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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: Bond or Free, an electronic edition
Author: Mathers, Helen, 1853-1920
Publisher: Hodder and Stoughton
Place published: London, New York, Toronto
Date: 1913
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BOND OR FREEAdvert included in front of Lyall's "Bond or Free" BOND OR FREE BY  DAVID LYALL AUTHOR OF "ROSS DURHAM," "THE ONE WHO CAME AFTER," "THE HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS""Stand fast therefore in the liberty where-with Christ hath made us free, and be notentangled again with the yoke of bondage." HODDER AND STOUGHTON LONDON NEW YORK TORONTOPrinted in 1913Table of contents included in front of Lyall's "Bond or Free"
Table of contents included in front of Lyall's "Bond or Free"
Table of contents included in front of Lyall's "Bond or Free"
Table of contents included in front of Lyall's "Bond or Free"
CHAPTER ITHE SHADOW ON THE HEARTH"ESTHER and Win," said Mary Calladine's coaxing voice on the top landing, "I do wish you'd just pop down to the dining-room with me a minute and see whether everything's just right."The door of the spacious attic chamber the two younger sisters shared being ajar, Mary pushed it open with one hand, while with the other she began to unfasten her bodice.Company was expected at Whitcombe Square, and Mary's housewifely soul was in the acute stage of partial achievement and complete anxiety. Winnie, a dainty butterfly creature, with a cloud of fair hair lying about her shoulders, turned from the dressing-table with a brush in her hand and her mouth full of hairpins, while Esther paused in her work of fastening the flowers in the bodice of her frock, which lay across the foot of the twin bedstead which was hers."Oh, it's sure to be all right, Moll!" she said, holding away the bodice from her to study the effect."I think it's not bad; but it's your grand friend Mr. Dudley Frew, Esther. Will it pass muster for him? I think you'd better come and see."They left the room together, and hastened down the two flights of

narrow, steep stairs which are characteristic of so many of the older

London houses. The hall into which they presently stepped was rather

narrow too, but, being fairly high in the ceiling, gave one a

fictitious idea of space. It was sparsely furnished, the floor covered in plain felt, brightened by a cheap, but quite effective, Indian rug.Mary pushed open the dining-room door, and, mounting a chair, pulled the cord of the incandescent lamp so that a flood of light was instantly thrown on the table. It was laid for eight persons, in the smaller end of the double room, which appeared to have been the early Victorian—or the Georgian—architect's idea of comfort and utility.It is not a good arrangement, though it has been endured by many inoffensive people. It robs two rooms of privacy, and is never, at the best, anything but a makeshift and pretence.The Calladines were used to it. They had never known anything else, for they had lived in Whitcombe Square since they were quite little children, and had never grumbled or imagined that they had cause to grumble at it.These old residential London squares have fallen on evil days, but the newer suburbs have nothing to offer to compare with them in dignity and convenience for city folk. Whitcombe Square is one of the most desirable, and yet, oddly, it is one of the least known. When Paul Calladine had occasion to give his address for the first time to an acquaintance—which happened rarely, because he made very few—it was always necessary to add some word of explanation. But those who came were invariably surprised and pleased. The houses were tall and narrow, with long, deep windows, many of them adorned with creeper, and all having a lovely outlook upon a delectable garden in the middle of the Square, which, open only to house-holders, had an air of privacy and remoteness. In the old elms nesting birds were busy from the earliest spring days, and there were flowering trees of haw-thorn and lilac, which filled the air with delicious perfume right through May and June.As the three stood together, two critical and one anxious, the contrast between them was quite marked. Mary was the eldest, and she had that staid, sedate air we see in young women who have had responsibility thrust upon them early. She was now twenty-eight years of age, and she had not the kind of looks which attract at first sight. She was slightly under the middle height, and all her running to and fro in the house and up and down in it—mistakenly called exercise by the best of women—had not kept in check her slight inclination to stoutness. But her figure was trim and neat, and her colour good; also, in her lighter moods, her grey eye was merry and her laugh infectious. But life had been a pretty serious thing for Mary Calladine, and she did not laugh as much as Nature had intended she should do when she conferred upon her that silvery voice.Esther, who was three years younger, was a magnificent creature, with a kind of statuesque beauty which attracted attention everywhere. An artist in clothes, she could not wear the simplest article without distinction. In her hands a yard of plain stuff would become a thing of beauty and grace. But she had a hard face, with large, half-veiled, rebellious eyes. Her features, almost classical in outline, had none of the softness or charm of Mary's. Their habitual expression was bitter, as of one who beholds the years passing and knows that the locust is eating them.Winnie, the baby of the family, was as pretty and dainty as her name, a veritable sunbeam, taking life and all its happenings lightly. Even the daily routine of work in a type-writing office was still play to her—a sort of highway of romance, which any day might be illumined by the high adventure."Why, it's lovely, quite lovely, isn't it, Esther?" cried the child, clasping rapturous hands, "and I am hungry! I hope nobody will be late, or I shan't be able to contain myself."It's very nice," said Esther slowly and more critically. "But isn't there a good deal of food in evidence?""Not more than is admissible at supper-time, I think," said Mary rather quickly. "And, you see, it saves carrying things in when one has no servant.""Of course; but I'm going to be parlour-maid to-night, "said Winnie quickly. "You must promise that you won't get up once, Mary.""Edgar will help," said Mary, with a smile. "It's your artist friend I'm thinking about, Esther. If you really think it will hurt him to gaze upon trifles and jellies while he is eating chicken or cold beef, I'll remove some of them.""Oh, no. The effect is quite good, if a trifle stodgy!" said Esther languidly. "And you have managed the flowers nicely. I really meant to be home in time to arrange them, but there wasn't any need."Mary smiled at this compliment, for she had privately thought that the ruddy mass of chrysanthemums, thrown rather carelessly into a pretty, old bowl, was quite effective enough."Well, we'd better get into our clothes," she said lightly, as she pulled the cord again and lowered the gas. " The food will be good to eat anyhow, for I know that everything is of the best.""I'm sure it is," Esther answered in the same listless, slightly detached voice.She was not very enthusiastic, considering that the feast was for her birthday, and that she had invited for the first time a great friend, possibly a lover—Dudley Frew, the artist, of whom her sisters had heard much, but whom, as yet, they had not met.Mary left them at the first landing, where her room was situated, for convenience in the mornings, when she had so much to do. The Calladines kept no servant, though, early in the morning, one of those mysterious dingy persons who "oblige a lidy" came to the area gate with the milkman, and was admitted by Mary. Mrs. Polgarth had "obliged" at 19, Whitcombe Square for the last seven years, and the Calladines were what she called her "reglers."Mary's only attempt at an evening frock—a black silk grenadine, with a little scrap of real old lace at the throat—lay across her bed. She proceeded to get into it rather hastily, afraid lest any of the company should arrive before she was ready to receive them.As she dressed, she was conscious of an odd feeling that something was going to happen℄that this was going to be an unusual night, perhaps an epoch-making night. But there was no alarm or apprehension in her thought. Rather was there a kind of pleasurable anticipation. Perhaps Dudley Frew, the artist, coming to the house for the first time, might show unmistakably that it was for Esther he came℄might even propose for her to their father before he left it. She knew that they saw a good deal of each other outside, though this would be the first time he had come to the house.Her heart beat a little at the thought, for, like all womanly women, Mary Calladine was deeply interested in love affairs. She herself had never had one worthy of the name. Men are not attracted by household drudges, perhaps, and Mary certainly was one, at everybody's beck and call. But she was neither resentful nor rebellious about it. It was her niche. She was not clever, and she would have hated going out into the world to earn her living. She was much happier at home, and she really loved housekeeping and managing for them all.Even on her greyest days she never felt herself in active revolt.As she was tucking two or three of the flame-coloured chrysanthemums in her belt she heard the grating of a key in the front door, and she ran out to the landing at once. Looking over the banister rail, she could see her father and her brother Edgar enter together."Oh, you good dears, to be so punctual!" she called out happily. "However did you get away in such good time, Edgar?""Only by the skin of my teeth, old girl," he answered with a wave of his hand. "I've been at a meeting all the afternoon at the Memorial Hall, and I conceived the happy idea of fetching father from London Wall. Any of the company arrived yet?""Not yet. Come up, father dear. I've laid out your clean shirt and your velvet jacket. You will put it on, won't you? You look so nice in it. I do hope you are not frightfully tired."She added this, imagining a slight pallor on her father's face as he began to ascend the stairs.He was a tall man, with a big frame, slightly stooped at the shoulders, a thin, rather harsh-featured face, and an expression of habitual gloom. Life had dealt hardly with Paul Calladine. He might with truth perhaps be written down as one of the failures. In his youth there had been none to guide him, and such gifts as he had were never cultivated. He had been sent to an office stool a lad of sixteen, and there he had practically remained ever since. True, he was now a trusted and confidential servant, but still only a servant, and his four hundred a year represented the height of his achievement.A silent, reserved man, the sorrow and disappointment of life had slightly embittered him. But he loved his children dearly, though he never told them so, and he leaned specially on his second son, Edgar, who was a clergyman, already making his mark both among his compeers and in the large parish on the outer fringes of London, where all his energies were fully absorbed.It may be said here briefly that Calladine had been disappointed in his marriage, at once the most intimate and the most exacting relationship of life.As he passed Mary on the narrow landing she gave his arm a little pat, and he smiled at her, but did not offer to kiss her. The Calladines as a family were not demonstrative, though in reality much attached to one another.Now quite ready, Mary ran down for a word with Edgar, who had removed his hat and coat and passed into the drawing-room—a frankly ugly room, in which were collected most of the atrocities which a woman without taste is capable of spending good money upon. A yellowish-coloured carpet, patterned with big roses, was on the floor, supplemented by a mangy, grey goat-skin rug before the fireplace. The furniture was cheap walnut, covered in ugly tapestry, and a chiffonier with a glass back and a marble top occupied one wall-space, while an old-fashioned cottage pianoforte with a front of crimson silk occupied the other.All the Calladines loathed the furniture of the drawing-room, but there never had been any money to spend in altering it. Mary longed for, and sometimes started saving up for chintzes, but as yet she had not been able to acquire them.She knelt down on the grey goat-skin, and began to pull the logs together with the miniature tongs.Edgar stretched his thin, rather artistic hands over her head to get some of the warmth, and, incidentally, he touched her pretty brown hair."I don't see a grey thread yet, Moll," he said lightly, yet with a certain kind of tenderness.Edgar Calladine loved his sister Mary best of all the household in Whitcombe Square."Don't you, dear? Sometimes I feel rather old, but as I was dressing to-night, I kept thinking that we have had a really good year, Edgar. Father has been better in his health and spirits, and everything has seemed easier.""I've had a good year, too, at Winterstowe—a very good year," said Edgar, as he dropped into a corner of the old settee, which had often done duty as a bed."How I should love to be there with you, Edgar! I am not comfortable in my mind, when I think how poorly Mrs. Worboise does for you. You'll have to marry, dear, in self-defence, for I'm quite sure we shall never be able to realise the dream we had of keeping house together."Calladine shook his head."It won't run to marrying, I doubt, Moll, this many a year.""I wish you'd marry Casa, Edgar. She's the dearest thing among women I know. I'm so sorry she can't come to-night. She's gone down to Eastbourne to give some painting lessons. She is to be there for three weeks.""Is Angus coming?""Of course. Isn't it Esther's party?" said Mary, with a slight smile, less amiable than those that had gone before."You think it's a case then, Moll?""With him—oh, yes. About Esther I am not so sure. We shall see the new man to-night, Edgar. I rather think he is scoring at present. Esther speaks about him with bated breath, as if he were something quite out of the common.""You mean Frew, the artist chap, I suppose? Well, he is rather a notability, isn't he?""He had two pictures in the Academy last spring, and one in the Paris salon, and he has apparently impressed Esther. There's the bell! Wonder whether it will be Angus or Mr. Frew?"As Mary rose, and the light fell on her expectant face, a little eager in its expression, her brother thought what a sweet face it was—the sort of face of which a man does not quickly tire."I hope it's only Angus. I want Esther to be down before Dudley Frew arrives,"She set the door a little ajar, and walked out. Then Edgar heard the sound of Raeburn's voice, and followed out to add his welcome.They all liked Raeburn, and the friendship between them dated back to the days of childhood. Raeburn's father, a rather noted engraver in his day, had lived in one of the smaller houses in Whitcombe Square, and the families had been intimate for all these years.A Scotsman, he had married an Italian woman, and the marriage had been one of rare happiness. The children were both gifted, but it was Casa, the daughter, who was the artist. Angus was a professor of science in one of the newer colleges, and he was much respected by all who knew his work. His was a mind which could never be content with the routine or curriculum of the schools, its natural bent being research, in which he was so deeply engrossed after his actual working day was over that he very seldom accepted any social engagement. The brother and sister, now orphaned, had left Whitcombe Square, and pitched their tent in a small house in Oakley Street, Chelsea, where Casa had her studio, and which was conveniently near for her brother's research work at the laboratories.Raeburn was extraordinarily handsome, with a certain nobility of air, which he had inherited from his Italian mother, who had been nobly born. His splendid eyes, glowing with all the depth and fervour of virile manhood, unsullied by dissipation, and devoted to the highest ideals and pursuits, sought Mary Calladine's face with the utmost pleasure.To Raeburn Mary was as dear as his own sister Casa, while Mary—but we shall see, as we move through these pages. The warm glow of her cheek undoubtedly deepened, as she felt his close, kind handclasp, and heard him say how glad he was to come."I had a line from Casa by this evening's post, She's disconsolate, because she can't be here to eat the birthday baked meats. Where's the Toast of the evening?""Here!" said a voice behind them, and Esther burst upon their admiring vision—a lovely picture in a velvet gown of a particularly rare and becoming shade of blue, which set off her rich colouring to perfection. A fillet of blue bound her ruddy hair, and her only ornament was a long chain of uncut turquoise, with which her white fingers played.A light sprang to Raeburn's eyes as they fell on the regal figure, and Mary shrank into the background, and stole round to meet her father on the stair and bring him down. He was rather a pathetic figure in his shabby velvet jacket; and though he smiled in response to Raeburn's greeting, the smile was but fleeting, and he immediately moved into the drawingroom, and took a chair by the fire."Are we waiting for anybody else?" he asked, as they trooped in, Winnie bringing up the rear, hanging on Raeburn's arm, her laughing, winsome face smiling saucily up into his.She wore a white frock and a pink sash, and a rose at her belt, and looked the embodiment of youth and lightheartedness."We are waiting for Esther's friend—Mr. Dudley Frew, the great artist, you know, father," answered Mary, in a quick, warning undertone. "And there is his ring! Will you go and let him in, Esther?"Esther looked reluctant, even a little annoyed."It's very awkward not having any one to answer the door. Surely we might have had some one in for the evening!""I'll go," said Edgar good-naturedly, and was immediately as good as his word.Esther, however, as if ashamed of her momentary irritation, followed him, and there ensued a little hum of talk, which kept those inside the room on the edge of expectancy. All were conscious of a quick interest the new-comer, for strangers came very seldom to Whitcombe Square.Esther's birthday supper was, in its way, quite an event.Mary was frankly disappointed with the distinguished artist's outward appearance, which could not for a moment compare with Angus Raeburn's. He was not tall, and his head, with its leonine mass of dark hair, seemed too big for his body. It was a strong, clever face, with a pair of brilliant and extraordinary eyes which seemed capable of taking in everything at a glance. They simply swept the room as he entered it, taking an inventory of those waiting to be introduced. His manners were courtly, if a little foreign in gesture and intensity, which peculiarity Mary attributed to his prolonged studies abroad."I am happy to meet you, sir," said the elder Calladine with a quiet courtesy, but at the same time he felt himself quite aloof from the stranger, who belonged to a world he knew nothing of.Though he was not a large man, Frew's presence had the singular effect of dwarfing the room, and of accentuating its appalling ugliness. He actually seemed to shudder as his lightning glance took it all in. But his eyes softened and lit with real pleasure as they dwelt on Mary Calladine's face at the moment of his introduction to her.Esther, nervously critical, imagined that she had lever seen Mary look more hopelessly dowdy and middle-class, whereas Frew saw in her one of the sweetest of women, and knew her at the moment for what she was—a real home-maker, one ordained by wish Nature for the gift of motherhood."We are quite ready, I think?" she said brightly, oddly conscious of some warmth in the stranger's manner towards her. "I hope Esther has told you that we are quite homely people, Mr.Frew, and that there is no sort of ceremony in Whitcombe Square.""Ceremony!" he repeated, as Edgar threw open the folding doors. "What has ceremony to do with life? It belongs to pageants, and we don't want pageants in the homes of our hearts.""I don't know," answered Mary, with a swift, illuminating smile. "I don't think the home would be the worse of a little pageantry now and again. Common things occasionally need a little illumination."After they were seated at the table, Raeburn had something to whisper to Mary, who sat by his side."This is a pageant, and no mistake! You've excelled yourself to-night. Made 'em all yourself, honest Injun?""Everything, honest Injun!" she answered, smiling back.Esther was at the other end of the table, on her father's right hand, with Frew opposite to her.When the meal began talk flowed evenly, and with deepening interest. Frew found himself curiously at home in this atmosphere, which, somehow, Esther had taught him to distrust. She had invited him with a sort of hesitation, and when she had talked of her people there had always been a shrinking in her manner. He wondered why, for he liked them all, though just once or twice he had an odd consciousness of some shadow in the background, too intangible to be put into words or shape.Frew himself was a perfectly simple man, and Esther, in her acquaintance with him, had failed to grasp that essential trait in his character. She thought rather of the great artist, seldom of the man. Frew admired her greatly, as one admires a beautiful picture, but he found something more restful in the face of her sister, who was quite obviously the Martha of the household. The two sisters were indeed unconscious rivals from that night forward. Frew was surprised at the intellectual equipment of those gathered with him round that simple board. The Calladines, whom circumstances had isolated from their own set, had filled up the gap with books and music, and all the varied interests open to those who imagine themselves cut off in some degree from the social amenities. They were all insatiable readers, though each had a different field. And they were decidedly abreast of the times in their views. Frew was specially astonished at the parson-son, whom he discovered in a short space of time to be one of the most human creatures he had ever met. He knew nothing of clergymen as a class. They simply did not occur in his area of things."May I inquire where your parish is?" he asked, looking down the table, arrested by something Edgar had said about the housing problem in the place where he lived."I haven't a parish. I'm a Dissenting parson," he answered with his fine smile. "My chapel is situated at Winterstowe, on the border of the Forest.""Epping?" inquired Frew interestedly.Edgar was about to enlighten him still further when Mary, looking slightly perturbed, rose from her chair."I hear a sound like somebody coming in by the glass door. I'm afraid you must have left it on the latch, Edgar. Perhaps that is somebody making off with the sticks and umbrellas!""I'll see to it," said Edgar, but as he rose the dining-room door was suddenly thrown open, and a strange figure appeared on the threshold.It was the figure of a woman, middle-aged, ample, queerly clad, with something resembling an old antimacassar thrown across her shoulders, and a young girl's hat, set awry upon luxuriant hair, which had partly fallen down behind, giving a most disreputable touch to her head.Her face, not without lingering traces of former comeliness, was flushed and swollen; her eyes, suddenly confronted with the incandescent light, blinked redly, and her laugh, which broke the dreary silence of that dreadful moment, had something uncanny, almost inhuman, about it."So it's a party, and I've arrived in the very nick of time!" she said thickly. "Evenin', Paul. Got a drop of anything for the old lady? Don't look at your mother like that, Mary Calladine. You always were a bit of a starcher. Is that my little Win, grown out of all knowledge? Come and kiss me, darling. Why don't somebody say something? Where's Frank? He wouldn't go back on his old mother! I've done'em clean this time! Like to hear it—eh? Perhaps it might raise a bit of a laugh in this chapelmeetin'."On this night of all nights the tragedy of the Calladine household stood revealed!CHAPTER IITHE AFTERMATHIT was a ghastly moment. A deadly silence descended upon family and guests alike, rooting them to the spot and paralysing their tongues.Paul Calladine, his face very white and set, recovered himself first, and, approaching the disreputable-looking figure, laid an astonishingly gentle hand on her arm."Come, Annie. Come upstairs, my dear, and get off your bonnet. Then, when you are feeling a little better, you can come down."But she shook off his hand and laughed in his face."No, thank you, Mr. Calladine. You want to shove the old second-hand goods into the box-room! Same old game! But not if I know it! I sit here just as long as I like, and not a minute longer. Sit down, all of you, and let me look at you, pretty dears!"Raeburn and Frew immediately tried to resume the conversation that had been interrupted, and pointedly spoke to each other to cover the awkwardness of the situation. Raeburn's eyes were full of an immense compassion; to him this was no new thing. He had seen the like in the Calladine house many a time. Frew, however, was conscious of a strange, detached, and very vivid kind of interest. Also, he imagined he had received some explanation of a side of Esther Jadine which had occasionally repelled him."I remember you, Angus Raeburn, of course," murmured Mrs. Calladine garrulously. "But where's Casa? She was a little peach. Not married, is she?—shouldn't wonder. Say, Edgar, how long have I been away this time?" Thus addressed, Edgar Calladine seemed suddenly to come strongly to himself. He moved to his mother's side, and put an arm about her shoulders."Come, mother, right up to your room. You are excited and tired. Mary will come too, and bring you something to eat.""A drop of drink would do me more good, son. Ain't you got anything in the house, Mr. Calladine? Whatever are you drinking?—ginger-pop! La, how do these gentlemen like it? Poor cheer, I call it."Inclined to protest, but conscious of her son's stronger will, she permitted herself to be gently guided from the room. Mary followed, and, after a moment, Calladine resumed his seat with a somewhat painful smile.Winnie's hands stole out under cover of the tablecloth and patted his knee, but the child's kind eyes were welling in tears. Esther's face was quite hard and cold, and in her eyes burned rebellious fires.Calladine neither made nor attempted any explanation, but the gloom on his face was tragic. Frew addressed some remark to him which turned the conversation, and they were talking with a fair semblance of naturalness when Edgar returned to the room.He walked round his father's chair of a set purpose, and dropped his hand reassuringly on his shoulder."Mary is persuading her to lie down, and probably she will sleep. She is very tired," he said quite simply, and, slipping into his own chair, joined in the talk.But, of course, the feast was spoiled, both by what had occurred and by Mary's absence. At the earliest possible moment Esther withdrew into the inner room, and threw herself on the couch, hiding her face. Winnie sat down softly, dejected and miserable, feeling that everything had suddenly gone hideously wrong.After fidgeting about for a few moments she left the room, and stole half-way upstairs to listen for some sound from the room where Mary and their mother were together.Almost immediately the drawing-room door opened from without, and Frew entered alone to say goodnight.Esther flung up her head. Her face was flushed, her eyes met his with a sort of defiance."So now you know the worst," she said in a low voice. "I am sorry that you were asked here under false pretences. People who have something to hide ought not to indulge in social intercourse.""Nonsense—they need it all the more," he answered suavely. "Don't let us talk about it to-night. Permit me only to say how very, very sorry I am for you, and for your amiable family."His choice of words was odd and a little formal, but his tone was very kind. He did not like the spirit and the attitude of Esther Calladine in the face of this family misfortune. He liked much more the quick and ready desire to help exhibited by Mary.Esther looked up at him with a quick wistfulness, however, which on her beautiful face was touching."Then, you will not drop us for this, for, of course, I ought to have told you.""But why?"She fidgeted a moment in her seat."Well, just because I ought. But what chance had we, or have we, with that constantly hanging over us? We ought never to have been born!"Oh, come! After all, we can still be master of our fate," he suggested easily."We can't. You speak like that because you have had no trials of that kind. We've always under a cloud, and always shall. We never shall get beyond or above it.""Nonsense again," he said lightly, but kindly. "Why, it has not hindered any of you, and I see that it has developed wonderful qualities in your elder sister.""But we never have had a chance," she pursued. "We've had no proper home to which we could invite people. And—and always in the background there is the horrible bogy of heredity.""It is a bogy—bury it," said Frew, with the same astonishing and patient kindness, which surprised Esther greatly, for she had not yet seen this side of him. "An ancestor of mine was shot for sheep-stealing, but I don't go about afraid to look at a flock of sheep, lest the predatory strain in my blood should assert itself. Yet I haven't the slightest doubt that it is there!"Esther scarcely smiled, though Frew spoke lightly, almost with an odd boyishness, which took years away from him.He had been preternaturally solemn during the brief hour he had spent in the house, partly because the atmosphere had rather surprised him, and partly because he was just a little inclined to pose in places where he imagined he had to condescend."I don't suppose you'll come back," she said rather sullenly. "Indeed, I should be ashamed to ask you.""Perhaps you will allow me to come without being asked—on Sunday?" he suggested; and before Esther could reply Mary entered the room.She looked slightly harassed, it is true, but there was no sign of such painful agitation as Esther had displayed.Frew immediately set her down in his mind as a woman who could be relied on when life became difficult, or even unendurable. There was something more than relief in his eyes when he turned to her."Surely you are not going already, Mr. Frew?" she said brightly."I think I am—or was. And Mr. Raeburn is getting ready to accompany me, I think. I have just been asking permission from your sister to pay my respects on Sunday—that is, if you permit Sunday visitors!""Oh, we do. The Raeburns often come. Probably you might see Casa. Did you hear Angus say she might come up for the week-end, Esther?""No, I didn't hear," answered Esther, and her woebegone expression somehow angered Mary. To her, it savoured of giving away everything to a stranger.A few minutes later Frew left the house with Angus Raeburn, who had expressed nothing in words, or taken the smallest notice of what had happened. He had simply realised and acted on the impression that, in the circumstances, the family were best left to themselves."You are intimate there—an old friend, I understand?" said Frew, as he paused under the first gaslamp to trim and light a very long cigar."Yes, an old friend. We lived next door as children. I have known them all my life.""Ah!" said Frew, with a curious jerk. "May I be permitted just one more question? Are you engaged to any of them?"Raeburn looked the surprise he felt, and slightly reddened at the question."No, I am not. Old friends seldom get engaged, I think," he added, with a slight laugh. "A man usually strays into fresh pastures for that sort of thing.""So much the worse for him," said Frew quietly. "Of all the risks of life matrimony is the greatest, yet it is the one undertaken with the least possible precaution. Think of all the marriages one knows, and has known, my friend, and then say, if you dare, where they have been made."Raeburn laughed, oddly drawn to the new acquaintance who plunged into intimate talk with him on a moment's notice."I haven't given it much thought. I've had my way to make. I'm making it yet. Women hamper one even as friends, though, of course, they are an immense help in some directions. I have a sister. We are orphans and live together in a small house in Oakley Street, Chelsea. Casa has a studio there. She is a miniature painter. It would give her immense pleasure to meet you.""I should like to see her. Is she at all like you?""Not at all. We had a Scotch father and an Italian mother. I represent the North in my bigness, uncouthness, and general lack of adaptability. Casa is warm and delicious, like the South."The artist seemed to smile, dreamily pleased with himself, and the hour and the companionship."The Calladines interest me. They are not as others. How long has that abominable and quite preventible tragedy been going on?""About fifteen years. But why do you call it preventible?""Because it is. It ought to have been observed, like the symptoms of an illness, at the beginning. Somebody was culpable. That big, dejected, hatchet-faced father—was he ever human at any moment of his life?""Calladine? Oh, he is a quite decent chap," said Raeburn, surprised at the virulence of the artist's tone."I didn't ask whether he was decent—only whether he had ever been human I doubt it very much.""He has never shown any symptoms of inhumanity. He has been crushed by a system—the machine of middle-class care and sheer sordid anxiety.""I begin to understand; and there must be qualities somewhere to account for that astonishing

family.''"Are they astonishing?"They seem so to me. Each is a separate entity, presenting individual features. How is it that that virile young man was ever sucked in by the Church?"Raeburn smiled."You should ask him. His answer might open up a new vista for you.""The astonishing thing is that he seems to like his dose, and to be of opinion that it is the only one for a sane man's consumption," said Frew, with a shrug of the shoulders. "The daughter whom I know has beauty. She is nearly perfect physically.""Where did you meet her?""Where did I meet her?"ߞߞFrew appeared to ponder, as if he had forgotten."Oh, yes—it was at an afternoon party at the Savoy. She was there professionally, I believe. I asked somebody to present me, and since then we have met fairly often.""You admire her?" said Raeburn, and there was a laboured note in his voice.Frew shrugged his shoulders."Yes, as one admires what is beautiful to the eye. But she leaves me quite cold. She is too conscious of herself. It is the fault of most beautiful women. Nature has yet to create the perfect one, in whom unconsciousness will be the chief charm.""But a pretty woman can't be to blame for knowing about her gifts, since all the world is ready to run and tell her of them," said Raeburn rather warmly.That is so, too. Where are we going? How do we get out of these wilds? I have forgotten how I got here. Oh, I remember now—a hansom which cost me five and sixpence. Let us take another.""Where to?" asked Raeburn, stopping short on the kerb."Where to? I live at Grove End Road, St. John's Wood; and youߞߞ?""Oakley Street, Chelsea.""And at what point of London's compass are we now?""The extreme north. If you take a hansom, I can't share it. I'll take the Underground.""Very well. I hope we shall meet again. I am going back to them on Sunday afternoon, if the fates are kind. Shall we meet then?""Probably. I am afraid the Calladines have become a Sunday habit with me!""They have? One question more, friend. What do you labour at for a living?""I am a lecturer on Science at the New College, and my leisure is occupied with research.""Ah, then, we must meet sometimes. I'm in pursuit of the ideal, while each day you grip the real with both hands. Good-bye. Come and see me in my studio, and I will show you some studies I have made of Esther Calladine's glorious head."Frew fancied that Raeburn started, and then withdrew into himself.Pondering on the brief conversation with the artist all the way home, it did not once strike Raeburn as odd that he should not have mentioned Mary Calladine's name. Yet Mary had made a profound impression on Dudley Frew. As she hastened out of the room after her mother, he had caught in her face a glimpse of the divine rapture and pain of motherhood. It had moved him mightily. Esther's shame had been a purely selfish product, born of the fear that her mother's degradation might militate in certain directions against her scheme of life.Meanwhile various emotions were rampant in the house they had left. For a few moments the two sisters were left alone together in the little drawing-room, figuratively speaking, among the ruins of their birthday feast. Mary closed the door, and a little shiver seemed to pass over her."Oh, Esther, I am so sorry, dear, that your birthday party should have been spoiled! It seems quite cruel; and we hadn't done anything to deserve it specially, had we?""It's devilish!" said Esther in a quiet, vindictive tone, which left no doubt as to the strength of her conviction. Mary had not the heart even to reprove her use of the adjective, though it startled her. "It's all of a piece. There's a curse on us. Just think back, Moll. Whenever things have seemed to go a little better with us, and we have tried to live like normal beings, then something of this sort has immediately descended! Could anything survive the exhibition of to-night?""It was unfortunate that it should have happened when Mr. Frew was here. With Angus, of course, it does not matter so much. He is such an old friend."Her tone unconsciously grew tender on his name, but Esther, still selfishly absorbed, did not notice it."It's just as horrid being cheapened to an old friend as to a new one," said Esther, and her beautiful white hands, which no household task had ever roughened or blemished, seemed to beat together on her lap. "There ought to be some redress for this sort of thing. A lethal chamber is about the only thing that would fit the case.""Oh, Esther, remember it is mother you are talking about! It makes my blood run cold to hear you.""I can't help it. Seeing we are not allowed to choose our mothers, we have the right to criticise them," said Esther sullenly. "The only other way is to cut oneself off. I wish I had done it years ago! I shall do it now.""You may go and live in another house, or even in another place," said Mary quietly, "but nobody can get away from blood ties.""Yes, they can. But it needs courage, and plenty of it. Why, I know ever so many women in the journalistic world and in other occupations who have cut themselves off, and who are living their own lives independent of the accident of their birth. I wish I were an orphan! I might then have a chance!"

Mary was silent a moment, and her thoughts were tinged with a certain mild bitterness. Esther had, after all, borne very little of the actual burden. It was she, Mary, the keeper-at-home, who had been face to face with the actual reality of the tragedy. The mothers who do all for their little children love them with a deep and peculiar love, which those who employ nurses and other caretakers do not experience. Perhaps because her mother had been almost like a little child to her, Mary Calladine had inexhaustible reserves of tenderness. Esther saw only the unlovely side, and her nature being shallow, her affection had flickered out during these years of strain."What kind of a chance do you mean? Is it marrying you are thinking of?" inquired Mary."It might be that. But the moment one gets a decent half-chance it is destroyed.""Are you engaged to Mr. Frew, then, or has he said anything to make you think he wants you to be engaged to him?" inquired Mary, plunging to the root of the matter at once."How vulgar you are, Mary!" said Esther, with curling lip. "Will you never learn the value of a curtain? You might be talking of a house maid who walks out with her young man.""Well, there is not so very much difference after all, is there?" said Mary, and her air became de-tached. "Now, I wonder how mother managed to get away from Bentley House. There must have been culpable negligence somewhere. Edgar will have to inquire into it to-morrow.""Why not father?" asked Esther rebelliously. "After all, it is his business first and last. Why should poor Edgar be saddled with it?""Oh, Esther, how perfectly horrid you are! Edgar will do it because he is so good and tactful and thorough, and because he will save father.""But people who make mistakes should pay for them," said Esther, with the same sullen note in her voice."It would be very bad for us if we had to pay personally for all our mistakes. I hope somebody will be kind and help me with mine," she said quietly. "Now I wonder where Winnie has got to? I was so sorry for her to-night! I fancied she looked frightened. It was new to her. I am sorry it happened just so.""Isn't she in the next room with father and Edgar? They seem to be talking there yet," said Esther wearily, as she rose up and took a survey of herself in the old-fashioned big pier-glass above the mantelpiece.Mary stepped out into the passage, and, hearing the voices in the dining-room quite distinctly, opened the door."Mother is lying down, father. She seems most frightfully tired, and I think she will sleep presently."She observed from the grave looks of her father and brother that they had been discussing the situation.It was now eight months since the unhappy wife and mother had, of her own free will, become an inmate a Home for Inebriates on the outskirts of London. She had consented to this after a specially trying experience her family had had, while searching for her for three days.Experiment after experiment they had tried, failure after failure had been their portion, and now it seemed as if they were at the end of their resources. Calladine, who felt far more acutely than he permitted to be seen the particular kind of shame this was to his family, certainly looked as if he could think of nothing fresh. His expression was dejected, and his eyes were full of a haunting bitterness. Edgar, too, looked grave, though not so much like a man without hope."She will probably refuse to go back," said Calladine heavily. "Something else will have to be tried."Mary hesitated a moment."Father," she said at last, "I have often thought that if we could move a little farther out—to some country village, perhaps, within walking distance of a station so that you and Frank might get up to town, it would be better for mother.""As she is now, we can't keep her at home. I would not ask it from you, Mary," said her father heavily. "None of us have forgotten what happened in other years.""But it would be quite different in the country," said Mary eagerly. "If we had a little garden and a few chickens and things like that, I am sure I could interest mother."Edgar, regarding his sister and listening intently, suddenly received an inspiration. He rose to his feet and left the room, saying he would just run up and discover whether his mother was asleep.Mary drew her chair a little nearer to her father. She, perhaps of all the household, knew him best. She was never afraid of him, and she understood that his long silences and the aloofness of his manner were the result of the suffering of the past ten years.Mary was one of those understanding creatures who give everybody the benefit of the doubt. She was naturally cheerful, too, even merry when household cares were not too oppressive."I wish you wouldn't look so overwhelmed, father. Edgar will be certain to think of something. And anyhow, even at the worst, we have some brightness, some pleasant things to be glad about. We are all very strong, for one thing, and everybody has work—remunerative work. Isn't that a great deal in these times? Also, none of us is ne'er-do-well."Even as the words fell from her lips a sudden hesitation seemed to bind her tongue, for they had had anxiety about Frank, the happy-go-lucky member of the family, the likest to his mother, and the most exposed to temptation.Travelling all the week for his firm in the Midlands, he was subjected to the very kind of temptations which a child of Mrs. Calladine's might find it difficult to overcome."I really wish you would consider the countrycottage scheme," she said hurriedly, almost nervously. "I would be so willing and so glad to try. I can't manage mother when I have her to myself.""It would not be fair—it would not be fair, Mary. You are young. Why should your life be shadowed with such a care? Even already you have sacrificed something for us all.""What am I sacrificing? Ambitions?—I am happy enough in my house. Looks?—I have none. Prospects?—I don't want them," she said lightly. "Dear father, don't worry about me. I think a smoke would do you good. Just pop down to the old den and find your very best pipe. There is a good fire. I'll come and have a good old pow-wow when I have cleared away."He welcomed the suggestion; but just at the door he looked back, with a somewhat awkward expression."It was a pity Esther's birthday feast was spoiled, and that stranger in the house. Who is he, Mary? Do you know anything about him? Has she known him long?""Some little time, I think. He is quite a distinguished artist. People give big sums for his pictures. He wants to paint Esther, I believe, in an allegorical picture. She told me so some time ago.""Oh, it isn't a love affair, then?""I don't think so; but indeed I am not sure.""It was a pity it happened to-night," he repeated, and escaped down the kitchen stairs with evident relief."Now, where's that child Winnie got to?" said Mary, and before she started to clear the table she ran lightly upstairs to the top floor.The door was half ajar, but the light of the lowered gas revealed something lying on the bed. Mary crept in and put her arms about her little sister, and drew her, sobbing, to her heart.CHAPTER IIITHE WAY OUTWhen Edgar Calladine entered his mother's room he found her lying across the bed, partially undressed, fast asleep. Heaviness had overcome her while Mary was trying to prepare her for bed, and she had simply fallen back, and now, with the quilt half over her, slept heavily.She was not a beautiful object to meet the eyes of a son who had once, perhaps, been proud of her. Her husband's equal Annie Calladine had never been. Their marriage had been one of the follies of a man's youth. She was a pretty woman still, however, though the once refined contour of her face had suffered much disfigurement. From it the soul seemed to have departed. Her hair, still beautiful and glossy, and with scarcely a grey thread visible in it, partly disarranged, swept the snow of Mary's pillow.A sudden tenderness rushed over Edgar, and he knelt by her bedside to pray.She was all unconscious that her son was thus yearning over her—that son for whom she had suffered the supreme pain of motherhood, and tasted its satisfying joy. Again and again she had disappointed his eager, loving heart, yet there was nothing but love in the gaze which enveloped her.Perplexity mingled with it, for in the last Retreat to which they had sent her they had imagined her safe and on the highway to complete recovery. The recommendations of Bentley House that they had had seemed glowing enough to justify all hopes. And it too had failed. Something else would have to be done.Edgar Calladine, whose religion was neither garment nor cloak, but the actual passion of his soul, rolled his burden afresh at the foot of the Cross. For some strange cause such anguish was permitted, such clouding of earthly happiness and hope, but God could still, as of yore, work His miracle in a human soul. So he prayed, and peace was on his face when, closing the door softly, he stole once more downstairs.Mary was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, her eyes a little pitiful and imploring, for the sight of Winnie's tears had shaken her."Is she still asleep?"Edgar nodded, and, touching his sister's arm, drew her into the dining-room, where the remains of the feast were still on the table."It was a pity it happened to-night, wasn't it? Poor Esther, it was such a disappointment!" said Mary, as she glanced with almost a little shiver of disgust at the disordered table."It was Frew's presence made it more difficult. With Angus, of course, nothing matters much—he is one of us. Who is this Frew, Mary, whom Esther makes of such account?""He's an artist. You must have heard of him, Edgar. And yet I don't know! I hadn't till Esther expatiated on his fame. He is quite well known, but an odd creature, don't you think?—not quite real.""A trifle bombastic. But he might be all right when one got to know him," said Edgar a little absently. "Anyway, he's a mere casual acquaintance."Mary answered with an uplift of her level brows."I doubt if Esther regards him like that."It was Edgar's turn to look surprised."Well, if it's that, Mary, it has got to stand the test sooner or

later. In our case the sooner the better. But I've always thought, especially lately, that there might be something between Esther and Angus."Mary stooped to the floor suddenly, and retrieved something shining#x2014;a small paste pin that had fallen from Esther's lace. The downward movement doubtless accounted for the sudden colour in her face. Edgar did not give it a thought."Where has father got to? We'll have to thrash the thing out somehow among us to-night.""We can't send her back there, Edgar. It might happen again. And she is not at all clear how, or even when, she escaped. I am hoping it was only to-day, as they have not even troubled to make inquiries.""They will to-morrow. But you are right#x2014;we can't send her back there.""And if somebody comes for her in the morning, is that what I am to say?""We'll decide later. I'll try to get here early enough to interview whoever may come. Don't let this trouble you too much, Mary. I think we are going to find a permanent way this time.""A cottage in the country is the only solution, I am sure, and I am willing to take it on. Try to urge it on father. He's downstairs in the den."Edgar drew out his watch."It's half-past nine. I'll have to go in about twenty minutes. I have an appointment with a man in my study at eleven o'clock.""At eleven o'clock, at Winterstowe!" exclaimed Mary. "Very late, isn't it?""I can't get him at any other time. He keeps the Blue Boar at Highams. Well, I'll run down to father."Mary nodded, quite content to leave the settlement things in Edgar's hands. For the last five years at least he had been the chief buttress of the house, and had guided and helped them all, though no longer under its roof.None of them professed to understand Edgar's strange choice of a profession. There had been nothing in the Calladine atmosphere to favour a religious vocation, and Calladine himself had strenuously opposed his son's desire to enter the ministry. But those inclined to scoff at his choice had been forced to a kind of unwilling respect for certain great qualities of head and heart in Edgar which daily made themselves felt.He entered the shabby little breakfast-room to find his father crouching over the fire, staring moodily into it. A pipe, which he had filled but not touched, lay on the end of the table close to his elbow. The picture was one of greyness and desolation, typical, Edgar thought, with a sudden thrill of compassion and protest, of a vast number of London lives. But his voice had lost none of its cheerful cadence when he spoke."Well, father, so we're up against it once more. Sit up, old man, and let us face it. I've just been upstairs. She's sleeping quite peacefully. Tomorrow she'll be full of shame and pain over this."Calladine flung up his head, and turned slowly a haggard and bitter face towards his son. Once a proud, passionate man, the spirit of him had been broken by the long degradation of his home. Edgar only realised at the moment how completely it was broken, and grasped the utter hopelessness of his father's outlook."Cheer up, dad!" he said, with his boyish, confident smile. "We're not beaten yet!""Beaten! I was beaten long since! Why don't you all curse me? You've got the right, and I believe it would 'do me good.""It might do us a heap of harm. We're not continuing the fight in that spirit, father.""We can't fight the devil and all his works, Ed," Calladine gloomily said."Oh, yes, we can! It's what we're here for. Some of his works get more on our nerves than others, that's all. But these are not necessarily the worst. Bentley House may be said to be barred, then—cast with the rest into the limbo of failures. I've never thought much of the Retreat system myself. I don't think I've as yet come across a single case of complete cure through it.""No, it's no use—a sink for money, that's all. How long have we been going on at it? About eleven years, isn't it?""Somewhere in that neighbourhood.""A month or two's respite now and again; then Mary back to her old post as gaoler. I'm surprised she takes it as she does.""She has certainly had her full share, father," admitted Edgar. "It's time for me to take mine.""How do you mean? You've always done what you could—more than most sons would havedone—and never reproached me.""I want to take my mother to Winterstowe, father."Calladine stared in amazement."But how can you? What will your people say? Your housekeeper—how would she take it? It's only spreading the cancer, Edgar, and would be suicidal from your point of view.""Oh, no—quite the reverse! I got the suggestion from Mary, when she spoke of the country cottage, but even that, I think, would fail, for certain reasons we needn't enter into here.""But who would look after her? Not so long ago you were giving us a sample of your working day. It did not seem possible that you could wedge another duty into it.""It's astonishing what a way duties have of squeezing themselves in," he answered lightly." But I would propose to make my mother a help instead of a hindrance. I'll make her responsible for things. I'll fill her hands to such an extent that she simply can't think of herself. She shall share my cure of souls."Calladine looked at the eager face of his son in incredulous amazement. To him, the suggestion was the dream of a visionary—nothing more. But the magnanimity of it appealed to the lost manhood, devoured by the empty years. There was something in his eldest son he had never understood. Now it perplexed and baffled him more than ever.When, in the midst of a more than usually promising career, Edgar had come home one night from some casual meeting he had attended, and said he wanted to become a minister, to devote his life to the Saviour who had died for him, Calladine had been both amazed and angry. There had been a stormy scene—at least as stormy as the ravings of one man could make it. But the boy had held on. Against all opposition, against bitter ridicule and persecution, he had stood fast. And in the end he had won out. It had been a struggle of no ordinary kind, and one which would undoubtedly have quenched any mere, fleeting enthusiasm. But the vital spark being there had only glowed with greater fervour than at its first kindling. Edgar Calladine was one of the few who really entered the ministry with the live coal of sacrifice and consecration on his heart"It's an extraordinary proposition!" said Calladine slowly. "I don't think you realise what you are letting yourself in for. Ask Mary. She is the one who knows most. Take her advice.""I believe that Mary will approve. I'll come back in the morning and see my mother. By that time I shall have something quite definite thought out. I won't make a prisoner or a suspect of her, father. She shall be put on her honour.""A poor, negligible quantity, I'm afraid! One of the most horrible consequences of the drink craze is the way in which it destroys the sense of honour. Do you know, Edgar, I haven't been able to believe your mother's word in the simplest matter for the last fifteen years."Edgar winced slightly, but tried to keep up his father's heart. When he spoke again there was a shyer note in his voice."There's a life-force stronger than the drink, father. I've seen it operate greatly in lives far more deeply sunk than mother's. It is that I'm going to rely on. To too many of us it is the last resource, the final door of hope. But she shall be saved!"The words might have sounded melodramatic. As a matter of fact, in the elder Calladine's ears, they seemed so, though, coming from his son's mouth, they were entirely reverent and prophetic.His father looked at him with a furtive surprise and contemplation. This was something entirely out of the ordinary scope of things—something which had never had any part in Paul Calladine's fifty-nine years of life. But it was a burning enthusiasm in the heart of his son. There was something infinitely more in his fervent utterance than the mere raving of a religious crank.Each year of his ministry had seemed but to deepen his hold on spiritual things, his determination and effort to fight all the forces of evil. At Winterstowe, in a purely working-class population, where there was an under stratum of the unemployed and the unemployable, he had an immense and fruitful field for his effort and his hope."Do you consent, then, to let me try what I, God helping me, can do?" Edgar asked, as he rose to his feet, aware that the evening was progressing, and that it would take him the better part of an hour to get home."I haven't much choice. I am grateful, but not hopeful. And I don't precisely see why you should shoulder this heavy burden. It's mine. I ought to creep away into some hidden corner and shoulder it myself.""Not while you've given us as hostages to fortune. We are willing to take our share," said Edgar good-humouredly. "Well, I'll say good-night. I'll be back in good time to interview any representative who may turn up from the Home. You will have to be at business as usual. I have my mornings practically tree."This readiness to share the burden, to shoulder it, touched Paul Calladine inexpressibly. He could not, however, say what he thought. He had never been just, but always a little cynical in his attitude towards Edgar, and he thought he had made a very poor choice of a career. But to-night he was made to feel, and not for the first time, that there was something more in it than met the eye. Probably it was that tremendous force of which Edgar himself had spoken."You are quite determined then that she won't go back to Bentley House? I have your authority for saying so?" said Edgar, as he turned to the door."Oh, yes—it has been a failure like the rest.""Then I know what to do to-morrow. Don't be surprised if you come home in the evening and find that I have taken my mother away.""She may refuse to go.""I'm taking that risk. I think I'll manage it," he said confidently.Again Calladine regarded his son with deepening interest. It was certainly difficult to predict how Edgar would act in any given circumstances. He would go so far; then, giving pause, he would strike a tremendous and unlooked-for blow. That was why he was a little feared in Winterstowe by those whose interest it was to combat and belittle his redemptive work."Drink happens to be the chief of the devils we have to fight down there, father," he said, with his eager eyes a little aglow, "and there is hardly a weapon we can afford to ignore or despise. I shall show my mother the devastation wrought by drink. She might arise to a mighty crusade against it."Calladine shook his head."Doubtful. Years of this sort of thing can do strange things for a human being, Edgar, especially for a woman. Something dies in her.""It can be born again," said Edgar cheerfully, and the high hope of spiritual zeal shone on his kind face."I have felt more than once," pursued the elder Calladine, as if goaded to confession, "that I ought to go down on my knees to you for having given you such a mother."Edgar dropped a kind, cheery hand on his father's shoulder."Oh, come, draw it mild. It's not so bad as all that. Good-night, old man, and try to believe that the worst's over."But, in spite of his brave words, Edgar Calladine's heart was a little heavy as he made his way by tortuous directions and in crowded trains to his destination. He had to wait at Dalston Junction for his connection, and it was ten minutes to eleven when he reached his own door.The manse at Winterstowe was a very unpretentious building—a little, double-fronted house of the cottagevilla style, built of red brick, with hideous yellow facings, and approached by means of a flagged passage through a microscopic garden from the street.There were hundreds of houses like it in Winterstowe, which of late years had become seriously overcrowded, making the housing problem very acute. There was no special industry in the place to account for its abnormal increase of population. Its proximity to the Forest, and the generosity of the Railway Company in the matter of workmen's trains had no doubt largely contributed to its growth. Already there was in it a slum area, which provided sufficient material for evangelistic effort of every kind. Drink and sport were the chief factors in life there, and these two Edgar Calladine was fighting with all his might.He felt very tired as he let himself into the narrow passage and turned up the gas. His housekeeper had already gone to bed. She was an elderly woman, not very satisfactory, but Calladine had kept her on because she was honest and trustworthy, and because he had had great trouble with younger servants.Already he had made up his mind what he was going to do. He could find another post for her, and, in her stead, would engage her niece, a young girl called Rosie, to do the rough work for his mother. With an elderly housekeeper she might feel herself to be under too much supervision. If the experiment were to work successfully it must be shorn of every element likely to make it fail. He was quite well aware that his mother's temper had become querulous and uncertain of late years, and he was determined that everything which was likely to irritate it should be guarded against.A small tray stood on the end of the table, on which was spread his frugal supper—some bread-and-butter, a morsel of cheese, and a cocoa-tin beside his cup and saucer. A small kettle hummed on the hob. Remembering suddenly that the supper at Whitcombe Square had been interrupted, and that he had really eaten very little, he set the kettle on the fire, and presently made his cocoa. He was drinking it when he heard the creak of the garden gate and a heavy foot on the flags of the path. He was at the door before the visitor had need to knock or ring."Good-evening, George. I've only just got back from London. Glad to get here ahead of you."He held open the door wide, and the man, a big, burly figure in a tweed suit and bowler hat, entered at his invitation, and the door was shut.As they faced each other under the white light of the incandescent burner, the physical contrast between them was strongly marked. Seldom had Edgar Calladine looked so fragile, or the fine lines of his face been more vividly accentuated than when placed in comparison with the big, powerful physique of the tavern-keeper. The face of the latter with its purplish hue, puffy cheeks, and small, bleared eyes was very typical; its expression was a little rueful, almost appealing, as it met the parson's kind, cheery smile."Well, mate, how goes it?" he asked, as he dropped his hand on the man's shoulder."I've bin an' gone an' done it, guvnor," he said heavily. "And now there's the devil to pay, so to speak.""Yes, you're right. We are going to pay him out now, for all he's taken out of you," said Calladine serenely. "Sit down. Have a cup of cocoa. It's rather cool outside, isn't it?""I ain't cool. I've rode me bike down 'ot haste from 'Ighams. They wasn't shut up there yit when I left.""Well—and you've given notice to quit, have you, George?""Yus, passon, I'aves, but it ain't bin easy. The ole woman,she was the wust—went on at me somethink orful. She don't want to go into privit life, she seys. She likes the cheery life o' the pub. Yus, she's givin' it me 'ot and strong!"He sat down heavily, wiping his face with his red handkerchief."But you're going to stand up to it all, George, for the sake of the Captain, aren't you?" said Calladine, with his kind, compelling glance."I ain't got no chanst, guvnor," said the big man simply as a child. "'E's got me fair an' square. 'E's bid me quit, and I am quittin'. But wot'e's agoin' to do wiv me next, I dunno.""Every step of the way will be clear for you, George. It is like that when we trust Him wholly," said Calladine quietly. "I saw Mr. Harding this afternoon in the train, as I was going up to town. He will take you on at Beeches Mill just as soon as you are ready for the job."The man's heavy face brightened."Thet's good cheer, passon. Then I kin git quit next week. I don't mind tellin' you it ain't easy up at 'Ighams now. I've never sold a glass over the counter—not even a pint o'fower ale since—since you know when.""Good!—that's fine.""You told me it wouldn't be easy, an' you was rite, guvnor. It's the ole woman. Said she'd leave me, if I kep' on with this tommy rot. Thet's wot she calls it, passon, and she got to 'ave it hout wiv you one o' them d'ys."Calladine slightly smiled. His glance of full sympathy rested for a moment on the man's troubled face, and suddenly he thought that it might help if he told him of the anxiety lying on his own heart.He told it simply, and without any unnecessary detail."An' you'll bring 'er'ere, passon, to git'er well! Good! You'll do it!—shake!"He held out his big hand and crushed Calladine's in its mighty grasp."It's not going to be easy, George, but we have never been promised ease or comfort, have we, friend? He had none when He went before us. 'Take up My Cross,' He said. Some of us have a heavier cross than others, but the victory—the victory is worth while, isn't it?""I bin 'appier," admitted Potterill. "Only, it's a prime upset. An' w'en I comes on to want the drink, like I used, it's the very devil!""Yes, friend. But we can fight the devil, can't we?""Mariar, only ter-day she sets a foamin' pint by me dinner, and drank off her own a front o' me. Thet took a bit o' doin' fer me, guvnor. I hup an' poured mine dahn the scullery sink. But I will say it was easier ter-day than yistiday."Calladine nodded."And every day it will be easier, till you will wonder why it ever had a hold. Let us kneel down, George, and ask the Lord to be with both of us now and always."So from that humble manse study arose the incense of worship and prayer, which is the chief buttress of the world.CHAPTER IVTHE RECKONINGWHEN Mrs. Calladine awoke she raised herself on her elbow, and looked round with the dazed air of one who is not sure of her surroundings.A red glow from a cheerful fire illuminated a place that seemed oddly familiar. She remembered the tall-boys chest in the corner, the old bow-fronted washstand, the outline of the muslin-trimmed dressing-table. Surely she was in Mary's room! Yes, she was; and there, in a low basket lounge-chair beside the fire, sat Mary herself, sound asleep, with her slippered feet on an old hassock, the folds of her shabby blue dressing-gown wrapped about her for warmth."Now, how did I get here?" whispered the dazed woman; and though the voice was subdued, it had the instant effect of awaking the sleeper by the hearth.Mary sprang up."Have you been awake long, mother? I meant not to fall asleep," she said in a perfectly natural voice; "but I had a busy day, and I suppose I felt tired."There was neither aversion nor blame in her attitude or expression as she stepped to the side of the bed and looked into her mother's face.Once she had been a kind, good mother, and Mary, the second of the

