. Jill's whoops of delight might have been heard half-way across the Square. There seemed nothing left to wish for in life, now that the long-dreamed-of "real gold" watch was actually in her grasp.

And so Terence Digby took Alice Beveridge to wife, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death did them part; and more than one spectator prayed fervently that the hour of separation should be long delayed, so that the reunited lovers might enjoy a peaceful golden summer.

They drove away from the church door, and when the bride thrust her blue-feathered toque out of the window to smile a radiant farewell, Nan Vanburgh nodded her pretty head at Betty, and cried triumphantly—

"Now behold for yourself what miracles love and home and appreciation can work! That was Miss Beveridge once on a time, and you called her a frump and a fright, but the real woman was that charming Mrs Digby, and the magician's wand has brought her to life?"



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A BUNDLE OF LETTERS.

Miles Trevor to his Mother.

Dearest Mater,—A merry Christmas to you all! I can hardly believe it is nearly four years since I said good-bye and came out here, though there are times, when I am down on my luck, when it seems more like a hundred. One doesn't have much time for moping during the day, but the evenings are the trying times, when one wonders what on earth made him such an idiot as to leave the dear old country. In saner moments I'm precious glad I did, for I shouldn't have had half the chance of getting on at home. The manager went off for a holiday last week and left me in charge, and I'm thankful to say all has gone well. It was my chance of showing what I could do, and I was determined to make the most of it. All the same, I am sorry at times that I did not go in for mining, as I once thought of doing, you remember. My chum Gerard is going ahead at a great rate. He came out here without a penny, and has simply worked his way through the different processes in the big Aladdin Mine with which we are connected. He took the most profitable stages first, and when he had saved up a little money went in for the ones which paid least, until he had a real practical working knowledge of everything from start to finish. Of course he had had no training at home, or this would not have been necessary, but as he is a beggar to work, and a genius at making other people work too, he has risen to the post of sub-manager, and as soon as he has saved enough money is going prospecting on his own account. He has promised me a share in his gold-mine when it is discovered, and you may trust Gerard to find one if it is in existence, so you may see us home together some fine day to float our company.

The sooner it comes the better, or everything and everyone will be changed out of knowledge! It is beyond my imaginative powers to think of Jill as a young lady with her hair up, and Jack at Oxford, and Betty "an old maid." (There's not much of the old maid about that photograph she sent out last mail!) All the fellows admire it tremendously, and it gives quite an air of beauty and fashion to my little cabin. I never thought Betty would turn out so pretty, but there's no denying that she looks a lot older. Tell Pam not to grow up if she loves me! I want to find someone the same as when I left!

Glad to hear the General and Mrs Digby are still happy and satisfied with each other, and that pretty Mrs, Vanburgh's little boy is all right again. Remember me to them, and to Cynthia Alliot when you see her. Is she well? You have not mentioned her lately.

Many thanks to father for the papers; you can hardly imagine how welcome they are out here, or how eagerly one looks forward to mail days. Tell that lazy Jill to write to a fellow now and then. She shall have no nuggets out of my El Dorado if she doesn't. Yes, I'm all right! Don't worry about me, dear. I had a bit of a breakdown a month or two ago, but Gerard nursed me almost as well as you could have done yourself. He is the best chum a man could have. Love to everybody, and most of all to yourself, dearest mater.—From your son, Miles.

Betty Trevor to her Brother Miles.

Dearest old Lad,—I missed the last mail, so I must send you an extra long scrawl to make up. Thanks so much for your last batch of photographs. I am glad you marked the names on the back, for really it is difficult to believe that that ferocious-looking bearded person is really you! I am glad you have promised to shave it off before you come home, for—honestly speaking—it's not becoming! Mr Gerard looks just a shade less disreputable than yourself, but I like him because he is nice to you. You can give him my kind regards.

I've had ever such a good time since I wrote last, staying with the Rendell girls—Nan Vanburgh's sisters, you know, whom you met at that first historic party. They are dears, and so amusing that it's as good as a play to be with them. Elsie is married, and Lilias, the beauty, is engaged—to a clergyman, if you please. Everyone is surprised, for she has always been rather selfish and worldly, and cared only for people who were rich and grand, and Mr Ross is not like that. He is rather old, nearly forty, I think, and rather delicate, and very grave, and not a bit well off, and he thinks Lilias a miracle of goodness and sweetness, and the nice part is that she really is growing nicer, because she likes him so much, and doesn't want him to be disappointed. They are all awfully pleased, and Agatha and Christabel think it will be great sport to be the only girls in the house, and have no elder sister left to rule over them. The brother, Ned, is in love with the girls' great friend, Kitty Maitland, but she snubs him, though the girls say she likes him all the time, and only does it to pay him back for the way he used to snub her as a child, and because he is so conceited that she thinks it will do him good. He really is a good deal spoiled by all those six sisters.

You see everybody seems to be falling in love and getting married except me, and I shall be an old maid. I don't like anyone, and I don't like anyone to like me. I feel quite angry if anyone pays me the least attention, and yet I'm lonely inside. Oh, Miles, why did you go so far away, and turn into a great bearded stranger, when I wanted you at home to talk to every day? I hate Mexico, and the valley, and the mine, and "my chum Gerard"—"my chum Gerard" most of all, because I'm so jealous of him. What business had he to nurse you, I should like to know! But I pity him, if you were as cross as you used to be when you had a cold in the old days, and had to put your feet into mustard and water! How well I remember it! First the water was too hot, then it was too cold, and in the end there, was no water left in the bath, and the furniture was afloat. Jack is not half so difficile as you used to be! He has grown such a dear old thing, just as merry and mischievous as ever, but so kind, and thoughtful, and nice all round. Father is very proud of him, and he is the old General's special pet, and half lives there when he is at home. As for Jill, she is a MINX in capital letters. So pretty and gay, and funny and charming, and naughty and nice, and aggravating and coaxing, and lazy and reckless, and altogether different from everybody else, that my poor little nose is quite out of joint, and I heard an impertinent young man speaking of me the other night as "Jill Trevor's sister"! That's what I have descended to, after all my lofty ambitions—Jill's sister! How furious I should have been in the old days, but now I don't seem to mind. Are you changed very much, old Miles? Inside, I mean, I'm not thinking of the horrid beard. You are such a reserved person that your letters leave one in ignorance of the real you. "My chum Gerard" knows you better than I do nowadays. What an awful thought! Life seems so different now from what it did at eighteen, and all one's ideals are changed. I had my usual yearly "token" from my friend of the fog this spring—just a newspaper posted from New York, as before, so that I know he is alive and well, but I long to know more, and sometimes it seems as if I never should. Sometimes—when I am in the blues—I feel as if that night was the only time in my life when I was really and truly of use. I suppose that's what makes me remember it so well, and think so much of the poor man. I can remember his face still—so distinctly! Poor, poor fellow! Father says it's more difficult than ever to make money nowadays. He may work all his life, and never be able to pay off his debts.

Cynthia! No; Cynthia is not well. We didn't tell you before, because it's horrid to write bad news, and you two were good friends. Besides, we hoped she would get better. It began six months ago with an attack of influenza. She did not seem to throw it off, but grew thin, and coughed—a horrid cough! They took her away, and did everything they could, but so far she is no better, and I'm afraid there's no doubt that her lungs are affected. Mrs Alliot is awfully anxious, and so is her father, who has retired now, as you know, and is home for good. They have taken her away to the sea, and she lives out of doors, and has a nurse, and everything that can possibly be got to make her better. She is very thin, but is quite bright and cheerful, and thinks about everybody in the world but herself. They hope she will get better; she must get better—she's so young, and dear, and lovely, and everything that's sweet. I can't tell you what Cynthia has been to me all these years! Pray for her, Miles—pray hard! I rend the heavens for Cynthia's life.

