Donovan, Volume I

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
    Will be the final goal of ill,
    To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood.

That nothing walks with aimless feet;
    That not one life shall be destroyed,
    Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete.
                                                                In Memoriam.

"So Farrant is really to be expelled? Tell me all about it, for I've heard next to nothing these last few days up in the infirmary."

The speaker was a boy of about seventeen, who was walking arm-in-arm with a companion of his own age in the quietest part of a large playground.

"Well, on the whole, I think you were well out of it. There was no end of a row on Saturday evening when it all came to light. Little Harrison turned rusty, and told the Doctor that some of the sixth had taken to gambling, and then there was a solemn convention, and we were all called upon to reveal anything we knew, and, before I could have thanked my stars for ten seconds that I knew nothing, up sprang Donovan Farrant, looking like a second Curtius, only with a bad cause, poor fellow, to confess that he had been the first to introduce card-playing. I fancy the Doctor thought him rather too brazen-faced about it, for he was awfully severe; but Farrant, you know, is one of those fellows who look like marble when they feel most, and, instead of being the picture of shame, he stood there, with his head thrown back, looking as if he'd knock all our heads off for sixpence."

"I can just fancy him. He's certainly a touch of the Roman in him; but what in the blessed world did he do it for?"

"Don't know. He's a queer fellow. Such crazy ideas of honour too! Enough to make him spring up in that way to answer to a general accusation, and yet so little that he could go on for weeks as the ringleader in this affair."

"But what's on the wire now? They're never going to make him run the gauntlet?"

"They are, though. The lower school's up in arms because Harrison—who's his fag, you know—says Farrant forced him against his will to give his pocket-money for the gaming, whereupon you can fancy the Doctor was furious, exaggerated things, and told Farrant he was found guilty of disobedience, stealing, and bullying, though everyone knows he's no more a bully than you are."

"Bully! I should think not! Why, the little weakly chaps make a regular hero of him, and he was always hanging about after poor little Somerton, who died last term. That Harrison is a rascally young cub. I don't believe Farrant took his money."

"Asked him to lend it, I daresay, and gave the young beggar a look from those extraordinary eyes of his. Anyhow, the lower school have taken up the Doctor's words, and Farrant will feel their scorn on his shoulders before he's an hour older."

"Poor fellow, there he is!" said the first speaker. "Why didn't they send him off by the early train? He must have had enough of this sort of thing yesterday."

"Yes, in all conscience! He won't soon forget that Sunday. By Jove! it was a slashing sermon the Doctor gave us, preached straight at Farrant—hurled at his head. But there must be some reason for keeping him here. I wish you'd go and speak to him, Reynolds."

After some little discussion, Reynolds gave a reluctant consent, and, crossing the playground in the direction of the school-house, made his way to the place where the culprit was standing.

Donovan Farrant looked somewhat unapproachable, it must be confessed. He was a tall slight fellow of nearly eighteen, with dark hair and complexion, a curiously-formed forehead bespeaking rare mathematical talent, a faultless profile, a firm but bitter-looking mouth, and strange eyes—black in some lights, hazel in others, but always curiously contradictory to the hard resoluteness that characterised the rest of the face, for they were hungry-looking and unsatisfied.

He was leaning against the wall, but there was no rest in his attitude. With an expression of cold scorn, he was watching the gradually increasing group of boys in the centre of the playground. His face softened a little as a friendly greeting attracted his notice.

"I am very sorry you are going, Farrant," said Reynolds, who had been racking his brain for words which would be at once kind and yet bear no reference to his disgrace. This was the best he could think of.

The strange eyes met his unflinchingly, Reynolds felt they were not the eyes of a thief or a bully; yet there was something defiantly hard and scornful in the tone of the answer.

"Why should you be sorry? Why make yourself the exception to prove the contrary rule? If you could step into my shoes and watch this Christian gathering with my eyes, you would see a lovely specimen of ill-will to men."

"Gauntleting is a barbarous custom," said Reynolds, uneasily. "It is fast dying out; I only wish we could stop this to-day."

"Never mind," said Donovan, still very bitterly, "it's only on a piece with the rest of the world, the people who brag most about the universal brotherhood are the very first to throw stones at their neighbours."

Reynolds was about to question this when some one approached Donovan with a message—Colonel Farrant had arrived, and was waiting for him. A sort of spasm passed over the cold face, but, recovering his self-control in an instant, Donovan replied, icily,

"Tell him I will come, but that I have other work before me first." Then, as the messenger turned away, he folded his arms and leant this time really for support against the wall. A glow of shame had mounted to his forehead, Reynolds could see that he was in terrible distress.

"Did you not know that your father was coming?" he ventured to ask, after a few minutes.

Donovan signed a negative.

"He was only to come back from India on Saturday, and—and this is what he is met with!"

There was something in the tone of this sentence which made Reynolds feel that here the real Donovan Farrant was showing himself, the sudden boyish shame and grief were so perfectly natural, so strangely contrasted with the tone of bitter scorn which he had at first assumed. But the words called up a sad enough picture even to the schoolboy's mind, and his throat felt choked, and he was shy of offering any consolation.