family, had many good days to remember. Winnie's childish memories

held a good deal of terror and misery in them. In some of her paroxysms Mrs. Calladine had been very violent, and the young shrink from what they do not understand."No; only just woke up," she answered rather sullenly. "How did I come here?""Don't you remember? Perhaps you will presently. Why, it's half-past one nearly. We'll have a cup of tea. While the kettle is getting to the boil, we'll get undressed. See, I have a nice nightdress airing for you!"A disposition to weep overcame Mrs. Calladine for a moment, but Mary took no notice of it. She knew these tears of yore. They meant nothing, but merely sprang from the surface, and, passing, left no trace behind."You're very good to me, Mary; but there, you always were. It was Esther who gave me the sullen looks and sharp words," she said, in the pitiful, mumbling voice which had an irritating effect on her daughter's ears, though Mary strove to hide it."Never mind about that now. Come, get over the bed, dear, and let me help unfasten your dress. I came up once after you lay down and tried, but it was no use. Then we'll get your hair brushed out and your face and hands washed."She treated her exactly like a baby, which indeed at the moment she was."How did I get here?" she repeated vaguely, as Mary drew down her bodice from her still beautiful and rounded shoulders, which had scarce a line or a blemish to mar their whiteness. "Oh, yes, I remember! We were walking in the little paddock, and they got up a scare that the cow had got out. While they were all after the cow I just walked out as easy as ninepence. But how I got here—to this house, I mean—I don't remember at all.""It doesn't matter much, now you are here safely," said Mary, as she stepped to the dressing-table for the hair-brush. "I suppose you had some money in your pocket to bring you on the train?""Did I come on the train? I don't remember. Somebody showed me the right tram, and a policeman in Upper Street was very kind. Said he ought to run me in, don't you know, but wouldn't, if I'd promise to go straight home. I told him where I wanted to go to, and as he was goin' off duty he walked with me to Moreton Street. Then, of course, I was round the corner in a jiffy.""You were very fortunate. But it was a pity you ran away, after all, wasn't it? It worries a great many people; and you have said yourself that you were quite happy at Bentley House, haven't you?""Did I say that? I expect it was in front of Mrs. Bartlett. I loathe the place, Mollie, really. Besides, it's a sham. I don't believe there ever has been a real cure there. How could there be, when Mrs. B. herself likes a drop?""Oh, mother, no! I am sure you have made a mistake," said Mary tranquilly.Alas! she had so often proved her mother's untruthfulness.A sort of leer marred for the moment the comeliness of Mrs. Calladine's face."It isn't a word of a lie, upon my honour. Lots of them could tell you the same story. They just take people's money and give them nothing much in return, not even good food—frozen meat four times a week, and yesterday's fish always. Could I stop at home for a bit now, do you think?" she asked in a low, wheedling voice. "I'll promise to be ever so good.""We shall see about it to-morrow, dear. Come, now, and wash your hands and face while I make the tea. Then we must get you into bed."She plunged her face and hands into the tepid water that Mary had already poured into the basin, and when she had polished up her face she looked surprisingly fresh and young. Indeed, if it had not been for her ample figure, she might have passed for Mary's elder sister, and she was much prettier than any of her daughters. Hers was an attractive kind of face, with appealing eyes, such as win the hearts of men at a glance. Paul Calladine had once been crazy about her, and he had won her away from numerous admirers. She had been a flower-seller in a large shop near Moorgate Street which he had to pass every day.She enjoyed her tea, and ate heartily of bread-and-butter, and was so like an irresponsible child that the mother-instinct stirred strangely in Mary's heart. Mary was not a hard woman, and, had there been nobody to consider except herself, she would gladly have undertaken the entire care and supervision of her mother and have given up her life to her."So you don't know what's going to be done with me to-morrow?" she said wistfully."I don't. But be assured it won't be anything very bad. Edgar is coming in from Winterstowe in the morning. He wants to interview whoever comes from Bentley House.""Oh, Mrs. B. will come herself. But you won't let Edgar send me back with her. It's dreadful there, and it's all nonsense about it being a real home. It's just a gaol and nothing else, and the servants are often rude to us.""I don't think we need talk any more about it now, dear," said Mary gently. "If you are quite finished, do lie down and try to sleep. I want to come to bed too. I'm really very tired, and I have to jump up at six-thirty to let in Mrs. Polgarth.""Is old Polly coming still? But I say, Mary, won't you tell me what your father said? Was he very angry this time? I'm in a mortal funk of him now when he's angry. The only time I could stand up to him was when I had a drop of something. If he's going to jump on me hard to-morrow, you'll let me have a drop, won't you?""Lie down, dear, and sleep. To-morrow everything will be different. See, take the other side of the bed, and I will turn down the light. I can undress by the firelight, Then I'll put on a lump of coal to keep it in till morning. You were so wet when you came in I was afraid you would take a frightful cold.""Oh, I'm tough. This is a nice bed, Mary. You should have a night on the pallets old B. provides! I remember the day I bought the chintz for this bed-hanging. It was in the Curtain Road, at a sale. I gave only seven-three a yard for it. MY! Hasn't it washed well?""Yes, but that's because I've always washed it myself. It has never been to the public laundry in my time," said Mary, humouring her as if she were a child."You wash, yourself! Mistake, Mary. It ruins the hands. I never did. Men don't like women who do house-work; it takes away their daintiness. You take my tip. You bet, Esther wouldn't go spoiling her hands, getting up bed-hangings.""No, I don't think she would. But I'm easy about my hands, mother, and I don't mind much about men. Will you shut your eyes and try to go to sleep?""Oh, presently. Let me talk, at least till you get into your night-gown. Say, haven't you or Esther got engaged yet?""No, neither of us.""Now, why is that? Why, I had nine offers before I was twenty. Some of them didn't amount to much, but they were offers! Now why did I marry Old Calladine, I wonder? We used to call him that long before we knew him. He was always as solemn as an owl.I often ask myself why I took him.""I suppose because you cared for him and he for you," suggested Mary, as a solution to the enigma."It might have been that, and, again, it might not. Like doesn't always draw to like, but he was too solemn for me. Perhaps, if he'd been a bit more lighthearted I might have kept straight. He forgot that I had had a bit of life there in the flower-shop, and that it wasn't easy for me to settle down all of a sudden with just only him. Then, when he came home at night with msty old books and papers to pore over in the sitting-room, I got mad, and went out on my own. Never into any harm, you know, Mary, but just with good friend or two whom I'd known in the old life. Then there were ructions, and I was afraid. To keep me up, I began to take a drop. I never was strong just before and after the children were born, and the doctor I had then prescribed me port. Good stuff, Mary—I'd like a drop now."Mary gave no answer. She had heard all this story before, and she knew exactly what stage in her mother's recovery from an outburst it represented."Tell you what, Mary. Take my advice, and rather marry a man younger than yourself than one older. At least, he'd give you a livelier time while it lasted. What I want to know is what you and Esther are going to do if you don't get husbands? Then there's little Win. Say, why hasn't little Win been to see me? I do want to see my baby!"The ready tears sprang again, and Mary, putting out the light, laid herself down by her mother's side, and, patting her arm, began to croon a little song precisely as if she had been soothing a fractious child.She was wholly unconscious of the pathos of the scene, or of anything amazing or fine in her own share in it. But when at last she found by the regularity of her mother's breathing that she had fallen into a deep, natural sleep, she felt her own eyes wet with tears.Mrs. Calladine slept late into the morning, and her husband departed to his office without having seen her. Mary did not dream of questioning the wisdom or kindness of this. She understood that the limits of her father's moderate patience had been reached long ago. The past was hideous to him by reason of the conflict and strife that had been the daily portion of his home.By nine o'clock Mary was left in sole possession, and before she cleared the breakfast-table she ran up to her mother's room and found her stirring. The good sleep had restored her wonderfully; the telltale flush had left her face, leaving it pale and a little wan; her eyes had lost their fictitious brightness, and now appeared heavy-lidded and strangely sad.The fingers, busy with her dressing, trembled a little, and, at the opening of the door she started, almost as if she feared some sudden onslaught from without. "It's only me, mother! I have looked in twice, but as you were sound asleep I didn't trouble you with a cup of tea. Would you like it now, or will you finish dressing, and then come down to a cosy breakfast?""I'll come down, if—if you think I should. Will they all be very cross? Has your father gone?""They all have. Winnie has just gone. She has to get to her type-writing office by nine. It takes her quite half an hour to get there.""Is Win working, too? It don't seem a minute hardly since she was a baby in arms! And such a pretty baby, Mary—the pick of the bunch! Why, she can't be more than fifteen.""Eighteen next month, and very tall for her age. She's still pretty, mother, and often I don't quite like her going to and fro to business. But there—it can't be helped!"She wondered whether her mother understood that the hundred pounds a year that had been paid for at least five years for her maintenance in various places of detention would have made it possible for Winnie to have stopped at home. Had Esther been dealing with the situation, she would undoubtedly have mentioned this fact. But Mary's disposition was more sensitive and kind."Say, Mary," said Mrs. Calladine in a soft of shamed whisper, "did I really come home in that hat and cape last night? Why, they belong to the little wardmaid at Mrs. B.'s. It's a real wonder that I wasn't run in, isn't it? Luck must have been on my side. Do you know what's going to be done with me this time? Has he said?""He" represented her husband, and Mary slightly winced at the undignified use of the pronoun."Edgar is coming over this morning. I told you, didn't I? He will put everything right, I am sure. Now, I'll just run a clean tucker in your bodice, while you brush out your hair. How pretty it is yet, mother, and hardly a grey thread in it! Why, even I have some already."Mrs. Calladine's face brightened as she ventured to the dressing-table to take a survey of herself. A kind of childish personal vanity had always been characteristic of her, and in her normal times she was very particular and even dainty about her clothes.That she had had to dress with such severe simplicity at Bentley House had been one of her chief thorns in the flesh, and she had got into trouble once or twice by picking some choice bloom from the garden, and tucking it in her bosom or in her waistbelt."I wish I wasn't too fat to wear a shirt-blouse, Mary," she said, looking with envy at her daughter's trimly belted waist. "There really isn't anything nicer of a morning. It makes you feel so clean. I do loathe stuff frocks. I never wore them when I was a girl. They are the limit!"Mary smiled, as her deft fingers ran the little tucker of clear lawn round the neck-band of her mother's gown. Her heart warmed more and more to the simple creature, so long cut off from all the serious affairs of life that she had become like a child in her trivialities. But it was a kind of winning childishness. Mary wondered how her father, who must surely have loved her once, could have apparently so completely put her out of his heart."Now I'll run down and get your breakfast. What could you fancy this morning? There's a little bit of fresh fish—would you like that?""No. I would like a rasher and a poached egg. We never get that at Mrs. B.'s—too expensive, I suppose. I'll be down in a jiffy. My! It is nice to be at home. If there were only you and me, Mary, I believe we would have quite a good time and no trouble."The strong, kind sense of her daughter was infusing strength into her vacillating spirit. Mary, as she sped downstairs, wondered whether, after all, the best had been done for the weak-willed woman, whether, as a family, they had not been too much for her.As the appetising odour of the rasher ascended the back stairs, the front-door bell rang, and Mary ran up to admit her brother Edgar."Good morning, dear. You look bright and well this morning," he said, as he stooped to kiss her. "How is mother?""Quite wonderfully well. She'll be down immediately. There's a nice fire in the breakfast-room. How cold your hands are! Is there frost in the air?""Five degrees, at least, and all the poor dahlias in my backyard are wilted this morning," he answered, as he hung up his coat and hat." Anybody been here from Bentley House?""Not yet. But I dare say there will be somebody presently. I am so glad you have come. Why, here is mother!"She appeared, hesitating on the half-landing of the stairs, and Edgar ran up and gave her a hearty kiss—the first she had received since her return. She threw her arms round his neck and hugged him close."Oh, Ed, I'm so glad you don't seem ashamed to see your poor mother!"He drew her down the stairs with an arm about her waist, and soon they were seated together in the warm, cosy breakfast-room, which had quite a pretty outílook on the long, narrow garden, where grew one huge chestnut tree, now rapidly shedding its leaves on the grass.Edgar professed himself glad to share her breakífast, and while they ate he watched her closely, and with a kind of poignant interest. He himself had not had a very good night, his planning and his mingled fear and hope having kept him wakeful. But this morning his purpose burned clear and bright in his soul. And at the sight of his mother, looking so sweet and so presentable, a stupendous relief was his.Surely it would be possible for him to make someíthing of her! She was in some respects an elemental creature, easily confused by the multiplicity of the interests of life and incapable of coping with a number of people.Mary attended to their wants, and then, quite aware that Edgar desired private speech with their mother, she went upstairs to her usual duties in the upper portion of the house, leaving them together.When they had finished at the table Edgar drew the old horse-hair easy-chair to the fireside and placed his mother in it."Put your feet on the fender, and make yourself comfy, while I fill my pipe. I've got heaps to say to you, mother."She wiped a surreptitious tear from her eye, as she sank down among the dilapidated springs."Don't be too hard on me, Ed! I'd just like some of you to have a spell at Mrs. B.'s. Then you'd know what a horror it is! Why, every one of them would run away, if they had the chance. They're always talking about it. Don't send me back there.""No, no. We're coming to that presently. I want to talk about myself. I'm not getting on very well at Winterstowe, mother.""Aren't you?" she asked, as if surprised that any one except herself should not be getting on well. "Don't you like it? Well, a parson's work must be mighty slow. I shouldn't care for it myself, even if I thought it ever did any good. Do you think it does now, really, Ed? People don't really care for that sort of thing.""Perhaps not," he answered good-humouredly. "But the work's going all right. I haven't anything to complain about, and I like it well. To my mind, it's the only thing worth doing. But I'm not very comfortable in my house.""Aren't you?" She sat forward eagerly, amazed that he should be taking her into his confidence, and immediately deeply interested. "Ain't she a good housekeeper?—extravagant perhaps, and lining her own pocket, giving away your meat and drink! I've heard of them doing that. You should be strict with her.""It isn't that so much, but she doesn't like the place. She's discontented, and wants to get back to her own people. When a person feels like that, you know, mother, she gets slack. I shall be very glad to let her go.""Have you heard of somebody else?" she asked interestedly, leaning forward a little.It was so long since she had been told anything about family affairs, so amazing that Edgar should offer her his confidence, especially in view of what had just happened, that she found it difficult to believe the evidence of her own senses.He was smoking placidly—the picture of ease and happy familiarity. They might have been any mother and any son enjoying a chat on matters affecting both."No, I haven't heard of anybody just yet, except a quite young girl, the niece of my present house-keeper."Oh, don't have a young gel, Edgar! They're no good, really. They want such a looking after. I'm sure Mary would tell you that.""I shouldn't have her, of course, unless there was somebody in the house to look after her. I wonder whether you would come, mother, instead of going back to Bentley House?"He observed the little start she gave, and waited for what she might say."What was that you said, Edgar?""Didn't you hear, mother? I am asking if you won't take pity on me, and come out to Winterstowe for a few weeks—long enough at least to settle me with the new girl.""Edgar, you're asking me to do that! To come to Winterstowe! Ain't I goin' to be sent to any more Retreats then?"Her tone had dropped almost to a whisper, and she sat forward, her face flushing, her hands beating a little nervously on her lap.Edgar took his pipe from his mouth, and looked her straightly in the face."I've come up to have a talk with you, mother, and I'm glad you are able this morning to have the right sort of talk. No—we can't send you back to Bentley House. It isn't any good.""No, it isn't. If you knew all I could tell you, Edgar, you'd say it even more emphatically than you do. It's not a bit of good. I'd just like to have in black-and-white the number of real cures. I bet they wouldn't be many. But how could I live down there in your parsonage? Who would look after me?""There wouldn't be anybody, mother. My hope is that you would look after yourself. I'm afraid that must be the condition.""Oh, but, Edgar, nobody believes I could do that! Your father don't. Does he know that you're thinking about this?""Yes, he knows. But let us leave father out of this just for a minute or two. I've got his perímission to do what I like, if you are agreeable. You wouldn't like to be at my house with my present house-keeper. That is one of the reasons why I am getting rid of her. And you know perfectly well that I can't be left to the tender mercies of her niece Rosie. What I want to know is whether you will take it on? Of course, I know how well you could do everything required. She's a big, strong girl, and you wouldn't have rough work. But I should expect you to keep everything nice, to look nice yourself, and to be able to see people who come to the manse—and a great many come. It would be an immense help to me. Will you do it?""But, Edgar, ain't you afraid of the drink?" she asked in an almost voiceless whisper."I am afraid of it, of course, in a sense. But I am going to pray, and hope that you are going to be stronger now, and that, knowing how terrible it would be for me and my position down there if you didn't keep straight, you will withstand temptation, both for your own sake and mine.""Oh, Ed, Ed, I'll try!" she said pitifully. "Do you really mean this—that you'd let me come and live with you, and not have any keeper, and expect me to look after your house just as if nothing had happened?""That's just what I do mean, mother. Other things have failed. Let's try this, and make a little triumph between us. Then, after a time, you could come back here and make them all happy, like we used to be long ago, when we were all little."She sat back in the old chair, and closed her eyes a moment. Her face wore a strange and quite unreadable expression. He kept silence for a space, and then, as he was about to say something more, she suddenly opened her eyes."Oh Edgar, take me now—to-day—this very minute, before anything happens to prevent it!"CHAPTER VIN THE BALLROOM AT THE RITZESTHER CALLADINE had a very good post on The Ladies' Corner, and was eminently successful in her work. Her gift was more adaptive than creative. She was so clever at copying and improving on other people's ideas that her touch almost amounted to genius. This particular kind of adaptability is almost as valuable as the creative gift, and much less expensive.After she had been about a couple of years at the office, her editor got into the habit of sending her to fashionable functions, both to report paragraphs likely to be interesting to the world of women and also for the purpose of enlarging her ideas. It was only to very special functions she was sent—to large West End mansions, or big hotels and restaurants, whereever, in fact, the fashionable crowd most congregated.When she reached the office that morning, after the fiasco of her birthday party, her heavy thoughts were brightened by the information that she would have to attend at the Ritz about four o'clock to take impressions of a crowd gathered to do honour to a foreign actress who had just come to London for her brief season.Esther was always ready, whatever they asked her to do. She was the

sort of woman whose clothes seemed to fit every occasion. She never

required to go home to change, or to add anything to her toilet,

simply because the clothes she wore looked always distinguished on her. At business she always wore black, favouring long straight lines, and hats with sweeping plumes. Wherever her employers liked to send her, she was, so far as appearance went, a credit to the paper she represented.A faint, a very faint, hope was in her mind, as she got out of the omnibus at Piccadilly Circus, that perhaps she might see Dudley Frew at the Ritz. It was the kind of function at which he was likely to be found. In fact, it was at something similar, at the Savoy, that she had first met him.She passed in, bearing her card of invitation, and was quite civilly greeted by the hostesses, of whom there were three—all women well known in London society. That formality over, she immediately stepped back to a little coign of vantage, where she could best observe the throng.Presently, to her surprise, she beheld a small brown girl, in a queer straight gown of blue Liberty velvet, being received with the utmost cordiality by the most important of the hostesses."Now, I wonder how Casa Raeburn got in here, and whether Angus is coming too?" said Esther to herself.Presently Casa saw her and made tracks for the pillar against which she stood."How do, Esther!" she said, showing her perfect white teeth in her engaging little smile. "I was so awfully sorry I couldn't come up last night in time for the party. I wouldn't have been here to-day, only I found this morning that I needed some fresh colours for my lessons at Eastbourne, and Angus rather ranted to come here, so I killed two birds with one stone, and I'm waiting for him now.""Do you know many here, Casa?" asked Esther, and as they stood together several looked at them, observing the contrast between them.Esther was easily, so far, the most beautiful woman in the room, and Casa might be said to look the most interesting. She was very foreign looking, so like her Italian mother that nobody could have mistaken her nationality. But she had a manner of more than Scottish abruptness, and a singular, straight clearness about her eyes which certain people found disconcerting. Casa was a general favourite, having a winsomeness about her which could not be put into words. She was careless about her clothes, which were of the severe, artistic type, costing as little money as possible and being as simple as they could be made. But she was always an interesting figure, and she seldom entered a house full of people without exciting the liveliest curiosity as to who she was.Her reputation as a miniature painter was increasing by leaps and bounds. Already she had executed commissions for most of the great folks who were gathering that afternoon."Do I know many?—pretty well everybody. But it was Lady Mount Sorrel who invited us. She was my mother's cousin.""Oh!" said Esther with a little gasp, hearing of the Raeburns' aristocratic connections in the flesh for the first time. "Did you only come up to-day, then?"Casa nodded."At one-twenty. I've been at the club, lunching with two women. I haven't seen Angus yet. Did you have a good party last night?""No," said Esther, under her breath, "we hadn't. Don't ask me about it, Casa. Angus will tell you, I dare say. It was the old thing"—she lowered her voice and bent down so that Casa might hear."She came back last night, right in the middle of everything, and Dudley Frew was there. I—I wanted to curse! Casa, you can't think how awful it was!"Casa's face set a trifle hardly. She had her own ideas about the skeleton in the Calladine cupboard, and at the moment her sympathy was not with Esther."I'm sorry if it worried you all. Were Edgar and Frank there?""Edgar—not Frank. He's at Bradford. But there were enough of us. It was perfectly horrible,

Casa.""So sorry. There's Dudley Frew coming in now. I can't think how he gets time to come to this kind of thing. I should have thought he would loathe it. Angus does. But Aunt Margheritta insisted, and she's been so awfully kind to us in other directions that we simply couldn't refuse. Will you come and be introduced to her?""By-and-by," said Esther rather nervously, for her attention was engrossed by the entrance of Dudley Frew. She wondered what effect last night's contretemps had had on him, and whether, if he saw her, he would ignore her or make any difference in his treatment of her.A sort of dull jealousy burned in her heart when she saw how many eager greetings he received—how this one and that claimed his attention.Frew's work as an artist had certainly received full recognition. At the moment he was one of the idols' of the fashionable world. And this adulation is a more searching test of the quality of man or woman than all the adversity in the world. Frew, wiser than many deemed, was doing his best not to affected by it. He had had a meagre youth, and for a considerable number of years he had pursued his calling in obscurity, often pinched for the wherewithal to enable him to continue it.He had leaped into fame by what he called an accident, but what some jealous compeers designated

by a less dignified name. His eye, arrested one day by one of those pathetic incidents which can so often be witnessed in London streets, discerned in it a pictorial subject. He quickly transferred to canvas this suggestion of a story which had a very human touch and made an instant appeal. Hung in a someíwhat obscure position in the Academy, it had been discovered and written up by some one who had apprehended the heart of the man behind the artist's brush. And it became one of the pictures of the year. It was the last kind of success that those who knew Frew best would have imagined him to expect or desire. Always cynical, save to the chosen few who knew him intimately, he had affected to despise the realm of sentiment, which is the realm most powerfully affecting destiny. He had not been credited either with tenderness, or with belief in the great verities. And lo! suddenly, he found himself labelled as a painter with a message for the souls of men.Since what he sometimes termed his "unhappy accident," he had done his best to get rid of an unenviable reputation, to destroy the label; but in vain! He was still known as the painter of "One Touch of Nature," and people were waiting for the companion picture.It was of that he was thinking when he had asked Esther Calladine to give him a sitting. He had now made several sketches of her head, but always he was baffled by the lack of something in her face, some spiritual suggestion which was essential to the ideal he had in view.As he approached her side that afternoon he caught a new expression on her face, a hint of sadness, which added infinitely to its beauty. She did not even smile when he made his way through the throng to greet her."Good afternoon! I saw you afar off. How are you to-day? Feeling the weight of the new year you took on yesterday?""Yes—I suppose I am. Some days we feel much older than others.""This kind of crowd is calculated to add to the weight of years! I wonder what our distinguished guest is thinking of it all?" said Frew lightly."Oh, I am sure she likes it! Every woman would. Besides, it's her natural environment—crowds, applause, incense. They belong to success."Frew made no answer, but leaned against one of the slender gilt supports of the underground salon in an attitude of contemplative ease. He longed greatly to ask Esther Calladine a direct question concerning the poignant scene which he had witnessed yesterday, and which, down to the smallest detail, had remained very vividly in his memory."I hope you arc all very well at your home to-day?" he said suddenly, and with a lame awkwardness very seldom observed in him.Instantly Esther's face flushed painfully."I hardly know. As a family, we get up at different times, eat alone, and simply drift out to our various occupations. I was the last to go; but I think they are all quite well."She had no wish to rebuke Dudley Frew; nay, in one sense, she was feverishly anxious that he should pursue the subject so that she might, if possible, obtain his actual point of view regarding that ghastly experience. But he appeared to take her words as a rebuke, for he immediately changed the subject by asking a question."Who is that small brown girl in blue, with the starry eyes and the restless hands?"Esther followed the direction of his eyes, though guessing already to whom he alluded."That is Casa Raeburn, the miniature painter. She, too, has become the fashion. That was her brother whom you met last night.""I should like to know her. Will you be so kind as to present me?" asked Frew, with undisguised interest. "Her brother spoke to me about her last night. I like him very much—a man who will go far in his profession, I should think, if that strong jaw means anything.""Angus?—oh, no! I think not. He is very ordinary—a good plodder. Probably he has got about as far as he will ever get. He is too Scottish to be brilliant."Frew laughed, for there was venom on the tongue."Isn't that a libel of sorts? How can we get to your little friend?""I'll bring her," said Esther, starting forward, chagrined because he had evidently no particular desire to talk further with her.Abnormally sensitive regarding her own position, imagining that women who work are looked down upon in certain quarters, conscious, too, of sundry snubs she had encountered in the pursuit of her calling, she began to feel herself at war with the whole scene and surroundings.Esther Calladine would have made a good leader of society. In such a position she would probably have shone and excelled, but in her present position she failed to achieve the highest, because she did everything, though well, with an air of protest.The world quickly tires of the misunderstood person, the man or woman with a grievance. One of the short cuts to success is to wear a bright face and accept with philosophy and apparent pleasure whatever comes.Esther was not yet in possession of this simple talisman for happiness an success, though Mary offered it for her imitation and acceptance every day."I can't permit that," said Frew quietly. "Perhaps we could make our way to her together. Ah, there is Raeburn! See how easily his big figure and solid face dominate everything, and repeat, if you dare, that he will never be anything but mediocre!"Esther smiled then, taking the words merely as a joke.Angus Raeburn made no appeal to her imagination. He was simply Angus, whom they had always known—a decent plodder, but with no yearnings after the high adventure.He was looking for Casa, but Frew and Esther reached her before him."Mr. Dudley Frew, Miss Casa Raeburn," said Esther, and Casa's speaking face brightened with pleasure, and she squeezed her small brown hands together with a gesture of childish delight."Oh, how nice to meet you, Mr. Frew! And there is Angus coming too. Now we shall enjoy ourselves immensely, I am sure, and perhaps get some tea."Angus, smiling broadly, reached a mighty hand through the throng and met Frew's friendly grip.After some manœuvring, they managed to get to a less congested corner which, though rather near the string band, at least enabled them to look squarely at one another."Beastly crush," said Angus shortly. "When I first came to the door I thought I couldn't risk it. But, after you are in, it isn't so bad. Well, Esther, how's things?""He stepped back to her side, and his face was eager, his eyes aglow. Frew, Listening to Casa's animated talk, finding her delightful, a creature of sunny impulses and bubbling over with goodwill towards the whole world. Had time to watch the other pair and to arrive at his own conclusions. Raeburn loved her undoubtedly. Nothing but the supreme emotion could bring such light to his face. But Esther, he judges, was totally indifferent, and probably would remain so—which would be a good thing for Raeburn.Frew, with his way to carve and an indomitable purpose at the back of his mind, had steered wholly clear of entanglements with women. He had not had so much as one flirtation. Yet his blood was by no means cold, nor was he indifferent to the charm of sex. He had simply not had the time, and the witnessing of other men's shipwreck had made him wary. In his own set he was regarded—wrongly—as a misanthrope and a woman-hater. The reality was far different!"Things are as bad as they can be," answered Esther, and the slow, vindictive fire glowed in her passionate eyes. "Wasn't that ghastly last night, Angus—altogether abominable? It ought not to be possible."Raeburn was silent, somewhat at a loss. He could think of nothing to reassure her or comfort her at the moment. But he wished she would not speak so bitterly. To take the sorrows of life as Mary took them is surely to lighten them and rob them of half their sting! To fight them in the last ditch is a sign of weakness and a presage of moral defeat."Oh, it'll mend, as it has done before. Don't take it so hardly, Esther. It vexes me to see you look like that.""Well, but don't you see, Angus, it doesn't give any of us a chance? Frank has the best of it. He gets clean away.""And Mary has the worst," he suggested gently. "Yet see how cheerful she is, and how full of resource!"Esther shrugged her shoulders."Mary does not feel things so acutely. She has, happily for herself, the phlegmatic temperament. I was so mad, too, because it happened when Mr. Frew was there. We don't have many distinguished visitors, or many visitors at all, as you know. Probably he'll never darken the door again. I should be afraid to ask him.""Oh, but you've made a mistake about Frew altogether," said Raeburn warmly. "He was most awfully interested and sympathetic. I walked a goodish bit with him last night. We left the house together, as you know, and you would have been surprised if you had heard him. He wants to come again. As a matter of fact, he did say he was coming again on Sunday."The tension of Esther's face relaxed, her expression visibly brightened."Did he? I am glad it was you he had to talk to. You are nearly, if not quite, one of ourselves, and you wouldn't make it any worse.""Good heavens, no! I'm too jolly fond of you all, as you must know, Esther. I'm sorry you feel as you do about things and—and—won't you let me offer you something different? It isn't much, but it's going to be something some day, and, if I had you to help me, I would go far, I'm sure."Esther heard as in a dream. Was it a proposal of marriage Angus Raeburn was making her—here, on the crowded floor of the Ritz ballroom, within earshot of a hundred people!She looked at him with sudden laughter in her eyes."Oh, Angus, you've chosen the moment for your joke rather badly, haven't you?""My joke! What joke?" he said savagely. "I didn't mean this when I came into the room, I mean it now. I'm asking you to marry me, Esther—to come out of it all and let me do what I to make you happy. I've saved a good bit. Casa has enough, and will have more; she's forging so fast. Won't you?"Realising at last that her ears had not deceived her, Esther looked at him, and her expression became quite hard and set."Angus, don't be so silly! How could we ever marry? Why, I feel just as if you were my brother!—almost like Edgar or Frank. I'll forget all about it, if you will. I must get out my tablets. I haven't done a blessed thing for which I am paid! You can help me, if you like. I am sure you must know people here, as it is your aunt's party. Who is that woman with the enormous green bird in her hat and the ermine furs?"Raeburn was not partly Scotch for nothing. He set his jaw rather hardly and shut his mouth. Presently he allowed himself to be parted from Esther by the throng, and sought Frew and Casa, who were evidently quite pleased with each other."Oh, Angus, Mr. Frew is being so kind! He wants to see my work, and he says he will come round to the studio this evening. What time can you be home?""The usual time—about seven, I suppose. Glad to see you at Oakley Street, Frew. It is kind of you to be interested in my sister's work.""But what have you done with Esther?" asked Casa breathlessly. "I thought we were going to have tea together.""She's taking her impressions now. She doesn't want anybody," said Raeburn, and Frew, oddly interested in the man, thought he detected signs of some perturbation of spirit."Do you want to stop long here, Casa?" her brother asked suddenly. "I must be getting back to the laboratory. This sort of thing plays the very mischief with a man's working day, doesn't it, Frew?""In your case it must. Poor beggars like me are compelled for half the year to be half-timers. Nature gets the better of us by withholding the light of her countenance half the year. It's a moot point whether she's setting a premium on laziness or only restricting the output."Casa laughed merrily, then became conscious of the gloom on her brother's brow."Oh, Angus, don't look as if Aunt Margheritta had committed a crime by asking you! After all, you needn't have come unless you had wanted to.""Sorry I'm such a bear. Ta-ta, Cas; see you later, I hope, Frew," he said, and the next instant he was gone."He seems put out—that big brother of yours. Does he never play?""Not much," said Casa ruefully. "He's rather a serious person, but a dear, Mr. Frew. Don't go away thinking anything but that, please.""I don't need your assurance. I like him uncommonly. Last night was epoch-making, Miss Raeburn.""In what way?" enquired Casa interestedly.Remembering what Esther had told her, she wondered just what the artist could mean."Well, it took me to a new place, and I found there the real thing—lots of it. It does not abound, shall we say, in the ballroom of the Ritz?""Oh, yes, it does. Only these people have on their party clothes! Underneath, they are just common men and women," said Casa unflinchingly. "Didn't you like the Calladines? Edgar and Mary are too good for this world, I always say—especially Mary. Oh, she is a dear, and, if I could see her and Angus married, 'I could lay me doon and dee.'"Frew was uncomfortably conscious of a little chill, almost amounting to a shock."Is—is any such happy consummation likely to take place?" he asked, carefully modulating his Voice to disguise its eagerness.Casa shook her head."I doubt it, for—don't you see?—Angus is crazy about Esther. I don't know how he can be. She's lovely to look at, of course, but to live with"—she shrugged her shoulders—"give me Mary, every time! She's lovely. She ought to be the mother of dozens of babies, she would be so heavenly to them. Do you understand from that, I wonder, what kind of dear Mary Calladine is?"Frew's eyes were very soft. They did not at the moment meet Cassia's bright, relentless orbs.The conversation, a little out of the common rut, interested him uncommonly. He went home to dream of Mary Calladine mothering all the children of the world.Esther, conscious of a deep disappointment with the afternoon, went back to the office, and said she would take her notes home to elaborate. Her editor, gathering from her manner and words that, whatever the nature of the function, she had not enjoyed her part in it, warned her that it had to be well written up, and that she would expect something worth while in the morning.Esther was the first of the working units to arrive at Whitcombe Square. As she crossed the square in a slanting direction on her way from the nearest station she glanced at the upper windows of number nineteen, fully expecting to see them lit up. But the only visible light in the whole house shone in the rather dingy, fan-shaped panes above the front door.Things would be more difficult, Esther told herself, if her mother were up and about, sitting at the breakfast-room fire, or even in the drawing-room.She fitted her key, entered quietly, and listened. The smell of something appetising was wafted from the lower regions of the house, and upon her ears fell a scrap of song, crooned in Mary's voice. As that also came from below, Esther tumbled all her belongings on the hall table and ran down.Mary, with a big overall about her soft grey house-frock, was turning something in a frying-pan, and looked round, smiling, to greet her sister."You are early, aren't you, Esther? I didn't hear you come in.""I'm a bit early. I was at a ghastly function at the Ritz this afternoon to meet Madame Corona. I couldn't settle down to work in the office after it, so I brought the stuff home. Well, how's everything, and where's mother?"Mary pulled back the frying-pan and looked smilingly into her sister's face."Edgar has taken her down to Winterstowe."Esther appeared not to comprehend."For the day, do you mean?" she said stupidly."Oh, no, for good—at least for a time. He was here by half-past nine this morning, interviewed the person who came from the Home, went himself to fetch away mother's belongings, and I went as far as Dalston with them about four o'clock. They'll be there long since."Esther flopped into the nearest chair."But I don't understand. Do you mean that Edgar is going to have her there, in his house?""Yes, he is.""And who is going to look after her?""He is, if she needs looking after. But he thinks she won't. I really believe, Esther, that Edgar has found the key!"A sudden moisture stung Esther's eyes, and she could not speak for a second or two. She did not know what brought it there—perhaps acute relief at the sudden lifting and ending of the day's suspense."It most awfully good of him, but I don't profess to understand it, Moll. Do you?""Oh, yes, I understand it. I should like to do it myself. I have sometimes felt that, as a family, perhaps we have been too many for poor mother. She wants a little space to herself and peace to live."Mary spoke rather jerkily, because she felt what she was saying a good deal.Esther resumed her wondering stare. This was so entirely a new point of view that she was not ready to deal with it just at the moment. She had been accustomed to think of her mother as a culprit, and she had reserved the whole of her sympathy for those who suffered through her, especially for herself."It's the oddest thing I've ever heard, I do believe, and I think it's very bold of Edgar. He deserves to succeed, but I don't see how he ever will. Why, we know what it has been like! If all the resources of an inebriate home couldn't keep the stuff from her, how is she to manage at Winterstowe? Why, the place simply reeks with it! And, if I remember rightly, Edgar's little pigeon-box is round the corner from a brewery!""All that is true. But Edgar is quite confident, though not in his own strength. He thinks God is going to help him."Esther shrugged her shoulders."And father—what does he say to all this? Does he know?""Oh, yes. Edgar and he talked it over last night, and after it was all settled to-day he telephoned to father at London Wall.""Well, it's an immense relief, only I don't understand it," repeated Esther, as she picked herself up. "Life's a queer business, and mostly I'm pretty sick of it."At the door she looked over her shoulder to say, "I saw Cassia and Angus at the Ritz this afternoon. Did you know they had an Italian aunt married to Lord Mount Sorrel?""Oh, yes," answered Mary, "but they don't go to her much. I rather think she is very little in England.""She was the chief hostess this afternoon. If he were my aunt, I'd see that she was of more use to me than she is to the Raeburns. There's father's key in the door.CHAPTER VITHE NEW HOMEMRS. CALLADINE had never been at Winterstowe.When Edgar went to settle there she had been at a Home in Essex, at the far side of the county, near the sea.She was childishly interested in her journey, though sometimes Edgar would catch her eyeing him furtively, as if she were not quite sure just what he meant to do with her."Are you sure we're going to Winterstowe?" she said once, looking through rain-blurred window-panes on the dreariest landscape in the world—a forest of roofs and chimney-stalks, over which the autumn fog hung heavily."Yes, of course. We shall be there in another ten minutes," he answered cheerily. "What makes you ask that?""Because we don't seem to be coming to the country. I thought Mary told me it was at Epping Forest.""So it is, but the Forest is on the other side, mother. It is all London on this side. But from the manse gate you can be inside the Forest in ten minutes.""That'll be nice. I haven't been much in the country since I was a girl," she answered artlessly, apparently forgetful of the fact that she had spent the last ten years of her life in country places, searching after bodily and mental health.Perhaps these years did not count with her, her son thought pitifully, as his eyes rested with tenderness on her sweet, but somewhat expressionless face. Please God, these years should soon be blotted from the book of remembrance!She was interested in her fellow-passengers, of whom there were a good many at the start, though they dropped off at the various stopping-places, until they were left alone in the third-class compartment with one woman carrying a rather fretful baby.Mrs. Calladine had been fixing her attention on this pair for a time. She suddenly moved farther up the seat."You look most awfully tired, my dear. Give him to me. A good weight he is too, and no mistake! How old is he?"The white-faced creature, with a heavy black fringe of hair across her brows, her feathered hat tilted at an outrageous angle on it, relinquished her charge with evident relief. The poor are never shy about accepting the favours they are always willing to bestow, and the amount of loving service they render one another would cause some of the self-righteous to open their eyes. It is rendered as a matter of course, and never so much as mentioned, neighbourly kindness being with them a habit, not a pastime."He'll be eleven months come Monday. A rare 'un, ain't'e? Got the prize for the Mellin Food Biby at 'Oxton Town 'All on the Benk'Oliday.""I don't wonder, pretty dear. But he hasn't got much colour. Perhaps you don't take him out enough.""I ain't got the time. I works in a laundry. 'E stops wiv the woman next door," answered the young mother, smiling to see the child immediately soothed by his change of nurse, and by something in her kind, skilful handling."Oh, is his father—gone, then?" asked Mrs. Calladine interestedly."Oh, no; only 'e don't count," she answered calmly. "'Usbins don't much dahn our street.""Oh, but that isn't right," said Mrs. Calladine seriously. "I should make him count, if I were you. What's the matter?""Drink—the usual. Not a bad sort, Bill, w'en 'e ain't got it. But there is allus plenty. They gits money fer thet w'en they carn't fer anythink else. I dessay you've noticed it. Pretty dear!"Her plain, pasty face was suffused with tenderness as she gazed into the baby's big, fatuous countenance, awakening into a little life as his new nurse dandled him on her knee.To Edgar Calladine, sitting in the far corner of the long compartment with a little book he had taken from his pocket open in front of him, this little scene was both enlightening and suggestive. Seeing his mother's amazing tenderness, her motherly touch towards a baby who was by no means so attractive as he might have been, her practical sympathy with the young, inexperienced mother, he had an idea.In Winterstowe in the last twelve months he had started a women's Monday meeting in connection with his own chapel, and already it had become one of the most successful agencies of his ministry. The one Sister of the People whose services, being an unmarried man, he had found absolutely essential in his work among the women and the children, had it in charge. Quite lately they had started a nursery in the vestry, where the little children might be cared for while their mothers enjoyed the quiet hour in the chapel.His mother should be put in charge of that, and without delay! Probably she would love it, and, coming into contact with life, and with all its temp-tations and tragedies, even as she had done now, might begin the wonder-working miracle in her own soul."I bin back at 'Oxton at me favver's funeral," the young woman was explaining in a cheerful voice. "It was a luvly funeral. They paid up 'an'some from the insurance, but muvver done 'im so well there won't be a copper left. She may come down to Winterstowe, an' go in the laundry wiv me. Anyway, she's comin' dahn Sunday to talk things over.""But won't the laundry be hard work for an old lady?""Oh, bless yer! Muvver ain't ole—not more'n fifty. She's got twenty year good work in her yit. I'll speak fer her to-morra at the laundry."At that moment the train drew up at the lower end of Winterstowe, and the girl-mother grasped her baby, and went out with a smile and a nod, which Mrs. Calladine returned with interest."Poor thing! Isn't it a shame, Edgar? She can't be more than nineteen! Did you hear what she said about the baby's father not counting?""I did. But that's nothing out of the common down our way, mother. I'm afraid a good number of the husbands and fathers don't count. What they don't spend in pubs in the week they get rid of at the football matches on Hackney Marshes and at Tottenham on Saturdays.""Oh, but, Edgar, how terrible! Can't you do something to stop it, or to make them better?""It's what I'm trying to do with all my might, and I shall be most awfully glad of your help. I've learned a good deal since I came to Winterstowe, and, if you could hear me on the feeding of infants, wouldn't believe your ears! But it stands to reason that, being a mere man and a bachelor, I'm often rather helpless.""It's a wife you need, Edgar—a good, sensible woman, who will help poor young things like that," she said vigorously."Right you are. But meantime it's a mother I need, and I've got her—good luck!" he said, with a little smile in which humour and tenderness blended.At the moment the train ran into Winterstowe Central Station, and they got out. A four-wheeler quickly bore them to Risden Grove, which was the ambitious name of the little cul-de-sac in which the manse was situated.Calladine had taken the precaution to send a pretty lengthy telegram of explanation to his housekeeper earlier in the day, in order that she should not be taken by surprise.She was standing at the doorway when they drove up—a rather menacing figure in a black dolman, and a bonnet with aggressive red flowers in it. This in itself was ominous.She made no effort to come down and help with the baggage, of which there was a fair quantity. Calladine had simply brought all his mother's things as he had lifted them from Bentley House, being of the opinion that the experiment at Winterstowe would require at least a year to test and complete it."Come, Mrs. Worboise, and help with my mother's luggage," he called out rather sharply.But the tall, commanding figure did not move."She's angry, Ed," whispered Mrs. Calladine, whimpering a little at sight of this irate female. "She doesn't want me here. Perhaps you'd better take me back.""Nonsense, mother. We'll soon settle her. Are you coming, Mrs. Worboise?""No, sir, I ain't. I've stopped to let you in, and now I'm agoin'. I ain't standin' no new missuses over me! It wus a single gentleman I come to do fer, an' I've done 'im 'andsome, so now I'm agoin' after I gits the trifle owin' to me."The tone of the woman's voice, both insolent and aggressive, awakened some of Mrs. Calladine's dormant dignity, and she drew herself up as she walked along the little stone passage."Never mind her, Edgar. Let her go. What a disagreeable, impertinent person! Send her off immediately."Calladine pushed past Mrs. Worboise, led his mother into the dining-room, where tea was laid, and then busied himself getting in the luggage. After he had dismissed the cabman he interviewed Mrs. Worboise on the doorstep."I am disappointed in you, Mrs. Worboise. This is a very mean trick you have played me. My mother is not very strong, and, if you go to-night, we shall have no one to attend to us.""Should a thought o' thet, sir, afore you done this.""Done what?" said Calladine in a puzzled voice. "Have not I the right to have a visitor in my own house, you foolish, unreasonable woman?""Not like this, an' to stop indefinite. I told yer larst night I didn't like the idee. Me things is all gone, sir. So if you'll give me the trifle owin'—a matter o' seven-an' twenty shillin'—I'll be off."Calladine hesitated a moment. He was being shamefully and unreasonably treated, but Mrs. Worboise in her present mood was obviously not going to be much of an asset to the house."You can go now, and come back for your money to-morrow—after I have thought things over. And, if your niece Rose is at home, you had better send her up. Good-evening, Mrs. Worboise."He entered the house and shut the door, leaving Mrs. Worboise outside slightly nonplussed.She had not made so effective an appearance as she had expected and planned. She had wanted a scene, and was ready for it, though past experience of her master might have convinced her that with him no such thing as a scene was possible. Angry he could be, and often had had occasion to be, with her, for at her best she was an indifferent servant, but his dignity had never once been ruffled.He tried to smile as he joined his mother in the dining-room, where she was standing, rather helplessly, looking round."I'm sorry, mother. I'm afraid it's a bad beginning. But the house is fairly clean, I think, and directly you have had a look round and I've got you some tea, I'll go out and find somebody. I know a good many temporary workers among women, and I can fall back at the last on Sister Agatha.""Has she really gone, Edgar?" his mother asked, moving to the window and peering over the blind. "What a horrible woman! Poor boy, is that all you've had in the way of a housekeeper since you've been here? I can't think how you've stood it so long.""Oh, at her best she isn't bad. But just lately, as I told you, she has been discontented and unsatisfactory. Will you come through the house now, or will you sit down till I get you a cup of tea?""Oh, I'll go and take my things off, and get tea myself. I think I could do that, Edgar," she said, with a smile in which there was a suspicion of archness.She took off her gloves, and together they made a tour of the little house, which consisted of the dining-room and study and kitchen premises below stairs, and three bedrooms and a box-room above. It was very compact, simply but comfortabley furnished, and cleaner than Mrs. Calladine has expected after beholding Mrs. Worboise."It's a dear little house, and I don't see anything to hinder me keeping it myself, Edgar. I'd like to try. I shall simply love cooking a bit again. You know, I used to be quite a good cook; father could tell you that! He said I could make nice dinners out of very little—better than he could get in any restaurant in the world.""And I should love to eat your dinners again, mother. But I don't propose to make a drudge of you. Poor old Worboise has done her duty up to a point. She has put your room in order.""Hope she aired the sheets. I'll just slip a hot water bottle over 'em after tea and see. Just go down, Ed, and see whether the kettle boils. I'll be after you in a minute."Calladine ran, whistling, downstairs into the kitchen, where he found the kettle singing and the muffins already toasted in the dish.Mrs. Worboise had certainly done her best to leave no reflections behind. Calladine wondered at the virulence of temper she had shown, but on the whole his feeling was one of relief. He had never genuinely liked the woman, who belonged to a low class, and had often brought objectionable people about his house. Even his large charity had hardly been able to cope with some of his experiences with Mrs. Worboise.He heard his mother walking about upstairs, apparently taking a keen, housewifely interest in her new domain and making and inventory of all she found there. Her interest pleased him and augured well for the future. Once interest her thoroughly, get her to take hold, as it were, of the new life in which she would have to take so responsible a part, and, he believed, half the battle would be won.When she came downstairs in her neat black dress she looked so nice and motherly that he caught her round the waist and kissed her."My new housekeeper, of whom I'm going to be ever so proud! Now let us have some tea and talk things over."She took her place at the head of the little table with evident pleasure. So long suspect, kept in her place, cowed in a measure, it was a new and delightful experience for her to be treated with so much deference and respect.She was in a very penitent mood, and for a month or so after an outburst she was generally immune from further temptation, unless it was of a very flagrant kind. Reflecting on this and on what opportunity a month would give him, Edgar Calladine's hopes soared high.They had quite a merry meal together—she interested in everything down to the smallest detail, criticising the crockery, the house linen, the arrangement of the furniture.Already Edgar saw in his mother evidences of a desire to rearrange things, to make drastic alterations, to have the house quite to her mind."You can do whatever you like, mother. I shan't complain. While you are in the house it is yours, and if a five-pound note will be any use to you to get things for it, why, you've only to ask for it."Then his face flushed ever so slightly, for he had spoken on the spur of a happy moment, and now remembered that for years it had not been safe to entrust her with money. If she noticed his offer and his sudden awkward flush, she did not remark on it.She would not let him help clear away, but told him to go to the study and take a smoke and a rest."You've had a lot of running about on my account to-day, and now I've driven your house-keeper away, it's the least I can do. But, I say, what wouldn't I give for old Mrs. B. to see me now!"She chuckled to herself as she carried out the tray, and Calladine, happy and hopeful, retired to his study to look at some letters that lay on his table and to relax a little after his strenuous and rather exciting day.He had not been long there when the front door bell rang with a tremendous and rather threatening peal. By the time he had got out to the passage his mother had opened the door."A gentleman to see you, Edgar. Yes, my son is at home."She spoke the word with pride, but Edgar hardly noticed her effort to make the caller understand that she was not an ordinary housekeeper. The sight of the man disturbed him. He knew what his presence meant.He was an elderly man—good-looking, well set up, immaculately dressed, the exact type of his class—the successful commercial one."Good evening, Mr. Belford," said Calladine quickly. "Please come this way."He held open the study door, and Belford, without a smile on his face, entered the room, and the door was shut."You are not surprised to see me, Mr. Calladine?""Not altogether. It is not your first visit to this house, Mr. Belford," answered Calladine with a slight smile. "Won't you take a chair?""No, thank you. What I have to say can be said standing," said Belford aggressively. "I've come here to speak about my tenant Potterill at Highams.""Yes," said Calladine, bracing himself for what he knew would be a disagreeable interview. "I am ready to hear what you have to say.""You will have to hear it whether you are ready or not, sir. Potterill gave notice the day before yesterday, and he's turning out of the Blue Boar on Saturday. I know who has done this, and I wish to know by whose authority you go behind my back to undermine my relations with my tenants? I like the Potterills. They are decent, respectable people, and I defy you or any man to prove that the house has not been conducted respectably and quietly.""I make no criticisms on that score," put in Calladine quietly."It is an example to every licensed house in the neighbourhood. I hear that on every hand. You pose as a benefactor and reformer in Winterstowe. What have you to say for yourself regarding this flagrant instance of foolish meddling?"Calladine swallowed something in his throat. The words were hard, the tone bitter, the whole attitude of the man hostile and even threatening.In his way, Belford was one of the most influential men in Winterstowe, being the chief partner in the largest brewing firm in that part of the county. Also, he had been in many ways a benefactor to the town, being generous in his subscriptions, and never turning a deaf ear to an appeal.Calladine himself, however, for obvious and private reasons, had never made a single appeal to him since he came to Winterstowe. This undoubtedly rankled a little in Belford's mind, though it made the ground very clear about the minister's feet."Since you put it like that, I will answer you straightly, and to the best of my ability, Mr. Belford," he said, in a low, clear, and quite steady voice. "About three months ago—I need not give the exact date or all the details, which concern Potterill alone—the man came to me in some considerable distress of mind. It is somewhat difficult for me to explain this to you, Mr. Belford, but it is necessary that I should try. His conscience and heart had been touched by direct spiritual influence, and he was anxious to order his life so that all that was best in him should be allowed full scope.""And the shortest cut was to give up a respectable livelihood and throw his wife and children out of a home!" suggested Belford with a palpable sneer.Calladine ignored both the words and the sneer."He came to consult me in my capacity as a Christian minister. I may say, Mr. Belford, that I had nothing to do with the first impression made on his soul. He has never, to my knowledge, been inside my church. But when he came to me, of course I did not fail him. I talked to him, as I believed it was my duty, as most certainly it was my privilege to do so. He confessed to me that for some time he had felt himself getting too fond of the drink, and that his power of resistance was daily weakening. Could I do less than advise him to get out of an occupation in which temptation was his daily portion?""Nonsense, Mr. Calladine. Potterill liked a glass perhaps, but I have it from his wife's lips that nobody has ever seen him the worse for it.""Potterill certainly did not speak of it so lightly, That is the whole story in a nutshell, Mr. Belford. Potterill wished to get out of the 'Blue Boar,' first, for his own sake and for his children's, and, secondly, because his awakened conscience informed him that he could not continue to make a living at a trade which works so much mischief among his fellows."Calladine spoke quite steadily, trying to choose words which, while adequate to the occasion, would not needlessly inflame the anger of the man in front of him.But Mr. Belford did not take them well."Fact is, you Dissenting parsons take a mighty sight too much on yourselves! You come into a place and immediately think it your duty to upset existing institutions, forgetting the fact that it has existed without your interference for generations. I warn you, Mr. Calladine, that you are giving offence in a great many quarters, and that you are going on the wrong tack altogether. Pray, does not your newfangled religion teach you to give everybody the benefit of the doubt?""Undoubtedly it does. It is what I have tried to do since I came to Winterstowe.""Well, I've not come here to find fault with your work in the place. I suppose it has done some little good. I only want to warn you against such unwarrantable interference as you have shown in Potterill's case. You will find the body of public opinion against you, I think, when you go on these lines. And there is nobody sharper than the working-man to find out who is his best friend.""All this does not prove anything against me, Mr. Belford," said Calladine quietly. "You accuse me of unwarrantable interference. I deny that I have been guilty of it. Potterill came to me for advice. I gave him the best I had to offer. I think he is acting rightly from every point of view—his own and others. I thank God that he has had the courage to act on his convictions, and I will certainly do my best to help and encourage him in the new path he has struck out for himself.""Hold him up as an example—a brand plucked from the burning, I suppose! Said the angry man contemptuously." A perfectly decent chap, who has never harmed himself or anybody! It won't pay, Mr. Calladine. Once more I warn you to make sure in what direction your best interests lie.""I am able to discriminate for myself, I think, Mr. Belford," was the quietly measured reply.Belford shrugged his shoulders as he began to move towards the door."Doubtful, I should say—extremely doubtful. I don't want to quarrel with you, nor do I want you to imagine that I am your enemy, or anything of that sort. Fortunately, my position in Winterstowe is unassailable. Yours is yet—shall we say?—precarious. It will not pay you to go against the chief magistrate, will it? I have consented to accept the Mayoralty next year, and I am prepared to mark my year of office by a good many benefactions to the town. Your work might have shared among the rest, but, as I say, I should first expect more consideration at your hands than you have yet shown. I bid you good evening."Calladine walked with his visitor to the door. He had been very quiet throughout the interview, purposely abstaining from adding fuel to the fire of the rich man's ire. But in his expression there was no hint either of waning courage or of shaken resolve."Well, is it to be war or peace?" said Belford, with a slightly suggestive smile, as he offered his hand.Calladine hesitated a moment before he would take it."I had better make my position quite clear, Mr. Belford. My work, as you know, brings me into touch with the very poorest homes in Winterstowe, and with the submerged tenth, whose condition is becoming increasingly appalling. The chief cause of the poverty and misery and petty crime is drink. As a servant of God, I have no choice but to fight it to the very death.""All right," said Belford, as he turned away." Now we know precisely where we are!"CHAPTER VIIWHEELS WITHIN WHEELSCALLADINE decided not to acquaint his mother with the nature of the interview with Mr. Belford. As he stepped back from the door she came out of the kitchen with her hands under her apron, an expression of curiosity on her face. Her son suddenly realised that his privacy was at an end, and that in his life he had probably entered on a period of explanations."Whatever did he want, Edgar?" she asked interestedly. "How loud his voice was! He must have been very angry!""He was, for a moment, I believe, but I daresay he'll think better of it," he tried to answer lightly."I have a meeting to-night at eight. Will you come—or will you not mind being left alone in the house?""I won't mind. I shall need the evening to put away my things, and get accustomed to my new quarters. I've found that it was only surface dirt your Mrs. Worboise swep' up. The scullery is something awful! I'll have it all done out to-morrow, I'm alive, and every cupboard in the house as well."Calladine nodded and smiled."I've no objections, so long as you don't overdo it. Well, supposing the girl Rose Worboise should come up this evening—I don't expect she will now, if her aunt can prevent her, though she is in my Bible-class, and, I think, would help me if she could—will you interview her yourself, arrange about a suitable wage, and tell her what she will have to do?"They had entered the sitting-room by now, and Calladine watched his mother narrowly, to see the effect of his words. Her acknowledgment was a slightly sensitive flush."I think I could do that, Edgar. Everything depends upon making things clear to a new gel at the beginning. I expect that's what was the matter with your Mrs. Worboise. She hadn't anybody to tell her what to do.""Well, you see, mother, a bachelor who engages a middle-aged housekeeper hasn't any choice but to leave everything in her hands.""Umph! I shan't be surprised if I find linen and spoons and things short. Tell you what, Edgar, bring me in a little penny exercise book, and I'll just write down all the things I find. I like to know where I am in the house."Calladine nodded, and, his immediate anxiety relieved, his thoughts recurred with a certain painful persistence to Mr. Belford. There was another and a personal reason why he felt himself more perturbed by the interview than perhaps there was any need for. Probably this would make a difference to his whole outlook on life."Where's your meetin', and what do you want for supper?" his mother asked."My meeting is at the Town Hall. It's to consider the programme for the winter among the churches, so that we may not have a repetition of the poverty and misery of last winter. There was a good deal of unemployment, preventable and otherwise, and no organisation. Would you like to come?""Oh, no. I hate meetin's—always did. It seems queer to think