That's all, old boy—I have no more news. Bother the nuggets! Come home the instant you can. Father doesn't believe in gold-mines. Don't let "my chum Gerard" lead you into any wild-goose chase!—Always your lovingest sister, Betty.

From General Digby to Jack Trevor.

My dear Boy,—If you were my own son (which I wish you were!) I could not have felt happier and prouder than I did on the receipt of your letter this morning. To hear that you have decided to read for the ministry, and that you attribute the origin of this choice to some chance words of mine uttered years ago—that is indeed an unexpected joy! This tongue of mine has uttered so many foolish sayings in its time, and got me into so much trouble, that I am thankful beyond expression to know that in this instance it has done some good for a change. Thank you, my boy, for giving me the satisfaction of knowing as much. I know it is hard for you young fellows to speak out. You might easily have kept it to yourself, and left me a poorer man.

No! Since you ask my opinion, I'm convinced that it would be a thousand pities to drop any of your athletic interests. I'd rather advise you to put more grist into them, and come to the front as much as possible; short, of course, of interfering with your studies. When you have a parish of your own, or assist another man in his parish, you will have a big work to do among the boys and young men, and how do you think it will affect them to hear that you have pulled stroke in your boat, or played for the 'Varsity in football or cricket? Will they think less of you, or more? If I know masculine nature, it will give you an immediate influence which scarcely anything else could command. They will know you for a man, and a manly man into the bargain, a man who has like interests with themselves, and is not merely a puppet stuck up in the pulpit to babble platitudes, as so many fellows do nowadays—more shame to them! Play with the young fellows on Saturday;—let them feel that you understand and enter into their interests, and my name's not Terence Digby if your serious words don't have a tenfold influence on Sunday.

We must have a good talk on this subject when you come home. It is one on which I feel very strongly. Let me know at any time if you want help as to books, or any other expenses. Your father has enough to do with the rest of the family, and it is a pleasure to me to pretend now and again that you belong to me.

All goes well at Brompton Square. Your mother wears well—a wonderful woman! None of her daughters will ever equal her, though Betty is twice the girl she used to be, and Mademoiselle Jill makes havoc among the young fellows. My dear wife looks after me so carefully that my gout is steadily on the decline, and I grow younger year by year. Get the right woman for your wife, young fellow! I waited twenty years for mine, and she's cheap at the price.—Your friend, Terence Digby.

Christabel Rendell to her sister Nan Vanburgh.

Dearest Mops,—I am in a state of abject collapse after rushing after the beagles yesterday, tearing all over the countryside, and leaping wildly over mountainous barriers, so I think I might as well spend my time writing to you, as you have been hurling reproaches at me for my silence. I couldn't possibly attempt letters while Betty was here, for we only had a fortnight, and I didn't get through half what I wanted to say. We enjoyed having her immensely, she's a perfect dear, and very pretty when she takes enough trouble, which isn't by any means always the case. I read her a severe lecture on the subject, and retrimmed her blue hat. I'm sure you'll think it improved. Talking of hats—I can't understand why I am not a lunatic, after all I've experienced with my clothes this spring! Agatha and I went to a tailor's at Hertford and ordered coats and skirts for morning wear. She wasn't in a hurry for hers, but I was simply panting for mine to take to the Goodmans' the next Wednesday, so it was arranged that he should rush on with mine, and that I should go over for a fitting on Monday. My dear, on Monday I was a wreck!—toothache in every joint, chattering with cold, and the rain descended in floods. I ploughed to the station in a sort of dismal, it- is-my-duty-and-I-must kind of stupor; sat in the train with Mrs Ellis, who yelled at me the whole time about the Coal Club, and Mary Jane's little Emma's mumps; staggered along the roads to the tailor's shop, and sat shuddering in his nasty little room with my feet on a slippery oilcloth as cold as ice.

After about twenty minutes (it seemed three hours and a half)—he came in with a coat over his arm! Agatha's coat! I nearly swooned! ... "Now you don't say so—really! Your sister's? And I made so sure it was yours! Isn't that curious, now? I may say I have been in the tailoring trade, man and boy, for a matter of twenty years, an' I never knew such a thing to occur before! Of course it wouldn't be any use saying I could make another by Wednesday, for I should only disappoint, but if Miss Hagatha was to run over, such a thing as this hafternoon, she could have 'er's 'ome in the place of yours." ... I got home somehow, I don't know how, for my mind was a blank, fell into bed, and lay prostrate until the next day, when hope revived once more. If the worst came to the worst, I was sure of a new voile dress which Miss Green was making, and the old coat and skirt would do very well for the mornings. The voile dress promised to be charming, for she really makes very well when she likes; so I felt restored to equanimity, until at eleven o'clock, behold a small girl, to see Miss C Rendell—"Oh, if— you—please—Miss Green—says—as—she's—two—yards—short—of—the— material—and—could—you—make—it—convenient—to—get—it—to-day?" My brain reeled! As soon as I had sufficiently recovered, I rushed round to see her myself. "You told me you only needed twelve yards, and I got thirteen!" "Yes, madam, but you see, madam, these guagings run into a deal of material. You wouldn't like them not to be full and 'andsome. Just another two yards!" There was nothing else for it, so I promised to go up to town next morning (I couldn't possibly go that day), and impressed upon the wretch to finish the bodice first,—as, if necessary, we could do with less trimming on the skirt. My dear, the worst is still to come! The shop was sold out of the shade of voile, and could not get it again, and when I went back to Miss Green, she had finished the skirt, and had nothing left for sleeves! "Yes, I remember you did say do the bodice first, but I thought I'd be getting on with the guaging. Guaging runs into a deal of time!" ... I just lay back, and said to myself, "Can it be real—or is it only a terrible nightmare?" We sat turning over hundreds of dirty old fashion plates, to find out how to make sleeves out of nothing, and they are sights, and I look an owl in them. There's only one comfort—if my brain has stood such a strain, it will stand anything!

Lilias and Mr Ross are really very satisfactory, and considering that she is thirty (thirty! Isn't it appalling!), he is not a bit too old. It's nice to see her look happy and satisfied, and she has been as sweet as sugar ever since, and as pleased as possible with furnishing her little house, which will be quite poky and shabby compared with yours, or Maud's, or even Elsie's sanatorium. Poor old Lil! I'm glad she's going to have a good time, at last. I'm afraid she has felt very "out of it" the last few years.

Old Mr Vanburgh is longing for your next visit, and has his study simply plastered over with portraits of the boy. I go to sit with him on wet afternoons, and listen meekly to praises of yourself, which I know to be absolutely undeserved.

By the way—is Betty in love? Never a word could I get out of her, but her indifference to the admiration she got down here—and she got a good deal—was quite phenomenal, unless there is something behind! Methinks at times I trace a melancholy in her eye. Adieu, my love; this epistle ought to make up for past delinquencies.—Yours ever, Christabel.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

MILES' RETURN.

