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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: A Young Man from the Country, an electronic edition
Author: Albanesi, Effie Adelaide Maria 1866-1936
Publisher: Hurst and Blackett, Limited
Place published: London
Date: 1906
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 Front cover of Albanesi's "A Young Man from the Country"A YOUNG MAN FROM THE COUNTRYA Young Man from  the Country BY MADAME ALBANESIAUTHOR OF
"The Brown Eyes of Mary,"  "Capricious Caroline,"  "Susannah and One Elder,"  &c. London Hurst and Blackett,
Limited 1906 All rights reserved THE CHAPEL RIVER PRESS  KINGSTON SURREY TOBICE, MRS. W. LUCASA YOUNG MAN FROM THE COUNTRY.
CHAPTER I.IT had been a wet week. The splendour of the autumn had broken suddenly, and a strong west wind bearing on its wings the salt of the sea from whence it came had swept the country in blustering and vehement fashion. It was rain laden too, and in a very little while the little world round and about Winchbourne, the world which had been so golden and so glorious only a short time before, wore a depressed and a beaten look.The village itself was fairly sheltered, for the road here dipped a little, and the few houses which formed the pretence of a street seemed to have grown together as though realising their isolation and the need of neighbourliness.Patricia Prentice always declared that it was like going into a hothouse to pass through the village, but then Patricia had quaint ideas--ideas that were peculiarly her own. For instance, when all the rest of Winchbourne community garbed itself in a respect-able manner to speed the passing of the summer and

meet the coming of the western wind, Patricia would steal out of the house whenever she could find an opportunity and would spend hours tramping the country-side, tempest tossed and rain drenched but utterly impervious to damp or discomfort, only conscious of an irrepressible delight which the battle with the strong wind brought her. The wildness of the storm said so much to Patricia.
It might be safely asserted that few other persons in and about Winchbourne regarded the breaking up of the late pleasant weather with amiability; in fact, it was generally conceded that nothing could have been more unfortunate, or ill-timed, than the coming of the wind and the rain at this particular moment. From afar, where she laughed aloud in mischievous glee, the girl had watched each day the hopeless attempts made to decorate the village in honour of the bride and bridegroom who were due to return to Winchbourne Court from their honey-moon now almost directly.If the character of their future was to be expressed in untoward signs and gloomy skies, then apparently there was to be singularly little joy in store for Sir Francis and Lady Amelia Heatherington. For the nearer the day drew on which they were to arrive from their sojourn in Italy, the greyer and the colder grew the country to which they were coming (even to Patricia's ears there seemed to be a cry of despair in the shrill, keen wind), and as fast as willing hands put up the archway, just outside the old, old church, and tried to festoon the erection with red bunting, and gay banners, so did the rain beat upon these things, and the fierce wind rend and destroy them.It was really Patricia's sister who settled the question of the decorations.
"Of course they must be done away with. It's simply waste of time and money," Sheila Prentice said in her cold decisive way to the rector and Mrs. Bartingale. "I am quite sure that the sooner Frank and his wife are through with the long drive from the station to the Court in this detestable weather the better they will be pleased. It would not be altogether agreeable for them to be smothered in wet bunting, which is what must be expected if this preposterous archway is persisted in."The rector found an early opportunity for retiring from the controversy. He knew that he would hear all about it later on, and Mrs. Bartingale did not disappoint him. She was more than usually exasperated, and denounced Miss Prentice's interference loudly. "Of late," said the rector's wife, "Sheila has grown positively unbearable. Really, she presumes too much! And as for Patricia, she is as bad in another way, so flippant and hoydenish. Poor Mrs. Prentice had little reason to be grateful to you when you persuaded her into allowing Patricia to go to Germany; the girl has been quite different ever since. I never have approved, as you know, of these foreign places for study. Patricia could have had all the musical education she wanted here. Thank God! my girls have never gone out of my sight!"The rector mingled a fair share of discretion with his godliness, but something moved him to say now very gently:"My dear! I think you are a little hard on Patsy. The child is simply high-spirited and young, and life

is beautiful to her. I should be sorry to think her studies in Germany had harmed her in any way. As to Sheila, I grant you she is less easy to deal with, but I do not think she means to annoy you."Patricia had been home from Leipsic nearly a year when the village was making such futile attempts to show decorative expression of good wishes to the home-coming of the husband and wife who were the "big" people of the neighbourhood. Of course, Mrs. Prentice had her own position, unassailable in a sense, but she lacked that which Sir Francis possessed in such abundance--money.Winchbourne Court had passed to the young man about a couple of years before his marriage; it had been in the possession of an old couple for many, many years, and though, as the heir to the property, young Heatherington had been down frequently to see his uncle and aunt, especially in the shooting season, he was as yet something of an unknown quantity to the people among whom he was going to live.With the inmates of Pitt Place he had always been intimate, however. There was the slightest suggestion of kinship between the Prentice family and the Heatheringtons, indeed it had been whispered rather audibly in the village at the time of his marriage that Sir Francis's choice of a wife had signified a bitter disappointment to the woman who lived so proudly and austerely at Pitt Place. Assuredly Sheila Prentice would have made a very charming mistress of Winchbourne Court; no one conceded that more certainly than Patricia, who had a love for her sister which bordered on adoration. At the same time, Patricia was not sorry that Sir Francis should have

married someone else. "Because I don't want you to marry anyone; there isn't a man in the world good enough for my Sheila," she had declared once when she had been alone with her sister one night, and had been granted the joy and privilege of brushing that sister's magnificent hair."I wish you wouldn't talk such rubbish," Sheila had answered, almost snappishly. It was the usual rule now for Sheila to be snappish and disagreeable.
Before Patricia had gone to Leipsic for that memorable year of hard work and almost incredible happiness, Sheila had been so different. Although her sister had never been impulsive, passionate, emotional or keenly sensitive as Patricia knew herself to be, she had yet been very lovable, always good-tempered and gentle mannered, and, for one who from her earliest childhood had been taught to know she was beautiful, singularly free from vanity.At first Patricia had seen absolutely no difference in Sheila, but little by little, imperceptibly almost, she had grown to know that the girl she had left and the girl she had found on her return, were two distinct personalities. Others might have seen, others indeed did see, in this change of disposition in Sheila Prentice, merely the ordinary development of hereditary instincts, for in Sheila's hard outlook, her coldness and her proud indifference there was an admirable reproduction of their mother's habitual manner, but Patricia could not bring herself to believe this. There had been so little of their mother in Sheila, in the old days! She had never been wild as Patricia was; never had cared for the things the younger girl loved, but she had been, in her own

way, just as fresh and natural. And there had been the strongest bond of affection between the sisters. There were times now when it seemed to Patricia as if she and Sheila were as far apart as if they inhabited different worlds."Is it because she is growing older, or is it only because she is dull and wants a change of some sort?" Patricia asked herself many times, and after a while she arrived at a conclusion."I shall speak to mother about her. I am sure Sheila ought to go away. It is her turn now. Mother must let her go to Aunt Judith for a time."It was the morning of the day on which Sir Francis and Lady Amelia were to arrive at Winchbourne. There was to be a dinner at the Court in the evening, a dinner to which Mrs. Prentice and her daughters were going, of course; and sundry small things being required, Patricia had volunteered to walk over to Marketborough--their nearest town--and get these things. Her thoughts were busy about her sister as she went. When she was not dreaming about her music, Patricia was thinking of Sheila. It was so contrary to her nature to be low-spirited or to worry, but she was becoming gradually conscious that dull and uneventful as her home life was, there were certain elements in it which provoked restlessness of thought and paved the way for worry.Her shopping took some time, but when she left the town again to start on her five-mile walk home-ward she made a pleasant discovery:"Why, the wind has shifted! I do believe it's dying down; what luck! Of course it will rain now

no end, but I'd a thousand times rather get wet through than be blown inside out."She was well equipped for the gloomy weather. Her skirts were sensibly short, her feet sensibly shod. She had on an ulster and a tam-o'-shanter; on her arm was a string bag full of parcels and packages. Her sturdy young limbs made short work of the really steep hill which led to the main road, the London road. When she got to the top, however, she had to stand a moment to get her breath before proceeding, and the two dogs that accompanied her paused too. One of them sat down contentedly in the thick mud to wait, but the other stood and sniffed appreciatively at the contents of the string bag; he was the greedy one.From this highly-pitched resting place Patricia could see across the country for miles; the land undulated, it had a grey, a brown, a sombre tone. In the early summer it was like a patchwork of many colours, with the cultivated fields of ripe corn and clover, and here and there patches of canary-hued fennel which swayed gracefully in the soft wind.There was a seat a little higher up the road and Patricia walked there and sat down on it, relieving herself of her burden for a while. This was a favourite spot with her. She always enjoyed looking over this broad stretch of country. The town was absolutely hidden; not even the smoke of its many chimneys dimmed the clearness of the atmosphere. Down in the hollow was a large farmstead, the numerous buildings and high stacks having at this distance the look of being toys. When she stood or sat here, there always came upon Patricia a long-

ing to be able to spread her wings and take flight with the birds as they fluttered into the mist of the far, far horizon.Odds and ends of vehicles went by without disturbing her dreamy mood, and a few people were walking, but the wet weather kept most folk at home. She woke with a great start, however, when a smart motor car appeared on the crest of the hill, and then whizzed past her out of sight almost before she had time to breathe. Then there came tearing along with a good deal of smoke, and smell, and noise, another car, a much smaller one, painted a bright red. Patricia waved her hand to the occupant of this, and Dr. Mitchinson pulled up."What are you doing there? Are you wantin' to get a good attack of rheumatism?" he demanded in a loud voice. "Get up at once! Get up, I say, and march along!"She only laughed."How odiously professional you are. Your mind can think of nothing but pains and aches! That for your rheumatism!" she snapped her fingers at him.Dr. Mitchinson got out of his car, a small weather-beaten man, with shrewd but very kindly eyes gleaming out of a network of wrinkles."Maybe you'll sing another tune one of these days, my lass. Where have you been?"She showed him the string bag bulging with packages."'I've been a marketing, sir,' she said." Then her face lighting up mischievously: "I say! won't Mrs. Bartingale be furious that the wind has dropped just to-day of all days? You know there was quite a

scene yesterday when Sheila put a stop to everything. Mrs. Bartingale was actually insisting on having the children grouped somewhere to sing their song and wave their flags if Sheila hadn't impressed her with the madness of the whole thing. As it is, I hear that Frank and his wife will have to drive home by Springfield.""So I hear too, and it's settled there's to be a reception at the station. I made sure you two girls would be going with the rest."Dr. Mitchinson had taken up the string bag and was weighing it in his hand."Here's something to carry!" he said. "Can you wait a while, Patsy, I'll be coming back maybe in an hour? Or why not come along with me? I'm only going to the hospital and to Dyner's the chemist. In the Lord's name, what have you got in here?""Bacon, cheese, butter, lard, and a heap of other things. I always carry these things, the stores won't send them. I wish though I could wait for you, or go with you, but I can't; I must get back as soon as I possibly can. Mother always limits the time for these town excursions. We shall meet to-night, I suppose? I can't help thinking how pleased Frank's wife will be to have us all foisted on her for dinner the very first evening she arrives! Is Mrs. Mitchinson going to meet them at the station?"The doctor shook his head."My wife knows when she's well off." He stepped back and surveyed the sky. "It's not exactly bride's weather, is it? We'll have something better on hand the day you marry, Patsy!" Then he made her get up: "You've sat there quite long

enough. Perhaps I'll be catching you up. Do you go the road way?"She shook her head."I shall go back through Birchbeck woods, it's ever so much nearer, and there one is out of the way of these nasty, noisy, smelling motor cars. I believe you invented that horror to keep you in employment. How many people have you killed this week?"He pinched her cheek with the right of an old and privileged friend and then, with another injunction to hurry on and not sit about in damp garments, he got into his car again, and Patsy listened to its grunts, and groans, and general rumbling fade gradually into the distance."He's such a dear," she said to herself as she began to trudge onwards. "I'm rather sorry I couldn't have had a lift home."As she whistled to the dogs and shifted her heavy bag from one arm to the other, Patricia laughed. She was recalling the scene of the day before when the rector's wife had been forced so reluctantly to forego all the preparations which had cost her so many weeks of anxious thought."My goodness! wasn't she in a rage. For two pins I do believe she would have hit Sheila. I do wonder what would have happened then?"She had to pause a moment to wait for Binks, the Aberdeen terrier, who had disappeared and was a long time answering to his name. When at last he crept from out of a hedge he had a fearsome object in his jaws, a lump of earth on his nose and a deprecating expression in his eyes. It took Patricia some time and a good deal of courage to

dispose of the dead, the very dead rat, and then Binks had to be drawn bodily away from the ditch where his prey had been flung so heartlessly, and consequently Patricia had to hurry on to make up for lost time.It was pleasant walking through the wood; only the string bag made her arms ache."So there is to be a reception at the station. Poor Frank, he is in for a lovely time. Mrs. Bartingale was determined he should not escape. Somehow I can't imagine him a married man. I'm awfully curious to see his wife. I wonder whether she will be nice to us?" Then Patsy shrugged her shoulders--"But it won't matter much; she may be ever so nice, but if mother isn't nice back again we shan't gain anything by it. If it weren't for Sheila I believe I would beg, borrow or steal to get away from here again and run back to Germany! Sometimes," said Patsy, speaking to the two dogs, "that time I was away from here seems like a lovely dream. What ideas I had, what schemes, and what hopes. And what a silly little life mine is! Walking to the town to get groceries and sewing silk for Sheila and tulle frilling for mother's cap! Why I haven't touched the piano for a week! And as for my voice--well, I believe you dogs would howl with justification if you heard me sing now!"Binks, who was trotting closely beside her, sneezed a hearty assent, but Milo, the fox terrier, was scouring a field as they emerged from the gloom of the wood, having caught sight of a stray bird.By and by the long road came to an end and, after climbing another hill, Patricia found herself

opposite a farm and a lane which provided a nice short cut to her home, that quaint old house where her mother had lived all her married life and which was so well named, for it had actually been built on the floor of an old pit or large hollow. A young man on horseback was coming up the lane, and Patricia stood on one side to let him pass. He wore a very rough riding suit, with dark brown leggings well-stained; a tweed cap was pressed down on his dark hair. At a cursory glance one saw that he was handsome.Instead of passing her he reined in his horse beside the girl."How d'ye do? I have come to meet you," he said. "I have a message for you. I have just been to Pitt Place, and your sister asked me if I would ride on this way and meet you, because it seems she is coming along the road in the pony trap now, and you are to wait for her here.""Wait here? What for?" Patricia enquired."Miss Prentice told me your mother had expressed a wish that you should both go to the station with the others and meet Sir Francis."Patricia frowned."Good Heavens! what a bother!" Then she looked at him doubtfully. "I say, you are not inventing this, are you?"Anthony Sharpus smiled and shook his head.Patricia was annoyed."How like mother! Why couldn't she decide on this earlier? How can I go to the station like this? Did you ever see such an object? Lady Amelia will think I am a scarecrow."Mr. Sharpus let his dark eyes rest on her for an instant."You look as you generally do," he said, "and if Lady Amelia expects to be met by folk in silks and satins in such weather as this she must be a fool.""Lady Amelia is the daughter of a duke, and daughters of dukes, according to Mrs. Bartingale, can never, never, never be anything but perfection--"She shifted her bag from one arm to the other."I do think mother might have told me before I went out this morning, or at least have given me a chance of making myself a little respectable," she said resentfully. The next moment she laughed. "But, after all, what does it matter? Everybody will be too busy staring at Frank's wife to bother about me. It must be nice to be important! I should rather like to be Lady Amelia for some things. Do you know, I always want to be the bride whenever I see a wedding."Mr. Sharpus bent forward to smooth the neck of the animal he was riding; a nervous clean bred mare, which resented the standing still and edged round fretfully in the roadway."Can't I do something to help you. Give me that bag, you don't want to take this with you to the station.""It's so heavy, and there is bacon in it and cheese, and the butter will grease you," Patricia said, doubtfully; "and besides you don't want to go to Pitt Place again, I am sure."But he bent forward and stretched out his hand, so she gave him the bag to hoist up."Well, it's awfully kind of you, Mr. Sharpus, but do please be careful of that cardboard box at the top. There is some new frilling in it for mother's cap to-night. We are all dining at the Court, you know.""I will be very careful," said Mr. Sharpus.He had some difficulty in disposing of the string bag, whilst the mare was circling and backing so nervously, but he did it: and Patricia watched him with keen interest. She always enjoyed seeing Anthony Sharpus manage his horse; he had such strength and such tact, and withal such a masterly influence. As the pony trap was not in sight, she sat down on a mile-stone sunk in the bank, and the dogs sat one on either side of her. It was not actually raining but the air was moist and she shivered once."I feel tired," she said suddenly, and she sighed. "I'll sit here till Sheila comes. Really, I am tremendously obliged to you, Mr. Sharpus, for taking those things off my hands. I hate parcels, and that bag weighs a lot, doesn't it? Don't let me keep you, I expect you have no end of things to do."But he said he was in no hurry."What about the dogs, will they follow you?" he asked.She shook her head."No, they must go home. Look at them. Poor darlings, they understand so well. I shouldn't mind taking them, but they fidget Sheila." Then she asked him a question: "How are your children?""Very well, thank you. You must come and see them, will you? They are at the farm now. They came back from the sea yesterday."Patricia's face lit up."I adore children. I shall love to see them. And I shall try and make great friends with them. Isn't that the pony trap coming? Now, dogs, you must go." She got up and gave her orders. "Home--Binks, and straight home too; no going into the Chaffers' yard to chase the ducks."They both laughed as the dogs turned and trotted away side by side, obediently but most disconsolately."They are so human," Patsy said, "and such friends. Of course Binks is a scoundrel, but that is why I love him the better of the two. Do you know he has taken to stealing eggs? You had better warn your bailiff's wife to keep her hen-house door safely locked." Then Patricia gave him her hand. "Good-bye. It really is awfully kind of you to take that bag of things; I know they are wanted. I am ever so much obliged."As she got into the low phaeton and Mr. Sharpus trotted away, Patricia said: "I'm horribly untidy, but I hadn't the least idea that mother meant us to go to the station, had you?""Don't sit too close to me, please," Sheila answered sharply. A moment later she discussed Anthony Sharpus. "Why are you so intimate in your manner with that man? You treat him as if you had known him all your life, whereas he is an absolute stranger. I don't generally agree with Mrs. Bartingale, but I must say she is right about Mr. Sharpus: there is something mysterious about him. You must see for yourself," Sheila said impatiently, "that there is something odd. Why on earth should a young man

with money choose to come and bury himself in a dead-and-alive hole like this?""I suppose a young man with money must live somewhere," said Patricia a little drily. She had carefully drawn away from Sheila, who looked extremely handsome and well garbed, although she only wore a tweed coat and skirt and a beaver cap on her bright red-brown hair."And then he is a widower. So funny!" Miss Prentice continued irritably, as she flicked the old pony in a futile fashion."So inconsiderate of his wife to die," said Patricia with a laugh; then she sighed. "I really don't see why we should object to Mr. Sharpus--he goes to church, he pays his bills--if he didn't, Winchbourne would soon know all about that. Of course he may have killed his wife, or he may not have had one at all, then he would be outside our good graces, but seeing that he is amiable enough to take messages for you, and carry parcels for me, I don't see why he shouldn't be permitted the grace of exchanging a few words with us occasionally."Sheila drove on with compressed lips for a moment."You are so fond of sneering now-a-days," she said when she spoke, and Patricia fancied that her sister's voice quavered a little. This was enough to touch her instantly."Dearest," she said, and she put out her hand to lay it affectionately on Sheila's wrist, but Sheila did not encourage the suggested tenderness. She was occupied in urging the pony to a faster trot."You don't quite understand what I mean. You are so young in some things, Patsy. One can't go

about making friends in this indiscriminate way, the world is full of such funny people, and one reads of such awful things."Patricia laughed. She had drawn back her hand again very quickly."I don't know how you feel, but I know I should be rather glad if something sensational would happen, it would wake us up perhaps. Do you think if we gave him a hint Mr. Sharpus would confess to a crime? I am just in the mood for an explosion."Sheila ignored this remark, and they drove on for some distance in silence.Patricia felt very closely akin to tears, why she could hardly have told, only that she was tired and Sheila's irritability troubled her.After awhile she spoke again.They were drawing nearer to the small station at which the bride and bridegroom were to arrive. A motor car had passed them, it was a new one and would wait for Sir Francis and his wife, and was followed by an omnibus for the servants and the luggage."What possessed mother to send us here?" Patricia queried. "This morning she was very scornful about the fuss that was being made about Frank. In fact, I quite expected she would back out of the dinner to-night."Miss Prentice shrugged her shoulders."Why ask me to explain anything mother does? I suppose she has a reason for this as for most things.""Well, anyhow," said Patricia brightly, determined as usual to try and make the best of things, "I shall be awfully glad to see Frank again!""Shall you?"Sheila spoke with supreme indifference. They were no longer alone on the road. Odds and ends of people were trudging in the direction of the station, where a goodly number was already assembled standing patiently in the rain to see what there was to be seen. Patricia nodded to one and another, but there were many whom she did not know, and as they turned a bend in the road they very nearly had an accident, for a man who was lurching uncertainly along by the side of the hedge suddenly staggered forward, and, for a moment, was in a direct line with the advancing trap. Patricia put her hand out involuntarily and gave a little scream."Oh!--Oh!--" she said in great alarm. "Pull up, Sheila, darling."But Sheila Prentice took no notice of her sister. She drove on, and as the man fell back in the nick of time, she flicked the whip at him as though he had been a dog. The drunkard stood and shouted abuse after them.Patricia caught her breath. She was trembling a little."That was a near shave," she said. "I don't know how he escaped. What a horrid looking man! I am glad I didn't meet him when I was coming back from the town--I should have been terrified to death."Sheila Prentice laughed."I am rather sorry I didn't run him down, such pigs ought to be killed," she said between her teeth.They pulled up as she said this, and Patsy got out. The girl just glanced at Sheila and then glanced away. She had seen at once of course that her sister

was extremely annoyed about something. In all probability, Sheila resented being sent on their present errand. To ponder, however, on such a subject, was futile, to search for explanations for Sheila's variable moods, so unsatisfactory. " And really, I think I am the one who ought to be cross," Patricia said to herself, "at least, she was given time to dress herself properly. I can see Mrs. Bartingale looking at me now, and taking me all in. She will talk for a month about my disorderly appearance!" And then because this expression appealed to her humorously, Patricia laughed, and when she laughed all was well with her.CHAPTER II.THE train was a little late. Sheila elected to wait in the booking-office where there was a fire. She occupied herself in warming her hands and listening to Mrs. Bartingale, who held herself with much importance as befitted the occasion.
"I met dear Lady Amelia once in London," she was saying, "it was at Middlesex House and the duchess was so kind--she sold me some tweed herself, cut it off with her own hands."Sheila smiled very faintly."Is she pretty?" she asked. "Frank said he was going to send us her portrait, but it hasn't come yet.""Tall, distinguished--most attractive," said Mrs. Bartingale, "which is so much better than being merely pretty, you know." She discoursed on about the one and only time she had met Lady Amelia. She spoke a little loudly: she wished to impress those about her. To impress other people pleasantly or otherwise was the "raison d'etre" of Mrs. Bartingale's existence.Despite the annoyance Sheila had caused her the day before, Mrs. Bartingale shewed a friendly dis-

position now. As a matter of fact she purposely attached herself to Miss Prentice, remembering that the family at Pitt Place and Sir Francis were kinspeople. Moreover, though she expressed herself strongly on the question of the Prentice girls to the rector in private, she really posed to the others in the neighbourhood as being the only person who was admitted to an intimacy by Mrs. Prentice.While they stood together, Sheila warming her pretty, daintily shod foot at the fire, Patricia was walking up and down outside with the rector.In the roadway there was by now quite a crowd. The rain was falling steadily, but the village people braved the wet and lined the road on each side through which the Winchbourne Court carriages would pass.A little way apart from those standing in the waiting-room, was the station-master's eldest child bearing a posy tied with bright pink ribbon ready to give to the bride."Really, it is most unlucky," said Mr. Bartingale for about the hundredth time. "If only they had come home last week!"Patricia assented a little absently. Her mind was held as in a vice by a sudden thought which had come to her, a kind of suggestion that perhaps Sheila was not cross or disagreeable, that her changed disposition had nothing to do with bad temper, but that it was the outcome of quite a different state of affairs."I don't exactly know why she should be unhappy," Patricia mused uneasily ; "it's true we haven't much in our lives to make us jolly, and Sheila never cared

for the country as I do, still, though we are dull and mother is hard to live with, we haven't anything really to make us miserable, I mean no real down-right trouble." She replied at random to some remark of the rector's, and continued conjecturing eagerly. "Of course, it may be only an idea of mine, but then I don't know . . . I was away such a long time . . . Did anything happen while I was away, I wonder? Everything seemed to go on just as usual and everything else is just as it used to be. It is only Sheila who is changed . . .""Here she comes!" exclaimed the rector excitedly. The station bell was clanged by a porter, and Mrs. Bartingale fussed out on to the platform and prepared her smile to greet the distinguished passengers. Patricia pushed her way behind those assembled on the platform."I'd give anything to be able to ask her right out if anything is
bothering her, but I simply daren't. I always rush to Sheila and blurt out everything that is happening, but she is so different, and I know she would hate and loathe to be asked questions."She caught sight of Sheila, at that moment, her sister made a sign to her to hurry, and as Patricia passed into the booking-office, Sheila advanced and slipped her hand through the other girl's arm."Let us stand here behind the others," she said, "it won't very much matter if we are not seen."She pressed closely to Patricia, in fact she seemed to lean on her sister, and Patricia had a sudden thrill of pleasure; with it mingled a little anxiety, however."You are shivering, darling. I do hope you have not caught cold," she said.Sheila shook her head. "Only it is so draughty here."Patricia caught her sister's hand and held it tenderly."Well, we shall get away directly. I don't think it would be a bad plan if you walked a bit going home, Sheila. It is so horribly damp."The train was pulled up at that moment and Patricia at once caught sight of her kinsman's tall figure and exceedingly good-looking face. He was bare-headed and turned to assist his wife to alight before shaking hands all round. There was a decided genial and pleasant air about Sir Francis. About Lady Amelia it was not so easy to pass an opinion. She was as Mrs. Bartingale had said, very tall and very thin, so much could be discerned, though the bride was wrapped about in a voluminous cloak, which was bordered and seemingly lined with sable, but as she wore a kind of motor-hat, her face and head were completely swathed in the folds of a blue gauze veil. As the little group parted and the home-corners advanced into the booking-office, the station-master's little girl, blushing a furious crimson and making a curtsey in a fright to her father's back, advanced with her nosegay, and at that moment Sir Francis looked about him and saw the two sisters standing together in the background."Patsy!" he exclaimed, and took a step forward, slipping his arm from his wife's arm. He had kissed Patricia before she was aware of it and then he stood holding Sheila's Prentice's slim hand in his, and his

eyes were looking into her eyes as they never had and never would look into the eyes of the woman he had married."It--it was good of you to come," he said a little hoarsely. Releasing his hold of that delicate hand, he turned to his wife."Amy," he said, "here are my kinswomen, Sheila and Patricia Prentice, come to give us welcome."Lady Amelia said something graceful, something appropriate. She had the air and the manner of one who had grown weary of saying graceful things, of being always "en évidence." Patricia was suddenly conscious of a kind of pang. Brides to her had been so far personified in blushing youth, in a kind of embodied radiance which was infectious and delightful. About Lady Amelia Heatherington there was no radiance, and assuredly there was no youth."Married his grandmother, by Gad!" whispered one of the men into another man's ear.It was Sir Francis's duty to pass on, of course, but he seemed very loth to leave those two pretty young figures standing by the fireside in the booking-office.He fell back again and addressed them, speaking to Patricia but looking always at Sheila. At Sheila, who had grown very, very white, on whose delicate and really beautiful face there rested almost a haggard look. Her hand still clinging to Patricia's arm had ceased to tremble, it felt instead limp and heavy."How are you going back; surely you didn't walk here?" Sir Francis queried, eagerly.It was Patricia who answered."We drove," she said; "have you forgotten our

elegant chariot? Who are we that we should walk in the mud when we can drive in chaises? And we must be off too. Come along, darling, the great event is over, and Frank has the joy of knowing he will see us to-night. Do go!" said Patricia actually pushing him back to his duty. "They are waiting, you have to make a speech, you know."Sheila Prentice then spoke."Please go," she said, "we are all right, and your wife is waiting."He turned at once.Lady Amelia had got into the motor and was looking out listlessly at the clusters of soaked people who had gathered to do her honour even in the cold and the driving rain. As Sir Francis appeared there was a little shout of welcome, and he promptly went round and shook hands with all those standing near. He had a very cheery manner and the very useful trick of saying the right thing to the right person. Just now to anyone studying him closely, however, the effect of his manner might have conveyed a sense of nervousness, as though, indeed, he spoke and laughed and joked with an effort. He was kissing a baby and scattering largesse as Sheila and Patricia Prentice left the station and went towards their pony phaeton. They were walking separately and Patricia was a little in advance of her sister. She had a curious desire pressing on her to be away from this scene: in a degree, too, she felt apprehensive, though of what she would have found it difficult to say. Being ahead, Patricia was never able to realise exactly what happened, but all at once, just as she was close to the pony trap, she

was conscious of hearing Sheila exclaim sharply, protestingly, and turning quickly saw that a man was standing in front of her sister, and that his manner was distinctly threatening and abusive. Throwing the reins she was holding back into the hand of the lad who had been taking care of the trap, Patricia hurried to her sister's support, but quickly as she moved, another was before her. Though apparently so deeply engrossed by the demands of the moment, Sir Francis Heatherington in reality had followed every movement Sheila had made, and now as he saw her confronted with a drunken tramp, as he saw this man actually dare to put his hand on the girl's arm and approach his face very closely to hers, a savage burst of rage possessed him, an anger which was (though he was far from realising this at the moment) a natural outlet to the other feelings pressing so painfully on his heart. He was utterly carried away. Suddenly pushing aside those who were about him, Sir Francis ran across the road and in the twinkling of an eye he had swung the man in front of Sheila out of her path. So swift, so unexpected was his onslaught, that the man staggered a pace or two and then fell heavily and rolled over in the mud.Sir Francis would have followed him to administer further correction but Sheila's voice awakened him to the knowledge of what he was doing, of what he had yet to do."No--no, Frank. I beg of you--let him go--for my sake don't, please don't make this worse."The words were gasped rather than spoken. Sheila gripped her sister's arm nervously."Oh! Patsy, let us get home--let us get home," she whispered.Various others had hurried forward to see what was wrong, or to give help if needed, but the girls got into the trap and to save further bother or questioning Patricia took the reins and drove on away from the station and out of reach of the eager, curious eyes. It was the longest way homewards, but of this neither girl thought or cared. Both were only intent on getting into the welcome solitude of the deserted roads, though the impulse which urged them on was so totally different. Sir Francis watched them go and then went to help the man he had thrown to rise. As he approached the station master said apologetically:"A bit stunned, Sir Francis, but I don't suppose there's any harm done. He's been hanging about here all this morning going in and out of  'The Volunteers,' and not doin' himself no good by that. You leave him to me, Sir Francis, I'll see to him, sir."Heatherington put a sovereign into the station master's hand."Do you know the fellow?" he asked. All his bright cheeriness had flown, he looked vexed and tired and out of spirits."Never seen him afore, Sir Francis, but he's all right. Here, some o' you fellows, lend a hand here, we'll carry him into the shed on the up line."Lady Amelia was sitting back in the motor listening indifferently to Mrs. Bartingale's flow of conversation."Pray do not stand in the rain," she had said once. But the rector's wife ignored the hint and continued

to stand at the door of the motor talking affably. She had given a little scream when Sir Francis had dealt so summarily with the tramp."Oh! I do hope dear Sir Francis won't provoke the man. One never knows what these common wretches will do." She broke into eager questions when Heatherington came back to the motor, but the young man had little to tell her. He shook hands all round and got into the motor, and then he gave an order to be driven as quickly as possible to the Court."The sooner we go the sooner these poor souls will get back to their firesides. It isn't weather for a dog to stand about in.""I don't suppose a little rain, more or less, will hurt them," said Lady Amelia. She had discarded the nosegay she had received at the station, it lay on the rug of the carriage at her feet. Sir Francis stooped and picked it up and as there was nowhere else to put it he held it in his hand."Who are these relations of yours--you did not mention them before?" Lady Amelia said after a little while."I fancy I must have spoken of them. Mrs. Prentice and my father's second wife were cousins."Lady Amelia undid the gauze veil and pushed it up on to her brow. She was frowning and her sallow thin face had a touch of colour in it."That constitutes very slight relationship with yourself, Frank," she said.He conceded this."But the fact is," he said, "that I have grown so accustomed to regard them as belonging to me

that I find it difficult to get out of the habit. I fancy you will like Mrs. Prentice."He was speaking with a touch of irritation. It was a new thing to his wife to hear that tone in his voice. His amazing good humour had been the leading characteristic about him since their marriage, and oddly enough she had begun to resent this good humour. It had puzzled her, she had even gone so far as to regard it as an affront to herself."He takes nothing seriously," she had mused just a few days ago when they had been in Paris. "Life is only one big joke to him."And now he was shewing signs of ill-temper and that was more disagreeable than his other mood.She made no answer to his last speech, and Sir Francis sat fingering the cheap pink ribbon which had been wound with such care and tightness about the bunch of homely flowers. It was typical of the woman that she should see no grace in this common offering; typical of the man that he should try to protect something at once humble and precious. They had been from the first an ill-assorted couple, but never so jarringly so till this day when by the irony of fate they were entering the gateway of their real union, when life in its closest significance awaited them.Lady Amelia sat and looked out of the window and shivered as she looked."What an ugly country," she said; "does it always rain here?"Sir Francis wakened from his thoughts with a start."Fortunately we are only an hour and a half from

town, and there are some good trains, then there is the little place in Scotland if you want change.""Oh! I suppose we must stay here for some time at least."She sat back and closed her eyes. On her worn and sallow face that patch of bright colour had a painted look, her lips were compressed, and her thin hands, clenched together in the warm depths of her sable muff, trembled with cold, the first significant touch of that wholly terrible anguish which is the veritable accompaniment to the worst of all passions, jealousy.The carriage bowled along swiftly and the village of Springfield was reached. Here more people were clustered together and some boys perched upon railings and gates waved their caps and shouted a shrill shout as the motor went rapidly past them.The rector had spoken of the vain attempts to decorate their own village and Sir Francis had laughingly sympathised with the kind intention. Now he felt thankful that they had been spared the ordeal of a long slow drive, of speeches and triumphal arches. This quick transit through the pouring rain with nothing but grey shadows on either side of them was so much more fitting, so infinitely more in keeping with the kind of life which stretched before them. All at once he had a great fear for the future. It was as though he had been dreaming and was suddenly and roughly awakened. Nothing had seemed real or of great import to him till that moment when Sheila had put her hand into his and her eyes had looked upwards into his eyes speaking a language which had been seemingly unknown to them in old

days, in those days when he had been content merely to stand as a shadow in her life asking nothing, believing indeed she had nothing to give. There had been pleasure and pain in that servitude, but the pain had predominated. And so he had gone away and cultivated indifference, had tried and had in a sense succeeded in forgetting Sheila and all she signified to him. He had asked for sympathy from others and sympathy had been lavished upon him till this offering from warmer hearts had lain like a pall of flowers on the grave where he had buried his love for Sheila Prentice. And now the grave had been torn rudely open and the love he had called dead had walked from its resting place. A stronger, a more engrossing love: a love which could mean nothing but misery since it was garmented in despair and rooted in utter hopelessness. Why had she stood aloof in those old days? Why have driven him from her so determinately?Had he loved her less he might have added another and more vital question. Why, having known and rejected his love when he had been free, had she chosen to open her heart and make confession of what was shrined there when she knew he was irrevocably lost to her? Would it not have been a thousand times better to have left him in his ignorance? to have played her role to the bitter end? Something of this same query pressed on Sheila's tortured mind as she and Patricia drove homeward in silence through the falling rain and the early dusk."But I did not know I should care," she said to herself in a sort of dumb anguish. "I never did care

before, but then I never had need of him in the old days."She was vaguely grateful to Patricia for being silent. To have listened to chatter, to have been called upon to speak about Frank in a casual way, to discuss his wife would have been unendurable. As they drew near to Pitt Place, Sheila broke the silence."Patsy, whatever you do, don't on any account tell mother about that man--that tramp whom Frank knocked down--she might be upset.""I shan't say anything," said Patricia quietly; then she asked, "do you feel less frightened now, darling? I am so sorry I wasn't near you--I am so strong I could easily have pushed him away."Sheila turned to her sister and kissed her."Silly little Patsy, dear little Patsy!" she said, "it is I who should take care of you."Patricia's heart beat very quickly. This was how Sheila used to speak to her, the same loving voice and teasing way. And Sheila used to give so many kisses in those dear old days.This was the first kiss spontaneously bestowed since Patricia had been home.It was a moment of inconceivable happiness and still it was tempered with anxiety."I am worried about you, darling," she said. "You must be wet through. If mother was so anxious for us to come we ought to have had the brougham.""Oh! I will change and then I will lie down. Mother won't mind for once because of to-night. She will want me to look my best--and I feel such a

rag. I wish I need not go! Oh, I do wish I need not go, Patsy!""Why should you go! I'm sure you won't miss much. Lady Amelia looks stuck up and disagreeable. If mother and I go, that is surely quite enough."As they drove into the stable yard of the old house, Patricia said eagerly and tenderly:"Do, sweetheart, let me fix this up with mother. If you say you are not well it will be all right.""Mother will make a fuss," Sheila said with something of her usual impatience. Then her tone changed: "But I am ill, tired and ill. Tell mother I have one of my bad headaches. It is the truth," Sheila said with a wan smile.Patricia only kissed her sister and they walked slowly up the stairs together. At Sheila's door they parted."I am going to lock myself in. I want to be quiet--very, very quiet, Patsy.""No one shall disturb you, darling," Patricia said, bravely keeping back her tears.She paused and watched Sheila pass into her room, and she shivered as she heard the key turn in the lock.Inside the cosy, familiar room Sheila Prentice stood when she was alone, and pressed her hands to her eyes, as if to shut out some horrible vision."If God would only let me die!" she said hoarsely to herself.CHAPTER III.THE warmest of welcomes had awaited Sir Francis Heatherington and his wife at Winchbourne Court. The old servants had been kept on, and made quite an imposing appearance as they assembled in the hall, headed by the housekeeper, to receive their master and new mistress. Sir Francis was well known to them, and well liked. He had the gift of winning hearts easily, especially those whose lot it was to serve him.The sight of the pleasant faces, the glow of the wood fire in the wide old fireplace, and the cosy, suggestive influence of home which pervaded the old house, was most agreeable to the young man.Trouble was a new experience to him, heartache something which had never come to him before this day; he was unconsciously glad to slip away, even in the most transitory fashion, from the weight of confused and miserable thought which had burdened him through this long drive home. He went the round of the servants, shaking hands with one and all, and thanking everybody most heartily for the good wishes stammered out.Lady Amelia watched him with a strange expression on her face. She had passed through the hall, and stood by the fire warming her hands.The tea-table had been prepared; it glittered with

the old silver which had been used for generations at Winchbourne Court; but when Sir Francis came back to his wife, and the butler had hurried away to his quarters to bring in the urn and the hot cakes, Lady Amelia announced her intention of going to her room."I am tired and cold, and there's a great draught in this hall. I suppose there could be a screen or a heavy curtain across that door," she observed languidly."Oh, there is no necessity to sit here if you don't care about it!" Sir Francis said. "The rooms are very old-fashioned--in fact, the old house is quite out of date; but I always found it cosy and homely, and I hope you will endorse my opinion in a little while."They were alone for a moment; the lamps had not been brought in, and the only light came from the fire, where the big logs blazed in fine fashion. Something moved Heatherington to speak tenderly to the woman beside him. In truth he had for her, in this moment, an affectionate feeling, which sprang from a very pure and very sincere sympathy.With the knowledge of what might have been possible, with the haunting loveliness of Sheila visualized before him, turn which way he might, there came to him a horrible sense of doing wrong.He had not recovered as yet from the bewildering effect of the revelation which contact with Sheila had brought to him. Possibly, when he had time to reflect, to count up what he had lost, a sense of restlessness, even a bitterness and a resentment might take possession of him; but he was--as men of his

stamp usually are--a creature of finest quality where his emotions were concerned, and his impulse now was regret; regret on his own account, on Sheila's account, and, above all, on his wife's account.He knew--as surely as he knew there was intense heat in the fire by which they stood--that the marriage between himself and this woman was a wrong done to both of them. He blamed no one. He had only a great, great desire to do everything in his power to prevent this bitter knowledge from reaching his wife's comprehension.
He put out his hand and closed one of hers in his--a cold, very thin hand, on which the wedding-ring hung loosely, the hand of a woman long past her first youth."I will take you upstairs, Amy dear," he said; "but I want to give you my welcome here. May you be very happy, not only at Winchbourne Court, but everywhere--always."He bent towards her and kissed her as he spoke. Lady Amelia drew back from him, but not angrily--half wearily."We are, alas! no longer children, Frank, so we cannot delude ourselves with childish ideas. I dare say we shall jog along comfortably here and elsewhere, as my father said, but we don't pretend to look for happiness after we have said good-bye to childhood."She had released her hand, and made a move to the stairs.Sir Francis looked at her in a puzzled, a wistful fashion."I don't believe I have said good-bye to child-

hood, if by that one means having no more dreams and fancies," he said. Then he changed his tone. "Let me take off that coat here; it is such a weight, and though we have not many stairs to climb, you must not tire yourself unnecessarily. Remember, we have all those people to dinner here to-night."Lady Amelia allowed him to take the coat. She was revealed then--a tall, straight figure, one of those typical, tall, long-backed, parched kind of bodies that one sees among the middle-aged unmarried women in England. She had on a, cloth gown, very severely made; there were no laces or fripperies, nothing to gleam or break the dullness.A long time ago her mother, the Duchess of Middlesex, had washed her hands of Lady Amelia as a hopeless failure. She had, indeed, loudly declaimed that she failed to understand how or why a beneficent Providence should have saddled her with such a daughter."There is nothing of me in Amelia, that is very sure. God knows where she comes from!" she had been fond of saying.As a child Lady Amelia had been plain; as a girl she had been plainer still. She grew like a reed, but she grew without grace. She was never clever, never interesting. Her two sisters were so different. Lady Hermione Wittingale had married brilliantly in her first season, a German princelet, and her success had never been in question.Lady Sophie had been snapped up actually when she had been in the school-room, and the money she had married had saved the ducal house of Middlesex from a severe and ignominious financial disaster.The Marquis of Sparbrooke, the eldest son, was one of the most popular men in the Army and in society, a source of unending joy to his mother and trouble to his father; a reckless fellow, having his full share of his family's traditional good looks, and narrowly escaping sensational matrimony at every turn. Lady Amelia had two other brothers, both equally handsome and attractive. She, and she alone, had marred the record of the family, and she had grown from girlhood to young womanhood bitterly conscious of her defects. Her mother assuredly had never spared her. There had never been the slightest pretence to affection between Lady Amelia and her mother.With her sisters she had even less consideration. Her Serene Highness Princess Wilhelm of Gutenstaadt did once, it is true, invite Lady Amelia to go with her to Harrogate when a course of baths had to be undergone. But "never again!" she had written to her mother, who had built a good deal on this little excursion with Hermione.Occasionally someone of a good-natured turn of mind had invited the ugly duckling to a country visit or a yachting cruise; but for the most part Lady Amelia had lived a dull, uneventful life under her parents' roof, her existence being merely tolerated, and use being made of her from time to time when some public office would be distasteful to her mother, and she would be called upon to deputise for the duchess at the opening of a bazaar, or some function of that sort.It had been, in fact, just this kind of work which had been instrumental in bringing Lady Amelia in

contact with Sir Francis Heatherington. They were both members of a house-party, she having gone at her mother's desire to christen a new ship built by the wealthy people with whom she was staying. Sir Francis joined the party for the shooting, and circumstances combined to bring about a friendship between these two most unlikely people.A slight accident had seemed to break the ice of conventional acquaintance. Sir Francis was able to render some attention to Lady Amelia. He over-took her as she was limping back to the house after a false step in which she had rather sharply twisted her ancle--his concern about her was extraordinarily pleasant to the woman. Just when the first wonderful touch of passion for this young man came into Lady Amelia's heart it would be difficult to say, but that the whole meaning of life was changed to her in the course of the next few days was absolutely certain. She drifted far away from her customary cold and bitter environment when she felt herself within the circle of that radiant good-fellowship--that simple, frank, and most pleasant influence which Francis Heatherington exercised so naturally. She had never met anyone like him before.Unconsciously she found herself striving to win favour from him. The people with whom she was staying had been sharply disappointed when it had been made known that the Duchess of Middlesex had a most severe cold, and that her daughter Lady Amelia would christen the ship in her enforced absence."Such a dull, stuck-up woman!" his hostess had confided to Sir Francis. "But perhaps you know her?"He confessed to ignorance."I know the duchess---she is what one might call a real good sort--and the duke I know, too. I dare say I may have seen Lady Amelia, but I don't remember having met her.""She is so plain! One can hardly imagine she is the sister of that lovely Princess Wilhelm of Gutenstaadt. And Lady Sophie Bryne-Jones is so pretty, too!""Oh, I know Lady Sophie! Puts on too much colour for my taste," Sir Francis said.Lady Amelia put on no colour.The impression she gave him was that of an austere--a joyless womanHe found himself studying her in a scarcely conscious way. It had amused him to note the frank sycophantry lavished on this cold, plain woman. Though she might be a negligible quantity in her own home, as the daughter of a duke, Lady Amelia could always command homage in the world outside. If she had so chosen she could have obtained popularity too, but she lacked absolutely the art of ingratiating herself.It was the fact that she seemed so strangely alone which had at first attracted Heatherington. Very consciously he was made aware that Lady Amelia liked his companionship.After the little episode of the accident they drifted insensibly into a friendship, and the more he knew of her the more the man felt sorry for her. When they were both back in town he called frequently at Middlesex House. The duchess loved him, he was so good to look at and so congenial; they would sit