of your takin' up your head with such things, Edgar. I remember you, a

dear little chap in knickers, never out of mischief, and when you was bigger, and went to school, the biggest fighter in North London!""I'm a bit of a fighter still, mother. Well, I'll just pop back to the study, and try to gather my thoughts for my speech.""But you haven't told me about supper.""I don't often take more than a cup of cocoa and a biscuit."Mrs. Calladine shrugged her shoulders."No wonder you're such a poor, thin thing! It's a bit of feedin' up you want, and we'll see if we can't get it for you."Calladine smiled, and went back to his desk.Half an hour later he left the house, apparently without any fear or misgiving, though not without expressing regret at having to leave his mother on the very first night she was under his roof."That's all right. I've got plenty to do while you're gone. Don't worry about me. If I'm to be a worry, Ed, the sooner I'm gone the better, don't you see?"He kissed her, and went into out the night.It was a Friday evening, and, somehow, the week had been so broken up that he had had far too little time at his desk. Although Calladine shirked none of the manifold duties and obligations of a clergyman in a crowded area, his own idea of his calling was embodied in the message he had to deliver in the pulpit. As a preacher he excelled, and he knew that no man can preserve his supremacy and individuality in the pulpit without many hours spent in the study of the Word of God. In his secret heart he believed that carelessness regarding Bible study was at the root of many barren ministries. It is impossible to give out all the time. There must be replenishing, or the store becomes attenuated, and finally exhausted.Calladine was jealous exceedingly of his study hours. But this particular meeting was one he could not ignore or give up. It had to do with the most vital problems of the place in which he lived.The hall was filling when he got there, about eleven minutes before the hour. As he neared the door a single-horse brougham drove up, and a lady alighted from it, Calladine arriving under the gas-lamp at the very moment."Half-past nine, James," she said to the coachman, and turned to see Calladine beside her.There was an undefinable something in their meeting, which might have made even a chance observer decide that they were more than casual acquaintances.She was not tall, but she had a neat, trim figure, and her face, with its clear-cut features, clever mouth, and deep, kind eyes was an attractive one. She looked about twenty-eight years of age. She was well dressed, but very plainly. A single-stone diamond brooch of fine quality made a little shaft of light at the lace about her throat, where the collar-band fitted perfectly, showing the graceful outline of her neck."Good-evening, Miss Belford," said Calladine, and then seemed to hesitate.She solved the problem of the moment."It is not yet meeting time; let us just walk round the corner," she said, with rather a quick note in her voice. "I want to say something to you."He acquiesced with all the alacrity he felt, and they passed round the end of the brilliantly lighted building to the dim passage, where they were quite secure from observation by those passing in through the open doors."Father came home about an hour ago very angry, Mr. Calladine. He told me he had seen you, and what had passed between you.""I'm very sorry this has happened," said Calladine in a low voice. "Only because he is your father, understand, and because it may vex you.""It does vex me, and I am afraid that in the meantime it is going to hamper me too. He has absolutely forbidden me to go to the Monday meeting any more!""Ah!" said Calladine with a sort of jerk, "I was afraid of it. Well, in the meantime there is nothing to be done, except to acquiesce.""I suppose not," she assented rather reluctantly, "though I felt very much like protesting. After all, I'm not a minor, and I don't see why I should give up the work I love just because papa happens to have had a private disagreement with you."When he did not answer she looked at him more steadily."Couldn't you leave things like the Blue Boar alone, Mr. Calladine? After all, it is a very harmless place. I've been making inquiries, and everybody speaks well of it.""That is true, I believe, Miss Belford, but, in spite of that, it is not a good place for Potterill. That's my point at the moment. The man wants to get out of it; he must get out of it, if he is to lead a happy or a useful life.""It has served him a good while, and he has made a living in it. His wife is distressed at having to leave. I know she is, because I saw her yesterday. Wouldn't it be better, or at least more expedient, just to let a few things drift? There are so many other serious matters to be dealt with than that innocuous little beer-house in the Forest."Calladine's face was a little hopeless as he turned it to the light, and they began to make their way slowly back to the front of the building.Florence Belford had now been working in connection with the women's meeting at Hubert Lane for considerably over a year. She was one of its very best workers and keenest enthusiasts, and she had helped Calladine more than she knew. The Belfords did not attend his church, but his work outside the actual membership was approved by a great many people who did not attend the services, and he had a band of workers from other churches, who were both loyal and devoted to him.Florence Belford was one of those. She was well known in Winterstowe, of course, and was accounted proud. There was some story of disappointed affection which made her interesting to women, but Calladine had never heard the particulars. She had interested him from the first moment of their meeting, and even a certain hardness and shrewdness, which reminded him of her clever father, drew him. It seemed to him piteous in a woman, as well as suggestive of a heart that had suffered in its dearest part.She was not the first who had sought distraction from inward suffering in service for others. The work, undertaken merely as a distraction, had taken a deep hold on her. She seldom absented herself, even when she might have had ample excuse. But Calladine had no means of knowing whether there was in her heart any direct response to the Divine appeal.Her actual work was among the babies in the underground room, where they were collected while their mothers had their quiet hour in the church.Those who knew Florence Belford as the clever society woman au fait with all the questions of the day, and very scathing in her comments on literature and art, would have marvelled had they seen her among the little children of the poor. Many of these were squalid and unlovely, but none repelled her. The beauty of her face while she would be crooning over some small bundle of clothes and aches was indescribable.Calladine had only once seen it, and it had made an indelible impression on his mind and heart: had awakened a hidden feeling for Florence Belford that had never slept again, but that had steadily grown until it had become a part of his life. He never dreamed, however, that it could become more intimately personal. The gulf between them was too wide.But tit that moment, as she explained to him how she would have to disassociate herself from his work unless he would change his methods, she was unwittingly subjecting Calladine to a searching test. It is not so hard to fight for, or even to advocate losing causes, when we have no great personal stake in the matter.Calladine became acutely conscious just then that there was nothing he wanted less than to lose Florence Belford out of his life. Aware that she was waiting for his answer, he stumbled towards it."It is not a question of that beerhouse, or another, Miss Belford, as you know. But I can't refuse to help a fellow-creature away from his stumbling-block. I upheld Potterill in his decision to leave the Blue Boar and I found him another situation. These two things are the head and front of my offence. Surely you would not blame me for them?""I don't. What concerns me is that I am not to come any more to Hubert Lane. My father is not a pleasant person to live with when he is in a state of chronic anger, and besides, nobody has a right to eat a man's bread, even one's father's, and go directly in opposition to his expressed wishes. That's where so many women fail in logic, don't you see? They want to cat the cake and have it too!"She smiled slightly, looking into Calladine's grave, rather set face."There is nothing to do, then, but for us to acquiesce in the meantime," he said at last, "But I don't like to think how you will be missed at Hubert Lane.""I myself don't want to leave," she admitted frankly. "And I hoped you valued my services higher than you do."It was an unkind speech—the speech of a petty woman. Calladine did not seek to answer it."Then, shall we see you no more at the Women's Own?" he asked, as they neared the doors. "Not even next Monday, to say good-bye?"She shook her head."I'm afraid not in the meantime. Papa has forbidden me, you see. It's not possible to go against that, is it?""Hardly. But it is very odd that it should have happened this week. My mother has come to Winterstowe to stay for a little with me. She loves children dearly, as she had need, seeing she brought up five of us. Probably she will go to the crèche in the meantime, and remain in charge until you come back. For I hope it is only going to be an interlude, and not a final break.""Your mother?" she repeated, not noticing the latter part of his remark.Somehow, the word, from Calladine's mouth, interested her deeply. They had had a good many talks together, some of them intimate, but she had never heard him mention his mother before."I didn't even know you had a mother," she added bluntly. And then she asked his pardon.He smiled back, and they had to part on the instant, she entering by the front door, while he proceeded along the dark passage again to the platform entrance.He spoke well that night, but he might have been surprised had anybody accused him of addressing one woman in the audience. He did not so much as see her; only his whole being was conscious of her presence. He did not know what caused him to strike the note of personal renunciation in his plea for united effort in the town against all the forces of evil. But he did, and so effectively that hearts were softened and eyes grew dim under his eloquence. His was felt to be the speech of the evening, because the personal note so strongly interwoven with every suggestion gave it the force of a personal appeal.And all his life was behind it—the years of conscientious and fruitful service he had given in the place. Men and women in Winterstowe thanked God that night for Edgar Calladine, and went home to pray for him and his work.The meeting was a prolonged one, but about half-past nine Calladine slipped out. A sort of chill had crept over him while listening to a temperance speaker declaiming against the drink traffic, and swiftly he realised what he had at home and how, in a sense he had not yet experienced, he must be a continuous watcher at the gate.He made great haste home, only to find a glow of light in the sitting-room window, and a welcoming mother within. Hardly knowing what he had feared, he caught her round the waist and kissed her in the narrow hall, to which she had run to meet him."You're not so late after all, Ed, and I've had such a busy night. Don't you smell something nice? What do you think! I ran out to get a morsel of fish for you. I had just ninepence in my pocket. It got me a filleted lemon sole, and it's baking now in the oven. Are you tired, dear?"Calladine turned away quickly, for something was stinging his eyes—a moisture he did not wish her to see. He felt as if he were a little boy back again at his mother's knee, lisping his evening prayer. To her children when they were very small, Mrs. Calladine had been the sweetest mother, full of comforting and caressing ways. When they grew older she had not known so well how to deal with them. They had not seemed to need her so much. Edgar and Mary, who of all the family had kept the child-heart, were able to be more tender to her in her weakness than any of the others."It was a big meeting, and there was a lot of talk," he said, as he stepped into the sitting-room, and sat down to draw off his boots. "So you went out, naughty old lady, and I looking forward to showing off Winterstowe to you myself! How did you find your way?"He spoke quite lightly, but he was thinking of all the public-houses she must have passed on the way. And ninepence in her pocket! The wonder and the joy of it filled his whole soul."Easily. I just followed the big glow in the sky, which I supposed to be the reflection of the street lights. Why, it seems quite a big place, Ed! And very good shops—cheap, too. I expect I'll be able to make a difference in your housekeeping bills. Come and have supper."She had laid it with pride and care, and Edgar Calladine sat down at his own table, feeling for the first time that he actually had a home. Hitherto the house had served as a shelter, necessary, but in no sense alluring."And did Rose Worboise come?" he asked, as he proceeded to divide the savoury contents of the baking-tin."Oh, yes," his mother answered, bristling with importance. "I had only just got in, and my bonnet on, when she arrived. Quite a likely little girl. I gave her a piece of my mind about her precious aunt, I tell you, and said she wasn't fit for a gentleman's service."She nodded across the table at him, and Edgar, greatly amused, sat back and laughed."And how did Mrs. Worboise's niece take that?""Oh, quite well. She did say, I believe, that her Aunt Maria was a fool, or something like that. And she wants to come ever so badly, because she likes you so much, Ed. She's coming to-morrow at ten o'clock.""Very good," said Calladine in a pleased voice. "Things seem to be sorting themselves out nicely.""And to-morrow me and Rose will just start at the top of the house, and go to the bottom, cleaning out Aunt Maria's dirt," she said firmly. "Then we'll be happy and clean! And when you've a few shillings to spare, Ed, I'd like a bit of fresh muslin for under curtains. Some of them are shameful; bad washing, I call it, nothing else!""You'll have everything you want, mother, that I can give," he assured her. "And now, shouldn't you be going to bed? Let me carry away these things. They can be washed in the morning, can't they?""No, they can't. A woman who has to set eyes on a pile of dirty dishes when she comes down of a morning never gets over it all day. You sit down to your pipe and your paper, and I'll be back in a jiffy. It's only just gone ten, and I don't suppose you get up early in the morning, as you've not got anything particular to do."Calladine smiled at his mother's hazy conception of a parson's day, carried the piled tray to the scullery for her, and then, at her earnest entreaty, went back to the sitting-room fire and sat down.His thoughts sped, swift as an arrow, to Florence Belford, and the disturbing fact that she was going out of his life, and that he alone was to blame for it. No thought of receding from his position occurred to him. It was one part of the price a man has to pay for adherence to strong principles, and, though it could hardly be said that he gloried in it, still he was prepared to endure the consequences.Calladine's attitude towards his Divine Master was that of the soldier to his commanding officer—no question, no hesitation, no doubt, instant, implicit obedience, which is the greatest rest possible to a human soul.He heard his mother humming to herself through the half-open doors, and while that gave him a sense of pleasant companionship he was in no way over-elated by the happy inauguration of his experiment. In a sense he had expected it, but he well knew that the tussle and test were to come."So you didn't have a very interestin' meetin'? What was it all about?" she asked as she dropped into the low chair on the opposite side of the hearth."It was a meeting to confer about charitable organisation," he answered. "We wanted to have some sort of system of distribution, more co-operation all round.""I didn't think you would have so many poor in the country. Why have you? Don't they work, then?""Oh, yes. But this isn't exactly the country, mother; it's just an offshoot of London, and we're rapidly getting a slum area which compares favourably—if that is the right word to use—with any in the East End—the sort of thing we encountered in the train this afternoon, you know."She nodded, and her face became thoughtful.Calladine went on a trifle nervously: "I've had a disappointment this afternoon, mother. One of my best workers, Miss Belford, who has taken charge of the creche ever since we started it is giving up, and her place will be difficult to fill.""The crèche?—that's a place for children, isn't it?""Yes. Many of our mothers have young babies, and we found that carrying them all into the meeting meant constant irritation, and no peace for anybody. It was Miss Belford's suggestion that we should fit up one of the underground rooms as a nursery. As a matter of fact, she did it at her own expense, and then got some girls to help. Sometimes we have as many as forty or fifty babies of a Monday afternoon while the mothers are in the meeting.""Good idea. And why is she giving up? Is she gettin' married, or what?""No; but I've had the misfortune to offend her father. That was he who called on me this afternoon. He's a brewer, and he has a number of tied houses in this town and neighbourhood—among them one in the Forest, called the Blue Boar.""Yes?" said Mrs. Calladine interrogatively, though her eyes were on the fire. "And how did you offend him?""His tenant at the Blue Boar—man of the name of Potterill—got converted one night at a meeting; and now he feels he can't keep a public-house any longer. He came to me to talk things over, and I upheld him in his desire to quit the life. You wouldn't blame me, I suppose, mother.""I don't know anything about it. I suppose it was the man's living.""I got him another job. But Mr. Belford is very angry about it, and he has forbidden his daughter to continue working with me.""Rich folk, I suppose? Pity to offend them.""I am sorry, chiefly because I've lost her. Will you take on the crèche, mother? I don't know a single person I can get at a moment's notice."She seemed to shrink a little away."I do love little children, Ed, but do you think I dare?""I don't know anybody who would mother them better, or help the mothers more where small babies are concerned," he said sincerely enough.She sprang up, and he saw that her eyes were heavy and her lips moving."I'm awful tired, Ed, and I think I'll go to bed. It's been rather an excitin' day for me, but I think I'm goin' to like it. Oh, I hope you aren't makin' any mistake!""I'll risk it," said Calladine, as he kissed her good-night.After she had gone upstairs he heard the sound of her sobbing, and as he bent over the fire, conscious of a strange yearning and tenderness towards all the world, his own eyes were wet.CHAPTER VIIIA SUNDAY AFTERNOONSUNDAY, which Edgar Calladine filled to overflowing with what may be strictly and truly termed religious service, was very strangely spent in his father's house.It was observed solely as a day of rest, and contained no religious observance visible to the eye. Nobody rose early. Paul Calladine himself sometimes even had breakfast in bed. There was a sort of running breakfast downstairs, to which people helped themselves as they happened to come down. Nobody went to church; nobody was even properly dressed until the early dinner, of which, as a family, they generally partook together.Mary, of course, had to cook this meal, as Mrs. Polgarth did not "oblige" on Sundays, when her own spouse looked for, and demanded, a hot and satisfying meal. It was not an unreasonable demand, as all the other days of the week he spent on the driver's seat of miller's dray, subsisting on snacks from publichouses and cheap eating-places, a list of which he had by heart.Mary Calladine liked Sunday less than any other day in the week. It brought her the hardest work, and at the close generally left her unsatisfied. After she had washed up in the afternoon and changed her frock, she usually felt too tired to go out.On the Sunday following Esther's birthday party Frank was at home, and they sat down, a fairly cheerful family, to dine together off hot roast beef and pastry at half-past one. It is a meal which is apt to produce a stodgy afternoon effect. But all the Calladines worked hard during the week, and liked their loafing Sundays. None of them ever thought that this method of spending the day might be hard on Mary.She did more than usual that Sunday morning. She baked some fresh cakes for afternoon tea, remembering that Dudley Frew had said something about coming to pay his respects. Probably he had forgotten all about it, but when she saw Esther's careful toilet, and noted the fact that she had said nothing about going out later in the day, she concluded that probably he would turn up. She was conscious of pleasurable anticipation in the thought. The Raeburns would come for certain, if Casa happened to be in town; nor would Angus hesitate about coming alone. He had spent most of his Sundays with them in Whitcombe Square since his own home in it had been broken up.In the summer they very often sat in the Square Garden, and even sometimes essayed tea there, the boys shamelessly carrying over cakes and crockery, enjoying the novelty and the daring of it.Frank was undoubtedly the handsomer of the Calladine sons. His features were very like his mother's, and he had inherited his father's height. He rather plumed himself on his personal appearance and his position, which was good, as he possessed looks, dash, and assurance—qualities essential to the successful commercial traveller. His commission during the last six months had been a very handsome one, and he was correspondingly elated over it.He had been very much astonished to hear about his mother's return from Bentley House, and the latest arrangement made concerning her."Wonder how poor old Ed is getting on to-day with the mater?" he observed lightly, as he drew in his chair at table.He had spent an hour and a half over his toilet, carefully matching his socks and his tie, shaving with the utmost care and nicety, and attending to his hands and his hair. The effect was a trifle dandified, and Mary privately loathed his pointed and waxed moustaches. Her ideal of masculine beauty was a clean-shaven face in which manliness and strength predominated. But she never nagged, and seldom found fault. If it made Frank happier to have waxed ends to his moustache, why pass disparaging remarks? That was her point of view."He wrote very cheerfully yesterday, didn't he, father?" said Mary, as she took the lids off the vegetable dishes in front of her."Yes, he did," answered Calladine, and his somewhat heavy face seemed to have lost its worried look. "He has succeeded in interesting your mother, and she is evidently finding plenty to do.""Wonder if I should go down this afternoon?" said Frank. "Care to come, Esther, or Moll, or Win?"Winnie seemed to shrink back, while Esther shook her head."I'm not going out to-day, thank you, Frank," she said."You, Moll.""No. I think it might be wiser to leave Edgar alone with mother for a week or two. Too many of us about might upset her," Mary answered, glancing up appealingly at her father.He nodded in quick approval."I agree with you, my dear. Most certainly we should not go down until Edgar tells us it is time.""Anybody coming this afternoon?" enquired Frank then.The restlessness of the road never wholly left him, and he had never been known to spend what people term a quiet day in the bosom of his family. Naturally, he had many acquaintances, if not friends, in London, and he was excessively fond of visiting at other people's houses. But he had social ambitions, and he took great care only to go to houses where he thought he would be likely to better his prospects. His social instincts were distinctly commercial, but he was so debonair with it all that, somehow, one did not feel so much repelled as might have been expected."Angus and Casa, probably. Didn't you say Casa was still in town, Esther?" said Mary inquiringly."I think she is. I heard her say the other afternoon at the Ritz that she thought she would take the week-end. There's a discussion at the Playgoers' Club this evening that I rather think she wants to go to.""But that will be late," said Mary quickly."Half-past nine o'clock, I believe, after the dinner. She isn't going to that.""Then she'll be here this afternoon, sure," said Mary contentedly."I shan't stop in for the Raeburns," said Frank a trifle loftily. "Anybody else?"Esther said nothing, but cut up her meat into minute portions."Mr. Dudley Frew did say something about coming, didn't he, Esther?" said Mary pointedly."Yes—but we needn't count upon him. He's always full up on Sundays, when he isn't receiving in his own studio. Probably he has forgotten all about it.""Do you mean Frew, the big artist?" asked Frank interestedly."Yes," said Mary when nobody else answered."Well, I'll stop, on the off-chance of seeing him. They were talking about his work at a house I was dining at in Bradford the other night. The Cor-poration has bought one of his pictures for the Art Gallery—gave six hundred quid for it. If a man can get that for a single picture, he's worth knowing."And Frank pulled down his smart flowered waistcoat, and pulled up his high collar, as if to emphasise the commerical fact."He can get much more than that now," said Esther quietly.Mary wondered, as she listened, how Frew himself would feel, could he overhear this inventory of his market value. Somehow she imagined that it mattered very little to him. She had only met him once—and that under rather distracting circumstances—but she had an intuitive feeling that he was a man who would cherish certain ideals.She thought of him a good deal downstairs, as she got rid of the débris of the meal, setting the kitchen to rights, and building up the fire so that the kettle might be ready when wanted.Then she dragged herself up to her own room, and sat down somewhat wearily. She had been drudging about the house since seven o'clock, had cleaned up three fireplaces, and set as many fires alight, besides getting breakfast ready before any of them stirred.Somehow, for the first time she was conscious of a vague rebellion, and as she looked at her hardened and somewhat discoloured fingers a disgust of herself possessed her. She was not less fond of dainty things and dainty ways than Esther, but the nature of her work limited her share of them."A hewer of wood and drawer of water! I wonder whether I shall be that to the end of the chapter?" she said, as she stood deliberately before the mirror and regarded herself.She had a shabby frock on, and her housewifely apron seemed to classify her, and emphasise her position, as household drudge.I'm getting old," she said with a half sigh."Wonder whether in other twenty years, or perhaps less, I shall look like old Polly!"She undid her frock, hung it on its peg, and put on the blue dressing-gown, which, though old, had the instant effect of softening and refining her looks. Then she threw herself on the bed and closed her eyes. Just very occasionally she indulged herself on Sunday afternoon, it being tacitly agreed that Winnie, secure with a novel in the corner of the drawing-room lounge, should attend to the door and prepare tea.She closed her eyes, but sleep did not visit them. Seldom indeed had her brain been more active. All sorts of strange thoughts chased one another through it, chiefly rebellious thoughts, that life should be so grey, and apparently without meaning. She suddenly loathed the whole order of things, rebelled in her secret heart against her daily work, against all the obligations and trammels of her home. Something within cried out that her youth was passing, and that it had never had its due."To clean up a house, make food, wash and bake and sew—can that possibly be the be-all and end-all of a woman's destiny, of my destiny in particular?"This phase of mind was altogether new in Mary Calladine's experience. Hitherto the modern unrest, surging all around her, had never crept up to the threshold of her door. But now it had come flooding up, high, insistent, not to be withstood. For the first time in her life Mary became, in her way, as commercial in her instinct as her brother Frank. She demanded to know what she was getting out of the present order of things.After half an hour's somewhat exhausting debate with herself she quite suddenly fell asleep, and, contrary to what might have been expected, her dreams were sweet. She dreamed of little children with the faces of the morning touching her own, and clinging arms about her neck, and she awoke with a smile on her lips. She lay still for a moment or two, and presently she heard the clock on the dining-room mantelpiece strike four. Immediately following on it there came a ring at the front door bell. She sprang up then, and began to make a hurried toilet.In the middle of it Winnie came flying up."Everybody's come, Moll! Angus and Casa were here about three, and now that is Mr. Frew. Shall I take tea in, or wait till you come down?""If they seem in a hurry, take it in. Have you laid it in the dining-room?""Yes. Do you think I should take it out again, and have a drawing-room tea?" asked Winnie, as if that were the most important point in the world."No, no. Men prefer to sit down comfortably, and there is not enough room in the drawing-room. Is Esther down?""Oh, yes, and everybody is talking quite comfortably. Frank has already told Mr. Frew about the Bradford people who helped to buy his picture for the Art Gallery. Mr. Frew is very polite, but I saw him looking at Frank rather oddly. Perhaps he was wondering why his boots were so shiny, and the stripes in his trousers so aggressive! Frank was railing at father's old velvet jacket just before they came, and threatening to burn it, because it isn't smart. But it looks ever so much nicer than the clothes he wears. Don't you think so?""Yes, but we mustn't forget that Frank travels for men's wear, and that he is a conscientious advertiser," said Mary with a small laugh, in which Winnie joined."Well, I'll go down. Don't be long, Moll. Somehow, nothing seems right downstairs without you, and people say the wrong things. If I have to take tea in before you come, I suppose Esther will pour it out?""Oh, yes; but I shan't be long," said Mary, as she plunged her hands into cold water.She was alert, vivid, eager again, even about her household affairs. The bleak, rebellious mood had passed. She dressed quickly, but took a certain pains, especially with her hair, which was very abundant, and which she had seldom time to dress properly. She wore it rather smoothly coiled about her head, and, never having tormented it by hot tongs and unnatural twisting, had preserved all its natural beauty. Esther changed her style of hair-dressing with every passing mode, and her face seemed to change with it.When Mary was ready to go down, wearing a gown of black-and-white stuff, simply but cleverly enough fashioned, so that she appeared very slender in it, she looked what she was—a type of the womanly woman who is the true backbone of her sex and kind. She was satisfied on the whole, for sleep had restored her balance. To put it more correctly, she did not give a second thought to her appearance as she sped down the stair.Guided by the sound of voices, she found that they had gone into the dining-room. After a moment's hesitation she opened the door and walked in."I'm sorry to be late," she said, as she stooped to kiss Casa, who was nearest the door. "Good-afternoon, Angus. How do you do, Mr. Frew? So kind of you to remember us."She always said the right things, and everybody was conscious of a new, soothing kind of influence pervading the room. Esther at the tea-tray immediately abdicated, and nobody quarrelled with the arrangement. To dispense things was surely Mary's m#x00E9tier! She looked her best at the head of the table."Yes, I've been asleep," she said frankly, "and I'm not in the least ashamed of it. Has everybody got what they want?"Frew, at her right-hand side, felt strongly the subtle, homely influence of this woman—a type he had seldom met of late years.He was, in a sense, a friendless man, and he had no near relatives except an uncle, who, having scorned and discouraged him in his early artistic struggles, was, naturally, not now very acceptable to the successful artist. Frew had never had a real home, nor, until now, had he ever imagined that he desired it.Esther, now removed several places from him, suddenly realised that in some strange and wholly unaccountable way she interested him less than Mary did. It was a thought so overwhelming that, for the moment, it sealed her lips. She was looking as beautiful as usual, but hers was the charm which was always exercised to the best advantage in the outside world—a charm to which a certain atmosphere was necessary. She was not capable of creating an atmosphere. Her nature was too cold, or at least too unawakened as yet, too much centred in self.Frew turned to Mary with the most genuine pleasure."Why do you think it kind of me to remember you?" he asked. "Don't you know that it is a privilege for a man like me to have such an opportunity?""Is it? but I wonder why?" she asked, and her eyes brightened, though why she could not have told. Perhaps she was relieved to learn that the painful episode that had occurred at Esther's birthday party had made no difference to Frew. She glanced down the table gratefully at Angus Raeburn, wondering how much they owed to him in the matter. Frew and he had left the house together, and had doubtless talked; and Angus, being such an old friend, would put the best explanation on it. It was what they would expect from him. She made up her mind to thank him privately when she had the opportunity.Meanwhile, conscious of her own singular brightness of spirit, she wondered at the gloom visible on Esther's face. That there could be any feeling of jealousy of herself naturally did not occur. The idea would have seemed preposterous to Mary, who imagined herself long since labelled spinster, and settled in her niche by her family. Esther was the bright meteor of the household, who might any day achieve some unimagined flight."You must have so many friends," added Mary, when Frew's eyes seemed to question hers.He smiled."Not so many as you think. Believe me, friendship is about the rarest plant in these latitudes, and growing rarer every day.""You must have been singularly unfortunate, if you mean me to take you seriously. Why, even we, though we live so quietly, have some quite dear and tried friends—Raeburn and his sister, for instance. They are like ourselves!""I see that, and their privilege has been great. Your other brother is not at home to-day?""Edgar? Oh, no. Of course, you know he does not live here. He has a church at Winterstowe. I thought he had told you.""He did. But somehow I imagined him here a great deal.""Oh, no. He is here really very little. He is the most frightfully busy person," she answered, and then hesitated a moment.Talk was very animated further down the table, and Esther was discussing something rather hotly with Raeburn. So Mary, lowering her voice a little, added: "He has just done a very wonderful thing. He came the morning after Esther's party, and took our mother away to his house at Winterstowe, and somehow I seem to believe that he will find the key down there."Frew's eyes became deeply sympathetic. Once more he mentally contrasted the different attitudes of the two daughters to the cloud which overshadowed their home—Esther's bitter, sarcastic resentment, and Mary's pity and boundless hope!"Your brother made a great impression on me. I had been hoping to see him to-day. He is the first genuine exponent of religion I have ever met.""He is genuine certainly. The way in which he came to enter the ministry was in itself rather wonderful. He was arrested just as Paul was on the way to Damascus, and he has never looked back since. He believes that religion is the only thing in the world that counts.""And you?" said Frew, anxious to probe more deeply for his own satisfaction."I? Oh, I don't know. I read the Bible because I don't find any other book half so interesting, but I seldom go to church. I have a sort of belief, of course. I rather think, however, that I am only struggling towards the light as yet. I haven't arrived anywhere. I should like to feel like Edgar. Then one has no doubt. Don't you see, it simplifies everything?"Their talk had dropped into such a confidential strain that, for the moment, both wished that they could be alone together. But they were interrupted presently by Esther's rising abruptly from her chair."It is very hot in this room. Let us go next door," she said imperiously. "I am sure everybody must have finished by now.?""I haven't, but I'll come presently," said Mary Pleasantly. "Go, Mr. Frew. Angus will stop and talk to me perhaps."Frew rose, but somewhat unwillingly; and presently only Angus and Mary were left at the table."A nice man, don't you think, Angus?" said Mary, leaning her elbows on the table, and nodding in friendly fashion towards Raeburn. "What did you tell him about us the other night to leave such a very good impression on his mind? He seems to want to keep on knowing us, and I'm very glad, for Esther's sake.""I didn't tell him anything. He's shrewd enough. He judged for himself," said Raeburn a little hardly. "But I don't want him to push me out here, Mary.""Push you out!" she repeated. "Dear Angus, how can you say such a thing? He is brand-new—you are as old as the hills!""But he is pushing me out with Esther," he said deliberately. "I mean to have Esther, Mary, in spite of Dudley Frew!"It said much for Mary's self-control that her expression did not waver at this bald statement, delivered in the heat of an unwonted display of passion. It was as if the close, silent Scotsman had been suddenly swung off his guard."You'll help me, won't you, Mary, against this Frew chap? Take him off our hands. Leave me Esther.""Oh, but, Angus," said Mary hurriedly, "think what you are saying! It is Esther you are talking about. Nobody can do things with her. She simply walks over one.""She was all right till this chap came along," went on Raeburn harshly. "She knows I am toiling for her, and for nobody else! And the goal's in sight, Mary. Unless I have some infernal bad luck, I'll get an appointment in spring at fifteen hundred a year. Then there are the books I'm entitled to write. I haven't rushed into print before, because I wanted to win the right to offer my opinions. All these years I've worked like a galley-slave, without any recreation or diversion, except what I get here. It has been for Esther, so that I might have something worth while to offer her. And she knows it. I tell you, she belongs to me, and nobody else shall have her, if he were Dudley Frew ten times over!"Mary sat very still under this onslaught, comparing it in her mind to the sudden tempest sweeping through a wilderness of Scotch pines. She wondered, as she sat there as if glued to her chair, why she should be singled out for this peculiar kind of torture. For Angus Raeburn was her ideal man, and in her heart had nestled the hope that some day he might turn to her. That dream was shattered. He was at her feet now, pleading not for her affection, but for her help to win Esther!"She's never been the same to me since she met Frew. I didn't realise it till I saw them together last Sunday. You see, I hadn't met him before. He's the sort of man who gets what he wants, but he shan't have Esther! I tell you, she belongs to me. She as good as told me so long ago—before Frew ever came on the scene.""Why do you tell me all this, Angus? I can't do anything," she said nervously, and would have risen from her hair.It seemed incredible that just through the folding doors were the two of whom they spoke, all unconscious of what was passing, of the fires that had been kindled never to sleep again."I am quite helpless, Angus, for, of course, I don't know—nobody does—how often they meet outside. He is not likely to come here much or often. His coming to-day is only to make up a little for that other ghastly evening, and it shows, I think, that he has really a kind heart. I can't help you—not because I'm unwilling, but because I don't know how."He looked at her gloomily, with deep eyes aflame."He's showy, and has all the palaver that women like. I'm only a plain chap, Mary, but I'd try to make her happy. I can't go on like this. I won't be responsible, if Esther treats me as she is doing, for what may happen!""I'll see what I can do. I'll speak to her," she said hurriedly, fancying she heard unusual movements in the next room. "I think we had better go in. They will wonder what we are doing so long alone here."CHAPTER IXTHE BOSOM OF THE FAMILYWHEN they entered the adjoining room Winnie had opened the piano, and Casa was adjusting a very pretty banjo with streaming ribbons on her lap. She sang to the accompaniment many quaint songs of the South, in a small, sweet voice, which depended on its piquancy more than on its strength for charm. Paul Calladine was specially fond of Casa's musical performances, which nobody else took seriously. He would keep her playing and singing to him for an hour at a time. And Casa was always willing to oblige.She nodded significantly across the room to Frew before she began."I hope you won't allow this to chase you away, Mr. Frew. It's the regular Sunday evening performance. Mr. Calladine takes it in place of going to church."There was no irreverence in Casa's mind as she spoke these light words, and the idea that she was doing wrong certainly never would have occurred to her. Casa was a child of the sun, full of impulse, guided by no conventional rules of conduct, yet kept from evil by the innate purity and sweetness of her own nature.In that Bohemian circle each unit was a law unto itself, each person doing that which seemed good in his or her own eyes; and, though there was affection, there was certainly no unity in the family life of the Calladines. They embodied in their relations to one another the modern idea of freedom, which, in the long run, is very apt to become a bondage of the spirit undreamed of at the start.Mary had a sudden sensation of forlornness as she dropped into a chair near the door, while Raeburn stood gloomily by her side, glowering towards the sofa where Frew and Esther sat in the corners.Mr.Calladine was smoking in the depths of the best easy-chair, while Frank had struck a suitable attitude against the cold white marble of the mantelpiece, which made a good background for his figure, and, incidentally, gave him the opportunity for frequent glances in the mirror.Frew was much astonished at the appearance and personality of the second son, who demonstrated to him the fact that one nest can contain many different kinds of birds. The family, as a whole, interested him keenly. He wanted to study them, and here, in their own setting, was the proper place.Nobody but Esther, however, saw that his eye brightened at the entrance of Mary. Frew wondered what Raeburn and she could have been talking about at the table to make them look so grave. They both seemed too serious for the moment.Presently Casa's small, piping, birdlike voice filled the restricted spaces of the room, and she sang with a good deal of gesture, and considerable facial expression, which gave undoubted piquancy to the whole.When the applause stopped, Frank delivered himself of information."Say, Casa, I must send you the book of 'The Girl from Beyond.' It's simply rippin'. I heard it in Bradford last week, and three times in Manchester week before. There are ever so many good companies on the road, and some of the scores are simply rippin', I tell you!"It was noticeable that Frank clipped his words exactly as his mother did. For the first time Frew, who had a vivid memory of the face of Mrs. Calladine, was greatly struck by his likeness to her."Seen 'The Girl from Beyond,' I suppose, Frew?" he said, with the easy familiarity a gentleman of the road can so readily adopt towards a chance acquaintance.Frew shook his head, secretly squirming at the form of address."I'm afraid I don't haunt musical comedies. I'm among the pessimists who think the theatre is going to the dogs."Frank, who imagined himself an authority on theatrical matters, and the drama in general, and who spent most of his evenings away from home in the pits of provincial playhouses, immediately plunged into eager discussion."Well, I don't agree with you, sir. We're getting rid of the stodgy old dramas bit by bit. Shakespeare is very nearly played out, thank goodness! He's had a pretty fair innings. And managements in general are beginnin' to wake up to the fact that what the great B.P. wants is something lively, up to date, thoroughly rippin', and modish. It's comin', I'm sure. They're on the right lines!"Frew laughed, and even Raeburn's heavy mouth relaxed."Do shut up, Frank," said Esther sharply. "If you get him on to theatres, he'll never stop, Mr.Frew. I'm afraid his provincial life hasn't improved his taste."Frank took the rebuff with suitable good-nature. He was very good-natured indeed, and a prime favourite in his own walk in life, his philosophy being that there were very few things in the world worth losing one's temper over."Esther wants a chance to get on her high horse," he said, with what was meant to be a wink at Frew. "We all know her here. None of them are theatregoers. I'm really the only one who knows anything about it, but, somehow, one's family is seldom encouragin'. They spend all their spare time sittin' hard on a fellow—ha! ha! But I'm difficult to squash!"He laughed genially and rolled himself a particularly neat cigarette."Won't you recite something, Esther?" asked Mary a little timidly, addressing herself to her sister with a kind of new awe in her voice.The woman who was beloved of Angus Raeburn, and who had attracted Dudley Frew, was surely worthy of respect, if not of love. It was a very strange feeling she had towards her sister at the moment—something remote, melancholy, with a touch of yearning and envy in it.Esther flushed a little and turned to Dudley Frew."I don't know why we should imagine you want a variety entertainment," she said, smiling into his eyes. "Do you, Mr.Frew?"Frew immediately responded that he was being vastly entertained, and would she oblige. He could hardly have done otherwise, though if there was a species of entertainment he loathed more than any other it was a woman's recitation. He had seen and heard enough of it at studio shows to sicken him for all time. Perhaps he was curious to see Esther Calladine in a new rôle—perhaps not.She rose gracefully."Well, if you all want it! But I haven't been reciting much lately, and I'm out of form. Open the doors, Frank. I must have a little more room!"They all helped to throw wide the folding doors, and the table was pushed to the farthest corner, so that Esther might stand under the shaded yellow light of the chandelier. She had put the yellow shades on herself that afternoon in anticipation of this event.Then the lights in the drawing-room were lowered, and, striking a suitable attitude, she began to recite in a low and quite beautiful voice"The Birth of the Opal."Frew sat forward, politely interested in the poise of her beautiful figure, her graceful movements, the undoubted beauty of her features. But her performance left him perfectly cold.After a second's interval she began something else—a declamatory piece, a sort of appeal to patriotic sentiment, to the mothers of sons to surrender them to death for their country. It was supposed to be her masterpiece, and she gave it with all the concentrated force of which she was capable. A good deal of gesture was necessary, and the lace fell away from her white arms as she upraised them, showing their fine contour and their astonishing whiteness.Poor Mary's small red hands, lying on her lap, seemed ugly by contrast. She imagined Frew looking disparagingly at them, for she had slipped into Esther's corner, and she did not dream that he could have kissed them in reverence!All the elements of a simple, moving drama were in that little, commonplace London drawing-room that Sunday afternoon, marching towards inevitable conflict.Esther, very flushed and a trifle breathless after her big effort, sank into the nearest chair."You're great, Esther!" said Casa's chirpy little voice. "I should like to see you as Lady Macbeth! Don't you think she ought to go on the stage, Mr. Frew—and it's a shame she doesn't?""She would adorn it," Frew answered—words which might mean anything."I have had no lessons," said Esther, a little proudly. "Whatever talent I possess is at least unspoiled.""All the more striking on that account," murmured Frew gallantly."But, you know, you throw yourself about rather much, old girl," observed Frank, with his delicious air of criticism. "More repose, more dignity would suit your style better—eh, Frew, don't you agree with me? I've always thought and said so, but, as I say, one's family ain't encouragin'. Now, she'd take a word from a man of the world like you, who must have seen and done everything.""Indeed, you do me an injustice, Mr. Frank," said Frew, with a slightly humorous smile. "I'm not a man of the world, and I have seen and done very little. I'm afraid I take my pleasures rather sadly! I go out little, and although I hear a good deal about theatres I am not a frequenter of them.""Now, that's odd. I should have thought you'd be in the very thick of it all," said Frank in a puzzled voice.At that moment Frew turned to Mary."Won't you sing something to us?" he pleaded."I don't sing," she answered simply," except, now and again, to please father when he is tired."She smiled across at him, not disturbed by the silence which had become almost habitual with Paul Calladine. He could sit in a room an entire evening without opening his mouth, yet without giving offence—an achievement, in its way."It's the kind of singing I like, Mr. Frew. I don't think voices should be tortured and trained till they resemble nothing under heaven," observed Calladine quietly." Go and sing something, Mary—any old ballad, the older the better!"Mary rose without effort or protest, and Winnie ran forward to play."'The Holy City,' or 'The Children's Home,' or 'The Lost Chord,' Moll?" she said teasingly, "which is it going to be?—all suitable for the Sabbath Day!""You know I don't sing that kind of thing, Winnie. Go and sit down. I'll play for myself."She felt that that would be less trying than facing, or even than standing up before the stranger.After a minute she began to sing in a minor key Herrick's "Daffodils." It just suited her voice, which, though clear and sweet, had no great compass. It was quite naturally and simply done, therefore gave pleasure where a more ambitious effort might have failed.Meanwhile Raeburn had planted himself by Esther's side."I wish you wouldn't recite, Esther! It doesn't suit you," he said in a low voice and almost savagely. "I can't think why you do it."He knew of no reason why he should not speak out plainly what he thought, and Esther was fully aware how much he disliked her performances. He had often told her so. Perhaps she had done it at the moment to annoy him, being apparently in a contrary mood."Who cares for your opinion? You are too narrow, Angus. Why can't you be Italian instead of Scotch? Then everybody would like you better," she said scathingly, at the same time straining her ears to hear what Frew was saying to Mary at the piano.She was surprised that Mary had been persuaded into singing. It was a poor performance, she thought, without distinction or charm—mediocre, like everyíthing Mary did!Esther was oddly disposed to be critical and disparaging regarding her elder sister that night, because she had the lurking consciousness that, for some wholly inexplicable reason, Frew seemed to admire her.I dare say you prefer Mary's 'Daffodils'—poor wilted things!" she added, with a shrug of her shoulders. "Oh, isn't it deadly dull? Why people like us don't murder one another on Sundays, I can't think! You look as if you wanted to now."'I'm feeling pretty savage, I admit. Come out with me, Esther. It's fine. We'll take a hansom to Richmond and sup there."She stared at him in amazement."You must be out of your mind. We should find nobody at 'The Star and Garter' at this time on a winter evening. I'll go to the O. P., if you like to take me. I thought I heard Casa saying she was going.""Never mind Casa. Come now; we can dine at the Cecil and go in to the discussion after. Won't you?""I'll think about it. Heaps of time, isn't there? It's only half-past five. Let's ask Mr. Frew whether he's going.""I don't want him," said Raeburn under his breath. "I'm trying to get you away from him.""Don't be silly, Angus! They'll wonder what's the matter with you presently.""I can't help that, and I don't care. You've never been the same to me, Esther, since you got to know this artist chap.""Haven't I?"Mary was laughing, and Frew was telling her something very amusing. Her face was so animated at the moment that Esther was struck by the fact that she had, in some odd way, underrated her looks."No!—and there's no fairness in it," persisted Raeburn. "You gave me all sorts of opportunities before.""Opportunities for what?""For being with you.""Oh, I hope you availed yourself of them! Perhaps I thought you didn't show sufficient appreci-ation," she said, with a gleam of mocking laughter in her eyes.Her mood was rapidly hardening. Had Raeburn possessed a tithe of Frew's more delicate intuition, he would not have continued to harp on the personal note. The moment was inopportune."What's that you are saying about Winterstowe, Mary?" said Esther, getting up suddenly and walking over to the other side of the room.Frew immediately sprang from his corner to offer her a seat, but she shook her head."Sit still. I'm restless. What about Winterstowe?""Mr. Frew has never been there, and he is developing an interest in it. I tell him that, though it is on the edge of the Forest, it has not much else to recommend it.""Your sister is not quite fair to me, Miss Esther. I was only venturing a friendly inquiry about your brother, in the hope that she might offer to take me to call upon him. After throwing out every conceivable kind of hint, this is all I get!""Go to Winterstowe to see Edgar! How very odd that you should want to do that. But nothing could be easier. I'll take you, if you like, next Saturday afternoon."What could Frew do but thank her and say he would be very happy to go? But he hoped before next Saturday came that something would intervene to prevent the little excursion. Winterstowe in company with Esther Calladine, instead of Mary, was not quite what he wanted."I shall have to go now, I am afraid. I have an unusual engagement this evening to dine at the other side of London, and I have to get home first to dress. I will say good-bye."He walked over to Paul Calladine and bade him a cordial good-night. He had not yet made any study of this strange, silent father who had his niche in the home and might easily be a dominating element in it, though he had so little to say."What was that about the O.P. Club, Casa?" asked Frank when they were all on their feet, intent on going. "Any room for yours truly?"Casa shook her head."Oh, I shan't go, I think. Winnie and I will go to church in Spanish Place. Will you, Win? The music is going to be fine to-night."Win rose delightedly, caught Casa by the arm, and they disappeared upstairs. Mary did not accompany Frew to the door, but bade him good-bye in the drawing-room."I shall hope to make Winterstowe yet in your company," he said quite pointedly. "Have I your permission to come again?"Esther overheard these words and bit her lips. They might, out of courtesy, have been addressed to Mary as hostess, but she considered them unnecessary and too significant. Esther could brook no rival in attentions from the opposite sex. She must be first. Never before had there been the smallest suggestion of rivalry between her and Mary. The idea would have seemed an absurdity in Esther's eyes.When the door closed on Frew, Raeburn and Esther held a small colloquy at the bottom of the stairs. Then she disappeared."Are you and Esther going down to the Club, then, Angus?" asked Mary interestedly when he re-entered the room."I think so. Won't you come, Mary, or do you prefer to go with Winnie and Casa?""I shall stay with father," she answered, and a slight shadow descended on her spirit, cast there by inner forces which as yet she hardly understood."And what becomes of yours truly?" enquired Frank, with a prodigious yawn. "I must go out on my ownyio! Thank goodness, there's a few houses I can drop into without ceremony. Think I'll go up to Hampstead and sup with the Bradleys.""You might do worse than come to church with us for a change," said Casa, "or you might cultivate your mental resources," she added saucily."Haven't got any," he answered airily. "Life's too short to crowd them in!"Their gay badinage was interrupted by Esther's entrance. Evidently she had dressed hurriedly, and she said impatiently to Raeburn they had better go, if they were going, at once. Nobody thought it strange that they two should go out to spend an entire evening alone together. In the last year it had been a frequent occurrence.Casa looked curiously at the pair as they left the room; but, beyond a shrug of her shoulders, she made no comment.Very shortly Mary was left alone in the house with her father—no uncommon occurrence. But, somehow, her spirit could not settle to the usual routine."Say, Mary," said her father after a while, observing from his corner that Mary was giving but a scanty attention to her book, "what's Esther doing with Raeburn? Which of them does she mean to have? If I were Raeburn I'd not be made a cat's-paw of."It was so unusual for her father to make an observation of this kind that Mary looked up, greatly startled. "I'm sure I don't know, father. I can't say that I understand Esther. I am not sure even that she knows what she wants. But there is no doubt about Angus, of course. He would marry her to-morrow, if she would say the word.""Well, and she might do worse. Raeburn's a firstrate chap and will go far. He's miles too good for Esther."That remark also startled Mary, and she wished he had not made it. It was not fatherly, to begin with, nor was it fitting in her circumstances. For her own heart, bitter at the moment against her sister, was receptive enough soil for any chance blame of her."I can see the game, I think," went on Calladine deliberately. "She would like Frew because his name's made, and probably he has more money; but, until she's sure of him, she'll keep Angus dangling. It's a poor game, Mary, for a woman to play, and the chances are she'll get left. I'd pity the man that gets Esther.""Oh, father, don't talk like that! She can be so very nice when she likes.""Nice!" he repeated in scorn. "Anybody can be nice when things are going smoothly and everything coming their own way! I've not been blind all these years, Mary, and there's something radically wrong with Esther. She's a type, I suppose, of the modern woman that will have the best—for which other people pay. But the day will come for her reckoning, and it's going to be a heavy one.""Oh, father," said Mary a little breathlessly and with distress in her tone, "I can't bear to hear you speak like that about Esther!""Truth is seldom palatable. What has she ever done to help you in the house? She won't soil her little finger—never has! I haven't said anything, chiefly because you aren't children, and therefore may be supposed able to look after yourselves. But I've seen everything, and I say that, but for you at home and Edgar coming in from the outside, this place would have gone to pieces. Certainly Esther would never have lifted a little finger to save it.""Oh, father, don't! Think!—she has never had a chance. There has never been anybody to help her. We have just had to grow up as best we could. If I have been of use, it is merely because I am not fitted to go out into the world and earn money. And Esther has paid her share at least. She has never been stingy with money."Calladine back in his chair and shut his mouth. In the haste of his indictment, against Esther s cold selfishness he had forgotten the other side. Mary's suggestion that the conditions of the home-life had been to blame shut his mouth.It was a painful moment for them both, and, after a few minutes, Mary slipped out gladly, saying she would have to clear up and see to things in the kitchen for supper.CHAPTER XTHE HIGH ADVENTUREALL the Calladines possessed latchkeys, and came home when it seemed good in their own eyes.Winnie was the first. She returned alone about nine o'clock, enraptured with the service she had attended in the Roman Catholic church at Spanish Place. Casa was a Romanist, having been reared in her mother's religion, according to agreement before her marriage with the Scotch engraver.Angus had no particular religion, though it would be wrong to say he had no belief. A man of his temperament and character never parts with belief in the great verities. Scientific research had not converted him into a cold materialist; and though his soul would have revolted against the narrow barriers of sect, he had a large and generous belief in the power of revealed religion. That it did not touch his spirit to any fine issues did not rob him of respect for its power over others. He had been heard to say that only a fool would scoff at a spiritual power which his empty folly prevented him from apprehending. The Church of Rome, however, made no appeal to him at all, the old Puritan vein in his nature inclining him to stick fast to freedom of the will.The brother and sister dwelt together in complete unity, in spite