It was six years after his departure from home when Miles Trevor sailed again for his native land. There had been some talk of his return during the previous winter, and bitter indeed had been the disappointment when it was again postponed, and postponed on account of that ubiquitous person "my chum Gerard." The prospecting expedition of Will Gerard and his partner had at last been blessed with success;—if reports could be believed, with extraordinary success, for the opinion of the experts who had visited the claim predicted for it an even greater future than the Aladdin itself. Between the partners in the venture a sufficient sum had been raised to enable the mine to be "proved" by several shafts and cross-cuts, and the analyses of samples produced were so abundantly satisfactory, that there could be no difficulty in obtaining all the money necessary to thoroughly develop the mine. Miles was intensely interested in his chum's prospects, which to a certain extent were coincident with his own, for, according to promise, he had been allowed to buy a share in the land, which, small as it was, might turn out a more profitable investment than engineering.

It was decided that while one partner stayed on the spot, Miles should fit in his holiday so as to be able to help Gerard with the work of floating a company in England, an arrangement which it was believed would necessitate but a short delay. As is invariably the case in these affairs, however, matters took much longer to set in train than had been originally expected, and it was a good six months later before the welcome cablegram was received stating that the travellers were really on their way.

Six years! Miles was a man of twenty-six, matured by a life of enterprise and adventure. Betty admitted with horror to being "twenty- four next birthday," and shivered at the remembrance that six more years would bring her to that dreaded thirty which she had once considered the "finis" of life. Jack and Jill were twenty, and if he were still a lad, she was a very finished product indeed, the acknowledged belle of her set, with a transparent satisfaction in her own success which would have been called vanity in a less popular person, but which in her case was indulgently voted as yet another charm. Pam was fourteen, a lanky schoolgirl, who had outgrown her kitten-like graces, and entered the world of school, where everything (including the return of a half- forgotten brother!) was secondary in interest to the strictures of "Maddie" on the subject of French verbs, the ambition of some day becoming "head girl," and the daily meetings with her bosom friend Nellie Banks.

Everyone had grown older; even little Jerry Vanburgh, who six years before had been by his own account "a baby angel up in heaven," was now a sturdy rascal of four, in man-of-war suits, whose love of fun and frolic was worthy of his mother's son.

What would Miles think of them all? Betty asked herself as she donned her prettiest dress, in preparation for the long-expected hour. Would he be prepared for the changes which had taken place, or feel surprised and chilled, perhaps even disappointed, to find his old companions turned into comparative strangers? He had never had much imagination, dear old lad!—it would be just like him to come home expecting to find everything looking as if he had left it but a month before.

Betty leant her arms on the dressing-table and stared scrutinisingly at her reflection in the mirror. She had always been a severe judge of her own charms, and now the remembrance of Jill's sparkling little face made her own appear unnaturally grave and staid; still, when all was said and done, she looked very nice!—the old schoolgirl word came in as ever to fill an awkward place.

Twenty-four though she undoubtedly was, it was certain that she was prettier than she had been at eighteen, and pink was Miles' favourite colour—she had remembered that in buying her new dress, and had chosen it especially for his benefit. "Oh, I hope he'll like me! He must like me!" she cried to herself, with a rush of love and longing swelling at her heart. How was it that as one grew older, home ceased to be the absolutely complete and satisfying world which it had been in early days? Why was it that, surrounded with father and mother, and sisters and brothers, all dear and kind and loving, the heart would yet experience a feeling of loneliness, a longing for something too intangible to be put into words?

"I want something—badly! What can it be?" Betty had questioned of herself times and again during the last few years, and the invariable answer had been—"Miles! It must be the loss of Miles which I feel more and more, instead of less and less. When Miles comes home there will be nothing left to wish for in all the world!" And now in an hour,—in half an hour, Miles would be with her once more! Dr Trevor and Jack had gone to the station to meet him, but his mother and the girls had preferred to wait at home. "So that you can all howl, and hang round his neck at once—I know you!" Jack had cried teasingly. "Take my advice, and cut short the huggings. When fellows have roughed it abroad, they don't like being mauled!"—at which a chorus of feminine indignation had buzzed about his ears.

"Mauled, indeed! Howl, indeed! They trusted they knew how to behave without his advice! Would it not be well if he allowed Miles himself to say what he did and did not like? Had he not better rehearse his own conduct, before troubling himself about other people's?" So on, and so on, until Jack fled in dismay, fingers in ears. That was the worst of chaffing girls—they would always insist upon having the last word!

Downstairs in the sitting-rooms all was en fete, the best mats and covers and cushions being exhibited for the benefit of one who would probably never notice their existence, or might even be misguided enough to imagine that chiffon-draped cushions were meant for use, not ornament. Flowers were tastefully arrayed in every available position; the tea-table lacked only the presence of pot and kettle; Jill had arranged the little curl on her forehead at its most artless and captivating angle—in a word, preparation was complete!

"Sit down, dears—sit down! You make me nervous fidgeting about, and— I'm nervous enough already!" said Mrs Trevor tremulously, and her three big daughters obediently sank down on chairs and stared at each other across the room.

"I'm very sorry to say so—but I'm ill!" cried Betty tragically. "I feel awful. A kind of crawly, creepy—all—overish—sick-swimming-kind- of-feeling—I think I'm going to faint! I'm sorry to alarm you—"

But no one was in the least alarmed. Mrs Trevor only smiled feebly, while the other girls expatiated upon even more alarming symptoms.

"My heart is going like a sledge-hammer," sighed Jill. "I feel every moment as if it might burst!—I can't see you. The air is full of spots—"

"I'm as dizzy as dizzy," declared Pam eloquently. "I feel exactly as I did that Wednesday Nellie and I ate chocolates all the afternoon in a hot room. If he doesn't come soon we'd better all lie down. We could get up again when we heard the bell."

"The bell, indeed! Miles shall not have to ring the bell when he arrives home after six years' absence, if his mother is alive to open the door for him!" cried Mrs Trevor indignantly, and then suddenly she gave a cry, and rushed across the room. A cab laden with luggage had drawn up before the door. Miles had arrived!

Well, after all Jack was right! They did all hang round him at once. Mrs Trevor was folded in his arms, but Betty and Jill each hung on to a side, while Pam stroked the back of his head, and if they did not exactly "howl," they were certainly by no means dry-eyed.

"My boy! My boy!" cried the mother. "Miles, oh, Miles!" sobbed the girls; and Miles mumbled incoherent answers in his big man's voice, and quietly but surely pushed his way into the drawing-room. His eyes were shining too, but he had no intention that the passers-by should witness his emotion. He looked enormously big and broad, and tanned and important. Handsome Miles would never be, but his was a good strong face, with the firmly-set lips and clear, level gaze which speak so eloquently of a man's character, and his mother thanked God with a full heart as she welcomed him back.

As for Miles himself, the sight of his mother brought with it a pang of sadness, for though outsiders might exclaim at her youthful appearance, six years on the wrong side of forty can never fail to leave behind them heavy traces, and to the unaccustomed eyes she looked greatly changed. He kept his arm round her as they moved forward, and his eyes grew very tender. The little mother was growing old! Her hair was quite grey, her pretty cheeks had lost their roundness—he must take more care of her than ever. She enjoyed being cared for, as all nice women did. And then Miles sat down and drank tea, and they all settled themselves to the difficult task of making conversation after a long absence. It seems sad that it should be difficult, but it is invariably the case, for when there is so much to tell, and to ask, it is difficult to know where to begin, and a certain strangeness follows hard on the first excitement. Were these smart young ladies truly and actually Betty and Jill; this young man with the Oxford drawl the once unkempt and noisy Jack? And who was this shy and awkward maypole, who had taken the place of dear, cuddlesome, wee Pam?