and talk about horses, and all the latest racing topics by the hour together.He was a favourite, too, with the duke, who was terribly deaf, and, in consequence, lived almost as a recluse in some of the rooms at the back of the great gloomy London house. Business necessitated Heatherington being in town as a general rule. He was a partner in a large exporting house, and went regularly to the City. When his uncle died he came into the title and the money too; and the pleasantest pathways in life were immediately opened out to him. And the pathway he trod was the road which led eventually to marriage with Lady Amelia Wittingale.It was not the duchess, astute as she was, who was the first to see that an impossibility was about to happen.Lady Sophie Bryne-Jones ran up from her palace in the country for a few days' shopping, and she startled her mother out of her seven senses by asking when Sir Francis and Lady Amelia were going to be married.The duchess had screamed, and then she had looked at her plump daughter, who seemed to be literally made of money so opulent was her appearance."Are you mad?" she inquired. "Frank Heatherington marry Amelia! Frank--a handsome love of a boy like that--throw himself away on Amy! The idea is preposterous, Sophie!" the mother had said suddenly. "And if it is a joke, it is not in the best of taste. Of course, you know very well Amy will never marry now. She is nearly thirty-nine, and has

recognised long ago that marriage for her is an impossibility."Lady Sophie had laughed."Sometimes things happen of which you know nothing, mamma dear," she said demurely. "I happen to know that not a fortnight ago Amy refused a most excellent marriage. Mr. Iscariot told me himself he had proposed to her, and that she had refused."The duchess gasped incredulously."Iscariot! Are you sure? Why he has three millions they say!""Seven!" Lady Sophie Bryne-Jones had amended. "But it would appear that our dear Amy would not marry him if he had seventeen. He was horribly disappointed, you see he wanted badly to be your son-in-law. Amy herself does not count very much."The duchess had sat very still. She was thinking, and once she shivered.
"Such a name and such an awful man!" she murmured. And then she had pondered a little more, and Lady Sophie had talked of other things, and the matter had been dropped, to crop up again, however, in a most pronounced fashion between Lady Amelia and her mother a little later on.The chance was too extraordinary, too good to be lost, moreover there was something more than ambition and a perennial need of money actuating the older woman when she pressed Mr. Iscariot's proposal upon her daughter. Life would be infinitely more agreeable with Lady Amelia out of the run of daily existence. Though she had nothing bright or delightful to look back upon in her history, it had

been reserved for this moment to reveal to Amelia Wittingale how ugly life could be sometimes.It was a time of real suffering to her. She might not be beautiful, but she had her full share of vanity and more than her share of strong, hard pride; there was much possible to the Duchess of Middlesex, many things done by the mother which would have been an absolute impossibility for Lady Amelia even to contemplate.
That her mother should permit herself to mix so freely with people of Iscariot's class was something the younger woman had always resented, and that most bitterly. To have such a marriage thrust upon her was a great shock, a horrible mortification.The matter worked a breach between herself and her mother which never would be healed. In this dark hour Amelia had but one gleam of light, one solitary pleasure--her friendship with Heatherington.It would have been difficult for Sir Francis to have explained why he found himself so often at Middlesex House, but any other, who had known and studied his character, would have gone to the root of the matter in a moment, From his earliest boyhood young Heatherington had shown a most extraordinary degree of heart. Where other boys had been cruel, he had shown the tenderness of a woman; he was the readiest champion in the world for the down-trodden and the oppressed. At school he had been sneered at and adored, and in later life this quick sympathy found almost as much expression as in his younger days.He had drifted into a kind of intimacy with Amelia Wittingale because he was genuinely sorry for her.He thought her life so grim and grey. It hurt him to hear her handsome mother hit Lady Amelia with laughing yet bitter words, he deprecated the jests made about her.Wholly unconscious of the effect produced on her by his eager desire to shield her from sneers, and his intention to find good in what others held to be so poor, Sir Francis lavished the most charming attentions on Lady Amelia. If anyone would have attempted to let him see the danger towards which he was drifting Sir Francis would have laughed aloud, so secure did he feel. The thought of more than friendship, the mere suggestion of marriage with Lady Amelia would have seemed to him a veritable madness.And yet he embraced that madness.It was the pitiful sight of Amelia Wittingale in tears, the abasement of her proud spirit--which had retained the delicacy of maidenhood even in approaching middle age--which stung him to stand forward and champion her.Acting on the hot impulse of the moment he spoke words which carried to the woman a significance so wondrous that heaven itself seemed suddenly to have come to earth. The passion with which her heart had been surcharged broke from her, and Francis Heatherington was holding her in his arms his acknowledged betrothed before the hot impulse of generous sympathy had been followed by a sensation of cold bewilderment, which was not wholly untouched with a sense of horror.Another kind of man might have set about at once to find some loophole of escape from the entangle-

anent which he had put about himself so innocently. But when Heatherington recalled all that had passed, when he remembered the amazing revelation of feeling which Amelia had shown, when he realised what this marriage signified to her, he simply could not move an inch to free himself.Not even when Lady Amelia's mother openly spoke of the engagement as an act of extraordinary folly on his part, and really gave him the chance of gracefully backing out of the situation, did he change in his attitude. The certain knowledge that it was in his power to bring such sunshine into another person's life provoked a kind of enthusiastic self-satisfaction and carried him for the time being out of the realm of practical reasoning or discrimination.In those early days of betrothal Lady Amelia had worn a new guise, she had taken on a new spell of youth; there had been colour in her faded cheeks and expression in her eyes."Poor fool!" the duchess had said to herself as she had remarked these significant signs, and for the first time in her life she had pitied her eldest daughter. Not that she doubted Sir Francis. She called him a fool in another way; but she knew he meant very sincerely to do everything in his power to give happiness to the woman he was about to marry, it was the certainty that such a marriage could not be anything but a miserable failure which possessed Lady Amelia's mother.However, she had shrugged her shoulders and had stood on one side, and she had even taken a great deal of trouble to choose some pretty gowns--which were quite unsuitable for Lady Amelia to

wear--and one day in late September there had been a very quiet wedding in town and the newly made husband and wife had started for the honeymoon which had terminated this day with their arrival at Winchbourne Court.Perhaps if the Duchess of Middlesex could have been present with the husband and wife in this the first hour they spent in their own home, she would have found some satisfaction in assuring herself that her prognostications of evil had been quickly realised. Most certain it is that her eyes would have seen that which Francis Heatherington did not even imagine--the poignant fact that the glamour had slipped suddenly from his wife's outlook, and that the future in its bleak truth stared her in the face menacingly!CHAPTER IV.ANTHONY SHARPUS sat down to his usual solitary dinner just at the moment that the guests at the Court were being marshalled into their places by the Heatherington butler. The room in which he sat was unpretentious, and even shabby, yet with very little care it could have been made charming.For it was old, very old, the beams which ran across the low-roofed ceiling were blackened with age, and the fireplace was built under a kind of arch, with oaken seats on each side which spelt for warmth and cosiness on a wintry evening.Mr. Sharpus ate his dinner in a perfunctory kind of way, he seemed glad to dismiss the food and take up his pipe. Outside it was cheerless enough, the wind beat the rain against the house in pitiless fashion. The young man--he was young though his dark hair was flecked with white--called to the maid as, having cleared the table, she was leaving the room."Are the children asleep ?""I don't know, sir. Shall I go and ask?"He nodded his head and the woman went upstairs. She was back again directly." They're off, sir, sound, nurse says."He thanked the speaker with a smile. He was extraordinarily attractive when he smiled. Alone, he lit his pipe, turned his chair to the cheery blaze of the fire, and then opened some newspapers which had come for him by the second post, there was a letter too.He had already read this once, and he now read it a second time. There were four pages covered with fine writing; at the close of the letter after the signature, a sentence had been added hurriedly:"Putting aside everything else, when you tire of the responsibility, as you are bound to do, you may remember that there was an opportunity open to you to rid yourself of this responsibility, and you may wish to avail yourself of this opportunity when it is too late."Anthony Sharpus tore the letter into small pieces and then flung them into the fire."Never, my dear woman!" he said under his breath. "Never!"He seemed a little restless. With his pipe between his teeth he moved about the room. Once he stood and stared out of the window into the dark stormy night, and once he opened the casement and let the wet wind rush in on him. This touch of vigorous nature seemed to revive him. He went back to his chair and took up the newspapers.But he did not read very much; he began to think again; and this time his thoughts were very pleasant ones. He had a vision of Patricia Prentice before his eyes. He had grown to find something like delight in watching this girl flit about the little

world in which he now lived. She radiated the grey autumnal days with her happy youth, she was like the wind itself in her freshness; her beauty had the fragrance of a wood-violet."And she is such a child!" he mused. He remembered her "Oh, bother!" when he had given her her sister's message that morning, and laughed at the remembrance."The children will adore her. But she won't come here, that other girl won't let her," he mused.He had quickly realised Sheila's very determined objection to himself. This would have carried no sting save that with her sister against him his chance of a friendship prospering with Patricia would be spoiled, and little by little of late he had found himself feeling the need of just that bright, warm sympathetic comradeship which Patricia Prentice could give so easily."It would be amusing," he mused to himself lazily, "to know the opinion these people down here have of me. I am afraid if Miss Prentice is anything to go by, my reputation must be pretty bad. Well, at least I shall serve one useful purpose if I keep them well supplied with a subject of gossip."A tap at the door disturbed his thoughts."Come in," he called, but no one answered. After a little pause the rapping continued.Sharpus sprang to his feet."Meggy!" he said under his breath.He went hurriedly to the door, and there on the mat, clad only in a pink flannel nightgown, was a little child. The man stooped and gathered the small figure in his arms."My sweetheart!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing there? They told me you were asleep; and you are frozen, literally frozen, Meggy darling.""I want you," said Meggy, and she nestled into his arms. "I only want you."He sat down in the chair and held her tightly while he stirred the fire into a blaze, and then began to chafe the two small naked feet. His eyes devoured the child with love. She was so beautiful, rarely beautiful, her skin was so fair, so soft, her eyes so big and dark, and her hair wondrous. Though the nurse had tied it up in curl rags, there was still a mass loose on the brows and curling about the nape of the delicate neck."I've been crying," she announced suddenly, "'cos I wanted you, Tony." She turned and kissed him on the chin, and then the shoulder. "You're such a duck!" she said.He caressed her and said all manner of endearing things, and then he remembered his duty and preached platitudes."All little girls of seven go to sleep when they are put to bed," he decided.Meggy looked at him and then gravely surveyed her pink toes nestling in the hollow of his hand."Do they?" she asked. "Poor things!" She laughed and then she sighed. "You said you was coming up again, and you didn't. I listened all the time, nurse thought I was asleep. Nurse is a silly! And when she was abstince I got out of bed and come down. And you aren't a bit cross, are you, Tony?"He pretended to scowl, but it was a failure, and with terrible weakness he produced biscuits and even some chocolate, and then he rolled her up in a rug and carried her back up the stairs to the warm bed she had discarded. Nurse, who was reading by the fire, exclaimed a good many times as she saw the master of the house enter and realised the nature of the bundle he carried."Oh, Miss Meggy, now, for shame! You promised to be so good if I'd let you sleep alone, and this is how you set a example to Master Edmund and Miss Baby."Meggy shrugged her shoulders."When they're sleeping there isn't no use wastin' time in being good. I'm tired of exampling all day--Tony!" She clung to him after she was tucked up. "I want to tell you a secret." She dragged him lower, and into his ear she whispered, "There's a poor fairy crying outside somewhere. She's miserable because it's wet and cold--that's what kept me awake reely.""I'll go and find her and send her back to fairy-land," the man promised gently. It was quite against the rules of any well-conducted nursery, but he stayed kneeling by the cot till sleep at last lighted on the child's eyelids, and the grip of the little hand relaxed.When he was downstairs he remembered his promise, and with a smile he put on his coat and cap and then let himself out into the dark wet night. The wind had died down suddenly, and Sharpus found it almost pleasant out of the house. He

strolled on up to the road which ran past the farmstead which he had rented about a year before. It gave him a thrill of pleasure to turn and see the light gleaming from the window where the children slept. The knowledge that they were so near warmed him. He loved all children, but these three were naturally before and above all others.He stood a moment at the gateway. It was growing late; in the distance lay the village, and there the lights were extinguished already. It was dark, with that shroudedness, that weighty darkness, of night in the country, but gradually this baffling gloom lifted--his eyes, growing accustomed, could see almost clearly. He opened the gate after awhile and stepped into the roadway. Rain was falling intermittently. Suddenly a bicycle flashed past him and someone called out cheerily: "Good-night." He had not the least idea who it was that had hailed him, but he stood and watched the lamp of the machine dance will-o'-the-wisp fashion down the road to the village. He was not actively thinking; there were times when he discarded thought, when he just abandoned himself to those things, and there were a few, which made for pleasure in his present circumstances. For instance, the freedom--the untrammelled movement of his daily life here in this quiet place, and then the silence of the country, especially at night. There was something rebuking to him in the lofty silence of this world so out of the way of man and man's craving ambitions and hustling endeavours. He strolled back inside the gate again, and as he closed it, he rested his arms on the top and leaned his chin on them."If it could be always like this!" he said to himself dreamily.But shadowing the amazing delight of this tranquil and dreamy sort of existence lay the knowledge that this must come to an end, that he was only pausing before pushing on again to take his share in the hustling endeavours and the never satisfied ambitions.He sighed once in an involuntary way and then he roused himself. Suddenly on the stillness of the night there came the sound of hurrying feet. Someone was approaching the gate, and as those fleet footsteps drew nearer, Sharpus caught the sound of a sobbing breath, like one would breathe who was in sore grief or whose physical powers were being taxed too severely. Whilst he was in the act of moving, a figure went past the gate so quickly as to be half running. He suddenly climbed the gate and bending forward, looked after that slim young figure. He had not seen her face, but he recognised the coat she wore, and, above all, the way she moved was familiar to him.He stepped down and turning abruptly, went down the path to the house. He was conscious of a curious sensation, predominate in which rankled anger. It was unreasonable of him, of that he was fully aware, to object to anything which Patricia did, but he did object. He was impressed most unpleasantly by the fact that this late excursion must have been taken unknown to her mother and the others in her home, and there had been an element of nervous excitement about her movements which left another disagreeable impression. Just for a moment he felt

tempted to run after her, to offer his services to see her back safely to Pitt Place, but he quickly saw the folly of this."And after all, it is no business of mine what she does!" he said. But that was where he was quite wrong.CHAPTER V.PATSY found the Winchbourne Court dinner party a very tedious affair.The idea of this entertainment had emanated from the fertile brain of Mrs. Bartingale, who had herself written to Sir Francis suggesting that in her opinion quite the most excellent way for Lady Amelia to be presented to all those people among whom she would naturally mingle when staying at the Court would be for a dinner to be given by himself and his wife the night of their arrival. Sir Francis had written back and consented to this arrangement with his customary good nature, and only realised when everything had been signed and sealed that his wife disliked the plan exceedingly and very naturally.It was a new matter for the man to have to consider a second person in the everyday details of his every-day existence; and, in truth, the significance of his married state had hardly commenced to dawn on his mind till this day had come, a day fraught with other awakenings and far-reaching influences.And it must be confessed that as he stood with his wife waiting for their guests to arrive Sir Francis heartily regretted his acquiescence to the wishes of

the rector's wife. It would have been infinitely better in every sense for Lady Amelia to have prepared herself gradually for those social duties which would naturally fall to her lot as mistress of Winchbourne Court.He felt as though he were treading on new and, perhaps, on insecure ground at each step he took now.There was a sense of irritation pricking him, and his wife's cold bearing served unconsciously to strengthen this irritation.He stole an occasional glance at her as they stood by the fireside.
Lady Amelia had the most unbridelike look. She wore one of her old evening dresses--a black satin, which had done loyal service in the past. The lace on the bodice was yellow with age. She wore no jewels; only a black velvet band round her thin throat, fastened with a buckle. She was indubitably a lady, but the man fretted for the first time at her very definite unloveliness. He wanted her to have some trace of feminine allurement; she need not, so he felt, necessarily be very young to possess some such attraction.A cold feeling of dismay permeated his mind as he looked at her this night, a dismay that was so strong as to be a physical sensation."You are not wearing any diamonds? " he queried, after a pause.Lady Amelia looked at him. She was miserably, acutely conscious of the fundamental cause of that rasping note in his voice, of the nervousness which made him so restless. She grew paler, and her face

had a pinched look; she answered him with a little laugh."Diamonds! My dear Frank, we leave diamonds in the country to the parvenu millionaire's wife. Sophie, I believe, turns herself nowadays into a raree show on the slightest provocation; but there is a world of difference between Sophie and me.""Something is expected of us," Sir Francis answered, a little shortly.But further discussion had been prevented by the arrival of Mrs. Prentice and Patricia.Just for an instant Francis Heatherington's heart had stood still as he had watched them enter. Though he had dreaded her coming, still he had longed for it, and had expected, of course, to see Sheila. His disappointment was so acute at her non-appearance that it was with the greatest difficulty he spoke pleasantly and went through the form of welcoming Mrs. Prentice. He did not kiss Patsy a second time. The sisters were, strictly speaking, not very much alike, except in colouring and height, yet it seemed to him that the young girl was really Sheila for the moment. Patsy had changed so much during the last year. She wore a long gown, and her hair was dressed high."Why have you grown up?" he asked her, a little unsteadily."Ask mamma," Patricia answered; "it's all her fault. I wanted to stay in the nursery all my life, but she would not let me have my way."She felt inclined to be flippant. She had always chatted in this nonsensical way with Frank Heather-

ington, but she supposed this would have to end now. It would be hard to have to treat him with diffidence.Lady Amelia and Mrs. Prentice sat and made laboured conversation. They were the same type of woman--with this difference, that Patricia's mother had been very handsome, and still retained some of her good looks. Like Lady Amelia, however, she lacked all connection with coquetry. She wore hard-looking clothes, and was never seen without a stiff widow's cap and aggressive white streamers. As she made elaborate apologies for her elder daughter's absence, Sir Francis drew Patricia a little apart."What is wrong with Sheila? Is she really ill, or only bored?" He caught his breath, and then said, without waiting for an answer: "I quite thought she would have come to-night, Patsy."Patricia said sincerely she was sorry. The gaiety went out of her voice as she spoke now. It had not been a very spontaneous note in the commencement, but it would have easily deceived those whom she was going to meet. When Sir Francis probed the question of Sheila's absence in this deliberate fashion, however, Patsy was reminded very sharply of that anxious trouble about her sister which she wanted so badly to forget."Sheila gets such horrid colds, she has to be careful, you know; and she got so wet this afternoon. It was really I who persuaded her to go to bed, Frank. Don't be cross with her."The rector and his wife were announced at that moment, and Sir Francis had to go across the room and receive them. He felt as though his heart was on fire.Cross with her!" he said to himself.Assuredly it was a dull evening. Gradually a sense of depression spread over the assembled company.After dinner Patricia sang at Sir Francis's request. She went through the form of submitting this proposal to Lady Amelia, who only smiled in a forced manner and murmured something of a non-committal nature. She had shown no sign of preference towards any of her guests, but Patricia was unpleasantly conscious that she, at least, was utterly out of reach of this woman's good feeling; and, in a sense, the girl was sorry. For with that quick, heartfelt sympathy which was so characteristic of her, she felt a thrill of pity for this middle-aged woman, who would be discussed and criticised in such a merciless fashion, and who had about her an element of pathos which was very touching to Patricia."If Frank were only a little older, or if he would look older than he is, it would not be so bad," the girl mused to herself.She sang her prettiest, and made a delightful figure as she stood, slim and tall, in her white frock, close to the piano, where Emily Bartingale, her devoted admirer, sat playing the accompaniments.It had become the rule with Mrs. Bartingale to object to Patricia's undoubted musical gifts, but this night she broke through this rule, and was the first to lead the applause when the songs ended.For once, at least, Patsy's songs had served a useful purpose.Not that the rector's wife intended to let this

first impression of Lady Amelia Heatherington sway her from that very long-established theory of hers that dukes and all belonging to them could do no wrong. She was, however, forced, unwillingly, to admit that the rector had been right when he had protested against this compulsory and early hospitality on the part of the Heatheringtons.She saw now that it would have been altogether better to have waited. Then Lady Amelia would have had time to recover from her fatigue. She could, of course, have made a better impression if time had been given her to prepare herself a little with that good intent. As it was, Mrs. Bartingale could only imagine that the trousseau had not yet reached the Court. No other explanation could soften the shock of the bride's shabby appearance.The evening was brought to a close very early. Mrs. Prentice and her daughter were the first to go. It was an oppressive homeward drive.Patsy always declared that she suffocated in the funereal old brougham, unearthed from the stables on these occasions. She certainly had a stifled sensation that night. Her mother had the usual list of faults to be condemned. She disapproved of the way Patricia had dressed her hair; she made cold, critical remarks about the songs sung; and she would have succeeded in taking all the light and pleasure out of the girl if Patsy had not already felt too tired to be influenced in any way. In fact, had she spoken out the truth she would have confessed she was really rather glad that her mother should find so much to talk about. She dreaded questions--questions which she could not possibly answer.The rector's wife had, of course, discussed Sheila's absence."She was looking very well to-day, I thought. I am afraid Sheila is getting lazy. Young people nowadays are not made to exert themselves as they were when I was a girl.""What horrid days those must have been!" Patsy had said, with weary indifference to Mrs. Bartingale's frown. "I'm so glad I'm a girl now. We have a much better time all round, don't we, Emily?"Miss Bartingale gasped a little. She adored Patsy, but there were many times when the object of her adoration caused her to suffer a good deal.When Pitt Place was reached Patricia had to escort her mother up to her room and to act as a maid--a very trying occupation at all times, but worse this night than at any other.The moment she was free she hastened to her own room, and got into her dressing-gown with all the haste possible. She wanted to satisfy herself that Sheila was better. She would creep in very softly so that she should not disturb her sister. But when she reached Sheila's door she had a disappointment; it was still locked.She paused a moment, half hoping that Sheila might have heard her step and her touch on the handle, but there was no sound from within, and so Patsy stole away again and shut herself in her own little room. But she was far, far away from being sleepy.Her mind was literally obsessed with anxious thought of her sister. There was no fire in her room--such luxuries were not allowed at Pitt Place--but

Patsy put a shawl about her shoulders, and sat crouched up in a heap on the end of her bed, thinking, thinking, thinkingRound the walls of her room were scattered innumerable photographs and sketches, mementoes for the most part of that period spent away from her old home--portraits of the students with whom she had lived and worked, one or two pencil drawings of herself, a page of original composition torn from the album of a boy who promised to be famous, and some photographs taken by herself.All these things had been treasures to Patsy, and had made for her any amount of pleasure till to-night; and now she almost hated them because they reminded her of that long spell of separation from Sheila, that time in which something--she knew not of what nature--had grown up in the pathway of their loving comradeship, something which hung like a blight over the youth of her sister and which had--or so it seemed to Patsy--culminated this day in some outward and visible form of trouble at once mysterious and alarming.Crouching up in impish fashion, and wrapping her shawl more closely about her, Patsy went over and over in her mind many little matters and scenes which had impressed her oddly during the last year. Her sister's strange and perpetual irritability had been, perhaps, the chief of these things, but then again, the curious depression which had fallen at times on Sheila seemed to her charged with unpleasant significance now."Is it anything to do with Frank? Somehow he upset me to-night. Why did he ask so many ques-

tions about Sheila? Oh, I do hope she is not fretting about Frank. That would be too awful, and somehow," Patsy mused on restlessly, "it doesn't seem as if it could be that. Sheila never cared for Frank. Why she has told me, over and over again, that he bored her to death. I am not so sure about him. Really, he was so odd to-night, butThe chiming of a clock from the stables broke the train of thought." Good heavens! Twelve o'clock! If mother could know I had been burning two candles for nearly an hour, I wonder what she would say? I might just as well have got into bed, but I'm such an idiot!"Before she extinguished her candles Patsy tidied up her room, and put away her simple finery. Then she picked up Sheila's portrait from its place of honour on her mantel-shelf, and kissed it tenderly. As she put it back a little unmounted photograph fluttered from the shelf to the ground. Patsy picked this up, and before tucking it away in the pages of a book she looked at it awhile.It was a snapshot she had taken one day of Anthony Sharpus on horseback, as he had been waiting in the courtyard of Pitt Place, and it was, as sometimes these chance photographs are, an excellent likeness.Patsy's thoughts travelled to him as she got into bed. Vaguely she derived a sense of pleasure and comfort, too, in remembering him. Sheila's rather disagreeable words about this man brought her now a sense of sharp regret."I'm sure he is really nice. Sheila doesn't know

him. If she did, she would like him, I know," Patricia said to herself as she snuggled under the bedclothes. "I don't see why there should be any mystery about him! He seems just an ordinary man--no, not exactly ordinary--a much nicer sort of man than the ordinary man," she amended; "more interesting than anybody else about here, that's one thing certain. I like him!" Patricia confided to herself sleepily. "Other people may say what they like, and think what they will. I like Mr. Sharpus, and I mean to go on liking him."CHAPTER VI.DESPITE Mrs. Bartingale's loud-mouthed appreciation of Lady Amelia Heatherington and all her ways, there was a general consensus of opinion round and about Winchbourne that Sir Francis's wife was uninteresting and unsatisfactory.All sorts of hopes had been aroused when it was first known that Winchbourne Court was to have a mistress.No one, of course, expected the Heatheringtons to live there indefinitely, but as it was agreed that the house would be open a good many months in the year, a certain amount of hospitality and entertainment was naturally anticipated. Almost immediately, however, the younger generation realised that their chances of having good times at Winchbourne Court had withered and died down. Beyond driving round and leaving cards in return for those showered upon her, Lady Amelia showed no disposition whatsoever to mingle with the Winchbourne people.Even after church she never stayed in the porch to shake hands with anyone; she just walked through the assembled congregation, and got into her carriage, "lookin' sour enough--God knows!--to turn all

the milk in the village!" as Mrs. Mitchinson, the doctor's wife, said.Both the doctor and his wife were free-lances; they spoke out their minds irrespective of class or person. They were forgiven much, however, because they were both such genuine, good creatures.Childless and fairly well off for such simple folk, they competed, albeit in all innocence, for that place and popularity which the rector's wife considered should belong alone to herself, and, perhaps, her husband.Naturally, Mrs. Mitchinson's outspoken words about Lady Amelia provoked remonstrance from Mrs. Bartingale."I think it must always be remembered," she said in the tone with which she reprimanded the school-children, "that Lady Amelia will naturally hold herself a little aloof from intimacy with--with most of us." The "us" was a concession and a painful one. "She has been accustomed to such a different sphere."To which Mrs. Mitchinson had retorted:"Rubbish!" And had added: "And worse than rubbish! Snobbery! Lady Amelia may be a duke's daughter a hundred times over--that makes no difference. She has chosen to come and live here among us, and she ought to realise certain things are expected of her."The doctor's wife had ended her speech by expressing profoundest pity for Sir Francis. "Although," she took care to explain, "he has only himself to thank for whatever comes. The man must have been mad to marry as he has married!"And this thought, less violently expressed--in fact, in most cases not openly expressed at all--was the general feeling which prevailed. By reason of contrast, no doubt, Frank Heatherington had never seemed so handsome, so delightful, so altogether desirable as he now did. Susceptible hearts--and they abounded in Winchbourne and its neighbourhood--rendered him the readiest homage, and each time he was seen with his wife this offering of spontaneous sympathy became more and more determined.As the autumn was well advanced, all sorts of preparations were put in hand for Christmas.Mrs. Bartingale had many faults, but she was at least a real help-mate to the rector, and had boundless energy and an unflagging devotion to her duties. She inaugurated sewing teas, among other things: these were about the only entertainments to which Mrs. Prentice allowed her daughters to go unprotestingly.Mrs. Bartingale went a step further in the winter arrangements this year.She took a walk to Winchbourne Court; and she laid before Lady Amelia a proposition that some of these charitable meetings should be held at the Court itself."Old Lady Heatherington used to be so good about this, and took so much interest in everything. She sewed quite wonderfully, and never used glasses till within a few months of her death."Lady Amelia expressed the required astonishment, and fell in at once with Mrs. Bartingale's suggestion. In consequence, the rector's wife went away more than ever a loyal adherent."She looked so nice, so simply dressed in blue serge with linen collar and cuffs; she has such charm!" declaimed Mrs. Bartingale when she reached home.There was only one person who dared to laugh at this statement, and that person was Patricia, who had happened into the rectory to try over a couple of songs with Emily--songs that were to be sung at the concert at the village club a week hence."Isn't it wonderful what our eyes can see when they want to?" she asked in an audible whisper.Not that Patricia was ready to join in the acid criticism on Lady Amelia--in truth that feeling of pity, which had come to her the first time she and Frank Heatherington's wife had met, clung to her. But Patricia could not stand anything which flavoured of sycophancy. She hummed through her songs, and Mrs. Bartingale listened with unwilling admiration. She considered Patricia's musical gifts something in the nature of a snare, yet she never could deny the sweetness of the girl's voice."I hope," she said, as the piano was closed and Patsy prepared to go home--" I do hope, my dear Patricia, that I may count on you and Sheila to attend these teas at the Court. I confess I am very disappointed that your sister has failed me so much this autumn.""Sheila isn't a bit well," Patricia said. "I really think she wants change of air. I wish mother would let her go to Aunt Judith for a little while.""This is the most bracing air in the United Kingdom," Mrs. Bartingale said.But Patsy only laughed."Then it is some sort of other air which Sheila wants.""Maltine taken three times a day after meals is an excellent kind of tonic," was Mrs. Bartingale's farewell remark as Patsy took her leave.The girl walked away briskly from the rectory. As she left the village she was passed by a brougham from the Court. In it was Sir Francis, and from the glimpse she had of the luggage and the gun-cases and the golf-sticks, Patricia guessed, of course, that he was going away for a few days. She waved her hand to him, and he leaned out of the window and stopped the carriage."Can't I give you a lift?" he asked.Patricia shook her head."I want a walk. I have been at the rectory, and I always want fresh air after a dose of Mrs. Bartingale. Where are you off to, Frank?"He told her that he was going to join the Duke of Middlesex's party of guns in Scotland."And meet my brothers-in-law, or at least one of them," he observed, with a smile and a grimace. "I shall be back in the inside of a week. I wish you would come along, Patsy.""I'd come like a shot if it wasn't for mamma. Can't you imagine the few remarks she would make if she heard of such an exploit?""What would that matter? What does anything matter, really?" queried Sir Francis.There was restlessness in his voice and in his general look. Sheila's name was burning on his lips, yet he dared not utter it. He had a longing to keep Patsy standing near him simply because she had been

in close contact with Sheila, and because she carried about with her a touch of that influence which was working so disastrously upon him. It was really this which was driving him away. He had none of Sheila's composure.Her indifference when they met was so assured that it staggered the man. There were days, indeed, when he could have persuaded himself that it was merely the old order of things brought back again, and that that one transcendent moment of heart to heart revelation, that amazing confession which had been declared by Sheila's eyes, by her trembling hand and her quivering lips, existed merely as an effort of his imagination. But these were only occasional days. At other times the truth was with him in painful clearness, and was both a joy beyond description and an agony to him.Patricia noted the change in him most clearly this afternoon. It amazed her to realise how glad she was he was going away."I hope you will have no end of a good time, Frank," she said.Sir Francis gripped her hand."You are a dear little soul, Patsy," he said; "and it's about time your good days began to set in.""I am not so little, and I'm not complaining. Now, ta-ta, Frank! You want to catch the 3.50, I know. Well, you won't catch it if you don't hurry."She stepped back, the horses started. Sir Francis continued to lean out of the window. He said something but his words were lost. Yet Patricia divined that he was speaking of Sheila."Oh, my goodness!" she said to herself, as she

walked on. "What is coming to everything? Nothing seems to be what it ought to be. It would be funny if it wasn't a bit serious. I wish Frank and Lady Amelia would go away altogether. If Sheila could only realise how foolish Frank can be she would have more to worry her. It is maddening of him to wait till he is married before he finds out what a darling Sheila is. Why on earth couldn't he have done that long before. I know mother always expected him to propose to Sheila, and, though she would die before saying this, that she hates his marriage like poison. Well, Sheila was there, and I do believe now she would have married him, but he must needs go off and get another wife, and then when he comes back he lets me see anyhow that he cares for Sheila with all his heart and soul. It's just like a play or a book. Oh, what wouldn't Mrs. Bartingale give to have just an idea of what I know! It would be the time of her life!"Patsy's way home led past the farm where Anthony Sharpus lived. She looked about her with unconscious eagerness to see some sign of him. It was days since they had met. For once her wish was gratified. He was walking briskly up from the farmhouse to the high road.Patricia paused and hailed him."It's ages and ages since I have seen you," she greeted him. "Where have you been hiding? Have you forgotten you invited me to tea? I have been expecting to have that tea and hot scones--I know you must have hot scones and delicious other things for tea, things we never have at home--all this long weary week, and instead of that you have

been eating the cakes and drinking the tea, and generally enjoying yourself, and I have been quite forgotten."Anthony Sharpus took her hand because it was outstretched, but he only just touched it. Her merry look, her bright, frank expression and even her beauty, incensed him."You are quite wrong," he said. "You have not been forgotten."There was such a strange note in his voice, such constraint (it seemed to her condemnatory constraint) in his manner, that Patricia drew back from him suddenly.CHAPTER VII.IT was no new thing for her to be reprimanded--and that sharply enough--by her mother for her frivolity; indeed, in her mother's presence the girl very rarely let her bright and merry spirit have vent in expression. Mrs. Prentice was devoid of humour, and Patsy's way of seeing the comic side of most things made no appeal to her. It had been the freedom from such constant and harsh repression which had made her sojourn abroad so delightful to Patricia. She had long since ceased to wonder at her mother's dour outlook on life. If truth be told, she had more than once pitied her mother because Mrs. Prentice was seemingly shut away from all that gladness which the mere fact of living could signify to herself at times, and she had grown to accept her mother's constant fault-finding as a necessary evil--something which, if annoying, was also harmless.And assuredly nothing her mother had ever said to her had brought that chill and yet hot feeling of mortification which now swept her about. It was actually the first time Patricia had really felt ashamed of her light-hearted trick of talking nonsense.She drew back very quickly."You must, of course, take all I say with a grain of salt. I am famous--as perhaps you know already--for talking foolishly. Naturally, I did not in the least expect you to ask me to tea."He opened the gate and passed out into the road."That is hardly an exact fact, is it?" he asked, "seeing that I did invite you the last time we met."He walked beside her. She had turned, and with some petulance was continuing on her homeward way."Well," Patsy said, "we all make mistakes sometimes, you know."He assented to this, and found himself looking at her with far more eagerness than he realised. She looked just like a child--a vexed child. It was difficult to reconcile this picture of her with that other--that painful picture of a girl hurrying through the darkness of the night evidently oppressed with fear and trouble. He paused a moment and then he said:"I should have been delighted to welcome you, Miss Patricia, but two of the children have not been well, and their nurse has insisted on keeping them very quiet for a time."Patricia's anger was fading away."Oh, poor little lambs!" she said. "I do hate to think of children being ill. They ought never to know what illness means." She spoke with something of her usual spontaneity, and yet there was a difference--a sense of restraint, which he caught at once. Evidently his manner had conveyed even more reproof than he had been aware of. A quick

revulsion of feeling came to him; he was conscious of a sharp and definite rush of self-reproach."What right have I to judge her so sharply?" he asked himself.With a subdued look on her glowing face, Patricia impressed him with that pathos which he felt when Meggy got into trouble and he was called upon to deliver judgment and sanction punishment.And in a more definite way there stole about his heart that penetrating influence which had belonged hitherto entirely to those dear and helpless little creatures who were shut up in their nursery in the farm below.Away from her Sharpus had found it possible to deal very hardly with Patricia and her peculiar doings, but now that he saw her again he ceased entirely to question or to condemn."They are not very ill, happily," he said, answering her after another pause, "only we have to be so careful with them--with Meggy especially.""Meggy! What a duck of a name!" Patricia said. Unconsciously her gaiety stole back to her. She felt, as she afterwards confessed to herself, exactly as a dog may feel who, after incurring the displeasure of his master, is taken back to favour again. "Aren't you awfully happy now you have your children with you, Mr. Sharpus?"He sighed a little."They are very precious, but a great anxiety." Suddenly he stopped."Look here," he said, "would you like to come and see them now? It is just tea-time, and I believe we could produce some sort of hot cakes."The girl coloured."Oh, it's awfully good of you, Mr. Sharpus, but if you will let me come another time, I think now I ought to hurry home; it is getting late. See! it is quite dark!""All right," Sharpus said. "I will walk up to the gate of Pitt Place with you."She accepted his escort, and chattered away briskly as they went. Still, she was not as she had been, and the man felt as though he had lost something immeasurably precious; his reproach was doubly bitter.If she had questioned him he would have felt better. It was typical of Patricia that she went to the root of things. A day or so ago he felt convinced she would have asked him frankly what the matter was, and why he had met her so coldly, but it was a new Patricia beside whom he now walked. The old one had drawn back, and was hidden, perhaps for ever, behind a barrier of new-born conventionality.Sharpus bit his lip savagely as he realised this. It was decidedly a confession of weakness on his part, but he found himself quite unable to hold the condemnatory attitude he had maintained all this week.Patricia in her turn noticed that though he made an effort to fall back into his former easy manner, it was an effort, and a little sorrowful feeling settled in her heart."Of course, he wasn't exactly a friend," she said to herself, "but he was going to be one, and now I have lost him. I do wonder what has happened!

Perhaps Mrs. Bartingale has been making mischief, or perhaps mother has been saying something unpleasant.""It's awfully good of you to come all this way, Mr. Sharpus," she said out loud, when the big and shabby gates of Pitt Place hove in sight, "but, you know, I could really have come quite well by myself. I am a most independent person--at least, when I can be! My mother every now and then considers she must interfere and put a stop to my rampaging; but nothing cures me really, and on the first opportunity I take my liberty in my hands, and I am off again.""The world here is circumscribed; you ought to go farther afield if you cannot live without adventures."His tone was stiff again. This harmless speech of hers had brought back to him his former feelings with a rush; it appeared to him rather painfully in the nature of an explanation--an explanation provoked, it might be, by the possibility of his having been remarked that dark, wet night, a fact which had not till now even entered into his thoughts."You mean I ought to go away to travel? Oh, don't I wish I could! I would fly away from here with the wings of a dove, if only I had half a chance. Is it horrid of me, I wonder, to wish to get away from my old home?"She held out her hand and said "Good-bye." Sharpus just touched the hand for an instant, and then, taking off his cap, turned on his heel. Patricia, seeing him go, called to him a little unsteadily:"You will ask me to tea another time, won't you?"

But she ran away hurriedly before he had time to answer her.It was quite dark in the heavily shrubbed pathway from the big gates down to the house, and Patricia generally ran the whole distance."I always think something or someone is behind me!" she had once declared, when her mother scolded her for arriving breathless.Whereupon she had been forced to listen to a long disquisition on the folly of encouraging imagination and the sin of believing in the supernatural."Oh, I'm not afraid of ghosts--at least, not much; it's people I'm afraid of. And that yew hedge is so awfully thick, mother, a whole family of burglars could live there with impunity."Sharpus had paused to watch her fleet away. Once again his anger had melted, and his lips smiled. Perhaps, after all, he was making a very big mountain out of a ridiculously small molehill. Perhaps, if he had questioned her, he would have discovered that it had been merely some mischievous escapade which had taken her out so late that night.There was a delicious suggestion of irresponsibility about Patricia, and with it a contradictory suggestion of womanliness--of that sympathy which might be termed maternal."How she would adore Meggy," he said to himself.To him the three children were always summed up in Meggy. The boy, of course, had his own small kingdom, and the baby was adorable, but Meggy came always first; and between the child and the girl he had just left there was the strangest, the

most fantastic, kind of resemblance. He realised now how much it had hurt him to have adopted such a hostile attitude to Patricia.In his household Mr. Sharpus was credited with being tender-hearted. Nurse went further, and called him "ridiculous soft" in his ways with the children. Assuredly there was a very tender feeling holding him in sway now.He walked on briskly past the stabling attached to Pitt Place. He was bent on an errand that was to be a surprise and a delight to Meggy. One of the farm helps had just told him of a small pony and trap that was to be sold, and he was on his way to view the animal and to purchase it if it was worth purchasing. His destination was a small house lying some distance past Pitt Place. It had been occupied till quite recently by an old lady whose death had brought about the sale of her pony and trap. The house itself, so Sharpus understood, was let for the shooting.He walked briskly along, his thoughts still circling about Patricia Prentice, and when he came at last to the small house, he saw before him a party of men with an evident keeper. Sharpus just glanced at this party, and held back till it had made its way down the path into the house; then he, too, went down the path, and, skirting the garden, reached the back premises.There was no one to be seen, so after pausing a moment, he advanced and rapped at a window which he took to be the kitchen.The door, which he had not perceived, was opened immediately, and instead of a maidservant, a

man appeared--one of the men of the shooting party.Mr. Sharpus rather curtly explained the nature of his errand, and asked if the pony and trap could be sent over to him in the morning if they were not already sold."It is too dark to see anything now," he observed. But the man in the doorway laughed."Is it, by Jove? Well, it's not too dark for me to recognise a good old pal when he comes along. Gad, Tony, it's good to see you again, old chap! Where the deuce have you been hiding yourself all these many months? Come in, old chap! Come in, I say! What! Do you suppose I'm going to let you run off again when I've just found that you are in the land of the living?"CHAPTER VIII.PATRICIA had almost reached the end of the yew-tree walk, when she came face to face with someone hurrying along towards the big gates and the high road. As she and this figure almost collided, she exclaimed:"Oh!" And then quickly: "Is that you, Stanton?" Then, still more quickly: "Oh, Sheila, darling, I did not recognise you! Where are you going? And aren't you naughty to be out so late when it is so damp!"Sheila shook herself free of her sister's loving touch."Don't be silly, Patsy," she said sharply. "Why will you persist in treating me as if I were an invalid?""I thought you felt seedy--you said you were not fit to go to the rectory."Patricia spoke a little crossly. Despite her love, there were moments when Sheila's strange moods tried her a good deal."Don't you know an excuse when you hear one? I am never well enough for the rectory and that tire-some old woman! I am only going to post my letters. The walk will do me good.""Shall I come with you?" immediately suggested Patsy.Her sister refused this so curtly that the girl drew back."All right!" she said tersely, "don't let me keep you. You're in heaps of time for the post, of course, but I'm afraid it's going to rain, and rain hard, too."As she turned, Sheila moved after her."Patsy!"The other girl paused at once."Of course, you know quite well I don't mean I don't want you. As a matter of fact, I thought I should meet you, and I had to come out. Jane Morant arrived at four, and she and mother have sat talking of all the old dead people, and have been so depressing and awful I--I thought I should go mad. They don't know I'm out, Patsy.""Why need they know?" asked Patsy, in her coolest way. "Now that Jane has come we can have some freedom, thank goodness. How is she dressed, Sheila--the same old brown serge? And how long is she going to stay? Isn't it funny how fond mother is of funereal people!" Then Patsy went forward and kissed her sister. "Ducksie," she said tenderly, "don't get wet. Shall I get you my brolly?"Sheila refused the proffered umbrella, and the girls parted. Patricia made her way into the house, through the kitchen. Mrs. Prentice kept a small establishment, and was a most exacting mistress. Like many of her kind, however, she was well served, and her cook and housekeeper had been with her for years--an old retainer, matched by the coachman. There was, beside this, only a maid to wait on the

ladies and assist in the housework, and a small girl from the village to do the rougher work. Patsy was always so sorry for these small girls."After all, we've grown up with mother, and that makes it a little easier to understand her and her ways; and, after all, she is our mother," she had observed once to Sheila, "and that goes for something, but it must be pretty dreadful to come here from a happy home and be bound and ground into slavery."Sheila was lacking in that warm rush of sympathy which Rowed out so freely with her sister to all who were forlorn or oppressed. Patsy had not much pocket-money to distribute, but she managed to spare occasional pennies as a panacea for red eyes and a woebegone expression, and, in return, she was simply adored by all whose lot brought them to Pitt Place.There was an air of pleasant relaxation in the kitchen this evening, which Patsy felt and understood at once.Few guests were received at Pitt Place, and fewer still made welcome, but the woman who had arrived on one of her rare visits was a person apart in Mrs. Prentice's estimation, and though no one except the mistress of the house could see any charm in Miss Morant, one and all were grateful to her for coming, for when she arrived Mrs. Prentice had so much to talk about with her guest, and so much to interest her, that she forgot to scold and grumble and oppress. Patsy warmed herself by the kitchen fire."It is so comfy in here!" she said. The comfort of the fire was necessary to her. Cheerfully as she 

had accepted her sister's explanation, Patsy had not been deceived by it, and not even the conviction, which had been forced home during the past week in a dozen different ways, that her supposition was correct, and that Sheila was fighting a hard and secret battle with some unknown enemy, had familiarised her with the position sufficiently to make her regard it calmly.From a child she had taught herself to believe that Sheila was one of the cleverest, as she was surely the dearest creature on earth, and she comforted herself at stray times now by remembering that in Sheila there was a fair proportion of their mother's strong will, and even a touch of that hardness of nature which always clashed so much with Patricia's outlook on life. Hence she troubled less in one sense about her sister now than she might have done. But still, it hurt her terribly to know that there was this powerful, invisible barrier between her sister and herself. It gave her a pang to realise that Sheila had to resort to subterfuge, that she crept out of the house like a thief in the darkness. She had been so wonderfully proud of Sheila; even the knowledge that her sister was unpopular because of her cold aloofness had seemed right in Patsy's eyes, because it had been part and parcel of that proud spirit which she admired so much.It made her tremble now just to imagine what all the people round and about would think and say if they were to know that Sheila Prentice--Sheila, so unapproachable, so sheathed about in dignity--was called forth from her home by some strange summons, forced to do her own errands by stealth, possessed

by a mystery which had, Patsy felt only too certainly, nothing pleasant in it!
The old cook, who had been nodding over a newspaper a week old, looked at the girl standing in front of the fire and wondered what had come to Miss Patsy, she had such a serious air."You'll scorch, if you are not careful, miss," she said, with that accent of reproof in her voice which long association with her mistress had engendered."Shall I?" Patsy woke from her thoughts and snatched her skirt about her. She sniffed it apprehensively. "Just in time! Well, thank goodness, it's the dark weather coming, and burns and patches won't be seen, and, anyhow, I'm warm through now, so I'll toddle upstairs.""Wait awhile, miss, if you please. Seeing as you're going upstairs, perhaps you wouldn't be above taking this cup of broth to Miss Sheila. Stanton tells me she's got one of her bad heads, and is gone to bed till dinner."Patricia checked the words which rushed so naturally to her lips, and said, instead:"All right!"When the broth was made hot, she waited till it was poured into a cup, and she went out of the kitchen carrying the steaming beverage with all the care necessary."You are a good soul, Martha," she said, "and you will have a nice, big halo by-and-by if you get your deserts."She spoke with an effort. In this little episode, more, perhaps, than in any other, she was painfully