of the wide difference between them. People who met them for the first

time found it difficult to believe that they were children of the same parents. But they were deeply attached to each other. Nobody knew how much Casa was concerned about her brother's happiness and future, and just lately, observing in him many signs of perturbation of spirit—gloom, unrest, all the signs which indicate that inward forces are busy with a man—she had begun to anticipate things with lively anxiety.She was shrewd enough to know that he cared for Esther, but it had always been her passionate hope that that affair would come to nothing.Casa did not love Esther Calladine, but thought her the incarnation of selfishness and vanity. Mary she frankly worshipped, and she was never done extolling her to Angus—a mistaken tribute, if she wished to see him turn from the one sister to the other. The charm of a woman is elusive; too much insisted on, it seems to repel.Casa that afternoon had become suddenly aware that things were moving rapidly, and that, if Angus did not propose to Esther that night, probably he would take a very early opportunity of doing so. Her heart sank at the prospect, nor was it selfishness that caused her to dread the idea of her brother's marriage. Necessarily, it would leave her stranded, though he had often and vehemently assured her that, should he ever make a home for himself, she would share it. But Casa was far too wise and prudent ever to fall in with any such arrangement. The age at which she had been thrown on her own resources, unmothered, had taught her much wisdom that few girls so young possess. It had never made her sad, however. Her nature was volatile, and she could throw off depression. But that afternoon she had been very dull indeed."These was something the matter with Cas tonight," said Winnie, as they sat down to supper. "Didn't you notice it, Mary?""No. What could it be?""I don't know, but she was very fervent in church, which always shows there's something the matter. She hardly spoke at all, and she's gone right home now. I don't think she liked Angus and Esther going to the O.P. together. Probably Angus promised to take her first. If so, wasn't it a shame?""I don't think Casa would mind that. She isn't like that, and she's used to going about by herself," said Mary."Well, anyway, she was horribly dull to-night, and wouldn't even say what she thought of Mr. Frew. Don't you like him, Moll? Didn't you, father?""I liked him very much," answered Calladine frankly. "He doesn't put on any side. Why is Frank such an ass? He rushes in where angels fear to tread!"Once more Mary was surprised. Her father so seldom passed an opinion on anything that they had, somehow, failed to credit him with the possession of much power of observation."I think I rather envy Frank on the whole. Nothing daunts him," she answered with a smile. "And he is always cheery and happy, and pleased with everything. That is worth a good deal these days.""But, Mary, don't you like Mr. Frew? He seemed to love talking to you," Winnie repeated with something of a child's insistence.She was looking sweetly pretty at the moment, with her fur cap pushed well back on her bright hair and a pink flush on her cheeks—the very embodiment of youth and hope."I like him well enough. He is certainly an interesting man," admitted Mary."I do wish he'd take me for his secretary," pursued Winnie; "but I don't suppose artists often have secretaries. They can't need them. But he might know of some author who wanted a secretary. Do you think I might ask him?""I thought you were very happy where you are, dear.""It's well enough; but people who do things are more interesting than mere business men—Angus for instance. I should simply love to be his secretary, even though I know beforehand that his stuff would be deadly dull!""Angus is hardly likely to need a secretary. He is the sort of man who does most things for himself."Winnie nodded."Give me a bit more beef, father. I'm horribly hungry. I never thought cold beef could be so good! I suppose it's because I've had such a long walk. I walked with Casa right from Spanish Place to Chelsea, but didn't go in. She wasn't a bit sociable to-night.""I thought she looked tired," said Mary."I don't think she was particularly tired. She's really very strong. I believe she is a little depressed because they have an aunt coming to live with them—somebody rather dreadful from Scotland. She is their father's sister, but they have never seen her.""Dear me! Neither of them mentioned it here!" said Mary, much surprised."They only heard last night. I think Casa is a tie afraid of her. Her name is Lisbeth—not Elizabeth, remember!—and she is rather old, very proper, and terribly religious."Mary could not repress a smile."I'm afraid Oakley Street will shock her, Win. Don't you think so, father?""I've no means of knowing, but, if she is a Presbyterian Scot, no doubt she will be shocked.""Casa was awfully dull to-night, anyway, whether it was the aunt or something else. She didn't even point out things on the river to me," said Winnie."But it was dark.""Oh, but it is in the dark Casa sees them. Sometimes when you go out with her, and she is in the right mood, you get a queer, uncanny feeling, as if there were all sorts of people and things about that you never thought of before.""Nonsense, child. Casa and you have never grown up. That's what's the matter with you," said Mary, jumping up. "I think I'll have a walk before it gets too late. I haven't been across the doorstep since Friday.""You ought to go out more, Mary. It isn't good for you not to," said her father absently."I'm used to it, and it's rather a fag dressing up after one's work is done. I'll just take a smart walk for half an hour or so. You can leave the things on the table, Win. You must be tired after such a long walk."But Winnie did not leave them. When Mary returned after a blow in the fresh air, which had certainly done her good—though a solitary walk merely for health's sake is apt to be uninteresting—she found that Winnie had cleared everything, and even washed up!"I haven't left anything on the table, Moll, for Frank said he would get supper at Hampstead, and, of course, Angus will be feeding Esther at the Cecil. How I wish I was grown up enough to go to restaurant feeds as often as Esther does! Somehow the food tastes different.""It is not really half so good," said Mary stoutly."Well, it's the fixings, then. I should like to dress for dinner every night, and ride about in an electric brougham in the day-time, and have a footman to wait on me! Do you think we shall always be horribly poor, like we are now, Moll?"The question gave Mary a little alarm, and she looked rather searchingly into her little sister's very attractive face. She could not blame her for her natural love of pretty things. Drudgery can never be the fitting portion of youth. For we are only young once, and soon the faculty for keen enjoyment begins to fade. Winnie was ripe for all the best that life could offer, but her existence was a drab thing, and Mary was momentarily afraid. For there were many who could drop poison into such an ear, and she had no mother near to guide her."Darling, there are many much worse off than we are. Think of the people Edgar tells us about.""I don't want to think about them," she said with a shrug of her slim shoulders. "I want to hear about rich, happy people, and to know them, and to be one of them!"Mary was glad their father did not hear these words, which were spoken over the kitchen fire."Try and be contented, Winnie, dear," she said with something that sounded like a sob in her voice. "Sometimes I have felt like you do, shut up here alone all day in the house with old Polly. But we've got to fight against it. I don't believe rich people are any happier than we, if as happy.""I should like to find out for myself," said the child wistfully. "Every night when I go to bed I wonder whether something will happen next morning. Casa says that any day the high adventure might begin."Mary wondered, after she had left her little sister in bed, whether Casa's whimsical imaginings were very good for the child, who was simple and apt to take things literally. Casa had the imagination of a poet, and could fill a grey work with radiant beings and amazing happenings. But it was the flesh-pots of Egypt for which Winnie pined—the right to the glow and verve of things, to the splendour of life at its dawn.Left quite alone, Mary sat down to study afresh the old Bible, to which, all unknowing of her own heart-hunger, she so often fled for comfort and light. Others beside Mary Calladine have paid such tribute to the Book of books, and have learned that it contains all the wisdom of all the ages, as well as the glory from afar. There was scarcely a crisis in life for which Mary had found it inadequate. She had to find something to-night to still her own unrest, and to help her with Winnie. For this awakening in the heart of the eighteen-year-old girl was fraught with peril. Out in the world of business Mary knew that men could be very cruel.She went to bed about eleven, but kept her little lamp burning, and tried to read. She had the motherly instinct, which kept her awake till all the inmates of the house were safely under its roof.The pungent scent of a cigar wafted up the stairs about eleven proclaimed Frank's return. She heard him go up quite steadily and quietly to his room. About twenty minutes later Esther came, and the swish of her silk skirts swept Mary's door as she passed. But, though the light was shining from under it, she neither entered nor called out good-night.Mary had no inclination to call her. Somehow, a barrier seemed to have arisen between Esther and her—something intangible, but strong, something that would complicate life.When she awoke next morning she had a confused sense that everything had changed. As she arose to her Monday duty, she realised that the most dismal of all the days of the week had put on a fresh aspect. It was a day on which anything might happen!She determined, as she quickly dressed, that when she got them all out she would make a vigorous onslaught on rooms that required turning out. She was down on the stroke of seven to admit Mrs. Polgarth; nor did her "Good-morning" lack its cheerful flavour.Esther and her father came down to breakfast at a quarter-past eight, both rather taciturn. Calladine ate his rashers without so much as a word spoken. Esther merely nodded curtly in response to her sister's "Good-morning.""No bacon, thanks—a morsel of bread-and-butter. I'm late.""You were not in bed before midnight," Mary ventured. "Had you a pleasant evening?""No—disgusting! Haven't you a better cup of tea than this? It's nothing but wish-wash!"Mary stirred the pot and poured another cup, but Esther barely touched it, and she went out, disagreeable, repellent, hostile, leaving Mary wretched and her father frowning."Late hours don't agree with her evidently," said their father darkly. "I'll have something to say to her by-and-bye. Never mind her, my dear. You do your best"He gave her shoulder an unusual pat as he passed, and then stooped to kiss her. Something choked in Mary's throat as she helped him on with his overcoat."I suppose Frank won't be down till eleven or so. You have a job with us all! Never mind. The place would go to pieces without you. You're bolt, and screw, and hinge, and all to us. It's better than being a cumberer of the ground."Winnie appeared on the stairs then as fresh as the morning, waving good-bye to her father. She too was late, and had to eat hurriedly, Mary warning her about her digestion and her complexion."Ain't got any—at least, it don't come off, old dear," she said teasingly. "Would you find my everyday gloves and get my satchel? Oh, thank you, Mary, you are the very best!—positively the very, very best! Esther was hateful this morning. I could have slapped her face. I very nearly did. She must have eaten something that disagreed with her last night. She nearly swallowed me when I presumed to tease her about her two lovers.""Has she two?""Maybe! We don't think," said Winnie enigmatically. "Good-bye. I shall have to run all the way to the station. Oh, why were Mondays invented! Shall we abolish them when we get votes for women?"She disappeared with a laugh and a kiss, Mary's warning to take care of herself floating after her on the cool wind of the morning.Mary put in a busy half-day, and, if she did not accomplish all she had intended, at least it was no mean record. She dismissed Mrs. Polgarth at two o'clock, and after she had set everything in order for the evening, even to the laying of supper, she dressed herself with the utmost care and left the house.A need for the wideness of things lay insistently upon her spirit. She must get away from the empty house, go out among people, mingle with the throng of the streets. She had half a mind to go to Winterstowe and see her mother, but refrained, because Edgar had expressly said that he thought none of them should come until he suggested it. It would not be kind nor politic to do anything that would hamper his experiment. He was so wise and discriminating that the method could be safely left wholly to him. But she felt that a talk with Edgar at the present juncture would be good. He had such tenderness and insight, almost like a woman's, which partly explained his success in his cure of souls. The man cannot be wholly detached from his message, and a winning presentment of truth speeds it to its mark.Mary had no special object in her outing that clear winter's day, but she had a womanly woman's interest in shops, and with visions of an approaching Christmas, she alighted from her omnibus at Piccadilly Circus, and began to stroll up the right-hand side of Regent Street.And presently some one hasted across the street to her side."Now, this is an uncommon piece of luck!" said Dudley Frew's voice joyously. "I have an hour to kill. Come and kill it with me."Mary felt her colour rise, though why she could not have said.In her almost cloistered life she had met very few men, certainly none who had evinced the smallest delight in her company. And this distinguished-looking person to whom so many London doors were open was positively smiling like a schoolboy who had unexpectedly met a special chum."I've nothing to do," she admitted. "I got so tired of being in the house to-day that I thought I would run out and have a peep at the shops.""Oh, certainly! Why not? May I walk with you? Do you often come to Regent Street?""About half a dozen times a year," she answered, feeling quite at home, and even glad that he was there at her side to talk to. "But why are you not working in your studio?"He shrugged his shoulders."I've been lunching out for my sins, and have an appointment with a man at five. Where shall we go?""I should like to walk on. I came to look at the shops.""What kind of shops?""All kinds. The woman who has no money to spend is cosmopolitan in her tastes. All the world is before her, and when she can successfully makebelieve she is just as happy as the woman with the full purse."Mary felt innocently amazed at herself. She was voicing intimate thoughts, and her companion swiftly understood."Let us look at shops, and buy things," he said joyfully. "But it isn't anywhere near Christmas.""Only seven weeks to-morrow. But wise people buy Christmas presents midsummer, and lay them by.""Do you?""Oh, no. I run out to Upper Street the night before, and take what I can get," she answered happily. "Fortunately, nobody in our house expects much, and that makes it easy. How doyou buy Christmas presents?""I don't buy them. I've nobody to give them to. I give an order for a few Christmas dinners to be sent out, chiefly to models, and there my extravagance ends.""Haven't you any people?" she asked, her eyes large with sympathetic interest."None," he answered promptly. "That is why I want you to adopt me."Mary laughed a little, eyeing him shyly. He had a handsome profile, and she began to change her mind about his beard! After all, it was becoming to his style of face, and was decidedly artistic. She wondered, however, what kind of a mouth and chin he had. These features were Mary's tests of character in a stranger."Do you want us to adopt you?""I didn't say 'us.' I am sure it is tea-time. May I have the honour of taking you out to tea?""You are very kind," she said hesitatingly. "But why should you?""Say, rather—Why shouldn't I?" he answered gaily. "I want to ask you all sorts of things.""But you could ask them as we walk. My shopping is really of no importance. In fact, to be quite frank, I have only about three and ninepence in my purse. I should only be looking at the things I would buy if I were rich.""That would be far more interesting than mere shopping with money. It belongs to the high adventure. Will you give me one good hour, and answer all the questions I ask, and let me take you just where I wish?""Yes," she answered quietly. "Somehow, I have known you ever so long!""Since the beginning of things," he assured her fervently. "That's why Thursday and yesterday and to-day are days of days!"Mary felt like a person in a dream. No such thing had ever before happened to her in the whole of her colourless life; and, though she felt a little afraid, she was also glad, for her trust in Dudley Frew was absolute. The only misgiving she had concerned Esther. Somehow, she knew in her heart of hearts that Esther would disapprove of this chance meeting and its friendly aspect.Presently he suggested that they might turn back towards Piccadilly, and, still talking, he piloted her footsteps down the Haymarket, only pausing when they reached an imposing, yet quiet stone-fronted building with swing doors of mahogany, which noiselessly admitted them.Within, they were met with a cheerful glow of red and white, the scent of flowers, the grateful green of many growing plants."What a beautiful place! Where are we?" she asked quickly, and wondered whether she were dressed sufficiently well, feeling glad inwardly that she had put on her very best.It was only a coat and skirt of fine blue serge, well-made and fitting to perfection, and she was always very particular about her shoes and gloves."Haven't you been here before? Your sister knows it rather well, I think. It is the Palm Court of the Carlton Hotel."CHAPTER XISTRANGE FIRES"I HAVE often read about this place," said Mary,when they were ensconced in a cosy corner. "I never thought I should see it."Her frank delight and interest were those of a child. Her kind face was a little flushed with the excitement of the moment, her beautiful soft eyes had happy depths in them. The high adventure had come. It was a very little thing—a chance meeting with a man,a walk in the sun,a cup of tea in an alcove,but it was destined to change the whole scheme of life for Mary Calladine."It must cost an awful lot of money even to come in here," she said as she drew off her gloves."There is no charge for admission," he answered whimsically. "The score tots up after you are in."Mary laughed."But,of course,nobody ventures in unless they have plenty to pay with.""There are always the hangers-on,who get sumptuous meals for nothing," he suggested."Like me?""This could hardly be called a sumptuous meal,and I am not at all sure that you are to get it for nothing. You've got to pay me in talk!""I can't talk. I've nothing to talk about.""There is yourself. I want to hear about all you've done since we met last.""But that was only yesterday," she said in a puzzled voice. "After you went away everybody simply drifted out. Frank went to friends at Hampstead,Win and Casa to church,and Esther went with Mr. Raeburn to the Playgoers' Club.""They did—eh? Well,I hope they enjoyed themselves.""I doubt it. At least,Esther did not look this morning as if she had any happy memories.""Then,what did you do—stay in the house?""Yes,with father. He never goes out on Sundays.""And you have to keep him company,however the sun may shine?""I don't have to. I do it because there is nothing else particularly to do. Then I think I am always tired on Sundays. There is extra company,and Polly doesn't come.""Who is Polly?""Her real name is Polgarth. Her husband is a miller's drayman.""A what?""He drives a miller's dray. She is what is called 'oblige a lidy.' She has been 'obliging' us for about seven years,but she doesn't come on Sundays.""And you fall into the breach?""I get the meals,of course. There is nobody else. And we've a big middle-day dinner. I loathe cooking it sometimes, and always loathe eating it! Do you know,I never have been out to a real dinner party in my life?""And thereby have been saved much boredom.""Oh,no! I should enjoy every minute of it. And people are so interesting! I should like to know heaps more than I do. They are like books—you keep on turning fresh pages and finding fresh things.""You find that in books,too?""Yes. But I have not much time for reading. I am not

grumbling,remember," she said,suddenly imagining compassion in his

kind eyes. "I wouldn't change places with anybody,especially with Esther I shouldn't like to go out into the world to earn my living. Don't you think—don't you think——"She paused there, looking across the pretty table with something wistful in her eyes."Don't I think what?""That it takes something from a woman—being out in the world? That is one of the drawbacks of being poor. If I could,I would keep my little sister at home. She is so pretty and so sweet! I am each day afraid lest she should begin being hard and bitter."She was about to add "like Esther," but drew back. Frew,however,was quick enough to finish the sentence in his mind."I am an old-fashioned man,Miss Calladine,and I suppose because I have had so little feminine companionship,and been without a home for so long,I cherish some of the older ideals. I'm one with you. There is something wrong with the system which compels women to be bread-winners.""But they do it well,don't you think?" she continued,almost as if she would seek to take the edge off her former strictures."I don't deny it. Some of them do it too well. But,somehow,it seems to cheapen everything."Mary did not ask him to explain. She had a sort of vague understanding, but to her the subject was rather painful."Well,and what more? I am waiting to hear all you have done since we met.""There isn't anything more to tell. We went to bed. I rose at half-past six,got the breakfast,cleared up,looked out the laundry,turned out two rooms—and here I am!""It's a noble record. But that isn't quite what I meant. I want you to go back to the beginning of things. We met before,you know.""Where?""Ah,that we have got to find out! It's what makes life fascinating. We must have known each other,don't you think? When I came to your house the other night,and saw you,I felt that I had come to the end of my journey."Mary was not uncomfortable,but her eyes looked puzzled. She had no consciousness of sex at the moment,and it did not occur to her that the man opposite to her was trying to tell her that he had found his mate. It would have seemed incredible to her,and Frew was wise enough to perceive that he must walk warily. It would not do to disturb that large,fine trust and unconsciousness of self until he could make a little more sure of his ground."I rather think you are teasing me," she said quietly." I am trying to find out what is inside this sandwich. It's delicious!""Don't. Some mysteries are better not elucidated. Walk by faith,not by sight.""That is out of the Bible. Do you,too, read it?""I used to,far back in the dark ages.""You ought to begin again. It explains everything. Certainly it makes everything possible. I couldn't get along without it."I can believe that. It looks out of your eyes. Tell me,how long have you been bearing the brunt of things?""Oh,don't call it that!" cried Mary in a hurt voice. " Though to-day I have been wicked and quite rebellious,it somehow hurts to hear you say it. After all,it is a good thing—don't you think?—for a woman to be necessary to some one.""It is everything. But among them they are rending you.""Oh,nonsense! Father was so kind this morning,and Winnie too,and even Frank,who enlivens us all at the week-ends. Isn't it a marvellous thing what differences there are among the members of families? Now,Frank always strikes me as if he did not belong when he comes into the house. His life is so different from that which any one of us leads! I suppose one must inevitably get stamped with the seal of everyday routine. I am hopeless—a sort of glorified Polly with her Sunday clothes on.""I don't see you eating anything," said Frew rather hastily."Oh,yes—I've had five sandwiches! How much shall you have to pay for them, and may I have another? You are making me behave like a child,and a greedy one at that. Besides,you are eating nothing yourself.""I have had a five-course lunch. What did you have?""Bread-and-butter and cocoa. Polly had cold meat and fried potatoes. Now you've all the secrets of the prison-house!""So you have been mothering them all ever since you can remember!"Her face shadowed on the instant."Just since mother went away. It is rather a long time. I suppose it must be ten or eleven years.""Heavens,has it been going on all that time?"She nodded."Off and on. It's a terrible thing. When one suffers as we have done one wonders why there is not some law against the sale of the stuff altogether. If there were none to be had anywhere,just think how many homes could be built up again,and how many individuals saved!"She spoke rather passionately,and Frew nodded several times in acquiescence."It will never come. We are a nation of vested interests,and we worship at the shrine of the freedom of the subject. But you are more hopeful now?""About mother?—oh,yes. And I can't imagine why this was not thought of before. Edgar is full of hope, I know, and I am simply longing to go down and see how they are getting on. I should have gone to-day, only Edgar said that he thought we shouldn't interfere at all until he said we might."There was a moment's silence. Then Mary, leaning her elbows on the table, looked across at him intently."Do you believe that sort of thing is hereditary?" she asked in a low, rather painful voice. "Do you know anything about it from experience?"He shook his head."I've seen endless shipwrecks from the same cause. But I don't believe in heredity. Such a thing would make life too hideous! What I do think is that we've been held in bondage to that doctrine too long.""But there might be predisposition?""Predisposition to selfishness, to bad temper, to other disagreeable traits! I myself am a hottempered man, but I've trampled my tendency down. I had to, because it militated against me every time."

"Do tell me about yourself," said Mary eagerly. "I am sure you must have had a wonderful life. Did you always want to be an artist?""More or less. But the powers were not propitious. I'm an orphan. I was brought up by an uncle—a haberdasher near Moorgate Street, immensely rich. He has a mansion on Highgate Hill. I was destined for haberdashery, and he had no son of his own. So, you see, when I yearned for a different destiny I flew directly in the face of Providence.""How old were you, and was he very angry, and what happened?""I was about eighteen when I broke away. For two years before that I had been attending evening classes for study. There I was fortunate enough to make a friend of an American chap, who had plenty of money. He lent me some. We went to Paris together, and stayed there two years. I was fortunate in getting some pictures sold. One hardly knows where the beginning comes Anyway, before I was twenty-five I had paid back Fielding Ware, and was on my own legs. I have never looked back since""And then did you return to England and begin minting big pictures?""I sent a thing to the Academy, which was well hung and well sold. After that things were quite easy, comparatively speaking. Then I am not an extravagant person. It doesn't cost me a great deal to live.""But you get immense sums of money for your pictures now. Esther told me so."He shrugged his shoulders."I'm a queer mortal, Miss Mary. I would rather sell my stuff at a low figure to some men than for a high one to others.""But you are a very successful man," said Mary, slinking her head. "Frank told us what a large sum the Bradford Corporation paid for one of your pictures."Again Frew shrugged his shoulders."It is a pleasure to have one's work pass into appreciative hands, whatever the price. Will you come one day to my studio, and see what I have kept for myself?"Mary coloured a little."I should love it!—some day, perhaps, when you have what is called a studio tea. I have heard Esther talk of them."She has never been to one in my house. I don't even have a show Sunday before Academy Day."Don't you? Well, I think I must be going now.I've been here quite a long time. When I'm down in underground kitchen to-night I shall remember this as we remember dreams.""Have you enjoyed it so much, then?" he asked, with an odd look in his somewhat tired eyes."Enjoyed it! Remember, I have seen nothing, done nothing, outside the walls of my home. It will give me something to think about for days and days."Frew restrained his impulsive desire to ask for another appointment. He did not wish to alarm her, or to make her in the smallest degree uneasy. She had given him a complete hour, and so far he was satisfied. It was a beginning, and he could afford to wait.The Palm Court was now full of the fashionable throng who make rendezvous there even on a winter afternoon, and Mary's eyes missed no item of the moving pageant as she and Frew moved towards the door.Outside, she gave a little fluttering sigh."Thank you so much! Yes, please—I must leave you here. I have one or two small things to do. Oh, there is Esther!"It was a hansom that passed at the moment, and in it Esther sat alone. She was being driven from a West End function to the Office of her paper in Fleet Street. Coming down the left side of the Haymarket, she had a full view of the Hotel door, and she saw them at the moment they emerged from it.At first she could not believe her eyes: and, even when the second glance assured her that she had made no mistake, but that it was actually Frew and her sister Mary whom she saw, she did not even by so much as a flicker of the eyelid show that she recognised them. The hansom was round the corner at the instant, and lost to view.Mary said good-bye with evident haste, and when Frew rather pointedly asked how soon he might present himself at Whitcombe Square again she seemed to hesitate."We are all at home on Sunday, as a rule," she said, but her tone was far from cordial. "Thank you so much for being so good to me, and for giving me tea. It has been quite an event in the life of a woman of no importance!"She nodded and smiled, and then dismissed him definitely by walking away. He felt for the moment chagrined, not being used to such treatment from women.The sight of Esther had upset Mary Calladine. She had a silly, uncomfortable feeling that she had been caught in some unwarrantable act. The whole affair had happened so naturally and so casually that it ought to be easy of explanation, but something whispered that Esther would resent it and would put a complexion of her own on it.She reached home between five and six o'clock, laid away her good coat and skirt, got into her second-best house-gown, and descended to the lower regions of the establishment to see about supper.It had been a strange, an epoch-making day. She was quite unaware that she had made the kind of impression on Frew that Esther desired to make, and she did not dream that he was thinking about her as the one woman who was going to matter in his life. She had awakened in him the desire for a home, for little children about his knees, for warm living things to love and labour for.Mary herself was quite unawakened. She had been interested in the man, and gratified by the attention paid to her, and by his evident pleasure in her company; but that he could possibly prefer her to Esther was unthinkable. Probably he was interested in her only because she was Esther's sister,yer in all their hour's intimate talk he had not once mentioned Esther's name.Mary awaited Esther's return with a strange mingling of anticipation and dread. She was late, only Arriving as they sat down to supper."I don't want anything to eat," she said, popping her head round the door. "I have a headache, and will lie down for an hour just now. Is the fire laid, Mary, and may I light it?""Let me come up and do it for you," said Mary sympathetically.But Esther shook her head quite peremptorily."No, no. Don't fuss! I'll be all right. If I want anything later, I'll come down for it.""I expect she's been to some crowded show this afternoon," said Winnie, reaching out for another helping of pudding. "She seems to have had a good many headaches lately. It can't be a very healthy life.""Yet she gets about in the open air more than you do, Win," said her father, looking with relief and affection at the soft, rose-leaf bloom on her face."I'm tough, and at the present moment I've a tough little worm in my little inside, or else it is that your pudding is better than usual, Moll. Do you think I'll get fat, if I keep on eating so much? I measure twenty-two round my waist now, and weigh seven stones and a half."Mary smiled in a far-away sort of fashion, her thoughts upstairs.Esther did not seem angry, only rather sad. Mary was horribly perplexed. What if Esther loved Dudley Frew, and he should not care? Then, there was Angus caring mightily for Esther, and, it appeared, hopelessly! All of a sudden life seemed to become a tangle of impossibilities. Mary felt herself being drawn into the vortex, and she was very reluctant and afraid.She did not venture upstairs for another hour. After the table had been cleared, and she had left Winnie and their father at a comfortable game of bezique, she climbed the stairs, knocked slightly at Esther's door, and entered her room without waiting for permission.Esther was not in bed, but was sitting in her dressing-gown by the fire, which had kindled up beautifully and was shedding a comforting glow all over the room."Are you feeling better, Esther? Can I get you anything?" she asked rather timidly."No, I don't want anything. Shut the door, and come in. I want to speak to you."Mary did so, and approached the fireplace without any consciousness of guilt or blame. She felt glad of an opportunity to explain the incident of the afternoon."I saw you come out of the Carlton with Dudley Frew this afternoon," said Esther. "I suppose you had an appointment with him. It was rather sly of you not to mention it."Mary coloured painfully, and drew back with a wounded air."Don't speak to me like that, Esther! There is no occasion for it. My meeting with Mr. Frew was a pure accident. I felt moved to go into town this afternoon to have a look at the shops. Such a longing does come over me now and again, and I met him not far from Piccadilly. He crossed the street, I think, to speak to me.""Oh, he did! And what did he say?"Mary felt resentment at the tone, which was one that a stern mother or a censorious aunt might have adopted towards a young and foolish girl."I don't know—that is, I can't tell you. We walked on for a little, talking of all sorts of things. Then he asked me to go to tea with him. He did not say where. I did not even know that it was the Carlton Hotel he took me to till he told me so after we were inside.""Sounds queer," said Esther, with a note of sarcasm in her voice. "It's something new for you to make appointments with gentlemen, and go out to tea with them. It just shows that one never knows what is inside of the quiet stay-at-home sort of woman!"Mary made no answer, but stooped down to push back a piece of glowing coal which threatened to fall on the hearth."He must have thought it very strange, I am sure," continued Esther."Thought what strange?" inquired Mary, with a sharp note in her voice."That you should accept such an invitation. Of course, it was polite of him to offer it. I suppose he felt that he owed something for the two meals of sorts he has had here. But naturally he would expect you to decline.""Would he? I think not. He rather insisted on it, and I enjoyed the time very much. And I am glad I met him, and that he asked me!" said Mary slowly and deliberately.Esther nodded slowly."Quite so. You are so uninitiated that you might very easily make such a mistake. I can explain it to him doubtless to-morrow.""You will see him to-morrow?""Yes. I see him most days."Mary, for the first time in her life, absolutely doubted her sister's word."He meant to be kind, of course, but there are things one doesn't do. It was not the thing for you to go to tea with him at the Carlton. But, as I have said, I shall be able to put it right with him.""I forbid you even to mention my name to him!" cried Mary in a sudden heat of passion.Esther smiled a slow, aggravating smile."I you had only asked me first about Dudley Frew! I brought him to the house—why, do you think?""I am sure I can't say. We did our best to entertain him, and the burden fell on me. I did not grumble, but I will not listen to your hateful talk, Esther. I am a grown woman. I know what is right and wrong. I work with my hands, but I hope I have a gentlewoman's heart! I am glad I met him to-day; and I would go again with him to tea to-morrow, if I was so fortunate as to meet him, and he asked me!"Perhaps it may make just a shade of difference when I tell you I mean to marry him," said Esther with the utmost deliberation, and without so much as a flicker of the eyelid.Mary stared in astonishment."Do you really?""I do.""And what about Angus Raeburn?" cried Mary, recalling the passion with which he had spoken to her of Esther not much more than twenty-four hours before.Esther shrugged her shoulders."Perhaps you will console him," she said, and Mary, her heart bursting with all sorts of strange and tempestuous thoughts, turned abruptly, and ran out of the room.Life had suddenly become hideous, without symmetry or harmony. And something very like hate of Esther was in her soul.CHAPTER XIITHE CURE OF SOULSMARY CALLADINE alighted from the train at Winterstowe station early on a Monday afternoon and made her way to the little cul-de-sac, where stood her brother's house.A week had passed since the breach between her and Esther—a week of strain and discomfort, felt more acutely by Mary naturally, because of her sensitive disposition. There had not been a word of further talk. To Mary's intense relief, Sunday had passed without bringing Dudley Frew to Whitcombe Square. Esther had gone out before the midday dinner without acquainting any of them with her destination or plans for the day. She had not voluntarily addressed a single word to her sister Mary all the week.The strain of such an attitude on the part of a member of a household is sufficient to affect the whole of it. Winnie openly wailed over Esther's bad temper, without in the least comprehending the cause, while their father, looking on, told himself he would take an early opportunity of having a straight talk with his second daughter.But with advancing years Paul Calladine had weakened, in the sense

that he coveted peace almost at any price. It is observable that hasty

temper and a high, impatient spirit in a man often begin to wane after

he is fifty, and a better, more tolerant attitude takes their

place. It may be accounted for by the fact that experience has mellowed the heart as well as proved the futility of taking the high-handed way with one's fellow-creatures. In the long run nothing is gained by it and much that is worth winning and keeping is lost.Had Paul Calladine been as gentle with his young wife as he now felt disposed to be towards his daughters, probably the tragedy of his home would never have occurred. There are very few cases of intemperance which are not traceable to some cause that has its root in the things of the heart and spirit.Mary hardly knew what had brought her to Winterstowe. She did not for a moment suppose that she would tell either her mother or Edgar about the misunderstanding which had arisen between her and Esther.It was a beautiful winter day. After Mary left the crowded streets of the little town and began to ascend towards the higher part, where her brother's house was situated, the air, coming in from the forest, seemed to become deliciously crisp and reviving. The sky overhead was crystal-clear and as blue as at midsummer. It was one of those days, somewhat rare in an English winter, when it is more than good to be alive.Mary suddenly felt a desire, almost poignant in its intensity, to change her environment, to come to Winterstowe and to share her brother's cure of souls. Since her own had begun to wake she felt a freshened sympathy for all who needed ministry. But she knew that that was, in the meantime, quite impossible, and that, like thousands of others, she must just go on taking up the daily cross with a good heart.When she reached the gate of the little house its exterior was so spick and span that involuntarily she smiled. Mrs. Calladine had purchased the muslin for the under blinds, made them, and hung them so that the windows were a pleasure to behold. The brass furniture on the door shone in the bright sun like burnished gold, and the little maid who answered Mary's knock looked trig enough to accord with the well-cared-for house."No, none of 'em ain't in," she answered, shaking her head. "They're gone to the 'Women's Own.' ""Oh, of course—it is Monday!" said Mary. "Mrs. Calladine has gone too?""Yes, miss. She looks arter the bibies. She's bin gone since 'arf-past two.""Oh!" said Mary, with a quick little smile. "I am Miss Calladine. I will just walk down to Hubert Lane and come back with them. I suppose I may leave this little parcel?"It was a piece of needlework in the shape of a dressing-jacket that she had been making for her mother and had brought down as a little gift. Mary had the old-fashioned grace of giving. She never liked to go empty-handed to a house."Won't you come in an' wait, rarver, miss?" said the little maid kindly. "It's a good step to the Lane, an' up 'ill comin' back. I'll getcher a cup of tea."Mary thanked her. But she said she was not tired, and that she would prefer to go down to the Lane. The idea of her mother there, among the babies, drew her. It lifted her instantly out of herself and what was, in comparison, her own petty trouble.Her step was lighter as she turned away and began to descend the hill. She knew how to find Hubert Lane, occasional week-ends with Edgar at the beginning of his ministry having made her fairly familiar with the place. In the last two years these weekends had been fewer. Mary remembered almost with a little start that it must be nine months since she had been down.Ten minutes' sharp walking brought her to the Tabernacle in Hubert Lane—a hideous red-bricked structure faced with white, aggressive, staring, al-together unlovely from the artistic point of view. But its construction within was ideal for the purpose to which it had been consecrated. The men who planned and built it were not concerned so much with artistic exteriors as with utilitarian purposes. The edifice had been added to from time to time as the social exigencies of the work demanded, and it now covered a considerable area.A clock had lately been presented to the church and placed in the odd-looking tower, and its big, purpose-like hands were moving towards half-past three as Mary ascended the broad flight of steps leading to the door. A volume of singing-sound met her, and, congratulating herself that she had arrived opportunely, she slipped in.The place, capable of holding nine hundred, was packed with women, and as Mary was smilingly ushered forward by a woman in Sister's garb she was conscious of a kind of thrill. Nine hundred women, nine hundred separate entities, nine hundred lifestories, struggles, and victories!It was an overwhelming thought. The hymn, "Rock of Ages"—always a moving one—sounded in Mary Calladine's ears that afternoon almost too poignant to be endured! She took the open hymnbook volunteered, but her eyes were blinded so that she could not read a word. As for singing, her voice would have refused to obey her will.Presently the moment of violent emotion passed, and when they sat down to listen to a few announcements from the rostrum she had time to look round. While a sweet, strong-faced Sister was talking to the women about the penny bank, the goose club, the holiday fund, and the coming Christmas tree, and while they were responding with delighted smiles and occasional bursts of laughter at some of her home-thrusts, Mary had an opportunity of studying their faces.She was struck by the almost universal sadness expressed by them. It was as if the whole burden of womanhood had been brought there to be laid at the foot of the Cross. The wonder and awe of it crept divinely into Mary Calladine's heart, and healed it so that she was ready for the coming message.Edgar was not on the platform. Besides the Sister, who seemed to be the organising spirit of the whole, there was only a small, quiet-looking woman in widow's dress, whose face wore an arresting look. Her eyes were grey and soft, and during the singing Mary had observed two tears roll down her cheeks.Presently Sister Grace was explaining who and what she was, and how she had come to help the Women's Own."We have had many delightful speakers here," she said in her clear, pleasant voice, with its little trace of north country accent, "but I think to-day we have the pick of the bunch. Mrs. Eliot Maitland is well known far, far from Winterstowe as a great writer and a great worker for women all over the world. Her husband had a high position in India, and she established in the place where they lived a hospital for women, which she will tell you something about this afternoon."I had the privilege of meeting her at a conference of women-workers in London about a month ago, and when I asked her if she would come to us she said immediately that she would. She is here to-day because, as soon as Christmas is over, she is returning to India, and may not be back in England for another year. I will not keep you longer, but will now ask Mrs. Eliot Maitland to speak to you."The little woman stepped forward, and Mary then saw the dignity of her slim figure and the inexpressible beauty of her face. She looked as if her spirit had been purged of all earthly dross, as if she held communion with the Unseen and the Eternal.Her voice, low at the start, had a compelling quality; her whole personality was winning and powerful. Mary felt it pass like an electric thrill over the whole audience.The speaker began to talk quite simply and naturally, and her first words were these:"I came to-day intending to tell you the story of my Indian hospital, but now I have seen you, dear women, I will tell you another story, about myself. It is what we can do for one another—give out of our experience—and because of the necessity laid upon us to help others. I will tell you what I have given up and what God has permitted me to keep, for I see on your faces to-day the seal of renunciation, which is the key of life.""No, no!" murmured Mary under her breath, her heart revolting from an uninviting creed.But presently the low sweet spell of the speaker was on her, and the next half-hour passed as in a dream. The tense silence bespoke the magician's power to hold a listener in the hollow of the hand, and when it was all over, and she stepped back with the glow on her face and the falter on her lips, Mary felt that once more life had become possible—that it had meaning, purpose, unutterable possibility. And now she would go back strong to undertake, because, without her strength and her undertaking, the world was going to be difficult, if not impossible, for others.While the last hymn was being sung she slipped out, and made a detour round the back of the building to see whether she could find the place where her mother was doing her part in the great work of undertaking in order that others might be helped and blessed.For a few moments her search seemed futile, for every door was barred; but presently, coming round a convenient corner, she beheld several dilapidated perambulators in the passage, and immediately an opportune yell heard through a half-open door guided her to the babies' room.She went down three steps, and then, the crèche door being open, she had a view of the interior. It was not unlike a small ward in a children's hospital. There were several swing-cots, one or two old cradles, and a sort of shelf arrangement against the wall, with bunks conveniently placed, where sleeping babies could be laid down comfortably out of the way.A big, but rather battered rocking-horse, which had stood originally in the Belford nursery, was in the possession of two small baby boys just beginning to toddle. The yell had been emitted by one of these who had desired sole possession.Mary's quick eye took in the whole scene—the young helpers, the contented-looking infants—and finally rested on her mother at the far end, sitting by the fire with a baby on each arm. She could see the expression of her face—its brooding tenderness, the motherhood writ large on it—and her heart melted in her breast.Presently a young lady in a blue coat and skirt, with a pince-nez on her nose, came up to Mary inquiringly."I am Miss Calladine," Mary said at once, seeing that the stranger had some authority. "I ran down from town to-day to see my mother. I see her over yonder.""Oh, yes. How do you do?" responded the young lady cordially. "My name is Belford. I used to come here regularly, but now I don't. I'm so sorry! I do miss it so much. You wouldn't believe how fascinating these babies can be, though some of them, I grant,don't look so very inviting.""They are not so clean as they might be," said Mary doubtfully.Miss Belford laughed."They've improved, and they're going to improve more. But, if you saw some of the homes they come out of! Your mother is delighted with the work, and when she saw me come in this afternoon I think she was afraid that I had come to take it from her. I explained, however, that I was only passing, and had run in for a look at my babies. I am going now.""Have you given up the work for good, then?" asked Mary interestedly.Miss Belford nodded, and a shade seemed to cross her face."I had to—private reasons. But I'm not without hope that I shall be allowed to come back again. You don't need me to tell you what splendid work your brother is doing here. Winterstowe will never be able to pay the debt it owes to him. Well, I must go. I'm glad to have met you, and I hope we shall meet again."She extended a frank hand, and Mary felt the warm, strong grip of it, and liked the woman who gave it. She determined to take the first opportunity of asking Edgar why Miss Belford had been obliged to give up working for the cr#x00E8che.When Miss Belford stepped out, Mary, proceeding up the long room, presently stood before her mother."Well, mother, you seem to have got your hands pretty full," said Mary, smiling."Bless me, Mary! Where did you come from?" said Mrs. Calladine, smiling too, and flushing a little. "There is a good bit of work to do here, as any one can see."Mary kissed her, but she could not say that she felt her heart drawn out towards the small specimens of humanity on her mother's lap."A sight, isn't it?" said Mrs. Calladine, glancing round. "It's the busiest hour I get in the week here. And you wouldn't believe"—here she dropped her voice to a confidential whisper—" you wouldn't believe how little they know about babies! Willin'—oh, yes, very willin', but—"She gave her shoulders an expressive shrug."Feed 'em—that's their only idea! Stuff 'em with bottles—then, of course, their little tummies ache, and there's ructions. Even Miss Belford don't know any better. Well, I suppose no unmarried girl could know how to hold a baby properly.""May I try?" asked Mary, bending over one of the sleeping mites.Mrs. Calladine shook her head."Not on this little lot. Twins, my dear—the poor young mother not a minnit more than nineteen, and her boy-husband earnin' eighteen shillin' a week! When she brought 'em to-day she was simply worn out, and they as fractious as could be! Look at 'em now, sleepin' like angels, pretty dears! Near four, isn't it?""They were just finishing the meeting when I left.""Oh, been at the meetin', have you? Of course, I don't get there. My work's here. I think I'll ask Edgar to let me start a class for them poor gelmothers. I do know about babies, and how they ought to be fed and handled, Mary Calladine. And all my own are fine specimens—nobody can say different.""Nobody tries to, dear," said Mary, and her eyes, somehow, grew moist."My dear, you wouldn't believe the things they do with the poor little mites! The wonder to me is that there's any of them left alive. They don't take no care of theirselves before the babies come, and then they do wrong things with them after. Now, this little Ernie's clothes were put on with common pins! Two were stickin' into 'im when he came in. Of course, he was cryin'—anybody would.sent out one of the helpers for a twopenny box of safety-pins, and I dressed 'em both from the binder up. What I would like to do would be to take these twins home, and make 'em clean and right from top to toe!""It would not be very good for Edgar, perhaps, to start a crèche at the manse. Where is he to-day?""London," answered her mother briefly, as if he were entirely a minor consideration. "How are they all at home?""Quite well. Nobody sent love, because I didn't say I was coming here. But we're often talking of you, dear, and we're thinking about you most of the time.""I'm all right—never been better. Tell you what, Mary. It was a change I was needin', and somebody that needed me. None of you did. You all grew up so quick and got so mighty clever—even little Win. Is she all right—eh?"Mary perceived that her mother's heart yearned over the only possible baby; and into her mind there crept a memory of words she had once heard a hardfaced woman utter in an omnibus: "There ought to be a baby in every house—one that never grows up. It would mean the salvation of the world.""I'll have to get up, and see to the sleeping ones," said Mrs. Calladine, rising softly, and taking great care not to hustle or disturb her armful."Come and see 'em. It's funny at first. This is only my second Monday, but I'm going to like this, and, if I'm spared, I'll introduce what Edgar calls 'new features' into the crèche."Mary stood by, touched and amazed, beholding her mother the guiding and ruling spirit of the underground room. She had the air of authority that nobody resents in an expert. The helpers all turned to her naturally, and, while she was very sweet to them, she spoke with no uncertain sound. To Mary who remembered so much that was sheer anguish in the last ten years of her mother's life, the spectacle was nothing short of amazing.Presently in trooped the mothers—poor, worn creatures many of them, but all decently dressed—and, after about ten minutes' hubbub, the place gradually emptied, the dilapidated perambulators were trundled away by their fortunate possessors, and the Women's Own was over for another week.Mrs. Calladine seemed in no hurry to leave, however. She made everything as spick and span as possible, locked up the toys in the cupboards, saw that the windows were open on all sides to flush the room with fresh air, gave a few instructions regarding the cots to the caretaker, who dwelt in the adjoining couple of rooms, and then was ready to go."Spoken to Sister Grace? Oh, here she is!""Come and have a cup of tea with Mrs. Eliot Maitland, Mrs. Calladine. It's just ready in my room, and she wants to catch the four-fifty-five.""This is my daughter, Sister Grace. I've been telling her something about the crèche, but I don't think she would be so keen on the babies as her mother.""So glad to meet you, Miss Calladine. I do hope you have not come to suggest taking your mother away. Already she's an institution in Hubert Lane.""Oh, no. I only ran down to see how she is getting on. It's all very wonderful. I was in the meeting, and heard Mrs. Eliot Maitland speak.""Splendid, wasn't she? We can always tell by the silence whether the women are gripped. You could hear a pin drop to-day. And she's so humble and kind! Do come with us and see her. I am sorry that Mr. Calladine had to go to London to-day, and so couldn't meet her. Sometimes he comes in just at the opening when we have somebody very distinguished addressing us."Mrs. Calladine, who took small interest in the talk-ing part of the Women's Own, continued to roll up things, and put them in cupboards. But presently she was borne away by Sister Grace."Miss Belford has been in for a minute, Sister. I don't think she likes me being here," said Mrs. Calladine with a little chuckle, "and she asked me how I managed to keep them all so quiet. I believe she thought I was a reg'ler old Sairey Gamp, feeding them with soothing syrup to make them sleep."Sister Grace laughed, and nodded delightedly to Mary."Great, isn't she? And all our helpers are so fond of her! It is very, very good of you all to spare her to us for a little while; but the difficulty will be for us to give her up later on."Mary supposed that Sister Grace was in ignorance of the main cause of her mother's presence in Winterstowe, but in this she was wrong. Edgar had told the Sister, who was his right hand, and she was one with him in his hope and desire. She was very wise in the winning of souls, and her manner to Mrs. Calladine was that of a daughter who looks up to one with superior knowledge. Mary observed with quick astonishment and gratitude that already her mother's self-respect had been partially, if not wholly, restored.In the little room in which the Sister sat for so many hours a day, receiving a recital of all sorts of life-stories, and listening to an account of other people's troubles and difficulties, they found a teatray and Mrs. Eliot Maitland.At close quarters, Mary discovered her to be older, and noted that she had a great many lines about her eyes, and something of a droop at the corners of her lips. But when she smiled her youth seemed to come back."Mr. Calladine's mother and sister, Mrs. Maitland. They have been in the crèche. It has turned over a new leaf since Mrs. Calladine came—just shows the power of a real mother. I suppose that even the babies know the difference!"Mary shook hands, and tried to express the pleasure it had given her to listen to the address. Then they sat down to a friendly cup of tea and general talk about the work of the mission. All the time Mary was conscious of a growing attachment of the spirit to the woman whom she met for the first time; and she even cast about in her mind to arrange for some possible future meeting. To her surprise, Mrs. Maitland herself suggested it."Our talk is not half over," she said when Sister Grace informed her that the fly for the station waited.You live in London. Won't you come and see me one day before I go to the East? I shall be at 17, Belgrave Place till the ninth of January.""Oh, thank you, I should like to come," said Mary quickly."Don't forget. I shall be looking for you. Just drop me a postcard the night before. I should be sorry to be out. I'll tell you all about my hospital then, if you are interested. We need more helpers. Perhaps you——"Mary shook her head, but it was her mother who spoke.Don't you entice my Mary away to foreign places, Mrs. Maitland! She's doing my work at home, and they can't do without her. There's lots of heathens in England, my dear, beginning with me."They all laughed at that, and parted the best of friends.Mary gave her promise, which she meant to keep, and after the fly had rolled away with Sister Grace and the visitor she left the building with her mother.Once they were outside, Mrs. Calladine's interest reverted to her home."I suppose you went up to the manse first. I hope Rose opened the door to you properly, and was civil?"She was very civil indeed. She asked me to come in and wait, saying that she would get tea for me.""No more than she ought. A good girl, but never thinks. I've to be at her most of the day. She don't take it badly, though, and always willin'—I will say that for her. That old aunt of hers—a reg'ler organised thief, I call her! What a time poor Edgar must have put in with her!""He is making up for it now, mother," said Mary, smiling.Then her mother's expression changed, and a little silence fell upon them, and Mary felt that the deeps were stirred.CHAPTER XIII"TELL ME WHAT TO DO"JUST outside Dalston Junction, as she was hurrying home, Mary met Edgar going to catch a Winterstowe train."You've been home, Edgar, and, of course, didn't get in? I'm so sorry. And I've been down at Winterstowe!""Have you? So we've been playing Box and Cox! It did not matter about my not getting in. I had only about ten minutes to stop. I wanted one of you to come down and see mother, that's all."I've seen her," said Mary with a nod of great satisfaction. "I've had a ripping afternoon, and enjoyed myself very much."Calladine pulled out his watch."I can miss a train, and walk a few hundred yards with you. No—I won't have time to go back all the way. I'm expecting a young fellow to see me to-night at the Manse. So you were pleased with mother—eh?""I was more than pleased, Edgar—I was astounded and thankful. Don't you think it great?""I do. But don't let us forget that it is very early days yet. She has only been down about ten days.""And already she looks a different woman! I went to the creche, and