If it had not been for Dr Trevor, conversation would have halted sadly during the first difficult quarter of an hour, but that gentleman was fortunately free from sentimental embarrassment, and kept the ball rolling by his practical questions and remarks.

The voyage, it appeared, had been unusually calm and agreeable, and the partners had thoroughly enjoyed the rest after the somewhat worrying work of the last six months. Yes, everything was working out splendidly as regards the new mine, and Miles was convinced that only time was necessary to turn it into a huge success. Will Gerard would be a millionaire some fine day, or something very like a millionaire, and he would deserve all he got. The best fellow and the smartest, and the hardest working, and the truest chum—

In the background saucy Jill dumbly echoed these well-worn sentiments, rolling her eyes ceilingwards, and declaiming with outstretched hands, till Miles, turning suddenly, caught sight of her, and burst into one of his old hearty laughs.

"Well, what does that mean, Jill? What have I said to amuse you?"

Jill sparkled at him in her most captivating manner.

"Toujours le bon Gerard! We have heard so much of this marvel that we are dying to behold him. Snap-shots, we know, are not the most flattering medium, so we ought not to judge by the likenesses we have already seen, but he hardly appeals to me as a miracle of beauty! When does he propose to dazzle our eyes by appearing before us in the flesh?"

Miles laughed once more.

"Not till next week, so you must exercise your patience, my dear. He has his own people to see, and besides that he has too much tact to intrude upon a fellow's first days at home. Gerard always knows what is the right—" He broke off hastily as Jill resumed her silent pantomime of admiration. "Oh, all right! I won't praise him any more. You can find out his good points for yourself. If the truth were known, I daresay he is anxious to get a new rig-out before he pays calls on fascinating young ladies. We have neither of us a decent coat to our backs, and must go tailor-hunting the first thing to-morrow morning. We have not had much ladies' society abroad. I expect Gerard will fall headlong in love when he sees you in that blouse, Jill!"

"I expect he will. They generally do! But it's no use. I don't care for Colonials!" drawled Miss Jill, chin in air, and Miles' heated repudiation of the term as applied to either his partner or himself failed to move her from her front.

"Jill is waiting for Prince Edward of Wales. There's no other unmarried male who comes up to her standpoint," said her father, laughing; and once more Miles marvelled at the changes of the years!

When bedtime came, Betty looked shyly at the new Miles, who seemed still more than half a stranger, and felt her heart throb with pleasure as his grasp tightened on her arm, and he said affectionately—

"Come into my room for a chat, old girl, before you turn in! It won't seem like home unless I see you perched on my bed nursing your knees and your grievances at the same time. Got any grievances nowadays, eh? You used generally to have a good stock on hand. We'll have to lay them together while I'm at home. That's what I want to do—give you all a rattling good time! It's what I have looked forward to most in coming home. How are things going, really? Quite well? No bothers and worries that you have been keeping to yourselves, for fear of making me anxious?"

"Nothing big, dear—only the little worries which one must grin and put up with."

Betty perched herself on the bed, and fell into the old position, while Miles sat down on the chair by the dressing-table, and began unlacing his shoes with the same, oh, the very same gestures which he had used every night during the many long years when this evening conference had been the brightest spot in the day! It was as if time had flashed back for a moment, and they were boy and girl together once more! Betty's eyes melted in tender rejoicing, and Miles cried heartily—

"Bet, my dear, you've grown rattling pretty! You beat Jill into fits when you look like that. You must wear that frock when Gerard comes next week. It suits you splendidly."

"I got it for your sake—not Mr Gerard's. You always liked pink, Miles. Oh, I shan't have any grievances now that you are home. I am really and truly far less grumbly than I used to be. I have tried hard to make it a duty to be happy, since I discovered—you know how!—how imaginary my troubles really were—but sometimes I have felt very lonely. I think one does, as one grows older, for there seem so many things that one can't talk about to the best of friends. Of course you may not understand the feeling—you are so devoted to Mr Gerard."

Miles kicked his shoes in opposite directions—another old trick!—and stroked his chin silently. The offending beard had disappeared, but the skin was dark with constant shaving, and there were new lines in his face. This was a man indeed. The boy had disappeared for ever.

"I don't think I should advertise my loneliness even to Gerard," he said slowly. Then, leaning forward and opening a drawer in the dressing- table, "How is Cynthia?" he queried abruptly.

"Better!" replied Betty, so quietly that no one would have guessed the leap of excitement which her heart had given at the sound of her friend's name uttered in this connection. "Very delicate still, but certainly better. They live entirely in the country for her sake, and the doctors think that in a year or two she will probably be quite well again. Meantime she is treated like an invalid, and we can seldom meet. It isn't good for her to chatter, and it isn't supposed to be good for my health to be there. I ache for her, Miles! No one will ever know what it has meant for me to be separated like this."

Miles sat silently staring at his stockinged feet. His eyes were hidden, the heavy moustache covered the lines of his mouth, yet as Betty looked at him she felt a stab of reproach, as if, while pitying herself, she had inadvertently probed a deeper wound. Had Miles also ached for Cynthia? Had the separation from her been the hardest part of his long exile? She longed to question him on the subject, but the stern, set face gave no encouragement to curiosity, however affectionate.

"We are to go down to see her some day soon. She was almost as much excited about your coming home as we were ourselves, and we can run down to Franton and back quite easily in the day. You won't be occupied with business every day while you are at home, will you, Miles? You will be able to give up some of your time to us?"

"Oh dear, yes. This is by way of being a holiday, and I mean to take you girls about, and the mater too, if she will come. We must see the mining business in train first, and then we'll go off somewhere and have a good time. I haven't worked for nothing all these years, and the best chance of enjoying myself is to see your enjoyment. Things don't always work out as we expect—but we must make the best of what remains—"

He sighed, and rose from his chair with a gesture which somehow made Betty conscious that he wished to be alone. It had been a very short chat, and the impression left was rather sad than cheerful. She put her arms round Miles' neck, kissed him fervently, but in silence, and stole away to her own room.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

MR. GERARD.

Clad in an immaculate frock-coat, with a hat of irreproachable shininess on his head, a flower in his buttonhole, and every detail of his attire correctly up-to-date, "my chum Gerard" made his appearance to call at Brompton Square on the Monday afternoon following Miles' return.

"I've met him a hundred times in Piccadilly!" was Jill's comment on the stranger, and indeed he had far more the air of a fashionable Londoner than of a miner from the far-off wilds of Mexico. As tall as Miles, though of a more slender build, showing in the same eloquent fashion the marks of recent shaving, rather handsome than plain, rather dark than fair, there seemed at first sight little to distinguish him from a hundred other men of the same age. On a closer acquaintance, however, a further attraction was found in the grave, steady glance of the eyes, and in a rare smile, lighting up somewhat careworn features into a charming flash of gaiety. Mr Gerard was evidently unused to laughter— with all his sterling qualities Miles could not be described as a humorous companion!—and the programme of the past years had been all work and no play. As he sat in Mrs Trevor's drawing-room that first afternoon, he listened in a somewhat dazed fashion to the banter which went on between Jack and his sisters; but after some time had passed his face began to soften, the corners of his mouth twitched, and presently out flashed that delightful, whole-hearted smile, and Betty, meeting it, buried at once and for ever all lingering prejudices against her brother's friend.