impressed with the ugliness of the role her sister was playing just now.
She climbed the stairs to her own room very slowly. To feel tired was a new sensation to Patricia, but, for the moment, she felt unutterably weary. She sat for a long time surveying the cup of broth, and her thoughts winged themselves from one unpleasant subject to another."Well!" she mused out aloud, after a time. "I've often heard people say that nasty things come altogether, but I never felt it so surely till now. Worrying about Sheila was bad enough, but now there is Mr. Sharpus. I don't suppose I ought to trouble my head about him one way or another, but we don't all do as we should do, and I am awfully upset. I never could have believed he would have been so disagreeable! He has always laughed at other times when I talked nonsense. Did he really suppose I was in earnest about the tea?" Her face flamed into a hot colour, and she pressed her cold hands to her cheeks as if to hide the blush, even from the shadows of her room. Then she laughed a weak imitation of her usual brisk, merry laugh. "And, after all, if he did think so, he wasn't far wrong. I did want to go to the farm. I know now I have been wanting this ever so badly. And, of course, I shall never go now."She stooped, and, unfastening her boots, she kicked them from her little feet, viciously."I don't want to cry," she said to herself unsteadily, "and I know I shall howl in two minutes if I am not careful."In truth she sat and let the tears roll slowly down

her face for a few moments, and then she dried her eyes resolutely."If Jane Morant sees that I have been crying, she'll ask all sorts of tiresome questions, and that will start mother, and then we shall be jolly!"Resolutely conquering her desire to give way to regret and unhappiness, Patsy hurried out of her walking clothes. For once she was exempted from attending the tea-table in the drawing-room. Mrs. Prentice was entertaining Miss Morant in the small room which she only used on such occasions."How I used to hate Jane when I was a little thing!" Patricia said to herself with a fugitive smile; "we are certainly idiots when we are young--we never see beyond the end of our noses. Jane was, of course, a boon and a blessing, if we'd only recognised her as such, instead of which, to me, at least, she was an awful bogie. I only hope,"--the girl thought suddenly--" that she won't meet Sheila as she comes home. I must try and manage that they don't come across one another."She paused to reflect, and then, finding no other plan feasible, she went quickly downstairs, and approached the room where her mother and Miss Morant were sitting.She overheard eager words as she opened the door."Oh, a deplorable affair, my dear! " Miss Morant was saying, "and there was any amount of scandal. No one knows where she is now, but he has taken the children. Poor souls! One must at least be sorry for the children. I hear there are three of them, quite babies, too."Once again that hot colour rushed uncomfortably

into Patricia's cheeks, and this time there was a further uncomfortable feeling pressing on her heart.Without names--she had instantly divined who it was that was under discussion. And swiftly, and almost fiercely, she resented this discussion.Silence reigned as the girl advanced."I thought you would be practising," her mother said coldly.It was one of her rules, rigidly adhered to generally, that gossip was eschewed in her presence.The coming of Patricia was, therefore, inopportune. Miss Morant took the hint, and picked up her knitting."And how is the music?" she inquired in the sprightly way she usually adopted when addressing girls. "You must sing, after dinner, Patricia.""That depends on mamma," Patricia said; "she doesn't care for my singing very much.'"There are many things I do not care for which I have to suffer," Mrs. Prentice remarked gloomily.She was sharply annoyed that the conversation had been interrupted; annoyed, too, because she was not quite sure if Patricia had not heard what was being said as she came in.Miss Morant sighed sympathetically, signifying that she knew what trials there were in her friend's life."But, of course, my dear, you are now devoting yourself to more useful duties. You are at an age to be a great comfort to your dear mother.""At what age does the art of comforting begin to sprout, I wonder?" queried Patricia.She was rather bitter in her humour."Nasty old thing!" she said to herself; "now she is going to turn mother against him altogether. I remember when she was down here in the spring, she was devoured with curiosity about Mr. Sharpus. Evidently she has been making it her business to know all there is to know, and if she can put a wrong construction on anything, why, of course, she will be only too glad to do it."Miss Morant affected to laugh. She had projecting teeth, and wore her hair parted and plaited. Once in the long, long ago, someone had told her she had a classically-shaped head, and she was still proud of this possession. In a way, Patricia respected and even liked her mother's friend; she knew Miss Morant to be a clever and a courageous woman--who had faced endless and cruel difficulties with an undaunted spirit. Further, there were traditions of a love story in the days of Jane Morant's youth, a story which had ended in sacrifice because marriage would have meant desertion of a crippled and only parent."There must be real good in her somewhere. Look what she did for her father," Patsy had said once to her sister. But Sheila saw no good in Miss Morant, save only as a means of diverting Mrs. Prentice now and then, and so slackening the exigent rule of the household at Pitt Place."You are an odd child," Miss Morant said, as she laughed now."I have another name for Patricia's oddity," said Patricia's mother harshly.
But Patricia only smiled."I know they want me to go, but I won't go," she said to herself.She had forgotten the reason which had made her seek this uncongenial society, she only thought of Anthony Sharpus, of his proud, self-elected isolation. She remembered his love for the little children clustered under the farmhouse roof, and she had a nervous, a delicate desire to stand and close the door on all gossip and idle comment about him and what he did."If there is a story it belongs to him--it is nobody else's business to drag that story out, and hand it round for everyone to make a fuss about. I hate this sort of thing! And if I stay I shall stop mother and Jane talking for a little while at least."So she dived into a big work-basket, and brought out a piece of work which she played at every night after dinner. It had been intended for a sofa cushion, but the design had gone astray. Sheila had poked fun at this specimen of Patricia's needlework for weeks past now."I think you ought to extend it, and turn it into a kitchen hearthrug. Martha would adore it.""Don't sneer," Patsy had laughed, "it will serve some good purpose--you see if it doesn't."And sure enough her prophecy had come true, for as she sat putting stitches in wildly, she felt that she was building up a barrier to protect the tenderest feelings of the man whose friendship meant so much--so very much to her.CHAPTER IX.ANTHONY SHARPUS was late in getting back to the farm. He had stoutly refused to respond to his friend's invitation, and make one of the party at the dinner which, it was stated, would be served early at that little house; but he was not so successful in shaking off the man whom he had come across so unexpectedly and inopportunely. Not that he disliked Lawrence Goodborough. That would have been impossible. In truth he had something closely akin to affection for this young man. But for various reasons Sharpus was decidedly not in the mood to invite intercourse with any who had known him intimately before he had come to Winchbourne, and Lawrence Goodborough was one of these. It was impossible, however, to inspire Mr. Goodborough with the idea that he was not wanted.He was only on a visit for a couple of days to the small shooting-party, which it seemed would break up altogether then, and when he had extracted from Mr. Sharpus the unwilling admission that his tent was pitched domestically within a figurative stone's-throw of their meeting-place, the young man very promptly, and with all simplicity, invited himself as a guest at the farm."My dear fellow, you would be bored in a couple of hours!" Sharpus said, a trifle impatiently."Try me!" was the complacent reply. And then he put a query: "Did you ever know me to be bored in the first place, and, in the second, don't you know I simply adore being in the country. I can live on anything, turn my hand to anything, make myself generally useful."As Sharpus had flatly refused to be taken indoors and introduced to his friend's host, Lawrence Good-borough had insisted on walking homeward with him, and, little as he was wanted, Sharpus could not refuse this.He had parried all the questions he possibly could, but Lawrence had a way of calling for confidence, and hence his reluctant disclosure of his whereabouts."Couldn't make out where you'd got to," Mr. Goodborough remarked, as he listened. "What brought you down here? Do you know the country well? There's no shooting, even for nuts, but they tell me they have some good runs now and then with the Winchbourne Harriers.""Fairly good," said Sharpus.He made one or two vain attempts to get rid of his companion, but the other man stuck like a burr, and from definite ill-humour Anthony Sharpus drifted into a philosophic endurance which was not unpleasant."Mountains may be moved, but not Lawrence Goodborough when his mind is made up," he said to himself.And so it ended in his permitting his friend to

make arrangements to put himself up at the farm-house for a few days."Only, see here, Lawrence," the prospective host said. "Just keep this to yourself. I don't want anybody else coming down on me. To be quite candid, my dear fellow, I really don't want you."Goodborough laughed--such a hearty, healthy laugh."Oh, that's all right! I think I know you a bit better than you know yourself, old chap!"But he lapsed into silence after that, and he seemed suddenly oppressed with a sense of awkwardness."Of course, Tony, if you've really any reason for wishing me not to come. If--I mean--"But he found it very difficult to say what he did mean. Sharpus understood him, however."Oh! I'm all alone, except for the children.You've probably forgotten Meggy by this time.""Forgotten her! Rather not! Who could? That decides me right away. The farm and the children are too much for me."And afterwards, when they had separated, Sharpus realised, not without surprise, that he was on the whole glad to think Lawrence Goodborough should be with him a little while.They had separated just before reaching Pitt Place. Hunger, not politeness, had suggested to Mr. Goodborough the necessity of retracing his steps.On the road, some little distance past the big iron gates of Pitt Place, Mr. Sharpus met Miss Prentice. He removed his cap, but Sheila gave him no greeting."People must be blind when they call this girl

a beauty and tell me her sister is not to be compared to her!" the man said to himself irritably. He sat late into the night writing. Many were the surmises in the neighbourhood as to what Mr. Sharpus did with himself. Not a few would have been glad to fraternise with him, but he was strangely unsociable and decidedly inhospitable. Then, except for an occasional appearance in the hunting-field, he seemed to have no amusements. He certainly was no farmer, that was abundantly clear; though he leased the farm lands he left everything to the care and discretion of the bailiff, who had been there when he had arrived on the scene.
Possibly, if anyone had taken the trouble to follow Mr. Sharpus's movements very closely, they would have seen that only with one person did he attempt to play the part of a farm holder, and that person was the mistress of Pitt Place. When in a desultory way the bailiff had mentioned that Mrs. Prentice wished to deal with him as she had dealt with his landlord for fodder for her horse and pony, Mr. Sharpus had surprised the man by declaring his intention of going into the matter personally.He really had no good excuse for breaking through his stringent rules when he himself sought to establish a recognition, at least, between the inmates of Pitt Place and himself, but he had assuredly found a vast amount of interest in playing the part he had set himself, at least until that memorable evening when he had been awakened so sharply to the fact that his intercourse with one member of the Pitt Place household carried with it certain elements which did not make entirely for peace of mind.He had tutored himself severely in the time which had gone by since that night, but all this common-sense reasoning fell from him when he was face to face with Patricia Prentice. And this was a matter which he could not but deplore, seeing that it must lead to an unsatisfactory conclusion."It is not as if I were free to think of these sort of things," he mused to himself restlessly now and then. It was a curious mixture of feeling which drove him to his literary work.For months past he had been procrastinating, urging himself now and then to attend to the engagements which he had entered into a year or so ago; but his heart had not been in his pen and everything had been discarded till this night, and now he worked as if inspired. And the next day the fever still possessed him, and he was only roused to the knowledge that an outer world existed when little Meggy came and whispered tender words, and wooed him to eat and drink something.The advent of Lawrence Goodborough at the farm was a great joy to the children. He seemed specially constructed to carry three youngsters on his shoulders at the same time. No wild animal ever roared as he could roar; no professional conjurer had more tricks at his finger-ends. As for storytelling--well, Sharpus had to confess with Meggy that it was all "won'erful--most won'erful!""You've mistaken your vocation, Lawrie," the host remarked at the end of the first day, and the children had been wooed to the bedroom, and even to sleep itself by the most resourceful of entertainers. "You ought to start an infants' school."Lawrence Goodborough laughed his delightful breezy laugh."'Pon my soul, a good idea!"He threw himself back on the couch, and lay with his head cushioned on his two hands, and his feet at a much higher level."Will you give me those three to start with, Tony?" he asked.Though he spoke brightly, there was a curious inflection in his voice, a note which the other man understood.He smiled faintly as he shook his head."No. You must look farther afield. Those three little souls belong to me, and I can't share them with anybody."Mr. Goodborough remained silent a moment, and then he laughed again."School!" he said. "They'd be jolly ignorant little beggars if they waited to be taught by me.Then he sat bolt upright."I say, Tony," he said, "I forgot all about it till now, but I've accepted an invitation to dinner for you as well as myself."Sharpus's delicate brows met in a frown."I never go anywhere," he said tersely.And the other man answered just a little impatiently:"Oh, but that's all rot, you know! You can't shut yourself up here for everlasting."The two men were silent a moment, and then Sharpus asked:"Where are you dining?""We, you mean," Goodborough amended. And then he explained. "It's like this. Hargreaves and I were walking through your village yesterday, and we met Lady Amelia Heatherington. I hadn't seen her since last spring, and I used to go to Middlesex House to play bridge with the duchess. She was awfully civil, and asked me at once and Hargreaves too, to go to Winchbourne Court to dinner. Of course, he said he was off, and I said I was goin' to put up here, and naturally she asked you to dine too, and I said you would. See?"The frown lingered on Anthony Sharpus's face. He looked so annoyed that the other man felt uncomfortable."Of course, you can send an excuse," he said hurriedly, "but really I didn't think twice. Lady Amelia said she was having a parochial kind of dinner--the parson, and the doctor, and your neighbours at that funny, old, ramshackle house, Pitt something or other--and so I just said 'all right,' and that settled it.""Oh, I can send an excuse, of course," said Sharpus.And then they talked of other things, and the subject dropped. But when the next day, as they sat at luncheon, there came a formal little letter from Winchbourne Court requesting the honour of Mr. Sharpus's company to dinner several nights hence, to his guest's surprise Mr. Sharpus announced his intention of accepting the invitation."As it is going to be a parochial gathering I may as well go," he remarked.To which Mr. Goodborough answered:"That's right, sonny. And, having made up your mind, stick to it. See!"Meggy looked gravely across the table at the young man, her eyes full of reproof."You mustn't speak rudely to Tony," she said. "He hasn't got no mind. He's a gentleman."CHAPTER X.MRS. BARTINGALE'S spirits rose when she heard of the proposed entertainments at Winchbourne Court. Truth to tell, the good soul had suffered a bitter disappointment in the very certain failure of Lady Amelia Heatherington, not merely as an important social factor but as a great personage.Even Mrs. Bartingale was constrained to admit that Sir Francis's wife did look appallingly shabby and most unattractive in her every-day outdoor gear. She knew that the trunks had reached the Court, and she had read magnificent accounts of the trousseau provided by the Duchess of Middlesex for her daughter, but no one glancing casually at Lady Amelia as she went through the village could possibly have mistaken her for a bride, and a distinguished one. Then the aloofness of Lady Amelia had threatened to be disastrous. Mrs. Bartingale had promised and vowed so many delightful things in the name of the mistress of Winchbourne Court that the period of silence which followed on the arrival of the Heatheringtons at the old-fashioned house had tried the rector's wife immensely. She, there-

fore, gave a big sigh of relief and delight when notes were written and invitation cards went forth from Winchbourne Court.Not only were there several dinners, but Lady Amelia invited the neighbourhood to a big gathering on Boxing Day.This had been Sir Francis's idea."Suppose we try and have a jolly Christmas, Amy," he said to her on his return from that little shooting excursion." Sophie and her husband have practically invited themselves down here for a week or ten days at Christmas, and we must have some sport. I propose a Christmas-tree. That would wake up the neighbourhood."Lady Amelia had looked at him doubtfully for a moment. She felt so far, so very far away from this suggested gaiety, but the protest she would have uttered remained unspoken. Those days of his absence had been so dreary, so full of desolation.Before he had gone she had been a prey to the most bitter and even harsh feelings. Emotions hitherto unknown to her had surged tumultuously in her heart, but when she was alone she had wandered about the house realising in a sort of anguished way that he was gone (and more particularly that he had seemed so eager, so glad to go), and she had said to herself wildly that all--all would be easy to bear if only he would always remain with her, if only she could feel that he was near.She had made acquaintance with a new self in those desolate days. It was reserved for this time of separation to show her how tremendous was the power of this love which had her now so completely

in sway--what unimagined delights and what agonies it could signify to her.She could neither eat nor sleep, and grew haggard eyed and white-faced. Sir Francis exclaimed when he saw her.She explained her appearance with a lie."I caught cold, and I have been ill. But I am all right now!""Ill! Then why the dickens didn't they let me know? Did Mitchinson come? No! Why not? He's rough I know, but I believe he's a splendid all-round man. Look here, Amy, I am going to send for him now!""No, no!" She put out her thin hand and caught him by the arm. "No, Frank; please, dear, don't! I never need a doctor, and I am really better.""You don't look it."The young man was greatly upset. She had a very fragile look. He felt again that uncomfortable sensation as if he had been guilty of some definite wrong to her."And I've had such a good time, too!" he said to himself reproachfully. It was true. Burdened as his heart was now he had nevertheless managed to forget his trouble in the zest and excitement of his sport.Lady Amelia preferred not to talk about herself. On the contrary, she discussed their plans and even expressed pleasure (which she was far from feeling) that her sister should wish to visit them."Do what you want at Christmas, Frank. Whatever you like, I shall like," she said, in a low voice. As she sat by the fire and watched him move about

the room, her heart thrilled and leaped with a joy that was tender and savage, full of exultation.He was hers--hers, and he had come back to her. Oh! he must never leave her again. His presence was like the life-giving warmth of a glorious sun-shine.To keep him close to her, to have that blessed sense of possession, there was nothing she would not do. Nothing--nothing!His very real solicitude about her was so exquisite, it brought tears to her eyes and a soft touch to her faded cheeks. If she could have studied her own feelings she would have shut herself apart with him from all the world, but his lightest desire was her eager duty.Once she said half humbly:"I feel so out of all these sort of things, Frank. I was always stupid at entertaining. I remember so well how furious mother used to be with me. Hermione and Sophie could do anything, but I--" she finished with a little, pathetic gesture."I'd rather have you fifty thousand times over than Hermione and Sophie," Sir Francis said promptly, and he went on to remark that he hoped devoutly that Lady Sophie would tone down her complexion just a little when she came to stay with them."If she puts on so much paint down here she'll frighten Mrs. Bartingale into a fit," he said.He went out of the room a little later and looked back through the doorway to make a remark:"Look here, Amy," he said, a trifle hurriedly, "if you want anyone to give you a helping hand with

these dinners, and especially with the tree, why not enlist the Prentice girls? They'd love to help you, I'm sure; and it would be a real charity on your part to give them a chance of getting away from that dead-and-alive hole. The very look of the place is enough to make one shiver."Lady Amelia made no reply, indeed he did not wait for any. As he went out to the stables a kind of excitement ran in his veins, coupled with determination. Back in the same neighbourhood with Sheila she dominated him again."Does she think I am going to eat her?" he asked himself a little resentfully. "Why the devil does she keep away from me? I verily believe she won't go out nowadays because she's afraid of meeting me. Patsy runs about as usual, but Sheila one never sees."A moment or two later he left the stables and went for a sharp, brisk walk across the fields, his thoughts occupied solely with that one, that vital subject."What does she do with herself?" he queried. "What will she do with herself? It's horrible to think she's just there, and that I'm here, and that we both want one another, and can never, never come together now. Sheila, my girl, you did a d--d bad thing for both of us when you played at pretending you did not care what I did or where I went."He walked round about the outskirts of the Pitt Place grounds. Once upon a time the Prentice family had owned nearly a thousand acres of arable land, but little by little it had dwindled, being bought

up by sundry farmers in the neighbourhood and leased out for pasture or cultivation.For the house itself Mrs. Prentice had had, to Sir Francis's knowledge, more than one good offer. It was unentailed, and she could have sold it had she wished, but it was well known she would rather be in her grave than part with the place where she had lived all her life.The house lay so low that only the roof and upper floor could be seen from where Sir Francis stood, but this was enough for him. In her chattering way Patricia had once sketched for him the routine of life and the arrangements inside Pitt Place. So he knew quite well where to look for the windows of Sheila's room, and it was not the first time that he had stood as he now stood looking across the distance which divided them with his heart in his eyes.At dinner that same evening Lady Amelia told him she had taken his advice and had written and asked Miss Prentice and her sister to come to her assistance in her proposed Christmas festivities."One gets so selfish," she said, in a humble way. "If it is in my power to do a little for these girls or for any one else round and about here I will do it. But I would rather you advised me in this, Frank. I find Mrs. Bartingale rather oppressive."Sir Frank laughed. A sense of delight radiated him for the moment. He could think of nothing but that Sheila would come to his house. Sheila would be near him. He could look at her; perhaps, at times, touch her hands--those slim, delicate hands--which he could crush so easily. The thought of

her manifold beauties intoxicated him. He drew his breath quickly.His wife looked at him; there was a burning pain at her heart. Not that her jealousy was individualised, only that in such a moment she saw how young he was. She felt how withered her own youth had become. She had dressed herself with more care, and had picked out a white tea-gown from among the numerous splendid garments of her wedding outfit.When it was on she had almost torn it off again, it so cruelly emphasised her sallow skin; it suggested so much freshness, but there had not been time to change, and when she got downstairs she had been amply rewarded. Sir Francis admired her openly."Always wear white, Amy," he said, "it is most becoming to you."And, indeed, she had a charm about her this night which had been lacking altogether in her since their marriage. Her husband was delightfully tender and appreciative.Just because his heart leaped and his pulses thrilled as he whispered to himself the madness of his love, he set himself to be doubly attentive to the woman he had married. It was not wholly casuistry which prompted him to this. He turned naturally to take up the care of one who, though so much his senior, was like a child in his life. In truth, he was encircled once again by that spontaneous expression of sympathy which had carried him to so tragical a point when he had known of Lady Amelia's persecution at the hands of her mother and Mr. Iscariot.Her gentle attitude disarmed him, too. There had

been a very definite sense of possible friction between them before he had gone away. This was entirely at an end now. Heatherington was so very human in all his qualities that he may be forgiven if down at the bottom of his kindly feelings towards his wife there lurked the pleasant assurance that by absenting himself he had brought her to a reasonable frame of mind. Even the best and kindest of men love their mastership!CHAPTER XI.IT would have been fitting in with Anthony Sharpus's experience of life--at least, of life as it had passed with him of late, if disappointment should have awaited him when, having sacrificed every objection--and he had many--to making a social appearance in Winchbourne, he had followed Lawrence Goodborough into Lady Amelia's charming low-roofed drawing-room. But for once his hope was gratified, for the very first person he caught sight of as he passed in through the doorway was Patricia Prentice.She was talking to the rector; her expression was happy; she had the old alert, frank, childish look about her, the look he loved so much. And she was so pretty.Both she and Sheila wore pink frocks of some soft material, made by their own nimble fingers, and fashioned as simply as could be.To avert displeasure, Patsy had abstained from coiling her abundant hair high on her head, and here again she was a match with her sister, for Sheila always wore her beautiful hair parted and pinned in one large classical knob at the base of her small

head, and this night Patricia had followed suit. Somehow this severe method made her younger than before.She gave Sharpus a smile, and her small white gloved hand, but still there lingered something in her expression which hurt him, which was a kind of reproach to him. The fact was, that Patsy was a little shy. In his evening clothes there was such fulfilment of that distinction which she had vaguely recognised always about this man; he had such an air of being apart from the rest of the people that she felt almost afraid of him.As the rector moved away, and they were alone, he compelled her to look up and meet his eyes, and as she saw that they were full of light, and that he was smiling, she took heart of grace."How nice to see you here," she said gaily."Is that just an ordinary pretty speech, or merely the truth?" he asked, as he released her hand with reluctance.She laughed."I always tell the truth, Mr. Sharpus.""Do you?"He questioned her face far more eagerly than he was conscious of."Few women do," was his remark, given a trifle grimly after that little pause, but he hastened to amend this by saying, "Of course, it is very surprising to you to see me here?""Not exactly surprising--nice," she corrected."Nice is a half and half kind of word," Sharpus said. He leaned against the piano and kept his eyes fixed tenderly, admiringly upon her delightful face."I cannot really think of any other at this moment," said Patsy, just a little unsteadily."Well, one thing is very sure; I only came here tonight because I hoped for the chance of seeing you." His tone was very positive.Patricia looked at him an instant, and then looked away."That is the sort of thing I suppose you think is expected of you," she observed, half wistfully.He moved his hand an infinitesimal degree and just touched hers that was lying on the piano for an instant."Like yourself, I always speak the truth."Patricia blushed tremendously. Even her delicate throat grew crimson for a second. The touch of his hand electrified her. A sense of amazing joy took possession of her. She stood silent--not confused, simply dazed--and Sharpus felt her quiver."You must protect me," he said hurriedly. "Here comes the rector's wife with curiosity bristling on her like the quills of the porcupine. The last time we met in the village she eyed me doubtfully, as if she thought I had designs on her fowlhouse. It must be a fearful shock to her to meet me here."He was right. Mrs. Bartingale had literally gasped when she had looked about her and had recognised in the slim, elegant, yet manly young man talking to Patricia Prentice the mysterious occupant of the Treasury Farmhouse. As Mrs. Prentice was absent through indisposition, and she was deputed to chaperone the Prentice girls, she considered it her bounden duty to interrupt what looked like a very regrettably intimate conversation.She really thought it rather foolish--only that a duke's daughter could never of course do foolish things--of Lady Amelia to have made her invitations so general, "Because of course," she said to herself, "it cannot fail to put wrong ideas into people's heads."It was only in keeping with her judgment of Mr. Sharpus that he should adopt such a calm air--an air of positive indifference to his present whereabouts, as if dining with people of quality was an everyday occurrence with him.She had not the least idea that the man was daring to poke fun at her till she caught a certain expression on Patricia's face. Mrs. Bartingale was a good Christian, and had her temper well in hand as a general rule, but she let the curb go now."I think," she said stiffly to Patricia, "Lady Amelia is looking at you as if she wished to speak to you. Will you come with me?"Just for an instant the girl hesitated rebelliously, but then, with a shrug of her shoulders, she obeyed."And after all," she said to herself restlessly, "I dare say her interference is a good thing for me, for this can only lead to stupidness."In fact, she was vexed with herself for experiencing such unrestrained delight at the mere sight of this man.It was uphill work trying to talk to Lady Amelia, who certainly had expressed no sign of desiring a conversation with her, and yet Patricia eagerly pursued the task. She felt safe beside her hostess and gradually grew easy in mind and manner again.No one could complain that Lady Amelia had not taken trouble about her dress this night. She bore

witness to the fact that she must have given her maid good employment. Her hair was elaborately arranged, and she wore a small tiara. Her gown of white satin had a long train, and the bodice was laced tightly about her spare figure. She wore a few splendid jewels.It was natural to her to don this kind of garment, though she hated it, and she wore it with that distinction which always marked her. And yet Patricia felt so sorry for her. Handsome as the gown was, it was so ugly in its conventional stiffness. There was nothing ethereal about Lady Amelia's thinness. Her neck lacked the merest significance of prettiness, her arms were like sticks. Undeniably aristocratic as she was, her reserve gave a suggestion of gaucherie to her manner.And while they stood together, Sheila stood just beyond them. Sheila, so lovely, so dainty in her pink gown, so young, so fair!She was listening to Lawrence Goodborough as he talked away with light-hearted ease. Sir Francis was standing close by, supposed to be engaged in conversation with the rector; but watching him with an apprehension of which she was wholly unconscious, Patricia remarked how little heed he gave to his companion, and how intently his eyes were fixed on Sheila. As far as she knew, her sister and their host had not spoken beyond the exchange of greeting as they arrived.At another time Patricia would have rejoiced in her sister's beauty, but to-night it almost hurt her to realise how like a queen Sheila rose superior to all in the room, and how painfully her freshness,

and her loveliness contrasted with the woman whom Francis Heatherington had married."It is too bad of Frank!" the girl said to herself hotly. "He must know he is making Sheila uncomfortable when he stands and stares at her like that. She won't show this, of course, but it is bound to upset her."Dinner, which was announced at that moment, came as a relief to Patricia. She was taken in by the curate--Mrs. Bartingale's pet detestation--and Sheila and Mr. Goodborough went in together. It was an interminable meal. Sir Francis was not in good spirits. This was at once remarked, and at Lady Amelia's end of the table a frigid air prevailed.Lawrence Goodborough seemed to be the one person who was really enjoying himself. His laugh would ring out like a bell every now and then; his efforts to entertain his table companion were crowned with success. Despite that curious sense of uneasiness, Patricia found joy in watching her sister.When Sheila laughed and chatted so merrily she looked just as she had been wont to look in those old days before Patricia had gone abroad. There could not be any real trouble shadowing her--so Patsy said to herself eagerly--when she could look and be so happy.The curate, who had more than a passing admiration for the younger Miss Prentice, droned away on all the usual tiresome subjects, and Patsy shot him answers at random. When she was not looking at Sheila she was trying to catch a glimpse of Sharpus, who was seated on the same side of the table as herself, and who was apparently very deeply interested

in all Mrs. Mitchinson had to say. He might at least have looked once in her direction!When the ladies rose to go back to the drawing-room, Sharpus sought and found the eyes he desired, and Patsy went out of the room smiling unconsciously. She slipped her arm through her sister's."Darling," she whispered. "You look such an angel!"Sheila suffered the endearment passively."I'm glad I look all right, for in reality I've got an awful headache. I think I shall sit in the conservatory for a few moments. I don't want any coffee. Why don't you start the music, Patsy? Everybody will bless you, I am sure. What a death's head that woman is!"The conservatory lay beyond the drawing-room, and Sheila after gracefully lingering a moment with the other women, sauntered on and passed out of the light into the shadows of the palms and ferns. Patricia watched her sister go wistfully, then she went up to Lady Amelia and sat beside her."It's so awfully good of you to let us help you with the Christmas tree," she said.Lady Amelia was, as usual, monosyllabic.It was treadmill work making conversation, but Patricia stuck to her post. Something pitiful seemed to tug at her heart. She had a sudden yearning to make this woman wake to the knowledge that affection and sympathy were being offered to her. All the time she was chatting away, Patricia was watching the door, and when the men came in at last, she found herself watching Sir Francis eagerly. She saw him pause and look about him quickly, then

as the other men filtered across the room he disappeared."He has gone to find Sheila!" Patricia said to herself, and she shivered with apprehension and indignation, too.She put all the blame on the man."It is too horrible!" she mused, as she talked on fluently, and a patch of hot colour burned on either cheek. "I don't understand Frank. If what I think is true, and he has been miserable enough to fall in love with Sheila now, he might at least consider her, I think. It looks so marked of him to leave everybody in this way."While these thoughts were burning her, she was chatting away almost feverishly to the woman beside her.Lady Amelia gave Patricia really very little encouragement to talk so much. She sat by the fireside, her primness and lack of modernity emphasised by the gown she wore. Patsy tried, and tried in vain, to find some touch of sympathy, some suggestion of charm in this middle-aged wife of Francis Heatherington.The girl deplored the white satin and the jewels. They sat well on Lady Amelia, it was true in one sense, but they seemed such a mockery in another. Whereas a woman of a different class would have looked vulgar, perhaps, in this garb, Amelia Heatherington looked what she was emphatically--a well-born and well-bred woman, but the lustre of the satin, the decolletage, threw up too clearly the fact that youth and she had not touched hands this many a year.And Patricia Prentice's warm, loving heart was full of pity for her.
Mrs. Bartingale, hovering near by, was shocked by Patsy's usurpation of their hostess. She made several ineffectual attempts to stem the flow of words, and, at last, when Patricia was describing a Christmas party she had been to in Germany, in a very sharp tone, she broke in with a reproof:"There, my dear, that will do. No doubt this is all very interesting to you, but it cannot possibly interest Lady Amelia, you know."Patsy stopped abruptly, and caught her breath in a sighing way.It was really an expression of relief, for at that moment Sheila had made her reappearance. Her sister noted quickly how pale Sheila was, and how dark-stained her eyes were. Lady Amelia caught that sound in Patricia's voice. She could be gracious in her cold way, at times, and she was gracious now.She rose as Patricia turned to move away. "Won't you sing to us? You sing so charmingly," she said.Patsy agreed at once, and made her way across the room again towards the piano. Immediately Anthony Sharpus detached himself from the man with whom he had been talking, and went to her aid. She was opening the piano."Are you going to play?"Patricia shook her head."No. Sing.""You play, though, don't you?"She laughed nervously."Yes, a little."Then she asked him to go to Emily Bartingale, and beg her to come and play the accompaniments.He made as though to go and then came back. "What are you going to sing?"He turned over her music as he spoke, and then seated himself at the piano."I have a fancy to play your accompaniments," he said coolly.Patsy opened her eyes, and at her expression he smiled."Yes; I know you are very particular. Well, if I do badly, I give you leave to turn me off."He began moving his fingers softly over the keys, improvising a kind of prelude, and then he harmonised into the key of the song open before him, and looked round, pausing for the singer to begin. Patricia had a wistful expression in her eyes, and perhaps, for the first time in her young career, she hesitated to begin. Then she opened her lips, and she sang, as she could sing, most exquisitely.The doctor's wife crossed over and sat close to them.When Patsy's first song came to an end, Mrs. Mitchinson said in her sharp way:"Make her go on--and on! I could listen to her all night and all day, too, and your music just matches her voice."So, despite Mrs. Bartingale's austere and condemnatory look (who was this man that he should take away her Emily's chance of distinguishing herself? And how like Patricia Prentice to encourage

a perfect stranger to take so much liberty! Really, it was the last time she would chaperone these girls!) Patsy sang again and again. And she sang only for one person. Her audience dwindled down to one--she even overlooked Mrs. Mitchinson. Her singing, which was always a happiness to her, had become permeated this night with a perfectly unreasonable sense of joy."How deliciously you play!" she said, when at last they paused.He was looking at her."And to think I never dreamed you could sing! Where was my discernment--where my imagination?"Colouring violently with pleasure, Patsy said, in her pretty, impertinent fashion:"Perhaps you haven't got any."Sharpus smiled."A good many people are of that opinion, I believe," he said drily; then abruptly: "When are you coming to eat hot cakes and drink tea, and make friends with the children?"Patsy shrugged her shoulders."I'm not half sure I want to come now," she said. He looked at her keenly, and then said:"Oh, very well!"And then, terribly afraid of losing once again a chance she so earnestly desired, Patsy touched him on the arm as he was turning away."You see I can't come alone," she remarked a little feebly, and very quickly she added: "Why not invite Mrs. Mitchinson? She's really an awfully good-hearted woman, and simply adores children.""But do you want to come?" he queried, looking directly into her eyes with a slight frown on his brow. Patsy laughed."Now I know that you have no discernment whatever your imagination may be!"She left him making plans with the doctor's wife, and went to join Sheila, who was lying back in her chair, listening to Lawrence Goodborough's chatter with a faint smile on her lips.It was very evident that Mr. Goodborough was in danger of losing his heart to this lovely, oval-faced, delicate-skinned young woman with the mystical dark eyes and the lips that smiled so seldom, and were at once so bitter and so sad in their expression.Sir Francis, who was at the other end of the room, watched them narrowly. He seemed to be talking rather loudly, and was in a decidedly boisterous humour."Darling, don't you think we ought to go?" Patricia asked hurriedly."I have been ready to go for the last hour, but you were so busy amusing yourself that you forgot all about me," Sheila remarked in her cold, quiet way.Mr. Goodborough had begun to pay Patricia elaborate compliments."Never heard anything so rippin'! Once, when I shut my eyes, I thought I was in heaven." Sheila laughed slightly at this."To shut your eyes in this assembly was a wise precaution." She got up gracefully as she spoke. "If we don't make haste the Ludleighs will have

taken our fly, and then we shall have either to walk home or to wait here for hours."But even as she spoke, Sir Francis, seeing that she was about to go, broke away from the group of men with whom he had been talking, and came up to her."I've ordered the motor to take you and Patsy home," he said, and his tone was masterful."You are very good," Sheila Prentice said. She spoke coldly, and moved on towards the fireplace, where Lady Amelia stood saying " good-night " to her parting guests.Lady Amelia just touched the hand of each of the Miss Prentice's in turn. Those two fresh, youthful figures in their simple, delicate gowns of pink seemed to wither her into silence.Mrs. Mitchinson pounced on Patricia as they were going and whispered:"Tuesday at four--we'll meet there--don't you think that will be best?"Mr. Goodborough followed closely in Sheila Prentice's train, and both he and Mr. Sharpus were standing in the hall wearing their great coats when the two girls came out with their wraps on.Sir Francis, however, quickly repudiated any attempt on the part of these other men to pay any attention to the guests whom he was speeding away in so luxurious a fashion.His manner was scarcely sympathetic. Indeed, a few minutes later, when the two young men left the house and started out on a brisk walk homeward, Goodborough remarked openly on their host's manner."Never knew Heatherington to be like that before. By Jove, he nearly snapped my head off when I said something to him just now! Of course, I suppose he's huffed with things generally, but, after all, if he has been and gone and done an asinine thing, he has nobody but himself to blame. He wasn't bound to marry his grandmother.""I am not at all sure," Sharpus remarked after a little pause, "that I have much sympathy for Heatherington. If either of these two call for sympathy, it seems to me it is the wife."The other man uttered an explanation indicative of incredulity."My dear chap," he said, "Heatherington has always been known to be one of the best goin'--absolutely one of the best!""Perhaps, then, he has deteriorated a little lately," observed Mr. Sharpus drily. "At any rate, I'll tell you what, Lawrie, supposing he has done what you have just called an asinine thing in marrying this woman, there are no two ways, in my opinion, as to how he ought to treat the situation. There was something inexpressibly pitiful to me written in Lady Amelia's face to-night. If I were Heatherington, I should make it my life's work to prevent such a look coining on the face of any woman I married, no matter how old she might be or how ugly.""Oh--you!"An inflection of utter hopelessness rang out in those two words ejaculated by Lawrence Goodborough. There was, indeed, a whole volume of meaning in them, and the two men lapsed into silence and trudged the remainder of the distance without

exchanging a word. At the farm, as he was looking up, Sharpus said:"Freezing hard; no hunting to-morrow, Lawrie." "I don't care! I'm as happy as a hunter down here, whatever comes."Meanwhile, the motor-car had sped swiftly to Pitt Place."This is nice!" Patsy had exclaimed as they flew through the night. "Oh, Sheila, if only some good-hearted and really intelligent fairy would bestow some of the luxuries of life upon us! Do you know I believe I should be quite happy if I had all I wanted?""At times!" said Sheila impatiently. "You talk fearful rubbish, Patsy. One gets rather sick of it, you know.""If I don't talk rubbish I shall weep," Patsy answered in a voice that quavered suspiciously. Then she added: "I am so unhappy--about you!"She spoke on the spur of the moment, and regretted her words most sharply after they had been spoken.Sheila made no immediate response. They had come to a standstill, and the chauffeur had got down to open the gates. As he remounted to his seat and they began to move again, Sheila said:"When you are a little older, you will learn that you do no earthly good to yourself by worrying over other people's affairs."Patricia had kept back her tears with a big effort. Something in her sister's voice hurt her."Other people are other people. You are you," she answered in a low tone.Sheila received this little speech fraught with the tenderest suggestion in silence. Just before they stopped in the courtyard, she spoke again."You sang very well to-night. What a difference a good accompanist makes! Emily simply murders those songs. Did you know that this mysterious Mr. Sharpus was a musician?""How should I have known?" queried Patsy, just a little tartly.Sheila shrugged her shoulders, and drew her skirts together as she alighted from the car."Oh, well, I thought you and he had struck up a great friendship."It was Patricia who paused to thank the chauffeur--she was always gracious in these little ways, and invariably treated servants with courtesy. Miss Prentice had walked in through the kitchen door, where the old cook sat nodding by the fireless grate waiting for the young ladies to come home, and Patsy followed her sister.The younger girl, moved as she was by so much that was weighty and even saddening, resolved not to do anything which might further alienate her sister, and, consequently, she avoided any reply to Sheila's last speech, but chatted on brightly."It was nice to feel so safe when I was singing. Emily generally does a kind of steeplechase with that last song, and I have to leap hedges and hold on to bars to keep up with her.""From what Mr. Goodborough said, I fancy you were exceptionally honoured. He was not very explicit, but I gathered that music, and especially a woman's singing, was usually a hurtful matter to Mr.