saw her among the babies. Poor, dear mother! To me it was all so

pathetic! And she is so much in earnest. She talks of having a class to teach young mothers. I should let her have it, if it can be arranged. After all, that sort of thing is what she does know about!""That, and housekeeping. I feel a different man physically since I began to eat the food she prepares. I'm in hopes that she will yet go back to where she ought to be, and relieve you, Mary, of her work there—perhaps before six months are out."Mary was silent for half a minute, being partly perplexed, and not wholly sure."Don't let us look forward quite so far, Edgar. I do think it is better not. I can't help thinking that it would all be rather difficult—at first, at least. You see, she has been away from Whitcombe Square so long! Don't you think that father would—would think it strange, at first?"Calladine shook his head."No, no. She's his wife, and there are all of us," he said cheerily. "When she is all right, and it is perfectly safe, she will fit into her old place in a new way, and everything will go well."You are splendid to be so hopeful and strong, Edgar! Tell me, have you never seen the slightest sign of anything?""Not a sign—and she has a housekeeping purse, and has plenty of time on her hands. God is helping us, Mary, I don't doubt. He has led us to this, and He will see us through."Mary could not honestly endorse this expression of strong faith, though she envied Edgar his possession of it."I rather wanted to see you to-day, dear. I have felt most awfully worried for a few days.""What is worrying you?" he asked, looking at her solicitously.Usually Mary was the sanest and soundest of the household, and everybody looked to her for courage and common sense."I hardly know how to tell you, and I don't know whether I ought. It's about Esther. She's been most awfully difficult since that night when Mr. Frew came to the house.""But why? Has he never come back? Did that scene effectually choke him off?""Oh, no. He came back on the very next Sunday, and was most awfully nice and sympathetic. Just a week ago—yes, last Monday—I went down to Regent Street to have a look at the shops, and I met him there.""Well?" said Calladine interestedly."He seemed rather glad to see me," pursued Mary, whereat her brother laughed and murmured, "How astonishing!""Don't tease me, dear. I'm quite serious and really worried. He came across the street to speak to me, which he needn't have done at all unless he wished, and then he asked me to go to tea with him.""Well, I hope you did, and had a good time?""I had a lovely time! He took me to the Carlton, and we stayed nearly an hour, talking. He was very nice, and so interesting! I don't know when I enjoyed an hour more.""And where does the worry come in?""Well, you see, when we were leaving the hotel Esther happened to pass in a hansom. And afterwards, at home, she was very angry and horrid about it."Calladine whistled.he was—eh? What made her angry?"She said such horrid things to me, Edgar, you can't think. She suggested that I had had an appointment with Mr. Frew, and that I had laid myself out to attract him. I felt positively dreadful, and as if I hated Esther. Such a thing has never happened in my life before. It made me feel cheap and nasty, and matters between us aren't getting any better. Esther has hardly spoken a civil word in the house this week.""But I don't see why you need worry yourself, my dear. Do you suppose there is anything between her and the man?""She says she's going to marry him.""If she is, what is all the fuss about? Isn't he to be allowed to be civil or kind to his future sister-in-law?""Oh, it isn't that! You see, I don't think she is sure of him," said Mary frankly. "He has never come back to the house since, and I'm quite glad. It is all very worrying and perplexing, and is the sort of thing one can't talk about.""It will blow over," said Calladine reassuringly."Then, you see, it is complicated by the fact that Angus too wants to marry Esther. It seems a horrid tangle, and I don't want to be mixed up in it. But I do like Mr. Frew, and yet, if he comes to the house, as he probably will again soon, I shall be afraid to talk to him.""I should just try to behave as if his coming didn't in the least matter, and as if nothing had happened.""That would be best, of course, but now I have such a stupid conscious feeling about the whole business. I don't think it was fair of Esther. I am not in love with Dudley Frew, nor should I ever want to marry him.""But you will marry some day, my dear, and make some decent chap the luckiest and happiest in the world!"Mary coloured a little, and shook her head."That is about as likely as your marrying! No, no. We shall stick to our original bargain, and keep house together somewhere in the fall of the leaf of life. There was a lovely woman talking at the meeting this afternoon—Mrs. Eliot Maitland. Do you know her?""Only by repute.""She asked me to go and see her at Belgrave Place, and I will. Perhaps, if I enlarge my borders a bit, it would be quite a good thing. I saw another nice person there at the crèche—Miss Belford. I introduced myself to her, and she told me her name.""Was she at the crèche this afternoon?" asked Calladine, and something in his voice arrested Mary's attention, and caused her to look at him enquiringly."Yes. She told me she couldn't come any more, and how much she missed it. I wanted to ask you about her. What happened to prevent her coming?""It's a longish story, and I hardly think there's time for it to-night, my dear. I shall have to be getting back. I had the misfortune to offend her father through getting a man out of one of his tied houses in the Forest.""Then who is Mr. Belford?""He is a brewer, and is one of the richest men in Winterstowe—very good and kind too. He gives away an enormous lot. But, of course, we don't, and can't, see eye to eye on the temperance question.""Of course not. I see it all. Well, I like Miss Belford. She seemed to be straightforward and sincere.""It is with her brother Harry that I have the appointment to-night, and I'm dreading it, Mary.""Oh, why? Is he coming to rag you about the house in the Forest?""No, no. He knows nothing about that, so far as I am aware. This is the young brother Harry who came down from Oxford in the summer, and has been lately attached to the business. The elder son is married, and lives in London.""What do you think he wants?""To talk about himself, I judge from his letter. I seem fated to be mixed up with his family. I have not sought it, Mary, and there are times when duty is more difficult than at others."The words were significant. But as they parted at the moment there was no opportunity for further conversation.Mary took an omnibus which would enable her to cut off a few streets, and so reach her home more quickly, for it was now after six o'clock, and the evening meal was looming near.She had never allowed her father to return to a dark or an empty house in all the years she had been at the household helm, though her punctuality sometimes had meant the giving up of a good deal that she could have enjoyed.When she heard her father's key in the door she ran up from the lower regions to welcome him."I've been at Winterstowe, father. Mother looks splendid, and entirely different. She's as busy and happy as possible!" she said eagerly."Tell me all about it," he said quickly.He had been thinking of his wife more or less during the day, and he had expected news of some kind. It was a relief that it was good."I ran down after old Polgarth had departed at two. I missed Edgar. He was in London, and had called here. We met just for a minute at Dalston Junction. I found mother running the crèche at the mission. It is quite splendid, father! Her whole heart is in it.""Edgar thinks it quite safe to go to London for a whole day and leave her?""Evidently. And she has her housekeeping purse," said Mary with a note of triumph in her voice. "I do believe that Edgar has found the key!"Calladine looked at once relieved and doubtful."Did she enquire after any of us?""In a general way—yes. But she's absorbed in this thing just for the present.""I suppose it's a good thing! Did she or Edgar say anything about my going down?""No. And I think you should wait a few more weeks, father, just to make sure."She mentioned her visit to Esther a little later, and she found that, though interested, she shared her father's doubts."I think Edgar is behaving rashly. One day something will happen that will make him sorry. It will be worse for him in Winterstowe than for us here, because in London one can hide things.""Perhaps we underrate the forces Edgar is depending on," said Mary in a low voice."The age of miracles is past," answered Esther briefly, and then changed the subject.Edgar, considerably cheered by his talk with his favourite sister, entered his home with that little flutter of apprehension which had been his portion since his mother had come to Winterstowe.She met him at the door, and indicated by mysterious signs that there was somebody waiting to see him in the study. Edgar had already gathered that from the lighted window."Young Mr. Belford. What a charming gentleman! Not quite so standoffish as his sister, though I like her too. Don't seem as if you would get away from these Belfords. Mary has been here, dear. She came to see me at the crèche.""Did she, old lady?"He drew his mother into the dining-room for a moment, fully aware that an exchange of confidences regarding the events of the afternoon would please her very much. He knew that Harry Belford's time was not very valuable, and, truth to tell, he was in no haste for the interview. To be further involved with the Belfords was just what he wanted for the present to avoid. The rupture had already cost him more than he cared to own."I had the good fortune to see her for a minute or so at Dalston Junction. Yes, I went out to Whitcombe, and I found a locked door. And what did Mary say?""She was rather taken aback," said Mrs. Calladine, as she smoothed her pretty wavy hair with an air of conscious elation. But Mary don't take much interest in babies just yet. She likes 'em in their best clothes, sittin' up an' takin' notice. I like 'em all ways. I happened to have the Parker twins on my lap at the minute. What do you think, Ed? That poor silly little mother of theirs had all little Ernie's clothes stuck on with common pins! Of course, he was yelling. Any self-respecting baby would! I'm goin' to have a good talk with the mothers some night when you are at a meeting or some afternoon. They could bring the babies. Could I have them here, Ed?""With all the pleasure in life, old dear! We'll talk it over to-night after supper-time. Our cosy time, isn't it? You're beginning to spoil me already.""Mary was pleased with everything, even with Rosie. And she did remember to ask her in nicely, and offered her a cup of tea! I've told her I was pleased with her for that.""Good! You know how to treat folks, mother! Well, I must go and see young Belford. Wonder what he's up to? I've never spoken to him. Probably he has some counter-proposal from his father about the Blue Boar. But I'm not meddling any more with his tied houses, unless I get clean up against them, as I did with Potterill. I'm not out looking for trouble.""Oh, but, Ed, the drink!—it's a cruel curse! I see it in the babies. Some of them even smell of gin," said Mrs. Calladine, in a tone so poignant that her son looked at her with concern.But the next moment she had left him, as if she were afraid that she had said too much.He lowered the gas, crossed the little passage, and opened the study door. The solitary occupant of the room sprang up from his chair, and advanced with outstretched hand and a frank, boyish smile. Calladine was astonished both at his height and his appearance. He stood six feet easily, and the grace and charm of youth were vividly expressed in both face and figure. It was a handsome, open, boyish face, with clear, laughing blue eyes, and he had curly brown hair close cropped about a head that might have belonged to an Apollo. His blue serge suit, his carelessly knotted red tie, which became him immensely—everything about him was pleasant and attractive to the eye.Calladine, a little tired, and fully conscious of his own thirty years, smiled involuntarily as he offered his hand."I'm afraid I have kept you waiting, but it is not much after seven.""No, no—only ten minutes. And I knew that you had gone to London, and that it is very easy to lose ten minutes there. My time isn't of any value. I told them at home that I wouldn't be in to dinner. Can you give me an hour, sir?""Why, yes, of course," said Calladine, but a shade less happily.Once more the shadow of his breach with the elder Belford descended on his spirit. Though he never quailed before the waiting duty, Edgar Calladine did not really enjoy a fight. As he grew older his spirit seemed to shrink from it acutely."Do sit down, and, if you smoke, please light up," he said cordially, as he drew in his own chair."I'm not smoking at this moment, thank you. It's a very private matter that I've come to you about, Mr. Calladine. It was my sister Florrie who advised me to come.""Yes," said Calladine, and he wondered whether the youth would observe that his expression changed."Of course, I know all about what happened between you and my pater with regard to the Blue Boar. He has talked a lot about it in the house. I——"He broke off there, and waited a moment before he spoke again."I suppose you know that I came down from Oxford only last July. I was most awfully happy there. I had a ripping time. I don't suppose I shall have anything like it again!"Once more Calladine smiled. He had never achieved Oxford for himself, and every day knew how much he had missed. There was therefore both sympathy and understanding in his reception of Harry Belford's confidence."I had a simply ripping time, and I'll never forget it as long as I live. I did rather well, too, and my father was leased when I came home.""Naturally.""I was glad to get home for some things, though it's most awfully quiet here—only Florrie and me. It was understood, of course, that I was to enter the business. My father always told me I should share equally with my brother Walter. He did not go to Oxford, and my father disapproves of college life for business men. It was my mother who wished me to go. She died when I was fourteen, Mr. Calladine. I have never forgotten her."Calladine did not speak. He saw the evidences of inward emotion working in the lad's soul."You never knew her, of course. She had—she had gone away before you came to Winterstowe.""Oh, yes—about two years earlier, I think. This is my sixth year here.""I was at Uppingham then. All her people had been at Uppingham, and she wanted me to be like them, I think. Some of them were in the Army, and some were in the Church, but her favourite brother was a lawyer—Judge Mitcham. He died only last year."I was too young when she died for her to say much to me, but she left me the most of her money. It was a small fortune, Mr. Calladine. I came into it last year. I have nine hundred a year in my own right, and there is my mother's old house in Essex, left by my uncle—an old moated manor house and two farms. I believe she intended I should live there while I was making my way at the Bar. But nothing was ever said definitely, and my father told me when I went to Oxford that he permitted me to go only because it had been my mother's wish, but that he expected me to help him in his business later."I did not mind then. Boys don't often mind at seventeen, do they? All they care about is to get the best out of life. But now I can't enter the business—I simply can't!"He leaned his elbows on his knees, and bent forward, looking with big eyes of appeal into Calladine's face."I must try to explain that I haven't got religion or anything of that sort. But I simply loathe the thing! I won't touch the money it brings in! I won't help to make it! I won't handle it in any way! Do you think I'm wrong?"Again Calladine's expression indefinably changed, but there was no more shrinking. If this was but the problem of another human soul in grips with the Holy Spirit—why, then, he would deal with it in the manner which the Captain of his own soul would direct."Tell me just a little more. What is the root of your objection? Is it physical or moral repulsion, or merely personal fastidiousness?""I hardly know. One night, a good few months ago—it was at the Easter recess—I was coming up Fore Street rather late on a Saturday night, when I saw something at the door of a ginshop—that big one at the corner, with all the painted windows and the blaze of electric lights. A man, three sheets in the wind—labouring chap, don't you know?—was going in, and a woman—a poor, white—faced thing with a baby at her breast, and two more holding on to her skirts—was trying to hold him back. She said: 'Don't go in, Bill. Give me a few shillin' for me and the children. I ain't got anythink in the 'ouse for to-morra's dinner.'"Then the big brute up with his fist and hit her in the face, and was through the swing-door before anybody could get at him. I'd have knocked him into smithereens if he'd been a minute longer, but I wouldn't go in there after him and make a scene. I picked her up, gave her a sovereign, and then walked on, but not before I'd seen the big sign swaying to and fro in the wind with my own name printed in gilt letters on it!"I tell you it stuck in my gizzard. I couldn't eat a bit of dinner. I told my father about it after, in the smoking-room. Walter was there too. He happened to be down with his wife for the week-end. But they just laughed! I tried to argue a bit with them. Their contention was that, though one man made a brute of himself through drink, the decent, self-respecting drinkers must be protected.""I hadn't a look in, so I just shut up. But after I got back to Oxford, and realised that it was my last term, and that I was up against it, I had to fight it out with myself. I knew that I never could stick the business, or do any good in it."I came home at midsummer, and for a time things didn't seem so difficult. I went to the office every day, and I tried to take an interest in it all. It's a big thing, Mr. Calladine—one of the biggest, I suppose, in the country. All the shareholders are rich. They are only a small body, and our own family, of course, hold the bulk. My father said he'd give me six months to look into things, and that at Christmas he would definitely settle my place and income. The six months will be up in a fortnight. I've come to you to tell me what I'm to do."CHAPTER XIVFACING THE MUSICIT seemed to Harry Belford's eager spirit that Calladine was very slow in replying. He was quite unaware that the minister had any private or personal interest in the question. The idea that there could be anything between him and Florrie certainly did not occur. Had it done so, he would probably, on the spur of the moment, have decided that it was impossible that it could ever come to anything.Young Belford had been reared in a High Church atmosphere, and he knew nothing more about Dissent than that people of his class did not countenance it. Florrie's recent excursion into that realm had surprised him a little, but he supposed that she had taken up the social work connected with Calladine's church, as other women took up needlework or cookery or slumming—from a sense of duty.This was his first meeting with Edgar Calladine, of whom he had heard a good deal from his sister. While he liked him, he mentally confessed himself disappointed. He had expected to find in him an eager reformer, who would zealously help him and encourage him in his fight, buckle his armour on, so to speak, and send him forth brave and strong of heart."I am deeply interested in what you tell me, Mr. Belford," began Calladine rather slowly and deliberately."Call me Harry, or Belford! I'm not a Mister to anybody," said the lad impulsively."Harry, then," said Calladine with one of his rare and winning smiles. "It does not appear to me that there are any very serious difficulties in the way.""Doesn't it? By Jove, I see a lot!" said the lad blankly. "There's the pater, to begin with. I've got to tell him about my decision, don't you see? I thought perhaps you might do that for me."Calladine eyed him straightly."I would do it, if the circumstances justified it; but they don't. If you are afraid of your father's displeasure, my interposition would be a sure method of increasing it. Let us look at the question from the beginning. You make up your mind to take a certain course, and by doing so you seriously inconvenience nobody. You do not suppose that you are essential, or even as yet a very valuable asset, to your father's business?""Oh, no—I don't count. I could say that to him, of course. I never thought of that! Jolly good line to take."Calladine smiled at the ingenuous remark."Then, seeing you are of independent means, you would not require to ask your father for a single penny.""Not one.""Well, the straight path being the best and the shortest always, just go home and tell him to-night that, after these months of trial and reflection, you have decided that you could be happier and more useful living on your own place, and that you will be obliged if he will relieve you of all connection with the business here.""But he won't take that! He'll argue the question till the day of

doom, Mr. Calladine. He won't stop till he gets at the bottom of

things. I'll have to tell him how I loathe the business, and that will enrage him more than anything else.""But I don't see how you can avoid it. The situation will have to be faced, Harry.""But wouldn't you break the ice for me? I asked Florrie to do it, and she wouldn't. She said, just as you do, that I must face the music myself. Say, she hasn't discussed it with you, has she?"Calladine's face flushed."No. I have not seen her for some weeks now."The lad's face became a little wistful."I hate rows. We've had rather a lot of them in our house. Walter married somebody the pater didn't approve of. That's why they live in London. Then he was awfully keen on Florrie's marrying young Graves—he's a partner now, very decent chap, and keen on Florrie—but she wouldn't. Father wanted to know the reason why, of course. He thinks that he knows what is best for us, and that we should do what he wishes. Of course, we can't.""No. And so long as your conscience approves you are right to stick to your decision. I believe that in this you are perfectly right. Nobody will suffer from your withdrawal from the business. I don't suppose that one of the shareholders will lose a penny by it.""Oh, lord no! More likely to put it into their pockets. I'm no beastly good, don't you know?""And, being independent, you can take up a very firm position?""It's all right, so far as that's concerned. But, you see, the pater's rather ambitious for me. He'd like me to go into Parliament as a brewer, in order to help to protect the interests of the trade. He got the idea when he came to Oxford one night to hear me speak at the Union. I was President last year."Calladine looked at him with increased interest and respect. As he stood there—the embodiment of splendid young manhood, unsullied, pure-hearted, eager for the right, eager to keep aloof from the very appearance of evil—Edgar's heart uplifted itself in a brief prayer for guidance to speak the fitting word."Look here, dear lad. I'm touched and gratified beyond measure that you have come to me at this crisis in your life, and I want to uphold you all I can. You are too young to know that a large part of life is made up of renunciation.""I don't want to renounce anything—only this beastly brewing business! I mean to have a good time otherwise, and to help as many as I can to a good time as well. I shan't have a pub on the place down there, if I can get rid of them. But, as I have told you, I haven't got religion, or anything of that sort, so preaching's no good."Calladine smiled."What is religion?" he asked.Belford looked the surprise he felt."Why, that's what I might ask you! It's funny you should ask me! Don't you know what it is?—and you a parson!""I know very well what it means to my own soul; but I have lived long enough to have proved that it means different things to different people. There are many paths to heaven. It is religion—the faith of your mother who has gone—that has put this resolve into your heart. There can't be any real religion without humanitarianism at the bottom. The man who wants only to save his own miserable soul by the skin of his teeth, so to speak, doesn't count.""No. That's what I think. So you think I have got religion! But I don't want it," he said shyly. "I like going to church, and all that; and when I am at the early morning service I always have a sort of feeling that my mother is near, don't you know? But it's a new idea to think that she might be at the bottom of this, just as she was about my going to Oxford. Say, Mr. Calladine, do you think the spirits of the departed can ever make themselves felt like that? Are they living—over there? And do they take any interest in us? It would make a lot of difference to me if I could believe that! You see, I've missed the mater most awfully. She was such a ripping chum to a chap! They say I'm like her. Walter is the pater's image in most things, and I couldn't speak to him about this for the world."Calladine's chance had come. He drew in his chair, and for an hour the two talked the low-voiced intimate talk of those whose hearts are touched and tuned to all the most vital issues of life.When Harry Belford at last left that humble manse his armour was buckled on, and he had gained a clear perception of what was in front of him."I'll tell him to-night," he said, lingering on the step as if he were loth to go. "I don't mind it, as I did when I came here. Florrie was right about you. You have the grip. You'll need to let me come just as often as I want to, because, perhaps, the fight is only beginning."Calladine wrung his hand, bade him be of good cheer, and re-entered the house, pondering on the richness of life. That one hour surely compensated for a whole barren year! In a moment of acute depression, God had put a new song in his mouth, had given him the incomparable joy of helping another soul, and one well worth the winning, on the upward way.There was fervent prayer on his lips as he turned into the small house, consecrated by yet another hallowed memory."He did stop a time," said his mother's cheerful voice. "If I hadn't been afraid he'd be too grand I'd have popped in, and asked you both to come to supper. I made a pie to-day—a beef-steak and kidney pie—and the crust's a treat. Come and have a bit before it gets too hard."Calladine laughed, and confessed to himself that these homely words came as a relief. For it is not meet that we dwell too long on the hill-top, where the air is too rare for our comfort or our well-being.Mrs. Calladine was not curious. She had not the aggravating habit, common to many women, of seeking to probe into the secrets of the intimate hours of their men-folks' lives, demanding chapter and verse for every thought, word, or action. Many a man has become an habitual liar in his home through being subjected to this fiery form of cross-questioning.Over the supper-table they discussed a possible basis for the class for mothers, and Calladine was astonished at his mother's practical turn of mind."It isn't a mothers' meeting, you know, dear. They get plenty of that, goodness knows, at Hubert Lane. Suppose they must like it, or they wouldn't come as they do. I want to tell them about bottles, and how easily milk may be poison to a baby, if it ain't seen to. And they must be shown about clothes, and told how there oughtn't to be a pin in any of the baby's things. There never was one in any of you!""Good!" said Calladine, and his merry laugh rolled out, his mother joining in with a sudden consciousness that life was very good. "Say, Ed, I'm doin' all right, am I? You don't wish I'd never come?"Calladine leaned forward and dropped a kiss on her hand, which was a little less soft and white than it had been when she came from Bentley House, but now how much more dear!"You're all right, dearest. We're marching on to victory," he said, with kindling eye.Meanwhile Harry Belford was walking with long, swinging stride towards the clearing in the Forest, where his father's house occupied a unique position, and was the envied of many.It was an old house which modern skill and money had improved and beautified, and it represented the last word in luxury and comfort. It was full of treasures too—pictures and books and silver—for, though Belford himself had not any conspicuously fine tastes, he was shrewd enough to know that such things are the hall-marks of a man's worldly success. His wife had been a collector, and had brought some of her own treasures with her from Mitcham.It was half-past nine, and an air of stillness was brooding over the house when he let himself in. Hedges, the butler, had gone to supper in the servants' hall, and callers were rare at Highclere at so late an hour.He hung up his light overcoat and cap in the cloak-room, and then made his way to his father's room, which was at the end of a corridor, and had egress upon the terrace at the back of the house. It was really the smaller end of the library, which ran the whole width of the house.Florrie had gone to London to a dance, to which he also had been invited, and there was no likelihood of interruption during the momentous interview.Mr. Belford, always a striking and handsome figure, well-preserved, and extraordinarily youthful for his years, turned his head casually at his son's entrance."That you, Harry? Had any dinner?""Didn't want any. I had a big lunch to-day in town, and a good tea rather late.""Walked all the way from the station—eh?""Yes. It's a glorious night, but I didn't come direct from the station," he said, as he drew in his chair. "I'm rather glad you're alone in the house to-night, dad. I want to speak to you."Belford folded up the Globe, and laid it on the arm of his reading-table, set conveniently at his elbow. A salver was there also, with a small whiskey decanter and a syphon of soda. He was a most abstemious man, but he did not go to bed a single night without his "night-cap.""All right—forge ahead. Seen Walter to-day?""No. I had a lot of things to do on my own. I've been to Messrs. Spiers and Lockwood, father, to ask a few questions about Mitcham.""What about Mitcham?" asked his father rather curtly. "I thought the tenants were most satisfactory. Spiers certainly told me so last time I saw him.""They're all right. They've a year to run, but they'd be glad to be released, and that will suit me down to the ground. I've come to tell you, sir, that I have taken the six months you offered me to think over things, and that I've decided on going to Mitcham."Mr. Belford turned slowly in his chair, and his brows began to contract."Decided to go to Mitcham!—to live, do you mean?""Yes, sir.""Then, you will chuck everything here?""Don't put it like that, father! I should never like the business, and I never would be much good to the firm. It's not in my line of things.""Why don't you say it isn't good enough, and be honest?" said his father scathingly. "You've got all these upsetting ideas at Oxford! I wish to goodness I had never let you go there!"Harry made no answer to this. He could have refuted it, but it was his aim not to aggravate his father more than he could help."You're a fool—and a young fool, which is the most difficult kind of all to deal with! Do you know what you are giving up?""A bigger income than I shall have at Mitcham," he said cheerfully. "But I don't mind.""Five thousand a year, and the chance of making a fortune fast!""I don't want to make a fortune, either fast or slowly, father. I haven't any use for it.""But you will have, later on. Heavens, what are you made of? Haven't you any ambitions, any future to look to? Don't you want to do something in the world—to make a name for yourself, or even to found a family? Both of these are easily within your grasp if you only stick in here for the next ten years or so. I don't want to keep your nose at the grindstone. I've been young myself, and I'm not too old yet to remember and understand that a youngster must have his fling. Take it. I won't be hard on you. But a milksop—gad, it sticks in my gizzard!"The young man's colour rose."I hope I'm not that, father. Indeed, I know I'm not. I don't happen to care for business—and for this kind of business in particular, that's all. Surely it is far better that I should quit, and give somebody else a chance, who does like it!""If you do that I'll cut you off, Harry. I warned you before, and I meant what I said. You'll have to do the best you can with Mitcham and its beggarly rents. And what in Heaven's name will you do with yourself there?—breed cattle, or sheep, or what? You'll become a degenerate in a year's time! I tell you, I know what I'm talking about, Harry. A man of your age wants to be fully occupied—to have every faculty maintained at the keenest tension, if he's to make good, and not get into mischief.""I'm not built that way, sir. I'll be quite happy in the country, pottering about the place. I'll take the home farm into my own hands. Then I'll have my books, a bit of hunting in the winter, and I'll take an interest in what's going on around me. Anyhow, my mind's made up.""It is? Nothing will change you?""Nothing, sir. I don't mind giving up the income you spoke so generously of giving me. I couldn't pay the price for it.""What price? It would be yours to do what you like with. I've never been stingy with you, Harry.""No, no!—you misunderstand me. It's the business I can't stick. It makes brutes of decent men—there, it's out now! I'm sorry, but I can't do anything else, father. Perhaps it's better to have the point made quite clear.""Great Scot, and it's pi-jaw you're treating me to now!" said the elder Belford, and the veins stood out on his temples like knotted cords. "Get out of my sight before I curse you! I don't want to do that. The presumption—the damned presumption—of an Oxford-bred puppy like you to speak so about a business which has been made, ay, and honoured by better men than you can ever hope to be! Get out of my sight!"But Harry did not move.He had seen his father before in one of his passions, and though the sight never failed to sicken and upset him, he stuck to his guns on this occasion, believing that, in so doing, he was strengthening his own position, as well as justifying it."I'm sorry you take it like this, sir," he said quietly and steadily. "It would not have made any difference to me, though I hadn't had a penny. I should simply have worked my way out to one of the colonies, and made a place for myself there.""I only wish you had been obliged to do it! That would have brought you to your senses quicker than anything. That's what a man rears sons for in these days—to disappoint him at every turn! Walter sticks to the business, but, outside of it, he's no use to me. Even Florrie seems tainted, and goes against all my reasonable expectations; less has made many a man rebuild his house and found another family!"If these words were in the nature of a threat, they had no effect on Harry Belford."If it would make you happier, sir, I am sure none of us would mind," he said.Once more Mr. Belford appeared transported with rage. He pointed to the door."Leave me! I'm not in a fit state to discuss the matter. But, remember, what you have done is final. You need look to me for nothing. If you think the money not clean—then, by Heaven, I'll take care you don't finger a penny of it!""Don't be so angry about it, dad. Nobody need know. It's enough for the outside public to be told that I prefer country life to business life. And don't let us have a rupture. I—I don't want it, father. It would make me very unhappy indeed at Mitcham. Perhaps, after you've got used to the idea you won't dislike it so much. My mother loved the place, sir. She spoke a great deal to me about it. Somehow, I think—that is, I can't help thinking—that she would like me to go there."His father cast a strange, uncertain glance at him, and waved him imperatively from the room.CHAPTER XVENLARGING THE BORDERSIN a day or two Mary wrote to Mrs. Eliot Maitland, suggesting a day for her promised call. She named Saturday, which was generally more free, since the most of the family got home for the day by two o'clock.The answer came by return, saying that Mrs. Eliot Maitland was fully engaged for Saturday, and inviting her to come to lunch on Sunday at half-past one. She rather ruefully regarded the little note at the breakfast-table, pondering on all the lions in the path—the lazy, uncertain household, the large mid-day meal, the disordered bedrooms, most of which had to be put straight in the afternoon."What are you wrinkling your face about, Mary?" her father asked kindly.Of late he had begun to take a peculiar pleasure in studying his eldest daughter, and he had observed alike from her swiftly changing expression and her varying moods that Mary was by no means the automaton they had imagined her to be. Within the last week or two she seemed to have developed rapidly."It's a note from a lady I met at Winterstowe—Mrs. Eliot Maitland—asking me to lunch on Sunday. But I am afraid I shall have to decline.""Why, my dear? Is there any reason?""The usual reason—who would get dinner for you all?""We might manage to exist without it for one day," said Esther drily. In fact it might do us a deal of good.""Or we could stop in bed till Mary came back," suggested Winnie with a ripple of laughter."I should never allow you to get up at all in that case," said Mary, smiling too."I might turn chef for the day, and show you some new things. Rippin' idea," said Frank, who had had a short week preparatory to going to Scotland at the beginning of the following one."You wouldn't like a cold dinner, I suppose? I could get that ready to-morrow.""No, Mary, don't be so careful and troubled," put in her father quickly. "Write and accept the lady's invitation, and leave the rest of us to get along as best we can. It will be uncommonly good for us.""Toff—eh?" said Frank, as he took up the handmade envelope with the small black crest on the flap. "17, Belgrave Place, S.W.""A housekeeper, or a governess there, I suppose, seeing you met her at Winterstowe?" put in Esther in her snappy voice."No, I think it is her own house; but her brother and his wife live in it," answered Mary quietly. "Mrs. Eliot Maitland is going back to India just after Christmas.""Was she at Edgar's house?" asked Winnie, thereby putting it in Mary's power to satisfy the curiosity of the rest of the family."No. She was speaking to the women at the meeting to which I went to see mother, and she spoke most beautifully. Then, shall I accept? I want to see her again most awfully, and she says that it is the only chance I shall have, as she is going right down into the country next week to stay there till she sails.""Accept, of course. You don't get many outings," said Calladine, as he rose and left the table."What would be the correct wear for a luncheon party, Esther?" asked Mary timidly. "I haven't much choice—only my coat and skirt, and that terracotta summer frock."But Esther shook her head."I don't go to fashionable lunches, so I can't advise," she said coolly.At this Winnie blazed up."Esther, you are a proper pig, and you are just jealous because Moll has a chance to go where you are not invited! Put on your coat and skirt, my lovely angel, and I'll lend you my long feather for your best hat. We'll have a hat-trimming show on Saturday afternoon, and you'll wear that sweet white blouse which suits you so well. Then you'll be fit for anybody's company! And, anyway, when you are there nobody will think about your clothes or know what you have got on, so long as you are inside them. So there, Esther—put that in your pipe and smoke it!"Sometimes Winnie's little temper flew up, and then she was not very particular about her language. Mary patted her cheek somewhat tremulously. Somehow, all the foundations of home seemed to be tottering, and undreamed of fires were ready to blaze on the slightest provocation. What did it portend?"Feline amenities," said Frank facetiously, as he spread his roll thick with fresh butter and marmalade. I'd no idea the show could be so lively on occasion."He had to spend the morning in the house, and he pottered about in Mary's way more than she altogether liked. Her mind was full of so many new thoughts and sensations that she felt as if she had just begun to live."Say, Mary, do tell me if the mater is really getting on? Everybody seems doubtful but you," said Frank, waylaying her in the drawing-room, where she was dusting."She's getting on splendidly, dear, I do assure you. Nobody would believe what difference there is in her already.""And you believe that she'll be cured ultimately?""I think so, and Edgar is sure of it.""Rum chap, Ed isn't he? Got it hot and strong—religion, I mean—and it has lasted! Think there's anything in it yourself, old girl?""Of course, there must be—there is. One can't help seeing that. Nothing else would keep Edgar in a place like Winterstowe at three hundred pounds a year. He could make far more than that in almost any other occupation.""Right you are! Say, Mary, I want to tell you something. I'm thinking of turning T.T."Something in his voice caused Mary to stop her dusting, and to look more attentively at him."I'm sure it would be a good thing. But is there any special reason for it?""Yes—the only one that counts. I'm getting too fond of the stuff.""Oh, Frank!""Fact, Mary. Suppose the liking for it is in the blood.""Don't say that, dear! I don't—and won't—believe it. Edgar doesn't either, and nobody who thinks will believe such a monstrous thing. It would make life a positive nightmare, if we had to go through it haunted by such fears.""I'm stating what I believe; and, of course, I'm exposed to temptation. You've no idea—nobody has, except those who are in a position like mine—what risks we run! The road's jolly enough, but nobody will ever know how many of us it has laid by the heels.""When did you notice it, Frank?" said Mary, sitting down on the piano stool, her face Very grave and motherly and sweet."Inside of a year—when I began to want three whiskies and sodas instead of one. Last week in Manchester I went to bed drunk two nights."This bald statement of fact, delivered as it was without the slightest attempt at extenuation or palliation, caught Mary's breath."Oh, Frank—and you are only twenty-five!"He nodded."I know. But I'm pulling up in time. I'm T.T. henceforth—it isn't good enough! Say, you're sure about this heredity business, because if I thought there was nothing in it it would buck me up a lot? Otherwise it seems rather hopeless—a sort of losing game from the start, don't you know?""I am quite sure of it. Ask Angus, or Mr. Frew. They both believe as I do. But the best person to consult is Edgar. He knows how to help everybody. He has the key to all hearts.""Don't want to consult old Ed. I want to fight this thing out on my own. I'm telling you, because you're the most beastly understanding person I have ever known, and because you'd never go back on a chap, whatever you might feel. I've watched you with the mater. It was great! Sometimes I wanted to go out and blub, Moll. It's a blessed thing for the whole show that we've got you, instead of Esther, at the helm."Mary's eyes were blinded with tears. So this was her reward—a little late perhaps, but none the less sweet!"Dear Frank," she said softly, for she could not even appear to notice his words in praise of herself, "don't you think it might be better if you left the road, as you call it?""I'm going to, but not till I've won out in this fight. It won't be easy, for I have got to meet all The old pals, and tell them that I'm T.T. It tries the mettle you're made of. You'll write to me, Moll, won't you? In the week while I'm away. It'll help to buck me up.""Write! Oh, yes—every day, if you like! I wish I could go with you, Frank. Oh, my dear, I do want you to win out!""I'm going to. And I must tell you, even if you do make that queer face at me, that it's chiefly for your sake I'm doing it. You've been just rippin' here, don't you know?—never failing any of us, not one even the measliest. And I do think that, bar Edgar and Win, in her best minutes, we've been a pretty rotten, measly crew! But you shan't be ashamed of me much longer."Don't tell this to any of them. It's between you and me. Ta-ta! It's off my chest now, and I'll go down town and get the programme for Monday."What wonder that her luncheon engagement for Sunday was forgotten in the overwhelming interest of the new matter given her for thought?Life had certainly become more poignant, yet it seemed to have disclosed depths of sweetness hitherto undreamed of. She felt like a sower who, grown weary of the long furrows and the barren winds, is suddenly vouchsafed a vision of some splendid harvest.On Sunday, dressed by Winnie, and looking very neat and attractive, she left the house soon after noon to fulfil her first luncheon engagement.It is a long way from North London to Belgravia, and she had to walk through Hyde Park, which gave to her face a delicious glow of colour, and to her eyes a radiant brightness.She found the number without difficulty, and was admitted to the house by a footman, and was at once conducted through a series of rooms to a smaller inner drawing-room, where Mrs. Eliot Maitland received her."I am so glad you could come!" she said, smiling, as she met her at the door. "I was sorry to fix Sunday for your visit, especially as my sister-in-law generally has some friends to luncheon. But we can go up to my sitting-room after, and have a nice talk. I hope you have been well since I saw you last?"Mary once more felt the spell of the gracious woman's presence and personality. In her indoor dress, with her soft white hair, she looked much younger and more beautiful than she had done at Winterstowe. Mary was so unspoiled that heroworship was still possible to her, and she felt frankly inclined to worship her new friend."That was a wonderful meeting at Winterstowe, wasn't it? I don't know when I felt so much moved. To see all those faces in front of one, and to think of the individual lives and the sadness of many of them was rather overwhelming.""I found it so, and I had never been at such a meeting before," responded Mary quickly. "I felt as if I wanted to cry. Indeed, I am sure I did cry!""The sister tells me that a splendid work your brother is doing down there. One feels glad to think that there are so many followers of the Lord Jesus, and that there is so much of His work being carried on in quiet corners. There is no other service like it, is there?"Mary hesitated a moment."It would seem not, for all those who have given themselves to it appear happy, and are always enthusiastic.""And haven't you?" asked Mrs. Maitland without a moment's hesitation. "I made sure that you had. There is something about you which makes one feel that you live near to the Kingdom.""Oh, you are quite mistaken!—I don't. Nothing could be further from the truth than to suppose so. I live in a house where nobody ever dreams even of going to church, except sometimes, by way of entertainment, for the purpose of hearing good music. And you have no idea how wicked and uncharitable I can be, even towards my own sister."Mrs. Maitland looked surprised; and at the moment a servant appeared, to say that luncheon was served, and that Lady Legarde had already gone down to the dining-room."Lady Legarde is my sister-in-law. I told you, I think, that my brother lives in this house. It was left to me by my husband. But I hardly ever need it, though I have always my own rooms that I can occupy at any time. My brother was an ambassador in the East for some time. His wife is quite charming. But I don't know what other guests she may have to-day. I forgot to ask. Usually one or two intimates drop in at luncheon on Sunday quite informally."Mary, without any feeling of awkwardness, or even of apprehension, followed her new friend downstairs. She had been asked to come there because her presence was desired, and she had been made welcome. She was therefore completely at her ease.There were about ten persons in the dining-room seated at a large round table, so that general conversation was rendered possible. Lady Legarde, already in her place at table, rose and shook hands with Mary, and a place was made for her, but no other introductions were offered.Mary was initiated that day into an entirely new order of things. The table arrangements were very simple, but everything was exquisite, and, though the flowers were sparse, they were very beautiful. The food also was simple, even to austerity, but it tasted different from any food that Mary had ever before eaten.In the midst of it all she felt an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh, for the vision of the meal which might be in progress at Whitcombe Square would intrude itself—the meal engineered by Winnie, perhaps partially cooked by Frank! The contrast, thus conjured up, undoubtedly gave a certain zest to her present experience.She felt astonishingly at her ease, and the conversation, which touched lightly on almost every conceivable topic, interested her immensely. At her right side sat a stern-looking professor who she discovered, after a time, knew Angus Raeburn, of whom he spoke in high praise.Altogether the hour passed delightfully. An atmosphere of perfect friendliness pervaded the luncheon party—that indefinable something that comes of good breeding, and that makes even the awkward feel at home."I am going to take Miss Calladine away now, Francesca," said Mrs. Maitland, who was the first to rise. "You'll excuse me, because I want to talk to her, and I have to go out at three."Lady Legarde nodded, and again shook hands with Mary, and the two left the circle talking over their coffee."We can have ours upstairs. I am going down to Bermondsey to a Settlement prize-giving at three, so we shall have just half an hour."They ascended by a passage-lift to the top floor of the house, where Mary was introduced to Mrs. Maitland's own quarters."This used to be the nursery wing, and I took it all. The Legardes have no children. I had one son, but God took him. Unless some miracle happens, our branch of the family will die out with us.""Oh, how sad!" said Mary involuntarily.Mrs. Maitland was silent a moment, as she drew a chintz-covered easy-chair towards the glowing hearth."Sit here, my dear, and talk to me about yourself. You listened very patiently to me talking for a good forty minutes about myself the other day! So now it is my turn to listen.""Oh, but it was so intensely interesting; and did you see the faces of the women? Some of them were clean carried away," cried Mary, full of enthusiasm."I must say I felt that they wanted me to go on. Tell me how you fill up your time, and what interests you most. What work are you engaged in?"She nestled comfortably back in her chair, put a cushion behind her head, and prepared to listen."I'm afraid you have made a mistake about me, Mrs. Maitland. I'm such a very ordinary person! I'm nothing at all except housekeeper to my father. I spend my entire life in taking care of the house. We have not even a servant, for we are quite poor people."She spoke with haste and without embroidery, almost as if she feared that she was being received under false pretences."Well, yours is a very noble and particularly difficult calling. For, you see, I can, in a sense, pick and choose my work, and, even if I'm not successful in one corner, I can look forward to making a hit elsewhere," said Mrs. Maitland, with her shrewd, kindly smile. "But the woman who has to spend all her life at home never gets away from her work there. She has to encounter the same temperaments, the same small, and sometimes fretting, duties day in and day out, so that when she is a success, as I know you are, she is a very great success indeed!""It is very kind of you to talk like that. It helps me. Just of late I've got sickened of everything, and have felt most discontented."The man entered with the coffee-tray at the moment, and after it was made Mary found herself being gently drawn on to talk further about herself and her home, until, in the end, her new friend was in possession of all the facts of her life."I see you now as if you were in a photograph, you poor dear, doing the work of the Lord Jesus in one of the most difficult situations in the world! But, you know, it would be much easier if you would just come out, and own your Master. It would simplify everything."Mary shook her head."I have never understood what my brother calls his conversion. I only know that, from being a rather tiresome and difficult youth, he suddenly became something entirely different—not quite what he is now, for, of course, he has grown and deepened in nature in every way since he went to Winterstowe—but at any rate a man with all his ideas and outlook changed."Mrs. Maitland nodded slowly."Precisely. That happens to the Pauls of these days just as it did to the Apostle of old, and oftener, too, than one would think. I could tell you wonderful tales of the miracles wrought by the Holy Spirit in the lives of men and women of the world whom I have known. But there are others equally precious in the Lord's sight who simply grow in grace, as it were, and who serve Him as naturally and as easily as they breathe. A woman who has done what you have done and are doing daily is as much the servant of the Lord Jesus as any missionary in the field. Frankly, my dear, I could not live your life. It would fret my spirit too much. God has given me the variety I need, but I do not for a moment believe that I shall have a harvest such as yours.""Oh, how can you speak like that after your hold on the women last Monday that I witnessed?""The impression made might be evanescent—very probably it was so. I want you to lift up your head very high, my dear. God has called you to a special kind of service—in many cases the most difficult. Go on, but take the joy of the assurance that you have been called to it.""It's a new idea to associate with the washing of pots and pans and with the getting of meals," said Mary, as she drew on her gloves.The words in all their suggestiveness recurred to her again and again as she walked leisurely across Hyde Park to get her omnibus at the Marble Arch. She was in no haste to reach home, and she had so many fresh things to think about that the way seemed short.It was about four when she walked from Upper Street through the bye-ways to Whitcombe Square. It was only when she got to the door that she began to think of them all at home, and to wonder what kind of a Sunday afternoon they were spending.She found that she had forgotten to take her latchkey, and, to her surprise, her father answered her ring."Yes; everybody is out except myself," he said, smiling at her consternation, "and Mr. Frew has just arrived. I told him I was not sure when you might get back, but he answered that he would take his chance of seeing you, and would wait."Mary felt that Dudley Frew's visit was a fitting ending to her afternoon.CHAPTER XVIAN ASTONISHING DAYTo her astonishment Mary found that her father had taken Frew down to the den below."Oh, father, I hope it is tidy! And how did you get on about dinner to-day?""The meat was overdone, but otherwise it was pretty fair. I took Mr. Frew down because there are things on the dining-room table yet. Win said she was going to the Queen's Hall concert at three o'clock, and Esther had gone out before her.""Who took Winnie to the Queen's Hall?" asked Mary sharply."I don't know. She didn't say, nor did I ask. I'm not in the habit of asking questions, you see. Probably she's with Casa, as usual.""And has Esther gone with Angus?""Ask me another! I tell you I didn't crossexamine. They all seemed in a hurry to go out. Better come down and see Mr. Frew.""Is Frank with him?""No. Frank has gone to his Hampstead friends. There was a general scattering immediately after dinner, and nobody had time to fix up things properly. You see, everything goes to pieces when you go out, my dear. Don't do it again!"He spoke half-banteringly, yet with a substratum of earnestness. The house that day had seemed intolerable to him without Mary.Mary tried to smooth her face, which was slightly wrinkled with anxiety, entirely on Winnie's account, and she sped lightly downstairs to see Frew. The moment she was inside the door her housewifely eye assured her that, though the fire seemed low and dismal, the room was not conspicuously out of order."You are being made very much at home, Mr. Frew, in a London basement," she said gaily, as she shook hands with him. "I have been lunching with the rich and great in Belgravia, so don't be surprised if you find me a little inflated. Do come upstairs. We smoke in the drawing-room. I can't think why father brought you down here!""It was a privilege which, I assure you, I appreciate too much to give up at a moment's notice," answered Frew, his eyes dwelling with undisguised pleasure on her sweet, fresh-coloured face. "I hear from your father that it is very unusual for you to have a Sunday outing.""Has he been giving the show away? It is quite true that I don't often go out on Sunday, and I think that after to-day's experience I should find it unsettling. Do come upstairs!" she repeated. "Ah, there is the front door bell!—the Raeburns, possibly. If we have a crowd for tea, you can stop down here and help to get it, if you like.""Right you are! Shall I stop now, and see to the preliminaries—the wood under the kettle for a quick blaze, etc.? I assure you, I'm no novice. I lived for three years in two rooms, doing for myself, and I never once had a charwoman inside the house. I couldn't afford to pay her. And it was clean, too! Don't look as if you disbelieved, but tell me where I can find the kettle.""Where it ought to be—on the stove," she answered merrily, as she ran upstairs.She found that her father had already opened the door of the hall, and that Casa was there introducing a large, black-attired person in a fearsome bonnet as Aunt Lisbeth."Oh, you blessed angel, I'm so glad to see you!" cried Casa, flinging herself on her favourite friend forthwith. "I've brought Aunt Lisbeth. She knows all about you, and I think you and she are going to be friends."Aunt Lisbeth with great deliberation put back a very long and very thick veil, revealing to Mary's delighted vision a pair of vivid and humorous black eyes. The features of the face were good, if a trifle harsh, and the high cheek-bones had that touch of hardy colour characteristic of the North. The iron-grey hair, worn so plainly and screwed into a knob behind, left nothing to the imagination. But the face was a strong, even a fine one, and Mary felt drawn to its possessor."Her other name, Cass?" whispered Mary, as she advanced to shake hands."Raeburn, of course. She is father's sister.""I'm awfully glad to meet you," said Mary heartily, "and I hope you will keep this small spitfire and will-o'-the-wisp in order, and teach her to take care of herself. For over three months now she has had a cough which sometimes gives us all the creeps.""And she'll go on havin' the cough, my woman, if she wears low-necked frocks in the daytime, and in all weathers!" said Aunt Lisbeth wrathfully.Casa simply pealed with laughter."It's my inoffensive Peter Pan blouse she's calling by that name!" she said, as she pulled down her blouse so that the fine pure line of her throat stood out. "I believe she has visions of me in a Tam-o'-Shanter and a kilt—eh, Aunt Lisbeth?"Frew appeared at the moment, having successfully discovered the kettle and set it on the fire. Casa was rather surprised to behold him there, apparently on terms of intimacy with the family, and in Esther's absence too!"Casa, do you know who has gone with Winnie to the Queen's Hall?" asked Mary a little later, when her anxiety had reasserted itself.Casa looked much astonished."I don't. I saw her yesterday afternoon, and she didn't say a word about going. What are you thinking, Mary?"Casa's intuition was so quick and so unerring that it almost amounted to a sixth sense."I don't know. I'm rather worried about Win, Cass. She hasn't seemed quite herself lately, and I don't like her going down there without saying a word to anybody beforehand.""No more do I. But I'll find out about it, Mary, before I'm much older. Just leave it to me," said Casa. "Now let us go in and enjoy listening to Aunt Lisbeth talking to Mr. Frew. I'm sure he won't understand a word she says!""You are going to like her?""Oh, we do, already—we love her. She's the quaintest thing ever made, but she disapproves darkly of us, and all our works, and she says that the way in which we keep, or don't keep, the Sabbath is scandalous! She has found a Presbyterian Church somewhere about Emperor's Gate, and she wanted to take me there this morning. When I said I had some work to touch up in the studio she quoted the fourth Commandment to me! But she's nice, Mary. I want her to stop.""Do you think she will?""She's taken us on trial for a month. Ask her what she thinks of us, won't you? I'm sure she will tell you without a moment's hesitation."Mary had an opportunity after tea, while the men remained over a cigarette at the tea-table, and Casa was playing something in a minor key at the piano."You know my niece and nephew very well, I hear," began Miss Raeburn, who had already decided that, in spite of her queer name, Mary Calladine was quite the most presentable of her kinsfolks' acquaintances she had yet seen."Yes. We've known one another all our lives. They lived in the square once."Miss Raeburn nodded."I am aware of that. There was a rupture between my brother Alexander and his family because he would not stop on the farm, but ran away to London to carry out his drawing and engraving. My father was one of the old-fashioned sort, who disbelieved in odd ways of getting a living.""But fine engraving is an art, Miss Raeburn, and there are very few who attain so much eminence in it as your brother did. You should ask Mr. Frew about that too.""Oh, does he get his living at that, too?""No. He's an artist.""A wise-like man! Who does he come here to see?"To this leading question Mary found it difficult to reply. She managed, however, not to look conscious"It was my sister Esther who brought him. But now I think he comes because he likes us as a family. I'm sorry Esther is not at home to-day.""She's away somewhere with Angus, Casa says. Tell me, Miss Calladine, is it the prevailing custom in London to gad about all day on Sabbath from house to house and from place to place? The kirk I was at this morning was half empty, and my niece spent her morning at her work. I've heard of the London Sunday, but I hardly expected it to be so lax. My niece and nephew seem to fear neither God nor man, yet they are a likely pair, and it makes me wae to see them so entirely given up to worldly pursuits.""They can hardly help it, Miss Raeburn. It has always been their environment.""And that bairn a Catholic! It gi'es me the cauld shudders!" said Miss Raeburn, "though, I must say, she seems happy enough in it. She was up on the back of seven this morning, and away to Mass afore I was waken. It seems to me just terrible!""But they are so good, Miss Raeburn, and—and we must not forget that there are many roads to heaven," said Mary, with her quiet, kind smile."My father was an elder in the kirk at Tomintyre, Miss Calladine, and he never held up his head again after he heard that Alec had married a Catholic wife. After she died, I would have had the bairns down, but he would not let me. Now I am left, I would like to stop a bit, and see if I could be of any use to them. He's a very quiet, determined-like chap, is Angus, an' I must say the wee yin gets a grip of a body's heart.""Say that again, Miss Raeburn!" said Mary joyously. "It so exactly describes Casa! You are quite right. She wants some one to mother her, and I hope you will stay as long as ever you can.""I have let the farm; and after the roup was over I just couldn't bear myself. My father only died there in August—at the time of the Lammas floods."Mary, who only partially understood all that the Scotswoman said, expressed her sympathy."He left me all he had. It is more than I shall ever be able to spend on myself, and so I thought I would come and sec Alec's bairns. Not that they are needing anything from me, for Angus has told me that he can earn seven or eight hundred a year, and it's astonishing that folk are to be found who give Casa four and five pounds for one of her little picters. But they seem pleased to see me, so I will stop for the winter, likely. But London's a terrible queer place. I am sure you don't like the way they keep the Sabbath?"Mary replied quite honestly that she had never permitted that matter to trouble her."Mary consecrates Sunday and all the other days of the week with service done for other folk, Aunt Lisbeth," called Casa across the room. "So please be very respectful to her. She's our one and only saint!""Hark at that bairn!" said Miss Lisbeth with a smile.But the longer she talked with Mary Calladine the more friendly she felt towards her."Casa," she said to her niece after they had left the house, and were making their way back to Chelsea in crowded trains and omnibuses, "what like is the other Miss Calladine—the one who has gone out with your brother?""She's beautiful, Aunt Lisbeth—at least, so people say; but she isn't a patch on Mary!""A what?""I mean she isn't half so nice and dear. Mary Calladine is the nearest approach to an angel I've ever met.""Nothing of the kind. She's just a fine, sensible woman—the first I've met in this place," said Aunt Lisbeth severely. "If Angus would make it up with her, now, there would be some hope for him!"Casa sighed."We can't arrange people, Aunt Lisbeth. My limited experience has shown me already that people simply revel in doing the wrong things in this mundane sphereߞespecially in marrying the wrong people, and in regretting it all ever after!""But that other manߞwhat do you call him?ߞDudley Frew, has got eyes in his head! It is easy to see that she won't be long left plain Miss Calladine!"Casa incredulously laughed."I thought Scotch folk had no imagination. Yours is running off with you helter-skelterߞand on Sunday too! That will never happen.""Wait and see," said Aunt Lisbeth, firmly adhering to her own opinion.Already she was becoming intensely interested in her London experiences, and, though her mental state was one of protest, as a rule, she managed to extract a good deal of enjoyment out of it.It had been an extraordinary satisfaction to her to be permitted to lay hands on the little Bohemian house, and to overhaul it from attic to basement. She had found it sadly lacking in many of the things she had hitherto considered absolutely necessary to the mere existence of any house; but, in spite of all its deficiencies, there was an odd comfort and charm about this houseߞa free-and-easy atmosphere which made for blitheness.Perfect liberty seemed to be the watchword there, and nobody was ever cross or out of sorts because another would not see eye to eye. It was, in its way, a revelation to the austere Scotswoman, who had been nurtured on duty from her youth up."Duty!" said Casa, half wistfully, half scornfully, "no, we don't do it! It doesn't sound interesting. I won't ever hurt anybody, if I can help it, though I've got three pupils just now that I would like to hang! I'm quite sure that I don't want to do my duty."What could Aunt Lisbeth do with such a oneߞ a dear creature who would come to her bedside at seven o'clock in the morning in her bare feet, bringing her a cup of fragant tea which she had risen to make on her own samovarߞan odd arrangement which she had got from a Russian student, and of which she was inordinately proud!Certainly "the little heathen," as she had been called by her grandfather, who had never seen her, had enchanting ways which wound themselves about Aunt Lisbeth's heart.Casa she had taken to at once, and loved wholeheartedly, because she was as transparent as the day, and wholly without guile.But of Angus, so remote, silent, and unapproachable she was a little afraid. In her inmost heart she felt perfectly sure that he was not happy, and that the woman, Esther Calladine, whom she had not yet seen, was at the bottom of his unhappiness.Casa had told her aunt nothing of the domestic tragedy of the Calladines. She had simply mentioned that the mother had gone on a long visit to her clergyman son at Winterstowe. Perhaps Aunt Lisbeth need never know at all that there had been a tragedy. Casa was always willing to disseminate the sunshine if she could, and she saw no necessity or justification for increasing the area of sadness.After the Raeburns had gone an odd restlessness seemed to come over Dudley Frew."Say, Mr. Calladine, I wish you and your daughter would come over to St. John's Wood with me this evening. I should like to show you the picture I'm getting ready for the Academy."Paul Calladine looked surprised, and Mary a little eager."It is very kind, Mr. Frew, but it's a long wayߞisn't it? ߞand on a Sunday night!""But it's very early," said Frew eagerly, "and I daresay we shall be able to pick up a stray taxi. Do come."Calladine looked interested. It was long since anybody had extended an invitation to him, and perhaps this one flattered him a little."It's a little outside my line of things, but if Mary would like to goߞߞ"Frew regarded her imploringly."Yes, I think I should. I have had a most extraordinary Sunday! Do let us go, father."So in half an hour's time a swift-running taxicab was bearing them down from the northern heights to St. John's Wood, which they reached just as the church bells had rung in.They drew up at a small green door in a high wall which gave admission to a covered passage, on the darkness of which from an invisible switch Frew turned a flood of electric light.Mary then saw that the walls were all lightly and exquisitely frescoed, though she would not have known the proper term to apply, and that the plants and flowers were arranged with beautiful effect. It was so astounding to come in from the chill grey night to the warmth and glow that involuntarily she gave a little gasp."Oh, father, isn't this beautiful!"It is, my dear. It's something quite new for us, isn't it?"Frew, having paid the cabman, closed the door, and led them to the end of the passage, and thence into the low, old-fashioned hall, which was panelled in oak, and was brightened only by the soft tones of the old Persian rugs on the floor.This old house had for long been in the possession of artists, and each had done something for it; and, though it was neither large nor pretentious, it had certain characteristics which marked it out from all other houses, even from those that had artistic pretensions.Frew had been its owner for only a year. He had bought it as it stood from the executors of the R.A. who had died in it. It had at that time been packed with rubbish of all kinds, which Frew had carefully sorted out and got rid of, his own taste being very simple and austere.He at once led the way into the studioߞan immense place, both well heated and well lighted, however, and giving one a feeling of welcome and homeliness at once. The fire only wanted a fresh log thrown across the grate-bars, and when that was done a vivid glow was cast all over the cosy ingle neuk.Calladine looked about him with the greatest possible interest. He had thawed to Dudley Frew as he did to few, chiefly because Frew took pains to find out what interested him, and to be his kindliest selfߞand that could be very kindly indeed."And do you live in this immense place all alone?" asked Mary, looking round with a kind of awe."I work here. I hardly know where I live. Just lately I've been asking myself whether my present mode of existence is life at all!""Oh, surely!ߞwhen you can maintain a place like this, and when people want the pictures you can paintߞyou do live, and that in a very full sense!" she said, not with any intention of rebuking him, but simply out of the fulness of her heart.She was more and more astonished that he should care to come out of a place so beautiful to spend any portion of his time in their ugly little early Victorian house. But even yet the truth did not dawn on her mind!He made Mr. Calladine comfortable in a big arm-chair with an immense high back, and gave him a very long cigar. But Mary refused to be seated."I should like to go over all the house. It's like a house out of a book! Has Esther seen this?" she said."She has been in the studio a good many times," he answered evasively. "I don't think she admires the house. It is really quite small. The building of this studio was an after-thought. I must show you the dining-room presently, because it is hung with pictures I value—pictures that have been given me from time to time by the chaps I know and have worked with. That sort of thing gives character to a room. Here is the picture I'm pinning my faith to for the Academy."He drew forward a large easel, on which stood a big canvas with a cover over it. When that was removed, for a moment the picture seemed a confused mass of figures, the colouring being very subdued, almost grey in tone.But after a time, looking silently at it, Mary began to discern how each face stood out in sharp relief. In the centre of the picture was the figure of a tall woman clad in sweeping robes of dull blue. And she had Esther's face! But on the face there was an expression which Mary did not like. It caused her to draw back a little, almost in dismay."What does it all mean? I suppose the subject is allegorical, and needs a good deal of explanation.""It is purely allegorical. I will give you the story to take home with you to read," he said. "So you don't approve of it?""I don't understand it," said Mary frankly. "What is the woman doing? Do you see that it is like Esther, father—and yet, not like her?""I gave the story to your sister to read, and she had no objection to posing for this figure. As I have said, it is purely allegorical," said Frew.But, imagining disapproval in Mary's eyes, he presently removed it from the easel, and substituted some smaller studies of heads and figures, and also one or two small landscapes, to the execution of which he had brought a lighter touch.An hour passed quickly, at the end of which Frew departed to order some coffee to be brought from the kitchen. He then asked Mary to come and look at the dining-room.Calladine, very comfortable where he was, drew his chair nearer the burning logs, and took up the Sunday paper. Tempted for the moment from his shell of reticence, he was glad to creep back to it again, very much astonished to find that he was actually feeling so much at home so far from his own fireside!Frew preceded Mary across the hall, opened the oak door, and ushered her into the dining—room a colour-scheme in white, which presented an appearance almost startling in contrast to the sombre appearance of the rest of the house. It was a small room, but the absence of any large articles of furniture gave a fictitious impression both of height and space."Oh, how pretty! I should like this room—it is so bright! And what lovely pictures! One would require weeks to study them.""Some of them are worth studying, and are all my treasures. Each one has a separate story," said Frew. "There is only one piece of my own work here—an imaginary portrait of my mother. I don't actually remember her, so it is a thing of dreams."He turned up a cunningly placed light above a little pastel sketch, and Mary stood spellbound before it. The picture was that of a woman's face which seemed to express in sweetness and yearning all the motherhood of the world.Mary's eyes filled with tears as she looked."How beautiful! I think she must have been like that. You could never have only imagined anything so life-like and so beautiful!"His next words fell like a bomb on her astonished cars."Since I drew that I've been looking for its counterpart in real life. I have found her. Will you come and make this house a home for a homeless man?"CHAPTER XVIIEVERY WOMAN'S RIGHTMARY shrank back, trembling, towards the door."Oh, Mr. Frew, pray don't say such things! You can't mean them. We have known each other only such a little while!""That doesn't count. I tried to tell you that day at the Carlton that it doesn't. Was there nothing in your heart that responded then—is there nothing that responds now?"Mary shook her head, terror in her eyes."No, no. I am not a marrying woman. I shall never marry. Besides, I would be unsuitable in every way. Thank you very much. Let us go back to my father."Her distress was evident, and Frew, in spite of his eager desire to do so, could not detect in it one ray of hope for himself. He cursed his haste and folly, but he didn't permit the keenness of his disappointment to be seen."I have been premature. I ought to have known that a woman like you could not, or ever, be easily won. Pray forgive me, and forget it.""There is nothing to forgive, and I am not sure that I shall want to forget," she said simply. "I do thank you, I am honoured. I shall always feel that I have been honoured in this house. To a woman like me it is a great deal—far more than you know.""But I don't give up!" said Frew in a quiet, steady voice, "unless you tell me that there is someone else?"With his eyes on her face, it was natural that Mary's colour should rise."I have told you that I don't mean to marry," she said faintly." They need me at home. You have seen for yourself that I could never leave them.""I have seen that they all take the best you have to give and that they give little or nothing in return," he said rather sternly."Oh, but you are wrong!" she cried, thinking of the words Frank had spoken in confidence." They give me all I need and want. They ask me to help them, and, though it is little I can do, I do it gladly. What you think is wrong, Mr. Frew, and I am sorry if I have conveyed to you the impression that I am misunderstood or not appreciated. Such a pose is a hateful thing in a woman, and it mostly means that she is a poor creature, who thinks only about herself."The admiration deepened in Frew's eyes. But Mary had the open door between them now, and they slowly retraced their steps to the studio.Paul Calladine, absorbed in his paper and enjoying to the full the flavour of a very excellent cigar, had not troubled himself about the length of their absence. He looked round interestedly, however, on their entrance.Frew then saw that his housekeeper had set the coffee tray on the quaint Moorish table, and he made haste to offer some slight refreshment to his guests.Mary observed that he was pale, and her own heart was distinctly in a flutter, so that she simply longed to be gone. At the immediate moment the idea of conquest, the knowledge that this man's home and life, which he had compelled the world to regard with something more than respect, were at her disposal failed altogether to elate or uplift her. She was only filled with an immense sadness because life grew more and more complicated, and because the tangle seemed impossible to unravel.Esther, who would have given all she possessed for the chance of becoming Dudley Frew's wife, was tormenting Angus Raeburn with her vagaries, keeping him as the second string to her bow while she waited for developments, which never would come now!"We had better be going, father. It will take us quite an hour to get back.""I kept the taxi," said Frew imperturbably. "The driver is waiting round the corner. No—don't say a word! Surely it was the least I could do seeing that you came so far, especially as it was beginning to rain as we came in. Must you go now? But I hope you will come again to see the picture before it goes to meet its fate.""Why fate?" asked Mary as she set her cup down. "It will be hung splendidly and sold immediately, will it not?""Perhaps, after all, I may not send it—or even finish it, Its title—' What Went ye Out for to See?'—has somehow failed to grip me these last days; and that is a sure sign that it won't grip the buying public."He spoke a little bitterly, and Mary seemed to realise to an extent that she had not yet done the magnitude of the disappointment that she had inflicted on his heart. To her it seemed incredible that she could have that power.Her eyes were dangerously soft as she bade him good-bye. She tried to speak, but could not, and a starting tear, which she made no effort to hide, was her farewell.Calladine, all unconscious of this emotional crisis, followed her into the taxi, thanked their host for the undoubted and rare pleasure he had given them, and warmly gripped the artist's hand."It isn't often that plain folk like us have such a glimpse of the artistic world, Mr. Frew. I make you welcome once more and always to what we have to offer. You know its limits. But pray come to Whitcombe Square whenever you like!"Never had Calladine spoken with greater feeling. Mary kept her eyes turned away steadily from him, but could see nothing as she gazed through the rain-blurred panes of the motor."Nice chap that, Mary—nice homely chap! A lot of lesser lights might take a leaf out of his book. It's a pleasure to know him. Didn't you enjoy the experience, my dear? A little out of the common rut, wasn't it?""Oh, yes—but I don't know, father. I think people are happier when they keep strictly to their own corner. I am sure that for me, at least, it is not good to make too many excursions into the unknown. I don't mean to in future. To-morrow I shall start to clean the house from top to bottom for Christmas, and nothing shall tempt me out for ages! Now, I wonder whether Win took her key. It would be horrid if she came home and could not get in!""We haven't been much more than an hour gone," replied Calladine, who saw no reason why they should trouble themselves though Winnie had to take a walk to while away the time till she could be admitted. "I must say these motors make a lot of things possible that weren't before. Now, in the ordinary way, we should have occupied the entire evening in getting from Whitcombe to Grove End Road. We shall be home by nine."While Mary was not much inclined for talk, never had her father been more garrulous. He, at least, had thoroughly enjoyed his little excursion into a fresh world, and he continued to expatiate on the wonders and treasures of the studio and on the artist's kindness until they neared home."I wonder what Esther will say," he observed with a small chuckle, as they swept into the comparative remoteness of the old square. "I hope I am there when she hears it! It will make her a little less high and mighty. Do you think its getting on—her affair with Frew, I mean?""I don't think that she has any affair with Frew," Mary obliged herself to say."Oh, I thought she had! It certainly looked like it that first night he came to the house. Well, here we are! I suppose Frew paid him. Shall I give him anything extra?""A sixpence or a shilling," said Mary absently, and she fumbled in her pocket for her own key, got it, and opened the house door.They had left the gas alight in the hall, but there was now no light in any of the windows, and the drawing-room was quite dark. Nobody had come home."What wandering Jews we are, father!" she said with a little sigh. "We certainly need a bond of some kind to keep us together. But I do wish that Winnie would come home! I don't like her being away from the house for over six hours when I don't even know who she is with. Did she go out with Esther?""No—before Esther; and she certainly said she was going to the concert. Don't worry. She can take care of herself.""Shall we have supper now?""I don't think I want anything more, thank you. They were excellent sandwiches we had at Mr. Frew's—something in them we don't get the chance of, Mary—and the coffee was the best I have ever tasted."Mary felt glad that she had not to get ready another meal. She went slowly upstairs to her own room, and she sat down rather helplessly on the side of the bed, feeling limp and strange. It had been a day of varied and rather exhausting experiences, but the last episode had dwarfed all the rest. She had a curious feeling that she had been hasty and cruel, and she wished that she had softened her refusal, because she knew that it had hurt."They shouldn't take one unawares like that. It isn't fair! I can't believe it, hardly, yet! Did it happen to you, Mary Calladine?"She rose and looked in the mirror as she removed her hat-pins, and she was astonished at what she saw there—a new kind of beauty, which might have belonged to an opening flower."It's time you started that house-cleaning, my dear," she said sternly. "You are becoming as silly as any love-sick girl!"Before she had put away all her things she heard some one come in at the front door, and, pushing her own door wide open, she heard Winnie's voice. After a few minutes she came upstairs and stopped on the landing just outside her sister's door."Hulloa, Moll! Surely you've had a great day! Father has just been telling me you have been at Mr. Frew's studio seeing his pictures. Some folk have all the luck.""You would have had it too, had you stopped at home. Where have you been, child?""Didn't they tell you? I am sure I made it plain enough. I said I was going to the Queen's Hall.""But whom were you with, Win?""A friend. I do have one or two outside Whitcombe; and it's a change to get away from there sometimes.""And where did you go to have tea, Winnie?"Mary put the question rather sharply, because her anxiety was acute. She imagined evasion in her little sister's replies."Tea? Oh, I had it at quite a nice place. I didn't even pay," she answered." I'm dead tired now, so I think I'll go up to bed. No, I don't want any supper. Is Esther upstairs?""Not yet. She hasn't come in.""She has gone to tea and supper with the Dinsmores in Redcliffe Gardens. She told me that much. I suppose Angus would be going too. Has Casa been here?""Yes. She brought her aunt, but they did not stay long.""Well, now we are all sorted out, I'll go to bed. Good-night, Moll; and don't look at me like that! I am not on the broad road, nor have I any intention of going on to it. I've had a nice day. Don't take the gilt off the ginger-bread.""Is that all you have to tell me, Winnie?" said Mary, as she laid her hand a trifle heavily on her young sister's shoulder."Yes—every single thing. There isn't anything to tell, I do assure you. I've had a most harmless and rather dull time, and the concert was as flat as ditch-water. I can't think why people pay money to go and hear it!" With that Winnie sped away. She looked tired, and her eyes had far-away depths in them.Mary was not a good inquisitor, and the whole habit of their lives hitherto had been against the family inquisition, each unit claiming complete freedom of action. Mary had realised in a strange flash of insight that day, and from two very different sources, that none of us is really free.She was very tired, and after Winnie had gone she ran down to say good-night to her father.He said that he would not be going to bed yet awhile, and that he would probably wait up for Esther.Mary was thankful to reach her own room and to close the door. A sudden longing for some gleam of comfort and companionship caused her to put a match to the fire. It blazed up instantly, for Mary was always generous with wood in laying a fire, holding that it saved endless trouble and disappointment.When she had got into her slippers and dressing-gown, she sank with a relief that was almost joy into the old basket-chair, and then proceeded to review the happenings of the day.She intended to begin at the beginning. But the wonder of the thing that had happened later in the evening shut out the consideration of everything else.Dudley Frew had asked her to be his wife, and his tone and words had been those of a man in passionate earnest. In some strange way she had drawn him away from Esther, that is, if it were really true that he had been first attracted by her. That in itself was a most amazing thing, and in Esther's estimation would doubtless be an unpardonable one.But had he ever actually been attracted by Esther? Mary now felt inclined to doubt it. She was shrewd enough to be able to read between the lines and to arrive at her own just conclusion. Frew had admired Esther as an artist admires what is beautiful: and she had attributed his artistic joy in her to an altogether different emotion. She had seen in him a desirable husband from every point of view, and she had taken the rest for granted.A kind of cold shiver ran through Mary as she pictured how Esther would look, and what she would say, if she ever got to know what had happened that night. But that she would never get to know! Mary herself would lock it deeply in her heart, never breathing it to a living soul.Mary had had no hesitation in refusing him, but the fact of his asking her had warmed her heart. Nothing could ever take that away from her. In years to come, when she should be old and grey, unmarried and lonely, she could reflect that she need not have been the latter, that the great splendour had been offered to her also!Then she began to think about the man, to figure what life would be like as his wife, and she was obliged to admit that there was much in the prospect to allure. To begin with, she would get clean away from sordid care of every kind, and would step, as it were, into a sheltered pleasance where no care and no ill could touch her. It would be a life of ease, of vivid and splendid interest, of astonishing charm. Through it she could come into touch with the great ones of the earth. And Frew was a man who could care greatly for a woman. The simplicity and purity of her own nature assured her that he was fit to take a woman's life into his keeping, and that there were no soiled pages in his own life which could ever be turned to and conned to rend her heart.But she did not regret her refusal. She imagined that she had given all the love of which she was capable to Angus Raeburn—dear, big, helpless Angus whom she had helped to mother along with the other boys since they were all in pinafores!Smiles and tears chased each other over Mary Calladine's face that night, and she lay down to sleep with her mind in a turmoil. But she would not have altered a single circumstance. She fell asleep, and did not hear Esther come in. Afterwards she heard that Angus had brought her to the door, and that he had even come in to smoke a late pipe with her father.So before she slept Esther heard a very vivid and slightly embroidered account of the visit to the studio. But she did not mention having done so to Mary next morning. Her manner was about the same—neither cordial nor yet angry. But she seemed to indicate by it that there was a gulf fixed between them.Mary had determined that day, as she worked busily about the house, that she would try to have it out with her sister one of these days, and tell her that it was impossible and almost indecent for them to go on living as they were doing.A day or two later Esther dropped a piece of information at the supper-table that was intended chiefly for Mary."You were asking about Mr. Frew the other day, father. He won't be here again for some time. He has gone abroad to Algiers or Tunis—I can't remember which. I ran across him to-day on his way to Charing Cross."Mary did not speak, neither did she flush or look conscious, though Esther was watching her narrowly."Has Casa said anything to you about winter sports in Switzerland at Christmas, Mary?" she asked next.Mary shook her head."Only in a general way.""Well, I think they are going to St. Moritz. If I can get off long enough, I'll go for ten days, I think. Anything would be better than spending Christmas at home!""Oh, I do wish that I could go!" said Winnie under her breath."It costs too much. I'll make somebody pay for me. I think they'll do it at the office, if I get round them properly. Only if they send me, it'll have to be the most fashionable hotel, and they'll expect me to send copy, and that would be rather a fag."A little later in the evening, when Mary entered the drawing-room after her work was done, Esther recurred to the subject of Frew."He's off coming here, Mary. You must have offended him somehow. I gathered as much when I spoke to him about taking you to the Carlton.""Did you actually speak to him about that, Esther?""Why, of course, I did. I have to apologise for—or rather to explain—my family when they happen to make a faux pas like that.""What did he say?" asked Mary, and a little humorous smile played about her wide, sweet mouth as she stooped to brush the hearth."Just what you would expect a man of the world to say in the circumstances. He made light of it. But he was rather disgusted, any one could see.""How funny!" said Mary involuntarily."I am glad it strikes you like that. But it was a pity for the rest of us. He might have been a useful friend, even for Winnie—he knows so many distinguished people.""And are you—are you still going to marry him?" asked Mary, keeping her eyes on the fire."Probably—but we're in no hurry. We have no allusions about matrimony, either of us, happily.""He has asked you, then?""Not in so many words. It is unnecessary. The hour will come. We are in a position that we can afford to wait.""Meanwhile you go on slaughtering Angus, Esther. I think you are a wicked woman," cried Mary with eyes suddenly blazing. "You know perfectly well that Mr. Frew has never made love to you, or even hinted that he would marry you! You only hope he is going to, but, until you are quite sure, you will keep Angus dangling on! You are a wicked, heartless woman, Esther! But you will end by losing them both."Contrary to expectation, Esther took this outburst with astonishing calmness."You're not afraid to say what you think. I don't keep Angus dangling—he dangles of his own accord! You've suddenly turned over a new leaf, Mary, and I'd uncommonly like to get at the meaning of it. As I have said before, you never know what's in the quiet ones. I'd like to know why Dudley Frew has gone off in such a hurry, with his Academy picture still unfinished! He says it is unlikely that he will be back in time to show anything."Winnie, entering at the moment, overheard Esther's words, and was struck by the strange expression visible on Mary's face.But not a word was spoken.It struck Winnie all of a sudden that only Mary knew the reason why.CHAPTER XVIIITHE WAY OF THE CROSSTHEY had a busy winter at Winterstowe. While it was true that a revival of trade all over the country had made several social problems less acute in industrial areas, yet there was no temptation to slacken the activities of the churches, nor was there any excuse for doing so. Meetings and engagements of every kind seemed to increase with Edgar Calladine, and, on the whole, he was glad of it. He had already proven work to be the panacea for almost every human pain. When a man is drawn clean into the vortex of other lives he has little time to brood on the sorrows or limitations of his own.Never had Calladine preached with more acceptance; never had the entirely spiritual bent of his mind been directed with greater power for the uplift of those about him.The services at Hubert Lane attracted worshippers from a very wide area, and even in some directions hampered the attendances at other churches. But so winning and humble was the personality behind this unqualified success that he managed to live not only at peace, but in absolutely brotherly communion with all his ministerial confrères.He it was who inaugurated fortnightly conferences held at alternate