It was fortunate that Mr Gerard had made a favourable impression on the young people, for, at Miles' earnest request, he was invited to take up his quarters at Brompton Square for the next few weeks.

"His own people live in the country; he has no friends that he cares about in town, and I hate the thought of him moping alone in an hotel after all he has done for me. Besides, we ought to be together just now. There will be business to talk over every night until we get this company floated, and if he were not here I should always have to be going over to him—"

The last argument settled the matter in Mrs Trevor's eyes. Truth to tell, she was not too anxious to introduce a stranger into her reunited family circle, but if it were easier and more convenient for Miles, and ensured for herself a greater amount of his society, it was impossible to refuse. She reaped the reward of merit in a growing liking and admiration for her guest, who was even pathetically grateful for her hospitality, and appreciative of the home atmosphere to which he had so long been a stranger.

Business engrossed the greater part of the time, but there were odd hours of leisure when the girls were suddenly commanded to get ready with all possible speed, and spirited off for an afternoon on the river, or on bicycle expeditions to the country, ending up with an evening meal at some old-fashioned country inn. They were treated to concerts also, and to entertainments of all sorts, including welcoming parties at friends' houses, and when they bemoaned the speedy wearing out of evening dresses, Miles insisted upon providing new ones, regardless of expense.

"It's most grateful and comforting to have a gold-mine in the family," cried Jill, making languishing eyes at the senior partner. Of course she flirted with him—Jill flirted with everything in the shape of a man—monopolising his attention on all occasions in a manner which would have been somewhat trying to most elder sisters.

"But I know you don't mind. You like best of all to be with Miles," said Jill easily, when some remark of the sort was made, and Betty's reply held an unexpected tartness.

"I don't mind in the least. It is a matter of perfect unconcern to me how Mr Gerard behaves; but you are my sister. I am sorry to see you lowering your dignity, by being so silly, and flighty, and ridiculous! I am sure he must laugh at you in private?"

"He laughs to my face, dear. I amuse him wonderfully. He told me yesterday that I was as good as a tonic. Such a pity you should bother your poor old head about me! I understand men, my dear!"

The insinuation of that emphasised "I" was unmistakable. Jill began to hum—an aggravating habit of hers when she felt the mistress of a situation—and tripped lightly out of the room.

And Betty sat and thought. Burning like a furnace, throbbing in every nerve, shaking her even as she sat, came a sudden fierce heat of anger such as she had not experienced for many a long year. She had been accustomed to regard Jill's flirtation from a mental height of affectionate disdain, to laugh with purest amusement at her assumption of superiority, but now of a sudden indifference had changed to anger and a sore rankling of jealousy, which puzzled as much as it disturbed. It could not be that she herself coveted Mr Gerard's attention! Cynthia, Nan Vanburgh, all her friends had remarked times and again upon her indifference to masculine admiration, for, strange as it might seem, that romantic interview in the fog six years before had linked her sympathies so strangely with one man's lot that she had had none to spare for later comers. Under God's providence she had saved a life, and while those voiceless messengers told of its preservation, it must remain the one supreme interest of life. Some day "Ralph" would come home. Some day he would appear before her to announce his task completed, and to claim her friendship as his reward. Her mother pleaded with her not to allow a romantic fancy to ruin her life, pointed out that "Ralph" might have married long before now, that even if he returned she might be bitterly disappointed in his identity. In vain! Betty could not argue. She felt—and that was the end of the matter. The sympathetic attraction was too strong to be one-sided. At the other side of the ocean "Ralph" was waiting for her, even as she for him, and the meeting would surely come. It might be years hence, but—marvellous thought!—it might be to-day. Each fresh awakening brought with it a thrill and a hope.

All these long years had this fantasy lasted; it was not possible that it was beginning to fade at the sight of a pair of grave grey eyes, at the sound of a man's deep-toned voice!

Betty sat and thought. Ten minutes passed, twenty minutes, half an hour.

Jill thrust her head round the corner of the door to give a careless invitation.

"I'm going for a trot before dinner. Come along too. It will do you good."

"No, thank you. I'd rather not."

"Sulking still? Goodness, I thought you'd have recovered by this time! Bye-bye, my dear. Hope you'll get it over before dinner."

She was humming again as she made her way to the door, where, no doubt, Mr Gerard waited to accompany her. The invitation had been a polite matter of form to which an acceptance was not desired. Betty leant her head on the table and lived through a moment of bitterness before the door opened once more, and a voice said—

"If you are not going out, may I come in for a few minutes? Miles has not yet—" Then, in a tone of startled concern, "I beg your pardon! I am interrupting you. You are in trouble?"

Betty straightened herself with a nervous laugh.

"Oh, please come in! It's nothing. I only felt rather—upset. Something vexed me, but it's nothing of any importance. Can I do anything for you? Are you expecting Miles? He said he would be home quite early. Were you going out together?"

"Yes, we have some calls to pay, but there's still half an hour to spare. He will be up to time, I'm sure. Miles is always punctual."

Mr Gerard seated himself, and looked with concern at Betty's face, on which the signs of her mental conflict were clearly printed. It was almost the first time that they had been alone together, for tete-a- tetes were of rare occurrence in the doctor's busy household, and there was a perceptible hesitation on both sides.

"No, thank you! You can do nothing for me, but I wish I could help you," said Gerard. "Can't I pummel somebody? Miles will tell you I have a good fighting arm. If anyone has been annoying you—"

That made Betty laugh, with a quick wonder as to what Mr Gerard would say if he knew the identity of his proposed opponent.

"No, no, thank you! I must fight my own battles. As a matter of fact, it's more temper than anything else. I have a most intrusive temper. It is always pushing itself forward—"

She expected the usual polite disclaimer, but it did not come. Will Gerard looked at her for a minute, as if thoughtfully weighing her in the balance, and then the delightful irradiating smile passed over his features.

"And it is more difficult to fight now than in the old days, when you could let yourself go, have a grand rampage, and trust to time and the aroma of roast chestnuts to make the peace!" he said mischievously; and when Betty started in dismay—

"Oh, I know all about it! The subject of home is very attractive when one is alone in exile. I could hardly know more about you if I'd been a member of your schoolroom party. I used to lure Miles on to talk of old days. It kept us both occupied. Do you remember the occasion when you decided to starve yourself to death, because you imagined that you had been unjustly treated, and then got up in the middle of the first night to raid a cold chop from the larder? Or the time you vowed vengeance on Miles for cutting off the ends of your hair to make paint brushes, repented after you went to bed, and went to make it up, when he concluded you were playing ghosts, and nearly throttled you as a welcome?"

Betty laughed, undecided between amusement and vexation.

"It's too bad! He seems to have given me away all round. If he was going to tell tales, he might have told flattering ones. I am sure I was often very nice, or I was always sorry if I wasn't. I used to roast chestnuts and muffins, and eat oranges and peppermints with the door wide open to lure him back. They were dear old days! I am glad he remembered them, but it must have been boring for you. Did he—did he tell you—more things about me?"

"Many more!"

"Principally about me? More than about the others?"

"You were his special chum. It was natural that he should speak most of you."

"And—er—my letters! Did he read those aloud?"

"Parts of them. I never saw them, of course, except—"

"Except when?"

"When he was ill. He could not read himself, and was anxious to hear the news. Three letters from you arrived during that time. He said it did not matter. That there would be no secrets in them—nothing you would not wish me to know."