Sharpus. Perhaps he played his wife's accompaniments."Sheila went out of the kitchen as she spoke, but Patsy remained behind to help the old woman bar the doors and turn the rusty keys in the equally rusty locks. She was conscious of something more than the soreness and sadness which of late had crept into her heart whenever she thought of Sheila. There had been a curiously bitter flavour in all that Sheila had just been saying. Patricia did not attribute this for an instant to any definite feeling against Anthony Sharpus; it was merely the open expression of those sentiments which seemed to hem her sister about in these days. As she said "good-night" to the cook and climbed the stairs cautiously in the darkness to her own room, Patsy bit her lip nervously."I never want to sing again!" she said to herself wearily.And when she reached her own room she sat down and cried quite bitterly. It was very, very foolish, as she told herself later on, when the tears were dried, and she was lying on her pillows, but tears were in her heart still."Perhaps he played his wife's accompaniments!"Sheila's careless and yet half-sneering words rang again and again in Patsy's ears. They had meant so little to her sister; they meant so much to the girl lying with wide-open and wet eyes in the darkness of the night. Patsy realised gradually what this great significance was, and then she was glad of the darkness, for in the darkness the colour which crimsoned her face could not be seen, neither that nor

the nervous movement which sent one small hand to grip the other. She had known almost from the very beginning that in this man she had met one who was different, to any other human being with whom she had come in contact, but it was not till now that she knew what place it was he occupied in her thoughts and heart.CHAPTER XII.MISS MORANT put Patsy through an exhaustive cross-examination the day following Lady Amelia's dinner-party on all that had occurred at Winchbourne Court. It was practically impossible to avoid what Patricia now regarded as a dangerous subject.In common with Mrs. Bartingale, great surprise was expressed by Miss Morant at the catholicity which had characterised Lady Amelia Heatherington's invitations."I suppose she feels she must ask everybody," she remarked. "I think she ought to be more discriminate."Patsy, who was putting fresh flowers in the old china vases in the hall, smiled pugnaciously."It's my private opinion Lady Amelia doesn't care a rap one way or another whom she invites to dine. If there is one thing I envy her, it is her supreme indifference to everything and everybody."Miss Morant, who had been for a constitutional in the garden, and still wore a red knitted shawl about her shoulders and a tweed cap set rather rakishly on her head, looked reprovingly at Patsy."I am afraid you talk a lot of foolishness, Patricia," she said.Patsy turned with a bunch of chrysanthemums in

her hand. They were shabby, as everything was, even the garden produce, at Pitt Place these days, but they made a note of colour in the old house, which was so necessary to Patsy."Good heavens, Jane!" the girl said, "have you known me all these years and yet have only discovered now that I was born to talk rubbish?"To herself Patsy was saying:"Anything, I don't care what it is, to keep her away from talking about him!"But all strategy was useless. Miss Morant felt she had a legitimate right to criticise, and she intended to do this. Her manner was charged with a portentous suggestion which made Patsy aglow with anger. In answer to that last speech Miss Morant was ready with a reproof."Well, it is high time you began to change your ways, Patricia," she said. "You are no longer a child, you know. Your dear mother has been talking about you to me. She is a good deal troubled on your account."Patsy settled the chrysanthemums carefully, and then looked over her shoulder at Miss Morant."Honestly, my dear Jane," she said coolly, "I think you are wrong. Mother is like Martha of the Scriptures, anxious and troubled about many things. I dare say I am one of the many, but I don't count for very much. Look at these violets! I found them up by the old keeper's cottage. Aren't they delicious?"She advanced, and audaciously picking out a few, she stuck them into the mesh of the red shawl wrapped about Miss Morant's spare form."They smell like Paradise!" she said, as she stepped back and surveyed her handiwork; and then she closed her eyes and sniffed appreciatively.Jane Morant looked down at the violets. Just for a moment her expression softened."I remember coming here and picking violets like this just after you were born, Patricia.""Yes." Patsy nodded her head; then she took the bull by the horns, and spoke his name. Her back was turned to Miss Morant, and the wave of hot colour which suffused her face was not seen. "I believe I sang awfully well," Patsy chattered on gaily. "At least, Sheila says I did, and she is a good judge; but Mr. Sharpus plays accompaniments divinely. Jane, you must hear him play!""I have no desire to meet Mr. Sharpus," said Miss Morant stiffly."Not really?" queried Patsy. "But why? Poor dear! he is very harmless, I am sure.""There are some things better not discussed, and also many things I am glad to think outside your comprehension."Patricia accepted this remark made sententiously in silence for a moment; she was setting her violets tenderly in an old mug.When she spoke her voice had a muffled sound."I don't believe any man who plays, and who has such exquisite sentiment in his playing as Mr. Sharpus has, could be horrid."Miss Morant laughed, and then recollected herself primly. To discuss this man would be the height of imprudence, and though she reproved she did really regard Patricia as little more than a child."Now I must go and see how your dear mother is," she said. "She seems, happily, to have slept well, so I hope the neuralgia will be better."When she was alone in the hall, Patsy sat down and gave way to anger."Nasty old thing! What does she mean? What can she know about him? Isn't this just my fate? The moment anything nice happens it is sure to be taken away again."The moment she had opened her eyes that morning, after a troubled and tardy spell of sleep, Patsy had commenced arranging a way of escaping from the projected tea-party at the Treasury Farm. With the tear-stains barely dry on her cheeks, with that strange, burning knowledge born into her thoughts, she felt that it would be absolutely impossible for her to go with Mrs. Mitchinson as had been settled.And through the succeeding hours she had kept to this determination, though she had to fight down a kind of clamour in her heart at the same time. What she had said to herself was:"It's a thousand times better to let things be as they are. If I go to his house, of course it will make a sort of intimacy between us; and there is nothing to be gained by that. I must have a convenient headache or a toothache. I sha'n't say anything till Tuesday morning, and then I'll send a line to Mrs. Mitchinson and she can explain why I haven't gone with her."But this plan fell all to pieces now As she sat looking at the flowers in a disconsolate sort of way, Patsy convinced herself that Miss Morant had assuredly put inimical ideas into her mother's head

where Mr. Sharpus was concerned; and the mere suggestion that barriers would be erected in the pathway of this friendship--which was so wholly unlike any other friendship she had known--was sufficient to make her resolve to cling to it, more especially when she felt that his position was questioned and his character attacked."I shall positively hate Jane if she goes on hinting at mysterious and horrid things. And I don't believe she really knows anything about him. One thing is pretty sure; if there had been anything bad to know, the people about here would have found it out pretty quickly. I think it is quite beastly of Jane to insinuate there is something against him. I wouldn't believe a word even if he told me himself he had done wrong!"Her troubled musings were broken at this moment by the familiar sound of a motor puffing and groaning down the drive. Patsy's heart rose unconsciously as she went out to greet Dr. Mitchinson."You are as welcome as the flowers in May. Dear me, I do wish you would come and live here.""What's wrong?" queried the doctor, as he got out of the car and quieted the palpitating machinery. "You look terribly mournful, Patsy, my dear.""I feel mournful--I feel anyhow.""Ah, ah! I see the dinner was too much for you. My wife tells me they have evidently changed the cook at the Court; but then she riots in unholy and unwholesome foods, and nothing upsets her digestion."Patsy wrinkled up her pretty nose and made a moue at him, an expression which he at once understood, for his eyes twinkled as he said:"Digestion is a grand theme. I could discourse upon it for hours. Is your mother up?""I believe so," Patsy said languidly.The doctor took her by the shoulders and bundled her back into the house."The wind is in the east, and you've nothing on your shoulders. Why don't you put on your bonnet and shawl?""As if a little cold mattered!" cried Patsy scornfully.Before going upstairs Dr. Mitchinson warmed his hands at the fire."You covered yourself with glory last night, I hear?""Why weren't you there to listen and applaud?""Oh, sometimes I take a holiday. I've just come from the Treasury Farm. The eldest child has had a nasty cold. I'm afraid she's none too strong, and such a wee bit of an angel. But you've seen her, Patsy?""No; not yet."She plied her friend with questions. Shrewd as he was, Dr. Mitchinson had not the least idea how skilfully his mind was being searched, with what eagerness his chatter about Sharpus and the children was followed. Here, at any rate, there was no animus, no desire to probe for secrets, no suggestion that the man under discussion was everything he should not be. On the contrary, Dr. Mitchinson spoke enthusiastically about Anthony Sharpus, and was chatting away briskly when Sheila came in search of him."Mother heard you arrive; she would like you to go to her now," she said in her cold, even way.Patsy held Dr. Mitchinson as he was going."Come down soon; I have heaps of things I want to say to you."She went about from one flower-vase to the other, touching this one and that, yet making alterations in her scheme of colour in a very desultory way.Usually, Patsy was brisk and busy in the mornings, but this morning she was very much a sort et a travers. That definite note of hostility to Sharpus in Miss Morant's words and manner had something poisonous in it.Try as she would to dismiss the matter as idle gossip, there was something in the suggestion that this man was being discussed and perhaps condemned that was distinctly hurtful. She longed to be able to stand forward and refute anything that Miss Morant or any other person might say.Not that she did not consider that Mr. Sharpus could defend himself, and well, if occasion demanded; only when Patsy cared for people she always wanted to protect them. After awhile she went into the kitchen and talked over the luncheon and the dinner with the old cook.Miss Morant was favoured, for when she was at Pitt Place some little effort was made to invest the meals with attraction.Patsy had charge of the store cupboard, and she was doling out a few of its treasures when Sheila came into the kitchen. She was dressed for a walk."Dr. Mitchinson brought a message from Mrs. Mitchinson. She wants one of us to go back and lunch, and then help her sort out the blankets and flannels for the Christmas club. I know you hate this sort of thing, so I said I would go."Patsy shook out a quantity of brown sugar with an unsteady hand. Just for a moment she felt inclined to cry; then she swallowed her feelings and said:"All right."Sheila buttoned her glove."What's the matter?" she asked, her eyes searching her sister's face."Oh, don't ask questions!" flared out Patsy. "Isn't it bad enough to have Jane here wanting to know this and that and the other? I think I am tired. Perhaps the dinner disagreed with me, I don't know. I only know I am in a bad temper, and ready to quarrel with anybody.""Then it's a good thing I am going out."Sheila laughed slightly as she passed through the kitchen to make her way round to where the motor-car was waiting.When Dr. Mitchinson came downstairs he bustled into the kitchen, too."The wife really wanted you, but as Sheila asked me point blank to take her I could not refuse.""Oh, that's all right. Mrs. Mitchinson will perhaps let me lunch with her another day."She walked with him to where Sheila was waiting. "You must be prepared for a good shaking up," the doctor said to Miss Prentice.Sheila smiled."I shall enjoy it."She got into the car and waved her hand to Patsy."Expect me when you see me!" she said; and her tone sounded quite gay. There was a bright colour

in her cheeks, and her eyes, too, were unusually bright.Patsy looked at her sister in a doubtful sort of way. In such a moment as this she felt anew that sensation of helplessness to understand Sheila. That charming, pretty figure seemed so isolated from all that was natural and simple.To Patsy's imagination there was something indescribably bitter in Sheila's smile. She knew, of course, perfectly well that her sister had elected to go to this homely entertainment to suit some purpose of her own. Mrs. Mitchinson's hospitality had little in it to attract the elder Miss Prentice as a general rule."I'll go and make a cake," Patsy said to herself--" a nice heavy indigestible cake that will upset Jane, and perhaps keep her in her room all to-morrow."The red motor-car throbbed and jumped and flew through the gates on to the high-road."I must go round by Springfield. I hope you won't mind?" Dr. Mitchinson said, as they rattled along. Sheila only laughed. I am going to ask you to go further than Springfield. I want you to take me to the station. I must go to Marketborough this morning. Don't be shocked, Dr. Mitchinson; I had to invent something to get away. I can't lunch with Mrs. Mitchinson this morning. It's very terrible, I know, to deceive, but sometimes it is necessary; and if I don't go and be fitted for my new evening gown to-day I shall not get it in time for Christmas."The old doctor said nothing for a few minutes, and then he looked from under his rough eyebrows at Sheila."No doubt you know best," he said tersely. Sheila put her hand on his arm."And please you won't say anything at home?" To this Dr. Mitchinson made no answer. As far as he was concerned, no answer was necessary.CHAPTER XIII.SHEILA and Dr. Mitchinson parted company at the railway station."Thanks, ever so much," said Miss Prentice, as she got out of the car. "What a good thing it is to have a friend who can waft one along in the way you do. If I had come with the trap I should have been a whole hour doing this little bit of road."You've a good while to wait for the train," Dr. Mitchinson answered."Oh! I don't mind that. Even sitting here is a change. We are never particularly lively at any time, as you know, Dr. Mitchinson, but when mother has neuralgia and Jane Morant at one and the same time, the atmosphere of Pitt Place becomes positively unbearable. Of course, I shall be with Mrs. Mitchinson this afternoon."She disappeared into the station as she spoke, and Dr. Mitchinson started the car again and whirled away along the muddy road to the customary accompaniment of grunts and whirrs and other noises.Sheila's last speech had disarmed him a little. Although she had none of the irrepressible gaiety and joyousness of youth which characterised Patricia, she was, nevertheless, quite young, and there could

not fail to be many moments when her spirit would naturally rebel against the greyness and the monotony of the daily existence at Pitt Place.Dr. Mitchinson did not like deception as a rule, but he had a distinct weakness for the Prentice girls, and, as he swung along homewards, he found himself readily framing explanations and excuses for the girl he had just left. He resolved he would say nothing to his wife about the matter. If Sheila made an appearance at the sewing that afternoon, well and good, if not, he would leave it to her to make a satisfactory explanation of her absence if this should be required of her.Sheila watched him disappear with a feeling of relief. Not that she feared him, his very straight-forwardness was in her favour, but she was in such a nervous condition, so strung up by fear and the horror of exposure, that she was irritably impatient of any and everybody.She took a ticket and, crossing the line, went and sat in the shed which did duty for a waiting-room. As Dr. Mitchinson had warned her, she had a long time to wait for the train, but as she sat back in the furthest corner and closed her eyes, Sheila felt wearily that she would have been content to sit there for hours. It was so quiet, so very quiet; only the sound of the wind whistling in the telegraph wires broke the silence. Nobody was visible save one of the men, the one who worked the points in the signal box and sent off telegrams; he sat in the doorway eating his dinner with a hearty appetite. It would have startled him very considerably could he have known that the pretty proud looking girl

sitting so still in the corner of the shed opposite envied him with all her heart. When he put aside his plate, and began to whistle cheerily, the heart of Sheila Prentice contracted. She was so far, far away from all that made for happiness. Once she opened her eyes, and stared down the line where the metals gleamed like serpents.""If it had been Patsy, or anyone but me!" she said between her teeth. "Patsy is such a child, she might have been forgiven, but who could forgive me?" And then she bit her lip till it bled, and her hands clenched themselves together in the shelter of her muff. She had pushed up her veil, and as she sat back and closed her eyes again there was upon her face the inevitable trace of a great, sustained emotional strain; she even looked old, and there was a worn, tired touch about her. She was really almost exhausted, and would have been ill if she had been a few years younger.The man in the signal box ceased whistling, and went back to work. Sheila could hear him tapping the telegraph instrument; there were sounds of movement in that mysterious little room. The train was approaching. A few people straggled into the station. There were not many passengers by this mid-day train. Sheila Prentice did not move till the bell had been rung, and the burly station master had crossed the line rubbing his hands and shrugging his shoulders in protest against the keen wind.He touched his cap and opened a door for Miss Prentice, and Sheila got in hurriedly, thus failing to note that a late corner had jumped down from the

opposite platform, and had caught the train by climbing into the guard's van."Against the rules, I know," said Sir Francis, as he slipped half a sovereign into the guard's hand, "but I was bound to catch this train." He laughed as he spoke, and seemed, as usual, in good spirits.Marketborough was only the next station, so he made light of his cramped quarters.When the train pulled up he waited till he saw a certain graceful figure in black emerge from a third-class carriage, and turn down the steps. He let Sheila make her way into the town. She was walking very quickly with the air of one who had business to do and desired to do it at once.Heatherington's heart was beating very quickly. He had just managed to catch sight of her through the windows as she had entered the carriage, and instantly had made a dash to catch the train. By chance he had looked in at the station to make some enquiries about the arrival of two hunters which he was having brought down from London, and he had left the dogcart waiting outside in the station. He had been able to shout an order to the station master directing that the cart should go home as the guard's van had swung along; that it was probable the servant and the cart would wait there for his return was a matter which did not trouble him. He had found his opportunity in a miraculous way, and that was enough for hint.There was something in Sheila's manner which inflamed his suspicion. About her movements, in the way she avoided the high street, there was an element of mystery. Heatherington followed her,

resolute on forcing his protection, but he hesitated to approach her. The night before when he had found her alone in the conservatory, he had dared to say too much, and Sheila had not spared him. Her tongue could be bitter at times, and there had been something almost fierce about her anger. He could not remember exactly what she had said, but she had demonstrated to him in no half measures that what was known now between them as a miserable mistake must be ignored and forgotten if possible.She had conquered him because she had not hesitated to remind him of the fact that, in this, his duty was to her before all else."If I am to remember you are my friend you must assure me at all times that you are fit to be my friend. This is no proof of attachment--it is an indignity, and one I will not suffer, Frank." So she had spoken, and with these words she had left him. They had stung Heatherington all the night. He had a restless desire to see her again immediately, and to reinstate himself in her estimation. He told himself he would submit to every wish of hers if by so doing he could ensure himself the doubtful happiness of being near her, of seeing her, of serving her when possible. His attitude was considerably less amicable now as he followed Sheila through some of the back streets of the town. It was impossible for Heatherington even to guess what nature of business it was which took the girl into this very unsavoury neighbourhood. He troubled himself less about that than about the air of precaution which marked all she did. He noticed that her veil was thick, and that she walked with her head bent as

though to avoid seeing people or being recognised: nervousness was betrayed in every step she took. Suddenly she disappeared, she had turned a corner, and when Heatherington had rounded that corner too he could see no sign of her.Quickly, however, he realised that he had not lost her, for he faced a "cul de sac," and in front of him was a pavement like a kind of courtyard, bordered all round with a high block of buildings, indubitably artisans' flats."If she has gone into one of these places she must come out this way, so I shall wait for her," said the man to himself doggedly.He had a sense of wretchedness upon him. To pretend that this visit of hers, made in such a neighbourhood and in such a way, was a simple or ordinary affair was ridiculous. He convinced himself that it was with no sanction, probably without her mother's knowledge, that Sheila had come on this errand. At the risk of angering her still further, he intended to wait and escort her back to more civilised regions. Luncheon would be served at the Court, and his wife would be expecting him, but these things had no place with him.Indifferent to the fact that his presence awakened curiosity among the loafers who abounded, the dirty children, the unshorn men, and the many slovenly women, he paced to and fro. He had to wait a long time. When Sheila came out at last from one of the doorways, he felt his resentful anger merge into a rush of sharp anxiety. She had her veil pushed up this time, her face was haggard, in her eyes there was a look which made his heart ache. She paused

a moment as though uncertain which way to go. And then suddenly she saw him.Just for an instant Heatherington's heart seemed aflame with an irresistible joy, for the gladness and the relief which flashed into the delicate loved face were too real to be mistaken. But as he moved quickly towards her, and they walked down the narrow, dirty street together, Sheila addressed him sharply, bitterly:"I suppose you have been following me?" she said.He did not attempt to deny this. Nor did he express contrition. He said simply:"This is an impossible place for you to come to alone! I don't believe London can boast of a worse slum!""I know how to take care of myself!"Sheila pulled down her veil as she spoke, and the man looked at her wistfully."Do you want to do anything in the town? Or will you go to the station?""Please don't bother about me!" Sheila said coldly. "I have various other commissions for my mother!"Heatherington frowned. He gathered from these last few words that he was supposed to believe that it was on some errand for Mrs. Prentice that Sheila had gone, whither he had followed her. He discarded the very suggestion of this. He had no particular liking for Sheila's mother, but he had always been impressed by, and, in a sense, had admired, the iron-cast pride which ruled Mrs. Prentice in all she did.Only a little while before, she had refused to let

her daughters move from the house without a maid, or some person to escort them. Patricia's independent departure to Germany had been regarded, Sir Francis knew, by the girl's mother as something in the nature of a calamity, and the present freedom which characterised the movements of both Sheila and Patsy was something to which their mother most resentfully and unwillingly consented, and which she attempted to curtail on the slightest pretext."Your mother has changed very much of late, if she actually sends you to do business for her in this hole of a place!" the man said coldly.Sheila was silent a moment; then she said:"It is one of the immutable laws of Nature that everything changes. Mother is different, you are different; Patsy is changed. I--	" She shrugged her shoulders. "I am so different! I hardly know myself at times!"Frank Heatherington made no answer. He was not a clever man, either in a worldly or an intellectual significance--there was something childlike in his simple outlook. His spontaneous and generous sympathy has already been set down. In contradistinction to this quality, however, he had the straight-forward Englishman's trick of going very directly to the root of things, and he had a horror of hyprocisy.There had been few women in his life, none who had seriously mingled in with his inner feelings. He was not very skilful in understanding the drifts and difficulties of a feminine and emotional temperament, but though he was wholly at sea to grasp what was passing with Sheila, two things were brilliantly clear to him. The first and most important, that he loved

her body and soul, that she represented to him all that was beautiful and desirable in life. The second--that she was facing some strange, and even mysterious trouble, and that his duty was to help her by every means in his power. He had put his hand on her arm to pilot her through a crowded portion of the street, and he kept it there a moment."You are going to let me do all I can for you, Sheila?" he said. And he was hardly conscious of how much authority there was in his quietly spoken words.She sighed a painful sigh, and then she laughed. "My dear Frank, you are too good, but there is nothing for you to do!"At this he lost his temper a little."I wish to God I could believe you!"Sheila winced, and then her spirit flashed into action. "I told you last night I would not have you following me and pretending a lot of foolishness which has no sort of existence! Can't you see for yourself, Frank, how wrongly you are treating me? What right have you to come after me in this way? What is it to you what I do, or where I go?""Ah!" said Frank Heatherington sadly, "that's something I can't answer--something that is out of my control! I only know that I'm bound to follow you, in one sense! That it's life to me to know all is well with you! Don't be afraid! I sha'n't say anything to you again on--on--what we discussed last night! You taught me my lesson; but though you tell me everything changes, you'll find, Sheila, there'll never come a change to me in what is the biggest and truest part of me! So," he

said gently, "don't be angry with me--only let me help you!"They had emerged into the one important street of the town. Sheila stood still."We mustn't be seen together here, Frank! It is impossible!"There was a gentler tone in her voice. He could not see her face clearly, her veil was so thick, but he seemed to know that there were tears in her eyes."I will leave you if you will give me a promise, Sheila!""What promise?" She tried to frame her words lightly, but her voice was not steady."That you will let me share your trouble and help you, if I can!""You are an obstinate man! Haven't I told you there is no trouble?""Don't prevaricate! I know there is trouble!" Sheila turned and walked back down the narrow street, and he walked with her."Suppose I own that I am a little bothered? That is not a matter to be shared with you or anyone!""All right, then. I leave the trouble to itself. I come to the other point. You are bothered, and there is a way of settling the bother. I am here to fulfil that office. Make use of me how you will! Only make use of me!"His calm, matter-of-fact tone was in itself comforting. Sheila caught her breath; she felt as if she were emerging from some dark horror--as if a suffocating mesh was being loosened from about her. The air was light once more. A few moments

before and every sort of anguished fear had pressed upon her, and even now, although the great, the one vital fact, remained to be dealt with, temporised with, if not vanquished, the road seemed suddenly made easier.Later on she would be inevitably attacked and oppressed by doubt, by dismay, at what she had done! For the moment, she only knew that here was one ready to lift her burden; one, the only one, from whom she could accept any help.CHAPTER XIV.AND yet there was a burning sensation of shame upon her as she answered him."If you go through the world trying to settle other people's troubles you will have your hands full." As he remained silent Sheila went on hurriedly: "And I am afraid you hardly realise what you may be called upon to do in this particular instance, Frank.""I am not alarmed," he answered; and his tone sounded cheerful enough. "But look here, Sheila, you can't go on walking about in this way for ever, and it's so beastly cold, too.""I shall get back by the two-ten train."Sheila spoke wearily. She was experiencing a kind of lassitude, the sort of feeling which succeeds a spell of suspense or intense anxiety. A few moments before she had been bent on playing a part with him, on holding him resolutely away from her, now she made no further effort to dissemble. To attempt to pretend to him that all was well with her would have been too absurd. He had beaten down all the poor prevarications she had put forward.It was evident that he guessed in what manner he

could befriend her, that was hurtful enough, but infinitely less hurtful than full confession would be."Will you let me give you some luncheon? We can surely go somewhere where we shall not be recognised. That little hotel at the back of the cattle market would be safe enough on a day like this when there is no market on. It's rough, but clean, and you'll be ill if you don't have some food."His prosaic treatment of the situation provoked Sheila to a faint smile."I'm not a bit hungry, I assure you, and I can't go to lunch with you, Frank. The very stones in this town have eyes and the pavements tongues. We don't want to start a nice rousing scandal, do we? Remember you are always a person of importance and interest here, and--oh! well, I need not go on, you know quite well all I mean, and that I am right in what I say!""Well, I presume there is nothing to prevent my going back by the same train?" Sir Francis said, in a hard tone, and then he lost his temper. "Good Lord! what a farce it all is! Here are we two people, who by the most natural, the strongest and the purest bond, belong to one another, forced to walk on two sides of the street because we may give offence to people about whom we know nothing and care less! I don't know how you feel about it, Sheila, my girl, but the whole business cuts into my heart."Sheila caught her breath sharply, and then laughed in her usual, bitter way."Dear Frank, if you will persist in being sentimental there is an end to everything! As a friend 

I--I can and I will accept your help now, if you still wish to give it, but you must please--please understand this can make no difference in--in anything."It was Heatherington's turn to wince and change colour. He opened his lips to utter some protesting words and then he checked himself, and, after a little pause, he said:"You may, I think, trust me now and always."The street narrowed here, and they had to walk in single file for a little way. When he joined her again Sheila said:"Circumstances demand that I should have a certain sum of money at once; it is rather a large sum of money, Frank."Just for an instant his face contracted, then he said simply:"Oh! I dare say I can manage it. How would you like it, and when? As soon as I can get it? All right. You go on to the station, and I will join you there. I have to go to the bank, anyhow. Will five hundred do?"Sheila flushed, and then went white."Too much by four," she answered; then she said, "Frank!" He had been turning away and at once he turned back. "If you want to know--" the words faltered on her lips."I want to know nothing," he answered promptly; "it is an honour to serve you in so small a way."Sheila mounted the little hill to the station with her heart full. She lacked her sister's capacity for feeling either joy or sorrow very deeply, and much that was beautiful and pathetic in every-day things which was so clear to Patsy's eyes was wholly lost

to Sheila. Nevertheless, she was touched and roused now, and there was pain and yearning, too, in her heart. As far as it lay in her to care for another human creature she cared in this moment for Francis Heatherington. He was endowed in these days with attractions which had had no existence for her formerly, or, at least, which she had not realised.True, in a desultory sort of way, Sheila had pondered the possibility of a marriage with this young man in those days when he had run down so frequently to stay with his old uncle and aunt. Her mother's hopes in connection with this had been very clearly demonstrated. In some ways Mrs. Prentice was simple beyond description, and the frigid encouragement she had meted out to young Heatherington had been almost transparently significant.Sheila really had no definite explanation as to why she had held herself so resolutely aloof from furthering her mother's matrimonial ambition.She certainly had not disliked Francis Heatherington; in her autocratic way she had decided that he was about the only person round and about them with whom equality was permissible, but she had not been ripe for any decision, and, moreover, had had no wish to settle her future in a hurry.Perhaps her mother's attempt to shape that future had worked largely against Heatherington and his intentions. There had come many times of late when Sheila had bitterly repented her whilom indifference. The awakening which had shaken her so thoroughly that day at the railway-station had become numbed as life had rolled on. Something weightier than

petulant self-annoyance or chagrin had gripped her, and if she had paused now and again to remember what she had lost by turning so resolutely from the devotion Heatherington had given her, it was because a grim need of money possessed her, and because the knowledge that she would have been saved an act of criminal folly if she had married this man mocked her.Still, though she was by nature self-centred and selfish and just a little callous, she could not be proof against the tender resolve on his part to serve her, no matter how and at what a cost to himself.She had barely reached the station before he joined her again."After all, I don't think I will go back by the same train. There are several things I ought to do now I am here. How are you going to get from the station, Sheila?"She told him that she was due at Mrs. Mitchinson's, and that was an easy walk."And the doctor will take me home unless Patsy drives to fetch me. Anyhow, I shall be all right."He had handed her an envelope in a casual way, and she took it just as casually.Then Sir Francis shook hands with her."Tell Jane I shall run in and see her while she is with you. How is she, dear old soul--just as usual?""Just now I told you that everything in life changes. I should have modified that sentiment and have said everything but Jane Morant. She is in her element just now, too." Sheila laughed faintly. "She has discovered that Mr. Sharpus is an impossible person. Heaven knows what he has

done, but Jane will probably discover the crime if she is given time and opportunity. Good-bye. I think I will go and wait where the fire is. You are right, Frank, it is horribly cold."She gave him a little nod and left him. Her hands, closed round that envelope in her muff, trembled. It seemed to him as she turned away that tears had sprung in her wonderful eyes. He looked after her just for a moment, and then, as she disappeared within the doorway of the waiting-room, he turned, too, and strode down the hill into the town again.CHAPTER XV.LADY AMELIA made gallant efforts to throw herself sympathetically into all the Christmas preparations and charities. Three times a week there assembled a collection of what Patsy called feminine "oddments" in the delightful old hall at the Court, and scissors flashed and needles were plied industriously for a couple of hours or so whilst a buzz of voices kept the ball of gossip rolling.Lady Amelia was supposed to preside over these gatherings, and at first her presence produced a decidedly chilly effect; but this wore off by degrees, for, as a matter of fact, though she was always present, she really ceded all authority to the rector's wife, who was an old hand at these duties, and on this occasion assumed a rather more than usually aggressive attitude.The Prentice girls sat and sewed with all the others.Sheila was an exquisite needlewoman, and generally had on hand some fine piece of work.The embroidery and delicate ornamentations which decorated the cambric blouses she wore as a rule

were all the work of her own hand and a source of envy to the other girls in the neighbourhood. Mrs. Bartingale deplored the vanitous use to which Miss Prentice put her talent--such work should have been reserved only for the Church, in her opinion, but Sheila naturally ignored Mrs. Bartingale's opinions.As a needlewoman, Patricia was a terrible failure. She cobbled the red flannel which had been shaped into petticoats by Mrs. Bartingale unmercifully."I pity the poor soul who has to wear this. I am such an ass when I get a needle in my hand," she confided one day to Lady Amelia, near whom she happened to be sitting." As soon as Mrs. Bartingale sees this I shall have to unpick it all--I know I shall."Lady Amelia smiled faintly. Insensibly she was yielding to the charm which pervaded Patsy just as subtly as the fragrance hangs about a flower. Out of all those who now flocked to the Court the younger Miss Prentice alone attempted conversation with her."Is there not something else you can do?" she queried.She was herself making laborious progress with the piece of flannel she had been allotted with directions to herringbone the seams.Patsy shook her head gloomily."No, we are all here for a purpose, and we must fulfil that purpose. I know those sewing afternoons of old. If I could only dig out a nightgown with a spade, what a relief it would be! I get nervous in all my bones when I sit so long.""Your sister likes sewing ?""Oh, Sheila adores it. I have often watched her when we are at home with wonder. She will sit at her embroidery for hours, never speaking, never fidgetting. It is simply amazing! But then, of course, Sheila works beautifully--she is quite an artist with her needle--that makes all the difference, you see."I suppose so," said Lady Amelia.She had put down her work, and was looking across the big hall to where Sheila sat.It was strange, but this was the first time that the really potent influence of this younger woman's beauty had impressed itself upon her. She had, of course, been at once conscious that the Prentice sisters were not in the same running with the rest of the people living in the neighbourhood, and as has been before noted, she had experienced a curious sense of instinctive antagonism for them arising from the fact that they were young and fair, but more so because they were regarded as old friends by her husband, and therefore must have had their place in those events and things which had influenced him before he had belonged to her.
She was so acutely jealous of his bachelor years, even of his boyhood. It was torture to her to imagine--and this thought came to her now--that perchance there were women, or, worse still, one woman, who, by right of some old flirtation or attachment, could claim his remembrance. Not that either of the Prentice girls had taken this shape in the wife's mind, only since her marriage what had formerly been indifference with Lady Amelia had become crystallised into fear for and resentment to-

wards all women who were younger and more attractive than herself.And now actually for the first time she looked upon Sheila Prentice with eyes that saw clearly.Where she sat the light of the fireglow mingled with the shaded lights from the lamps in the hands of the two bronzed figures standing on each side of the fireplace, and fell softly, almost tenderly, upon Sheila. She had on a white gown, a serge skirt, and a delicate white cambric blouse fashioned by her own clever fingers. Sheila had inherited a small sum of money from her godmother, a cousin of her mother's, and she was always prettily gowned--never shabby as Patsy was. Sometimes she evinced a little generous spirit, and would make her sister a present of a gown or a hat. The pink gowns they had worn at the dinner-party had been bought, and, to a great extent, made by Sheila. Generally speaking, how-ever, she kept her pin money exclusively for her own use, and dull and uneventful as was the life they lived, Sheila continued to cultivate her taste in gowns.
This day, though her garb was simplicity itself, it struck the right note, and Lady Amelia was quickly conscious of this as she looked across at her guest. Sheila put down her sewing, and was sitting a little forward in her chair staring into the fire in a fixed, earnest way. She looked very sweet and lovely and pensive in the half light."She is extraordinarily pretty, your sister," said Amelia Heatherington.Patsy smiled with pleasure, and yet her heart beat a little painfully."I don't think Sheila is really looking her best just now. I am so anxious she should go away. We have an aunt who lives in London who is simply devoted to Sheila. I wish I could persuade Sheila to go to Aunt Judith for a little while.""Probably she does not wish to leave you," said Lady Amelia.She had taken up her sewing again. Both she and Patsy hardly realised how naturally they were falling into a kind of intimacy and understanding of one another."I wish we had never been separated!" said Patsy, with a sigh; "it was all my selfishness; I would go away to study when the chance came. And I should have been so happy in Germany--oh, so happy, if I hadn't fretted about Sheila all the time! And when I came home I saw she had fretted, too. She never said so, but I could see it in her face. We have always been so much to one another--Sheila and I.""You are fortunate," Lady Amelia observed, with a cold smile. "My sisters and I are practically strangers."Since the night of the dinner there had been a marked change, and, in Mrs. Bartingale's opinion, a marked improvement in Lady Amelia's appearance. Her hair was always now elaborately dressed; a mass of short curls brought down almost to her brows in front and innumerable coils and twists decorating the back of her head. She wore this day a tea-gown of blue velvet made by a dressmaker who drew inspiration from old pictures. It was softened with a quantity of lace, and as far as was possible Lady Amelia looked handsome in it. Nevertheless, Patsy's

heart ached every now and again as she looked across the hall at her sister and set Sheila in contrast against the spare figure and the unlovely face of the woman by whom she sat.About five o'clock Sir Francis came into the hall; he was accompanied by the doctor's wife, who had just arrived.The needles were put away, and the various garments folded up at once. Tea was served in the dining-room.It was not done noticeably, yet the first person who received attention from the host was Miss Prentice.They had seen one another several times since that memorable meeting in the town. Sheila's manner was pleasantly indifferent. Into the man's there had crept perhaps a touch of unconscious authority.As everyone followed Lady Amelia out of the hall, Mrs. Mitchinson found herself beside Patricia."Can you find your hat and coat easily? All right; then come along with me. I am going to Treasury Farm, and I want you to come, too. There was the greatest possible disappointment when you failed the other day. Why didn't you turn up?""I couldn't get away."Patsy had flushed, and a thrill of extreme pleasure took possession of her for an instant; then she said:"And I can't go now. I can't leave Sheila.""Oh, yes, you can--perfectly well. The Trents are going her way. She can walk home with them. Now, hurry up, Patsy, or I sha'n't wait for you. I only came here to get you to come along. You posi-

tively must see those children. James has lost his head about them, and his heart to them. You know how mad he is always about children, but he declares these, or at least the eldest, is different to any child he has ever known, and I agree with him. She is enchantingly pretty, and so quaint.""I must tell Sheila."But Patsy abandoned the idea of getting through the crowd of tea-drinkers. Besides, she had a nervous fear that Sheila might voice in her turn their mother's objection to any intimacy with Anthony Sharpus. She left a message for her sister with one of the servants, and, scrambling into her hat and coat, was very quickly walking away with Mrs. Mitchinson, through the crisp cold of the winter's afternoon."James is in despair," said Mrs. Mitchinson, as they trudged along," for Mr. Sharpus threatens to carry away these three angels.""Going away?" echoed Patsy. And her limbs suddenly faltered. "Oh, but I--I thought Mr. Sharpus had taken the farm for another two years.""That won't count with him. He is an independent person, I take it, and can do as he chooses. Patsy, I like that man! I like him immensely."It cost Patricia a great effort not to loudly express the same sentiment, but she had herself well in hand, and all she said was:"Do you? Why?""For a host of reasons," said Mrs. Mitchinson, panting a little, for they were walking so quickly. " But first and foremost because he is a man--a strong man, strong in will, in mind, in intellect, above all, in his heart.""You ought to say this to Jane Morant!""Oh, Jane Morant!" exclaimed the doctor's wife, with contempt in her voice. "Patsy, how long is she going to stay with you?""Over Christmas, of course!"They had reached the well-known gate that led to the farm. Patsy felt as if she were in a dream when she found herself approaching nearer and nearer to the house which always had so cosy, so tempting a look to her, seen from the high-road. Lights were gleaming from the various windows, and the blinds were up in the dining-room, so that they could see clearly all that was passing within. Tea was evidently in progress, presided over by Mr. Goodborough.As they were quite close Mrs. Mitchinson announced their arrival with a good strong "Coo-ee!"At once the tea-table was deserted. Mr. Sharpus jumped up in a great hurry, and hastened to open the front door and admit them.The last person he had expected to see was the blushing, sensitive girl who stood half hidden by Mrs. Mitchinson's ample figure.As the doctor's wife went into the house to embrace the three children, Sharpus stood for a moment alone outside with Patsy.He still held her hand."So, after all, you have come?"She answered him simply naturally."I wanted to come the other day. You can t think how much I wanted to come; but I couldn't.""Whenever you come, you are the well-corner," Sharpus said.And, stirred by a sudden impulse, he stooped and kissed her hand.The colour receded from Patricia's face. She felt hot and cold all in a moment. But her host had turned to lead the way indoors, and so she followed him.The children instantly helped to restore her.The baby went to her willingly--such a dainty, doll-like little creature, with amazingly big black eyes. Edmund looked at her cautiously, and then shook hands. Meggy made a delightful little curtsey."A trick taught by their other nurse, an Italian woman," Mr. Sharpus explained.He put a chair for Mrs. Mitchinson, and they chatted and laughed at the antics Mr. Goodborough went through to please his little audience."He works so hard," said Sharpus, looking across at Patsy with something shining in his eyes that made her eyes droop in a dazed fashion."He is a queer man," said Meggy gravely. "Do you like him?""Oh, do say 'yes!' No matter what it costs you, say 'yes'!" pleaded Lawrence Goodborough."Do you know," said Patsy shyly, and laughing a little, "I don't know him really--not very much. But I think he is nice.""He is a queer man!" said the child sedately. "'Orribly queer he is!"She was a revelation to Patsy. So delicate, so exquisitely formed, with such colouring, and such eyes, such lines! And she had such a proud air! There was about her already a note of personal exclusiveness.Evidently she disdained the gambols of her brother. She seemed to care only to cling to Mr. Sharpus.It gave Patsy a scarcely-conscious pang to realise that there was a marked likeness between the child and the man.Just where it lay she did not know; but the resemblance was there surely enough.Certainly Mr. Goodborough spared no pains to provoke the small folk to laughter. He was a giant, a pigmy--he was a bear, an elephant, a tiger, a dog, all by turns.Mrs. Mitchinson laughed heartily, and applauded with all her might and main."You ought to sleep well at night," she remarked energetically when the entertainment came to a pause.Mr. Goodborough wiped his hot brow, and fanned himself with a newspaper."Would you believe it, instead of getting thin, I have put on flesh since I have been down here?"Meggy laughed at this--a delicious little peal of laughter."He tells awful lies, doesn't he, Tony?"Sharpus closed the sweet little mouth with his hand."My precious must not say that sort of thing," he whispered.Meggy kissed him. She was unmoved by Mr. Goodborough's pretended burst of weeping."He shouldn't make up things anyhow," she said severely. "He can't stick more flesh on his body, can he, Tony, my dearest? How would he keep it on?"Lawrence Goodborough sat down in the middle of the floor."More conundrums!"Then as the nurse came in to fetch her charges he jumped to his feet, and went out of the room with the baby on his shoulder, and Edmund seated on his head."Take care of the beams!" cried Mrs. Mitchinson. And, jumping up in real alarm, she followed him.The child and the man and the girl left behind were silent a moment, and then Meggy broke the silence."Oh dear," she said, "I'll have to go next, and I do hate bed. What's the use of bed? That's what I can't make out."She nestled against Sharpus as she spoke, and half-closed her eyes.He was looking all the time at Patsy."Is she very spoiled?" he asked.She shook her head, and, rising, moved nearer to the little figure."I hate bed, too," she said. "Do you know, I lie awake sometimes for ever so long, and I see the dawn come into the sky, and after the grey light sometimes the red, red light made by the sun. I have a little room, Meggy, right up in the roof at my home, and I can see from my window which looks across the meadows--oh, for ever so far! I wish you could come and see the sky and the sea from my little window! "Meggy had crept from the shelter of the arms she loved."Tell me a story," she said authoritatively.Sharpus laughed."Now you will be kept busy."But he thought he had never looked on a sweeter picture than those two made, as Meggy sat looking into Patsy's eyes as Patsy whispered on in fanciful fashion. There was a feeling of union resting strongly upon the man and the girl.Patsy seemed to have nothing of a stranger about her. She fitted in so naturally not only with the surroundings, but with that tender protective influence which this child demanded all the time.Suddenly, however, Meggy became restless. She left Patsy's arms and went to Sharpus. "Hold me very tight, as tight as you can, Tony," she said. "I'm 'fraid." He closed his arms about her hurriedly."Afraid, my sweetheart! But there is nothing to be afraid of. You are here safely with Tony."Across his little burden he looked at Patsy."Tired!" his lips whispered.But the child was not sleepy. She lay a moment with closed eyes, but then she opened them and sat forward with a start."Tony!" she said nervously."My dearest!""I'm 'orribly 'fraid, Tony."He soothed her with the tact and tenderness of a woman, and Patsy stood a little way off watching him and longing to take her share in his ministrations."I hope I have not excited her!" she said, remorsefully.Before he could speak Meggy put up her hand. "Hush!" she said, almost shrilly.Her face had changed colour, there was a painful--a very strange expression in her eyes.Patsy could hear nothing at first, but sounds of something approaching the house came to her by degrees."She's coming again, I know she is! Listen! There's a carriage coming," whispered the child. "A carriage! Oh, Tony, don't let her take me away! Promise me, dear! Promise me!"He caught the fragile creature in his arms, and caressed and scolded now in one breath."It is only one of the carts of the farm, my dearest," he said. "Don't you remember how late the miller came the other night?"But Meggy clung closer to him."It's a carriage! Oh, Tony, Tony, she is coming to take me away!"Mrs. Mitchinson re-entered the room at that moment."There's a cab coming down from the gate!" she announced. And she began buttoning her coat. But Patsy made no effort to go. Her eyes were riveted to those two faces both grown suddenly so pale, so full of emotion. The likeness between the man and the child was stronger than ever at this moment.As they paused to listen, Patsy was held as in a spell. The cab approached nearer and nearer and then drew up outside.They could hear a clear, hard voice giving an order."Ring the bell! I won't get out till the door is opened!"The child in Anthony Sharpus's arms gave a cry. "Tony! Tony! . . . .Her little hands clasped themselves together convulsively. Then her breath seemed to desert her. Patsy moved forward involuntarily, but just for this moment he was oblivious to her presence. His eyes were searching the child's face."Dearest--preciousest--my little heart, no one shall take you from me! Meggy! Meggy!"But Meggy made no answer. All at once her hands had slipped from about his neck, and there was a weightiness in her limbs. As the bell rang with a loud peal, he sat down suddenly, and it seemed to him that the little creature who had lost her acute--her overwhelming fear in unconsciousness was actually dead.He called to the maid harshly as she was hurrying to open the door."Do not answer yet, and on no account admit the lady outside. Miss Meggy is ill. I will answer the bell myself."He rose, and walked a little unsteadily from the room, bearing his burden pressed to his heart.The doctor's wife followed, to render some service, but Patsy stayed alone.Her heart was bleeding. If she had doubted before, she knew now she
loved him absolutely, irrevocably. Nothing was clear but that, and nothing else mattered.CHAPTER XVI.A SPELL of sharp, frosty weather heralded in the approach of Christmas. There was skating on the rough ponds on the common, and the gardeners at the Court were carefully nursing the smooth, dark surface of the frozen lake. Patsy took out her well-oiled skates, and polished them herself till they shone like mirrors.A year ago, and how her heart would have rejoiced at the mere possibility of skating! But this year the frost came and hardened, and gave promise of lasting, and she viewed the ice-bound pump and the other infallible signs of enduring cold without any excitement. Miss Morant suddenly discovered one day, at luncheon, that Patricia was not looking well."Why, where is your beautiful colour gone, and what do you mean by getting so thin, my dear child?"Sheila just glanced at Patsy, who, on the spot, became suffused with red; and Mrs. Prentice also looked at the girl."Dear Jane, don't pass unflattering remarks! My 'beautiful colour,' as you call it, has a trick of centreing in my nose in the very cold weather. It is not kind of you to draw attention to this fact."Miss Morant shook her head playfully as she helped herself to more potatoes."I was not thinking of your nose, dear Patricia," she said, "but of your general looks. I am afraid you are overdoing it just now!"Patricia, nervous, wretched, impatient, flared into a rage."Good heavens! What do you mean, Jane? How can anyone overdo anything in this deadly dull place ? I wis--	"Her sentence was not finished, for her mother had intervened."Patricia!" said Mrs. Prentice harshly--" how dare you speak like that! Behave in a decorous manner, or remain away from the table!"The spirit was in Patricia to rise hurriedly and flounce out of the room, but Sheila's eyes restrained her."These long afternoons of sewing always upset Patsy," she said, in her quiet way.Miss Morant agreed eagerly. She had not meant to vex Patsy, for whom she had a very real affection, but she was bound to make her presence felt. Few things were left to her but a certain power of domineering in a domestic sense, of demonstrating her superior wisdom as a woman of practical knowledge in everyday matters, and this was something to which she clung very definitely."Yes--too much work and not enough play; that is what is wrong with this dear child. That is what I meant when I said you were overdoing it, Patricia Look how many hours you have been practising this week! And then you sit up too late. Some-

body's candle was burning long after midnight last night!""I had toothache," said Patsy desperately and prevaricating almost unwittingly."We shall have to go back to a nursemaid," observed Mrs. Prentice, in her grim way. "Patricia refuses to grow up."Sheila took up the parable again."The mistake is that we are grown up, and yet we are not supposed to be. Dear Jane, did you never read in bed when you were a girl?" Then, very decidedly, Sheila changed the conversation. "Lady Amelia begged me to ask you if you would drive over to the Court this afternoon, mother. She thought it might amuse you to watch the skating for a little, and afterwards have tea with her."Miss Morant looked with almost entreating eagerness at her friend. The programme suggested appealed to her, for, after a few weeks of undiluted companionship with Mrs. Prentice, even her faithful and no longer young heart yearned for some little relaxation.But Mrs. Prentice promptly rejected the proposition."I have many letters to write, and Lady Amelia has not yet taken tea with me.""She has called several times," said Sheila.There was a hurried note in her voice, a sound which Patsy knew denoted vexation. And yet it was not common for Sheila to vex herself about their mother's very churlish refusal to accept or proffer hospitality.Miss Morant had sighed unconsciously, and, with

a glimmer of her old mischievous self, Patsy called attention to this."Jane would like to go, wouldn't you, Jane?"In the midst of Miss Morant's protestation to the contrary, Mrs. Prentice was heard to declare icily that Miss Morant was at full liberty to avail herself of Lady Amelia's invitation; but this permission was, of course, set completely on one side."Naturally, I should not dream of leaving you, dearest Julia!" the guest asseverated.When luncheon was over, and the two elder ladies had withdrawn, Sheila sat throwing crumbs of biscuit to the dogs.As Patsy rose to go out of the room, her sister called her back."Jane is a blundering ass! We know that very well, and probably you will have to go to bed without a candle in future; but, for once, she has hit the mark. You are looking horridly seedy, Patsy! Is anything wrong?"Patricia sat down on the arm of a chair."What should be wrong?" she asked irritably. "I caught a beastly cold yesterday, my head aches, and I feel depressed and dull; and oh--I am so tired of everything ! Of the winter--of Jane--of this house--of mother--even of you!""Thank you!" said Sheila, smiling faintly. This characteristic outburst was reassuring. "Well, I can't do anything with the winter, and the house is too big to move. Jane will go in due course, I suppose. Mother"--Sheila shrugged her shoulders--" mother must be endured--but I can remove myself.""I don't want you to go," said Patsy quickly. "What an idea! You are all I have--and just to look at you is worth anything."Sheila smiled again--this time almost tenderly."You are a silly child!" she said, and she threw a piece of cheese into the jaws of the Aberdeen terrier who sat watching her from the opposite side of the table. "All the same, you will have to do without looking at me for a little while. Wonders sometimes happen, it would appear. What do you think? Frank's wife has begged me to stay with her over Christmas. My own opinion is "--Sheila talked on quickly--" that she is deadly afraid of her sister, Lady Sophie, who is coming in a couple of days, and thinks I shall be a sort of support."Patsy did not speak immediately. She was conscious of an enormous surprise and then of innumerable objections. There was nothing clear or definite about these objections, but they existed. She had been so engrossed with other and exquisitely personal matters of late that she had but vaguely realised that a perfectly anomalous position had sprung into existence demonstrated in the friendship which Lady Amelia Heatherington professed now for Sheila Prentice. It was not, of course, strange that any woman should find the companionship of this young and rarely attractive creature desirable, the anomaly consisted in the fact that the woman in question happened to be Sir Francis Heatherington's wife.Patricia awakened now sharply to the knowledge that she had slipped very far away, this last week or so, from that yearning over and intangible anxiety

about Sheila. Looking at her sister now, it was apparent that Sheila's peculiar burden, whatever it had been, had grown lighter. There was serenity in her eyes and in her face generally--an expression, a smoothness, which denoted restored tranquillity of mind.Always delightful to look at, Sheila had a touch of veritable enchantment about her now. Long ago, Patricia had declared that she believed her sister was not common humanity like herself."You are a fairy princess, and one day you will fly away and find your fairy kingdom," she had often declared. There was a peculiar delicacy in Sheila's colouring; her grace of movement was so marked. No matter what her environment she would always stand apart endowed with her own distinction.Sheila ceased throwing crumbs, and looked at her sister challengingly."What are you staring at, Patsy?"Patsy aroused herself."Do you want to go?" she asked in her abrupt way."Can you ask? Of course I do."And then Patsy put another question, in her straightforward way. "Why?""Why? Oh, for a host of reasons! Some of them identical with yours. I am so tired of everything here--of Jane Morant--of the house--of mother--of you!" she laughed. "There you have comprehensive reasons enough, but there are others. I feel I can be of use to Lady Amelia, and I shall enjoy staying in a civilised house, and meeting new

people, and eating good food, and generally having a good time."Patricia remained silent again till she said: "Mother will make a fuss!""Oh, of course! We are prepared for that!" said Sheila in an airy fashion. "I warned Frank and his wife there would be a difficulty. The fact is, I had hoped mother would have gone over to the Court this afternoon, and then Lady Amelia could have asked her, and she would have been more or less bound to consent on the spot. As it is, I mean to go. And if mother doesn't like it, she must lump it!"Patricia got down from the arm of the tall mahogany chair, with its worn leather seat, and, walking to the fireplace, she flung a log on the smouldering ashes, and pressed it into place with her foot."And yet, somehow, I don't believe mother will object. Sheila, do you know, I see a great difference in her.""Do you?" Sheila's tone was absolutely indifferent. "In what way? Is it possible you have perceived tardy inclinations towards a growth of amiability? Where is the difference? I have failed to notice it.""I am afraid mother is ill, Sheila.""How ill? She has never been well since I can remember. When it has not been neuralgia it has been temper, and when temper has failed, general bitterness and rheumatism have rushed gaily to the fore. Don't make mountains out of molehills. Mother is just as she has been for the last twenty years--a little older, but that is an ailment she shares with everybody. Does this mean," Sheila inquired