"You will begin over again in some new place," he said at last. "You have been left to yourself so much, surely your father will understand, and be lenient."

"Do you think I care for his anger?—it's not that!—but to have brought this disgrace to him, to have——" he broke off abruptly, with a stifled sob.

Reynolds was amazed, for no one credited Donovan Farrant with over-much feeling. But even as he wondered his companion regained his composure, and wrapped himself once more in that impenetrable mantle of cold scorn.

"The Christian brotherhood are nearly ready for me," he observed, looking towards the long double line which was being formed at a little distance, and the knotted scarves, or towels, or straps with which every boy was armed.

"For heaven's sake don't talk like that!" exclaimed Reynolds. "Don't let the spite of a few schoolboys turn you from——"

"My dear fellow, I was turned long ago," interrupted Donovan. "I'm sorry if my words hurt you, for I believe you are sincere, but you're an exception, one of the few exceptions There, good-bye, thank you."

He turned away, and Reynolds watched him with a sort of fascination as, with long, imperturbable strides, he made his way across the playground. What was there in this strange fellow that moved him so? There had been a look of pain certainly in his eyes, but then a satirical smile had played about his lips as he turned away. He had no particular liking for him; what made him feel that he would give anything for power to stop this gauntleting?

To do so was, of course, out of the question. Reynolds, however, hurried to the front, anxious to see how his strange companion would conduct himself. Would he rush through the ranks quickly, or would he turn sulky?

Apparently Donovan meant to strike out in a new line. As he approached the ranks his step was even more dignified, his bearing more erect than ever. His face was set like a flint, but expressed as plainly as if he had spoken—"I don't deserve this, you contemptible curs; but do your worst, it amuses you and will not kill me."

Blow after blow fell on his unbent shoulders, hisses greeted him on every side, but still there was no faintest token that he felt pain, still the lofty indifference was unbroken. But lower down the ranks, waiting for his approach with feverish impatience, was Harrison, one of his fags. Harrison was vindictive, and he thought himself deeply injured. Some of the boys had made him into a little hero, some regarded him as a sneak; between the two he had grown exasperated, and to revenge himself he had concealed a sharp stone in the end of his scarf. His foe drew near; Harrison, disregarding all rules, and too angry to think of the serious harm he might do, aimed a blow directly at his forehead.

Donovan staggered back a pace, but recovered himself in an instant. The blow had fallen barely half an inch above his left temple, the blood was streaming down the side of his face. He saw it on his clothes—his own blood shed by the veriest little rascal. The sight maddened him. A great cry of "Shame! shame! Unfair!" came to him. Unfair! of course it was unfair! the whole world was unfair! He would crush this one bit of unfairness, though; and he gathered himself together, evidently with the intention of dealing Harrison a fearful blow. No one interfered, everyone was disgusted with the fag's meanness; there was a breathless silence. The unlucky Harrison felt the air vibrate around him as that strong arm descended. The blow would have silenced him very effectually, but it was suddenly checked. The littleness of his foe seemed to strike Donovan; with a tremendous effort of will he drew back all quivering with repressed indignation.

"You young blackguard!" he exclaimed, not loudly, but with an emphasis which made the words heard by all present—with a force which made Harrison turn sick and giddy.

Then, moving away, he would have gone on his course, but the boys who a few minutes before had been delighting in his humiliation were now ready to make a hero of him; Harrison's breach of rules had been abominable. Farrant's splendid self-control had been apparent to everyone; the schoolboy sense of honour was touched. They cheered him now as vehemently as they had hissed him before; they gathered round him with offers of help with vociferous admiration, they would have borne him in triumph on their shoulders, but he waved them back, and walked steadily on towards the school-house. What was their admiration to him? His blood unjustly shed was streaming down his face, a lifelong sense of injustice was rankling in his heart; those ringing cheers were utterly powerless to affect him in any way.

And all this time Colonel Farrant waited within the house. He had seen the head-master, had heard the particulars of his son's disgrace, and now he was waiting alone at his own request, trying to face this sorrow, trying to endure this terrible new shame. He was a middle-aged man, tall and soldierly; his features were almost exactly similar to those of his son, but his expression was so much more gentle that at first sight the likeness did not seem at all striking. Grief and disappointment were expressed in his very attitude as he sat waiting wearily with his head resting on his hand; and the disappointment had not been caused by Donovan only. He had returned from India only two days before to re-join the wife and children whom he had not seen for years, and somehow the home was not quite what he had expected, and the long separation seemed either to have altered his wife or to have raised a sort of barrier between them. He had been absorbed in his work, had been leading a singularly self-denying active life; she had been absorbed in herself, and had allowed circumstances to drift her along unresistingly. No wonder that Colonel Farrant had already found how few interests he and his wife had in common, no wonder that, even in the brief time since his return, he had realised that his two children were growing up in a home which could not possibly influence them for good. Bitterly did he now regret that love of his work and dislike of the quiet life of a country gentleman had kept him so long in India. Mrs. Farrant's reception of the news of Donovan's disgrace had perhaps more than anything revealed the true state of matters to her husband. What to him was a terrible grief was to her merely "very tiresome;" she hoped people would not hear about it, lamented the inconvenience of having the boy home just as they were going up to town for the season, spoke in soft languid tones of his wilfulness, but evidently was quite incapable of feeling keenly about anything so far removed from her own personal concerns.