Betty flushed, cast an agonised thought back through the years, to try to remember the gist of those three missives, failed completely, and nervously twisted her fingers together.

"There was one thing they would show you pretty plainly, which I'd rather have kept secret."

"Yes?"

"Myself?"

She looked across the room with a flickering glance, and met Will Gerard's steady gaze.

"Yes," he said slowly. "They showed me yourself!"

That was all. Not another word, either of praise or blame. Did he hate her then—think her altogether flighty and contemptible, or had the letters been by chance good specimens of their number, and did he like them, and think her "nice"? The face told her nothing in its grave impenetrability. She felt herself blushing more deeply than ever, rallied all her powers with the determination that she would not be stupid, and cried gaily—

"Well, after all, the confidence was not all on one side! We heard enough about you. 'My chum Gerard' has been a household word among us for years past. You were such a paragon that we were quite bored with the list of your perfections." She raised her hands and began checking off his characteristics on the different fingers in charming, mischievous fashion. "My chum Gerard is so clever,—so industrious,—so far-seeing,—so thoughtful,—so generous,—so kind,—so helpful—no! I am not going to stop; I've not half-finished yet.—All that he does is wise; all that he tries, succeeds; all that he has, he shares; and when he speaks, let no dog bark! When we read about impossible heroes in books we called them 'Gerard'; when we wanted to express the acme of perfection, we called a thing 'Gerardy.' Jill read aloud the Swiss Family Robinson to Pam, and called the good proper papa 'Mr Gerard' all the way through. So now!"

"Now, indeed!" echoed the real Mr Gerard, laughing. "You are certainly revenged, Miss Trevor. I don't know anything more trying than to be preceded by an impossibly exaggerated character! The reality is bound to be a disappointment. Miles has credited me with his own virtues, for in reality I am a very faulty person; not in the least like that paragon, Robinson Papa, of whom I have a vivid remembrance. He would have been a useful person out in Mexico, all the same. That convenient habit of discovering every necessity for the table or the toilet on the nearest bush would have helped us out of many a dilemma."

They laughed together over the old-time memory, and then, suddenly sobering, Mr Gerard continued—

"At any rate, Miss Trevor, the fact remains, that by 'good report or ill,' even by sight, so far as photographs can reproduce us, we have been intimately acquainted with each other for the last six years. Six years is a long time. It ought to enable us to meet as friends rather than acquaintances?"

The last sentence was uttered more as a question than a fact, and Betty answered with eager acquiescence.

"Oh yes, as friends, quite old friends. It is far better so—"

"Yet there are times when you treat me like the veriest stranger! It must be my own fault. Have I done or said anything since my arrival which has displeased you?"

"Oh no! Please don't think so. It was nothing at all, not a thing, except only that—"

She could not say, "Except that you seemed to prefer Jill's society to mine," and so complete the sentence; so she subsided into blushing silence, and Mr Gerard tactfully forbore to question.

"Don't let there be any more 'excepts' or 'buts,' please! Take me on trust as Miles' friend and—if you will allow me—your own. That is all I request."

At this interesting moment the sound of a latchkey was heard in the front door, followed by voices and footsteps in the hall. Mr Gerard muttered something under his breath. What the exact words were Betty did not know, but they were certainly not indicative of pleasure. Then the door opened, and Miles entered, followed by Jill, who had met her brother soon after starting for her walk, and had escorted him back to the house.

She raised her eyebrows at the sight of Mr Gerard. Had he not refused to go out with her a few minutes before, on the score of letters to be written? Yet here he was, talking to Betty, with never a pretence of paper or ink in the room.

Jill came down to dinner an hour or two later, attired in her prettiest dress, with the little curl, which Jack naughtily termed the "War Cry," artlessly displayed on her forehead. She did not care two pins about her brother's partner, but it was her nature to wish to reign supreme with any man with whom she was brought into contact, so she was her most captivating self all the evening, and Will Gerard laid his hand on his heart and bowed before her, laughed at her sallies, and applauded her songs, as he had done every evening since his arrival, and Betty laughed and applauded in her turn, without a trace of the old rankling jealousy. "He talks to her, but he looks at me. He wants me to be his friend!" she told herself with a proud content.

For the first time for many a long year her dreams that night were in the present, instead of in the past.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

A MOONLIGHT WALK.

Cynthia wrote to beg that Betty would soon come down to see her, and bring her old pupil to be reintroduced to his mentor, but time passed by, and one day after another was vetoed by Miles himself. Betty was nonplussed. It seemed as if he did not want to go. Yet she could hardly believe that such could be the case, when she recalled to memory the tone of his voice, the look on his face when, for the first and last time since his return, Miles had voluntarily mentioned Cynthia's name.

"It is quite an easy journey. We can get there in less than two hours by an express train, stay for lunch and tea, and get home again in time for dinner. I've been down twice this spring, and it is quite easily managed," she protested; but Miles would do nothing but grunt, and refuse a definite answer. To spend three or four hours in Franton, a large proportion of which would be taken up in eating meals, and talking to other people—this was not his idea of a first visit to Cynthia after six years of absence. He continued to grunt and make objections for the next few weeks, and then one night at dinner he announced airily—

"I've taken rooms at the Grand at Franton for a week from Friday. I thought, as we were going down in any case, we might as well do the thing comfortably, and have a breath of sea-air. Awfully stuffy in town this last week! They say the Grand is the best hotel, and we shall be fairly comfortable there. Four bedrooms, and a private sitting-room for you, mater, in case you want to be quiet. Gerard's coming along; and you'll come too—over Sunday, at least—I hope, father?"

"Over Sunday, certainly. I can manage that very well; and perhaps Horton can take on my work for a few days. There are no very serious cases on at present, and a rest would be very delightful!" said the tired doctor with a sigh. His wife brightened instantly at the thought of his pleasure, while Betty and Jill flushed with excitement.

Rooms at the Grand! The best hotel, where perchance they might be "comfortable"! They had never before stayed in an hotel; lodgings, and cheap lodgings into the bargain, had been their portion on the occasion of their rare holiday-makings. The grandeur of the prospect drove out every other thought, and, to his own immense relief, Miles escaped embarrassing comments on his sadden change of front.

"I hope we shan't have meals in the private room," Jill said anxiously. "The great fun of staying in an hotel is to see the people, and—er—"

"Be seen by the people?"

"Exactly! Especially the latter. Don't ask me to do a single thing before Friday, for I shan't have a second to spare. I'm off remnant- hunting this morning, and shall be glued to the sewing-machine for the rest of the time. Two new blouses at least I must have, if I am to pose before the public eye—"

"Oh, bother remnants! We'll go to Regent Street this morning, and buy half a dozen blouses between you. I am not going to take you to an hotel in remnants!" cried Miles with masculine scorn.

Since his return from abroad the eldest son of the family displayed a disregard of money which seemed next door to criminal in the eyes of his careful relations. Why worry to make up a blouse for three-and-sixpence when you can buy a better one for three guineas? That was his present attitude of mind; and when the girls hesitated,—fascinated yet fearful,—the reply was always the same—

"I've slaved hard enough all these years! This is my holiday. I've come home to enjoy myself, and see you enjoy yourselves, and I'm not going to worry my head about shillings. For pity's sake take what you can get, and don't fuss!"

It is the attitude of all men who come back to civilisation after a long absence, and in Miles' case it could truthfully be said that his extravagances benefited other people infinitely more than himself.