suddenly and a little acidly, "that you are going to put difficulties in the way of my going to the Court?""Good heavens, no!" Patricia answered crossly. "Go if you want to, it is nothing to me; I only spoke as I have done because a curious feeling came to me just now when I looked at mother. I dare say I am a fool, and it exists only in my imagination; but I did see a change, and her eyes--well, there was such a sad look in her eyes, Sheila."Miss Prentice burst out laughing."Now this is a proof positive that we both of us ought to get away from here. Your nerves are all upset. You ought to get Dr. Mitchinson to prescribe for you. He comes here often enough, in all conscience. Don't put ridiculous ideas in your mind, Patsy, but get your skates, and come along with me. Frank is sending the motor for us.""I am not going," Patsy said; but she spoke gently. "I really don't feel up to skating to-day. Look here, Sheila, can't I do anything for you? Shall I begin to pack some of your things in case mother says you may go?"Sheila's eyes gleamed for an instant."Oh, I am all packed! And Stanton is getting John to bring down my box. I shall let Frank send a cart for it to-day. I am not a child to ask permission to eat a bun!" Sheila said, with a hard laugh as she walked out of the room.Left to herself, Patsy stood and watched the log catch life and flame from the half-dead ashes. She felt wretched. There were capabilities in her she now discovered which made for great mental suffering. Her temperament had not troubled her much

in the past. Happiness had been the keynote of her existence, a spontaneous enjoyment of life. She had found hidden treasures in the most unlikely places, and where there had been no sunshine to gild the world in reality, she had made sunshine of her own. And all this, surrounded as she had been since her earliest recollection by a grey atmosphere influenced by a prejudiced and embittered nature.Looking back sometimes now, when great things had come to pass to work a change in her heart and in her attitude towards others, Patricia marvelled how it was she had managed to create those fugitive gleams of sunshine--how it was that happiness and laughter had been so possible to her.They seemed cruelly far away now! Life stretched ahead in a desolate fashion. The knowledge that just a little way off there stood a house with doors barred and windows shrouded to make known to everybody that the little world which had occupied it was gone, seemed to Patricia an actual symbol of her future.She had heard nothing of him or from him. The news that there had been some strange arrival at the Treasury Farm, and that, following on the coming and going of the lady who had been driven thither, and who had--so the village rumour went--been denied even admittance, Mr. Sharpus and his small family had removed themselves from the neighbourhood, had reached Patsy in tardy fashion. She had not left Pitt Place for a day or two, and had met no one. When Dr. Mitchinson had called to see her mother, he had not broached the subject, and Patsy could not bring herself to question him.Had she seen Mrs. Mitchinson, she would have known more, but the doctor's wife had been summoned hurriedly to London, to meet a sister who was returning from a long sojourn abroad, and Patsy and she had not seen one another at all. No one, happily, had known of the younger Miss Prentice's presence at the Treasury Farm on that occasion marked in so momentous a manner. If Sheila had some inkling of the truth she made no remark. Sheila was possessed of the most supreme tact.As she knelt down and enticed the fire to burn the log, and Binks came and stood on the broad, old-fashioned hearthstone, thereby endangering his thick black coat, Patsy gave a sigh.Depression was a new experience. It was horrible to go about with a feeling as though she were carrying a dead weight on her heart."I wish I did not care for anything or anybody. It is such a mistake to care!"But even as she said this petulantly to herself, she shut her eyes, and she visioned instantly the remembrance of him sitting in the old farm house parlour, with the little child clinging about his neck.There was such pathos in the remembrance, and sweetness, too, but the sweetness had an ache in it. Patsy had never envied any living creature before, but when she searchCHAPTER XVII.CONTRARY to expectation, Mrs. Prentice made no objection whatever to her elder daughter going to Winchbourne Court for Christmas.Sheila herself informed her mother of her invitation and her intention to accept it, and later on in the afternoon the motor came back again and carried away her boxes.Patricia passed a restless afternoon; the departure of Sheila left a void. Probably, at another time, the girl would have been influenced by at least a suggestion of envy, and she would have found herself longing for her share of those very things which Sheila had declared she needed so much. But to-day gaiety had no attraction for her, and she turned to her home with a feeling of extraordinary affection for it. Assuredly, there was little about the old house to denote that Christmas was so near at hand. Once upon a time Patsy had been wont to try and impart an air of festivity to Pitt Place at Christmas-time. She used to bring in large bunches of holly and decorate the tall chimneypieces and the old pictures. Then she would turn out her ribbon drawer and put

gaily-coloured bows on the various dogs. She even went so far as to hang up her stocking on Christmas Eve; but this proving an empty resource, she discarded the habit as she grew older.As year succeeded year the shabbiness of Pitt Place had increased. There was a certain bleakness in the house. Dimly Patricia remembered the days of long before when things had been so different--when there had been a kind of state prevailing in the daily life at Pitt Place. The house was charged with old memories for her to-day. In a curious sense she was glad Sheila was gone, and yet she missed her terribly. After a while she began to move about restlessly. There were many small duties she could have done, but she settled to none. In her wandering she turned to Sheila's empty room. It was usually so neat. Like herself, Sheila's room had certain little luxuries and prettinesses, which were purely personal belongings. These had gone with her, and some disorder reigned in their place. An idea suddenly came to Patsy that this was Sheila's separation from her home--from herself. There had always been about Sheila a tantalising element, to Patsy. She knew now that she had never really been intimate with her sister, that even in the early days, when they had been apparently so much to one another, there had always been a veil hanging over the elder girl's real self. Now and again little flashes would reveal how absolutely unlike they were, and with what different attitudes they faced life and their fellow-creatures.Had she probed very deeply into her heart, Patricia would have discovered that she regarded 

her sister's going to the Court as something deliberately arranged, and as deliberately defiant of danger. Yet surely Sheila must know now that Frank Heatherington regarded her with something warmer than mere cousinly affection? And having this knowledge, would have evinced, at least, some discretion if she had avoided being a guest at his house?As the dusk of the afternoon was deepening, a note was brought by hand from Dr. Mitchinson for Mrs. Prentice. The old cook carried the letter to Patricia."It's the doctor's lad, miss; and he wants to know if there'll be any answer.""Tell him to wait," said Patricia.She went again up the broad staircase with its almost threadbare carpet, and finding her mother's door ajar, she pushed it open and entered the room. Almost immediately, however, Patsy stepped back once again into the passage. Her heart beat wildly, she had a suffocating feeling in her throat, and a stinging of tears in her eyes. Though the room had been in shadows, there had been light enough for her to see that her mother had been kneeling by the bedside, her face buried in her arms, which were stretched out in front of her in a way which seemed, to the girl's over-wrought mind, to signify the very depth of despair.She was thankful to assure herself that her entrance had been unnoticed. She had softly drawn the door to and walked down the passage to wait a little while. She wanted to be quite calm before approaching her mother.Happily, one of the dogs had followed her, and she spoke aloud to the animal, thus announcing to the woman within that room that she was near.When she entered a second time she found Mrs. Prentice sitting by her writing-table with the lamp lit."This note has just come for you, mother. The boy is waiting to see if there is any answer."Mrs. Prentice turned, and took the letter with a steady hand."Wait," she said, as Patsy was leaving her.The girl turned back and stood by the empty fire grate. She noticed many little things to-day which would have escaped her at another time. She saw that, though her mother held to the old rule of no fires in the bed-room yet, that the bitter cold had forced her to wrap a thick-knitted shawl about her shoulders. She noticed that the windows were closed. It might, perhaps, have been the outcome of that agitation from which she had barely recovered which made her sensible of some subtle change in her mother's intimate life; that life always lived apart and alone.Mrs. Prentice folded up Dr. Mitchinson's letter and put it down on her table. Then she wrote a few words, and after she had sealed and addressed an envelope she handed it to her daughter. Then, once again as Patricia turned to go, her mother stopped her."This invitation to the Court was not extended to you?"Patsy shook her head."No doubt they would be glad to have you," said 

Mrs. Prentice. "In all probability Lady Amelia hesitates to ask both of you because of me.""I should not go, under any circumstances," said Patsy. She spoke in a moved tone, and her mother corrected her coldly."It is ridiculous to talk like that. Although I do not find Frank's wife a very agreeable person, she has an undoubted social value. It is the popular creed of to-day that people who can be useful should be cultivated. Lady Amelia can be useful to your sister and yourself. If Sheila can see this, it should not be very difficult for you to see it also.""I don't want Lady Amelia to be useful," Patsy said, with something of her old intolerance. "I hate the idea of seeking people for what they can do for you.""You make a mistake. But then you make many mistakes," said her mother. Bending over her table again she took up her pen, and Patsy felt that she was dismissed.After she had given the note to the boy she sat awhile in the kitchen, perched on the edge of the big kitchen table.She rather enjoyed a chat with the old cook, who had peculiar views, and was rather fond of expressing them to other people. But this afternoon the old servant was apparently in a bad temper, so after a little while Patsy slipped off the table and went back to her restless wanderings."Everybody has the grumps, and everything seems out of sorts to-day," she said to herself. She was haunted by the impression of Sheila's empty room, and much--much more deeply by that unexpected

vision of her mother kneeling in that despairing fashion. Somehow, prayer and her mother seemed strange, even incongruous, when she put them together. The dogs looked at her wistfully when she approached the door of the room where the old piano stood. They believed that here they would part company. But Patsy stooped to pat their heads reassuringly."No; no music to-day. I couldn't stand it."When she got back to the hall again she found tea waiting, and with it Miss Morant. There were signs of disturbance on the older woman's face. She turned to Patsy eagerly."Ah, there you are!" she said. "I have been trying to find you. Dear child, I am in great trouble, and I want to ask you, do you really think dear Julia was offended because she supposed I wanted to go to Winchbourne Court this afternoon?""What an idea!" exclaimed Patsy. "Of course not. Mother never gets offended with you; and, besides, she knew you did not want to go.""Then something else must have upset her," said Miss Morant nervously. "I have been writing some letters, and when I went to her room just now to have tea as usual, she told me to come to you; and also that she thought it would be very much better if I were to go back to London to-morrow."Patsy turned at this and stared at Miss Morant."Oh, I think you must be making a mistake!" she said.Miss Morant shook her head."Oh, no, there is no mistake; she wants me to go! When your mother wants anything she speaks

very plainly; and really," said Miss Morant--" really, I am most unhappy about it. You know how devotedly attached I am to your dear mother, Patricia dear."She had rolled her handkerchief into a ball, and dabbed her eyes as she spoke. Her distress was certainly not assumed.Patsy went up to her and kissed her consolingly."Don't fret, Jane!" she said. "After all, it is not so lively here that you should mind leaving us--if mother does wish you to go, which I can't altogether believe."Miss Morant pressed Patsy's hand."Ah, it is different for you, dear!" she said. "I am sure it is dull here for you two young ones. You would be surprised, Patricia, if you could know how much your mother frets about you and Sheila. I know you--neither of you--have thought she cares, but she does--she does. You see she says more to me than to anybody else. That is one reason why I always love being here. Your mother's friendship and trust in me are great, great things to me; it is so nice to feel one is of some importance somewhere. The life in my brother's house, dear Patricia, is not a very happy one; his wife never wished to have me with them. I am only tolerated, never welcome, and I am always glad to be away from them, especially at Christmas-time."A sudden and a sharp feeling of regret burdened Patsy as she listened. This little speech made clear to her so much, and all those little ways which Sheila and she had found so objectionable took a different significance now.In her quick, imaginative way she pictured to herself the home-going of Jane Morant if she left Pitt Place hurriedly, and she longed to offer some consolation. Once again she said:"I am sure you are making a mistake, Jane."But though she said it she had a conviction upon her that there was no mistake; that some great purpose was actuating her mother, some new and powerful influence was at work with her, bending the proud will and swaying that strong, defiant spirit."Look here, have your tea," she said, trying to speak cheerily, "and don't worry! I will speak to mother. When she knows that you want to stay, that it will be very disagreeable to you to go back to your brother's house in this unexpected way, it's sure to be all right.""Oh, no, dearest," said Miss Morant eagerly, "you mustn't say anything! It will only vex Julia, and I don't want that. I can see now that she wishes me to go for some reason, and so, of course, I shall go.She sat down on the chair by the fire, and Patsy knelt beside her, and, taking one of the thin, far from pretty hands in hers, she caressed it softly.Her heart was drawn absolutely in this moment to this lonely middle-aged woman, who cherished still some illusions, and who was so easily satisfied. Patsy did not know what the bitterness of dependence was, but she could guess that it was a hard--hard thing."I have been such a cat to you sometimes, haven't I?" she said remorsefully. "But then I never knew,

you see. But I am going to be your friend always now, Jane, just remember that; and when I marry a duke, and have a palace of my own, you shall come and live with me!"She had to drift into a nonsensical mood to keep back the tears.That day, fraught with so many different emotions, came to an end at last. The dinner had been more dreary than usual. Miss Morant, poor soul! made a tremendous effort to appear her usual self. Now and again Patsy looked at her mother furtively. To her there was something immeasurably pitiful about Jane Morant's sprightliness this night, and it seemed to the girl that her mother could not fail to be touched by this.But Mrs. Prentice showed no sign, gave no hint of sympathetic comprehension. She sat on in her usual unbending way. She found fault, as usual. She ate very little, and when dinner was over she led the way to the cold, big drawing-room (which once upon a time must have been so pretty and fresh, bearing the fragrance of flowers and eloquent with life, but which of late years had grown into a sort of tomb, bare and empty and ugly), and the same weary couple of hours were struggled through, till at last Patsy and the dogs were given their freedom. As she bent to kiss her mother and say good-night, Mrs. Prentice said, without looking at her:"If you feel lonely upstairs, Patricia, you had better sleep in my dressing-room. With Sheila away, you will doubtless prefer not to be by yourself on that floor."A disclaimer to this was fluttering on the girl's lips, when she checked herself, and, with a little quiver of excitement that was almost pain, she said:"Yes, if you don't mind, I should like to sleep near you."But the effect of the strange bed and the strange mental atmosphere which hung about her was enough to drive sleep from her altogether. She undressed in her own room, and slipped down the stairs wrapped about in her old flannel dressing-gown. She realised then that she was making a little sacrifice. It would have been so sweet to have spent some hours alone, lying where she could see out of that window which she had described to little Meggy, and surrounded by all the things which were so familiar to her and so dear.Her mother's dressing-room was a place which was practically strange to her. It had been her father's room, and tradition went that very little had been changed in that room since his death. The wardrobes when opened revealed clothes which had been there for years, sticks, hunting-crops, gloves which he had used constantly were laid on the shelves as if ready still for use. There was a delightful portrait of him, sketched lightly in crayons, hanging over the mantelshelf; and there were other portraits, droll, old-fashioned ones of her mother in wide-spreading skirts and ringlets, and another of her father in out-of-date hunting costume. Then there were sporting prints and fencing foils and innumerable other characteristic belongings scattered about on the walls, from which the colour of the paper had faded out of all recognition.The door that led to her mother's room was closed. Long after she had got into bed, and was lying with fixedly-shut eyes, Patricia heard her mother moving about. Suddenly she said to herself: "I haven't said my prayers." And she got out of the warm bed and knelt, repeating words mechanically. It was a duty fulfilled, but it brought no comfort; that fluttering excitement at her heart refused to be calmed. The sense of an approaching something oppressed her beyond description.She heard the clock in the hall strike midnight; she heard it strike one. She wondered if her mother was asleep. She wondered where little Meggy was, and who would take Treasury Farm in the future. She tried to picture Sheila in the luxurious bed-room at the Court. She wondered what Sheila would say if she could know of this change of sleeping abode, and, wondering and questioning, she drifted at last into a heavy sleep, and so she never knew that just when the dawn was breaking in the coldest of the cold winter's night the door which separated her from her mother was softly opened, and that mother crept noiselessly across the floor and stood, with shaded candle in her hand, looking down at the pretty peaceful face resting on the pillows.In her sleep Patricia dreamed many things, far too confused and mingled to be sorted out when she was awake. But one thing she did remember, and that was a moment of great and extraordinary ecstasy--a moment when in her dreams she had felt herself standing at some point where the sun shone on her gloriously and the soft wind fanned her; and it seemed to her that in that moment of delight

there had been some other person with her, and that the real joy of that moment had lain in a sense of union, in the fact that this someone had shared with her the glory of the sun and the soft fragrance of the wind.This, out of all the varied movement of her sleep-bound mind, was all she remembered, and she was never destined to know that there had been a moment in that long, cold winter's night when her mother's heart had yearned over her and her mother's tears had fallen on her sleeping face.CHAPTER XVIII.CURIOSITY, in the first place, had prompted Lady Sophie Bryne-Jones to invite herself and her family to Winchbourne Court for Christmas, and a certain suggestion of malice was not wholly unconnected with curiosity.Although she had been the first to call her mother's attention to the fact that something of the sort was in the air, the marriage with Francis Heatherington had really astonished Lady Sophie.To her sister in Germany she had written very frankly, declaring that she considered Heatherington mad."It's the most hopelessly insane thing for him to have done. Of course, it's bound to be a most horrible failure, and I shouldn't be surprised if mamma did not get Amy back on her hands within the next few months."Her Highness Princess Wilhelm of Gutenstaadt replied in due course, echoing her sister's amazement, but adding very pithily:"Whatever happens, however, don't be afraid; mamma won't be bothered with Amy. I expect she

is as happy as a sandboy, having got her out of the house at last!"Sir Francis went to Marketborough to personally convey his sister-in-law and her children to the Court.His appearance rather upset Lady Sophie's expectations. She had prepared herself to find him changed in some indefinable way; but he was just the same, and had about him the look of a man very well pleased with himself and with life in general.He said that his wife was very "fit," and managed to impress Lady Sophie with the idea that the one thing required by Lady Amelia and himself to make their Christmas perfectly happy was the presence of herself and her family.In her sister Lady Sophie found very little difference, except that, of course, she immediately remarked that Lady Amelia was very carefully dressed, and that the way in which she wore her hair was equally as unbecoming as the old way.
It was tea-time when they arrived, and the children were sent upstairs to their apartments."Have you anybody else staying with you?" Lady Sophie inquired, as she settled herself into a comfortable chair.It appeared that Sir Francis had asked a couple of men of the negative order--bachelors, who existed to make up odd numbers--and that Lawrence Goodborough had transferred himself and his luggage to the Court when Mr. Sharpus had left Treasury Farm."I saw Sparbrooke in town," said Lady Sophie. "I shouldn't be surprised if he turned up here. He told me he should certainly not go North for Christ-

mas, as father and he are not on speaking terms just now."Lady Amelia's face lit up for a moment."I should like to see Rupert," she said. "I hope he will come."Sheila Prentice had passed down the low, broad staircase at that moment, and was introduced.Lady Sophie looked at her critically, and with that unconscious apprehension which possesses most women whose life is swayed by personal vanity when another woman more generously endowed by Nature than themselves comes into their intimate sphere. Grudgingly she had to allow that she had very rarely seen anyone as pretty as Sheila Prentice. She went further than that when she discussed the girl with her sister."Who is she? Where does she come from? You know she is quite lovely, Amy!"Lady Amelia flushed sensitively. The appreciation affected her in a most delicate and intimate way."Yes, she is lovely," she said, "and so sweet! We are great friends, Sheila and I."She said it with a little touch of pride, and went on giving a little description of Pitt Place and the life the girls led. Most consciously she found satisfaction in claiming that very kinship with the Prentice family which she had desired to reject so vexedly that first day of her arrival at the Court.It would have been impossible, of course, for a nature constituted and trained as Lady Sophie's was not to see possibilities of a disturbing character in the contemplation of Miss Prentice's unusual attractions,

and in the realisation that she seemed to be regarded in the light of a delightful fixture at Winchbourne Court."It will be just as well if Rupert does not come," she mused to herself; "he would be sure to make a fool of himself over this girl." Then, as she sipped her tea and nibbled her cake, Lady Sophie, left to herself, mused: "It's pretty easy to understand now why Frank prefers to be down here so much."Sheila was perfectly well aware of what was passing in the new-comer's mind. She summed up Lady Sophie in one word, a harsh word--vulgarian. There was very little indeed to denote the close tie which united Heatherington's wife and her sister. Undoubtedly Lady Sophie was good-looking; she had fine eyes, beautiful teeth and a roguish kind of face. Most people regarded her as the embodiment of good nature, but Sheila eyed her warily.Instinctively she doubted Lady Sophie; and, then, this very modern woman made almost a jarring note in the old house. She had on too many jewels, her clothes were too eccentric, her furs savoured too much of the theatre.Unlike Patsy, Sheila did not see the pathos which was expressed in Lady Amelia's nervous aloofness, in her wistful endeavour to garb herself so that she might seem better in the eyes of the man she loved; but she was just as surely influenced by the rare dignity of this thin, middle-aged spinster-like woman, and without any hesitation she preferred the elder sister to the younger.Apart from this, however, she fully resolved to cultivate Lady Sophie, for Patsy's intuition had not

been at fault. In leaving Pitt Place so unexpectedly, and yet with so much premeditation, Sheila had resolved that the moment had come to cut herself adrift from the grim home influence--from the shabbiness, the struggle, the monotony, and from the burden of her mother's will.She knew now that she was welcome to stay at Winchbourne Court for an indefinite period; but Sheila intended to make this visit merely a stepping-stone to other things. There was much, in a material sense, which invested her present situation with charm. She had always hated poverty, and in Lady Amelia's house there was everything to make life most agreeable.She revelled in the luxury of a delightful bed-room; of a maid entirely at her disposal. Insensibly her beauty became enhanced when set in such surroundings. And yet from the very moment she had set foot as a house-guest at the Court she realised that she had made a very great mistake.Of course, it would have been quite impossible for her not to render a certain amount of gratitude to Heatherington. His generous friendship had swept her path clear for the time being, and Sheila could now permit herself to regard the immediate future with none of that horrible apprehension which had so blighted her when she had tried to fight that future single-handed.Nevertheless, it was with something like resentment that Sheila told over to herself every now and then how much she owed Sir Francis, and how much she had lost by that moment of confidence which had been more or less forced from her. It was galling to

her in the extreme to know that Heatherington had the right to order, to question; more galling still the conviction that, though he might be wholly unconscious of the fact, she must have slipped a little from the high place which she had occupied in his thoughts. Greater than all this, however, was the resentful feeling that she had put herself into a false position with this man.She did not misjudge him; she was absolutely sure that unless she chose to open her heart to him he would never demand full confidence from her. At the same time, she knew him so well, his whole mental bearing was so easy to follow, that she prepared herself for innumerable little annoyances.For instance, the way in which he looked at her, the constraint with which he spoke to her, the sense of satisfaction which dominated him so visibly simply because she was in his house, were some of the things which she resented so sharply."How I am going to do it I don't know," she said to herself restlessly. "All I know is that I must give this money back to Frank."Thus it was for many reasons Sheila had resolved to carve out a new road for herself.Moreover, she craved now for independence, for a position of her own. She was tired of holding the village people in contempt. She hated Pitt Place, and sometimes she almost hated her mother.The tragedy which had blighted that mother's life was regarded by Sheila as a commonplace affair. She had a faint and poor recollection of her father. It was from others that she had heard how handsome he had been, and how fascinating; how he had been

adored by his young wife; from others that the stories had come of his culpable extravagance, of his restless desire to be ever on the move, of how acre after acre of the old land which had passed to him had gone just to keep him supplied with money--money to be thrown away in some new and worthless speculation, to be dissipated in a hundred useless ways. Of that father's death, sudden and tragic--he had caught cold out shooting, had developed inflammation of the lungs, and had died in something less than a week--Sheila had also been informed by strangers.
It was perhaps natural to one of her temperament that she should grudge her dead father the power he had exercised over those whom he had left behind. For from the moment of his death all that had been soft and tender and womanly had been frozen in Julia Prentice's heart. Her children had grown up in an atmosphere at once chill and dark.Though their father's name never passed her lips, they both knew that it was because of their father that their life ran so differently to the lives of other young people round about them. To Sheila there was something ridiculous as well as unjust in her mother's refusal to merge her old sorrow in the natural demands of everyday life. She shuddered when she thought of going back to Pitt Place.The peace of mind which had followed on the possession of a large sum of money--for Heatherington had doubled the sum she had named--had drifted back to a great extent to old feelings, even to old ambitions. The despair which had come to her at times, when she had reviewed her position, or when

it had been brought to her memory in some unpleasant way, had no place with her now. She was almost inclined to sneer at herself in this new mood because of that despair.As she dressed for dinner the night of Lady Sophie's arrival she stood looking at herself a long time in the glass, and when she turned away at last there was a smile on her lips and a sense of satisfaction radiating her. She assessed her beauty at a very high rate. Long ago it had been prophesied that she would marry brilliantly.	It was time to bring that prophecy to fulfilment. Indubitably she had to recognise there was that written in her life which by rights she ought to share before she married; but Sheila, happily for herself, had none of Patsy's conscientious scruples."How many of us could really open our hearts and let people see what we hide there?" she queried of herself languidly, as she went downstairs and the gong sounded for dinner.CHAPTER XIX.THE day before Christmas Lord Sparbrooke telegraphed and announced he was coming to Winchbourne Court.The one person whose sympathy had occasionally illumined the cloudy sky of Lady Amelia's girlhood had been her elder brother.When matters had come to one of their perennial crises with him, Lord Sparbrooke had found his elder sister very useful. On more than one occasion, indeed, it had been through Lady Amelia's influence that strained relations had been rearranged between her father and his son.In his careless way Lord Sparbrooke had returned this kindness by protesting now and then to his mother against her treatment of Lady Amelia. He had never brought about a successful issue, but he had largely increased the affection which his sister felt for him.There was, therefore, a spirit of genuine pleasure and welcome radiating her as she prepared to receive him.Lady Sophie discussed her brother quite openly

with Miss Prentice. In twenty-four hours Sheila and this other woman had registered an undiscussed truce.If Sheila had grasped the character of Lady Sophie, assuredly Lady Sophie imagined that she thoroughly understood Miss Prentice. She found no fault with the younger woman for cherishing lofty social ambitions. The knowledge that Sheila was really beautiful was grudgingly allowed, and the further certainty that such beauty could command the very best was a fact which Lady Sophie at once admitted."She means to go far," she said to herself; and several reasons prompted her to be extremely amiable to Miss Prentice. Nevertheless, she was actually alarmed when she heard that her brother was coming.She adopted a very frank manner with Sheila."I warn you," she said, "you will find Rupert at your feet before he has been an hour in the house. You are the type of woman he at once adores--not that he really confines his attentions to one particular type. He is the most ubiquitous philanderer."Sheila was embroidering a monogram on a handkerchief; it was intended as a gift for Lady Amelia."I don't know much about flirtatious men," she said. "It will amuse me to meet Lord Sparbrooke.""Of course, you have been away from this neighbourhood at times?"Lady Sophie was annoyed at the calm way in which Miss Prentice spoke and at the little sneer in her voice."Very seldom. A few years ago I used to stay

with my aunt, Mrs. Langridge, in London. I shall probably go there early in the New Year.""Well, you have the world before you; and I think it ought to be a very beautiful world for you. What are you going to do with Lawrence Good-borough," inquired Lady Sophie, with her roguish laugh, "when you go to London? It is a fact palpable to the meanest intelligence that he asks nothing better than to follow you about wherever you go with the slavish devotion of a dog."Sheila smiled."Mr. Goodborough is a nice boy," she said."Who has a nice little fortune all his own," added Lady Sophie."Really!" said Miss Prentice indifferently."Oh, yes, Lawrie is quite well off! I only wish Rupert had his luck. My brother is miserably poor. Of course, it is his own fault--we all know that; but he really hasn't twopence to rake together."Sheila put her embroidery down on her knee and patted it, and looked at it critically."But fortunately," she said, "there are so many women who have money, all of whom presumably are more than eager to exchange that money for a title."Lady Sophie looked at her a little dubiously."Undoubtedly Rupert will have to marry money," she said; "but I don't think he is in a great hurry. He has too good a time to settle down and devote himself to a domestic life."She was quite aware that her tactics were not conceived in the finest or the most subtle form. Nevertheless, it was disconcerting to find that Miss Prentice grasped her so accurately.At the same time her admiration for Sheila was considerably strengthened, and she at once resolved to enter actively into the excitement, the interest which Miss Prentice's immediate future promised to furnish."I want you to be very, very kind, and to come and stay with me in town," she said. "I am afraid you will find us a little racketty, but, at least, we do enjoy life. Dear Amy's house is so dull. I feel all the time as if I were in church.""Thanks," said Sheila.She had resolved to obtain this invitation, but had not expected to receive it so soon.When she went to sit for a little while in Lady Amelia's room before going to dress for dinner, Sheila gave the other woman away."Do you know, I think you had better send me back to Pitt Place," she said. "Your sister seems to be horribly afraid that I shall influence Lord Sparbrooke to do something very rash. I dare say it would strike Lady Sophie as very odd if I were to tell her that, quite apart from Lord Sparbrooke, I haven't the least desire nor inclination to be married to anyone."Lady Amelia's thin face flushed hotly. She said nothing for a moment, and then spoke with an effort."I am sorry that you should have been exposed to this kind of thing. Sophie has deteriorated a great deal since her marriage. Her life is influenced, it seems to me, by only one thing, now-a-days--money."Then, with a spontaneous timidity, Lady Amelia bent forward and kissed Sheila."Please let me apologise for her," she said. Sheila kissed her back; and they stood in front of the fire hand clasped in hand."You see how little this troubles me since I come and tell you at once." Then Sheila laughed. "I must confess it has made me feel mischievous. I should dearly like to give Lady Sophie a good fright. So be warned. If you see me flirting outrageously with Lord Sparbrooke, you will know what it means."This made Lady Amelia laugh. Since she had conceived this very real affection for Sheila, something soft and gentle, a warm, permeating influence, had come upon her--that kind of nervous pride which may thrill a school-child honoured by the friendship of one older and much superior.It was not at all wonderful that she should care for Sheila--once, that is to say, she had permitted herself to seek a friendship with anyone--but it was most wonderful to her that this girl should care for her.Sheila had a delightful and delicate way of suggesting her affection.Her presence in the house brought to the surface a latent strain of maternal feeling in the older woman."You could so easily be my daughter," she had said once; and Sheila had answered with a little sigh:"And what a happiness to have had a mother like you!"It made her smile when she was alone that evening to realise how completely she had this other woman under her spell.She had done well to warn Lady Amelia, for Lord Sparbrooke and she started their acquaintance in the most pronouncedly frivolous manner.It may be truthfully said that they were the only two lively people of the party.Sir Francis sat at the head of the table, mute, and with a sullen note about him.Mr. Goodborough attempted to devote himself to Lady Sophie, but the effort was half-hearted.To watch Sheila laugh so gaily, radiating with amusement and pleasure, and to know that he was outside the circle of all this provoked a definite amount of discomfort to the young man.Only Lady Amelia retained her serenity. She even laughed every now and then when she was drawn into the whirlpool of nonsense talked by those two.Driven to confide in somebody, Lady Sophie pounced on her brother-in-law after dinner, and tried to pour out the flood of her vexation to him."The girl is the most appalling flirt I have ever met," she exclaimed; "and I thought her so quiet, so nice! I even asked her to stay with me when we go to town."She went on much in the same strain for quite five minutes.Heatherington said nothing, only gnawed his lip under his moustache and went away.He wanted to get out of the sound of Sheila's bell-like laugh. It was more than he could endure to sit there and watch her give smile for smile and look for look, bitterly conscious that the man with whom she smiled and flirted was free to do these

things--a man who could, if he chose, put himself and his life at her feet.
His wife did not notice when he went out of the room; but Lady Sophie quickly jumped to conclusions, and found a fair amount of satisfaction for her present vexation--satisfaction in feeling that if she was annoyed, Sir Francis was even more annoyed than she was.Sir Francis had scarcely turned into his own room when the butler followed him, telling him that someone was waiting to speak to him."It's the youngest Miss Prentice, sir. She came while you were at dinner, and she wouldn't let me show her in. She's waiting outside in the porch, sir.""Outside? What the deuce do you mean?" growled Sir Francis."The young lady wouldn't come in, sir. She's walked from Pitt Place, and she's got the dogs with her."Hatless, and without troubling to put on any coat, Sir Francis went by a side door out into the front.There was a bright moon, and he quickly saw Patsy walking to and fro with the dogs at her heel.The fresh, keen air acted like a stimulant. The fierceness of his anger left him. He was acutely conscious as he approached Patsy that it was no common element which had brought the girl at this late hour to seek him.As she saw him Patsy put out her hand and said:"Oh, Frank, you'll get cold; it's freezing hard to-night.""What's wrong?" asked Heatherington. He held her hand and pressed it."It's about mother," Patsy answered. And then she added: "I want to speak to you badly, Frank, but you mustn't stand out here like that. Go and put a coat and hat on. I don't want to come in. I did think I should have liked to see Sheila, but you can give her a message, and we can meet early to-morrow morning. If you don't mind, Frank, I should like you to walk a little of the way home with me. I am awfully nervous and jumpy to-night"Sir Francis looked at her just for an instant, and then he said:"All right; stay where you are. I'll be back with you in two minutes."Patsy stood and waited for him, shivering a little in the cold wind, and wondering why it was that the shadows cast by the moonlight always took such fanciful and even alarming shapes.Her imagination could people these dark grotesque shadows about her in the most vivid and terrifying way.Sir Francis rejoined her almost immediately, and tucked her hand under his arm."Now, what's wrong?" he asked."Mother sent me to the rectory this afternoon to help Mrs. Bartingale; there's always such an awful lot to do the day before Christmas, you know. When I got back, rather late, I found, to my amazement, that she was not in the house. Stanton told me that she had ordered the brougham and had driven away about four o'clock, and that she had taken luggage with her. I couldn't believe it at

first, Frank, it was such a shock; but that's not the worst. She left a letter, just a few lines saying that circumstances--imperative circumstances--had forced her to go to London, that she would send me her address and write to me in the course of the next day or two. When Roger came back with the brougham I went out to speak to him. Do you know what he told me?""No," said Heatherington."He said that Dr. Mitchinson met mother at the station, that they talked together for a long time, and that he heard Dr. Mitchinson say, 'I'm sorry I can't go up with you, but I shall go up to-morrow night, on that you may rely.' All this can only mean one thing," said Patsy, not very steadily, "and that is that something horrible and serious is going to happen. I've sat at home imagining all sorts of things, Frank, and I am convinced now that mother has gone up to London for an operation or something of that sort."Then the girl's voice broke."But doesn't it seem cruel of her to go like that? Not to give us the chance of sharing this trouble, perhaps of helping it. After all she is our mother, she belongs to us."" Don't cry!" said Heatherington. But he drew Patsy near to him as he spoke, and made her head rest against his shoulder for a moment or two. There were tears in his own eyes."Your mother is a strange woman," he said. "If what you imagine is true, then she is keeping you away from her trouble because she does not want you and Sheila to be saddened unnecessarily.""Does she think we have no hearts, no feelings? Can't she realise that there is a hundredfold more suffering for me left here eating my heart out with anxiety? But, of course, I sha'n't stay. I've sent a note to Dr. Mitchinson. I've told him I must know where my mother has gone to in town. To-morrow I shall go to town, too; if I can't be with her I can be near her. Aunt Judith will take me in. I want you to tell this to Sheila, I am sure she will feel as I do.""I will tell her," said Sir Francis. They had commenced to walk on again, and when they got to the high road Patsy entreated him to leave her, which, of course, he refused to do. As a matter of fact, he said:"I wanted a walk badly. We sat an interminably long time over dinner, and it's such a beautiful night, it's a positive shame to be indoors."They discussed the probabilities of the position from every point of view as they walked towards Pitt Place.Patsy found no difficulty in opening her heart to Sir Francis. She told him how the first touch of uneasiness about her mother had come to her."Now I understand why she sent Jane away. I told Sheila that I saw a difference in mother, but she laughed at me, and when I thought it all over I almost laughed, too, at my imagination."A moment later Patsy said, in a voice which trembled:"She has gone without a word, and God knows how it is with her! She is brave, horribly brave;

still, it breaks my heart to think that she is alone to-night.""Look here, Patsy!" Frank Heatherington suddenly said. "Why not put a few things together and come back and stay with us to-night? It will be so lonely for you at Pitt Place. Amy will be delighted to have you, and then you and Sheila will be together."He was not conscious how much of the eagerness which actuated him rose from the desire to safe-guard Sheila with the presence of her sister. Ever since that day they had met in Marketborough he had been oppressed with a heavy sense of uneasiness. Her attitude of this night, her undisguised frivolity, suggested a note of recklessness to Heatherington. Knowing so much and yet so little, it was natural he should be keenly sensitive to every new move Sheila made.Patsy refused his offer. She said truly that she could not endure to be away from her home this night, and as he left her and walked sharply back to the Court Sir Francis lost the composure which Patsy's unexpected coming had brought him. The position in which he found himself at this time was one which would have strained the patience and tried the nerves of many a cleverer man than himself.Sheila would have been astonished if she could have known the mental trouble Heatherington was enduring on her account. He was dragged by so many different phases of mind suffering, and at times positively afflicted by the fact that he was leading a dual life--that the love, the ceaseless and

now anxious love, he gave to Sheila could be construed in no other way than disloyalty to his wife. He hated himself for this disloyalty; he winced often when he thought of the possibility of his wife's people gleaning the least suggestion of what was so true. There was a commonplace inevitableness about the matter which he recognised at once. The world had been so prepared for this, and he had so resolved to cheat the world for once. Those gentle and chivalrous reasons which had driven him into marriage existed more surely even than in the beginning. It was not only an honourable respect and a desire to give obedience to Sheila's will which laid a seal on his lips.He had no wish to speak of his love now. She knew so well all there was to say.
Words could not make the story surer, and they could not undo what had been done. Heatherington had not sought to bring Sheila so closely into his home life. His wife's strange submission to the charm of the younger woman had been to him something too extraordinary to be understood, but once Sheila had come he had instinctively sought to find what poor happiness he could in her near presence.It had been a bitter sort of joy, however, and he saw to-night that the poignancy of the situation had been increased a hundredfold by this coming of Sheila to Winchbourne Court.The sight of her moving to and fro in his home put the "might-have-been" so pitifully before him. Intimate intercourse revealed her beauty in new and more alluring phases. That she should be beautiful and desirable to other men was something which

he had but dimly recognised till now, and the awakening to this knowledge put poison in his heart. On the misery this simple fact provoked impinged a keener suffering, the knowledge that though he might give his heart and his very soul to her, he had no claim upon her, no right to ask for love, or devotion, or loyalty in return. On the contrary, that it was his duty incontrovertibly to stand aside and let Sheila walk her way alone, to hold aloof when another man should come along and ask her to be his wife.CHAPTER XX.JUST as he was approaching the house Sir Francis was hailed by his brother-in-law, Mr. Bryne-Jones.Lady Sophie's husband, though he boasted a Welsh name, had a pronouncedly Semitic look. He was dark, he was short, and he was getting rather fat.Heatherington was not particularly drawn to this new connection of his. When he looked at Bryne-Jones he always remembered a remark his wife's mother had once made to him about Lady Sophie's husband. "Ernest gets on my nerves," the duchess had said; "he goes through life making a catalogue; he knows the value of a thing at a glance." Then she had laughed. "However, I never feel afraid for Sophie's future because, if everything went in a smash, there would always be a brilliant future ahead for her husband as a pawnbroker.""Been for a walk, eh?" inquired Mr. Bryne-Jones. "I came out to find you. Your butler told me you were out here somewhere. By Jove, it's cold, isn't it?"You had better turn in again," said Sir Francis. His tone was not cordial."I asked Goodborough to come and have a game

of billiards, but he wouldn't--turned sulky! He is glaring at Sparbrooke as if that particularly pretty creature in there was his own property."Sir Francis pushed on into the house, and the other man followed him.As they slipped out of their coats, Mr. Bryne-Jones said:"Don't forget, Frank, you promised me some duck-shooting.""Oh, it wouldn't be in your line at all," said Heatherington, a little shortly. "I can't see you standing for hours in the night and the snow. Besides, we are a good bit away from the marshes. Duck-shooting is an awful fag, really."He resolutely refused to take the hint which Mr Bryne-Jones had intended he should do. Assuredly he was in no mood for playing billiards, or any other game. In fact, he got rid of his companion as soon as possible, and when he was alone he sat down and wrote a little note to Sheila, in which he briefly set forth all that Patsy had told him, and prepared her for an early visit from her sister the next morning.When his note was finished he called the old butler, and asked that the letter should be sent up to Miss Prentice's room. "It's something her sister wished her to have," he said.Sheila was late in retiring. She felt in very good spirits when she finally said good-night to Lady Sophie, and followed Lady Amelia upstairs.The certainty that Lady Sophie was annoyed and Francis Heatherington wretched were two factors which contributed not a little to the amusement which this evening had afforded her. She kissed Lady