houses for the purpose of discussing their work and devising the best

methods for making the Christian ministry more effective and more

fruitful. Before Easter this brotherly conference had be-come so popular that not one clergyman ever missed it.His anxiety concerning his mother was practically at an end. As the weeks went by, he had occasional qualms when he remembered that the time was approaching when he would have to relinquish her to Whitcombe Square.The end of March drew near, and somehow, from a variety of causes, Paul Calladine had never paid his visit to Winterstowe, and husband and wife had not met since that fateful November evening which had marked such a painful climax in their lives. The reason for this was that each time his father's name was mentioned, or any hint dropped regarding his coming, his mother seemed unaccountably to droop in spirit."Not just yet, Ed," she said one day. "Tell your father I'm getting on fine—that is, if you think I am. After Easter, maybe, when I am through with the babies, he can comedown. The weather will be better then, and we can go for a walk in the Forest."She spoke simply and baldly, as a child might have done, but her eyes were a little timid. Edgar did not like it. He felt in some way that her attitude was an indictment against his father. While he was pleased beyond measure to have her with him, the arrangement was only in the nature of an experiment, and, so long as his father lived, could not be a permanent one.All the others, including even Frank, had been down, and had professed themselves delighted and astonished at the change they observed in their mother. She had grown younger, and had lost her puffiness of figure and face. Her eyes had again become clear, and much of her old charm—for she had been very pretty once—had been restored.But, while the improvement was in many respects a triumph, Calladine was fully aware that it was, after all, built on a frail foundation. He had no means of divining his mother's spiritual state, for she refused to go to church. She explained that she found it difficult to sit still.Her absence was, of course, commented on at Hubert Lane; but she was so well known now through her work at the Women's Own that the comments on her never being seen in the Manse pew were only a little vague and enquiring, never hostile or critical.But in his inmost soul it vexed Calladine, and he made it a constant matter of prayer. He had proved in his own experience that the soul, like the body, needs continual sustenance, and that in the habit of regular church-going is to be found much safety and strength. But the position was a peculiarly delicate one, inasmuch as the slightest stricture on her conduct reduced Mrs. Calladine to tears and a kind of invertebrate state most dangerous to a person of her temperament. She was like a child in her craving for perpetual encouragement and praise. Occasionally Edgar, devoted and eager though he was, found the situation just a little difficult.One morning at breakfast they were talking about the winter's work and about the rearranging necessary for the longer days and finer weather."We generally stop the Women's Own for a couple of months or so at Easter. It gives the women a chance just to know its value," said Edgar.Mrs. Calladine looked blank."Then I don't think it is a good plan to stop it. If they need it in the winter, I'm sure they need it just as much in the summer. Take the babies, for instance; there's even more trouble among them in the hot weather.""There would be nothing to hinder your keeping on the Mothers' Class, if they want it kept on.""Perhaps they don't want it. But they've never missed once, none of them, since I started it," she said rather jealously.Calladine smiled."Good! Well, we can consider that later. But I shall want a few days at Easter, mother. I have promised Mr. Harry Belford that I will go down to Mitcham next week.""All right. I suppose there would be somebody here to do for," she said quickly. "Won't you need to put somebody in your place?""Only somebody who will come down from London for the day. I have been wondering whether you wouldn't go up to the Square for a few days while I am at Mitcham. You know that they would positively love to have you."She seemed to shrink into herself, and her eyes shadowed."I don't want to go, Ed, unless, of course, you want to get rid of me altogether. I suppose it's that.""No, no, dear. How can you say that? Have I ever been better done for? I could not have got through this heavy winter as I have except for your cosseting! You've made a different man of me. But it's a little hard on them, on father especially, that you should be away from home. 'So near, and yet so far,' don't you know?"She made no answer, but played absently with the morsel of toast on her plate. It was a very difficult matter to discuss; and it showed that much of her natural delicacy of feeling had been restored to Mrs. Calladine in that she refrained from expatiating on her husband's shortcomings, as she had done to Mary on that unforgettable November night at Whitcombe Square."I had a letter from father last night, mother, and I may as well tell you that he is coming down to-morrow for the weekend to talk over things. Very likely after you have seen him you will be quite pleased to go up to Whitcombe for a few days at Easter."If I go, it means that you won't let me come back, Ed; and that would just kill me. I'm telling you before your father comes that I won't go, unless I'm made to.""Very well, old dear. Nobody is going to make you do anything," he said affectionately, amazed and a little saddened by the bitterness with which she spoke. "We all want to do what is best and happiest for the majority, beginning with you, so don't look so glum. After you have seen father everything will be right. I rather think he has felt being kept on the outside edge so long. And that, of course, is only natural."To this she made no reply, but, rising, she began to clear away.Edgar did not take her objection at all seriously. It was at his suggestion that his father had at last arranged to pay his talked-of visit to Winterstowe.The six months which Edgar, in his own mind, had set apart for the conduct of the experiment were nearly up, and he felt that some readjustment of affairs must be good for them all. He was anxious about Mary, whom he had imagined looking far from well last time he had seen her. He felt that it would be a happy thing for them both to have a few weeks together in Winterstowe. But that arrangement would only be possible if their mother could take Mary's place at home. And there was no reason why she should not. He had even, in his own mind, decided that he would spare Rose Worboise, who had turned out a very capable, willing girl, and was devoted to Mrs. Calladine, to help at Whitcombe Square in addition to Mrs. Polgarth.But his mother must be willing, of course. He hoped great things from his father's visit next day, being unaware that he had made a mistake in mentioning it in advance.It would have been infinitely better that he should have allowed his father to come without intimation, and have trusted to the happy influence of the moment.How do we make such mistakes, and thus accentuate the pang of passing many of the most painful of life's mile-stones? It is a question to which there comes no answer, and we are driven to the conclusion that they are permitted by Him who might intervene to prevent them.After his talk with his mother, Calladine dismissed the matter from his mind and went out about the business of the day. He was not one to brood over perplexities or annoyances or to meet trouble halfway. He did his utmost, always acted on the best judgment he possessed at the moment, and left the rest. He believed that his mother was now strong enough to return to her place in the family life. In this belief he was perfectly justified, knowing how deplorable had been the record of her past and what success had attended his experiment on her behalf.What he hardly grasped, or, at least, what he minimised, was the effect that the old environment might exercise on her weakened temperament, her proneness to exaggerate the imagined blame and censure it had held, and her wavering grip upon the only forces which could help her to gain complete and lasting victory.On his way down town he met Mr. Belford, who surprised him very much when he stopped and bade him good-day. Ever since Harry had left High-clere and settled at the other side of the county Mr. Belford had made a point of ignoring Calladine at every opportunity that presented itself. This did not seriously disturb Edgar, though he preferred, as far as in him lay, to live at peace with all men.He supposed that, somehow or other, Mr. Belford had got to know that Harry had consulted him re-garding the crisis in his life, though in his account of the interview with his father Harry had expressly said that he had not mentioned his name.Calladine, however, was no more ashamed of the part he had played in Harry's case than he had been of his action when he had strengthened the feeble knees of George Potterill. And further, he had no reason to decline any advance Mr. Belford might make in the direction of peace and friendliness."Good-day, Mr. Calladine. I hope you are well," he said politely, but there was a little smile hovering about his mouth."Good-day, sir. I am very well. I need hardly ask whether you are. You look the picture of health.""Thanks. I merely stopped to enquire whether you had heard that the Potterills are going back to the Blue Boar?"Calladine's face coloured a little as he planted his stick on the edge of the kerb."Not George, I think, Mr. Belford. I saw him last night.""I don't know about George. But his wife and the children are going back. She came to me to-day, imploring me to let her have a chance. Potterill himself is going to Canada."Calladine was aware of the fact, and he had been doing his best to persuade Mrs. Potterill to accompany her husband.There had been very little happiness or peace in the Potterill household since the affair of the Blue Boar, and Mrs. Potterill had led her husband a wretched life. Calladine had often been sorry for the man, and he had greatly admired the courage and pluck which he had displayed, and which had enabled him to adhere to his pledge. It had cost him very dear."And you've consented to take Mrs. Potterill back as a tenant at the Blue Boar, Mr. Belford?""Why, of course—and glad to get her back! No decenter woman ever kept a licensed house. I tell you it was a model. So you see what you have done with your meddling—broken up a home that was happy enough!"Calladine passed over the accusation, which was without foundation. He had had nothing to do, in the first instance, with Potterill's change of heart, and he had only helped him on his own request for counsel, and, at the later stages, of his expressed desire to live a different life."I am very sorry to hear what you tell me," said Edgar clearly. "I think Mrs. Potterill is failing in wifely duty, and that the step she is taking will be bad for the children. I don't think that, in the circumstances, you should have given her the house, sir. As we are frankly discussing the case, I must say that.""It's only what I expected you would say. My sympathies are, of course, entirely with the woman, who, I consider, has been badly treated by Potterill. He gave up an excellent livelihood and a most delightful home because of some bee or other in his bonnet, and he has not been a success at the trade he has taken up, and which he had never learned. I did not expect they would keep him so long at the Mill. If you had advised him differently and more sensibly, Mr. Calladine, this would not have happened. Probably Potterill won't do any good in Canada, cut adrift as he will be from everything that would have kept him straight."Calladine's thoughts had flown from the brewer's immediate words and had centred on the picture of Potterill, who was a devoted father, being cut off from all he held most dear.His wife had been so determined to go once more into business that in the last three months she had repeatedly threatened to do so on her own account, boasting that Mr. Belford would be only too pleased to have her as a tenant. It was for this reason that Potterill had decided to go to Canada, and had applied to the Salvation Army to help him and his family to a settlement there. But she had absolutely refused to go with him or to let him take the children, of whom there were three, along with him.Calladine was distressed at what he heard, and feeling little inclination to discuss the matter with Mr. Belford, he bade him a curt good-day and proceeded on his way.After visiting several sick persons of his own congregation he made his way to the back street, where the Potterills were now living in an obscure station which Mrs. Potterill mortally hated. She had been a barmaid in her youth, and she was a handsome, dashing woman still, and she possessed a capital business head, and had a pleasant way with customers which brought them back again and again to the house. But her temper was high and hasty, and poor George had had a bad time of it all these months.When she opened the door and beheld Mr. Calladine on the step she did not look at all pleased to see him."Good-afternoon, Mrs. Potterill. May I come in? I particularly want to see you.""Oh, I suppose you can come in. But if you've come to egg me on any more about Canada, I may tell you at once that it's no use, Mr. Calladine. I'm settled.""So I hear," said Calladine drily."I have just met Mr. Belford, and he tells me that you are going back to the Blue Boar.""I am; and when I do that, it will be the happiest day of my life," she said."But come in, Mr. Calladine. It shows you what a good opinion Mr. Belford has of my business capacity that he will let me have the house without asking for any reference or security, but just on the ground of our other tenancy! I think Geo is an out-and-out fool, and so I've told him!""And you will actually allow George to go to Canada alone, Mrs. Potterill?""Why, of course. I don't want to go to Canada. England's good enough for me. If Geo had been as he used to be, I might have gone with him and tried to get a farm and make it pay. But I can't stand all this psalm-singing and rot that he goes in for now, and with never a drop of ale to cheer a person's heart. As I told him last night, I'm quite able to git my own living. I got it afore I ever set eyes on him; and he didn't have no right to git me into any such hole. I never would have married a common labouring man, like he is now. I'd a right to a snug little business, like we had at the Boar. I'd been used to it all my life."Calladine had heard all this before, and he listened to it now, a little sick at heart."He wants to take Georgie. But I say' No,'" she said firmly. "I don't part with my children till I know what's to become of them!""How old is George?" Calladine asked."Goin' fourteen—just done school, and he'll be of great use to me up at the Boar. He's such a likely lad that he'll soon learn the business. Oh, we'll do well enough without old Geo, I promise you!"But, though her speech was very high and proud' Calladine imagined a secret uneasiness in her eye."Does the boy want to go with his father?""Why, yes, of course. The sea tempts him, and the idea of the new country and all. But they tell a lot of bloomin' lies about Canada, both at the Army and the emigration offices. They paint only the bright side. They don't tell you anything about the frozen-up winters and the want of fire-wood on these awful prairies, and about heaps of other terrible things. But I have a pal who went out to Saskatoon, and she has written home telling the truth about things. No Canada for me, thank you!""But I think that if your husband wants to take his son with him, you are going to allow him, Mrs. Potterill," said Calladine quietly."Am I?"She tossed her head, and at the moment the lad himself entered the room, and, seeing a stranger there, would have slunk out. But, quickly recognising Mr. Calladine, he came forward, smiling shyly.He was a handsome, open-faced lad, whom Calladine had always liked, and whom he felt that something better than a mere barman ought to be made of. His fine forehead indicated the possession of special gifts, and he had done very well at the Board School and gained many prizes."Well, George, and how is the world using you?""Quite well, thank you, sir; only—only——" He glanced suddenly at his mother and then burst out, "Oh, please do tell mother to let me go to Canada with dad! I want to go so awfully! I won't stop here behind him! I can't, really!""Not even to take care of your mother and Sally and Eddie?" said his mother coaxingly," and to be the man of the house?"The boy shook his head, and his lip quivered."I want to go with dad," was all he said; and then, as if afraid that he might make a baby of himself, he rushed from the room.Calladine rose to his feet, more deeply perplexed than he had ever been in his life."I hope that you will think over things even yet, Mrs. Potterill. It is a fortnight yet till George sails, is it not?""A fortnight to-morrow, but I can't think any more over things than I have done. I've tried to bring Geo to his senses and have failed. Well, he must just go his own way now, and I'll go mine. After all, he can't compel me to go to Canada with him.""You took him for better or for worse," suggested Calladine desperately, "and he has been an excellent husband to you.""He was—at first. I'm not denyin' it. He was—till he got this crank religion into him. I never thought it would last, but it has. It don't suit me, I tell you, and, as I have told him, he has got to choose which he likes best."Calladine left the house with rather a heavy heart, convinced that it was time wasted to talk any further with the woman. He determined to see Potterill within the next twenty-four hours, and he thought his best plan would be to drop him a line, asking him to call at the Manse next evening. But at the bottom of the street he met Potterill coming home from his work. His somewhat gloomy face brightened at sight of the man who had so often extended the hand of fellowship and friendship to him."I've just been to your place, George. I'm very sorry for you at this juncture, my man. Your wife is going back to the Blue Boar, I hear.""Yes, sir, and I'm at my wits' end. I never thought but what she'd give in at the last, and, along with the kids, go with me to Canada. I don't think Mr. Belford oughter done this to me, Mr. Calladine. I never done 'im no 'arm, excep' leavin' his place.""I sympathise with you deeply, my man.""Yes—I know. What am I to do? She'll neither stop'ere in Winterstowe with me, quiet as we are, nor go to Canada. She wants me to give up the idea of emigrating and to go back to the Boar.""But you're not going to do that, George?" said Calladine, laying his hand on his shoulder."No, sir, God 'elping me—I ain't. If I do, I go to the devil as sure's I stand here. And I've tried to tell the missus that, but she either don't or won't understand. She just tells me to hold my pijaw. I've 'ad a life, sir, but—but——""But it was worth it, George. He took up the Cross before us, did He not?""Yes, sir; but fer that I couldn't go on. Tell me, would I be doin' right to take Georgie along o' me to Canada? I can't do no good stoppin' 'ere. But it'll about finish me to leave Georgie. He's sech a kid, Mr. Calladine, that he fair gits round a chap's heart. And the Boar won't do the gels the same 'arm, cos their mother'll look arter them, I know. She's allus bin' a straight un 'erself. But no woman can't look arter a young chap when he gits—say, to sixteen. He needs 'is favver then.""I know, George. I think you must take him with you," said Calladine hastily. "I tell you what—come up to the Manse to-morrow evening at seven, and we'll have a good talk over the business. Meanwhile, hold on and show what stuff you're made of."They shook hands in silence, and Calladine returned to the Manse. He did not speak to his mother about the case, and, having an engagement in London next day, he spent the greater part of the evening in his study getting ready for his pulpit on Sunday.So he failed to notice—as he might have done at another time—that his mother was less bright and contented than usual.He had to make an early start on the next day, and as he bade her good-bye he remarked jokingly that his nose would be out of joint when he came back, seeing that his father would be with him. She had no answer ready. She just kissed him and let him go."Something very special in the way of supper to-night, mind, mother, to celebrate everything, but chiefly our own big success," he looked back to say. "Good-bye, old dear. Probably we shall be down about four."He had a busy day in town, but met his father by appointment in the City, where they lunched together, rather late. Then they got a train about three o'clock.It was a most exquisite spring day, one of the choicest of that beautiful season. Calladine drew a long breath as they breasted the hill on their way to the Manse, and he asked his father if he did not notice the marvellous difference in the air since they had left London.When they reached the house everything seemed as usual; but before he could fit the key in the door, Rose, with symptoms of distress and anxiety visible on her face, opened it to them."Oh, sir, the missus ain't well," she blurted out. "She's bin so queer all day, but speshully since she went down town this morning. I've bin regler frightened. She's upstairs now, makin' ever such a noise!"Edgar's face blanched, and he looked at his father almost piteously. Then he flung down his hat and the parcel of books, and also the handful of spring flowers that he had bought for his mother from one of the sellers at Dalston Station, and ran up the stairs.The elder Calladine walked rather grimly into the dining-room, and stood waiting for he knew not what.In about five minutes his son came down, whiter than before."I'm sorry, father," he said simply. "The experiment has failed."CHAPTER XIX>A RAY OF COMFORTTHE two men looked at each other for a full minute in blank and painful silence."I suppose there isn't any mistake?" said the elder at last."None. There's a pint whiskey bottle lying empty on the dressing-table. She's had the lot in less than six hours."He sat down rather wearily, for his disappointment was keen enough to make him weep. Almost at the moment he could have cried out that the Lord had dealt bitterly with him. In contrast to Edgar's emotional manifestation of acute distress was his father's curiously calm and unperturbed demeanour. Either his temperament was more phlegmatic than his son's or he had not cherished any real hope of definite success from the Winterstowe experiment."What's to be done now?" he asked quietly, dropping into the opposite chair. "But first, what's she about upstairs? Shall I go up?""No, no," cried Edgar, with the haste of deep conviction. "She seemed oddly nervous about your coming to-day. I think you had better not see her. She's lying down now. Probably she'll sleep for six more hours, and after that will be the reckoning. My God, what a curse it is!"Paul Calladine looked at his son with a kind of sullen terror and

dismay. Never had he seen his cheerful optimism so utterly

quenched. During all these dismal years Edgar had been the mainstay of the whole family—in a sense, their fount of eternal hope. He was always looking forward to the day which had never come—which never would come now!Paul Calladine at the moment believed that they would go on like this till death should release one or other."We'll have to make some fresh arrangement," he said slowly and painfully. "What do you think?"Edgar remained silent for a few more minutes, his face partly shaded with his hands. His own profound desolation of spirit appalled him. He seemed to realise in that dire moment the meaning of Gethsemane.But presently he pulled himself together with an effort."Give me a minute or two, father. The way will open up. I don't purpose to be beaten yet.""But you can't keep her here," said his father blankly. "Your people wouldn't like or have it. It would interfere with your work. Think of the talk there would be. Why, even that little servant girl will spread it the first time she crosses the door!""These are matters of no importance. I can't give her up yet, father! Let us look the thing squarely in the face. Have we ever had six months' respite and she a free woman—since the trouble began?""No, we haven't.""I can't and won't think that these months of clean, fine living won't count! They've made her stronger than she was. We must begin again, that's all, and be more watchful at the gate."'Do you think that it was wise to give her so much freedom, and money as well?""I do. Has she ever abused them till to-day? Not once. I blame myself. I ought to have noticed yesterday that she was not quite herself. I did notice something peculiar, but forbore to remark on it, thinking that it was only a slight depression of spirits that would pass. If only I had taken her with me to London to-day"He had to break off there, because he could not tell his father what he actually believed, namely, that it was nervous dread of seeing her husband that had pushed his mother into such a desperate corner. The subject was altogether too painful for all concerned."The very best thing, I think, will be for you to return to London to-night, father," he said presently."Then we'll have to give the whole show away!""We can't hide it, anyway, for if they all ask how mother is, what could you say? Even if you didn't tell them everything, your face and manner would betray you. No, no, there is no use blinking facts, father. Go back to Whitcombe Square, and leave me for a week or two longer. I won't ask more. Somehow, I think that will be enough."Once more the ineradicable hopefulness of his sunny nature asserted itself, and the gloom partly lifted from his father's face."Mary will be disappointed," the old man said."Naturally. We all must be. Life is largely made up of disappointments, but we don't let that sad fact overwhelm us altogether. I'm very sorry though, dad. I wish your visit could have been happier. I had been building on it, and, of course, I was taking pride in the success of my experiment."An expression of extreme bitterness overshadowed the elder Calladine's face. Had he permitted himself full expression of his thoughts, he would probably have declaimed against the woman who had cost them all so much. That she was not worth it would have been the burden of his cry.It is possible that Edgar followed the trend of his father's thoughts. Indeed, his next words seemed to show that he did."Don't give up altogether, father. I shall always be sorry that you did not have Mary's opportunity of seeing her among the babies. You'd hardly believe how much good she has already done in a quiet way among those ignorant girl-mothers, and how greatly they all love her.""What will they say now?" he asked in a kind of gloomy triumph."I am hoping they need not know. There are possibilities in Rosie Worboise, and beside, she is absolutely devoted to mother. I must appeal to that devotion.""It's degrading," quoth the elder Calladine with a movement of his hand, as if he longed to clench it and hit out against the world. "It's more than any parent ought to ask from a child, especially from one in your position. You'd better let me shoulder my own cross finally and for good, Edgar. I'll stop here till she comes out of her sleep, and then take her up to London—the later the hour the better!"But Edgar was determined not to allow that. He suggested a cup of tea presently, and after they had had some further talk and a walk on the near border of the Forest, he had persuaded his father to his own way of thinking.About eight o'clock he walked with him to the station, and with considerable relief, it must be admitted, put him on a city-bound train.As he walked back through the booking-office he came suddenly alongside of Florence Belford, who had evidently come down from London and crossed the bridge from the down platform. She looked pleased to see him."I've been on a visit to Mitcham, and have also spent a few days in town," she said pleasantly. "I saw Harry this morning. He was asking after you, but I was unable to say that I had seen you lately. I hope you are quite well?""Thank you—and you?""I am splendid. The carriage is not meeting me, for I did not know with what train I should get down. I lunched with Walter and his wife in Sussex Place to-day. Harry was there. He is coming down later."The words were suggestive of freedom from engagements, and Calladine was quick enough to grasp his opportunity."Miss Belford, if you are not expected at home, will you give me half an hour of your time to-night? Believe me, I need it.""I see that you are troubled. Yes—of course. Just let me say a word about my luggage first. They can send it up to Highclere. Where shall we go?""Into the Forest. We might walk in the direction of Highclere, perhaps, and I could leave you there."She gave her instructions to the porter, and then she and Calladine passed together out into the clear, delicious spring dusk and turned their faces away from streets and towards the country.The High Station—as the terminus of the line was called—was not far removed from the edge of the Forest, and in a very short space of time they were swallowed by its cool, green spaces."Tell me about Harry," said Calladine, feeling that it would be good for him to hear of something young and joyous and full of hope."Harry is splendid—and so happy! Oh, Mr. Calladine, that is the life—so simple, and kind, and clean, and sound! I do envy him.""It is the life for Harry. He will make it what it ought to be, Miss Belford. But there are other things to do, and there must be people to do them. To each his appointed place.""There is something in your voice to-night which saddens me, Mr. Calladine," she said with a quick glance of womanly intuition."I am sad—or was until I met you. I believe God has sent you to me to-night. It is amazing what He will do for us when we least expect it or deserve it. So you were happy at Mitcham?""I was more than happy, I was at peace. And as for Harry, he is doing such wonderful things for everybody there that one might think of him as a fairy prince. And he is so joyous with it all! He is so like our mother; she was like that. She dispensed sunshine wherever she lived, moved, and had her being! It was an irreparable loss to us all when she was taken.""But she lives in those she left behind her when she went away. Her spirit is often near. Your brother, I think, is often conscious of that nearness.""He is. I don't share that consciousness, though I envy him. His is a beautiful personality, Mr. Calladine, for, with all his goodness, there is a complete manliness and a grip of affairs which is astonishing. Nothing good or clever that I may hear about Harry will surprise me. His work at Mitcham is only the beginning of things. I am sure that he has a splendid career in front of him.""I, too, am sure of it, and a consecrated career, in the best sense of the word," said Calladine warmly."He says he has got religion, a free gift; that his mother gave it to him, and that now she is calling him to its full exercise. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I would give ten years of my life to feel as he does! Now, to me things are an effort. I have not been very happy at home just lately, but these two weeks at Mitcham have restored the balance.""I am glad. Certainly you are looking your best self," he said, with a tender glance at her face.The dusk was so deepening about them that he was free to steal such a glance, which could not be seen by her, and therefore would not embarrass her."I wonder if you have heard that my father is going to marry again," she said suddenly, and stood still on a widening path to look at him with a kind of mournful significance."I had not heard. I am rather surprised.""He was very angry with Harry when he left the brewery and went to Mitcham, and he talked a great deal just then about the different ways in which we had all disappointed him. Of course, we have not the right to question, or even to rebel, at any step he may take with a view to promote his own happiness. If it had been a suitable person that he was to marry, I don't think I should have minded.""Who is she, if you give me liberty to ask?""You would not know her, I think. She is quite young—not more than twenty-three—well-born, but very poor. The thing that troubles me is that I don't really believe that she cares about him at all. It is his money and position she wants, and her people have urged the marriage on her. She is the niece of Sir Humphrey Goldings at Blore Park.""I know her by sight. Why, she is a mere child!" cried Calladine, aghast."Yes, she is very young indeed. But the marriage is to take place in the early autumn, and they are going to America for their honeymoon.""Will this make much difference to you?""It will make my home different, of course. But my father has been generous to me. He has settled a substantial income on me, and I shall be perfectly free. Probably I shall spend a good deal of my time at Mitcham beside Harry—beside him, at least, until he marries, which I hope he will do. He would make the right woman very happy."Calladine pondered on the situation in silence for a few moments, admiring the restraint and kindliness with which she spoke."I expect that I shall be absolved from restrictions now where Hubert Lane is concerned. So, if you will take me back next winter, I shall like very much to come. But you will have to find me something outside the crèche, won't you? I hear on all sides what a splendid success your mother has made of that! Of course, she has the advantage of teaching from actual experience—she's a real mother."Calladine remained oddly silent. An intense desire to obtain this woman's sympathy and counsel swept over him like a resistless flood. He turned his face to her, and she saw it was very pale in the bright moonlight which lay about them everywhere in a white, mysterious flood."I'm in great trouble to-night, Miss Belford. I should like to tell you about my mother, if I may.""I should like to hear," she said simply, and her fine face wore a very soft and lovely look.Then Calladine outlined the story quite simply, but in language which moved his listener mightily."I am very sorry," she said quietly. "I could never tell you how sorry I am. I shall not try."Her voice had a moving quality in it—something far deeper and finer than the mere casual sympathy of a kind-hearted listener. She realised for the first time the conditions under which Calladine had carried on his work for God and for humanity, and she did not withhold from him her meed of warm appreciation.Calladine, who had perhaps somewhat feared the effect of his self-revealing story, was warmed and comforted beyond all telling."It was very hard that it should happen when your father came down, being, as he was, I understand from you, the hardest to convince that she would yet overcome. It is inexplicable why such things should be allowed to happen, especially to you.""It is all capable of a very simple and a very natural explanation," said Calladine quietly. "God deals with us only through natural channels. That is what we forget sometimes when we arraign Him for this thing or for that in our lives. He is on our side all the time, even at the moment when it seems most impossible to believe it.""You can say that—at the end of this tragic day!" she cried involuntarily. "You amaze me!""It is the only attitude possible towards life. If I could not believe it, there would be nothing left."They had been talking so earnestly and absorbingly, that, when they came to a spot from which they could behold in front of them the finely wrought-iron gates of Highclere it was with surprise that they found they had come so far."Is this Highclere already? We can't have walked two miles! It does not seem possible!" said Calladine."I am sorry," she said frankly. "Won't you come in and rest awhile and have a cup of coffee?""No, thank you. I must be getting back in case my mother needs me. It has done me good to speak to you. I am grateful that you have permitted me to do so. You are the only person in Winterstowe, except Sister Grace, who has been permitted to know of our family trouble.""The story will never pass my lips, but I shall be thinking of you. You have not made any definite plan for the future yet?""No—except that I shall certainly keep my mother here for some time longer. The next step will become clear when the moment for taking it arrives."They paused at the gates, and he saw that her eyes had kindled and that her face wore an expression such as he had never before seen on it. A lesser man would have known its meaning, and would have taken advantage of it. But Calladine, at the moment when he knew Florence Belford to be in her kindest mood, also realised that never had the gulf between them been wider."I am grateful," he repeated quietly, as he held her hand for a moment. "You have helped me. I don't ask you to forgive me for burdening you with my anxiety, for I know you have not grudged me this hour. God bless you. Good-bye."He held open the wicket, raised his hat, and walked away.He did not know that she waited within the shadows of the tall sycamores until the echo of his footsteps on the hard, white road had died away, nor did he know that her eyes were bright with tears when she continued her walk towards the house.Edgar's sadness was somewhat lightened, so true it is that a burden faced and shared is half dispersed. As he walked through the clear, sharp, delicious air, and felt the silence of the night encompassing him beneficently, and uplifting his eyes to the star-gemmed sky, he felt that life was still good, that he had strength and resource to fight the powers of evil even yet.The whole journey back to his house was a prayer.The lights were low in the house when he reached it, and when he let himself in the little servant-maid, looking a trifle pale and anxious, came running to him."I'm so glad you've come back, sir! Supper's been ready ever so long.""Where is my mother? Has she stirred since I went out?""No, sir," answered the girl. "I bin up twice, and last time I went I opened the door. She's dead asleep still.""That is well. Come in here, Rose."He led the way to the dining-room. She followed, and when they had entered it he closed the door."You are only young, Rose, but I am going to trust you and ask your help. You are quite well aware what has happened to-day?""Yessir," she said, and she put her apron to her eyes.The shock to the girl had been great, for she had loved and looked up to the mistress who had taken such pains with her, and had shown her so much kindness during the time they had been together."This is the sorrow of my life—of my father's life—of all our lives. I brought my dear mother here so that we might help her to be strong. She will stay here, and we shall go on trying to help her till she becomes so strong herself that she will need our help no more. Will you stay and help?""Oh, yessir—glad to," said the girl, and her eyes grew big with wonder and a kind of awe.Rose Worboise was no stranger to the ravages wrought by drink in her own class of life, nor had she any fear of it. But, in connection with the house in which she served, it seemed a very awful thing."Then we shall just go on as we were doing. You will, of course, say nothing outside. I am leaving our honour in your hands. To-morrow, if it is necessary, we can talk again. You can go to bed now, Rose. I will carry the tray to the kitchen after I have finished supper, and I shall be going to bed soon myself.""Will my missus not need anything, sir?" she said timidly."If she does, I will get it for her," he answered; and Rose, her untutored heart all of a flutter, but earnest in its devotion and loyalty, said good-night, and went off to her own sleeping-place.Calladine drank a cup of coffee and ate a morsel of bread-and-butter, conscious of his bodily need of sustenance. He had eaten nothing since his mid-day lunch in London, which had been of the lightest kind.Then, in the quiet house, he sat down to ponder afresh on the cross which pressed so heavily on his heart, and to wonder how the news of failure and defeat would be received at Whitcombe Square.By this time the household there would be in possession of the facts. "Failure and defeat" were the words which arose in his mind. Doubtless they would be freely used by his father to describe the tragedy of the afternoon.But Calladine put them away from him, and cried mightily to the Lord to prove once more to the unbelievers that there is no such word as defeat in the vocabulary of Heaven.CHAPTER XX"MY WAYS ARE NOT YOUR WAYS," SAITH THE LORDMRS. CALLADINE came to herself.It was quite dark in the room, and the silence of the grave was upon the house. She lay dazed for a space, at the end of which the sound of a footfall on the pavement outside brought her to a full sense of her position. In one instant of poignant, unspeakable anguish she remembered all.She gave forth no sound, however, but lay perfectly still while the events of the day marshalled themselves in frightful array.None of her faculties were stupefied as they had sometimes been on former occasions of backsliding. Her sleep had been sound, the fumes were gone from her brain. Never had her inward vision been clearer, her perception more acute.She had fallen again, disappointed every hope, rewarded ineffable tenderness, consideration, and honour with base ingratitude—forfeited all!But why?—because in a moment of weakness she had feared to meet the man who had ever been her implacable judge! It is not fully known or realised what a terrific power for evil a strong, dominant, rather harsh disposition has over a weaker one. Out of it have arisen some of the tragedies of this world.Yet often that power is wielded unconsciously by its possessor. Had