It was a very merry party which travelled down to Franton a few days later, and the comfort and grandeur of the hotel exceeded even the girls' expectation. All the bedrooms secured were situated on the front, and were provided with dear little balconies, on which they could sit and gaze over the sea. The drawing-room was a gorgeous apartment— all yellow satin and white archways, and banks of flowers. The dining- hall was dotted over with little tables, a larger one in a bay-window being reserved for the Trevor party. The lounge was provided with innumerable couches and wicker chairs, in which one could loll at ease, scrutinising the other visitors, or submitting to scrutiny on one's own account, with a delightful consciousness of a Regent Street blouse. The gardens and shrubberies would have been quite irresistible, had it not been that just beyond their bounds stretched the firm golden sands, on which the white-crested waves broke with a siren sound.

"Go to bed without a walk on the shore by moonlight—I can't and won't, not if ten fathers, and fifty thousand mothers went down on their knees and implored me to be prudent!" asserted audacious Jill, as she finished her after-dinner coffee; whereupon Dr Trevor laughed good- naturedly, and said—

"There's only one father present, and the only knees he possesses are much too stiff to exert themselves in a hopeless cause! Run along, my dear; I should have felt the same at your age. Put on a shawl. Miles, you will see that your sisters don't run wild, and that they come in by a sensible hour."

So the four young people wandered along the sands, and watched the moonlight play upon the waters; but there was no need of the last part of the doctor's warning, for even Jill grew quiet and subdued, and forgot to tease and banter. Coming fresh from the noisy, crowded city, there was something inexpressibly impressive in the long stretch of sand, the dark, mysterious waters, the loneliness, the silence, broken only by the rhythmic break of the waves.

Miles walked alone, his face lifted now and again to the top of the cliff on which stood the villa which the Alliots had hired for the summer months. Betty looked across the waste of waters, and felt a pang of compunction. How long was it since she had last thought of her friend across the sea? Fainter and more faint had his image been growing, until from forming a constant background to her thoughts, it had become a positive effort to remember. She turned aside from Will Gerard's whispered words, and passed her hand through her brother's arm. To be beside Miles was in itself an incentive to loyalty.

Next morning at eleven o'clock, Betty and Miles started to walk up to the Alliots' villa, leaving Jill and Will Gerard seated on the shore throwing pebbles into the sea, with every appearance of satisfaction with themselves, and their occupation. The path was steep but not very long, and at the entrance to the garden Mrs Alliot was strolling about, as if awaiting their arrival. She kissed Betty and patted her affectionately on the shoulder.

"Cynthia is waiting for you. Run along to her, dear! I will follow with your brother, and hear some of his news," she said in a light tone which yet held a hint of command, and, when Betty disappeared, she turned in an opposite direction, so as to take the least direct path to the house.

"I am sure your mother is delighted to have you back! It is delightful that you have been so successful in your work. We have been so interested in your adventures."

The short conventional sentences were the only references made to Miles' own affairs, and then, as if in a hurry to get to the subject most on her mind, Mrs Alliot began to speak of her daughter.

"You will be surprised to find Cynthia looking so well. She has put on flesh during the last few months, and the sea-air has given her a colour. Last winter she was painfully thin. It has been a long uphill struggle, but now at last we begin to see definite improvement. The doctors are confident that it will be a complete cure if we are very careful during the next two or three years. The great thing is to live in pure bracing air, and to keep her happy and cheerful. Anything that caused agitation or worry of any kind, would have a deleterious effect. She has a very sensitive nature, and things go deeply with her,—more deeply than with most girls. Her father and I hide all worries from her, even our anxiety about herself. We, and all the friends who love her, must unite in doing everything in our power to spare her during these all-important years. I know you will understand the position."

"Yes," said Miles quietly, "I perfectly understand."

He had grown very white beneath his tan, and Mrs Alliot, glancing swiftly at him, felt a pang of compunction. Poor young fellow, it was hard on him, if he really cared! Yet she had done no more than her duty in warning him that he could not be allowed to disturb Cynthia's peace of mind. So far, the girl was fancy free, but her interest in the return of her boy-friend was so strong that a word, a look, a hint of his own feeling might be sufficient to fan it into a stronger flame.

"But now that I have spoken he knows how things are, and he is a good fellow! He will think of her before himself," said Cynthia's mother to herself with a sigh of relief.

For the rest of the way to the house Mrs Alliot talked on impersonal subjects, and Miles answered with colourless politeness; then, at last, across a wide green lawn, a sun shelter came into view, in which Betty could be discerned, and someone else in a white dress lying on a couch banked up with blue cushions.

"There are the girls! Don't wait for me! Go across the lawn," said Mrs Alliot kindly.

When one has dealt the one great blow, it is easy enough to make trifling concessions, reflected Miles bitterly, as he strode forward; but the next moment all bitterness died away as he grasped a thin white hand, and looked down into a face which was at once strange, and exquisitely familiar. Cynthia, but Cynthia as a woman, no longer a schoolgirl; Cynthia with her golden mane wound smoothly round her head, with blue shadows under the sweet eyes, and hollows where the dimples used to dip in the rounded cheeks. At the first glance the air of delicacy was painfully pronounced, but as she smiled and flushed, the old merry Cynthia looked at him once more.

"Miles! Is it really you? I can hardly believe it! Such a great, big man! Oh, but I'm glad! I'm glad to see you again! Sit down, sit down. Let me see you properly. I mayn't get up from this horrid couch. Yes, it's you! I'd know your eyes anywhere, and the moustache is nice—a very fine moustache, Miles! I'm glad the beard is off. I like your square chin. It is lovely to have you all here, and to know you have not to run away in a few hours. I'm looking forward immensely to the next week. Old Miles! It is good to see you!"

She laughed and coughed, and lent back against the cushions, pushing them into place with an impatient hand; while Miles stared at her in an intent silence which printed every detail so deeply in his memory that no passage of time could wear them away. The loose ends of hair which escaped from the coils and curled on her white neck, the long transparent hands against the blue cushions, the slight figure in the white dress—how often that vision arose before him in the years to come!

As of old, Cynthia's friendliness showed no hint of embarrassment, and she chatted away as easily as if the separation had lasted for weeks instead of years. Betty had tactfully rejoined Mrs Alliot, and for the next half-hour Miles was allowed an uninterrupted tete-a-tete.

"Tell me all about everything!" cried Cynthia, just as years before she had demanded an account of Miles' engineering studies; and when he protested, "Oh, it's quite easy," she maintained, "Tell me the history of a day. You wake in the morning, and get up, and then—what next? Go through the whole programme until it is time to go to bed again."

Then Miles spoke, and she listened eagerly, the flush dying out of her cheeks and a wistful expression deepening in her eyes.

"It's just as I said long ago," she sighed plaintively when he had finished; "you have gone out into the world and done things, and I have stayed at home and done—nothing! Oh, Miles, it was hard being taken ill just then! Father had come home, and we were looking forward to travelling about, and having a good time together, and being so happy. I had finished classes, and was old enough to come out, and I meant to be such a good daughter, and to take care of the parents for a change, after being taken care of all my life. I was going to my first ball—my dress was in the house—when I caught influenza, and since then"—she threw out her arms with an expressive gesture—"it's been this sort of thing all the time! Lying still—eating—sleeping—being waited on hand and foot; an anxiety instead of a help; a care instead of a joy—oh, and I did want to be a joy!" She paused a moment to press her lips together, and to give her head an impatient shake. "I mustn't be silly! Father and mother don't guess that I feel like this, and it isn't always so bad. Some days I feel quite bright and happy, especially lately, since I've been getting better, but seeing you brought back the dear old days, and oh, I want to be well again, and run about with you on the sands. I shan't be able to go about with you at all."