Amelia affectionately, and laughed to herself softly for quite a while after she was safe in the seclusion of her own room. Of course, Sheila had never really been in doubt as to the extent of her own powers. She had always realized that to one so lavishly endowed with physical gifts as herself, most things were possible. What she had hitherto lacked had been the proper environment for the development if not the actual exploitation of these gifts.This was but one of the many reasons why Sheila Prentice held her mother in such bitter regard. All the many years of repression, of resentful endurance which had made the sum of their childhood's days were, in the younger woman's opinion, deliberate wrongs done to her sister and herself. She went further than this (though she did not spare herself the most cruel self-reproach), she regarded her mother as the initial cause which had led her into making what would ever be to herself an unforgivable mistake. For had her life run in a normal groove, had she mingled with those who should have been about her, she would have learnt those lessons which were so necessary--she would have been protected from herself.All the evening, when she had sat laughing and chatting with Lord Sparbrooke, Sheila's heart had been on fire. In the most contradictory way and yet, perhaps, in the most natural, the sense of power, the delicious certainty that she could dominate all present, brought back to her with a sickening intensity that which had been written in her life, and which for a brief while, by the aid of Heatherington's money, had been pushed into the background, almost into

the realms of forgetfulness. Just before dinner her mood had been charged with supreme indifference; there had been casuistry in the thought which prompted her to discard entirely any moral responsibility in connection with what had been.
Others there must be, so Sheila had mused, who might have even darker secrets sealed in their hearts. It would be ridiculous to let this kind of thing really spoil her future.But this train of thought, this mental attitude, was a difficult one for Sheila to sustain. She was by nature so proud and her pride was in reality so fearless, so arrogant, that the judgment or the condemnation of the world could never be half so terrible to her as her own judgment, her own condemnation.She had shivered more than once as she sat at the table with Lord Sparbrooke's admiring eyes riveted on her face. Once Lady Amelia had remarked that she seemed cold, and had commanded that a screen should be put between Miss Prentice's chair and the heavily curtained windows. And Sheila had thanked her with a brilliant smile, while to herself she had said: "Would she believe me, I wonder, if she could know how much I envy her? She is old, and she is almost hideous, but there is no shame written in her life. And there is nothing to hide!"
She had a reckless touch upon her this night, and more than one remark she made startled Lord Sparbrooke--there was such bitterness at the root of her words. And yet she enjoyed the new experience. She felt as one may feel who sports with danger. There was upon her something of that spirit which may be supposed to animate one who explores un-

known regions, or fights with tremendous elemental forces. Laughter was necessary to her. Even when she was alone, as has just been said, she continued to laugh. But when, at length, she caught sight of the letter awaiting her, this nervous merriment went from her all at once. She turned very white.That Heatherington should have written at all was abominable to her.And, naturally, she jumped at once to the conclusion that he had only written to reproach her. His gloomy look at the table had betrayed him so eloquently.
Sheila caught her breath sharply. Sometimes she felt half afraid of this man who asked, apparently, for nothing but to take some humble place in her life, to serve her. There was a volcanic significance in his present attitude of silence and restraint. She very nearly flung the letter unread into the fire, but checked herself. The position did not permit of rash impulses. When she opened it and read what he had to say, her anger did not decrease--it took another form. Heatherington's tone of solemnity in describing her mother's departure was irritating beyond measure."It's just like Patsy to imagine absurd things. Good heavens! By this time we surely ought to know that mother never studies us. Why on earth should Patsy suppose she has gone to London because she is desperately ill? The idea is preposterous. Of course it is an odd time to choose, but mother never was like anybody else. Evidently Frank expects that I shall go with Patsy to-morrow. Well, he makes a big mistake."Sheila tore the letter into little bits.She would have found it most difficult to have given even to herself a true description of her feeling where Heatherington was concerned.She appreciated his goodness, his friendship was most necessary to her, and yet the knowledge of his devotion provoked a most extraordinary sense of resentment in her heart.She had adopted a moral tone in bringing him to a reasonable attitude, but as a matter of fact, Sheila was not concerned about the morality of the matter. It was the conviction which had taken possession of Heatherington that she loved him as indisputably as he loved her which vexed her so immeasurably.She was perfectly well aware that she had only herself to blame for having induced this belief into the man's mind.And yet that moment of seeming confession of surrender on her part which had been the beginning of all this, had been so natural, so pardonable!She had stood waiting for his homecoming shivering with dread and the horrible certainty that trouble and of the worst description hemmed her about; and when he had come she had seen in him the one person out of all the world who could have stood between her and this black trouble; she had forgotten everything except that this man's love and life itself had been at her feet had she chosen to stoop and pick it up. In that moment, too, he had appealed to her physically. She had never considered him handsome in the old days, but that day, as he had stood bare-headed beside his wife, he had seemed more than handsome to Sheila. And

when looking across those who had divided them, she had caught his expression looking so eagerly at her, and knew that he loved her as much as he had ever done, her heart had leaped, and there had passed from her eyes to his that message of misery, that yearning for material comfort, for the strength and protection which his love signified. Just in that moment, Sheila had been touched with genuine passion; just for a brief while she had been as near to a great and even an unselfish love as it was possible for one of her temperament to be; but later had come the inevitable reaction, the inevitable revulsion of feeling, till now, as she sat staring into the fire telling over to herself the story of these things of which she was so weary, she felt almost that she hated Heatherington as she assuredly hated herself.Lady Sophie Bryne-Jones did not encourage her husband to converse after she had gone to her room, as a rule, but this night she felt in the mood for confidences.Mr. Bryne-Jones simply laughed, however, when his wife expressed herself very forcibly on the subject of her brother and Miss Prentice."In the first place, why worry yourself about Sparbrooke--he's all right; and in the second, you're all wrong, my dear," he said. "That girl is not dangerous--at least, not dangerous where Sparbrooke is concerned. It might be another matter if your brother had a little bit he could call his own, but as it is he's safe enough.""But that's nonsense!" said Lady Sophie a trifle

tartly. "Rupert is horribly extravagant, we all know that, but he isn't exactly a pauper, you know.""Yes, he is," Mr. Bryne-Jones contradicted cheerfully--" or, at least, he is in Miss Prentice's estimation. That girl intends to marry money--big money, I mean--the real thing. Millions are more in her line than titles--titles with nothing to them, I mean."Lady Sophie laughed. Sometimes her husband's cleverness and positiveness jarred on her nerves."My dear Ernest," she said, "how can you possibly know? You only met this girl a few days.""That makes no difference," said Mr. Bryne-Jones calmly.He was walking in and out of his room and his wife's as he spoke, divesting himself of his clothes. Sometimes he whispered in a confidential tone and sometimes he called out what he had to say in a clear, loud voice."She means to get money," he said, "and she'll get it, too. There isn't much that young woman couldn't get if she put her mind to it.""Women of her type are generally mercenary," said Lady Sophie. She was surveying her own type in the mirror with rather less complacency than usual. Her colouring was of the "dairymaid" order when contrasted with Sheila's wonderful delicacy of complexion, and she was certainly putting on a good deal too much flesh."I tell you what," called out her husband from the dressing-room. "She wants a chance! She's a deuced sight too pretty to be boxed up in a country hole like this!"Lady Sophie made a little exclamation."My own opinion is that she would know how to amuse herself anywhere, even in a country hole like this," she said drily. "Perhaps you didn't happen to notice Frank's expression at dinner?""Oh, yes, I did!" said Mr. Bryne-Jones, indistinctly, as he was brushing his teeth. "And I'll tell you what, Sophie. It strikes me that our dear friend Frank doesn't want much sympathy. What do you think? When I went out to find him this evening, I saw him with a girl.""No!" exclaimed Lady Sophie, turning round and facing her husband with sparkling eyes. "Do you mean here in the grounds?"Mr. Bryne-Jones came out in a wonderful suit of pyjamas."Yes, in the grounds. They were walking along arm in arm, in an extremely confidential manner. I must say I thought it a bit rash of Frank, because the moon was very bright to-night."Lady Sophie laughed with a sound of real enjoyment in her laughter."Poor Amy!" she said. "All the same," she added, reverting to her former subject, "there may be girls outside, but a girl in the house is much more to the purpose. Amy must be raving mad to have a young and pretty creature like this making herself at home here. There'll be a dreadful flare up one of these days, you see if there isn't. I happen to know what Amy is; she's a mass of jealousy. Hermione and I used to have awful times with her, and yet we never treated her half so hardly as mamma did. She'll give Frank a really good time before he's done with her."Mr. Bryne-Jones chuckled. He was working some scented cream into his soft, plump hands--possessions of which he was inordinately proud--and then he proceeded to encase his hands in loose gloves."You might do your sister a good turn," he observed a little later, as he stood with his back to the fire, watching his wife prepare for rest.Lady Sophie had dismissed her maid, and she sat back in the chair and picked off sundry pieces of hair, cunning little curls and such like."I know what you mean," she answered, after a pause, "but I'm not sure I feel equal to the responsibility of chaperoning a girl like this one.""She told me you had asked her to town."Lady Sophie flashed a look at her husband."I didn't know you had spoken to her," she said coldly."We sat side by side at the dinner-table," Mr. Bryne-Jones said gently. He twisted the ends of his moustache meditatively with his gloved hand as he spoke."I shall get out of it," Lady Sophie remarked; and her tone was quite tart.But Mr. Bryne-Jones only smiled. He was convinced that Miss Prentice intended to use his wife, and he felt a decided inclination to help her to attain her wish."It will very probably annoy Frank and Amy if we take her up," he mused. In reality, however, he had quite another reason in his mind.CHAPTER XXI.SIR FRANCIS had given orders that the motor should be at Pitt Place quite early the next morning. It was a bleak day, with flecks of snow in the air. The house was only partially awake when Patsy arrived at Winchbourne Court.A maid was waiting for her, and she went directly to Sheila's room.Miss Prentice was awake, but not up. A dainty little tea-tray was set on a table near the bed. She was sipping her tea."I think it perfectly idiotic of you," was her greeting to her sister, "to go rushing after mother in this way. She won't thank you. You had far better do as Frank suggests, and come and stay here till she gets back again."The fire was lit and the electric light was turned on. The room was luxurious and pretty in the extreme.Patsy looked very white and very tired. There was a note of grief about her. Sheila frowned."Of course you did not suppose that I should go with you?" she asked."I didn't know," Patsy answered quietly, "but I thought I had better come and see you.""Naturally I'm not going," Sheila said impatiently. "It's waste of money, and waste of time, too. I don't in the least understand why you should put all sorts of ideas in your head. Mother is all right. Of course she might have let you know she was going away, but when has mother ever considered us? She has gone for some mysterious reason of her own, and she will come back when she wants to come. There you have the whole thing in a nutshell.""I dare say you are right," said Patsy a little hardly; "but I am going, all the same. I see things a little differently.""Have you had anything to eat?" Sheila questioned.Patsy answered that she had breakfasted. " Where are you going to stay?""I shall go to Aunt Judith.""How do you know Aunt Judith is in town? Ten chances to one she has gone away for Christmas.""Then I shall stay at an hotel," said Patsy doggedly.At this Sheila shrugged her shoulders."Oh, if you've got one of your obstinate fits on, there is an end of the matter. But perhaps you will tell me how much money you have? To stay at an hotel is expensive, you know."With a little sigh Patsy had to confess that she had not much money--just about enough to take her to town, not more.Sheila stretched out her hand and took up a purse from the table. She counted out five sovereigns, and when her sister would have refused to take these she got angry."Don't be so absurd," she said. "Is it likely you can go to London without money? I suppose Frank is going to take you to the station? It would be the first question he would ask you, and you can't borrow from him."Patsy took the gold, vaguely conscious of surprise that Sheila should have so much at her disposal, and she got up to go."You'd better arrange to let me have a telegram," said her sister. " Frank will see to that. Of course, I shall want to know what you are doing, and what is happening.""I will send you news," said Patsy. "I have written to Dr. Mitchinson, and I am going to call at his house now. Probably he will want to refuse to give me mother's address, but I shall make him see that he must give it.""Well, my dear," said Sheila, in her quiet way, "if this turns out to be a wild-goose chase you can't say I didn't warn you.""I wish," said Patsy, standing and looking at her sister wistfully--" I wish I could feel as you do, Sheila; but I can't. I am convinced that there is something wrong. Mother would never have sent Jane away, she would never have gone herself at such a time as this if there had not been some great necessity pressing her to do this. Perhaps, too, for once she has tried to consider us--"There was a break in Patsy's voice, and her lips quivered as she stooped and kissed Sheila.Then she went out of the room very quickly, she did not want to cry and make Sheila vexed and uncomfortable.Sir Francis was waiting for her in the porch. Patsy tried hard to make him see that she could go alone to the station, but he could be obstinate, too. And, after all, she was glad of his companionship. The night had been so long, the house so desolate. Heatherington's kindness and thoughtfulness touched Patricia very deeply.It was so strange to be abroad so early.Christmas morning had broken with none of the traditional brightness and cheeriness. It was grey and grim, bitterly cold.They traversed the road swiftly in the semi-light, and when they stopped at Mrs. Mitchinson's little house the snow was beginning to fall thickly.The doctor opened the door himself and went out to speak to the girl in the car."I am breaking a promise," he said; "but you must make that right with your mother, I don't think she had reckoned on either of you following her. I shall be in town to-night, and so perhaps we shall meet."Then he, too, questioned her as to her movements, and suggested that should she not find her aunt's house available, she should go to his wife."You'll not be able to stay where your mother is," he said gently, "and you cannot be alone."Patsy said nothing to Heatherington as the car bore them on to the station, but when they had alighted she said:"You must please let Sheila know that I was right. Mother has gone to a nursing home. I gather from what Dr. Mitchinson said that she will be operated on at once."It was with real difficulty that she persuaded Heatherington to let her go to London by herself."You must not come, Frank; indeed, you must not come. You are wanted at the Court. Think what Lady Amelia would say if you were to be away on Christmas Day. It's awfully sweet of you, Frank, dear, but I really can't let you do this.""Shall I bring Sheila up to-morrow?" Heatherington asked.Patsy shook her head."That must be for Sheila to decide. Here comes my train. Good-bye, Frank, and thank you so much--so much!"She cried bitterly when she was alone. She could not resist the tears. And the train went slowly, so very slowly.Nevertheless, as they crawled nearer to London, Patsy had a dread to reach the end of her journey. She was afraid to meet her mother."Perhaps I shall vex her. Still, though she may not need me I must be near. I should die if I had to stay alone at Pitt Place. Now I understand why she wanted Frank and Lady Amelia to ask me as well as Sheila. Poor mother, she does not know me. Perhaps we shall never know one another."It was snowing and sleeting when London was reached. The train drew up at a crowded platform. Patsy never would have imagined that so many people would have been travelling on Christmas Day, but apart from the local traffic there was a train starting at once for Dover and the Continent. The girl hurried through the station nervously, people jostled her and she jostled them. There was a buzz-

ing sound in her ears, and always that desolate sensation tugging at her heart and oppressing her. As she just narrowly escaped demolition from a porter with a truck of luggage, Patricia ran into a man who was advancing towards the Continental train, scanning the various compartments as if looking for someone.With a murmured apology he drew back as that slight figure stumbled against him, and then he stopped abruptly."You!" he exclaimed.And Patsy broke into a laugh full of tears."Oh, Mr. Sharpus, I--I am so glad--I want to get out of this station, and I can't find the way."He threw the rug he held to a porter and gripped Patsy securely."Come this way," he said. And he piloted her rapidly into the big booking-office, then put her on to one of the benches. "Sit there. I will be back in a moment. Don't move. Promise me I shall find you there.""You shall find me here, I promise."And as he went Patsy leaned back and shut her eyes.Into her heart there had come at once a hot, hot joy. Sorrow was there, too, and anxiety--bleakest anxiety--but joy predominated.CHAPTER XXII.SHE sat there some little time watching as in a dream the ebb and flow of human life about her. It did not occur to her that there was anything very unusual about her present position. That is to say, it did not occur to her to feel surprised that she should be obeying instructions given to her by one who had so little right to order her. She was only acutely sensible of the comfort this most unexpected meeting had brought to her.It was cold in the waiting-room, and when she looked towards the entrance she could see the sleet and rain blowing cheerlessly like a thin veil about the figures of the cabmen and the porters, but there was a fire burning in her heart which defied the real cold.In the most delicious way she was conscious of pausing, of taking a short spell of rest from that terrible questioning, that mental suffering which had been so closely with her ever since the hour when she had realised that her mother had left the house. It was the first time she permitted herself to realise how greatly she was fatigued in a bodily sense.Although there were never any preparations, or signs of approaching festivity in or about Pitt Place,

Patsy had any number of small duties and responsibilities attached to the coming of Christmas. She was given a modest sum for pocket-money, and began, as a rule, to save up her pennies in the summer for her expenditure in the winter. Necessarily, her gifts were simple ones, but she had learnt the art of investing them with a value and a charm which made them eagerly looked for and as eagerly appreciated.The day before had been full of the business of packing and distributing her small remembrances. She had walked to and fro to the village half a dozen times at least, and at the rectory in the afternoon she had stood for hours, and had run about hither and thither at Mrs. Bartingale's direction till she had been so tired, it had been quite a weary business walking home again.And yet, with all this physical exertion, sleep had refused to come to her. She had once again occupied the bed in the old dressing-room, but the knowledge that the room next to hers was empty, that its occupant for so many years was alone in some strange place strung up to meet some trouble which might perhaps have a tragic significance, was a terrible experience for Patricia. She lay awake yearning over her mother, and praying that the night would pass quickly. And now here in this bleak, exposed place there had come to her such peace that she could almost have persuaded herself that she had fallen asleep at last, and that all that was passing with her was part of a dream.She sat where he had put her, not moving an inch, only shivering now and then, and when Sharpus rejoined her, her eyes were shut.He stood for a moment regarding her uncertainly; then he sat down beside her, and, as he put his hand for an instant on her arm, Patricia started and opened her eyes."Did you think I was never coming? I had to wait and see the boat-train start.""You are sure you were not going in it?" she asked hurriedly. "I--you--I do hope I have not upset your plans.""I was not going by train at all. I came here only to be useful to another person, and now I am wholly at your service.""It was so silly of me to stop you," Patricia said, colouring nervously."Have you come from home this morning?" Sharpus queried.She nodded her head."And the train was so slow: we crawled here! It was horribly cold, too. I am frozen.""And probably you have had no breakfast. I must try and get you something to eat."He rose as he spoke, and Patricia got up too."Oh, no, please don't bother. I had breakfast--as much as I could eat. I am going on now to my aunt's house. At least, I shall go when I have been to see my mother."And then she explained how it was that he had met her so unexpectedly on Christmas Day of all days in the year."I hope you will let me take care of you till you are housed safely either with your mother or your aunt. I assure you, you are not bothering me. I am rather at a loose end myself to-day, and it is a

charity to feel I can spend even an hour with a friend. Happily I have a four-wheeler waiting, otherwise I believe we should have difficulty in getting a cab. We are in for a fall of snow."As they moved towards the entrance, Patsy hazarded a question."Won't the children be expecting you?"He shook his head."No, they are not in town. I have packed them all off to Torquay. And there the weather is more amiable, fortunately. They tell me the sun shone for nearly six hours yesterday!"He put Patsy into the cab, and gave the driver the address she had obtained from Dr. Mitchinson. They drove in silence for a while through the deserted streets and the whirling snow. Then she spoke with a catch in her voice."I know mother will be angry with me, but I had to come. I'm not really a coward or afraid of many things--except goats, I am horribly afraid of goats--but I could not have lived through to-day wondering and asking myself questions that can't be answered.""I think you are quite right to have come," Sharpus said.The sense of unreality which hung mistily about Patricia's impression of this moment had no place with him. He was acutely and very warmly sensible of pleasure. The very prosaic nature of their surroundings engendered something approaching to a suggestion of union between them. It was peculiarly satisfying to him to feel he was giving her the care, the sympathy so necessary to her.He roused himself in a little while to ask some practical questions."You cannot stay with your mother, you say, but what if your aunt should be away?"Patsy sighed."I have no definite plans. Dr. Mitchinson told me where I should find his wife, but she is with people I know nothing about. I don't think I could go to her. Perhaps Jane Morant can advise me." Then she pulled herself up. "But I shall be all right. I am hoping Aunt Judith will be able to take me in. If she can't I shall go to an hotel."He said "Impossible!" to this very sharply, and looked so cross that Patsy felt a little nervous of him, and, just by way of showing that she was not nervous, she became irritable."Why impossible? Hotels are intended for people to go to when they have nowhere else to go, aren't they?""You are not people," said Sharpus, "you are a child. An hotel is out of the question.""Oh, well, I shall go somewhere!" Patsy retorted. And after that they sat in silence as they jolted along. Then Patsy spoke."You know I don't want to be rude," she said apologetically, "but really, I feel anyhow. The world seems to have turned upside down since yesterday." Then she said: "Wasn't it odd that I should meet you? Really, life is awfully funny sometimes!"She shivered a little and stamped her feet on the bottom of the cab."Every time Christmas has come," she said, "I have wanted something to happen--some excitement

--something to make the day a little different to other days, and now I have got my wish, haven't I?"The journey from the station was a long one. Nothing more dreary than the outlook in the streets could be well conceived. The snow was beginning to lie on the ground. The windows of the cab were becoming plastered with it. The driver had to go carefully, for the roads were slippery."Where is your sister?" Sharpus asked abruptly. "Why did she let you come alone?""There was no need for both of us to come," she answered him. "It is only expense for nothing.""I don't think she ought to have let you come by yourself."Patsy turned to him for an instant."Oh, don't find fault!" she said. "Don't you understand this is not an ordinary time--not a time to bother about stupid little rights or wrongs. If you want to say nasty things about Sheila, I sha'n't listen, and you'll make me sorry that I met you."He smiled, but only for an instant."All right!" he said. "I'll say nothing."And he kept his word. The rest of the journey was traversed in silence.When they reached Fitzroy Square the cab pulled up at one of the houses in one of the streets leading out of the square. A gray, a gloomy street, an unsympathetic street--a street to the girl's over-wrought mind, that, in its very ugliness, suggested grim and dread things.Sharpus made her sit in the cab whilst he made inquiries. He came back to her with the information that the address was correct, and that her mother

was within, but that the maid said that Mrs. Prentice could see no one."Let me get out," said Patsy.He waited for her twenty minutes, pacing to and fro in the bitter cold, scarcely hearing the garrulous remarks which the cabman made to him from time to time.Now the pleasant influence began to fade, and the strangeness of his present proceedings pressed upon him sharply. He had an uncomfortable sense of intrusion pricking him, yet he found it quite impossible to turn and leave the girl alone. Indeed, the simple way in which she accepted his protection, imposed upon him a sense of responsibility.Nevertheless, the knowledge that he had been ignored in a social sense by Mrs. Prentice, and the conviction that Sheila had no favourable feeling for him, assumed an importance in this moment which had not existed before. He felt that Patricia's mother would probably resent his protection of her daughter very decidedly could she know of it; and in a more definite manner still he pictured to himself the annoyance of Sheila."I am rather a fool," he mused to himself grimly, "and by this time God knows experience should have taught me the folly of mixing up in other people's affairs."At the first sight of Patsy's face, however, when she came out into the snow again, his irritability vanished. She was not crying, there was far more grief in her look than tears could have expressed. Once or twice before there had been something about her--some movement, some pathetic note in

her voice, something simple and childlike which recalled to him the personality of the child whom he adored.She came to him now just as Meggy might have come, and when he put her into the cab again, and she had whispered the address where her aunt lived, he had got in and sat beside her, and quite naturally he took her cold trembling hands in his.
"She wouldn't see me," Patsy said in a dry voice. "They put me into a room where I nearly stifled. It was a dark room, and though it was empty, it seemed to me as if on every chair 1 could see a figure sitting in suffering. It was a long time before anyone came to me. Then some woman came. She was very kind, I suppose she was sorry for me; she said it was the doctor's orders that my mother was to be kept absolutely quiet to-day, to have no agitation or excitement. She told me that the operation was to be the first thing to-morrow morning, and I asked her if I could stay here. She shook her head. She said she thought it would make my mother unhappy. That," Patricia said quietly, "is where she made a mistake; but then, of course, she judges by other mothers."After a little while she took her hands away."You are very, very kind," she said; "it's a shame that you should be bothered in this way.""I suppose part of our reason for existing is to try and be a little use where we can," he answered her quietly. In reality he was greatly concerned about her. He had not doubted her capacity for deep feeling, yet her present attitude startled him and made him apprehensive.Mrs. Langridge lived in an altogether less gloomy neighbourhood. It was with feelings of intense relief that, as they drew nearer to her house, Sharpus noticed that there were signs that it was open and occupied, and yet when he had helped her out of the cab, and had seen her pass into the hospitable warmth of the hall, he felt an extraordinary sense of loneliness possess him. They had parted quite simply." I shall call to-morrow for news if you will allow me?" he had said.And Patsy had answered: "Please do."She had not tried to thank him. She seemed to be frozen with the mental suffering, words were not possible.CHAPTER XXIII.MRS. LANGRIDGE was in her bed-room. So Patricia had to wait a little while before she could be admitted to her aunt's presence. She asked the maid to put her in a small room which she remembered on the bend of the staircase. She could hear voices, and someone was playing the piano. Patricia was nervously eager to avoid being seen.A little while ago she had dreaded lest she should find her aunt's house empty and closed; now she shrank from the sound and the definite feeling of life in it."Aunt Judith will think I am mad," she said to herself. "Perhaps she will be vexed. Well, if she is, I must go away again--I dare say I could find some place near where mother is. That would be better altogether; I should feel more comfortable to be near her."Vaguely Patricia felt she must prepare herself for only half-hearted sympathy.
There had never been any very great pretence of good fellowship between Mrs. Langridge and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Prentice.Over and over again their father's sister had

attempted to show attention and affectionate interest in Sheila and Patricia, but Mrs. Prentice had only permitted this grudgingly.At odd times, when they had been much younger, both girls had paid visits to their aunt; but it had been markedly evident to them that their mother had no wish to encourage an intimacy with Mrs. Langridge, and of late they had drifted very much apart.When the maid came and led the way to her aunt's room, Patricia felt her heart beating in her throat. She was definitely afraid."Oh, I hope Aunt Judith will be kind! I couldn't endure hard words about mother to-day."Mrs. Langridge was having a late breakfast, seated by the fire in a warm and becoming dressing-gown. As Patricia came in she stretched out her hand."My dear child," she exclaimed, "I couldn't believe my ears when they told me you were here. Come and kiss me, Patsy--poor little soul, you must be frozen!"This warm greeting, the touch of hands warm and motherly, the knowledge that she was welcome, thawed the ice in Patricia's heart. She knelt by her aunt, and, clinging to her, told her story with tears choking her.Mrs. Langridge was visibly affected. She held the girl in her arms, and said all the comforting things she could think of. To do her justice, though she had no reason to love her sister-in-law, she was shocked at what she had heard."Thank Heaven I was in town!" she said--"that you came to me! I was only wondering when the

post came if I should find a letter from you girls--I never forget you, although I see so little of you. But, Patsy, my dear, you look so ill! Take off that ulster, and come and warm yourself. See, you must drink this cup of tea. Yes—you shall say all you want to say in good time. It will ease you to talk to me, I know--but get warm first. What a day for a journey like yours!""Oh, Aunt Judith, you are so good to me--so good! And I was so afraid--"While she ministered to the girl--pouring out tea, taking away the damp outer garments, even insisting on unlacing the small shoes--Mrs. Langridge was trying to bring Patsy back to a normal--a less nervous state."Someone brought you--a gentleman, my maid said. Who was it? Anyone I know?"Patricia shook her head."No one you know. Only a friend of mine, and we met by chance at the station. Like you, he was so kind. Aunt Judy, the world is really kind, isn't it?"Mrs. Langridge nodded her head."Far--far more frequently so than is generally believed. If you look for good, Patsy dear, you will surely find it. It is such a mistake to shut one's eyes to that truth."As she knelt to slip some felt slippers on the girl's cold feet, Mrs. Langridge looked upwards. Patricia was not crying now, but her lips quivered."You make me think of my father," said the girl, in a moved voice, "and these last two days I have had him so much in my thoughts. It was because I have been sleeping in his old room, and, though he

has been dead all these many years, Aunt Judy, one feels his personality in that room just as distinctly as though he used it now. I suppose that is why mother has never had anything changed. It is all so old-fashioned--so dingy--and yet so dear!"Mrs. Langridge was silent awhile. She was middle-aged and inclined to be stout, but there was a winning expression both in her eyes and about her lips. She had about her the indubitable look of one who had found life's journey an easy and a pleasant one to travel. For many years now she had been a widow, and had only one daughter who, she informed Patricia, was staying with her for Christmas."I thought possibly it might be Evelyn's voice I heard as I sat waiting to know if you would see me," Patsy said then, colouring a little. "Aunt Judy," she asked, "may I stay upstairs? I--I could not bear to meet other people, and, you see, I never waited to bring clothes with me, or anything.""You shall do just as you like. I will have a fire put in your room, and I should strongly advise you to go to bed. There is a sharp spell of anxiety ahead of you, and you will need all your strength."Then Mrs. Langridge questioned her about Sheila, Openly she expressed no surprise that the elder girl should have elected to remain in the country, although the fact troubled her a little. For, in truth, Mrs. Langridge was far more impressed with the seriousness of the position than she allowed Patsy to see. The name of the surgeon who was to operate on Mrs. Prentice conveyed much to her; the fact that the ill woman had been brought up to town in such haste, that the operation was to be performed at once,

pointed emphatically to very grave danger--in fact, the outlook for the future was blurred with apprehension.She kept Patricia with her while she dressed for the important midday meal and whilst another room was being prepared and aired for her unexpected guest, and she chatted away briskly as she dressed; once she made Patsy laugh as she discussed her daughter and her daughter's husband.Evelyn Langridge had married a couple of years before a man much older than herself--a rich man, and a man with a title."Cardover wanted me to go to them for Christmas, but I preferred to spend it here. My dear, he is so dull! In his own house, he is insufferable. Happily, Evelyn sees nothing wrong with him, and, as she has to live with him, that is a piece of great good luck, isn't it?""What is Evelyn like now?" Patricia asked, making a gallant effort to shake off her misery. "It is so long since we met.""Evelyn, my dear, is as pretty, as erratic, as maddeningly impossible as ever! "the mother said. "What do you think she did only last week? She was staying with me, and went down to the Gascoignes to lunch--they live out near Hatfield. Naturally, Evelyn got into the wrong train--into an express instead of a slow one. When she suddenly realised that she was being whisked through the station at which she ought to have got out, what did the mad creature do but tug at the alarm bell, and bring the train to a full stop. It took half a dozen officials, I believe, to try and convince my clever

daughter that a luncheon engagement could hardly be regarded in the light of an emergency. You will see Evelyn to-morrow, perhaps?" Mrs. Langridge queried. "I sha'n't tell her you are here now, or she would want to be with you, and that would bother you. And you will meet her husband, too. He really will amuse you--he is so big and so pompous--the sort of man who always seems to be growing--you know what I mean."And then Mrs. Langridge ceased her chatter, and folded the girl again in a loving embrace."Poor little Patsy! How often I have wanted to see you! You always crept very, very closely into my heart. Sheila was a beautiful child, but you were not beautiful, only the dearest, the most fascinating little love! Some day--not now--I will go back into the old days, and tell you the story of the days when your father was a boy and I was his slave and worshipper. You are not so like him, Patsy. I suppose Sheila will resemble him the most. Is she still as beautiful? Just imagine, it is nearly four years since I have seen her!""Sheila is very beautiful," Patsy said. She rose to go with Mrs. Langridge to her room. "But, Aunt Judy dear, it is not so long since you saw her. She stayed with you for a week when I was in Germany. I remember mother writing to me, and telling me that Sheila was with you."Mrs. Langridge shook her head."Oh no! You must have made a mistake. Sheila was not with me. As I have just said, I have not seen her for nearly four years. I wrote and asked her, but she made the usual excuse, and, as a matter

of fact, I was so vexed that she refused that I made a vow I would never ask either of you again."Patricia followed her aunt along the passage into a bright room, lit and warmed by a splendid fire."Now, here you shall be undisturbed; only I will come and see you later on. And do try and rest, dearest child. I want you to lose that strained, miserable look in your eyes."Patsy clung to her aunt's white jewelled hands."Don't ask me to forget her. I can't!--I can't! It is so terrible to me to remember that she is there alone in that dull grey house--all alone, Aunt Judy! Oh, don't you think she might have seen me just for a few moments? Imagine! Things may go badly with her, and I may never see her again, and I know now I love her, that I have always loved her, my poor, poor mother!"She broke down and cried bitterly, and with the rarest and sweetest tact the other woman withdrew softly and left her to this outburst of sorrow. Patricia cried for a long, long time.When the passion of her tears was spent, she crouched herself up into the easy-chair by the fire, and pressed her cold hands to her aching head and burning eyes. The real cause of her anguish seemed to recede a little, and a dulness settled upon her. In that curious way in which nerves will act, she found herself remarking trifling things--that there was a stain on the ceiling, and that the wind must be very keen, for the pretty curtains hanging by the windows were moving to and fro. Then something else began to fret her in that vague way, and for a time she could not decide what it was. But, as she pressed

her fingers more closely still on her hot, weary eyes, she remembered what this something was.It was very strange that her aunt should have been so positive that Sheila had not been to stay with her. Most surely in that letter of which she had spoken--one of the prim dull letters her mother had sent every week--the fact had been definitely stated that Sheila had gone to London to spend some days with her aunt.Mrs. Prentice never made mistakes."Aunt Judy must have forgotten," said Patsy to herself wearily, restlessly.She did not want to worry about this, but the matter refused to be dismissed. Over and over again she pondered it, finding no satisfactory conclusion. There came a time, however, when the girl comprehended how it was that this small matter, which might have passed from her mind, especially at such a time, and been forgotten, had remained in her thoughts so persistently, fretting her so strangely.But gradually all questioning and conscious thought became fainter. Gradually the throbbing in her head became less acute. Gradually the silence and the warmth and the fatigue worked their way. She must have been asleep for nearly two hours when she opened her eyes with a start, and saw her aunt looking at her anxiously."Rested?" asked Mrs. Langridge. "Come, that is good! I have a delightful little dinner coming up for you, and here is a letter just brought to the door by your young man from the country. I was passing through the hall, and I made him come in for a moment. He is charming, and so sympathetic. I

told him he must come and see you to-morrow, and he promised he would come."Patricia roused herself with some difficulty. She felt stiff and a little sick, and her head ached violently.Seeing that the girl was really unfit for conversation or food, Mrs. Langridge insisted on bed as a treatment, and when she was undressed, and lying with her eyes closed, Patsy had to confess that her aunt was a wise physician.It was so delightful to feel the touch of the soft pillows beneath her head, and the sense of warmth from the bedclothes; but warmer, more delightful than any other feeling, was the knowledge that she had a letter from him--paper which he had touched crushed in her hand, and pressed closely, closely to her poor, tired young heart!CHAPTER XXIV.ON leaving Patricia at her aunt's house, Anthony Sharpus told the old cabman to take him to Clifford's Inn. He shivered a little as he sat back in the cab. The day had promised to be depressing and miserable enough in the commencement, but that spell of companionship so unexpected, so unspeakably sweet left a void which was little less than terrible to the man. So strong was that feeling of yearning which possessed him that at one moment he felt he could not remain in the cab alone\227 he could not possibly live through the rest of the day with no society but his own. However, the mood passed, and he sat forward and looked at the familiar streets which had yet such an unfamiliar expression, empty as they were of traffic or of crowds on the pavement.He was going back to some rooms which he had had now for a number of years. Snow was falling fast, and so undisturbed was the roadway that the soft flakes were piling softly on one another. As they bowled down the Strand and passed the Law Courts, it might have been a deserted city through which they were travelling.Sharpus loved this part of London. It was associated in his mind with perhaps the happiest time of his life--the time when he first began to write, working silently, almost stealthily, in those few hours which were at his disposal. He had hated the routine of the commercial house, but when the daily work was over, then the city had become to him a kind of enchanted world.Then he had been wont to steal out into the darkness of the winter's night, or into the twilight of the summer one, finding poetry in the many quaint old corners, inspiration from the world of shadows which at that quiet hour represented that other busy clamorous world; and the memories of those hours of solitude and delightful impressions bound him still in affection to his old chambers.When he had satisfied, and more than satisfied, the cabman, he turned in under the old archway, and passed through the snow-covered courtyard. It was, at least, homely and cheerful when he unlocked the door of his room. The housekeeper had kept the fire going, and in the letter-box he found several letters.He stood a long time warming his hands without taking off his heavy coat, and, while he stood there, there came the sound of someone running up the stairs, and then a sharp knock at his door, the knock evidently of a telegraph-boy. He gave the lad a shilling and tore open the telegram with a frown. The message had been sent from Dover."Weather terrible," it ran. "Impossible to cross. Cannot stay here. Returning by first train. Shall go back to hotel."It was signed "Carina."Sharpus let the telegram flutter on to the table, then slipped out of his coat, and, pulling a chair up to the fire, sat down to warm himself and to think.The telegram was no surprise. The announcement that the sender of it was probably even then on her way back was something for which he was fully prepared."I told her," he said to himself. "I warned her, but she would go!" he sighed. "She will never change!"He sat and stared into the hot coals, and in a dreamy, introspective way, he passed out of the realm of thought on a subject which occupied him in a vital way almost every hour of his life, and remembered only Patricia.She was with him so closely, so tangibly; it was as though he could reach out his hand and touch her. The tearless anguish which had gripped her so mercilessly had changed her, just as some spell of physical suffering might have written its destructive influence on her face. And yet, notwithstanding this, she had seemed to him younger, tenderer, more childlike even than he had ever seen her before. If he could have wrapped his arms about her, and held her to his heart, he would have been less desolate now; he would have felt that he had something of her actual and precious self left with him. He was quite sure that she was grateful to him--just as he knew that the sight of him had brought her for a time, at least, a sense of happiness. But he wanted more than that. He wanted to be the one to take the sting of this dark sorrow out of

her heart; he wanted to give back to her that radiance of spirit, that sheer delight in life itself, which had illumined her and made her a creature apart from all other creatures in his eyes. He wondered what sort of woman this aunt was? Materially, all would be well with her--there had been every sign of luxury about the house; but it was not bodily warmth or luxury that she needed."I almost wish I had persuaded her to go to Mrs. Mitchinson," he said to himself irritably. "Of course, I suppose it is the right thing that she should be with this aunt; but there is a grip about Mrs. Mitchinson, a touch of the mother which the child wants."He pushed back his chair, after a while, and reaching down a favourite pipe, filled and lit it, and then he turned to his letters. One he kissed before he opened it. He knew that crabbed, uncertain, yet elaborate writing so well, and he read Meggy's letter first."Derrest darling der," the child wrote. " I hop your are Well. I am quite well, but I am not, nott hapy. Baby is very Well and goode, but Edmund has been sick. I am sending you 2 violets "--the spelling was not conventional--" which nurse found in a wod.--Your own little
" MEGGY."" Anno domini 1905. R. S. V. P."Sharpus held the letter to his lips again and smiled a little faintly; he was thinking that by this time all the packages he had been so careful to send off the day before would have reached their

destination. He knew the child too well to expect that she would be content with toys and pretty things instead of himself; but he also knew that she would have at least a short spell of pleasure in opening all the little packages and distributing the gifts as they were directed.His other letters he read leisurely. One was from Laurence Goodborough, a chatty note expressing the writer's real regret that his visit at the farm had been brought to a close so abruptly, and entreating Sharpus to send a few words when he had time. Mr. Goodborough wrote very frankly about Sheila Prentice."I am afraid I am really bowled over this time, dear old chap. She is the loveliest thing I've ever set eyes on; only she's so terribly unapproachable. I can't make out whether she hates to have me speak to her, or whether she doesn't quite hate me. The Bryne-Joneses are here, and Lady Sophie--who can see through a brick wall better than most people--seems to have stumbled on my state of affairs, and is awfully kind in giving me a sort of hope. It doesn't seem like Sheila to confide in Lady Sophie; but, then, I don't know very much about girls, so perhaps it's all right. I wonder what you are going to do with yourself to-morrow? I do hope you won't spend a lonely Christmas; and if you send those children away, as you told me you thought you would, I am afraid you can't help being desperately lonely. I shall think of you to-morrow and drink your health."There were a few words scribbled at the end of the letter: "I heard from my mother this morning. She was full of questions about you. She was so

glad to hear that I had run up against you once again, and entreats me to get you to run down and stay a week or two with her this spring. She says, 'Tell him to bring the children.' I thought that would fetch you."Sharpus bent forward and knocked some ashes from his pipe."Laurie is a real good sort," he said to himself. "I hope for every reason that he is not going to make himself a fool about this girl. It might go hardly with him."He had long ago arrived at one satisfactory conclusion, and that was that the girl whom he had seen running through the darkness that by-gone night had certainly not been Patricia. It was not until some time later that he had by chance discovered that Sheila Prentice had not been present with her mother and sister at that first dinner-party given by Sir Francis and his wife at the Court.
Judging her by her familiar look--that extra-ordinary proud bearing which characterised her so distinctly--it was rather hard to associate Sheila with the girl he had seen that night. Yet that it was she Sharpus soon convinced himself. She must have borrowed her sister's coat and hat, and very probably, if she had been remarked by others, she had been mistaken for Patricia.Her peculiarly cold treatment of himself did not trouble Sharpus at all, only inasmuch as it militated against his chance of friendship with her sister.He had never admired Sheila. He knew she was beautiful, yet her beauty said nothing to him; whereas if Patricia only smiled he thrilled.It was, of course, a question of temperament. He made a determined effort to forget Patsy, and after awhile sat down and began working. But his thoughts were electrically charged with nerves. It was impossible not to ally himself intimately with her in these hours of suspense.The attitude of the mother appealed to him pathetically, too. He had often pondered over Mrs. Prentice and her strange nature. This day she had upon her an endowment of dignity which touched him. As he could not rest, he scribbled a few words to Patsy and went out again. It warmed his heart just to think he would be near the place where she was, if only for a moment; and, above all, it was a joy to know that his yearning sympathy would reach her through the medium of his letter.He had to walk the greater part of the distance. It was certainly a strange Christmas Day. In every house he passed there seemed to be festivity. The dusk of the mid-winter began to gather very early, and lights were lit. Through some windows he could see distinctly.When he reached Mrs. Langridge's door he felt as though he stood on the threshold of his joy, and his brief glimpse of and the few words exchanged with Patricia's aunt sent him away comforted.He took an immediate liking to Mrs. Langridge. He was very glad he had gone on this errand; now he would be more satisfied about the girl.Yet he was tired in heart and body when he finally reached the large, fashionable hotel for which he was bound.He ascertained that the lady he sought had just

arrived, and he was at once conducted to her sitting-room. A newly-lit fire gave a cheerless look to the scene, and crouched up on a sofa, simply buried in furs and rugs, was a pretty woman, who gave a cry of joy at sight of him."Oh, Tony! You angel! So you did get my wire! I was in ten thousand agonies lest it should not have found you. You rushed away so quickly this morning after you had put us in the carriage that I had no time to ask you what you were going to do to-day. Oh, Tony, what a day! What a demoniacal country this is in winter! Baxter and I nearly died of cold coming up from Dover. Conceive a train which stopped everywhere ! Wasn't it awful, Baxter?"A maid who was moving about the room arranging things--a plain, sensible-looking, middle-aged woman --said:"Yes, ma'am--awful!" in a perfunctory way. She took Sharpus's coat as she spoke, and then, at her mistress's command, stretched a newspaper in front of the fire to draw it into a blaze. Anthony Sharpus bent to hold one side of the paper, and as he did so he remarked:"It would have been infinitely better if you had gone to an hotel in Dover for the night. You gain nothing by coming back here, especially travelling in such discomfort."The woman on the sofa gave a little cry."Stay in Dover! All to-day and all to-night! My dear Tony, I should have gone stark, staring mad! Oh, the sight of that grey, stormy sea! I shiver now when I remember it. And the sound of it—so mournful, so angry! And there were

people who actually crossed. Can you imagine anything so insane?"Sharpus straightened himself, and Baxter folded up the newspaper. The fire was crackling and roaring up the chimney; in a little while it would give out a tremendous heat."Oh," said the man, as he stood with his back to the blaze, "then the boat did run? I imagined from your telegram the service had been suspended!""It ought to have been suspended. It was not a day for a dog to have crossed in. Thank Heaven I had some sense! And thank Heaven we are back in some comfort! Baxter, ring the bell. We must have something to eat. I am starved. Tony, you have dined, of course?"He said "No," quite simply, and it struck him as odd that he had forgotten that he needed food."No? You funny boy!"She began to shed her furs, and Baxter, after ringing the bell, picked up everything in her methodical fashion. As she disappeared into the bed-room the other woman said gaily:"But so much the better. Now we shall dine together and be jolly, eh?"She stretched out her hands, and Sharpus pulled her up from the sofa. She stood revealed an enchantingly pretty woman--not too tall, and perhaps a trifle too plump. In her dark-skinned, oval-shaped face and her lustrous eyes one saw a marked resemblance to the man standing beside her. But her features were less cleanly cut, and in her face there was none of the power which was written

so eloquently on his. As a matter of fact, they were brother and sister."You don't look a bit pleased to see me," she said, and her expression changed. The gaiety, even the colour, went out of her face; it had a pathetic look. "I know, I know. I am always a trouble. Poor Tony! Poor dear, dear old Tony! If you only knew what happiness it is to be with you, dear, you would never send me away--never, never!"He kissed her; but he smiled, gravely and even sadly. Then he sent her into the bed-room."Go and put on something comfortable, and I will order dinner. We must dine up here, Carina. I hate the restaurant!""Where you like, dearest. Whatever you wish I will do. I always do what you want, don't I?"The words were spoken half gaily, and she vanished as she said them.Sharpus gave his orders when the waiter came, and then, when he was alone, he stood and stared into the fire, and something of a grim nature stole into his expression.He was thinking of Patricia; but now she was no longer near--indeed, it was as though she had gone out of his reach for ever.CHAPTER XXV.WHEN the dinner was served, Sharpus did his best to enjoy it; but though he had been hours without touching food he realised that he had no appetite. His companion, on the contrary, enjoyed her dinner thoroughly; she ate with the pleasure of a child, chattering away gaily the while.When the table had been cleared and they were alone again, she made her brother pull the couch right in front of the fire, and she bunched herself on it once more, and, lighting a cigarette, threw back her head with a sigh of contentment."This is nice!" she said.The man stood by the fire and looked down on her with very conscious pleasure, for she was good to look at--but also with a marked degree of sadness in his expression."You are an extraordinary woman!" he said abruptly, after a while. "You change so little; in that pink thing you are wearing you kook almost as young as Meggy."She sat forward with a jerk, and her whole expression changed--just for a moment the softness and even the charm itself of her face disappeared."Oh, Tony!" she said, in a strained voice. "I want Meggy! I want my babies! Why did you remind me of them? Are you sure--quite, quite sure--that they are all right?""Don't worry," he answered tersely. "They are all right. If anything was wrong with them I shouldn't be here."She had dropped her cigarette, and he stooped and picked it up and gave it back to her.She held it, however, abstractedly in her fingers."I don't forget them, of course," she said; "still, I am trying not to think of them too much. It isn't easy, and sometimes it all seems so wrong--what I am doing, I mean. Baxter will tell you I can't sleep when I start thinking about the children. Often and often I imagine I hear Meggy calling me, or I fancy that Eddie or baby are crying. It's really awful, it wears me--and there is so much in my life to wear me. When they were down in the country with you I felt almost happy about them; now it's all the uncertainty, the doubt, over again. I can't think why you sent them away and by themselves, too," she finished fretfully."We went into this so fully yesterday," Anthony Sharpus answered, "there is really nothing new to say." Then, with just a touch of impatience and irritation in his voice, he added: "I think you might trust me. I have never failed you yet, and where these little creatures are concerned I am never likely to fail you.""You have been an angel--you are an angel, Tony! You have always been so good to me, and really, sometimes I feel as if I have let you do too

much. Of course you love the children, still, they must be a bother and an anxiety, and a nuisance also if the truth was known!"She lifted the cigarette to her lips and smoked in silence, a troubled silence, for a few moments; then her expression tranquillised."But it will only be for a little while longer," she said. "Look how splendidly I am doing. I always knew I should make money if I was only given the chance. Of course "--she shrugged her shoulders--" there are drawbacks. I hate this constant travelling; it spoils all the pleasure. There is only one good point about it, and that is, that when I am perpetually on the move I haven't time to sit down and fret about things."As he remained silent, she turned with a flounce on the pillows."Let us talk of something else," she said."You will go to Paris to-morrow? " he asked.She shrugged her shoulders, with one of those little movements which so indubitably marked the Southern strain in her."Who knows? Certainly not if the weather is like it has been to-day.""But your engagement--you are to sing the day after?"Again she shrugged her shoulders."Well, then I shall not sing; I shall be ill, or I won't be ill--I will pay damages. You see," she laughed, with just a little suggestion of arrogance, "I can do these things if I like; I am not a nobody.""I think it's a mistake to play with your profession," Sharpus said quietly. "Into the old vexed

question as to whether you did rightly or wrongly in adopting the career of a public singer I am not going to enter; if we were to argue from now to Doomsday we should only be where we were at the beginning. I may, however, be permitted to counsel you. You have advanced very rapidly, Carina, but if you want to keep your place you must be loyal to your public, and to the people who engage you."She laughed."Now you are well started," she said. "How you do love to preach!""It's certainly a stupid proceeding," Sharpus said. He moved forward, and bent as if to kiss her, but she held him by the coat."You're not going--no, you mustn't go, Tony! I have a heap of things to say to you, and we meet so seldom. Of course you vex me; but when you are not with me I want you so much."She slipped round and made room for him on the sofa."Sit there," she said. "In half an hour you shall go if you want to go, and then Baxter shall put me to bed. The cold has got into my bones. Oh, it was awful at Dover to-day. I have never experienced anything like it. Last winter, when I was in America, the cold was intense at times; but it was such a different cold--sharp and clear, with a bright sky nearly all the time. Could anything be more depressing than a day like this? Did you send all my presents to the children?" she queried abruptly.He nodded his head."At least," he said, "I kept back the diamond

ring. Meggy shall have that when she is a little older."She flicked his cheek with her hand."Tiresome old thing," she said. "Why, the ring was the one thing I wanted Meggy to have. All the American children have their own jewellery. Sometimes it seems to me as if a little of those Puritanical ways I hate so much had crept into you, Tony."She flung the end of her cigarette into the fire, and slipping from the couch, she sat on the hearth-rug and clasped her hands about her knees."Tell me again all about her going to the farm--horrid, hateful, hateful old creature! How obstinate she is! Why won't she leave you in peace? But you are her master now," she laughed, a hard, a cruel little laugh. "I wish I had been there! I should have loved to hear you send her away! I hope you were rude to her! Old beast!"Sharpus did not answer at once, then he said slowly:"I don't think I should trouble about her, if it were not for the fact that in some way or other she terrorises Meggy. At first I thought this would pass, but it does not pass. Whenever the child is happiest there seems to come to her a sudden dread that she will be taken back to her grandmother's house, or that her grandmother herself is coming. It was really remarkable how some instinct possessed the child the night on which your husband's mother did come to the farm. She was ill for days after-wards.""I never dare let myself think what may have

happened in those weeks just before Charles died, when I was so miserable and I rushed over to you in Italy. Baby was safe, because she was with me, and she never hated Edmund, but she always, always hated Meggy. I suppose because Meggy is so like me, and because Charles always made such a fuss about her."She unlocked her hands, and changed her position. The fire was hot, and reaching for a newspaper, she held it as a screen before her face."Whenever you are very, very angry with me, Tony, and feel that you would like to shake me, you must just try and imagine all that I went through in those years I had to live with Charles's mother. It was so horrible that I could never have a little place of my own, and I had to suffer that woman's hateful intrusion into the most precious and intimate things of my life. You are fond of telling me that Charles cared for me; and I shall always answer back that if he had really loved me he would never, never, never have forced me to live in his mother's house. Oh, I know!"--she put up her hand as if the man sitting on the sofa were about to make a protest. "I know I made my own bed, and I had to lie on it. I married Charles with my eyes open, and therefore I ought to have been prepared for everything that came. That is what the world would say. But the world isn't always right; it's dreadfully wrong nearly always, and it was very wrong in my case.""My dear," said Anthony Sharpus gently, "why go over all this? It serves no good purpose; it only frets you and unsettles you. It is all over and