any one accused Paul Calladine of harshness towards his erring wife,

he might, and with perfect reason, have pointed to the record of the years throughout which he had patiently and, in the main, silently borne the cross she had made. But the fact remained indisputable, significant, in its way, appalling. She was afraid of him, and the prospect of meeting him again, of coming once more within the sweep of his clear, critical survey, from the ordeal of which even Edgar's tenderness could not spare her, had been too much for her.In imagination she had beheld the whole fabric of her new existence crumbling to ashes at her feet."If they'd only known, and stopped 'im from coming," she moaned in a voiceless whisper. "I ought to have spoken up to Ed, and said that I didn't want to see his father ever—but there, how could I?"Presently it became impossible for her to lie still.The spectres she beheld were too full of menace. Among them was the loss of prestige in the eyes of Rosie, the little servant-maid, whose growing proficiency was the work of her hands—an achievement in which she had taken legitimate pride."Why don't God help poor creatures like me?" she asked herself, as she raised herself on her elbow and tried to peer into the darkness of the room. "He ought to send somebody to help! If it were all true what Edgar says about 'Im, He would."She crawled out of bed and across the floor to the gas-burner, which, being of the incandescent order, could be turned up at will. When the flood of light illuminated the room she approached the mirror, and eyed herself mercilessly.There was nothing much to be seen, certainly nothing to repel her. A slight redness and heaviness of the eyes, that was all. The difference, whatever it might be, was an inward one.A little alarum clock, ticking cheerfully on the mantelshelf, informed her that it was twenty minutes past ten. Had everybody gone to bed? she wondered as she poured a little water into the basin with which she might lave her face and hands.When she had made a hurried toilet she felt strong enough to have started a "spring clean" in her small domain. The desire for action was upon her. She could no longer be still. She felt as if with her own hands she must raise the roof, unless this dread silence could be broken.She opened the door on to the landing, and she was relieved to behold a small light still burning in the hall. After a moment's hesitation she thrust her feet into slippers, wondering at the same time who had taken off her boots, and stole downstairs. When she reached the dining-room door, which was a little ajar, she heard voices, and a sudden terror gripped her heart.They were the voices of her husband and son, she fancied, doubtless discussing the situation and her, trying to decide what was to be done with her. But in a moment she realised that it was not the voices of men engaged in conversation she heard, but a single voice uttering the language of prayer.Rooted to the spot, and holding hard by the lintel of the door, she listened to her son crying to the Almighty for her sake.The low-breathed words of passion and entreaty smote upon her heart with the keenness of a two-edged sword. She pushed the door open blindly, half staggered across the room, and dropped on her knees close to the arm of the chair by his side. So swift and soft had been her movement that he was unaware of her presence until her voice, trembling, remote, full of anguish, fell upon his ear."Ed, Ed, teach me to pray! I never knew how to. It makes you good—perhaps it'll help me."He looked at her strangely, saw that she had come to herself, and, with his arm around her drooping shoulders, prayed again.It was a strange, a moving sight, destined never afterwards to fade from Calladine's remembrance. Often, when he was jaded and inclined to give up, the recollection of that poignant hour returned to reprove him for the littleness of his faith.She joined in fervently, and he knew that the passion upon her was not that of mere maudlin penitence, but that it was the cry of a soul in bondage labouring to be free.Nearer and nearer to the Kingdom they came, until at last their prayers seemed to cleave asunder the gates, and to reach the very steps of the altar.When she rose to face him he observed an expression on her countenance such as he had not seen there before."I can't say anything, Edgar—I can't! If God is here, as you seem to think He is, He knows I'm sorry. I'd give up all my life that has gone before that this thing might not have happened. I'd give all of it that may be left, if only I could wipe it out!""It is wiped out, mother," said Calladine quietly. "Come and sit down here and tell me how it happened."He seated her in a chair, laid a small wedge of dried pine-wood on the fire, and stood against the mantel-shelf, gazing down upon her lace with a look of divine pity on his own. She appeared so like herself, so sweet and kind, that the horror of the past hours might almost have been a figment of the imagination."It came all over me all of a sudden, Ed," she said, with a small shiver, as she stretched out her hands to the cheerful blaze. "I was afraid of your father's coming. Somehow, I can't explain how or why, but it isn't so easy to be good when he's beside me. You believe in me, Ed, and expect me to do right. He was always lookin' for the other thing.""No, no, dear!" he said, for the words and the idea they embodied pained him inexpressibly.They sounded quite terrible in his ears—all the more terrible because of their bald truth."But, yes! I must tell you exactly how it has been with me all them years, Ed, because you won't understand else. Your father never was unkind to me except with his tongue. But that used to shrivel me up. I never was clever, you see, and half the time he was speaking I didn't understand what he meant. I knew he was disappointed in me all along, and that knowledge don't help to make a woman do 'er best, do it? Now, you're different! I believe I could live here with you for ever and ever, and keep straight, because you believe in me, and don't expect anything different.""But, dear, all that would have been changed," he said slowly. "You've no idea how happy father was in the prospect of coming down.""Oh, but he didn't believe it—in his inside. I mean—that I was really straight, don't you know? I felt it right through me as the day went on, and as I realised that I couldn't escape seeing him. I seemed to see his eyes looking through and through me, and that little, queer smile of his that says a lot more than words! And I couldn't face them. It was about twelve when I went down to do the shoppin'. I felt desperate. It was in the grocer's I bought it, Ed. I didn't go into no pub to disgrace you, and I told the man it was for sickness that it was wanted—same old lie, son! It does every time, but it deceives nobody. So that's all. And now I suppose it'll be the Retreat again. Oh, Ed, I can't go back! I can't! Couldn't you buy me just a nice little gentle dose that would put me to sleep for ever and ever? Then you could lay me beside your little brother in Abney Park, and all your troubles—father's, and yours, and Mary's—would be over. Nobody else minds much."He knelt down in front of her, and took her hands in his firm, close grasp, bringing his eyes on a level with hers, so that he could look into them unflinchingly."Listen, mother! It has happened, and we are all grieved about it. But it's not going to happen again, ever—do you hear? What did we say on our knees a few moments ago? Didn't we leave the whole matter with God? Well, He's going to help us more than He has ever done. It has been a single-handed fight up to now. You see, you have not believed that God would help you. Now you have asked Him, you are going to prove that He can and will.""You won't send me away?" she said in a strange, incredulous whisper."No, dear mother. We'll try again."The look he remembered that morning at Whitcombe Square when he first propounded the Winterstowe plan to her returned to her face."Ed, I do believe you're a saint on earth! I'll—I'll do it! You wait and see! I'll do it!"He bent forward and kissed her, and once more hope revived in his heart."Now, I think you must go to bed," he said, "for I haven't prepared a line of my sermon for to-morrow morning. But, first, you must have something to eat.""I'll get it myself," she said, as she rose to her feet. "Say, Ed, does Rosie know all about it? I'm sure she must, for I remember her comin' up and trying to take the bottle away.""I have spoken to Rosie. She is on our side, mother. Nobody will know from her. She is young, but we—or, at least, you—have reached her heart.""And shall I be allowed to keep on with the mothers, Ed?"He nodded."Yes, of course—why not? It's all going to be as it was, with this difference, that we shall know that what happened to-day can't, and won't, happen again."She crept out, and as she made her way to the larder to get a mouthful of solid food, of which she now felt the need, the tears were raining down her checks.Half an hour later she was in her room again, and Calladine sat at his desk with the open Bible before him. He was extraordinarily weary in his body, yet he felt his spirit burn as if with some inward fire. He had to find some message which would at once relieve and uplift his own soul, and would wing its way to the hearts of his hearers. To him at the moment life seemed a very solemn and awful thing, before which his spirit actually trembled. It is out of such tremors that souls are born.About two o'clock he went up to bed, his work for the day prepared, his heart once more stayed upon the promises of Holy Writ.He opened his mother's door. She had been sleeping lightly, but awoke the moment he entered."That you, Ed?""Yes, dear—just going up to bed. It has gone two. You're all right?""All right, son—and you?""All right, too, and I have got my stuff ready for the pulpit. And this is going to be a great day for us—the day of jubilee! Good-night, or, rather good-morning, dear mother. The bright days are coming."He kissed her and slipped away, unaware of the pregnancy of the prophecy he had uttered.She was up betimes, but not before Rosie, who, perhaps feeling a greater sense of responsibility than usual, realised that the Sunday comfort of the household might depend chiefly on her.Her mistress and she met in the kitchen, and Mrs. Calladine, without a moment's hesitation, and with something of the naïveté of a child, looked straight in the girl's face."I was a wicked woman yesterday, Rose, but I've been forgiven. You, too, must forgive me. I'm sorry you saw my condition, my dear. Perhaps you'll remember it some day, when you've got somebody else to help fight it.""Oh, ma'am, don't speak of it," said the girl, moved by the frankness of the appeal to her. "And you should have stopped in bed. I'd have brought your brekfus.""No. I've got heaps to do to-day. I'll take the minister's breakfast up, though. Have you got anything nice for it? Did they send all the things yesterday?""Yes'm. You didn't order no fish, but w'en the man called to ask if you wanted any I got the bit of sole master likes.""Right, my dear. As soon as the oven's hot we'll bake it. I shan't let him get up a minute before he need."It was ten o'clock when she tapped lightly at his door and entered.He awoke only at the sound, and with a start, from a very deep sleep."Why, mother, what o'clock is it?""Just gone ten. And here's your breakfast, dear. No, you are not getting up till you have eaten every morsel of it! Wait just a minute till I bring you a drop of water for your face and hands, that you may eat more comfortable. My! don't I just love to have a baby!"She waited on him with care and tenderness, glorying in her service, and he saw that the truest kindness he could bestow on her was to take all, and to give but little in return. He chaffed her about spoiling him, and, to please her, ate every morsel of the very tempting meal put before him.Then he rose like a giant refreshed, eager to face the day in front of him."The sun's shining a treat, Ed, and we're goin' to have a great day—just as you said. I don't believe yesterday ever happened! Perhaps God will wipe it clean away."She went out with these words; and Calladine hastened to get ready, amazed at the brightness of the day whose dawn he had dreaded.At a quarter to eleven he left the house, and swung down the road towards his chapel, as ready for the work before him as he had been on any day—on even the best day of his life.Usually, Rose went to morning service, his mother remaining at home to cook the mid-day meal. True to the Whitcombe Square tradition, she had never thought of Sunday as a day for worship, or of church-going as a duty devolving on all Christian people. That preaching was her son's work had so far made no difference in her way of regarding these.But on that epoch-making day she desired to mark the difference. So, having arranged with Rosie, she slipped out a few minutes after her son, and made her way through the familiar streets to Hubert Lane.She arrived at the chapel door almost on the stroke of the hour, and the verger, who knew her quite well, suppressed a gulp of astonishment, and immediately ushered her with much ceremony into the Manse pew. It was well down the aisle of the church, and, had she consulted her own desire, she would have slipped in somewhere near the back, and have thus escaped much of the observation her appearance there attracted.But this was her day of atonement, and if her presence in church would convince Edgar of her sincerity, it was a thing that must be braved. But the moment she sat down in the pew, conscious perhaps of how many eyes were upon her, she bent her head low on the desk in front of her.Calladine had never explained to anyone the reason for his mother's abstention from church attendance—not even to certain busybodies who had commented on it. There is a silence which conveys a rebuke, and those who had enquired had always felt rebuke, and had said no more.She felt glad that the service began immediately after her entrance, and she did not dare to look toward the pulpit, where Edgar invariably remained standing throughout the singing of the first hymn, looking abroad on the people almost as a shepherd might look while counting his sheep. They had got to know that earnest survey, and to wait for it, and each unit felt that his and her presence in church was a matter of personal moment to the minister, that he rejoiced when they were in their places, and noted their absence.The personal tie was strong between pastor and people at Hubert Lane. When that tie is weak or altogether lacking church life becomes less satisfying to all concerned.Edgar saw his mother at the first glance, and the sight so moved him that, for the moment, a wave of emotion swept over his heart which threatened to engulf his composure. He extracted from it the full meaning she had intended to convey, and in his opening prayer his voice had a tender note which went straight to every heart.Passing the subject on which he had meant to speak in rapid review before his mind, he decided that it would not be suitable for the occasion. Although unaccustomed to preach except after careful preparation, he deliberately changed not only the theme but the text, choosing instead these words: "He that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city."Never had he preached with greater power or acceptance, and he was fully conscious of the fact, though he was preaching to an audience of one.His contention was that the city of Man's Soul can only be held in honour with the help of invisible hosts, the intervention and aid of the Most High. Afterwards, he had no recollection of the words he had spoken. They came to him from afar, as he needed them, and none fell short of the mark.He closed rather abruptly, and gave out the hymn—"Just as I am, without one plea."But, while it was being sung, he refrained from looking in his mother's direction. How few dreamed of the secret and poignant communion of souls between the preacher and his mother that morning, though all were conscious of the power with which he had handled his theme!Mrs. Calladine left the church rather hurriedly, avoiding even those whom she knew through their association with her in the work of the Mission, and who would have spoken to her. She walked very quickly home, and any one meeting her and looking observantly at her face would have gathered from it that her own thoughts were sufficient for her.She had taken no key, and when Rose opened the door to her, all flushed with her washing of the saucepans, she whispered mysteriously, "Someone has come, ma'am, and is in the dining-room.""Who, Rosie?—not the gentleman who was here yesterday?" she said with a little gasp."No'm—it's a young lady. I believe she's gone up to your room now to tike her things off.""Mary!" she said hurriedly, in no doubt that her patient, loving-hearted daughter had been unable to let the day pass without coming to find out for herself the actual state of affairs.When she opened the door, however, Mary's trim figure and kind face did not meet her eyes, but Winnie ran across the room and threw herself on her mother's breast."Why—why, my baby, my little Win! Whatever is it? There—there, then—don't cry! I'm all right, dearie. Look at me and you'll see."Still acutely sensitive regarding her fresh fall, she had no doubt that it was that alone which had brought Winnie to Winterstowe."I'm not all right, mummy—I've—I've run away! Let me stop here—won't you?—for ever so long. I—I can't be in London just now. It isn't safe."Something went straight, like a knife-thrust, to the mother's heart.She held the girl away from her, and looked into her sweet face with eyes which yearned, but which also feared."Winnie—my little Win, whatever is it? Try to tell your poor mother."Winnie drew her down on to a chair, knelt beside her, and hid her face on her knee."It's a man, mother. I've known him ever so long. It's—young Mr. Bingham at our office. I've been going out with him lately, and I thought—I thought that he cared for me ever so much, and that I would be his wife.""Yes, my little dear?" said Mrs. Calladine, and her hand, on the girl's bent head, trembled as if with palsy."But—but he didn't mean that at all! Yesterday he took me on the river, and—and asked me would I go away with him.""And not married, my little Win! For God's sake tell me what you said!""I was to tell him to-day, mother," came low and pitifully from the girl's lips;" and—and I wasn't strong enough to see him. I couldn't stop there and tell Mary, for she is so good that she would never understand just how hard it is. For I love him, mother, and—and I thought you'd understand.""My little one, my baby!" moaned the mother, gripping her close, as if she would shut out all hurt from her. "Tell me everything, dearie. I don't deserve it, for I've been the worst kind of mother ever a girl had. But, oh, my heart is full of love for you, darling!""I know. I made sure you would understand, and so I came——""Winnie?""Yes, mother.""Tell me there is no reason why you should be afraid that Mary should know, or father, that you've been going out with that man?""No, mother, none," said the child, uplifting her big innocent eyes to her mother's face. "I have been good; but, if I had seen him to-day, I was afraid I could not say 'No'—and so I just came.""Thank God; oh, thank God, for His goodness to me—a miserable sinner!" came low and passionately from Annie Calladine's lips, as they rested on Winnie's hair.Her arms were tight about her child."You did right to come. Oh, thank God that you did come, my Winnie! And you'll stop here till it's going to be easy for you to go back. Oh, my Win, my little, own baby! Thank God! Thank God!"CHAPTER XXITHE AWAKENED SOULTHE morning service at Hubert Lane Chapel was invariably over by a quarter past twelve, but Calladine seldom got home before one o'clock. This delay in leaving was caused sometimes by his having an interview in the vestry with some chance hearer, and at other times by his office-bearers having occasion to speak with him He was generally the last to quit the building. The hour for early dinner was fixed for half-past one—an arrangement which gave him about an hour's leisure in the afternoon previous to his meeting with his Bible-class. Then, after he had dismissed that, home to tea and to preparation for the evening service. Such was the routine of his busy day.He was not long detained that Sunday, however, but reached the Manse about one o'clock. He looked into the dining-room, where he found Rose laying the cloth for dinner, while the savoury odour of baked meat pervaded the house.He nodded kindly to the girl, and going out of the room, he went at once to his study to glance over his preparation for the afternoon. He was conscious of an odd reluctance to see his mother—a reluctance amounting to a kind of mild dread.Rose had been about to inform him of the arrival of the unexpected

visitor at the moment of his abruptly leaving her, and, as the room

that Mrs. Calladine occupied was above the dining-room, he heard no

soundof talking as he sat down at his

desk. But before he had composed his thoughts the study door was

opened unceremoniously, and his mother in, closing it behind her,

with a somewhat mysterious air. What struck him most was the expression on her face. It was a sort

of accentuated brightness and importance combined-the expression of a

person who has great news to impart."Well, mother?" he began, smiling in response, but further speech

was arrested by her uplifted finger.I thought I'd just catch you before dinner. Winnie's here,

Edgar.""Winnie!"He spoke the word in a puzzled voice, for his little sister was

certainly the last person he had expected to see that day.His mother nodded triumphantly, even mysteriously."Come to see her mother, poor dear, being in trouble.""In trouble?" echoed Calladine.He wheeled suddenly on his chair, and his face went a little

grey. He knew the word well; associated with the women he met at the

Mission, it generally had but one meaning.Oh, not that kind of trouble, silly," she said with a low

laugh. "It's only a bit of a love affair," she added, sure that it

behoved her to be perfectly loyal to Winnie. "It'll blow over in no

time. It always do with girls of that age, and she's so pretty that

she'll soon get another beau. But I thought I'd just pop down and

tell you not to say a word to her, nor to seem surprised, nor

anything—understand? She'll get over it quicker that way.""I quite understand that; but what I don't quite grasp is what it

was that brought her here.""You don't? Well, I'll tell you? She came to see her old mummy,

and to lay her dear, pretty headdown on her breast and have a good cr. And she's had it. And

to-morrow, or the next day maybe, but more likely to-morrow, I'll go

back with her to London."Calladine never lifted his eyes from his mother's face.She spoke with great steadiness, and with a sort of quiet

exultation which indicated that she was extraordinarily pleased."You'll go back with her? But surely she isn't so bad as that! She

is capable of travelling alone, isn't she?Mrs. Calladine laughed."Oh, Ed, you are a softy—and no mistake! Don't you

see—don't you see that the Lord has done this? He has pulled

me up—right sharp, and showed me what I haven't done, and what

I have to do yet.""Then you mean that you are goin back to Whitecombe Square for

good?""Why, yes. Mary—she has done splendidly, nobody could have

done more. But she ain't their mother, Ed, and there are things that

she can't do, however much she tries. No woman that hasn't had

children can be a real mother. She only makes believe. I've got to go

home and look after the old man and Winnie. I guess they'll be my two

babies now. so I thought I'd just pop down and tell you. Honour

bright about Win, now! You'll say a word, but just be pleased to see

her come to spend the day."Calladine acquiesced, but the greatness of his surprise

overwhelmed him"I'm struck all of a heap, so to speak," he said. "did Winnie say

anything about father's coming back last night instead of Monday

morning?""Not a word. She didn't come to speak about that, Edgar," she

answered. "All that matters to me is that I've got my baby back, and

that I'm going home to look after her and the rest of them, but especiallyher. Mary can come down and remain for a bit with you, Ed—until you make up your mind what you are going to do."With these words she left the room; and Calladine sat back in his chair with his pen against his lips, trying to grasp the significance of what had happened.It was, in its way, a kind of miracle; for, though the day had dawned with hope, at the back of his mind there had slumbered the twin bugbears—uneasiness and fear. And lo, the long lane had taken a new turning! He could not but believe that God had intervened.Calladine was not a person who was accustomed to fuss or become excited over any unexpected happening. It did not occur to him to rush forth and seek from his sister some confirmation of what his mother had told him. He simply sat there for another quarter of an hour, and then the odd little tinkling gong summoned him to dinner.When he entered the dining-room Winnie was standing by the fireplace, smiling a little unsteadily. Her eyes bore traces of weeping, but otherwise she was quite composed."How are you, dear?—glad you've come down," said Edgar heartily. "But is it true that you are going to take mother away?""She says she is going, Ed," answered Winnie. "I hope you don't mind my coming down like this—I just had to. Mother understands.""It's all right, dear. Come and have something to eat. Ah, here is the archplotter! Come and carve the joint, mother, for I'm sure that after all these shocks I shan't have the nerve to do it.""Hear him, Win! Isn't he a tease? He isn't a good carver, anyway. I often tell him he ought to take lessons from your father. See him with a chicken! I've seen a two-and-ninepenny one from Upper Street serve the lot, and everybody have plenty.When we have a chicken here, Ed just takes off the whole breast at once#x2014;or would if I let him. Oh, he's an extravagant one!"Her little homily on carving served to relieve the tension of the moment, and the meal proceeded happily.Calladine, a keen student of human nature, felt himself oddly detached from and at the same time acutely interested in the psychological process going on in his vicinity. There was no doubt whatever that his mother's soul was now fully awakened to a keen and deep sense of responsibility, that she was eager to shoulder it, to step into the breach which she believed that no one else could fill.He was not disposed to cavil at it, or even to question or doubt. He believed that the Lord was leading them, that in this wholly unexpected way He was redeeming His promise to help those who call upon Him. It was not the first time in Calladine's experience that he had to stand aside and behold an exemplification of the words "My ways are not your ways, saith the Lord."There was nothing of the busybody about Calladine. He had done his best, and now, if it was reserved for others to perfect the work that he had begun, why, then, he could rejoice whole-heartedly and without one jealous pang.He went out to conduct his Bible-class as usual, and when he returned for tea he found that his mother and Winnie had gone for a walk in the Forest. While Rosie was telling him this a caller presented himself, and his face brightened at sight of Harry Belford's pleasant countenance."All sorts of good things seem to be happening to-day, Harry," he said, as he warmly gripped his friend's hand. "I'm glad to see you, my boy. You look very fit.""I am very fit. I'm here for the week-end. I just walked down this afternoon to make sure you wouldn't escape from your engagement to me at Easter. I'm counting on you at Mitcham; do you hear?""I hear, and I don't think that anything is going to prevent me now. Yesterday, perhaps, I should not have been able to answer so positively for my coming. But come in. My mother is out, but she will be here presently. One of my sisters has come down from London, and she has gone with her for a turn in the Forest. Perhaps you met them?""No. I came by the town. I wanted to say good-bye to Potterill. He's very down in the mouth about having to leave his wife and the little girls behind him when he goes. We must get them out to him, Mr. Calladine."Calladine nodded."We shall#x2014;a little later. Meanwhile, it is a great thing that she has let him have the boy. It'll form a link between them. I mean to keep hammering away. Up till now I haven't made much impression on her. But I'm in hopes that after Potterill goes away she'll discover what a very good chap she had in him. I shall be surprised if she does not miss him more than she thinks.""I don't like the woman," said Harry briefly. "Potterill's worth ten of her. I could have given them a job at Mitcham. Indeed I offered him one#x2014;to look after the new coffee and reading room, which will be opened in the autumn. But Mrs. Potterill turned up her nose at the offer. Well, and how is the world using you?"Calladine drew him into the study, and in intimate talk half an hour flew by. Then the bell tinkled again for tea, and Calladine, without a thought of what great issues might arise from the simple incidents of the day, led him across the narrow hall into the dining-room."You know this gentleman, mother. Winnie, this is Mr. Belford. Harry, my sister Winnie!"Winnie was looking perfectly sweet. The walk had brought out all her lovely soft colouring, her eyes had brightened and no longer showed any traces of tears, and her pretty mouth had regained its smile.Harry Belford gave a little start as he saw her. She was so different in appearance from the other sisters he had seen. And yet, after they were seated, he saw that there was a considerable resemblance between the mother and the daughter, and he surmised that in her youth even Mrs. Calladine might have been just such another as Winnie now was.It was quite a happy meal. Reassured and feeling perfectly safe, Winnie gave full scope to her natural gaiety of spirit, which had now returned to her. She had been foolish, but nobody had blamed her or spoken harshly to her. And now her mother stood between her and every difficult moment. To Edgar Calladine it was the most amazing and beautiful thing he had ever witnessed. The mere contemplation of these two faces seemed to put a new song in his mouth, and even as he listened to the gay chatter he decided that he would have to change his evening text, as he had done his morning one, if his message was to be appropriate to the occasion.Harry Belford did not stay long after tea, excusing his departure by saying that he was expected at home. Calladine walked with him across the first breadth of the Forest."I say, Mr. Calladine, what a beautiful creature your sister is!" he burst out with a boyish impulsiveness. "How proud you must be of her!"Calladine laughed."I don't think that we have thought very much about her

appearance. She is the baby of the family. I have two other

sisters. One of them is an acknow-Ledged beauty, I believe, but one does not notice such things in one's own family.""She couldn't surpass Miss Winnie," said Harry fervently. "Her face is just like a flower."Calladine did not give these words another thought. He was genuinely pleased to see Harry Belford, and to hear from his own lips all the happy and intensely interesting record of his life at Mitcham.Altogether, it had been an astonishing day; and it was not over yet.The whole household went to evening service, and Calladine preached from the words, "He has put a new song in my mouth."It gave him a very intense kind of pleasure to see his mother and his sister seated side by side in the Manse pew, with the little maid at the end, and it made him realise, perhaps, for the first time, how isolated his ministerial life had been up till now. He had had to live it uninspired by the warm influence of home, those influences which serve to buckle the armour on most men and to brace them for the day's work.So the whole service struck a joyous note, and the people left the building sure of one thing above all others, namely, that the Lord reigneth. And when the human soul can accept that, it is in a manner immune from the assaults of fate.Immediately after supper Winnie went off to bed, to share her mother's room, ay, to sleep upon her breast, as she had not done since she was a little baby.CHAPTER XXIIMONDAY MORNINGNEVER had Mary Calladine arisen from her bed with a more dismal Mondayish feeling in her heart.The beautiful spring sunshine, which had ushered in the Sunday dawn, had disappeared; at half-past six there was scarcely sufficient light for her to dress by, the wind was wailing and was driving a pitiless rain against the panes.Already anxious and discouraged by what had happened at Winterstowe, and in secret doubly anxious regarding Winnie, she descended to admit Mrs. Polgarth, in the possession of hardly enough energy or heart to bid her good-morning.But, though Polly had a black eye, she was cheerful."Rum mornin', ain't it, Miss Mary? I were nigh swep' off my feet as I come through Taylor Street. Warn't yistiday a treat? Me an' Polgarth went to Wappin' to see 'is sister. We got a bit balmy at supper-time, an' 'e give me this."She removed the strange erection which she named a bonnet and thrust her discoloured temple under Mary's eyes."Oh, Mrs. Polgarth, I'm sorry! I thought your husband had turned over a new leaf!""So 'e aves, Miss. It were done all of a suddent-like becos 'e thought I were givin' Bob Larkin too much sauce. 'E weren't screwed—not a bit ov 'im. It were jes' a bit ov 'is fun.""Odd kind of fun, Polly! I shouldn't encourage him in it. Why, it's a very sore eye indeed! Didn't you do anything for it?""Put a bit o' cold tea on it arter we gits 'ome. It ain't anythink. You should see some o' the fices dahn our street! I got a bit o' news fer yer this marnin', Miss Mary.""What's that?""Shan't be able to oblige yer much longer.""Why, Polly, that is sad news!""Thought as 'ow it would be, an', as I ses to Tim, I won't never leave my dear Miss Mary in no 'ole.""But why must you leave?""'Cause Tim, 'e's got 'is pension—twelve shillin' a week fer life—an' the offer of a country cottage dahn Somerset wy. We're a-goin' to wheer the flowers are a-blowin', so to speak. It'll be like a bloomin' Benk 'Oliday all the time!""Where did he get the pension?""Don't you remember, Miss, 'ow I tole yer ever so long ago, when you was adwisin' me to git Tim to quit wheer 'e is workin' on account ov the long hours, 'e'd git that pension, if 'e could 'old on? 'E's worked, man an' boy, fer Ditchfold's fer over forty year; but 'e ain't done yit. 'E'll tike a bit ov labourin' dahn there, an' maybe I'll git some charin'. Anyways, we're goin' jes arter Easter."Mary heard this with some dismay, for, though Polly had her faults—some of them glaring—she had become an institution in the house and would be difficult to replace, if she left.She forbore, however, to damp Polly's enthusiasm for the country by expressing the keenness of her own disappointment that she was going away."I'm most awfully sorry, Polly," she contented herself with saying. "So will all the rest be when I tell them, and I don't know what we shall do without you. But, of course, I'm glad for you."Then she went upstairs to prepare the dining-room for Polly's onslaught on stove and floor, while that worthy proceeded to light the kitchen fire.Pondering on the situation, she decided that, if it could be arranged, she would not employ another of Polly's species, but, instead, would try a young girl at a small wage, whom she could initiate into her own household ways.Probably Edgar would be able to help her. At Winterstowe there would be some less guileful, if not more capable, girl to be had than the girl of the London slums.She worked busily, listening to Polly's chance observations, but answering them only at random, for she was feeling very sick of everything under heaven.The spring months had dragged for Mary, and except for one letter that she had received from Dudley Frew, telling that he was settling for some weeks, if not months, in Tunis with a view to work, she had heard nothing more. He had passed, apparently, and probably for ever, out of their lives.Sometimes she asked herself whether she had dreamed that episode in the dining-room at Grove End Road. She had not seen him since the Sunday on which it had occurred, and often she found it difficult to give that strange memory definite shape. Although she had answered on that occasion as her heart dictated, there were moments when she wished that she had been given a chance to reconsider the position and outlook presented to her by his proposal.Mary had no illusions about herself. She was quite aware that she had no attraction for men in the sense that Esther had, and that probably Dudley Frew's offer would be the last that she would have, as it had been her first.Her youth was passing. In six weeks' time she would enter on her twenty-ninth year. And what had she to look forward to? to endless succession of Monday mornings, grey, cheerless, pitiless, continuing until she would be left the last leaf on the tree!She shivered in spirit as she vigorously expended elbow-grease on the old, infinitely ugly walnut side-board which bore on its ornate carving—save the mark!—and on its inferior plate-glass back the hall-mark of the cheapest emporium in the Curtain Road.By the time the fires were lit and a more cheerful atmosphere pervaded the house she had worked off part of her depression and acute personal chagrin. She called Esther and her father—the only two in the house with her.Frank's travelling circuit was now Scotland, and he was sometimes away for three weeks at a time. But he was doing well, and Mary, who wrote to him two or three times a week, had no actual anxiety with regard to him.But the thought of Winnie worried her. She had seen on Sunday morning that something had happened to upset the child, who, however, had not offered her confidence, nor had Mary sought it. She supposed that she would not see her now until the evening, seeing that she would go straight from Winterstowe to business.While she was cooking the breakfast the postman arrived, but she did not go up to ascertain what he had brought. Very few letters addressed to Mary Calladine came, the very nature of her existence, her perpetual service for her own people having restricted her interests and limited the circle of her acquaintances.When she went up with the tray, punctually at a quarter past eight, Esther was standing before the small hall-table, examining what lay on it."There's a letter from Algiers for you," she said hardly. "It's in Dudley Frew's writing."Mary made no answer, but passed rather quickly into the dining-room, afraid that she might drop her tray.Esther, oddly persistent, carried the letter into the room and laid it pointedly on the table. She was looking well, with a particularly becoming French hat poised at the proper angle on her beautiful hair and with her neat and expensive lingerie-blouse trimly belted to her slim waist.Mary's morning frock was of coloured gingham, which could be easily washed and was therefore more hygienic. Her big white apron accentuated the difference in appearance between her sister and herself. "The household drudge" most certainly looked her part! Yet the letter in the thin, mauve-coloured envelope, bearing the foreign postmark and addressed in the handwriting of one of the great ones of the earth, was undoubtedly for her!"Aren't you going to open it?" asked Esther with rather a steely glance from her eyes."Not now—I have to see to breakfast and get father down," answered Mary, steadily going on with her work of placing the dishes on the table."Shall I open it?" asked Esther, with rather a mischievous gleam in her eyes."No," said Mary, and her colour rose. "If it is my letter—then it is my letter, and nobody shall open it but me."She was quite aware that her tongue had a sharp edge; but, somehow, she resented Esther's curiosity at the moment, and she had not the smallest intention of satisfying it, though her sister purposely lingered as long as she dared with a view to seeing whether she could learn anything."I can't think why you make such a stupid mystery about nothing," she said at last, as she drew on her gloves. "I suppose you've been writing to him.""Perhaps I have," said Mary, and her colour rose again. "If you are angry because Dudley Frew has written to me, Esther, I'm sorry. But I can't help it. This is the second letter I have had from him in my life. There was nothing in the first one. It simply explained that he had left London and was to be away for the winter—the same intimation he gave you by word of mouth. This is probably to say he is coming back.""If that's all, why don't you open it?"Mary answered by putting the letter, which was the bone of contention, in her pocket.After she was left alone in the house with Mrs. Polgarth, who distinguished the occasion by singing loudly at her work that old ditty—"A bicycle made for two"—Mary went through a certain part of the routine before she took any leisure. When the beds had been put out to air and the dining-room table had been cleared she came down and drew an easy-chair to the fire.It was such a chilly morning that she felt glad of the bright glow, and she had a snug feeling that she would not be disturbed. All the day was in front of her, however, for it was not yet much after nine.She drew Frew's letter from her apron pocket and studied the handwriting for a minute or two. It was a very thin letter and could not contain much, she decided. But when she opened it she found that one side of the large sheet was covered.Sitting slightly forward on her chair, and with a deepening glow on her face, she began to read the letter which was to alter the whole order of her life.This was how it ran:"DEAR MISS CALLADINE,"I am writing to you because I expect to leave for England the day after to-morrow, and I want this to get there ahead of me."I dare say you can guess what its burden is going to be. I have been here the better part of four months, and I have put in a very decent amount of work. I found that when I think of seturning to London it means returning to you. I left it partly to prove myself, to discover whether the extraordinary hold you had on me would be a permanent one."You see, I am frank—as you were with me that night at Grove End Road. Sometimes I regret that night, and then again I don't. The words had to be said somewhere and somehow, and the time appeared to have come."But, because you accused me of haste and rashness, I thought I would allow a decent interval to elapse before I approached you again."I am no hand at letter-writing. I hardly know how to express myself now. But I want to say that the rest of my life is going to be a pretty meagre business, unless you are going to take it in hand."I have, of course, read a lot about love and marriage in my time and met a good many of its counterfeit presentments, but I have never experienced what I am experiencing now. I want you with every fibre of my being. My heart cries out for a home of your making, for something warmer and dearer than anything that has ever been in my life before."You have awakened in me feelings which revealed to me a side of my nature that I did not know existed. I am nothing but a primeval man who has met his mate and who is doing his best to win her. So will you consider my case and, detaching yourself from the many, give yourself to one?"That he will be grateful, that he will cherish you to the last day of his life, that he will give you an honest, clean, passionate affection he now promises with all his heart."Whatever your answer may be he will remain, now and for all time,"Your faithful lover,"DUDLEY FREW."The colour was soft and lovely on her face, her hands trembled as she somewhat shamefacedly closed the sheet lest the words should burn her heart.Sincerity, absolute and convincing, cried out from every line. She did not know how she felt or what response was in her heart.But this time the image of Angus Raeburn was less vivid and she was certainly more conscious of her own intense weariness and desire for change. Here was a way out—an honourable way to a life of ease and interest and joy! If she could give him in exchange an affection that would equal his, the joy would be one of the rarest gifts of heaven.She shut her eyes and tried to imagine it, but her heart was not warm and quick. It was mightily moved, but the personal touch was lacking. If only it were possible to marshal feeling, to order, or even to simulate love so that it would become quickly the real thing! But she was honest with herself. Touched she was, and flattered, and moved, but she did not love Dudley Frew. Therefore, what must she do?It was a relief when old Polly appeared in the doorway to receive instructions for the butcher. She was much surprised to behold her active Miss Mary idling at nine o'clock in the morning."Thet's right, Miss, 'ave a good lazy by the fire! My! it ain't often you tike it. Not feelin' hup to the mark, maybe?" she added sympathetically."I'm all right, but I've got something on my mind, Polly. Tell Simmins to send a small shoulder of mutton, and a pound of suet—minced, please, and I'll be down immediately."About an hour later, when she was discussing with Polly the contents of the larder, she suddenly put a question to that dame of experience and wisdom."Say, Polly, I want to ask you something.""Yus, Miss Mary?""Do you think the thing people call love has much to do with matrimony?"Mrs. Polgarth chuckled."La, Miss Mary, thet's a question fer you to ast—an' no mistake! 'As 'e popped it, then?"Mary laughed consciously."Well, since you ask the question, he has."Polly rested her hands on her capacious hips and eyed her dear Miss Mary with a mingling of affection and deepest interest."Well, I never!—an' I' opes you're a-goin' to tike 'im, Miss Mary, fer I never see a more ongrateful lot then wot lives 'ere in this wery 'ouse!"She delivered this criticism quite fiercely, and it rather surprised Mary."No, no, Polly, you mustn't say that. I can't allow it. Besides, it isn't true.""It's the Gawd's truth, Miss! Ast Tim ef I ain't sed it to 'im dy in an' dy hout them nine year back. It's wot us wimmin gits w'en we mikes doormats ov ourselves. Don't you do it any longer, Miss Mary. Ef the bloke's got anythink to. hoffer in the way ov a livin', doneher trouble yer pretty 'ead abart luv. It'll come, an' ef it don't, there'll be the livin' to mike hup.""Oh, Polly, you are dreadful! This gentleman is very well off, and he appears to wish to marry me above everything in the world. But you see I don't care for him."Mrs. Polgarth sniffed."Doneher go to throw awy a good thing fer that. Wot's luv? It don't larst arter the 'oneymoon. But a nice 'ouse an' good vittles an' good clothes—they're a bit ov all right every time. You tike Mm, Miss Mary, an' Gawd bless yer! Now, who's thet apullin' the bell hout ov its socket? Shall I run hup an' see?""No, no; you get on with the potatoes," said Mary rather dreamily, and sped up the stairs to open the hall door.There was Winnie on the step, and her mother was getting out of a fly at the kerb!"Well, I never! What is the meaning of this?" she said, her face paling a little.Winnie laughed, threw her arm round Mary's neck, and kissed her."It's only mother and me come home. Yes—she's brought everything. She's come for good."Mary ran down the steps to the street and kissed her mother, not knowing whether to laugh or cry."Got any change, dear?" said Mrs. Calladine in the most business-like voice. "Edgar gave me a sovereign and some odd shillings, but I haven't enough to pay the cabman, and I don't suppose he will have change.""I have some, mother," said Winnie quickly."Just carry the trunk into the hall, please, cabby, and I'll give you an extra sixpence."There was a joyousness about both Winnie and her mother which puzzled Mary, while at the same time it relieved her beyond all telling.Mrs. Polgarth, hearing the sound of the wheels, had come up to see whether she could be of any use; and at sight of Mrs. Calladine she came forward, looking well pleased."Oh, ma'am, but you do look well!—as young as yer own darters! It's the country, Miss Mary. Wot 'ave I bin a-tellin' ov yer all the marnin'? Maybe I'll grow young again meself wen me an' Tim gits dahn to Somerset.""How are you, Polly? all right? Perhaps you and Winnie could carry the box up. Just put it on the landing and leave it there till I decide about the room. Come in here, Mary."She put her hand on Mary's arm and drew her into the dining-room and shut the door."Mother," cried Mary, in a voice in which alarm and gladness and relief were strangely blended, "whatever is the meaning of this?""Just this, dear—the time has come for me to come home, and stop there. God sent Winnie to tell me. Don't ask a great many questions, dear Mary, because some of them I couldn't answer. But of one thing you may be sure, that it's going to be quite all right, that nobody is ever going to be sick or sorry or ashamed because of me any more!""Oh, mother, mother!""True, my dear. Saturday was the turning-point. You've heard of turning-points in people's lives, haven't you? Well, God drew me back sharp and showed me the right way, all through the coming of Winnie. It was the baby He used to drive the lesson home. Winnie needs looking after. I'm here to look after her; and you, my dear, will get a rest."She laid her gloves down on the table and began to examine the contents of her purse."Then Edgar knows and approves?" said Mary, with a little gasp, and even her doubting heart could not deny or belittle the striking physical change observable in her mother.She certainly looked younger, the outlines of face and form had grown more refined, and her expression was, in its way, beautiful."Oh yes, Edgar knows. He has sent you a little note. It's in Win's bag, I think. I'm going down to the city now, dear, and don't worry if I'm not back at lunch-time.""To the city? But, mother——""Don't say a word, dear. I have most important business there—something to do with Winnie. Perhaps I shall tell you some day, but not now.""Will Winnie not go with you? Or, if you wait, I can soon put on my things.""No, no," said Mrs. Calladine firmly. "You needn't be afraid, Mary. I can be let out alone. There isn't going to be any more trouble of that kind. I could walk down a whole street of public-houses and never want to enter one! I'll go now. And, dear, I think you had better get ready to go down to Winterstowe this afternoon. I didn't really like leaving Ed with only Rosie Hawkins, though she's very good, as girls go, and he said he didn't mind.""But, mother, I shall have to wait—at least, till father comes home," said Mary, rather desperately."Oh no—not necessarily. I shall try and see father after I've been to Mr. Bingham's office. Perhaps he'll take me out to lunch as he used to do when we were first married. Wouldn't that be a good joke? Good-bye, dear. Get your things all ready for Winterstowe, anyway, and I'll get back as soon as I can."She replaced her purse in her bag, took up her gloves, and before Mary could say another word she had walked out of the house.Winnie came running down the stairs.CHAPTER XXIII"MANY HAPPY RETURNS"PAUL CALLADINE was completely aware that changes were impending at the place where he worked. The infusion into the firm of younger blood in the shape of two nephews of its head had created a kind of upheaval, and the old employees had the feeling that nobody knew what a day might bring forth in the way of calamity to any of them.As he made his way to the city that Monday morning, and remembered that it was his fifty-eighth birthday, he felt the full weight of his years lying heavily upon him.What prospect has a city man, still a servant, at fifty-eight? Frankly, very little. In the majority of cases he is merely retained on sufferance because of the length of his services and their value to his employer when he himself was young.Calladine had heard something at London Wall at the latter end of the previous week which had disquieted him a good deal, and he went to business that morning prepared, by some strange mental process of which he could give no account, to encounter disaster. Saturday's event had doubtless helped to render more intense than usual the habitual gloom of his outlook. He did not feel rebellious in view of what his foreboding heart told him was likely to happen. On the contrary, his nature inclined him to acquiesce rather than to fight. Only, in his deepest heart, that grey and pitiless morning, there was a sort of dumb questioning as to the wisdom or the kindness of the power that could ordain for the creatures of his fashioning such a grey and hopeless destiny as was his.Calladine had never derived the pleasure from the members of his family that he might have done had he associated with them more frankly and taken a livelier and deeper interest in their pursuits and well-being. Just lately, however, they had been more to him than ever before, and a better understanding had seemed to be possible.It is the mother who keeps the home together, and when she fails of her God-appointed duty there is not one who can adequately fill up the breach. The blank remains.Calladine cherished no more bitterness than usual against his unhappy wife, who had once more disappointed every hope. The time for that was long past. The problem of her future treatment was in front of them againߞthat was all. Edgar had by no means disposed of it in the heartening words where-with he had sought to send his father on his way.His fifty-eighth birthday! and nobody, not even Mary, had remembered it!Yet it was not to pass unnoticed!Calladine went to his desk as usual and tried to busy himself with the daily routine. The office seemed unusually quiet, as if most of the staff felt the restraining and subduing power of undercurrents that they were unable to stem.About half-past ten a message came through that Mr. Waterhouse wished to see Mr. Calladine in his private room. Calladine rose heavily, almost certain in his inmost heart that he should hear disquieting, probably disastrous, news. Not that such a summons was in itself so uncommon, but he had got the idea fixed in his mind that further care and anxiety were about to overtake him.Waterhouse was now an old man in his seventieth year, but he was quite hale and hearty and was as keen on business as ever he had been. He had no sons of his own, and he had found it difficult to work in conjunction with his nephews, especially with the younger one, whose ideas and ambitions their uncle considered preposterous."Morning, Calladine. Take a chair. I have a good deal to say to you."Calladine sat down stiffly, feeling as he did so his hands suddenly grow cold. He chafed them slightly, and Waterhouse, observing the action, took it as a sign of nervousness. He smiled kindly and reassuringly."I've had a good deal to worry me of late, Calladine, especially since Mr. Sidney returned from Canada. But I think now I see a way out.""Yes, sir. Mr. Sidney did not like the prospects in Canada—or perhaps it was the country itself he did not like.""Between ourselves, Calladine, it was Mrs. Sidney who barred Vancouver, and she says quite positively that she won't go to live there. After much consideration and several interviews with her father, Sir Thomas Bingham, we have decided to buy Mr. Sidney out.""To buy him out! Then, will the Canadian scheme have to be abandoned, sir?""No. Even Sidney acknowledges that there is an opening. There must be, Calladine, when we think of what our interests in the east are and of the readiness of access to Japan from the Pacific coast. No, no; we can't abandon it! Jack is needed here, and I am too old to go out. Will you go to Vancouver and look after our interests there?"Calladine sat back in his chair with the air of a man who had received an undoubted shock, and the colour receded from his face."I, sir! but I am too old. This is my fifty-eighth birthday.""Is it indeed? Well, you don't look it. Many happy returns! Probably residence in the new country may renew your youth. Let me put the facts before you."You have served us faithfully for a long period of years, and you have never been one to cavil at trifles or to show discontent with your lot. In a business like this that counts for more than you think, Calladine. I have often regretted that we could do so little in the way of advancement for you. Had I not taken these boys into the business things would have been different. It was a mistake, and, like all the mistakes of life, it has had to be paid for. But when we get rid of the malcontent Sidney things will be better."It is as managing director that you would go to Vancouver at an adequate salary. I had thought of six or seven hundred a year, but in consequence of Sidney's report as to the cost of living on the Pacific coast it will probably be a thousand that you will receive. That is a matter for after-decision. What I am anxious about is to know whether you would be willing to consider the proposal favourably and whether your family arrangements would permit of such a change within the next six months, say. I should like you to be ready to go out in October."Calladine was unable to speak for a moment. A sort of spasm crossed his face. The kindly old man, eyeing him, observed that he was deeply moved, and turned considerately away. Perhaps he realised in that moment what a strange, grey destiny had been his servant's, and how little hope the future had held for him."Don't be in a hurry. Go home and talk it over with your wife," he said kindly.These words showed in what a condition of com-plete ignorance Calladine's employer was regarding his domestic affairs. He was not even sure whether Calladine had a wife, but he vaguely supposed that he must have one somewhere in the background."You have a family, I suppose? But most of them must be grown up by now?" he said, when he had given Calladine sufficient time to recover himself."Oh yes, I have five children. The eldest is thirty-one, the youngest over twenty. They are all self-supporting.""As to your wife—do you think that it would be very difficult to uproot her?""I don't think so, sir. I shall have to take time to consider your offer. Personally, I should like it beyond everything. It makes a new man of me even to think of it! I don't mind telling you, Mr. Waterhouse, that I came into this room this morning fully expecting to be fired out.""Fired out! Dear me, Calladine, is that the impression I've left on your mind after all these years of association? Have you all along regarded me as an inhuman monster without heart or feeling?""Oh no, sir; but, you see, in business it's inevitable that the old fellows should go. One sees the truth of that every day. Why, even on the way to and from business faces drop out! Some of the men have died, of course, but the bigger half have been fired out because business methods have changed and they are too old to accommodate themselves to the new ones. I've even counted myself lucky to have been allowed to hang so long."'You are a singularly modest man, Calladine, and you under-estimate your own powers and qualities. But, if you do go to Vancouver, perhaps you'll bourgeon forth in all sorts of unexpected directions. Anyhow, it is solidity and worth that we want out there at the head of affairs. The young blood can be got easily, but a man like you is not found every day. I take it, then, that you will favourably consider the offer?""I shall have to talk it over at home, of course. But I think I may accept it on the spot, if I may. It's a chance that will never come in my way again—such a one as doesn't come to many men at fifty-eight.""You have Mrs. Sidney Waterhouse to thank in the first instance," said the old man with a laugh. "She'll soon run through Sidney's portion! She goes on the principle that money was made to roll. They're living now in a Park Lane flat at a rate far beyond their means. But that is their concern—and Sir Thomas Bingham's. We needn't trouble our heads about them."Calladine left the office like one dazed, and when he resumed his place at his desk the figures simply danced before him.The thing that had happened was so stupendous and so unthinkable that he could hardly realise it. He saw an immediate way out of every difficulty. He would take his wife away to the new world and—who could tell?—they might begin a new life together. Such of the children as cared to accompany them would have a fresh opportunity of making a place for themselves, and one full of boundless possibility. Probably it would only be Mary and Winnie who would go out with them. He could not conceive of Esther away from her London haunts, and both Edgar and Frank were rooted in their respective spheres of work.But his deep heart was uplifted by the thought that, after all, his working-life had not been a failure! That his faithful discharge of monotonous and often unimportant duty had been kept on record, and that when the need arose for some one competent and reliable, he had been chosen!There are few things in life more satisfying to a man than that, and small wonder that Paul Calladine dropped the half of his fifty-eight years that momentous morning and became, for the time being, a boy at heart.The hours simply flew. About ten minutes before his usual time of leaving the office for lunch the lift-boy came to him."A lady waiting downstairs for you, Mr. Calladine—said she would wait till you came down to go out to lunch.""A lady?"Calladine rose with a look of apprehension in his eyes. Such a thing had not happened to him for many years—not indeed since the early days of his married life, when his young wife used to waylay him outside and coax him to take her out to lunch.It would probably be Mary who had come, and something unusual must have happened at home to bring her on such an errand.He took off his office-jacket, got into his coat and tall hat, and descended the stairs. And there, in the bare little ante-room, sat his wife, looking perfectly fit and neat, her face smiling and sweet, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to be there waiting for him!"Good-morning, Paul. You must excuse me for coming like this, but I had to catch you, somehow, in the middle of the day and before I went back to Whitcombe. Let's go out to lunch somewhere."Catching his intent gaze, and fully conscious of its import, she laughed and patted his arm."I'm quite all right, dear, and I'm going to be so for ever now! I brought up Winnie this morning with me. It's about Winnie I want to talk to you. Where shall we go?""Come out, and we can see," said he mechanically.They left the place together, and, after a moment's hesitation, he called a hansom and gave the address, of the Great Eastern Hotel. It was a place to which Calladine's means hardly warranted their going; but this was a day on which a little extra expenditure would be perfectly justifiable, and he knew that there they would be more likely to find a quiet corner than they would in most places at that busy hour of the day.They did not talk much as the hansom quickly covered the short distance, and it was only after they had found a small corner-table that Calladine, looking intently at his wife as she began to draw off her gloves, observed some subtle change in her. She was, as a matter of fact, eight years younger than he, but at the moment she might have passed for his daughter.She had on an extraordinarily becoming toque composed of violets, and the white veil over her face seemed to enhance the beauty of her complexion. All the blotches and puffiness were gone, and it was as clear and smooth as a baby's. She was still a very pretty woman, and Calladine felt some strange stirrings at his heart, almost as if he now met her for the first time."Say, Paul?" she leaned across the table and, pushing up her veil, met his eyes fully and unflinchingly. "I was very sorry about what happened on Saturday. Something came over me—I don't know what. I was just a wee bit afraid of you, and I thought that you wouldn't believe I had really turned the corner. If Ed had stopped at home I wouldn't have given way. But, as it happened, it didn't matter much. It had to be, but it's the very last time that such a thing will occur. Put your hand out and hold mine, Paul—there isn't anybody looking at us—I just want to make a kind of vow and to explain that God has got hold of me—the God Edgar believes in and works for. And so now you know I can't fall down any more."Calladine covered the appealing hand with his strong, virile fingers, and held it close. He was fascinated by what she was saying and by something which seemed to emanate from her—a new force, strong, fine, unassailable."I don't want to go back on things, dear. It's too awful. I can't think why you didn't kill me ever so long ago! But that's all over. I'm come back clothed and in my right mind to be a good wife and mother. I never have been one up to now. I'm not making any excuses for myself, but I'm just telling you what I mean to be and do. You are giving me another chance, aren't you?""Don't, Annie," said Calladine, and his tone, though muffled, was poignant."Now I'm coming to Winnie. We've just saved our little Win, Paul. How was it that nobody ever guessed or found out that she was getting into danger?"Calladine withdrew his hand quickly and leaned across the table."What kind of danger?" he asked, and his voice seemed to change."The usual kind—the kind that lies in wait for a pretty creature getting her own living in a big city like this. She came running down to me yesterday to tell me about it, and to-day I have been to interview Mr. Ernest Bingham."The name enlightened Calladine at once."Then it's young Bingham she's been going out with all this while? Mary seemed uneasy whenever Winnie was a little late in getting home or when she was not sure whom she had gone out with. Tell me what happened."Briefly Mrs. Calladine put him in possession of the very few facts communicated to her by Winnie."I didn't think that any of our girls would occasion anxiety of that kind, Annie. I blame myself," he said in a slow, rather painful voice."Blame yourself? why should you? A man can't do much with a girl of Winnie's age. There is nobody in the wide world to blame except me. I've come to myself, Paul, and I know just how wicked I have been."The waiter placed something before them, hovered near for a moment, and then, as if conscious that this middle-aged couple desired to be left alone, retired to the other side of the room."Take your lunch, my dear, and don't go back on things," said Calladine hastily."Presently, when I have said my say. I came down here to say it, Paul, because after we go home I want to start out on the new road and never once look back! I hope you won't mind my coming back for good, dear? I think I can promise you that you won't have any further trouble with me."She spoke with such quiet conviction that the last doubt in Calladine's mind faded away like mist before the coming of the morning sun."Mind? why should I mind? I shall be thankful, Annie, more than thankful! I wanted to take you back with me on Saturday night, only Edgar wouldn't hear of it.""He was right. Edgar is the wisest of us all—and the best. He knew that I wasn't ready. God had begun by that time to work the miracle, but it had to be finished. Do you know that it was the old, silly dread of you that made me go off like that on Saturday? I wanted what the poor folks call a little Dutch courage before I could meet you. And now, when I'm sitting here, looking at you, I can't really believe that I was ever afraid of you.""There was nothing to be afraid of, God knows, Annie. Often I was only a miserable man when you saw an angry one.""I was a mere baby, Paul—now I've grown up. Don't you think God might have spoken to me long ago? What a lot of trouble it would have saved if He had just pulled me up sharp, like He did yesterday, and showed me the duty I was neglecting."Calladine shook his head. He could not follow her into that region. The thing she was talking about was a mystery beyond his power to comprehend. But he no longer denied or even belittled it. He had seen its operation in his son's life, and what had now happened justified Edgar's entire belief. It was in expectation of some such miracle being wrought that he had taken his mother to Winterstowe and had then simply waited till it should be wrought."Then what have you done with Winnie?" asked Calladine presently."Winnie's at home," she answered. "She doesn't go back any more to Bingham's, of course. I gave Mr. Ernest Bingham something to think about to-day. He will perhaps think twice before he says the thing he ought not to a girl again! I want to keep Winnie at home, Paul, if you think we can afford it. She doesn't like business—never has liked it. Mary will go down to Edgar for a little while, I think, and we could quite well do without Mrs. Polgarth, I am sure."It was now Calladine's turn to offer a surprise."This is a day of the most extraordinary happenings that ever I have seen in my life, Annie. When I got up this morning I thought there was nothing in front of me but the black darkness of despair, and I came down to London Wall, expecting to be fired out. What do you think has happened?"She shook her head, noticing with a kind of pitiful regret how white her husband's hair had grown about the temples and how deep were the lines about his mouth."I've been made a managing director of Waterhouses' and given a post in Canada at a thousand a year.""Never, Paul Calladine—never! At your age! Why, you've been expecting for years to be superannuated.""I have. But what I tell you has happened, and they want me to go out in October. So, you see, there is a chance for us all to turn over a new leaf, and none of the girls need go out to work, unless they have a mind to. What pleases me most is that Mary will get a rest."Mrs. Calladine nodded."Canada! That's a very long way off, isn't it?" she said wistfully. "And we should have to leave Ed, and Frank, and perhaps Esther behind.""But it's not so far as it was, Annie, and the ships are getting faster and faster every year. Perhaps—who knows?—we shall get the whole family out by-and-by.""Anyway, we'll take Winnie. But I did want to stop at Whitcombe for a bit and just—just show everybody," said Mrs. Calladine rather painfully."You'll have six months longer here, my dear," he said softly, and the tender note in his voice caused a tear to start in her eye."I think you are wonderful, Paul, not to cast a word of reproach at me for all these horrible wasted years! God must have put it into everybody's heart to be good to me. Oh, I do pray that He will give me strength and opportunity to show my gratitude!""We're all going to turn over a new leaf, dear," said Calladine. "But I wish you could realise what this is to me—this astonishing thing that has happened. Why, it has taken ten years off my life! I feel fit enough for any new venture."She leaned across the table, her wifely eyes full of a wonderful, deep understanding."Dear old man," she said, and the elderly waiter from the other side of the room saw Calladine stoop to touch his wife's hand with his lips, and would have given a good deal to know their story.They passed out together by-and-by, and Calladine, with an odd little smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, gave him half-a-crown."You've had at least two happy customers to-day, my man.""Happy and grateful—don't forget grateful!" put in his wife's voice, and the old waiter, still wholly at a loss, and concluding that they were a pair of elderly and extremely foolish lovers, ushered them smilingly to the door.CHAPTER XXIVTHE KEY TO EVERY DOORMARY CALLADINE went down to Winterstowe that afternoon by the four o'clock train. Afterwards she asked herself how it was that she had been so ready to abandon her post—to leave her mother in charge without even waiting to know the opinion of the head of the house.The letter which lay inside the bosom of her gown, for only there she had felt it to be safe from prying eyes, offered the whole explanation of the situation. She felt that she must get away, especially from Esther's questioning, so that she might have time and peace to think, and to meet the crisis in her life.What astonished her more than anything else was the way in which affairs seemed to be rounding off, the tangles smoothing out, destiny working in its appointed groove. Her thoughts were tinged with dismay, for the very clearness of the mental spaces around her rendered her own task of decision the more difficult.When Dudley Frew should come to plead, as he would sooner or later—probably sooner—she had no plea to advance that would serve.She, who had been apparently indispensable for so long, could now be done without. If there was a little sting in the reflection, it was deprived of its full bitterness by the assurance that she was still necessary to one man.It was perhaps not surprising that the weight and magnitude of her own private affairs should have for the moment dwarfed those affecting her family. The miracle for which they had longed and prayed had actually come to pass without fuss or excitement.She had left her mother busy, happy-hearted, fully capable, in charge at Whitcombe Square, and nobody seemed to know or to realise that it was a miracle.It is thus that God works in the lives of men, using the meanest and the simplest instruments, often in the dark, and mostly in silence, thus reproving the noise and clamour with which His creatures work to herald or to accompany all their actions.Mary surprised her brother at tea and found him full of eager sympathy and interest, yet in no way anxious."I was hoping you would come down to-day, dear," he said as he kissed her affectionately, "but I hardly expected you so early.""Mother simply drove me forth—not exactly with whips or scorpions, but with the harrowing pictures of your loneliness that she drew," said Mary with a smile as she drew her chair to the table, while Rose Hawkins, more than pleased to see a new mistress, ran to fetch a cup and a plate and tried to show her welcome by her smiles."Were you surprised to-day? I suppose you must have been. Did father carry a very dismal account of what happened on Saturday back with him?""He really said very little, Ed. He left us to gather from his manner rather than his words what had happened, and of course I, for one, could not bear to ask. Yet, somehow, I was not so down-hearted as I ought to have been on hearing such a story. I suppose that at the back of my mind there must have been some odd consciousness that, in spite of all, things were going to right themselves.""Saturday's affair was capable of the simplest explanation," said Calladine. "In the old days she stood in awe of father. You remember the scenes we used to have! That old dread came back and, unfortunately, I was away and there was nobody to help her to overcome it at the moment. I tried to explain that to father, but it was rather difficult, for of course it reflected a little on his kindness of heart."A little smile hovered for a moment on Mary's lips as she absently stirred her tea."She's perfectly amazing to-day, anyway. She arrived about twelve and stopped just four minutes in the house. Thereafter she went to the city to Winnie's place of business.""I suppose you know all about this affair of Winnie's?"Mary shook her head."I don't. I did not even know that she was going out with young Bingham. Oh, Edgar, it is very difficult to be one of a household of women, and just lately I seem to have got so tired! It is hateful to say it, but I was thankful—yes, really thankful—to get away to-day. I didn't seem even to want to wait to see father and ask his permission."Absolute comprehension was in Edgar Calladine's eyes as he listened to these words of Mary's, which might easily have been misunderstood."I know just how you have felt. I have seen it in your eyes during the last year. But don't look so troubled, dear. What you have done for us we shall never be able to repay, even if we keep on trying to the end of our lives!"A little sob choked for a moment in Mary's throat, but she did not dare to pursue the subject.She took off her hat suddenly and laid it on the floor, as if she felt its weight oppressive, and the sun caught her hair and made it gleam almost redly."I should like to paint that head of yours, if I were a painter chap," said Edgar impulsively, and he wondered at the flood of colour that mounted from neck to temple, covering her with confusion."Don't be silly, Ed. Remember that I'm an old woman and not accustomed to hear speeches like that! I don't want to speak about myself, but to go on talking about mother. Where was I? Oh, yes! She went down to the city, and apparently she had a satisfactory interview with young Bingham. I should like to have been an invisible listener, Ed. What she said to him would have been worth hearing. Then she saw father at London Wall—she called for him, in fact—and took him out to lunch at the Great Eastern Hotel.""Good!" said Edgar, eating another bit of bread-and-butter with great relish and thinking what a difference to a man's comfort was made by the sight of a kind face at the head of the table."I don't know what they said to each other, of course, but mother came back with her face all sunshiny and pink like a girl's. And she had the most wonderful bit of news about father to tell—what do you think?"Calladine could only shake his head. So many years had passed since anything had happened in their father's life outside of its somewhat dull routine that they had ceased to expect anything new. At his age and under modern commercial conditions his father's business- and earning-life could not go on for much longer, and it would not have surprised Edgar to hear any day that it had come to an end."He has been made a managing director at Waterhouse's, and they are sending him out to Vancouver in October to superintend the import business there, that is, the part of it that concerns Japan."Edgar could scarcely believe his ears."Can it be true, Mary? You are sure that dear mother didn't imagine or concoct it?"Oh no—she couldn't! And apparently she and father have talked about the possibility of us all going there ultimately. Isn't it very strange, Edgar, how, after all these years of nothing happening but the daily round of work and anxiety and sometimes sorrow, so many new forces should begin all at once to operate in all our lives? Their suddenness makes one think of an earthquake or an avalanche, the happening of which alters the entire face of everything."Edgar was silent a moment, for the wonder of it lay upon his own soul. He felt rebuked by the memory of grey days in his own life, when the lamp of hope had burned so low and so dimly as scarce to relieve the gloom, when the fortress of his faith had been rudely and strongly assailed, and when he had, even from his soul's depths, cried "My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?""The Lord reigneth," he murmured, and moved to the window for a moment and looked out upon the narrow street in order that he might hide the evidences of the emotion which threatened to overmaster him."Anyhow, in the meantime I am the gainer," he said, suddenly turning to his sister with a joyous smile. "Now we're going to realise the dream of our lives and live together happily ever after!"Mary gave a nervous little laugh."There is such a restlessness upon me, Edgar, that I don't, somehow, feel as if I could be long anywhere or make any plans.""You are worn out, my dear, and your first need is rest," he said quickly. " I feel rather sorry that I have accepted an invitation to Mitcham. You remember my telling you last time I was up at the Square about Harry Belford?""Oh yes—I remember all that you told me about him.""Well, I have promised to give him a few days in order to see him in his new home and to become acquainted with all the new and varied interests and conditions of his life. To-day I had a letter from his sister. May I read it to you?""Yes, of course, if you wish."He took it from his pocket and began at once to read it."HIGHCLERE, WINTERSTOWE,"Monday morning."DEAR MR. CALLADINE,"Harry very much wanted to see you again to-day before he left, but he had to catch an early train in order that he might keep an engagement at Mitcham at one o'clock that he had made."I am leaving at noon to spend a few weeks with him. He has asked me to write and say that, if you would bring your sister with you on Thursday, it would be a very great pleasure to us to welcome her and make her visit as enjoyable as possible. It is the sister he met at your house yesterday that he wishes to come. Please write to me at Mitcham and say 'Yes.'"It is positively lovely there just now, and the little wood behind the house is simply carpeted with primroses. I am sure your sister would enjoy her visit, and it would do her good. I am thinking of taking up riding again, and I think we might teach your sister, if she would care to learn and if she could stay long enough. Harry is crazy about his horses, and he will never in his life, I am sure, buy a motor car."I don't know why I am meandering on; but, please, do bring your sister. It is not necessary even to write—her room will be ready."Yours sincerely,"FLORENCE BELFORD.""She means Winnie, I suppose," Mary commented. "Why, it would be lovely for her—quite an experience! Will you write to her?""I'll go up to Whitcombe Square to-morrow, I think.""If Winnie went with you to Mitcham, it would give father and mother the chance of going away for a few days together to the sea-coast. Urge that on them. It would do them ever so much good.""It would. But what about you and Esther?""Esther is going to Paris with the Raeburns.""And you?""Oh, I should stop here, dear.""All alone? I will never allow it, Mary," said Edgar with decision."Oh, but yes! You can't imagine how tired I am, Edgar, or what a delicious rest I should give myself, if I were here alone. It's not only that my body needs rest but that my soul craves solitude. I have got to find myself. Something has happened in my life as well as in my father's and mother's, and I am glad to come down here to get my bearings. But, please, don't ask me any questions, dear, for just at present I couldn't possibly answer them.""You poor old dear!" he said, with such infinite tenderness in the tones of his voice that Mary felt tears perilously near her eyes."It would be just splendid for Winnie," resumed Mary," and it would take her mind off this foolish love affair," she said hurriedly, returning to the subject of family affairs in order that her composure might be restored. "And do urge father and mother to go away for a holiday. Why, I simply can't remember when father had a few days off, and the change would do them both good.""They could come here, "Edgar suggested, but Mary shook her head."It sounds horrible, I know, but I don't want them here," she said a little wildly. "Do let me be alone, dear. I need solitude. I shall have to run away to somewhere else, if I can't get it here."Calladine forbore to say another word on that matter."I seem to have seen very little of the Raeburns lately, Mary," he said, by way of changing the subject. "Have they been going to the house as much as usual?""Not quite. Casa has been much taken up with her aunt from Scotland. The two are quite inseparable. As for Angus, he seems to be working even harder than ever and to be spending all the spare time he has with Esther. That is what I gather from her, but she does not tell me things straight out as she used to do. Esther and I haven't been sailing in the same boat all winter, Ed. There has been a stiffness and dryness between us, and in consequence things have often been made rather painful at home.""I can imagine so. But you at least, I am sure, are not to blame.""Esther thinks I am. I hope she will marry Angus. It would anchor her, and he is such a good fellow that I am certain she would be happy," said Mary with conviction."And what about his happiness?" asked Edgar, with a most unusual touch of grimness."Oh, perhaps marriage, especially if she had little children, would soften her nature and develop her better qualities. Often I am quite sorry for Esther, Edgar, for she can't take joy in simple things, but is always craning out after the impossible. One thing is sure, and that is that Angus will have to grow very, very rich if he is to satisfy all her ambitions. Unless, indeed, marriage should change her. I have heard that it does change people either for better or for worse."Edgar looked intently at his sister, and so clear and wonderful was his intuitive knowledge of the human soul that he knew, precisely as if he had been told, that Mary had the problem of her own possible marriage in front of her for her own solution. He supposed that Frew was the man. But he had in his composition not a grain of the prying curiosity which so often desecrates such themes as love and marriage, making them common and vulgar. He had the gift of respect for another's sanctuary. But he was not forbidden by this sense of delicacy to pray that his best-loved sister might be guided into the way and have her feet kept in the path of that peace and happiness which she had so richly earned.Next day he went up to town early, leaving Mary happily engaged in exploring her new domain and in making full acquaintance with Rose Hawkins.Mary found that her mother had left everything in perfect order, and that, so far as limited means and material had allowed, the house, besides being spotlessly clean, was fully equipped."You and I are going to have a holiday at Easter, Rose," she said with a smile. "I had visions of tackling a spring cleaning while the minister was away, but, now I have seen everything I don't think that it is really necessary."Rose put her small head on one side, like a bird, and laid her finger on her lip."Oh, Miss, I'm sure we don't want no spring clean. Missus, she don't hold wiv 'em. She ses that, if 'ouses were properly kep' all the year round, there wouldn't never be no need for cleanin' folks out of 'em once a year.""A good idea," said Mary, thinking of the night-mare that the spring cleaning had been to them all at Whitcombe Square, which all her ingenuity and industry had been powerless to rob of its terrors."You see," explained Rose, with an air of great importance, "there bein' no big carpets mikes a difference. All 'em rugs 'ad their insides well beaten out of 'em every week, and the floors washed afore they were laid down again. My! Missus was a rare particular one! When I come fust I 'ad to do 'eaps of things over again to please 'er, but not lately. Ever since Christmus she ain't ever 'ad to go over anythink that I 'ave done. Ain't she tole you, Miss, 'ow I 'aves improved?""Yes, of course she has. Besides, I can see it for myself since I was here last.""And cookin'!" said Rose, pursuing the subject. "My! theer ain't anythink she can't do wiv sorcepans and hovens. Wy, I 'aves a-seen 'er put a bit of steak as tough as an' ole boot in that theer brown jar, pop it in the hoven wiv onions and tomaters, an' wen it was put on the table you never tasted hany-think like it in yer borned days! On'y, it 'as to be put in in time an' 'as to be kep' in three hours—not a minnit less. You should 'ear 'er talkin' to 'em from the Wimmin's Own abart that theer little brown jar. It were a treat! She let me listen outside the door wen they come abart the bibies. It were great. If she ain't comin' back, there'll be some 'ollerin' in 'Ubert Lane!"Mary's face was sunshiny, her eyes full of a far-away vision as she turned away.Meanwhile Edgar went on to Moorgate Street with the train, intending to see his father first and lunch with him, perhaps, before he went home.He attended the morning meeting of a committee at the Memorial Hall in Farringdon Street, and thereafter mounted an omnibus which brought him to London Wall about one o'clock.Aware that that was the usual lunch time, he walked straight in to the office and asked to be allowed to wait in the ante-room till Mr.Calladine was at leisure and should come down. While he was waiting Mr. Waterhouse passed the door of the room, which had been left ajar, and, observing him, walked in."You are waiting for some one?" he said enquiringly.Now Edgar Calladine had never seen his father's employer; but the air of authority with which he spoke, the dignified manner of his bearing, and the general appearance of the handsome, grey-haired old man convinced him of his identity."For my father, Mr. Paul Calladine," he answered at once. "Knowing that he goes out to lunch about this time, I ventured to call to see whether we might lunch together. I am his son.""Oh—his son. Indeed!" said the old man interestedly. "I was not aware that he had a clergyman son. Where is your parish?"It was the same question that had been put to him by Dudley Frew on a never-to-be-forgotten night which had marked an epoch in so many lives."I am not in the Church, sir. I am a Dissenting minister. My chapel is at Winterstowe.""Ah—Winterstowe! I know some people there—name of Belford. Mrs. Belford was my wife's cousin. They have a pretty place in the Forest.""Yes. I know them. I am going to Mitcham on Thursday to spend Easter with Mr. Harry Belford.""Ah!" said the old man, his interest instantly deepened. "My name is Waterhouse. By-the-by, that was a very queer quixotic step that Harry Belford took in withdrawing from the business of the brewery. His father didn't like it. Harry derived that queer individual charm from his mother, who was undoubtedly the sweetest creature that God ever made.""I had not the privilege of knowing her, Mr. Waterhouse, but that is what I have heard of her."Mr. Waterhouse seemed to be in the thrall of memory at the moment."Belford came to see me about Harry. But after I had heard what he had to tell me I declined to intervene. It seemed to me an affair outside mere commercial intervention.""It was, sir. The lad had had a direct message from the Lord Jesus, I don't doubt," said Calladine, with the quiet assurance of the man of fixed convictions. "Just occasionally such a thing happens, and when it does it makes a great and glad difference in the life of the man or the woman who is called. It is like receiving orders from Headquarters, Mr. Waterhouse."Waterhouse seemed to eye him strangely."It is unusual for a man to speak like that. I should like to see you again, Mr. Calladine. Perhaps you will come and dine with us one night in Grosvenor Place. My wife, I am sure, would be very pleased to meet you.""Thank you, Mr. Waterhouse—some day, perhaps later on," answered Calladine with a smile."I suppose your father has told you about what has happened here with regard to himself. It is an immense relief to me personally that he has undertaken the Vancouver business for us.''I am sure that it has made him very happy to be asked to undertake it," said Calladine quickly. "Of late I had imagined him much depressed. I think he expected something to happen to him very different from this that has happened.""Ah, I dare say. It is the day of the young men, they tell us; but there are turnings where the young fail us. Looking back over a long period of businesslife, Mr. Calladine, I can honestly say that in these days it is the old and the middle-aged men who do the work. Work has become a habit with them and, in some cases, a matter of conscience. With the younger set it is only one of many interests, and, above all, it is merely a means to an end. My nephews are like that. To get rich—and to get rich quick—is their sole aim; and, unfortunately, their wives are at one with them in this folly and extravagance. Seeing that you are a preacher you might proclaim a new—or rather a very old—gospel to the women of the day," he added, with a slightly grim and humorous smile. "They despise the Victorian Era. But it was characterised by qualities and virtues that there is nothing in this age to equal. It isn't a new woman we need—it is the resuscitation and adoration of the old one—understand?""I quite understand," said Edgar Calladine, deeply interested by the talk of this strange old man, who was evidently so much more than a mere business machine and who was so much given to probe into the heart of things.At this moment Edgar's father, considerably astonished, appeared in the doorway."It has been a great pleasure to me to meet your son, Calladine," said the old man. "I have hardly got the length of asking him his opinion of the Canadian business. Will you, perhaps," he said, turning to Edgar, "go out too to help the new country, as you might do very effectively with some of your ideals of faith and service?"Edgar shook his head."I have no present intention of leaving England, sir, though, if my father and mother go, we may all reasonably look forward to frequent trips across the Atlantic and the new world, that is to say, when the cost of the voyage and the journey become a little less expensive.""Ah well, good-bye. Don't forget the message to the women and your promise to dine and sleep at Grosvenor Place. Don't hurry back from lunch, Calladine. Take the afternoon off, if you care. I dare say you and your son have much to talk over."With a kindly nod he disappeared. Then Edgar and his father rather solemnly shook hands."Queer old chap that, dad, isn't he? Got a bee in his bonnet?""No bee, Ed. There are very few heads in the city of London screwed on so tightly as his. What was he saying to you?""All sorts of things. But let us go out. A little overwhelming, isn't it—all the things that are happening to us, as a family, in these days?"Paul Calladine drew himself up; and it seemed to his son that he had gained in height, even in looks."Everything looks very small put side by side with the miracle that you have wrought in your mother, Edgar! When I woke up this morning and heard her singing about the house as she used to do long, long ago, when you were a baby in arms, I felt—why, I felt like a baby myself.""She seems happy, then?" said Edgar, with a rather wistful smile, but with a thrill in his voice."Happy isn't the word. She's uplifted high, clean up above common things, yet not removed from them so far as not to be able to handle them. Oh, Ed, if only it lasts!"In the crowded street Edgar Calladine laid his hand on his father's arm."Last!—of course it's going to last! It's the Lord's work. He doesn't scamp anything. That's the assurance you and I and every one have to get deeply implanted in the heart of us, and when we do—then nothing else will matter. It's the evangel the world is waiting for—the solution of every mystery, the key to open every closed door.""I don't quite understand, Ed.""Jesus Christ and Him crucified for every human soul!" said Edgar, with kindling face.And a tired woman, passing at the moment, caught the words and went home to ponder them in her heart.CHAPTER XXVHER KINGDOMON the Thursday in Easter week, for the first time in its history, the house of the Calladines at Whitcombe Square was deserted by its inmates.Winnie, full of wonder and delight, departed from Fenchurch Street with Edgar to pay the promised visit to Mitcham, and by an earlier train from Liverpool Street her father and mother travelled to Westgate-on-Sea. Esther had already gone off to Paris with the Raeburns, and Mary was left in the little Manse at Winterstowe to the solitude that her heart craved.Mr. and Mrs. Polgarth, at Mary's suggestion, came to occupy the basement at Whitcombe Square during the unprecedented absence of the entire family, and to Mrs. Polgarth on Good Friday evening, somewhat late, Dudley Frew put a disturbed question."Yessir. Every blessed one ov 'em' as gone in the country fer the Heaster 'olidays,' she said with pride. "Me an' Polgarth are takin' care in their habsents. Want ter know wheer they are? Well, it'll tike a bit ov tellin'. So perhaps you wouldn't mind comin' hinside a minnut, fer thet theer rain ain't good fer the polish on the hoilcloths."Frew, smiling slightly, apologised and stepped inside the door, which Mrs. Polgarth immediately closed."I bin obligin' 'ere nine year come Whitsun, an' I nivver—no, nivver—knowed such a clean sweep afore. The marster an' missus, they'ave gone to Westgit on a second 'oneymoon," she added facetiously. "Miss Esther, she's agone to Paris wi' them Raeburn crowd. Mister Frank's in Scotland, an' Mister Hed an' Miss Winnie, they are somewhere in Hessex, a-visitin' the quality—on'y I don't quite know wheer.""And Miss Mary?" said Frew, with a slight touch of impatience, which Mrs. Polgarth fully sympathised with."I'm a-comin' to Miss Mary, to the pick ov the bunch, sir, if yer gives me time. They've a-left 'er all by 'er lonesome dahn at Winterstowe. A bloomin' doormat they treat 'er as, an' no mistake!""Last time I was here," said Frew steadily, "Mrs. Calladine was staying at Winterstowe."Mrs. Polgarth regarded him rather keenly for a moment or two, trying to decide from her reading of his countenance whether she might confide her knowledge of the Calladine family affairs even to a limited extent to this nice-mannered, civil-spoken gent from abroad."You're a friend ov the family, I s'pose?" she suggested."I hope I may call myself so," he answered sincerely."Well, 'ere goes! I'll tell yer. It's hanswered wiv Mrs. Calladine, her goin' dahn theer an' stoppin' wiv thet theer clergyman son ov 'ers. It's a-cured 'er. I lunno 'ow it's bin done; but thet it has bin done is the Gawd's truth, I'm a-tellin' yer.""You relieve me very much. Then are they all at Winterstowe?""No, they ain't. You 'aven't bin a-listenin' to wot I 'aves bin