"I will come and sit with you as often as I may—as long as I may," said Miles huskily whereupon Cynthia smiled on him again.

"How nice of you! Ah yes, you must come. I'll keep quite quiet for the rest of the day, and then I can talk while you are here. There's so much I want to tell, and to hear!"

She coughed again, and brushed her hair from her brow, evidently fatigued by her own emotion. The dainty finish and grace of her appearance, which had been the greatest charm in Miles' eyes long ago, was accentuated by her illness into a fragility which made her seem more like a spirit than a flesh-and-blood woman to his unaccustomed eyes. His thoughts raced back for a moment to the scene of his Mexican home, and he realised the folly of the dream which had for so long made the half-conscious background of his thoughts. Even if she were willing, even if she loved him, as he loved and would always love her, it would be a madman who could dream of transplanting this fragile flower to those rude surroundings. Cynthia was not for him! Their lives, for the present at least, lay far apart. As for the future, that was in God's hands; it would be selfish and cowardly to try to ensure it for himself. Miles' heart was wrung with the agony of renunciation, but his set face showed no signs of his suffering. He cheered Cynthia with renewed promises of daily visits, chatted with her of old friends and old times, and had the reward of hearing her laugh with the old merry ring. When he took her hand in farewell, she looked at him with frank eyes, and said sweetly—

"I'm sorry I grumbled—it was wrong of me when I'm so well off. I do try to be good, but I was always impatient—you used to laugh when I said so, but it was true. This illness may be just what I need—'They also serve, who only stand and wait'—I think so often of that line, and try to wait in patience, but it is hard—the hardest thing in the world, sometimes!"

"Yes," said Miles quietly, "the very hardest?"



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

EXPLANATIONS.

It was a very happy week. The weather was all that could be desired for a seaside holiday,—bright yet not glaring, warm but not hot. The hotel was everything that was luxurious and comfortable, and, last and best of all, Cynthia kept bright and happy, and was better—not worse—for the visits of her old friends.

Every morning Betty accompanied Miles up to the villa, leaving Mr Gerard and Jill busy playing tennis, roving about on the shore, or engaged in that other engrossing occupation of throwing stones. For the first day or two she made excuses, and strolled away to join Mrs Alliot, but it soon became apparent to her quick senses that neither that lady nor, strangely enough, Miles himself encouraged these well- meant excursions. So for the rest of the time she sat in the shelter by Cynthia's couch, and joined frankly in the conversation. Sometimes Miles would be silent for almost the whole morning, listening while the two friends talked together as girls will—a pretty, innocent, sweet- hearted chatter of home and friends and books and dresses, and "Do you remember," and "Oh, just suppose," which unconsciously revealed the character of both.

Absorbed as he was in Cynthia and all that belonged to her, Miles was more than once arrested by Betty herself, and asked himself if it could be true or only imagination that she had gained immensely in beauty, softness, and general charm since his return five weeks ago. There was an expression on her face in these last days which transfigured the old Betty into something a hundred times sweeter and more attractive. Happiness enveloped her as an atmosphere,—an almost tremulous happiness, as of one fearful of her own joy. Miles felt assured that Cynthia noticed this new development as he did himself, as he saw the grey eyes rest on her friend's face with a tender wistfulness of gaze, and heard the fluttering sigh with which she turned aside.

Never again had Cynthia breathed a word of complaint for her own limitations. After that first involuntary outburst she had carefully steered clear of the subject of self, and thrown herself heart and soul into her companion's interest. It was only when the last day of the short visit had been reached that she alluded to her own plans.

"We are ordered to leave Franton. It is very hot and oppressive in July and August, and the doctors want us to go to some high mountain resort in Switzerland. We shall move on by easy stages as soon as possible— possibly next week. It is quite uncertain what we shall do for the autumn and winter; we may possibly move on to the Engadine. In any case I'm afraid it is unlikely that we shall return to England. Will there be any chance of seeing you when we return in spring, Miles?"

And then Betty received a shock, for Miles replied quietly—

"I shall be back in Mexico long before then. I don't think I shall take more than three months' holiday this time. One gets tired of loafing after a busy life. I shall want to get back to work."

"Miles, how can you!" cried his sister shrilly. "Three months! In another seven weeks—it's impossible! We have hardly had time to realise that you are home. We made sure that you would be with us till after Christmas at least. Three months' holiday after all these years! Oh, Miles, you can't mean it!"

"I came home to see you all, Betty, and to satisfy myself that you were well; when that's done there's no more excuse for lazying. I am entitled to a year's rest, if I like to take it; but if I go back now I shall be nine months nearer my next visit; and if the mine does all that we expect, I shall be back sooner than you imagine. Three years—even two—may see me home again, and then—things may be changed—it may be easier to stay—!"

He kept his eyes lowered as he spoke, but Betty understood. Perhaps Cynthia did too, for her pale cheeks flushed, and she made not a word of comment.

When Miles rose a few minutes later, she said "Good-bye" to him in exactly the same words which she had used six years before—

"Good-bye, Miles. I won't forget!"

And Miles crushed her little hands in his, and walked silently away.

At the gate Mrs Alliot was awaiting him, as on the morning of his first visit. She looked wistfully at the stern, white face, then laid her hand on his arm, and said in a tremulous voice—

"Mr Trevor—I—I want to thank you! You have been very brave and kind. Don't think I have not understood—mothers always understand—but for Cynthia's sake I was obliged to be selfish. It might have undone all she has gained, to have had any great excitement or agitation. She is very young yet—only twenty-two—and she looks upon you as a friend of her school-days. It was better for every reason that your relations should remain unchanged."

Then Miles faced her, a tall imposing figure drawn to his full height, with shoulders squared and flashing eyes.

"For the present, yes! I have respected your wishes, and put my own hopes on one side. Now I am going back to work like ten men rather than one. If things go as we expect—as we have a right to expect—in a few years' time I shall be able to live where I please, to choose my home where it best suits myself—and others. If I live, Mrs Alliot, I shall be home again in a few years' time, and then I warn you that nothing and nobody shall keep me apart from Cynthia if she will be my wife. If she has recovered—well! If she is ill—I will take care of her! I have served for her six years already. I will serve six more if needs be, but I shall claim her in the end!"

"And if it is God's will that she lives and loves you, I will give her to you gladly. You are a good man, Miles. God bless you! All good go with you!" said Mrs Alliot warmly.

Then they shook hands and parted. For how long? It was impossible to say. Before Miles lay the far country, danger by land and sea, a hard, adventurous life; before Cynthia years of what at the best must be a slow, difficult convalescence, with the ever-present danger of a relapse into her old condition. Only God knew, Who holds the issue of time. Their greatest stronghold lay in their confidence in Him.

————————————————————————————————————

That evening Betty sat beside Will Gerard on the sloping beach, and watched the sun set in a silence tinged with melancholy. Miles' announcement of a speedy return to America had planted a dart in her heart which was not solely on his own account; for if he went, would not his partner go too, leaving her to a life of such blank emptiness as was terrifying to contemplate? All day long the thought had haunted her; she had longed yet dreaded to speak on the subject, and now that evening was here, she felt it impossible to face the long hours of the night without some certain knowledge.