done with. Of course, you made a great mistake; but, after all, you are not the only person who has made mistakes.""To listen to that miserable old viper one would believe that I was the only person in the world who was capable of doing wrong. Oh, Tony! "--there was real emotion in the speaker's voice--" if only we had been able to live our lives without her, everything would have been so different! Charles saw it, poor fellow, when it was too late; if he had not realised it so thoroughly, he never would have left that will giving the children into our joint care. I forgave him nearly everything when he did that. If he had made me sole guardian it would have been less bitter to her, because she would have felt she could have got her way with me; but you--you are a different matter altogether! And yet, even now when everything is settled I am afraid of her. Tony never let her get the better of you, she must hate you so awfully. Though you are so strong, so clever, she is so strong and so wicked, I--"He got up, and stooping, he drew her to her feet and put his arm about her."Now we have talked enough, and you must go to bed. I will come round as early as I can in the morning, Carina. I have something I must do before coming here, but I expect I shall be with you about ten; then, if you feel like it, I'll take you down to Dover myself."He kissed her gently and he smoothed her hair. "Goodnight!" he said. "And sleep well."She laughed, but there were tears in her eyes."Happy dreams, as the children say." Then she

insisted on helping him on with his coat, and made him turn up the collar. "Tony, will you stay here to-night? " she asked him suddenly. "I am sure there are any amount of rooms in the hotel."But he shook his head."I have work to do, and a great number of letters to write. I will be here to-morrow at ten."He called Baxter from the bed-room."Although it is early," he said, "I think Mrs. Dalesmere will do well to go to bed."He left the hotel in a thoughtful, a depressed mood. There was nothing new in the present situation, and yet he seemed to feel the need of bracing himself up to meet new and antagonistic forces.To legislate for his sister Catherine's happiness was a task discarded long ago. She had always been a source of anxiety to him. He felt more convincingly to-night what he had tried to urge on her when she had resolved on her independent career--that, even if success should crown her every effort, she would never find the life productive of real satisfaction.And yet she had been born for gladness. She was a creature emphatically destined in the world's opinion for flowers and sunshine, and the very easy decorative side of life.There were not many years between them, but he felt old enough to he Carina's father. Indeed, he had played the father and the protector since he had been a mere lad, not only to his sister but to their mother.Anthony Sharpus had adored his mother, but he had never been blinded to the follies--the amazing

discrepancies as it were--in her nature. When, in later years, he went to Italy and made his life among his mother's people, he understood her so much better. He recognised there that what had made her so difficult, at times so impossible to follow, had been the powerful racial influence--that passionate emotional temperament which waged war unceasingly against the restraint, the reticence and the seeming lack of all sentiment which are the leading characteristics in the average English man or woman.Anthony himself had many a time been denounced by his mother for his coldness and his undemonstrative nature. Yet she grew to rely on him, to find the greatest comfort in his steady purpose. And before she died it was granted to her to look into his heart and realise how beautiful was the love shrined there.The care of his sister had passed to him naturally. There were others to direct and control till he had come of age, but then, when he had been made master of the small income his father had left him, Anthony had insisted upon charging himself with all the duties and responsibilities of manhood.And Catherine had provided him with plenty to do. She had been a tempestuously lovely girl; her education had been one long series of stormy episodes. She was idle, she was insolent; she flirted, she flouted. Trouble followed her wherever she went. Anthony tried governesses, and then fell back on schools. Even a convent could not crib or confine Carina's irrepressible and most innocent wickedness. She had, however, one passion--singing, and her

voice, inherited from her mother, was her dearest possession.Marriage for Carina had not even dawned in Anthony's plans for her future, when she wrote to him one day and announced that she was a wife.She had gone to stay with some school-friends in Hampshire, and there Charles Dalesmere had met her. Nominally a rich and an independent man, in reality Dalesmere had been a pensioner on his mother's good-will, and his marriage was a matter which was something which his mother had intended to arrange in due time with all proper ceremony.She ruled his life as she ruled his house. What money he had was barely enough to keep him in the many luxuries to which he was accustomed, and when he took a wife he had only his own dependence to share with her.Anthony knew his sister well enough to be assured that it had not been Dalesmere's social position or his prospective wealth which had influenced her when she had consented to marry him. The moment had been propitious for folly. In all probability she had never stopped to reason or reflect, and the man had worshipped her! This had been her first encounter with a "grande passion." There was a delightful novelty about the situation. Even the runaway wedding had been delightful--so amusing.But very early Anthony had been summoned to smooth out the pathway. He had been most unfavourably impressed by Dalesmere."In God's name, why did you not choose a man?" he had flashed out at Carina.He had regretted the words almost at once, but

it had not needed this to force home on Catherine Dalesmere the terrible mistake she had made.Her brother could do very little. He made over to her half his own income to ensure her a little independence, and he endeavoured to persuade her husband to start his married life apart from his mother's intimate influence.He failed, however, to make any impression on Dalesmere, though he elicited unwilling approval from the elder Mrs. Dalesmere by his straightforward attitude and his denunciation of what had been done.To brace the other man up to the point of doing something for himself, of supporting his wife, was an altogether futile effort. Here the mother worked against him assiduously. The marriage was a bitter blow to her, but she had accepted it and had forgiven her son on the sole condition, however, that things remained as they had been when he had been a bachelor--a condition to which the man seemed content and eager to accede.Sharpus went through his daily toil at that big commercial house in which his father had been interested, and from which he drew his modest income, with a weight on his heart after Carina had left him. He had been glad to work on, for his sister made constant inroads on his money. And then it was he conceived the idea of converting his literary work to a material issue, of supplementing his income, if possible.There was much that would have been delightful to him in his life in those days, if only his heart could have been at rest about Carina. But there was never a week without some miserable letter,

some outbreak of passionate rebellion. Even her children seemed to give her no happiness."They belong to her. I am nothing and nobody, and Charles lets her do all she wants," she had said once. Always there was the fretting of her impulsive passionate nature against the bars which confined her."You were right to reproach me," she wrote once to her brother. "Charles is not a man, he is a worm! He is the weakest creature God ever permitted to live, and she makes him weaker!"Yet, with all this, there had been much in Carina's life that would have been impossible for her to have had if she had left her husband and returned to her brother, as she had so constantly threatened to do. The Dalesmere establishment in the country was a splendid one; there were innumerable servants. When she wished to drive Mrs. Charles Dalesmere had a choice of carriages. Her babies had a retinue of their own. She dressed magnificently, and her beauty had become almost famous as time had passed. These were matters of real importance to her, and with a shrewdness that is not unusual in the Southern nature she had undoubtedly recognised their value and their necessity.Otherwise the end would have come long before it did come.CHAPTER XXVI.AND yet the wonder was that the end had not come much sooner. With two natures so strong in their respective peculiarities and so absolutely hostile to one another, the marvel was that Charles Dalesmere's wife and mother had suffered a joint existence for as many months as they had spent years together.There had, of course, been frequent rebellious out-breaks on Carina's part, many occasions on which Sharpus had been called upon to intervene, and his wisdom and his influence had prevailed when every-thing else had been powerless to move Carina. It is just possible that if he had been on the spot he would have been able to prevent the final mistake which had such a tragic ending.The working out of her destiny had been hastened by and through her passionate devotion to music--her voice the vehicle which had carried her to a ruthless separation from domestic ties, to independence, and eventually to fame. An overwhelming need of excitement, of some natural outlet had driven Carina to find solace in her singing, and from the rank of

an accomplished amateur, she had progressed to that of a finished artist. In this she had always had her husband on her side; he was proud of her, he delighted in hearing her sing. With the obstinacy of a very weak nature, he had thwarted his mother when she would have prevented this, and so, with sublime irony, had brought on himself the inevitable catastrophe.Anthony had been wandering in Italy when the scandal of his sister's flight from husband and children came to his ears. He had his sister's assurance, and he believed it--for, with her many faults, Carina had never deceived him, her honesty being almost a fault--that the man who had been instrumental in opening the bars of her cage was as little to her as the earth beneath her feet. If it had been otherwise it was hardly likely that the woman would have sought her brother, yet the first person to whom she had rushed had been Anthony. And in her flight she had been accompanied by her nurse and her baby.His belief in her, however, his confident knowledge that she was really innocent, counted for very little, unfortunately. It appeared later that she had paved the way for false conclusions by a very reckless flirtation with the man who was supposed to be the companion of her flight The verdict of the world was dead against her, as it was bound to be when the story of her deserted little children and her broken-hearted and dying husband became public property.It is to be feared that she had given but little thought to the man she had married when she had gone out of his house. She had always been impatiently indifferent to Dalesmere's physical delicacy. It

had been easy for her to class his constant ailments as purely imaginative ones. The news therefore that in attempting to follow her he had broken down pitifully and lay helpless--a victim to hemorrhage of the lungs with only the beginning of his miserable journey fulfilled--came upon Catherine Dalesmere with a shock.Anthony had no need to urge her to go to her husband for the little while he had to live, for with that spasmodic and impulsive sympathy which characterised her, she at once determined that this was her duty. He took her himself to the place where the sick man was, and was a witness to a pathetic reconciliation.
His meeting with Charles Dalesmere's mother was something quite different. Sharpus always regarded this as one of the most terrible experiences of his life. He had naturally to listen to the most intolerable abuse of his sister, and he could make but a poor defence for Carina Later, when Dalesmere was dead, Anthony had to hear himself arraigned as a schemer, and a dishonest one. Her son's will provoked the woman to something like frenzy. She left no effort untried to attempt to upset that will, to divest Anthony of that authority which the dead man had bequeathed to him.She would not give up the two elder children until she was absolutely obliged to do so. Even then she made Anthony's life a burden to him. Her venom against Carina was so pronounced that there were times at first when Sharpus had feared for his sister's bodily safety. As it was, her anger was potent enough. Though it was not in her power to dis-

possess her son's wife or children of that which would have been her son's when she was dead—Edmund the little boy would reign in her place--she could and did cease all supplies during her lifetime, and consequently the burden of the little family fell entirely on Anthony Sharpus. He accepted the responsibility cheerfully, although his path was beset with difficulty.To please or satisfy Carina was simply impossible. At her suggestion he had sought a home in the country, but when he had found this and everything was settled, she had refused to go there. She wanted London. She said she could not breathe in the country—that she would go mad boxed up for months at a time with no one to see, no chance of hearing music, no excitement of any kind.Matters would have gone very hard with the young man if fortune had not befriended him. He had never anticipated the coming of money, yet money came to him through the death of a kinsman. And after that everything was a little easier. He abandoned the country scheme, and began to look about for a house in town, where Carina could have the kind of life she craved for. He did all he could to interest her. He studied her in every way, and she failed him, of course.Almost before he could realise what had happened she had adopted the career of a professional singer. Just as she had run away from her husband's care and the claims of duty, so she cut herself adrift from her brother's protection. Naturally she was primed with plausible explanations. She pleaded hatred of dependence, a desire to work out things for herself 

and her children, a strong desire to rid Anthony of a burden, but these arguments had their own significance for her brother.However, he saw the futility of obstructing her in her new career. To press remembrance or the claims of duty upon her was merely waste of time. If her children could not hold her naturally, no amount of pleading on their behalf would do this. He had to turn himself into a dual parent, and the love which he lavished on the three little children came back to him a hundredfold.There were times, of course, when the sense of responsibility, when the perpetual necessity of recognising that responsibility weighted him not a little. Times, too, especially of late, when the unconventionality of the situation demonstrated to him that it had its drawbacks; but if he felt weary and doubtful, and a little depressed, he only had to shut his eyes and let the vision of Meggy's sweet, wistful face come before him once again, and he would grow contented.At least, that was how matters had been--everything very simple and conclusive, even up to the time when he had left the farm; but now it was changed. He wondered to himself just a little, as he plodded through the slush and the cold rain back to his chambers, what Carina would have said if he had given her his real reason for taking himself away from Winchbourne. One thing he was sure of, she would not be pleased.As she grew a little older, certain undesirable qualities peculiar to one of her temperament were making themselves felt. She was, to say the least

of it, amazingly jealous. There were times when she fiercely resented Meggy's devotion to himself and others, when his devotion to the child was unbearable to her. As she had practically engrossed his whole thought ever since she could remember, it was a pretty safe conclusion to suppose that she would have no very pleasant feeling for any woman he should love.He winced sharply when he put the tender remembrance of Patricia Prentice in conjunction with these thoughts of his sister. Carina could be so very hard; she had her fair share of that cruelty which goes so frequently with unrestrained emotional natures, and her present life was not one which encouraged soft or gentle influences.When he reached Clifford's Inn and toiled upstairs to his own room, Sharpus gave a little laugh, a weary and sad laugh."Fortunately," he said to himself, "I shan't put Carina's temper to the test on this point just yet awhile."He was back at the hotel about ten o'clock the next morning, and was met by Baxter with the in-formation that Mrs. Dalesmere was not yet up. The maid also further informed him that she had just despatched a telegram to Paris cancelling the engagement."Madam talks of going down to Torquay to-day." Sharpus smiled."That means that she will stay here," he said to himself.He told Baxter that he would return and lunch with his sister; and he went down into one of the big hotel rooms and tried to write a few lines to Patricia Prentice.On his way to the hotel he had called at the nursing home, but had been given no information save that the surgeons were still with Mrs. Prentice. He asked if her daughter was there, and they told him that Miss Prentice had arrived very early, and was waiting for news.He could picture her distinctly. Most probably they had put her in that dark back room where she sat the day before.The day was brighter. In the night the temperature had changed, and some hours of steady rain had washed the streets clear of slush and mud. In the country it would be a beautiful day. It gave him a pang to think of Patsy shut away from the bright, if wintry sun, hemmed about by horrible suspense and nervous, yearning heartaching anxiety.He put down the pen after a while; it was impossible to write to her--later on he would try and see her. Her aunt's pleasant manner encouraged him, and the position admitted of his calling. But it was a wearisome day. Certainly Carina did nothing to make it bearable. She was cross, restless, inclined to quarrel. Although her brother made no further remarks about the broken engagement, she argued with him unconvincingly for an hour that she had been perfectly justified in not keeping it. Of course, the journey to Torquay was abandoned, and as an alternative she proposed that the children should come to her.This he vetoed. Apart from every other reason, it became necessary to keep Meggy apart from her mother.Catherine Dalesmere did not seem to understand Meggy. She was proud of the child's beauty, but she found her dull. And then she had a trick, too, of talking too openly in front of the children. And she had the wildest ideas on the subject of their care and general treatment.Sharpus had determined that their life must run on the very simplest and even lines. Carina would have been capable of keeping Meggy up till midnight, taking her to the theatre, and even to supper after-wards."Oh, you are so tiresome!" she flashed at him now, when he disposed calmly of one of her innumerable impossible suggestions. "You are just like a great big old grandmother ! They are my children, aren't they? "--to which he shook his head."No, they are mine." He averted the storm happily by suggesting that they should go somewhere that evening.Carina clapped her hands."To the pantomime!" she said. "It is the first night, you know. I adore pantomimes, and I should love to sing 'God Save the King.' No, it won't be too late to get tickets; you can get everything in England if you pay for it."It was a relief to leave her and do her bidding. Her shrewdness was justified. He found two seats, which cost him pretty dearly, and then he went to seek news of Patricia's mother. The report was reassuring. Mrs. Prentice, it was stated, was doing

as well as could be expected. The operation had been entirely successful.He had to dress early, and when he was dressed he drove to Mrs. Langridge's house and asked for Patricia.The maid showed him upstairs into the drawing-room, and there he found, not Patricia, but Mrs. Langridge. She greeted him most warmly, and made him come near the fire and sit down. Then she said:"You know, I don't know your name; I call you 'the young man from the country.'""My name is Sharpus," he told her--" Anthony Sharpus. But sometimes I am known by another name." And he told her this other name."Oh," said Mrs. Langridge quickly, "I am glad to know you! I adore your books; I have them all, and treasure them in my room. But now I am a little afraid of you; you are a much, much grander person than I imagined."They chatted on current literary topics for a little while, then they spoke of Patricia and of her mother."It is a joy to me to have the child with me," said Mrs. Langridge; "only, of course, she is not very happy. I hope, however, that her little heart will soon be comforted, and perhaps after this things will be better for her and for Sheila. I see now that my sister-in-law must have been a terrible sufferer all these years. That explains so much. I wish I had known of this a little sooner; I should have judged her less harshly."Mrs. Langridge added that she feared he would not be able to see Patsy."She is quite exhausted. She never closed her eyes all night, and was out of the house before it was light this morning. I have administered some bromide, and I hope she will sleep for some hours; but I shall be delighted if you will stay and dine with me, Mr. Sharpus."He had to refuse with very real regret. It would have been infinitely more pleasant to him to have stayed with this nice woman than to have sat, as he would have to sit, through hours of, to him, dreary pantomime.However, he promised that he would dine on the morrow, and in a little while he had to take his leave.This promise was not destined to be fulfilled, for late in the afternoon of the next day a messenger reached him bearing a note from Mrs. Langridge. As he glanced hurriedly through the letter Sharpus felt stunned. Patricia's aunt wrote in pencil, and evidently in great agitation, announcing that Mrs. Prentice was dead; that her heart had failed suddenly and unexpectedly, and she had passed away without a word to anyone.CHAPTER XXVII.AND so it was that the independence which Sheila Prentice had so ardently desired had come about in the easiest and most natural way. Just at first the news that her mother was dead shocked her very sharply, but she made no pretence of grief. She shut herself up in her room for a while, but not to weep. There was much to occupy her thoughts. It was only possible to conjecture how Mrs. Prentice might have disposed of her property, or of what that property consisted. Sheila had always convinced herself that her mother was a miser by instinct, not mean by necessity. At any rate, the prospects for the future were immensely cleared where her own matters were concerned by the removal of the one being who had thwarted Sheila's will from the very beginning, against whose autocracy she had so hopelessly struggled. Lady Amelia was full of the kindest thought for the girl sitting alone upstairs. The tragic news had reached Sir Francis at the very moment when the Christmas-tree festivities were about to be started at the Court. Both his wife and himself would have been glad to have postponed the entertainment; but, naturally, Sheila refused to permit this."It would be absurd," she said to herself, as she caught the babel of voices and the sound of laughter and music from below. "And yet," was her next bitter thought, "it would have been so like mother to have upset everybody and spoilt everything ! I am afraid even Mrs. Bartingale would have found it hard to forgive her, dead though she is, if all these people had been turned away."She fretted at her enforced isolation. Sheila had none too much pleasure in her own society; and then the thought of the morrow vexed her, too. If she could have avoided going to town she would have done so; but this was, of course, impossible. Sir Francis had already settled with her by which train she would travel--and her aunt expected her.Late that night Lady Amelia knocked at Sheila's door. Her manner, rather than her words, conveyed the very real sympathy she felt."You must make every use of Frank," she said. "I wish I could go with you to-morrow. But please remember I am here if you want me; and promise me that you will come back to me if you can, and if you care to come.""You know I care," Sheila had answered; "but I don't know yet what lies in front of me. I shall have to think of Patsy. There will be so much to do. Perhaps we shall come back to Pitt Place, perhaps we shall stay in town; I don't know.""When Sophie and her children leave me," said Lady Amelia, "we can go to town also." Then she kissed Sheila, with that timid, yet tender touch in her manner. "Try not to fret too much," she said, as she went away.The journey to London the following day was taken practically in silence. Sir Francis lavished every care upon the girl, but he left her to herself. Sheila's composure chilled him. There had been a natural note in Patsy's trouble; it had been almost a happiness to try and comfort her. But Sheila asked for no sympathy; only once, indeed, did she speak voluntarily to him."Did mother ever tell you that she was ill?" she asked. And Sir Francis had shaken his head."No; this has come upon me as a shock. From what Mitchinson told me yesterday morning, I am afraid she must have had an awfully bad time just lately. I wish we had known it, we might have done something for her."But to this Sheila made no reply. She maintained that same quiet attitude throughout the course of the week which followed. Nothing seemed to move her or distress her, though she had to interview doctors and nurses, and had to discuss the details of the funeral. When, however, Sir Francis told her that he had received a letter written by her mother on Christmas Day, in which she told him she had nominated him as trustee to her will, and that she hoped he would accept the office, Sheila flashed into passion for a moment. He did not give her the letter to read, nor did he tell her that that same letter had moved him to tears.She had remained silent for a moment, then she said:"You will, of course, not bother yourself about this? Whatever there is for us, we can manage to look after for ourselves."But Sir Francis regarded the matter quite differently."I shall, of course, do what your mother wished. It has touched me very much that she should have thought of me.""But if you know I object?" Sheila said hardly. And at this the man's face had flushed."I don't think you can understand how much that hurts me, Sheila," he said, a little hoarsely. A moment later he added, in a calmer tone: "And, you see, in this it is not only yourself that is to be considered, but Patsy."He had not seen Patsy. The girl was confined to bed; she had contracted a severe cold. And the shock and the grief which her mother's death signified to her had worked to produce a high temperature; in fact, the girl was really ill.Sheila left the nursing of her sister to Mrs. Langridge. She went into Patsy's room every morning, but the girls had not exchanged a word beyond commonplace inquiries and greetings. The day her mother was buried--she had left directions that she was to be laid beside her husband in Winchbourne churchyard--Sheila went to Pitt Place. The few who were present were greatly astonished when it was made known that Mrs. Prentice had left quite a respectable amount of money. Both her girls would have an income sufficient to maintain them in comfort, if not in luxury. She left it as a wish, but not as a command, that Pitt Place should be kept up, and that they should live there together. Her personal belongings she divided between them, but she set apart a few things to be given to others—some old-

fashioned jewellery to Jane Morant, and a number of old books to the rector."You will not come back here directly, I suppose," Sir Francis said, as he put Sheila into his motor, in which she was going to the station.Sheila looked at him, and her eyes seemed to blaze."Come back here?" she repeated. "I will never willingly set foot in this place again! Why, don't you understand it has been my tomb all these years? And would you have me go on living in a tomb? No, thank God! we shall get rid of it. It ought to have been worth some money a few years ago. And even as it is it will bring us in a few thousands, I suppose?"Sir Francis was wrapping the fur rug about her. He bit his lip once or twice. He seemed to be understanding her a little better every day, and what he learnt was altogether disillusioning. Yet so powerful were the bonds which held him to this slim, beautiful woman that his love for her seemed to grow, her power over him to become more intense as her true self was revealed to him. He gave her a message from his wife, but Sheila shook her head. She wanted to get away from all that was connected with the old life."I am sorry I cannot see Lady Amelia now, but you must tell her I shall hope to meet her very soon.""We are going to town now, immediately," Sir Francis said. But Sheila made no remark.She went back to her aunt's house protestingly. If Patsy had been well they could have gone off together somewhere; but Patsy was still ill. It

was too annoying. Sheila was in the mood to resent most things, and Patsy's bodily prostration vexed her beyond measure."She is always so extravagant," she said to herself. "Patsy can never be temperate in anything. And, after all, she had no, more reason to love mother than I had."Her real object in wishing to get away was to avoid meeting Heatherington. But Sir Francis did not take the advantage of his new position she had expected. Once Mrs. Prentice was buried there was very little that he could do, at any rate, for the moment; and he remained at Winchbourne. Lady Amelia was glad in the most conscious way at his return, not because she grudged any attention he bestowed on Sheila, only because she missed him so terribly. Her sister was a definite trial to Lady Amelia. They had not been together so closely for a number of years, and it was doubtful if they would repeat the experiment in a hurry.Mr. Bryne-Jones had left the day Lord Sparbrooke went away, and Lawrence Goodborough had followed the day after. There was really no reason why Lady Sophie should have stayed on, except that she had the usual thrifty mind of the very rich.It was dull, it was depressing at Winchbourne Court, but it would have cost a good deal to have moved her family, and, until the house in town was made ready for them, she resolved to accommodate herself with all comfort at the Court, happily ignorant of the fact that Sir Francis positively detested her. And still the man was almost grateful to Lady Sophie for remaining. He had a dread of taking up the

threads of the daily life, that monotonous, hopeless existence which stretched before his wife and himself. There had been a certain excitement in the events attending on Mrs. Prentice's death, and he had found a poor sort of pleasure in doing things for Sheila. The knowledge, too, that her mother had given him a small place in her life provoked about the nearest approach to happiness which the man was capable of feeling just yet. But when this excitement had calmed down he was able to retrospect, and he found little that was helpful or agreeable now. In truth, his intercourse with Sheila in those last few days had been more than trying. He resented the way in which she held herself aloof from him. Her very evident distrust was galling in the extreme."Frank is awfully gloomy," Lady Sophie remarked once to her sister. "He couldn't be more depressing if he had buried his own mother.""I think he has had a shock," his wife said, quick to range herself on his side. "I don't know that he really cared very much about Mrs. Prentice, but, at any rate, her death was terribly sad, and Frank feels these things; he is very sensitive."She asked him that night when they were alone if he would care to go away."We have done our duty here," she said; "we could come back again in the spring. I used to hate going south in the old days, but I should not hate it to go with you."Heatherington thanked her."I am afraid I can't go away just yet, Amy. There is a certain amount of business to look after in more ways than one. We've been making changes in the

City, you know, and I want to be on the spot to see how the new arrangements work out." And then they spoke about Mrs. Prentice and her small estate."I suppose both girls will have to come down for a little while," he said; and Lady Amelia at once proposed asking Sheila and her sister to stay at the Court."It will be so dreary for them at Pitt Place, whilst the house is being dismantled?" she said. "Do you approve of its being sold, Frank?"He did not reply at first; then he said:"From a point of sentiment, no; but otherwise I suppose it's the best thing to do. Anyhow, Sheila had made up her mind, and if Patsy works in with her, that settles the matter.""Well, I should like them both to come here," Lady Amelia said, and her tone was sincere.Neither girl, however, accepted the invitation. Sheila wrote and explained that it really would not be necessary for her to do more than run down for an hour or so to her old home, if indeed she went at all. She then explained that she was going on a visit to her cousin, Evelyn Cardover."If you will ask me to stay with you a little later on," she wrote, "I shall be delighted."Lady Amelia showed this letter to Heatherington. "Are they not going to be together?" she asked. "She doesn't mention her sister."He answered with a shrug of his shoulders. By the same post Sheila had written to him; she had enclosed him her cheque for two hundred pounds. Her expression of gratitude was graceful enough, but it stung the man sharply. Not that he blamed her

for hurrying to discharge a debt which must have been a veritable blister on her remembrance; it was the unexpressed resentment which lurked beneath Sheila's neat phrases which was so bitter to him. It was now apparent to him at every turn that she intended to put behind her the knowledge of his love, to repudiate his claim to any special significance. There was an incredible amount of hardness in Sheila's treatment of him. Granted that he had once laid aside that restraint which his position involved on him, granted that he had once spoken of that which burned and tortured his heart, he had accepted her rebuke, and never afterwards had he given her the slightest cause for annoyance or trouble. Indeed, he had tried to play his part simply, naturally, and yet with dignity, and assuredly though circumstances had led to his friendship taking a tangible form, it had been his most eager desire that this should make no difference with Sheila He would indeed have had the fact forgotten, if that had been possible; and now she showed him with what bitterness she must have remembered!His wife's gentleness, her sympathy, her eager and affectionate interest in Sheila, made the man's burden just a little heavier. Sheila's power over him was peculiar in one respect; she made him feel that if there was an element of wrong in the simple secret which they shared, that wrong lay so entirely to his account.
He sent her no acknowledgment of her letter, and he did not see her again for some time; but he saw Patsy. He never knew what had passed between the sisters on the subject of their mother's wishes, but

when he saw Patsy he guessed that her submission to Sheila's will had not been given easily. It was just by chance that he heard that the younger girl was at Pitt Place, and he went over immediately.Everything about the place had a desolate look Heatherington shivered as he passed in through the old hall, in which already the furniture had been catalogued, and all was prepared for the sale."You'll find Miss Patsy in the library, sir," the old cook told him; she was the only servant remaining.Patsy was sitting on the floor going through some drawers and boxes of old letters. The dogs were with her; they gave a violent and cheery greeting to Sir Francis.Patsy just nodded to him."I am so dirty, Frank, I can't offer to shake hands." "Why didn't you let me know you had come down?" he queried."I was going to let you know some time to-day, but there was so much to do. Ever so long ago I promised mother I would destroy all these old papers. She had sorted them out, so I have nothing to do but tear them up and burn them.""But you'll freeze here," said Heatherington. "It's bitterly cold out to-day.""I don't feel cold," said Patsy. "I feel as if I were suffocating."Indeed, she looked as if the youth--that bonny, bright look of her's--had been burned out of her.Sir Francis knew she had been ill, but he only realised how ill when he looked at her now."I don't think you ought to, be here doing this," the man said awkwardly."That's what Aunt Judith said, but I had to come. And she was awfully good; she gave way, and let me come by myself. Poor old Jane Morant entreated me to let her come down, but that I couldn't stand. I hope somebody will remember me as Jane remembers mother when I die!""Can I help you?" asked Sir Francis.She shook her head, and then she said:"But I am going to ask you a big favour. Will you take the dogs, Frank? I am going abroad with Aunt Judith for about a month, and I have nowhere to leave them. Even when I come back I am not sure I can have them. Sheila says dogs are awful nuisances in London; and we're going to live in London, you know."Heatherington was sitting on one of the dusty chairs, bending forward, with his hands clasped between his knees."No; I didn't know," he said. "I didn't imagine that Sheila had made any plans just yet.""I suppose we ought to have consulted you, oughtn't we?"As he made no answer, Patsy said, not very distinctly:"I can't bear the thought of selling Pitt Place; it seems so cruel to her--poor thing! You know how she loved her home and all belonging to it. And then she wanted us to be here I--" she paused. "But then Sheila says I am a sentimentalist, and we've got to live, and it seems we can't live unless we do sell this house. And oh, Frank, that reminds me!" restlessly. "I have another favour to ask you. Will it be possible for me to buy up all the things in

the dressing-room and in mother's room? I must have them if I can, and I thought you would see to this for me. I can store them somewhere. I did think of taking a little cottage and living in it, and getting Jane to live with me; but Sheila doesn't like that idea. She says we must be together."She tore up a number of papers in silence, and then she got up and stretched herself."Aunt Judith wanted us to stay with her at least for some months, but Sheila doesn't care for that. Sheila doesn't care for anything nowadays, not even for me.""Don't cry!" said Heatherington quickly; and he got up.Patsy moved about the big dusty room restlessly."I am not crying," she said in a choked voice. "I don't believe I have a tear left, I've cried so much."He did all he could to persuade her to go back with him to the Court and stay there, but she refused steadily."You see," she said, "it's like this. I'm not going to have very much of what I care about in the future, just let me have this little bit. You think I shall be miserable here; you don't understand, Frank. This old house seems part of myself. The very walls are friends, and there is an actual, a lovely sense of comfort in just touching the old shabby things which I have known all my life."He had to leave her after awhile, but he saw her every day. And Patsy had other visitors--Mrs. Mitchinson and the rector's wife--who showed such real kindness and sympathy and regret that Patsy found that, after all, she had a few more tears to shed.CHAPTER XXVIII.IT was just about Easter when Sheila and her sister established themselves in the small flat the elder girl had chosen. Patricia and Sheila had seen very little of one another during the early spring months. Patsy had gone abroad with her aunt, and Sheila, after a short visit to her cousin, Lady Cardover, had returned to town and had accepted Lady Sophie's hospitality. Immediately it had become known that Pitt Place was in the market various people had come forward with offers for it. Sheila proved in this her capacity for driving a hard bargain. When Patsy heard that the old place had been sold to one of the farmers (a man who for many years had cast covetous eyes on the property and who had been absolutely detested by Mrs. Prentice in consequence) she went out alone, and she wept bitterly. She was at Biarritz, and on this day for once the sun had refused to shine and the smooth sea was broken into giant waves which beat with restless anger on the coast. This grey day, this day of cold and gloom, matched well with Patsy's spirit. She was slow in recovering and Mrs. Langridge fretted about her a good deal, delaying her return

to town to give the girl's health and heart a chance of getting back to their normal condition. Sheila wrote long letters to Patsy, full of business. The sale of Pitt Place had brought them in a tidy sum of money, which Heatherington was investing. Sheila had taken the flat and ordered the new furniture in their joint names before she gave any hint of what she had in her mind.And Mrs. Langridge denounced everything in connection with this undertaking. She said very little to Patricia, but when she was back in London she spoke very frankly to Sheila."It is preposterous to box yourselves up in a tiny place and saddle yourselves with housekeeping when my house is open to you. Of course you will both marry before long, and your proper place is with me.""There is no 'of course' where marriage is concerned," Sheila had said quietly. "We may marry, but we may not; at any rate, there is no immediate prospect of this, and if you don't mind my saying so quite frankly, Aunt Judith, I think mixed house-holds an abomination. We should quarrel all the time. Then please remember we have had a life-time of repression and we want to have something different now--at least I do, and as Patsy prefers to live with me I expect my views are her views.""I am disappointed," Mrs. Langridge said. Later she confided to Patsy that Sheila was absolutely the most aggravating creature she had ever known."Talk of your poor mother," she exclaimed, "she wasn't in it with Sheila. I never met anyone so hard to deal with, so self-willed."She had left nothing untried to persuade Patricia

to remain on with her, but in this at least Patsy proved as obstinate as her sister. "Sheila wants me and we must be together," she had said.It was purely as a concession to conventionality that Miss Prentice consented to having a chaperon and after a great deal of deliberation allowed Patsy to have her way and bring Miss Morant to the little flat. "But if this must be," Sheila had said, "please understand that there is to be no interference. If Jane begins any of her old tricks, out she goes.""So," said Patsy to Miss Morant when the matter was being settled, "whatever you feel, Jane, keep to yourself, or if you must break out, then say all you want to say to me, there's a dear!"But Miss Morant was much subdued in these days. The death of her old friend had been a great grief to her; the shock had aged her.When she had arrived with her modest luggage Sheila had, of course, found fault with the mourning garb she wore."In Heaven's name, where does Jane buy such awful clothes? I thought when she came in just now she was a charwoman. She must get something decent if she is to be seen about with us. As you brought her here I expect you to look after her. And while you are about it you might get yourself some clothes."For a moment Patsy trembled with a passion which came to her at odd times now, but the angry words which rushed to her lips were not spoken. Instead she went to her own room and sat there till she felt calm again. Then she sought Miss Morant."Jane," she said, "the verdict has been passed upon us that we are a discredit to the establishment. If we cannot be really respectable, at least we are to assume an outward aspect of respectability. Jane, put on your bonnet, you are to come shopping with me, my dear."Sheila spared no trouble to make the flat very pretty, but Patsy hated it. The rooms were so small, the furniture so modern and everything was so new."I feel just as I used to feel when I was a little child and they dressed me up in a starched frock. Oh! Jane, if there was only a little bit of ground where I could roll! Thank God the dogs are having a good time."She had a quarrel with Sheila about her own room."You can't sleep in a place with no proper things in it," Sheila exclaimed. But Patsy was firm."If you want me to go mad you'll crowd me up in that little hole. I don't want a wardrobe, or an arm-chair, or a writing-table. I want to have a place where I can breathe."So her furniture was distributed about the flat, and her only piece of decoration was an old-fashioned bookshelf, on which reposed a number of old treasures and several new ones.When her aunt had told her that he was a writer, she had given a gasp:"Why didn't I guess that?" she asked herself, and when she knew under what name he wrote then there flashed into her life something warm and living and beautiful. She went out immediately and bought all his books and from that day she

developed an absolute appetite for newspapers. The merest mention of him made her thrill, and yet she was always trembling in case Jane Morant should speak about him; as for seeing him again, that was something vague and unattainable. But she dreamed of him very, very often, and sometimes the dreams were so sweet. He would come back to her sitting close beside her in that cab which trundled so slowly through the snow, and she would feel the actual warmth of his handclasp. Then at other times her dream-memory visioned him with the child in his arms, that little, lovely, dainty child, of whom Patsy was so terribly jealous.He had written her just a few simple words after her mother had been buried, and all the time she had been abroad that little letter had lain in a silken case close, very close, to her heart. But after that one letter (which she had not been able to answer) he had never written again. Sometimes Mrs. Mitchinson, who kept up a regular correspondence with Patsy, mentioned the children. It would seem that now the winter had passed the Treasury Farm-house had been opened again and the little people were in residence there every now and then.Patsy had many invitations to go back to the country also. There would always be a welcome for her at the Rectory, or with the doctor and his wife, and Lady Amelia's invitation was a standing one; but she could not venture on this journey just yet awhile. And yet she would have been so glad to have escaped from the existing conditions if this had been possible.Life in that little flat was not a tranquil matter.Someone was always ringing the electric bell; the lift seemed to be used only for passengers to and fro to Miss Prentice's dainty little home ; motor-cars waited down in the street and the telephone clamoured incessantly. Sheila had not been long in making a new sphere of her own. She made friends quickly, yet with extraordinary discrimination. Patsy soon remarked on this."Do you know, Jane, we don't know a single poor person! All our acquaintances blaze with jewels, are hung with priceless ropes of pearls, and have at least six motor-cars each. It is so oppressive to meet so much money walking about."But Miss Morant was amazingly proud of Sheila's social success."It is what your dear mother always felt would happen, Patsy," she made answer to this remark. "You see, Sheila is quite unusually beautiful.""I know she used to be," the girl said hurriedly; and then she grew very hot and bit her lip almost savagely; for remembrance brought with it those bitter tears which were so foolish, in Sheila's opinion, so unnerving to Patsy herself.She kept very much in the background, and little by little she was left there. Had she spent money on clothes, and allowed her bright spirit free play, she would have been voted every whit as delightful, if not so actually pretty, as her sister. But Patsy had no heart for clothes, and the hot sunshine only brought to her an almost unconquerable longing for the country, with its freedom and its simple and uncounted joys.Lady Sophie Bryne-Jones had practically adopted

Miss Prentice. It gave her such pleasure to supersede her sister in this. The Heatheringtons had come to town for a few weeks, and Lady Amelia would have been only too ready in her timid way to pilot Sheila through her first experience of social life. Miss Prentice would have had no hesitation in making full use of Heatherington's wife, if this had been necessary, but she had no intention of letting herself be monopolised by anybody--moreover, Lady Amelia bored her terribly. Where Heatherington was concerned she had the satisfaction of realising that he accepted the position she had decreed he must occupy. Still, there lurked always the bitter thought that here was one who felt he had a claim upon her; one who could not possibly be expected to applaud her ambitions or congratulate her on whatever she might achieve. And to Sheila's arrogant spirit the knowledge that such a claim existed was trying beyond measure. This, and this alone, remained to shadow the brilliancy of the moment. For, after months of secret fear and fretting anxiety, and all the horror of dealing with a base extortionist, there had come perfect tranquillity.Sometimes she paused to wonder what had produced this, and at such moments would grudgingly allow herself to imagine that possibly Heatherington had come to her rescue a second time and had taken upon himself to deal with her enemy. But then would come the reflection that, unless he had been directly approached, it would have been impossible for Sir Francis to have taken up this matter; and somehow, she did not think it likely that the man who had drained her small resources so shamefully

would have cared to risk approaching a stranger, and another man."Besides "--as Sheila mused once--"he is not to know that Frank is in any way interested in me; and it certainly would not be a clever move to put himself in danger of being handed over to the police. Perhaps that hundred I sent really did satisfy him, as he swore it should. Or perhaps something has happened to him. If I could only know that he was dead!"A few months before it had been her own death she had wished for; but Sheila had progressed a long way from that old self of hers. Power, freedom, success, the certainty of obtaining anything on which she now set her heart, had worked a great change in her. Had she been guilty of that old folly in her present mental condition, she would assuredly have judged herself far more leniently than she had done in the past.There would, of course, always linger the hateful remembrance that she had been fooled; but for the rest--well, as she had told herself that night at Winchbourne Court, few women could afford to open their hearts and scatter the secrets and the histories stored up in them to the four winds of heaven. That she should drift gradually into a sense of security as the time passed and no sign was made, no attempt to renew the old demands reached her, was so natural. And the less she saw of Heatherington the less she was reminded of that miserable business.Patsy was sorry when Lawrence Goodborough stopped coming to the flat. Though he rarely spoke

of Sharpus, she felt that he must see the other man frequently. Once he told her that the children were in London, and after that Patsy haunted the Park, and spent hours looking for Meggy's exquisite little face. She gleaned all sorts of delights and know-ledge in this pursuit of one child among such hundreds of others. She had never known that children could be so fascinating.At first Sheila had set down a hard and fast rule that Patsy must never go out alone; but, of course, this rule was broken. By degrees Miss Prentice found that she had need of the chaperon more than her sister, and as her social engagements increased she forgot to interfere with Patsy and her little likes and dislikes.Her independent wanderings made a faint kind of pleasure for Patsy. She filled her otherwise empty life with looking after Miss Morant, whose eager attempts to give satisfaction, whose pride at having been chosen to live with "dear Julia's girls," were so pathetic.To Miss Morant had been deputed the cares of housekeeping, and veritable cares they were, for Sheila was a harder ruler than ever her mother had been and farthings had to be strictly accounted for. The weekly books were Miss Morant's deadly enemies and here Patsy proved an invaluable ally."Groaning again, Jane, what's wrong now? Oh! the usual mistake in the butcher's bill. Well, you give me the book and I'll go round and read the riot act to that girl in the desk. She has such pretty eyes she can't be expected to do sums properly. Look here, this gravy beef must go--"Miss Morant had to protest feebly."But, Patricia, dear, we did have the gravy beef for soup--you remember it was on Thursday, when--""Oh, well, that soup disagreed with us," said Patsy coolly, "and when things disagree with us we never pay for them."She marched off with the book as she spoke. By paying for the gravy beef and having the item struck off the account she could temporarily stand between Jane and Sheila's wrath."It is so funny that Sheila grew to hate mother, because, poor soul, she was so hard to deal with, and yet now she is just every bit as bad herself. What does it matter—what can it matter—if the butcher's book is three shillings heavier than it ought to be? As we have money to pay for these things, why not pay and be done with them?"It was she who had fixed the salary Miss Morant received. Sheila fretted at the amount, and it was only by small subtleties that Patsy managed to protect the over-anxious, elderly woman from feeling that she was a burden.Once when Sheila spoke of changing Miss Morant for someone whom Lady Sophie had recommended Patsy flared out:"If Jane goes, I go! What has come to you, Sheila, that you should be so cruel? Poor Jane! Don't you know she'd crawl from here to St. Paul's on her knees to please you? And you never give her a kind word."Sheila was at her writing-table and went on with her letters without looking up."I never cared for Jane Morant, and I only consented to her coming here because you insisted on this. She reminds me too much of old times.""Yes, she does, and that is one of the many reasons why I love to have her here," said Patsy rebelliously.Sheila shrugged her shoulders."Your memory is conveniently short. I can remember when you used to rail at things much more forcibly than I ever did. And now you do all you can to make me believe that you were happy in the old days and that you are miserable now, which is pure nonsense, and you know it."Patsy calmed herself."We shan't do any good by talking over these kind of things.""Well, you, began the discussion," said Sheila. She put down her pen and rose as she spoke.Patsy caught her breath. "I only want to let you know that I protest against your sending Jane away. I am not joking Sheila; if she goes, then I shall go too."Sheila laughed."That is what one might call driving me into a corner. I presume I shall have to suffer Jane, because, strange as it may seem, I don't wish to separate from you."The words touched Patsy and brought the tears to her eyes, but Sheila went on speaking about some other matters and the subject was dropped.Miss Morant never knew how near she had been to dismissal, but Patsy was just a little kinder to her and more thoughtful than even she had been before.And so the weeks went by and summer came to its own.Sitting under the trees, far, far away from the carriages and the throng of people, it was pleasant and almost countrified. When the sun became very hot, Patsy shed her black gown and wore one of her old white ones. She would take a book out with her sometimes, but more often she had nothing except a bag of broken bread and biscuits for the ducks, and some "goodies"—not for the rich, smart, pretty children, but for the gutter grubs, who really made her heart ache.Mrs. Langridge got to know of these independent wanderings, after a time, and protested. She sent for Patsy."If Sheila can get on as well without you, I want you," she said. "Evelyn was only talking about you yesterday. She said the last time she called at the flat you never appeared. I believe she thought you were in the kitchen.""It would not be the first time," Patsy said. "But don't be alarmed, Aunt Judith; I really am all right. Sheila does not ill-treat me, as Evelyn evidently supposes; she is very good to me, for she leaves me alone.""If she is good to you, you are about the only person who can say that," Mrs. Langridge observed sharply. "You know, of course, she has refused Lawrence Goodborough? " she queried the next moment.Patsy started."I know nothing," she said in a low voice.So that was why Mr. Goodborough never came

to the flat nowadays! Why those lovely boxes of flowers had ceased to arrive!"I am simply exasperated with Sheila," Mrs. Langridge declared forcibly. "I never got on with your poor mother, as you know, but Julia was never half so trying as Sheila is. What does she want? Why should she drop us? Evelyn is quite huffed. She was ready to do everything for you two girls, and Sheila can't find time even to lunch with her. She is always with that odious Lady Sophie Bryne-Jones. If she chose Frank Heatherington's wife it would be another matter."Patsy had to listen to a great deal in this strain, and whilst it oppressed her, she felt unable to take up any defence of Sheila, for in truth she was so far away from her sister in these times.One thing, however, she persisted in maintaining and that was, that her present Cinderella lot was her own choice, and on the whole not an unhappy one."It is because Sheila is so angry with me for not dressing up and going about with her that she leaves me to myself; and, Aunt Judith, if you really care about me you won't upset this."Mrs. Langridge allowed herself to be coaxed, but only on the condition that Patsy went to see her more frequently ; further, she booked the girl to a dinner engagement a week or so hence."Mr. Sharpus is coming, and has promised to bring his sister, Carina Starelli, if she has no engagement. You have not met his sister, have you?"Patsy said "No," in a very little voice, and felt her heart give a great jump."She is quite beautiful, but a very uncertain

person; one can never rely on her. She was singing at the Cheshires last night. Such a glorious voice! Lady Cheshire has taken her up violently. She is really a Mrs. Dalesmere, a widow. I fancy her marriage was not quite a success, but then these gifted, irresponsible creatures cannot be bound by conventionality, I suppose. Patsy, my dear, you are eating nothing.""I am not hungry," the girl said. She was like one dazed; she felt she was drawing so near to him, so very, very near."She has three children," Mrs. Langridge chatted on, "and someone was telling me the other day that Anthony Sharpus has practically adopted these children, although the boy will eventually have money when his grandmother dies. I hear, too, that the brother has been an angel to his sister. She is certainly a fascinating soul, but I should think she would be a bit of a trial. By the way, you must have seen the children, Patsy, for Mr. Sharpus told me they lived with him, and that he went to the country almost entirely on their account. There are very few bachelors who would be bothered with other people's children. But Mr. Sharpus is different to most men; he is a dear thing; I am devoted to him!"Back in the drawing-room, Mrs. Langridge insisted that Patsy should sing to her."I am very rusty, Aunt Judith, for I have not sung for months," the girl said. Nevertheless, she sang gladly. All at once the music was so needful, so beautiful to her. As she sat at the piano there suddenly flashed back to her memory the vision of