a-sayin'. Ain't I jes' done a-tellin' yer there's nobody theer cep'

Miss Mary?" she said severely. "Ever so many queer things 'ave bin

'appenin' 'ere. They're all agoin' to Canada, sir—the whole bloomin' lot. Mister, 'e's got some grand billet hout theer. Things are pretty lively wiv hus jes' at present, I kin tell you. But Miss Mary, she's peaky, an' she didn't oughter be lef dahn theer by 'erself, 'er bein' the pick ov the market bunch.""Thank you for all the information you have given me, Mrs. Polgarth," said Frew, presenting her with a crown-piece, at which she looked with an odd little smile.She dropped him a little curtsey as she opened the door to let him out, but she waited until he was at the bottom of the steps before she called out, "Chinge at Dalston fer Winterstowe, sir!"Then she ran in, chuckling to herself.Mrs. Polgarth was no fool. In the appearance of Mr. Frew, who had gained her favourable opinion by his liberality at the Calladines' door, she imagined that she had found the key to her dear Miss Mary's discontent."Theer's allus a man at the reel bottom ov everythink thet 'appens in a woman's life—speshully wen it's trouble. But 'e's a civil-spoken gent an' free wiv 'is money—thet I must say ov 'im! Looks as if theer wouldn't be any Canada fer Miss Mary."Frew went back to smoke a quiet pipe in his studio and to ponder on the wisdom and expediency of writing another letter to Mary Calladine. He did at last decide to write. But, when written, the letter was thrust into the log fire, which, though the weather was mild and soft, he was glad to have owing to his missing the cheerful sunshine of the East.On Saturday afternoon, after a careful survey of a map and a time-table, he made his way to Winterstowe. The journey thither scarcely pleased him, for the area through which the train moved, with numerous and annoying stoppages, was flat and ugly.Unaware of the convenience of the High station, he alighted from the train at its lower end, and, in conse-quence, he had a long walk through the ugly, depressing, but uncommonly lively streets of the little town. Those through which he passed differed in no way from certain metropolitan areas, where the barrow-merchant is permitted full license.But among all the heterogeneous mass of merchandise—stale fish, doubtful looking meat, etc., exposed to the dust of the roadway—the barrows of the flower-vendors made welcome relief. "Daffs a penny a market bunch!" "Vi'lets, sweet vi'lets fresh this mornin'!"—such appeals made him stop to buy.When he got to the gate of the little Manse he had an armful of pheasant-eye narcissus and three big bunches of sweet-smelling violets, at which Rose Hawkins gave a little sniff of delight when she answered the bell."No, sir, Miss Mary ain't in. She's gone for a walk in the Forest.""How long ago? And have you any idea what direction she took?" inquired Mr. Frew eagerly."Yessir. She said she would walk as far as Highclere, Mr. Belford's place. You go up the road to Robin 'Ood Inn, sir, and then tike the turnin' to the lef.""I don't know Robin Hood Inn, but I dare say I shall find some one to direct me," said Frew, marvelling that both Mrs. Polgarth and this clear-eyed damsel should be so officious in giving him information as to the most direct route by which he could find Miss Mary!"Take the flowers in, will you? If I don't come back, they are for Miss Calladine.""Yessir. Oh, ain't they sweet?" she said as she took them from his hand. "I'll sort 'em out and 'ave tea ready, as Miss Mary told me, abart five o'clock."She spoke with a little friendly air which, for some reason or other, Frew found comforting. He only waited to be further directed as to which turning he must take to get to the Forest, and then strode off with the feeling that it was the high adventure he was upon and that he had reasonable hope of a happy ending.Although he had lived in London the most of his life, Frew had never been to Epping Forest and but seldom to Hampstead Heath. Somehow he had associated both pleasure-grounds with the presence of hordes of undesirable people who would desecrate any possible beauty with their hideous din.When he left the beaten track and plunged into the cool, green depths of the trees, following the direction offered by a friendly ranger, he was more than surprised at what he saw. It seemed incredible that these heavenly miles of solitude and beauty could be spread so near to the gates of London and yet be so little known! Even if he should not succeed in finding Mary he had learned something, namely, the amazing extent of his own ignorance.It was an exquisite day of April's sweetest mood, the sun high in the heavens but shining softly through a haze like a bridal veil. Not a breath stirred the budding tree-tops, while everywhere moved the breath and the pulse of spring, stealing into the man's responsive heart with bewitching lure.He had companions on the highway, but presently, when he turned up the less frequented road towards Highclere, he found himself alone.And he was glad of it, because something told him that here it was he should find Mary, that here it was that the momentous words should be spoken which would either leave him with a sense of irreparable loss or would cause the rest of his life to blossom like a rose. Surely there could be no more fitting hour or place for such a meeting as he contemplated, and he blessed the happy chance that had ordained it for him.He saw her afar off before she was aware of his approach. She was sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, a little way back from the road and yet within call of the lodge gate of Highclere. She had taken her hat off, and it was lying on the pine-needles at her feet, her chin was resting on her hand, and she seemed to be studying intently a piece of paper outspread on her lapFrew's heart leaped as he caught sight of the delicate lilac hue of the thin sheet of foreign paper, a quantity of which he had bought in the English library in Tunis, and the first sheet of which he had used to write to Mary Calladine.As he made his way through the trees towards her he saw a squirrel dart across the path, pause a moment, delicately poised, to look at the figure sitting there, all unconscious of his vivid little presence; and he smiled at the pretty and interesting sight.It was an ideal spot, an ideal hour, and a scene which he never would forget. He had pictured himself standing humbly before her in the ugly little Victorian drawing-room at Whitcombe Square, pleading his cause with such eloquence as it was possible for him to muster in such an environment—and lo! he had a setting for his love idyll such as a poet would have chosen had he had a choice! He blessed the happy fate that had arranged it all so wisely and so kindly.Presently, hearing nothing, yet sensitively conscious of the approach of some one, Mary raised her head and saw him. Then she sprang to her feet, crushed the letter in her hand, thrust it into her pocket, and instinctively raised her hand to hide the crimson that flooded her cheek. He advanced slowly, giving her time to recover her composure, and when they met their greeting was quiet, and, to Mary, quite reassuring."I suppose you have been at the house? I am sorry I was not at home to receive you.""I am not sorry that you were out—I am glad. What meeting-place could be better than this? I am amazed beyond power of telling at the beauty of this place. How is it possible that we Londoners can live in such colossal ignorance of our heritage?"Mary smiled."I had no idea of the loveliness and charm of the Forest before Edgar came to live here," she said simply. "I had always associated it with the presence of horrid Bank Holiday crowds and with squirts, and shrimps, and costers' barrows!""These are not so remote after all. I passed through battalions of them in the town.""Oh, you got out at the wrong station! The High Station is not distant more than three or four minutes' walk from the Manse. Did you find the house all right?""Easily.""And when did you come back to London?""Thursday night. I called at your house at Whitcombe Square last night, only to find Mrs. Polgarth in possession.""She told you things, I suppose," said Mary, as she began to put her hat on the hair in whose meshes the sunlight had been caught.Frew was amazed—as Edgar had once or twice been—at the ruddy gleam upon it."I don't want you to put on that hat," he said in playful jealousy."Oh, but I must put it on. It was quiet here, and I didn't think that anybody would come who would notice it. Shall we walk on a bit? I have never been quite so far up as this, but I rather wanted to have a look at this house. It belongs to some friends of Edgar's—the Belfords. He has gone down to Mitcham to spend the Easter week-end with one of the sons.""Let us plunge in among the trees. Nothing to prevent us, I suppose?" suggested Frew."Oh—nothing. But it is very easy to get lost by taking the wrong turn.""That wouldn't matter. Any turning to-day is going to be right for us, I hope," said Frew recklessly."Oh, but we might wander for hours and hours," remonstrated Mary."So much the better. Then we might come across pixies and fairies and little woodmen, all of whom possess the secret of happy living!" he said, with the whimsical smile characteristic of him."You are just a baby after all," said Mary, wondering at the happy beating of her heart. "No nice man ever grows up! It is we women who are born old and tired. Now, tell me how much, or how little, of our affairs you have heard from Polly?""The only thing I heard that concerned me was where I could find you. She waxed eloquent on the subject of doormats, and she hurled directions after me while I was going down the steps as to how the doormat could be reached!"His tone was still whimsical, and Mary cast a side glance at him, wondering just what serious meaning and purpose lay hidden under this happy nonsense."I suppose she suggested that it was I who was the doormat. That's a favourite expression of hers. Polly wasn't born a minute too soon! I shouldn't wonder if, after she retires into private life, she should become an ardent suffragist and make a useful doormat of Polgarth."Frew laughed."She likewise said something about an exodus to Canada. Tell me, where are your father and mother?""They have gone to Westgate to spend a few days. Winnie is at Mitcham with Edgar, and Esther is in Paris with the Raeburns.""Indeed! Since when have they been there? I passed through Paris on my way home. I am glad I did not run across them.""They went off only on Thursday, so you must have passed them on the way. I should like to tell you that we have had experience of both happiness and anxiety during the time you have been away. We hope—no, we are sure—that my mother is quite well now. The thing that Edgar confidently expected has come to pass. She has been cured here.""Ah—the result of the rest and of the complete change of environment and scene," said Frew readily.But Mary emphatically shook her head."No, no—it isn't that at all! She has had lots of changes in the last ten years or so. It is the result of something quite different—something which ordinary people don't understand. I am beginning to realise the meaning of the spiritual power which drew Edgar right out of the midst of us and put him where he now is. That power has laid hold of mother. The effect has been precisely such as one finds in the case of a patient suffering from a bodily disease when a clever physician or surgeon grips it. She is cured."Frew slightly lifted his hat—a little action which startled Mary but pleased her too. What pleased her was that it was the sense of reverence, with which so many of us have parted, that inspired the little spontaneous gesture."I take off my hat to the Power that has wrought the miracle. I need not, I hope, say how glad it makes me to know that your anxieties in that direction are over.""It is going to make the most astonishing difference to us. Of course we hardly yet realise all the difference it will make. Did Polly enlarge on Canada? You see, she has been about us so long and is so fond of us all that naturally one tells her things.""She told me that your father had got a post in Canada and that you were all going out.""She was so far right. He has been offered a managing director's place and is going to Vancouver to superintend the import business there. Amazing, isn't it? And you never saw what a change it has made in him! Why, it has taken ten years and more off his life!""I quite believe it. Then do you migrate as a family to the Pacific coast?""Well, you see, the whole thing has happened so recently that we haven't had time to thrash out the pros and cons of it. Frank has not been home since my father got his promotion. But at least Winnie and I will go out with father and mother. You see, my occupation is gone just at the moment. Edgar may ask me to stay with him. But I haven't been thinking much about that or anything else. I have been so tired you can't think! For two days I have done nothing but sleep and read and lounge about, and I have had no qualms of conscience about having my breakfast in bed! I have been having the time of my life.""But that sort of existence would pall after a time, "suggested Frew, smiling into her happy face."Why, of course it would! In a little while I should be longing for the lower regions at Whitcombe, and would positively ache for the whisk of a broom. It's just a phase I have been experiencing. One experiences many of them, and they all pass. It is a new sensation for me to feel superfluous—that is all. You never saw anything like the way in which mother swept me from my perch! Of course it was the right thing for her to do—the only possible thing, and her doing it showed me just how radical the cure is. But—but——"She turned her head swiftly away, but the movement was not so quick as to prevent his observing the quiver of her lip."From my point of view the upheaval has hap-pened opportunely," he said quickly. "It will at least take away the only valid excuse you could offer for not taking pity on me."She made him no answer, and they walked on a few steps in silence. Then, quite suddenly, at a little clearing where some tree trunks lay, Mary paused."Let us sit down here for a little while and—and—talk about your letter."The words that she uttered and the tone in which she spoke rather took Frew aback and gave him a distinct chill. Not in such measured accents does love speak, balancing this consideration and that.Mary seated herself, and he stood near her and waited with one hand thrust in his pocket and with an expression of slight disappointment visible on his face."It is such a big thing," she pleaded, imagining that it was displeasure she saw there. "Don't you think that, above all, one must be sure?""I am sure enough. It is the only thing I have ever been absolutely certain about in my life," he said hotly.She hesitated for a moment, wondering whether she should mention Esther's name or Raeburn's, but half afraid to do so."I am waiting for my answer," he said, assuming patience. "Please, don't keep me waiting too long.""It is more difficult than I expected. Before you came I thought it would be quite easy to discuss and explain," she faltered."Both discussion and explanation are fatal in most of the affairs of life. Let's do things. Let's marry, Mary, and take our chance.""Oh, but there is so much to be afraid of! We really don't know each other well—hardly at all.""I'm sorry that's how you feel! I've always known you—known you since the beginning of time!""But, you see, we must both feel as you do before it can really be all right. I am not sure whether I should be the right kind of wife for you.""But I am sure," he repeated. "And, after all, it is I who am seeking a wife," he added whimsically."Yes—oh yes, I know that! But, then, you see, I should be miserable if you should be disappointed afterwards. You know how I have been brought up and how I have lived.""What has that to do with it?""It has everything to do with it. Your position is different from mine. Perhaps I should not be able to be all you desire to you or to your friends.""I am satisfied. Don't quibble, dear woman. If you don't care enough for me to take all the risks, say so frankly. Then we shall know where we are.""Then I will," she said, with a little sigh of relief. "I am not sure. If I were quite sure I should not hesitate for a moment, for I know how happy you could make a woman——""But not you?" he interpolated quickly."Don't interrupt," she said quickly and with a strange hardness. "I am not even sure whether I don't care for some one else.""Ah, if that is so, it alters the case!" he said, and his tone dropped. "Shall we go back now?"Mary looked at him with a sudden sense of apprehension."If you wish," she said humbly, and, rising from the trunk of the old tree, she shook out her skirts, and they turned their faces down the hill to where the blue smoke from the little town hung in the valley.Frew made no attempt to make conversation or to hide his chagrin. Mary felt herself tongue-tied.After the few remarks that she made about the objects they passed on the way, the beauty of the Forest, the joy it must ever be to those who loved it, had been acknowledged by merely monosyllabic answers she ceased making any further effort to talk.When they came out to the broad road and the houses were in sight Frew stood still for a second."Is your High Station anywhere near here?" he asked blankly."It is not far. You take that slanting path," she said, pointing towards it, "and go down the little lane. But won't you come back to tea? I am sure it will be ready by this time. It is very inhospitable to let you go away in this fashion."His eyes for a few moments dwelt upon her face. Its wistfulness appealed to him, and he appeared to pull himself together."I need not behave like a spoiled child," he said at last with a half-smile."Yes—I'll come back to tea."The balance was restored, and he seemed to exert himself to entertain her. But the sudden realisation of her own power over him rather frightened Mary Calladine and sent all her pulses fluttering.When they got back to the little Manse Rosie had spread a bower of flowers for them in the dining-room, and tea was laid."You brought these for me!" said Mary, her eyes liquid with appreciation as she fingered the sweet-smelling messengers."A mere handful. The lot did not cost me half-a-crown. There are some things cheap in Winterstowe."Mary coloured, left the room under pretext of seeing that tea was ready, and remained away for quite five minutes.But they did not talk very happily after she returned, and the meal was a mere pretence, so far as eating was concerned."It will have to be a long good-bye, then, if you are going to Canada," he said when, having looked up his time-table, he was preparing to go.She looked startled."Oh, but we shall not be going out there for four or five months. Shall we not see you at Whitcombe Square before we leave?""What would be the good?" he asked gloomily. " No, I think—I can't face that. This isn't a play, you know, dear woman, to a man like me. It's the only time it has happened or will ever happen. I shall have to adjust my point of view, and, until you leave London, I shall endeavour to be out of England as much as possible.""Oh, but that would be dreadful! What about your work?""That is still mine, thank God," he answered, with a single touch of passion. "Good-bye."Mary hesitated a moment and clasped her hands, while all the colour receded from her face."Oh, but I can't let you go in that way. I can't! I didn't know it meant so much. Let me—let me try!"But he shook his head sternly."I want you badly, my dear, but your pity would slay the best that is in me.""But—perhaps," she said, shyly as a girl, "it might be more than pity, for I know now that I don't want you to pass away altogether out of my life."So hesitating, a little uncertain, because personal happiness had hitherto appeared to be beyond her reach, Mary entered into her kingdom!CHAPTER XXVITHE LORD REIGNETH"OH, mummy, I do wish the day would pass more quickly!"The speaker, a dainty figure in white, the skirt short enough to display a pair of very neat ankles and of light shoes tied with an immense ribbon-bow, flitted to and fro on the verandah with all the impatience of a child. Her hair, worn low and rippling on either side of her pretty head, caught the gleam of the sun, which shone benignly from a sky of radiant, illimitable blue.The frame-house of white picked out with green stood high on a wooded knoll overlooking English Bay at Vancouver—one of the most wonderful pictures in the world.Not so many years back that glorious inlet, with its fringe of tree-clad slope, had been unknown to all save the Indians and the trappers, while at the same period the magnificent Park which extended from the city to the sea had been virgin forest. And now a great and growing city stretched away inland, and those who loved the sea had built themselves homes within sight and sound of the rolling swell of the Pacific waves.On that perfect summer day, however, there was neither swell nor wave on the spreading vista of water—only a gentle ripple flashing in the sun. It was warm, but the heat was not intolerable. It was tempered by the breeze from the sea, and frequent showers refreshed blade and flower.It was astonishing to behold the exquisite little lawn in front of the house, gay with geraniums and other brightly-coloured flowers; and the many who, in passing, admired the pretty homestead had little idea of the constant and loving care expended on it in order to keep it in such an ideal state of verdant beauty and perfection of bloom. That little strip of garden ground was tended early and late, watered in season and out of season, and amply did it repay those whose care it was.Special pains had been taken with it in the last weeks that it might be made more than ordinarily beautiful for the travellers from across the ocean who would that day see it for the first time.Winnie Calladine might have been seen any morning at five o'clock on the lawn, the pleasant whirr of the little mower adding to the cheerful morning stir.And now all was ready, even to the meal which could be seen through the verandah door, spread temptingly on the long table in the living-room. The two women on the verandah were finding the time of waiting long; but, knowing the vagaries of the Imperial Limited Express in respect of punctuality, especially in the time of the tourist rush, they had been persuaded to remain quietly at home and receive the travellers there.Calladine, from his office, could get in touch by telephone with the depot and thus find out just the moment at which the train would arrive, and he would then hasten to meet it.Mrs. Calladine, attired in white also and looking nearly as young

as her youngest daughter, was lying back on a deck, simulating the

restfulness she was far from feeling. A piece of bright-coloured

knitting lay across her lap, and she had a rose in her belt and twin

roses on her cheeks. Her expression was one of perfect happiness and contentment, and, if she had been asked to put her opinion of the new world into words, she might quite fitly have said, "It is a goodly heritage!"To very many, the far land across the seas which beckons and swallows so many of our people proves at first sight and on first experience deeply disappointing. When too much has been expected, when the dreams have been too roseate, when all the flattering promises of those interested have proved exaggeration—then is appointment is easy, nay sure.But to the Calladines the golden city of the west had shown itself far kinder and more generous than they had ever dreamed it would. Knowing little, asking less, accepting life under the conditions of the new era as a splendid solution of many problems, they had simply come out to make a new home, unaware, to begin with, of the size and prosperity of Vancouver, and most certainly wholly unprepared for its incomparable beauty.Then Calladine, as the head and representative of a firm already well known in two continents for straight dealing and sound merchandise, had not had to wait—as many thousands of his countrymen have to do—for recognition or place. A certain dignity in his personality singled him out from the hustling crowd, and in a short time he found himself occupying a position of honour and responsibility in the city of his adoption. Several public offices, in themselves unimportant but offered only to those who are worthy, were thrust upon him, and the result, to a man of Calladine's experience and temperament, was little short of amazing. The gloom lifted from his heart and life, he seemed, in a sense and for the first time, to become a man with all his faculties alert and vivid.Sometimes, looking at and listening to him, his wife thought she must have dreamed those terrible, grey London days when, as a mere insignificant part of a commercial machine, he had laboured for so much a week, and was not expected to have opinions or individuality of his own.Also in his new home he had found a personal happiness to which he had until then been a stranger.The change in Mrs. Calladine's life and heart had been lasting, and it had deepened as the time went on. Eighteen months had passed since she had left Winterstowe, and that very morning, as Calladine kissed her at the door, he had said jokingly, yet with a wealth of tender meaning in his voice, "I have a new wife every day!""Ah, but it's the old one you care about, isn't it?" she had answered quickly and with a catch in her voice.Winnie, the only one of the family who had accompanied them, had settled down with all the heart in the world. But little wonder was it that she was excited and restless now, for were not she and her mother waiting with what patience they could command in expectation every minute of the arrival of Mary and her husband as their first visitors from the old land?"I do believe that I must 'phone to dad, mummy, and ask whether nothing has been heard of the train yet. It's already three hours overdue, so surely it can't be long now of coming."At that very moment her ear caught the tinkle of the telephone bell, which caused her to dart into the living-room and lay hold of the receiver."The train will be in twenty minutes' time, mummy, and they'll be here in less than an hour! Oh, glory be!—gee, whizz!""Winnie, Winnie!" called her mother, as if shocked at her daughter's use of such expressions.But the reproof was such a mere pretence that it ended in a laugh as Winnie came pirouetting back on one foot to the verandah matting."Now, I wonder how old Mary will look and whether I shall ever have the courage to call that grand husband of hers Dudley! Oh, motherie, isn't it all wonderful how their marriage came about after knowing each other for only such a short time? If they want to take me back on a visit—as Mary said they would—will you let them?"She knelt on the matting by her mother's side, and lifted her big eyes to her mother's face with a most imploring look in them."We'll have to see what father says about that. But what should we do without our baby? Besides, if she went away, she might never come back any more.""Oh, but she would! A long visit to Mary, a little one to Esther, a look round at everybody—and then, hey for home! I like this place, mummy, and I never want to leave you and dad."But the watchful mother imagined that a scarcely perceptible sigh followed hard upon the utterance of the brave words.She smoothed the bright hair, and her eyes were eloquent of all a mother's tenderness and hope."It's a fairy tale, mummy—all that has happened to us! Some day I am going to write the whole of it down for the help and encouragement of all the people who have dismal grey lives like ours were at old Whitcombe. But we had fun too, hadn't we, sometimes? Oh, to think that both my sisters are married!—and I not there to see! One thing Mary will be able to tell us. We shall now hear all about Esther and her grand mansion, for which poor old Angus has to pay."They were still in reminiscent mood when Winnie, from her particular coign of vantage at the far end of the verandah, whence she could just get a glimpse of the last lap of the road, announced the coming of a carriage."And there's somebody on the box-seat, mummy. Now, who can it be, for the carriage is a big old thing, and there must be plenty of room for three inside."Presently a little shade of awe seemed to gather in her eyes, and then her colour began to rise."Mummy—mummy! it's—it's Harry Belford!"She ran from her perch, flung her arms round her mother's neck, and then incontinently disappeared.Somewhat disturbed as well as surprised, Mrs. Calladine rose, laid her knitting on the little table by the side of the lounge-chair, and, descending the steps, made for the front of the house.Colonial fashion, there were neither gates nor fences to bar the outside world, but only the smooth velvet edge of the grass which grew right up to the wooden pavement, and then there stretched the roadway beyond. And there, sure enough, was a young, fresh-faced, and very English-looking lad waving his straw hat to Mrs. Calladine.But another, and a greater, and wholly delightful surprise was in store for her. Presently, as the vehicle drew up at the steps, the first person whom she saw alight was no other than Edgar in a grey travelling suit and a slouch hat, his thin, eager face tanned with the sun, and his eyes aglow with all the joy and yearning of his soul."Oh, Ed, my precious boy! Oh, Mary! Oh, father!" faltered the happy but agitated woman. "You didn't ought to have done this! It's too much for me all of a sudden. Oh, my dears, my dears! Why ever did you! How good God is to me!"She was in Edgar's arms, and Mary, with her soft grey veil, which she wore with incomparable grace, thrown back from her sweet face, was clinging to her from behind, while Frew and Harry Belford, feeling oddly moved, began to mount the verandah steps, fully conscious that they had no immediate part in this great reunion.And there, in the doorway of the living-room, stood the radiant vision of Winnie with the pink in her cheeks and a light in her eyes which could have but one meaning.Frew pushed forward in advance of Belford and kissed her cheek."Hulloa, little sister! Grows younger every day, doesn't she, Harry?""I couldn't wait," said the young fellow as he bent low over the hand that she shyly offered to him. "A year, you said, I think. Well, in six weeks the time will be up, and, if I stop here all that time, it'll even things up, won't it?"Winnie smiled and ran in, saying that she must see to Mary's room; and presently they had all bundled up the steps and the family reunion was complete."What a magnificent spot!" said Frew, looking with keen eyes of appreciation across the wide sweep of water with its picturesque setting. "You have never done justice to it—any of you—in your meagre descriptions. Fine, isn't it, Mary?" added he, turning to his wife."Dear, at the moment I can't see anything but the dear faces," said Mary, all of a tremble.And her mother, seeing how it was with her, drew her in; and presently mother and daughter were quite alone in the guest-chamber which had been decked with such loving pride."And how are you, my precious?""Right, mother—quite, quite right—and so happy! Ah, there is Win! Isn't this a great day, Win?" said she, as she stepped forward to embrace her sister. "Though what they will say to us for bringing another marauder on the scene I don't know!""Who's a marauder?" cried Winnie rather defiantly."Why, Harry Belford. Everybody knows what he has come for. When, at the last moment, Edgar found that he could get away for six weeks, Harry simply walked to the steamship office and paid, I don't know what, for a berth. He bribed some American man with whom he had a slight acquaintance to wait for the next boat. So here we are, and we've had a lovely voyage. I wasn't much good for the first few days, but soon I felt all right and we were a very happy party. Now then, mother, I must look my fill at you!" she said, again turning to address her. "Why, whatever has Canada done for you? you don't look a day more than twenty-five. And a white frock, too! But it is lovely to see you and father looking so happy and bright!""God's dealing with us has been wonderful, Mary—just wonderful. But tell me about Esther, and Frank?""Esther is very well, and she sent her love," said Mary, but a little shade seemed to creep into her face and voice. "We have heaps of time to talk later, and I am glad of it, for I have so much I want to tell you about. Frank came to Liverpool and saw us off. I could see where his heart was, poor boy!""Father thinks there will be an opening for him here in the spring, as a traveller between this place and Japan. Wouldn't that be splendid?""Splendid! Will it be settled soon?""Yes—immediately after Mr. Waterhouse has been here in October. He was afraid of the summer heat in Canada, and so he is waiting till the fall. You do look well, Mary—and such pretty clothes!""Dudley designed this coat, mother, and it was made in Paris. He does spoil me!""No fear. You don't and won't spoil, my dear. You're not built that way.""Oh, but yes! You have no idea how selfish he is helping to make me. I expect and look for all sorts of things now, which I hardly knew existed before!""But you are happy, my dear—happy as a wife should be with her own husband, Mary?" said her mother almost solemnly.An expression of indescribable sweetness crossed Mary's face."Oh, mother, I didn't know that it was possible to be so happy! Dudley is good! It is a pleasure to live beside him—and a help. And he lets me be interested in his work, and all his friends have been so kind to me. He's going to tell you that I have revived the Salon in the unfashionable neighbourhood of St. John's Wood, only you must not believe all his nonsense. He is such a boy, mother. I keep telling him that he will never grow up.""Let him be like that as long as he can. It's only the best men who are like it. But, now I see you without your hat, you seem thinner."Mary smiled a little unsteadily."It's all right, dear mother. I am so glad to come now to see you, because—because next year it would not have been so easy.""Oh, my Mary—and I will see you with a baby on your breast—what every woman ought to have! If they all had them—then there wouldn't be so much misery and discontent in the world! Only, I won't be there to show you how to manage," she said with a little sigh.Winnie's bell-like voice called them at the moment, telling them that the rest were waiting for tea.If there was a happier household than that in the whole province of British Columbia, it would at any rate have been difficult to find it. Every face at the long table simply beamed at every other, and there was a babel of talk, with little odd breaks which might mean anything or nothing, a tear now and again, and a smile that was akin to it, and so an incomparable hour was whiled away.Perhaps of all those assembled in that happy home there was none whose heart beat with such a true and deep thrill of gratitude as Edgar's. But for him this could never have been. He had cried to God to undertake for them in their extremity, had co-operated with Him, spared himself not at all, taken all risks cheerfully, and lo, the fruit of his hands!At a late hour that night he sat alone with his father and mother on the verandah in the white moonlight. All the rest of the household had gone to bed. And there he began to speak about himself."I have been offered the pastorship of the Bridge-water Chapel, and I have accepted. I shall take up my new work in October.""Bridgewater Chapel?" said his mother, sitting forward. "I seem to remember the name. On the Surrey side, isn't it?""Yes—in the very heart of the London poor, mother, and the work will be tremendous.""You never was afraid of work, Ed. None of my children have been or are," she said, with the natural pride of a mother. "But whatever will poor Winter-stowe do without you? Don't the people want you to stop?"A slight expression of pain crossed Edgar's face."Oh, yes. But there comes a time in the history of a church, when a change is good for all concerned. I tried to point this out to them and, after a while, they saw that it was so and released me, if not gladly, at least willingly.""Sounds as if you thought they'd had too much of you," said Mrs. Calladine, jealously. "They'll never get another to do what you did there, I know!""Perhaps it will not be necessary that the next man should do so much. Everything is in first-rate working order, and he will only have to carry on what has been already begun.""It won't be the same, and that Winterstowe folk will soon find out," she said confidently."Tell us something more about the new place, Edgar. I suppose you will get a larger salary," his father said, speaking for the first time."Oh yes—about seven hundred, I think. I have not thought so very much about that. But, for many reasons, I am glad to return to London. I suppose a big London charge is the Mecca of most clergymen's dreams and ambitions; and, anyhow, it's the Lord's work wherever it is, and I am glad that it has come in my way."There was a brief silence; then he spoke again."There will be another change in my life in the late autumn," he went on quite quietly. "I am going to marry Florence Belford.""There!" cried his mother, sitting back with an air of great satisfaction. "I always knew it would come. I am glad, son. She's nearly good enough. And there's one thing—she'll understand your work, and she won't be above taking a part in it."She leaned forward and kissed him, and his father shook hands with him rather solemnly and without saying a word."Do you ever see Esther, Edgar?" his mother asked after a brief pause of silence, and there was rather an anxious note in her voice. "I somehow didn't like the little Mary said about her. Are she and Angus happy, do you think?"Edgar Calladine pondered his words before he spoke them. He had his own quite definite opinion regarding Esther and the use she was making of her life. But it was no portion of the teaching of his creed to make a parade of the mistakes of others."I see her just very occasionally. But I met Angus by appointment in the city one day about a month ago and had a talk with him. It was after I decided to go to Bridgewater and had made up my mind to have my holiday here.""Well, and was he cheerful and bright?" queried his mother rather wistfully."I fanced him rather worried. They are living in a house of a three-hundred pound rent, and other expenses are in keeping—and Angus is a young man yet, with his way to make.""Did he say he was worried?" asked Mrs. Calladine, unwilling to drop the subject."No—Angus isn't a Scotsman for nothing! He doesn't talk about his feelings, but I thought he looked worried and perceptibly older.""He oughtn't to give in to Esther's folly," said Calladine with a touch of his old sternness. "A man is to blame, if he permits the extravagance he can't afford.""Esther would always have the best of everything," his wife said with a little reminiscent sigh, "and she was not too particular about how she got it or who had to pay for it. But perhaps when she has a lot of little children her heart will be softened. God does such a lot through little children, my dears!"Edgar shook his head. His own private opinion was that the chances of motherhood, where Esther was concerned, were remote. She belonged to the new, strange order of womanhood—happily a small body, for it is always a menace to private happiness and the public good—who shirk the first responsibility and call of their sex while at the same time demanding all its rights and privileges."Whatever brought young Belford here, Ed?" his mother asked, struck by a fresh thought."Why, Winnie, of course—nothing else. I've always known it would come off, since that never-to-be-forgotten visit of ours to Mitcham."Tears started in Mrs. Calladine's eyes."Well, I never! So we're gettin' them planted out, old man! Soon we'll be left like two solitary crows on the last bough. Going to bed, Ed?" she said as he rose from his chair. "Why, I'm as wide awake as if it were six o'clock in the morning instead of twelve o'clock at night!""I didn't sleep well on the train. The arrangements leave something to be desired even yet," he said, smiling. "Good-night, father and mother. I believe that I shall be too happy to sleep to-night, tired though I am. You must come to England in the course of a year or two and visit all the homes you have planted. I can foresee which one your hearts will love best.""Which?" asked Mrs. Calladine eagerly."Mary's—it's perfect," he said. "She's the type the world wants and must have, if it is ever to reach the millennium."After he had gone the father and mother, who had so many strange years behind them and so much glowing hope in front, stood just a moment together by the verandah rail, looking on the wonderful picture outspread before them in the white moonlight. From afar, in a gentle cadence, came the boom of the Pacific surf."Say, father," said Annie Calladine, "isn't it wonderful, all this! you and me standing here in our very own home and them all asleep about us—all but Esther and Frank, and he'll be here soon! Who'd ever have thought it two years back—eh?"Paul Calladine had not a word to say. Thought, unutterable, almost overwhelming, surged over him in a great flood. At all times a silent, repressed man, he was never more so than when, as now, a rare emotion held him in thrall."Tired, Paul?" she said, and she put up her wifely hand to stroke his cheek.The next moment his own was against hers, and he held her close."I thank God for them all, but most of all for you, dear wife," he said.And as Annie Calladine listened to these words, pregnant with hidden meaning, and recognised the greatness of the thing the Lord had done, her cup overflowed.Above the old world and the new the stars kept their course,

proclaiming that the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth.THE ENDPrinted by Hasell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.