that night when she and Sheila had driven home from Winchbourne Court in the motor-car, and Sheila had discussed Sharpus."Perhaps he played his wife's accompaniments," Sheila had said, a sneer in her languid voice--a sneer which had stung.And Patsy had gone to bed and wept piteous tears at the mere repetition of that phrase. And now it would seem that there never had been a wife—only a sister; and that the children were not his children; neither did the beauty in little Meggy's face bring back to him the memory of a vanished and a beloved wife!"I will drive you home," Mrs. Langridge said after awhile and the songs had come to an end. She went out of the room as she spoke, but Patsy did not hear her going. She sat on at the piano, her hands resting in her lap, her spirit held in spell by the most amazing the most adorable sensation.CHAPTER XXIX.THE Heatheringtons had no house of their own in town. Occasionally Sir Francis talked of buying one, but in this, as in many things, he changed his mind frequently. It was characteristic of him at this time that he seemed to be able to settle to nothing. He had developed a kind of fractious mood, he found fault so easily; he who had never given a harsh word to a servant was now constantly at war with those who waited on him. A cloud had settled on his former sunny disposition, he seemed to have lost interest in all his former favourite pursuits. His wife noted these things with a heart which ached unceasingly. New phases of suffering came to her daily. To be in London was a great trial to her, for in London, far more than in the country, the miserable truth of their marriage was pressed home. She had ceased to call it a mistake, she called it a wrong, and upon her, and her alone, rested the burden of this wrong. As far as was possible she avoided contact with her mother and her sister, or any of her near relations, and was thankful that Heatherington had no close tie, for it would have been terrible to have encountered in open fashion the reproach

which devastated her heart. One pleasure, and one only, had been associated for Lady Amelia with this prospective sojourn in town, and that had been the pleasure she had promised herself of being with Sheila Prentice. Before she had left Winchbourne Court, Lady Amelia had made many little plans of her own, in all of which Sheila figured largely. She had resolved to give her husband as much freedom as he desired to take, and in the companionship of this girl whom she had grown to love so quickly and yet so surely, she had resolved to find such solace as was possible in the separation from him. When the Court had been empty, and they had been alone, Lady Amelia had forced herself to look on many truths. Philosopher she was not, but certitude of inexorable facts begat a relentless sense of endurance, and before this even jealousy fell back. Indeed, the futility of such a passion where she was concerned was so obvious. She had progressed far beyond the reach of those emotions which follow so closely in the train of love. Yet strong as was the grip of that bitter resignation, there were little things which could penetrate it--sufferings which could sting and poison, and her husband's care of her, his gentleness to her, were among these. She would have almost welcomed his impatience, have found solace in the feeling that he vented some of this ill-temper on her. But, however irritable he might be with others, he was gentleness itself with her, and his chivalrous solicitude, his eagerness to anticipate the least of her wishes, were so pitifully eloquent! They placed her so irrevocably beyond the realm of wifely companionship, they took from her the power to hope for a

possibility of reaching some haven of mutual comprehension and sympathy.She was now constantly urging Sir Francis to study himself."Last year about this time you went to Norway," she said once; "why not go again?"To which Heatherington made his invariable answer:"All right, I'll go if you'll come along. And if not I shan't go."Another time she tried to persuade him to go to Scotland; this was when they were in town."Sophie was here yesterday," she told him, "and she asked me if I was never going to let you have a little time to yourself? It seems, so Ernest says, that somebody has christened me your nurse."Heatherington turned very white, and said something so ugly and violent about Lady Sophie that his wife's heart beat nervously."Why the devil can't they let us alone?" Sir Francis asked, then he took Lady Amelia's hand and kissed it tenderly."Don't listen to Sophie, she only comes here to try and upset you. The fact is Sophie is jealous because we get along so well together. If she could make a little mischief between us she would be quite happy."Lady Amelia smiled faintly, but when she was alone she stood with her lips pressed to the hand he had kissed and the tears ran down her cheeks. She began to understand him so much better now. She read his dogged determination to play the game, to hoodwink the world, to make what was impossible

seem a certainty. And she saw that in his conscious anxiety to protect her he was going too far, provoking just that very result he was so eager to avert.
This little scene was a kind of crisis. The suggestion that he was exposing himself to ridicule strung up her sensitive pride to action. She fell into step with him. Instead of urging a separation, of trying to persuade him to go here or there, she adapted herself as easily as she knew how to his views. They were constantly together, a state of things aided considerably by Sheila's avoidance of them. It was a real sorrow to Heatherington's wife when she found that the friendship which had become so beautiful a thing in her eyes had no serious import for Sheila. But just because she loved she made excuses."There is so little in my life to amuse or interest," she told herself. "I was all very well in the country, but here in the world it is different."Then, too, she found it so natural that Sheila should have reached social success so quickly. She was proud of this fact. She loved to hear Sheila's unusual beauty extolled, she watched Miss Prentice's progress with the warm delight a mother might have felt. Except for that memorable friendship with her husband, she had never known the pleasure or felt the need of a friend till Sheila came, and even though she saw Sheila so rarely now, her affection was untouched, her sentiment unchanged.Heatherington was not so generous. The girl's studied indifference to his wife provoked him to hot anger at first, and after this had died down a little he confessed to himself that Sheila's attitude was

undoubtedly based on the necessity for being cautious. Sir Francis had not been blind to the sly merriment with which Bryne-Jones had summed up the situation when at Winchbourne Court, nor to Lady Sophie's intention to endow that situation with objectionable features. It was the existence of the truth lying at the root of the sneers and laughter of Lady Sophie and her kind which was so bitterly hard for Heatherington to bear. It served, however, to strengthen him in certain resolutions. Unlike his wife, he made a point of going to see her mother every now and then, and when he went he did his best to garb himself, as far as was possible, in his old likeness. He never quite knew how far he impressed the woman of the world whom he endeavoured to deceive, but if he failed to carry absolute conviction, he did at least inspire the duchess with very real admiration for him, which was certainly not the sentiment she bestowed on either of her other daughters' husbands.Once or twice, after they had gone to London, Heatherington and his wife ran down to the Court for a few days, but though he loathed town and all it signified to him, the man had to drift back again to the place where Sheila was. And yet he went very seldom to that little flat in Kensington, and he never saw Sheila except in a crowd. When he had occasion to write he addressed his letter to Patsy, and now and then Patsy and he would meet; sometimes he would waylay her in the park and sit with her awhile under the trees. Sometimes, when he knew Sheila would not be there, he would go and have tea with her. Once he said to her:"When are you going to start the little cottage, Patsy? Remember, I have all the things you wanted stored and waiting for you."Patsy had changed colour."Oh, Frank!" she had answered, "that cottage has gone so far into the distance I can hardly see it now.""But you will have to make some plans for yourself soon?"There was a curious inflection in Sir Francis's voice, a note which made Patsy look at him sharply. "Why soon, Frank?""Because Sheila will be making new plans now directly, unless I am very much mistaken, and you won't be considered in those plans, Patsy, my dear."The girl remained silent, then she said:"I think you are wrong. I mean I think you are wrong to suppose Sheila will not consider me. She would do an awful lot for me now if I would let her. But that is the trouble, we can't go the same road."After a little while she asked him:"Do you honestly think Sheila is going to be married, Frank?"He shrugged his shoulders. "It is what people say. They're bound to chatter and gossip about her."Patsy pondered on this very much when she was alone. She awakened in this time to the realisation that life had been moving very quickly of late. Sometimes it seemed to Patsy years since the old, uneventful life at Pitt Place. All that had happened just before Christmas had a veiled, an indistinct out-line, and some things which had been so real had ceased to have existence at all, even as a memory.

Her anxiety about Sheila, her unexpressed fear and doubt were part of those things which had died altogether.Certainly there was no need to trouble about Sheila now, and Patsy recalled with regret and a little shame how nervous she had grown, and above all how much she had disapproved of Sheila's friendship with the Heatheringtons."And after all it was only my absurd imagination. It is a good thing Sheila did not guess what was in my mind!"In early July, Sheila and Miss Morant went out of town for a few days. A motor excursion had been arranged by some of Miss Prentice's new friends, to which Patsy had been invited in a perfunctory manner. She refused the invitation of course, refused also to have her movements arranged for her during Sheila's absence."I shall be perfectly all right here and I certainly am not going to make a convenience of Aunt Judith's house. She would have every right to be angry, I think, if I invited myself to stay with her now, after refusing to go so many other times.""Oh, very well!" said Sheila pettishly. "Do as you like. You are as obstinate as a pig.""Thanks," said Patsy.They parted in this mood, and just for awhile Patsy's spell of freedom was shadowed, but not for long. Although she was fairly independent as a rule, she had at times to answer questions and give a kind of compte rendu of her doings. Now there would be no one to question.
Her first day she spent at Winchbourne. She

avoided going in the dircetion of Pitt Place, but paid visits to the Rectory and to Mrs. Mitchinson.From Mrs. Bartingale she heard all sorts of news, in particular about the children at the Treasury Farm. Someone had written to the rector's wife giving all the story, and she was full of it."And that little boy will be ever so, rich. He inherits everything when old Mrs. Dalesmere dies. There is a great feud now between his grandmother and Mr. Sharpus. She wants to have the children, and he won't let them go. It was old Mrs. Dalesmere who came down here in the winter and made such a fuss at the farm, Patricia. You heard about that, didn't you?""So Mr. Sharpus is not a burglar after all," Patsy said, when the need of saying something was pressed on her.Mrs. Bartingale had cast all past condemnation from her."He is a very delightful man--a most distinguished man," she said impressively, "and a great writer. Wasn't it foolish of him, my dear Patricia, not to let any of us know who he was? He has promised to lunch with us the next time he is down here. He pops up and down frequently.""It seems to me," Patsy said, as she wended her way back to town after tea with Mrs. Mitchinson, "that everybody sees Mr. Sharpus, except me. I--I do think he might remember me a little."The next day she bought a five shilling ticket for a great charity concert. The name of the singer she longed to hear was announced in enormous letters on the hoardings.The cheap seats were uncomfortably crowded, and the day was oppressively hot. From her corner, perched up on high, however, Patsy had a good view of the body of the hall, and her eyes wandered busily and eagerly in search of a certain person--the one person, indeed, who out of all the world she craved to see.Apparently, however, Anthony Sharpus was not present, or, at least, she could not see him. When his sister was led on to the platform, Patsy trembled with excitement. Even so far away, she could see how pretty the other woman was. Carina was exquisitely dressed in white, and her appearance was the signal for a veritable storm of applause. Her singing was a revelation of beauty to the girl listening so intently. There was a timbre in the voice which struck a sort of poignant note, which brought the tears to Patsy's eyes. When she had sung again and again, and at last had disappeared, Patsy got up. The concert was only half over, but she did not want to hear any more. To get out she had to push her way through a great throng of people who were standing at the back, and as she tried to penetrate this crowd, someone caught her by the arm. Just for a moment she was too confused with delight to speak to him, and let him draw her out of the hot atmosphere into one of the stone passages like a creature magnetised. There she found her voice:"What are you doing here?" she asked faintly."What are you doing here?" he answered. "Why are you alone, and why are you up in this stuffy place?"She shrugged her shoulders."You see I am having a stolen pleasure, so I came where I thought no one would see me, but you, surely you ought to be down below in that galaxy of fashion and beauty?"They stood by one of the open windows; there was very little air, but what there was came to them refreshingly."I always come up here in preference when my sister is singing; her voice carries so well, and besides, though I have heard her so often, I am always nervous when she is on the platform.""It is the most beautiful voice I have ever heard," Patsy said.He corrected her."No. I have heard at least one other which touches me far, far more surely."Patsy blushed, and when the rich rush of colour had faded out of her cheeks he noticed with a pang that she was much changed. She had grown thin, and the old mischievous smiles seemed to have said farewell to her lips."Surely, you are a little taller," he said.Just for an instant something of the old look flashed into her face."Don't tell me that I am a child, it isn't true.""What are you then?" he asked in a low voice, that voice which brought the colour like magic into her pale cheeks."I don't know," she answered. "I don't think I am anything particular. I stopped being anything when I left Pitt Place. Why aren't you in the country?" she asked him suddenly. "I was there yesterday--it was so lovely to be able to breathe.

You are free, you can do as you like." Almost directly she said, "You are great friends with Aunt Judith, I hear; that makes me so glad."He was looking at her intently."Are you really alone?" he asked her, as she ceased speaking. "Will you let me take you out of this? May you drive with me to Kensington Gardens, it will be cooler there?"She agreed without any hesitation, and felt as if she were treading on air as they went down the stone steps together.There was a motor-car waiting outside the door through which the artistes passed, and he gave a message to the chauffeur."Oh! I hope I am not taking you away," Patsy said a little nervously. "Perhaps your sister will want you?"He shook his head with a smile."On an occasion like this, there are so many who are glad to look after her. Besides, you want me," he said, looking at her steadily, "and nothing else counts beside that."They walked to a hansom, and when they were in and were driving through the sunshine, he asked her a question."Have you wondered why I have never been to see you?"Very simply she answered him:"Yes, I have wondered sometimes."He was silent a moment, and then he said:"Of course you have known that I have wanted to come. There has not been one hour in all these many days when I have not thought about you and

hungered to see you. Patsy, I have been having a hard struggle with myself!""About me?" Patsy asked in a shy little voice."Yes, about you. There has been so much to divide me from you, duties and difficulties--almost insuperable difficulties."Again he was silent, and after a pause he laughed:"I am called a very unsociable person, and Carina, my sister, gets furious with me at times. Over and over again she has wanted me to do this, and that, and the other, but I have always pleaded my work as an excuse; and do you know what my work has consisted of for the most part, at least when night time has come? Just walking up and down outside that big block of flats where you live, imagining which room held you and what you were doing, hoping that some spirit might perhaps whisper to you that I was near.""Alas!" said Patsy tremulously, "we live so high, it is too far for a spirit to reach us. But it was sweet of you," she said, with a little passion in her voice, "and, oh, I do wish I had known that you were there, then I should not have been so lonely."He held out his hand suddenly, and she put hers into it."My dearest," he said, "do you love me?" She caught her breath."Oh, I do--I do," she said, and then she questioned him: "And you love me?"But he did not answer her in words, only with his eyes."Well, then, we love," he said, after they had driven a little way, "and so the difficulties end and

begin at the same time, because if you love me you will take my life just as it is. If I had not seen you to-day, Patsy, I should have gone on treading the path which I have set down for myself. You know that these children are to me as my own children. Perhaps your aunt may have told you that my sister needs me at every turn. These are the things which have kept me from you. It has seemed to me so wrong, so unfair to approach you when I have all this responsibility on my shoulders. Even now--"Patsy gripped his hand."Oh, don't say 'Even now!'""What shall I say?" he whispered, and catching her hand in both his he pressed it to his heart. "There is so much to say I do not know how to begin."And just because there was so much to say, they sat in silence after that till they came to the park, and there he stopped the cab and they got out."Did you know I loved you?" he asked her, as they walked over the grass and under the trees. He closed his hand round her slim arm; it was so delicate and cool under the muslin sleeve.As she shook her head with a vivid blush, he drew her imperceptibly nearer. "Oh, yes, you did know--you must have known! Patsy, is it possible that you love me, dear, dear little Patsy? If only I might hear you tell me this again."She looked at him, and tried to look away."There is so little to tell," she said. "I was very unhappy about you.""Unhappy!" He stopped and made her look into his eyes. "Was I unkind?""Yes, once, and then the rest I imagined. It was because you loved Meggy so much, and because I fancied she reminded you of someone else."He laughed."Now, that is odd, do you know, because over and over again the child has reminded me of you." They walked on slowly."You have the same lovely eyes and the same pleading little face. You will not be jealous of Meggy any more, sweetheart?"Patsy shook her head, and then with a glint of her old mischievous self, said:"Oh! well, perhaps I had better not make promises. Where you are concerned, I believe I could be rather silly, even nasty.""Let us sit here on these two chairs," Sharpus said.He took the glove from her hand and kissed that little thin hand fervently. Then he sat and held it in his."There can be, there must be no going back now," he said. "Still, dearest, you must look well before you go too far."He sketched his exact position; he left nothing unsaid. Carina came before her like a living creature as he depicted her."You think she will not like me?" Patsy queried, as he paused.He smiled."I am afraid she will hate you just at first, but that we must do our best to alter. I have made many sacrifices for Carina. Now is the time when I shall exact a certain sacrifice from her. As I told you just now, this and this alone has kept me away from you.But when I saw you to-day, Patsy, I felt I was doing wrong. I followed you up to your seat, and was near you all the time, watching you, studying you. Mrs. Langridge had told me you were changed, but I was not prepared for such a change. My heart seemed to meet your heart then, and duty, responsibility, everything went down before love. I have always known I needed you, but it was only to-day that I realised that you had absolute need of me."Her little fingers clung to his."There will be no burden, no difficulty, if we can be together, and oh, I do want you!"Some sheep were browsing near; a little way off a man was sleeping on the grass; in the distance, children were running, people walking. The world was moving very closely round and about them, but they lost count of the world, and sat whispering till long after the sun had commenced to sink.They rose at last, and walked back to the fiat. At the door he left her, and when he had seen her vanish into the shadows, he hailed a cab and was driven to Mrs. Langridge's house.CHAPTER XXX.SIR FRANCIS HEATHERINGTON was in his dressing-room that same evening, dressing for dinner, when a message was brought to him that Miss Prentice had telephoned through asking if it would be possible that he could go to her at once.Dinner was a late function in Lady Amelia's house, and his wife was writing some letters in her room when Sir Francis tapped at the door and told her briefly of the message he had received.He had at first hesitated to tell her the truth, but on second thoughts had decided to do so."Evidently something is wrong," he said. "I think I had better go."And Lady Amelia at once agreed, adding, "Don't hurry, Frank, we are doing nothing to-night, you know, and dinner can very easily be postponed if you like."To this, however, he shook his head."Oh! I expect I shall be back again directly, I don't suppose it's anything very, very important."He went forward and kissed his wife, pressing his hand affectionately on her shoulder. " Don't wait on any account," he said.As quickly as a hansom could take him he drove

to Kensington. He felt painfully excited; this unexpected summons troubled him.
Patsy opened the door of the flat to him herself."Oh, Frank, how good of you to come," she exclaimed. " After I had telephoned to you I felt sorry I had done it, I am afraid I must have upset you. I do hope you weren't dining out or anything of that sort.""I should have come just the same," Heatherington answered. Then he asked, "What is wrong?""I am a little frightened," the girl said. "I came in rather late this afternoon and I found a woman here. It seems that she came yesterday when I was down at Winchbourne. Mead now tells me she had the greatest difficulty in getting this woman to go away yesterday. When she did go she said she would come back to-day and she has kept her word. She has been here since about five and simply refuses to go.""What sort of a woman?" inquired Heatherington with a frown."A poor thing, common looking, half-starved. I wanted to give her some money and I offered her something to eat, but she won't take anything: all she wants is to see Sheila."They were speaking in a low tone and Patsy led him down the narrow passage into the drawing-room. As he turned up the electric light he saw that she was pale and anxious."Where is Sheila?" he asked."At this moment I haven't the least idea. She went away the day before yesterday with Jane for a short motor trip."

Patsy paused a moment and then she said: "After all, perhaps, Frank, I ought not to have sent for you.""Of course you ought to have sent for me," Heatherington said a little sharply. "It is just in this kind of thing that I can be of service. I suppose she is some begging woman.""I suppose so," Patsy said; "but she is so odd, she has such a funny kind of defiant manner. When I told her just now that my sister was away she said she didn't believe me and she meant to stay here until she had seen Sheila. I don't really know what to do with her. I haven't the least idea, you see, when Sheila will be back.""I think I shall know how to deal with this person," Heatherington said. "Where is she?""In the dining-room.""Stay here," said Heatherington.He went down the passage again and entered the room where the woman was waiting. The light was turned on, but she was sitting looking out of the open window. Far below there was a glimpse of the street and its ever moving traffic, and the glimmer of lamps. Sir Francis began speaking immediately. He took a very hard tone."I understand you insist on seeing Miss Prentice: she is not here. Whatever you may have to say must be written to her; it is abominable that you should come here and frighten her sister.""One does many abominable things when one is starving," the woman answered.Her voice was strained, there was a pronounced cockney accent in it."What do you want with Miss Prentice?" Heatherington asked after a little pause."That's between me and her," was the answer."Well, I repeat, Miss Prentice is away. It is uncertain when she will return. You can speak plainly to me. I am her trustee. I have the right to move intimately in what concerns her; moreover, I believe I know what has brought you here.""Then if you do know you'll see as I've got a good right to come," the woman said."You want money? You fancy you have some hold over her and you mean to terrify her into paying as she paid last autumn."He turned on more light as he spoke and stood looking sternly at the woman before him. She had a miserable, a beaten look, yet she was young and in a sense handsome. She stared at Heatherington for a moment and then retorted:"Whoever she gave money to last autumn, she didn't give it to me, that's pretty sure. She's never given me nothing, and yet it was me as she's got to thank for getting her out of as nice a hole as any woman would care to be in."Heatherington caught his breath. He moved to and fro and the woman sat down and watched him. After awhile she spoke again:"It was just by chance that I found out where she was, and that she'd come into a bit. All the time that she was down with her mother, I didn't go near her, I didn't even write. I was that sorry for her. It was good of me, and so you'd say if you had known what I've gone through. But when I got to know her mother was dead and she was up here going

about as easy as anything, then I felt I'd got a right to come to her: a right to ask her to keep me in bread at least."The man listening felt hemmed about by a sense of dread and a miserable oppression. He let her sit in silence for a long while and then he said:"Possibly Miss Prentice may see her way to helping you, or rather, acting on her behalf, I may see fit to do what I can for you, but this would be absolutely conditional.""You mean you'd give me something now and get me out of the place and give notice to the police to look after me if I ever tried to come back""No;" said Heatherington, "not that sort of condition. If you can prove to me that you have a definite claim on Miss Prentice, you will see that I shall know how to deal with that claim in a just and proper manner."The woman looked at him half sullenly."I don't know what you mean by harping on claim," she said. She paused abruptly, then she asked him a question:"Do you remember a case what was in the papers nigh on two years ago? A case of a man passing himself off as a foreign prince, living in swell hotels, travelling round with his servant, getting money on false pretences, never paying no bills?"Heatherington shook his head."No."His voice was almost inaudible as he asked her: "What has that to do with this matter?" She laughed."Everything. That man, who is now in prison,

doing his seven years, got mixed up with this Prentice girl, and if I hadn't happened to come on the scene they'd have been off together. Oh! he meant to go straight with her. He was just mad about her. He didn't often lose his head, but he lost it dead when she come in his way. I found it all out just at the right moment. He was going to take her abroad. He could always get money if he wanted to, and he meant to shunt me somehow, I don't suppose he'd have cared how!"Heatherington sat down and leaned his elbow on the table. He shadowed his face with his hand. He was silent so long that the woman got fidgety."Tisn't many women would have done what I did," she said a little roughly, "and it wasn't all for myself neither. I was real sorry for her: she was took in so completely, she had believed in him, you see; I suppose she thought she loved him. He isn't a common man." There was even a touch of pride in the woman's voice. " He was a gentleman born and it wasn't no wonder that she lost her heart to him: he's that handsome he could do what he liked with most women if he took the trouble; but as I told you just now, he never made a fool of himself over any one of them until she came along. It was Tynland, the man as played at being his servant, who put my husband on to the notion as her mother was very rich and that there'd be a good bit of money to divide between them. Then when he saw which way the wind was blowing, Tynland got nasty, and just for spite he let me know what was going on; it must have been him who has been getting money out of her."There was a timid knock at the door and Patsy

pushed it open, but Heatherington sprang to his feet."I am coming, dear," he said very hurriedly; "it is all right; it is nothing, a mistake. Wait for me in the drawing-room, please."As the door closed again he turned to the woman."If you will swear to me," he said a little unsteadily, "that you did render Miss Prentice the service you say you did, if you will swear to me that you stood between ,her and the result of a most terrible mistake, I will swear to you that you shall never want."She got up and looked at him, steadily."I am not telling you any lies," she said. "This girl was still with her mother when Tynland let out the truth, telling me as Harry, my husband, had gone clean mad about her, was ready to do anything for her, and it was Tynland as told me that it was fixed that they was to meet in London, be married somewheres and leave England right away. He gave me everything to go upon, so when she come she found me instead of Harry, and I tell you fair I was as sorry for her that day as I have ever been sorry for anyone! I didn't go to meet her very pleasant, I can tell you; I was 'most ready to kill her, for after all he belonged to me, and he'd ought to have been good to me, but that's my story and you don't want to know nothink about that; but when I'd told her just where she stood I couldn't hate her. You see she never so much as dreamed he wasn't what he said he was. Of course it wasn't in her to know how bold he could be. She'd met him, it seems, in some town close to where she lived. He called himself a Austrian prince and she

took him to be a prince. He lived like one, I bet." The woman laughed bitterly. "Harry never was one for doing things by halves, he'd got his horses and his motor and all the rest; he played the game right up to the end. I did all I could for her. When he was taken a little while after and when his trial come on I kept her name out of it all, she wasn't never mentioned even. It struck me then as being funny that Tynland hadn't dragged her in, for it was he as gave the whole show away; but I see now what he was driving at: it was worth more to him to hold his tongue about her and then squeeze her when he got the chance."She waited for Heatherington to speak, looking at him curiously.He stood staring down at the table, drumming his fingers almost absently on it for a while, then he put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, took out a sovereign purse and counted out its contents on the table."This is all I have with me now," he said, "but I must see you to-morrow ;" then he gave her his address, adding: "If you come early I shall be obliged. I will go thoroughly into the case and I hope I shall be able to deal with you in a manner which shall satisfy you. But to this there is a condition, as I told you just now, and that condition is that if I help you, if I do what I think is right for you, you will have to bind yourself not to approach Miss Prentice, not to come here again, and as far as you can to protect her from others who may have some knowledge of this story.""There is no one as does know," she answered a

little eagerly. "There was only Tynland and Harry, and Tynland is dead."She picked up the gold and as she clinked it in her hand she said a trifle sullenly, " I shouldn't have come at all, but I've got to live somehow. I was in 'orsepital nearly all the winter and I lost my berth. I was in a bar, and I could earn a good bit one way and another, but they don't want ill folk nor shabby ones. This 'ull about start me again," she added, then with a kind of pride she said: "I give you my word I'll leave her alone ; you can take my word. I'm straight, and after what I've told you, you'll see plain that if I wanted to be real nasty I had my chance.""I shall take your word," Sir Francis said, "but you must let me help you all I can. I shall expect you to-morrow."Her face moved a little convulsively."It's like this," she said hoarsely, "I've got to live and be on hand when Harry comes out. He's got no one but me. There's lots belonging to him, big people, but they've done with him long ago, before he picked up with me that was, so I'm bound to stand by him."Sir Francis opened the door for her and let her out of the flat himself. All the resentment and defiance had gone out of her, she seemed humble and nervous. He felt overwhelmingly sorry for her. As he closed the door he turned and saw Patsy standing in the passage."It is getting very late, Frank," the girl said nervously, "I have made you miss your dinner." "I don't want any dinner," Heatherington said.He followed her back into the drawing-room and threw himself back into a chair.Patsy looked at him in troubled fashion as he sat with his eyes closed."Can you tell me what that woman said?" she asked after a while.He did not look at her as he answered:"If you insist I suppose I must.""Of course I shall not insist, I only wished to know if I could be of some help.""Well, there is nothing that you can do in this," Heatherington said curtly.Patsy bent over a bowl of roses and winked away some tears."Frank, I must tell you something. I have known for a long time that Sheila has had some heavy trouble. I saw a great difference in her when I came back from Germany. It seemed to me that something had come between us. Do all I could, I never was able to move this something, and now, though we are together, it is as though we lived in different worlds." Patsy paused. "I don't want to know anything, I don't want to mix in her affairs, but I must know, Frank, dear, that Sheila is not going to be hurt in any way. I must do my share to help if any help is needed."Heatherington still remained silent, then moved by the knowledge that the girl was miserable he roused himself."I would rather not go into this intimately with you, Patsy, dear," he said gently, " just because Sheila has kept this business to herself (and you are right, there has been a trouble). I feel we must respect

her reticence as far as we possibly can. I am not sure it will be necessary to let her even know that this woman has been here. You see," Heatherington said, getting up and speaking as calmly as he could, "my position in your lives gives me a certain authority to move in what concerns you. It was a great happiness to me to feel that your mother reposed so much trust in me, Patsy, and it is an even greater happiness to be allowed to serve Sheila now, perhaps to protect her."Patsy stood waiting for him to say more. His words, his whole expression moved her deeply. He seemed to have forgotten that she was so near as he drifted into a spell of anxious thought, but all at once he looked up again and as he saw her watching him he smiled faintly."I have been going over everything in my mind," he said, "and I really do not think any good purpose will be served by letting Sheila know what has passed here to-night. It will be quite easy for me to arrange things so that she is not likely to be bothered in future. Let us make a compact, Patsy, to say nothing of this to Sheila now or at any time."Patsy bit her lip nervously."Is that quite fair to you, Frank?" she asked. He smiled."Absolutely fair, and a great concession on your part. You see some of us have just to patch together our happiness out of certain little things, and when I tell you that to move in this quietly, to be allowed to take care of your sister even in this second-hand sort of way is the most beautiful thing life can give me now, I don't believe you will take that from me."Patsy was crying, and he took her in his arms and kissed her."I hate to leave you here like this," he said, "I wish you would come back with me, Patsy. It is awfully lonely here and I am sure you will sit and fret when I am gone." But she shook her head."I promise you I won't fret, because you see as you are going to take care of Sheila there will be nothing to fret about, and besides	"she dried her tears and told him the story of what had happened that day, and whilst she was speaking the maid came in bearing a box of flowers."Mr. Sharpus has just left these, miss; he asked me to say they come up from the country to-day and were picked by Miss Meggy, he thought you would like to have them."Heatherington said many kind things and said them tenderly, then he took a hasty leave of Patsy."If I go now I may be able to catch him up," he said, "and I should like to see him."But Sharpus had disappeared, and as a matter of fact the other man made no effort to find him. He threw his overcoat over his shoulder and walked down the many flights of stairs. The oppression had left him, he was aglow with a sudden kind of elation. Of late there had grown upon him a bitterness, a critical condemnation of Sheila; he had in fact felt quite unable to understand the mental attitude of the girl, both at the time of her mother's death and afterwards. He had, of course, been conscious that there was always something mysterious working in the background of Sheila's life, but, like Patsy, he had been so impressed by the composure

which had characterised Sheila's every action of late that the knowledge of the existence of that secret anxiety had ceased to hold him in the distressing way it had done. He had at times practically forgotten it. And now it had been brought back to him and everything was so clear, so pitifully comprehensible.He did not profess to understand what could have led Sheila into such a hopeless--such a disastrous tangle. On the surface it was almost impossible to ally the thought of a creature so fenced about with personal pride, so imbued with a sense of social dignity as Sheila undoubtedly was, with the picture of a girl infatuated to the point of committing herself and her future into the hands of a man whom she must have met by chance, and about whom she could have known nothing save what this man himself had told her. Unless he questioned further it was probable Heatherington would never know the full details of what had occurred, but despite this there would always linger in his mind a sense of amazement that Sheila of all people in the world should have permitted herself to fall a victim to a plausible trickster.It was not with, however, the story or its details that Heatherington concerned himself, it was with the results which had emanated from so terrible an experience. He could hardly let himself imagine what Sheila must have suffered, both at the time when the truth had been forced upon her and afterwards. Perhaps the afterwards had been the more awful of the two; those months of silent misery lived under her mother's roof, with her heart and her pride

seared, and every scrap of courage and wit which she possessed called to stand at constant tension ready to meet whatever might come! He thought that he had loved her to the full in the past, but he realised now that there were greater depths possible to his love and he yearned over her in a way that was almost unnerving; and yet through, and with all this there ran that curious note of gladness. He had spoken truly when he had said to Patsy that life could hold nothing so beautiful to him now as to feel that he possessed the power to protect Sheila; he had outlived any other kind of hope. Indeed he wanted nothing more. He had been schooling himself all this time to hear that she had chosen her future, he was more or less prepared for her marriage, and to-night as he walked home through the hot streets he found himself contemplating this with a tranquillity which had come to him only within the hour. For after all, though it was certain she would marry, and might drift wholly out of his path, something would always be left to him henceforward in the realisation that it had been granted to him to give her the tenderest care, to stand unknown to her a guardian of all that was most precious in her life.CHAPTER XXXI.MRS. LANGRIDGE swooped down on Patsy the day following and carried her off.Her aunt's delight in her engagement was almost a surprise. She confessed to Patsy that she had kissed the young man when he had told her what had happened."You know I lost my heart to him the first time I saw him, and I have liked him a little bit more each time I have seen him since. I think you are both two lucky people. I feel as excited as if it were my own engagement!"In the cheeriest way possible Mrs. Langridge defied all suggestions of difficulty, at least when she was with Patsy.When she was alone with Sharpus it was a little different."Of course you know I am going to help you all I can, but I am afraid I must warn you that it is more than likely that there may be ructions with Sheila. There is no earthly reason why she should object, but in her present mood we must be prepared to find her disagreeable,"But Sharpus only smiled."I take it Miss Prentice is very practical," he said, "and there are various things, you know, to which a practical person might object, as I told you just now. If I had not known this, if I had not felt that these certain things might be regarded as definite barriers, I should have spoken a long time ago.""Barriers!" said Mrs. Langridge. "Pooh! I quite realise that your sister gives you a good deal to do, but she is so young and so much run after that I think we may safely count on her marrying again one of these fine days, then perhaps you might be free of the responsibility of the children. In any case, if Patsy chooses to marry you, knowing that you have these little creatures on your hands, that is her business. However, I repeat we must be prepared for a good deal of opposition from Sheila. I am going to stand by you both on one condition, however, and that is that Patsy remains with me till you marry."There is nothing would please me better," Sharpus said.Though he anticipated some protest, he was really quite unprepared for the really aggressive attitude Sheila assumed.Patricia's sister flatly refused to recognise the engagement. Her denunciation of the whole matter was more than emphatic.In her annoyance she even approached Sir Francis Heatherington on the subject. She wrote and asked him to call."As you have some right now to interfere in things of this sort I want you to explain to Patsy

that this cannot possibly go on, Frank," she said, attacking the question the moment he came.Sir Francis stood and looked out of the drawing-room window."Where is Patsy? " he asked after a long pause.Sheila shrugged her shoulders."With Aunt Judith, who, of course, sides with her. Aunt Judith could scheme, and plot and succeed in marrying her own daughter well, but anyone is good enough for us!"Sir Francis frowned slightly."I don't call Sharpus 'anyone.' I think he is very much 'someone.'" After a little pause, he said: "Frankly I don't quite follow you in your objection to this marriage, Sheila.""The man is a fraud in a sense," Sheila said irritably. "You know yourself that he passed himself off as a widower down in the country, or at least he knew he was supposed to be a widower, and never took steps to explain his real position. There were all sorts of stories about him, and for my part I think the explanation he has given about his sister and these children is very odd, very odd indeed.""I don't exactly see why you should be so down on him," said Heatherington slowly; "as far as I can remember he kept out of the village and bothered no one. He certainly could not be held responsible for silly gossip and lies. Honestly I find him an awfully nice fellow. He is as clever as paint and he has a certain amount of money. One thing is very sure, he adores Patsy, so why not let them be happy? God knows there's precious little happiness knocking about these times!""It was absurd of me to suppose you would help me. Of course you are with them and against me!"Sheila had turned very white. She was arranging a number of exquisite flowers in little vases. Heatherington moved round and looked at her steadily. He had coloured hotly and some words trembled on his lips, but they were not spoken. He waited awhile watching her and then he said quietly: "If it is any satisfaction to you to know this, I may as well tell you that I have already gone thoroughly into everything connected with Sharpus, and if Patsy were my own sister I should be glad and proud to know she was the wife of such a man.""Very well then, that ends it, I suppose!" Sheila said with a bitter laugh. "Let them marry and let her turn into a nurse-housekeeper as soon as she likes. If my mother--""Don't," said Heatherington, a little unsteadily, "don't bring in your mother. I know this is what you have done with Patsy already and I am awfully sorry about it. You have only upset the child needlessly.""It seems to me I can do nothing right," Sheila said, and in her passion she threw down the orchids she held in her hand, then she calmed herself: "I was bound to make a protest. I think Patsy is making a great mistake. Mr. Sharpus may be all you say he is, but that will not whitewash his sister. She is wholly impossible and objectionable; a great singer if you like, but in every other way most undesirable.""It is so easy to throw stones," Heatherington said--his tone was perfectly even--" let us be chari-

table. We know nothing of Mrs. Dalesmere's trials. Her brother gave me just the outline of her story; he did not spare her, but he was very sure that she had not had a fair chance in her married life. She made a great mistake in marrying as she did and when she did, but, good Lord! if we were all to be called to account for our mistakes we should be in a pretty bad way some of us."There was a pause--a pause pregnant with significance--then Sheila said:"I don't want Patsy to marry and leave me." The tremble in her voice made his heart vibrate." Why that is natural enough," he answered; "but why should you lose her even though she should marry?""Patsy is all I have," Sheila said in a dull way. "I never knew how much she was to me till now when she is not here. I think it cruel of Aunt Judith to have taken her away when I knew nothing about it--and I hate this man Anthony Sharpus."The petulance in the words made the other man smile involuntarily."All this means that you really care for the child and that being so you--""No," said Sheila decisively and reverting to her usual cold hard manner, "let her marry him if she will. I will never say that I think it a good thing, because I don't, and I never shall. I am sorry to have bothered you, Frank. I thought you might have gone with me in this, but I see I have been mistaken.""Oh! it is no bother. I am only sorry we can't agree."He turned round from the window, took up his hat and stick and then paused to admire the orchids."You are a regular conservatory here, Sheila," he said."I wish people would not send so many flowers; there is really no room for them. Patsy is right in one thing, this flat is too ridiculously small for anything. Will you have a gardenia, Frank?""Thanks," he put down his hat and slipped the blossom in the buttonhole of his coat.He should have gone, but he lingered. Sheila's hands had always fascinated him. He watched her now in magnetised fashion as she filled the innumerable little glasses with the rare blooms. Like her hands her whole body conveyed a note of exquisiteness. She had discarded her black and was wearing a gown of delicate mauve. She had the look of an orchid herself. His presence, his silence troubled Sheila just a little."What are your plans?" she asked, to make conversation. "Are you going abroad?"He said "Yes," adding: "I want to take Amy to Switzerland; she is not a bit well, she has been coughing a good deal all this spring.""I am sorry," Sheila said in her even way. "Please tell her I shall come and see her before she goes.""I think she would like to see you," he answered; then he said a little unsteadily: "These flowers smell a little too strongly for this room, Sheila, I am not sure that I care about orchids and gardenias."There came back to his memory in that moment the recollection of the last time he had been in the flat and how Patsy's anxious look and tear-stained

eyes had brightened as she ,had been given that box of homely flowers from the farm."They are so grand," he said; "not a bit natural."Sheila laughed. "Why of course not. I forget how much this orchid costs," she took up one as she spoke."That's the mistake," said Heatherington. "God never meant flowers to cost anything."And Sheila laughed again."You are so comically out of date sometimes, Frank."She wished he would go. He had vexed her sharply because he had refused to go with her, and she had thought that her power would have been sufficient to have moved him any way; and then again she was at war irrevocably with all that he embodied--those things which she held to be so foolish."You are just as sentimental as Patsy," she said."God bless her," said Heatherington: "may she keep her sentiment all her life!"He held out his hand."I must be off." As his strong fingers closed over Sheila's delicate ones, he said: "I am going to ask you a favour, the first and the last. Be good to Patsy now ; you have just said that she is all you have, well, be good to her! For I tell you, Sheila, she loves you, and her heart is aching for your sympathy in this business.""I am sorry," Sheila Prentice said, as she took her hand from his, "but I can't make a promise I know I shan't keep. If Patsy marries this man she must lose me; she can't have us both."Heatherington went away after that, and when he

was outside the door, he took the gardenia from his buttonhole and deliberately set his foot upon it.That night he asked his wife how soon she could be ready to start for St. Moritz."I want to get you out of this stuffy atmosphere," he said; "you want bracing up.""I am really all right," Lady Amelia answered, her thin face flushing, as it always did when he spoke to her in that tone."No; you are not all right," Heatherington answered. "I see now it hasn't done you a bit of good coming to town; it was horribly selfish of me to bring you."The flush died out of her cheeks and she looked at him with a mist in her tired, pathetic eyes."Frank, dear, there is really nothing the matter; you mustn't fuss about me.""Oh! but I must," he answered her almost roughly, and he went up to her and took her in his arms."Don't you understand?" he said, "I want to have this in my life. I want to take care of you, I want to make you know that you are valuable to me, Amy, for somehow I have a sort of idea that you have been thinking things which have hurt you, and I want you to put those things out of your mind, once and for all. Can't you do this much for me?""Yes; I can do this much," Amelia Heatherington said; "and more than this to give you pleasure, Frank." She took his hand and held it to her face, and as she moved away she said: "But we must come back when Patsy is married.""Rather!" Heatherington answered; "but you know they have settled that they won't have the

wedding till the autumn, and I think they are right; a good many things may happen between this and then to make things smoother."He went round to see Patsy the next day, to tell her that he was leaving town that night."You'll keep me going with all the news," he said; "and look here, Patsy, buck up, there's a dear! Sheila will come round. Everything else is going splendidly, isn't it?"She nodded her head and smiled for a moment."Carina and I have made friends; you see she is having such a good time I don't think she wants Tony as much as she did. Anyhow she hasn't bothered him one little bit. He quite expected that she would be furious when he told her about me, but she took it really quite quietly.""And the children?" asked Heatherington."Meggy is making up her mind," Patsy said seriously, though her eyes twinkled. "I went down yesterday and spent the day at the farm, and Aunt Judith and I are going to stay there a few weeks. As soon as I have convinced the child that I am not going to take Tony away from her I think it will be all right."As a matter of fact Mrs. Langridge fell so in love with the farmhouse in the country that she changed all her plans."I have been drinking abominable waters abroad for more autumns than I care to count," she informed the two young people whom she had taken under her wing, "and now I am going to try the effect of a homemade cure. I am going to get up with the dawn, pick my own fruit for breakfast, and grow beautiful and

good. Patsy, why have I never known the country could be so delightful before? I intend to have six or seven weeks of forgetfulness--weeks in which nothing will happen and nothing will matter.""Oh! Things can happen in the country just as they can happen in town, can't they, Meggy?" Patsy answered to this.The child pondered a moment and then said:"Things happen all the time--sometimes really live things you know and sometimes only things that we get in dreams."She spoke meditatively. She was engaged in writing a letter to Lawrence Goodborough.Patsy had remarked that lately Mr. Goodborough had been sending a good many remembrances down to the farm. His last present was a little watch which Meggy had suspended round her neck at that moment."Shall I tell you what I think?" Patsy said when this letter had been read by Sharpus and herself, and Meggy had gone with the nurse down to the village to post it herself. "I believe Lawrence Goodborough is not really unhappy about Sheila.""Shall I tell you what I think?" answered Sharpus as he put his arm through hers and drew her into the garden. "Lawrence had only a kind of infatuation for Sheila. I used to think, not so very long ago, that he was rather fond of Carina, and now I am sure of it.""Tony!" Patsy flushed with excitement; " but that would be lovely, he is so nice and he would take such care of her. I am sure he would make her happy.""I am sure he would do his best," Sharpus answered; "but we shall see what we shall see. I happen to know, however, that when Carina goes to Canada and then on through the States, as she has just booked to do, Lawrence Goodborough will be seized with a desire to travel in that direction also!"They strolled through the old garden and out into the field, and there after awhile little Meggy found them. She had brought back some letters from the village. There was another package for herself, and she sat down on the rough grass and began to undo this."Do open that nice grey letter first," she said to Patsy; "I mean the one that smells so lovely. I am sure that must be a beautiful letter."Patsy's face flushed. "From Sheila!" she said. "At last she has written! At last!" She moved apart a little to read what Sheila had to say, and when the latest of Mr. Goodborough's presents had been unpacked and admired, and Tony and the child came over to her, she put the letter into his hands and he saw that she was very, very pale."Sheila is married," she said, "and I must write to her. I will come back to you again, dearest."He let her go, then the followed her and kissed her softly, and then he said:"All right, don't be long; Meggy and I will wait for you here."But the letter Patsy wrote was not to her sister; it was to the man who loved her sister with such an anxious, such an unselfish love.Heatherington received that letter two days later. Patsy had worded it as tenderly as possible."I know it must hurt him, but perhaps it won't be so bad, coming from me."In her letter she wrote: "I don't know why Sheila has not told me anything, for now, looking back, I am sure this must have been in her mind all this summer. I knew, of course, that Mr. Iscariot admired her immensely; he was always sending his motor car and his orchids and all sorts of other things, but I never imagined that she could have given him a second thought. He is such a horrid man, so common, so ugly, just everything that Sheila has always hated. I suppose it is because he is so very, very rich, but even then it is incomprehensible to me! Dear Frank, I feel so sad about this! Was I wrong to leave her? Should I have been able to have prevented this? She tells me that she will be away for months. I am afraid that means that poor Jane will have been forgotten. I am writing now to tell her to come down here, and when you come back, I want you to help me to make some arrangement by which Jane can have a little independence. She shall have that furniture you bought for me and make a home for herself somewhere, and I will see her as often as I can. When you have time, Frank, dear, do write to me."Patsy was a long time going back to the fields. The child and the man sat where she had left them watching for the first glimpse of her white-robed figure through the trees in the garden.Meggy had folded up the parcel--it held a purse and Sharpus had put a new penny into it. He had given her her choice of an old shilling and a new penny, and, of course, she had taken the penny.She chattered away for a little while, but then she grew pensive."Why doesn't she come?" she asked restlessly, and all at once she got up."I see her! Hold that, Tony, don't let it drop, and sit there till I come back. You won't move, will you?"He sat as he was ordered, and watched the little figure in the blue linen overall run over the grass to meet the slim tall figure in the white gown.Meggy paused a moment and frowned to herself when she was quite close to Patsy; she saw the stain of tears round Patsy's eyes and this was a pain to her.She stretched out her little arms."What's the matter, darling?" she asked tenderly; "has anybody been doing anything nasty to you? Oh! lovey, I don't want you to cry!"Patsy stooped to kiss her and then knelt on the grass, and the child cuddled her in a tight embrace."You shan't be made mislerble," she said. "Tony 'dores you and I love you, and all the rest of the things in the world don't mean nothing, do they, when you've got us?"THE END.Printed by The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey. Advert included in back of Albanesi's "A Young Man from the Country"