Donovan must not come home to that, the Colonel felt that it would be ruination to him. He must go himself to the school, find out the whole truth, learn something of his son's real character, and, if possible, win his love before taking him back to the doubtful influence of that strangely disappointing home.

Waiting now in the quiet room, with the slow monotonous ticking of the clock, with the May sunshine streaming in upon him, the Colonel tried to recall Donovan as he was at their last parting years and years ago at Malta. How well he remembered the little bright-eyed merry child of three years old! what a wrench it had been to leave him when his regiment had been ordered out to India, and the little boy—their only child then—had been sent back alone to England. And this was the same boy whom he came to-day to find disgraced and expelled! How was it possible that his little high-spirited, loving child should have become a thief, a bully, a breaker of rules? He could not believe it. And yet the head-master told him that Donovan had with his own lips confessed that he was guilty!

A sound of footsteps without, some one speaking in a tone of remonstrance, roused him, and then another voice, indignant and vehement, made him start to his feet.

"Leave me alone! I will see him now, at once, as I am!"

And the door was thrown open, and the vision of the merry three-year-old child faded suddenly, and in its place stood the son of to-day, haggard, bloodstained, miserable, only upheld by a desperate resolve to face the worst.

Donovan looked at once straight into his father's eyes to read there what he had to prepare himself for, and the very first expression he read was neither anger, nor shame, nor disappointment, but only love and pity. His father's hand was on his shoulder, his right hand clasped his, and, when he spoke, there was not the slightest sound of upbraiding in his tone.

"Dono—my poor boy!"

That was too much even for Donovan's hardihood. He had braced himself to endure anger or reproach, or cold displeasure—but to be met in this way! For the first time an agony of remorse surged up in his heart. If only he could live his school days over again how different they should be!

Presently the father and son left the school, and, as they made their way to the station, Colonel Farrant spoke of the plan he had made. He had some business to transact at Plymouth; he thought they would go down there together, and perhaps spend a week in South Devon or Cornwall before going back to Oakdene. Donovan evidently liked this idea, but in another minute his face suddenly changed.

"I had forgotten Dot. What a brute I am!" he exclaimed. "She will be expecting me, I mustn't disappoint her."

Somehow that sentence cheered Colonel Farrant wonderfully.

Dot, his little invalid girl, had in a measure comforted him the day before by her evident devotion to Donovan; he had hardly dared to hope, however, that the love was mutual, or that, in his disgrace and sorrow, Donovan would yet have a thought to spare for his sister.

"Dot will not expect us," he said in reply. "I told her that we should not come home for a few days. She sent you this."

They were in the train now. Donovan took the little three-cornered note from his father. It was written faintly in pencil, but in spite of the straggling letters and wild spelling it brought the tears to his eyes.

"DARLING DON," it began, "I am so sory. Papa has told me all abowt it, and he has been verry kind. I don't think he bileves all the horid things they say off you, and I never, never will, Don dear.

"Your loving
        "DOT."

The long, strange journey ended at last, but by that time Donovan's physical weariness was so intense that it overpowered everything else. As he threw himself on his bed that night, he could feel nothing but relief that at length this longest and most painful day of his life was over. The future was a yawning blackness, the past a horrid confusion, but he would face neither past nor future, the present was all he needed; in utter exhaustion of both mind and body he fell asleep.

The canker galls the infants of the spring,
Too oft before their buttons be disclosed,
And in the morn and liquid dew of youth
Contagious blastments are most imminent.
                                                                                    Hamlet.

God's possible is taught by His world's loving,
And the children doubt of each.
                                                                E. B. BROWNING.

How was it that his son was so different from what he had expected? That was the question which continually recurred to Colonel Farrant, as, with all the chilliness of an old Indian, he sat beside the fire that May evening in one of the private sitting-rooms of the Royal Hotel. How was it that the child, whom he remembered as high-spirited, loving, and demonstrative, had become proud, and cold, and repressed? It could not all be owing to the sense of his present disgrace, though that no doubt accounted for it in part; but there was a restless unsatisfied expression, for which the disgrace did not account, and which appeared to be habitual to him. Perhaps, had Colonel Farrant known all the details of his boy's life during the years in which he had been separated from him, he might not have felt so much perplexed.

Donovan had a wonderfully good memory, and, though he had only been three years old when he parted with his father and mother at Malta, he carried away a certain kind of remembrance of them—a dim vision of a mother who always wore pretty dresses, and of a father who was always ready to play with him, and could roar like a bear. With these recollections he set sail for England, and was handed over by the acquaintance who had taken care of him during the voyage to the charge of an elderly woman in black, who was waiting for him when he landed at Southampton. The elderly woman's name was Mrs. Doery, and, as they made their way to the station, she informed Donovan that she was his grandfather's housekeeper, and that he must always do what she told him. Upon this, Donovan looked up at once to scrutinize her face, to judge what sort of things she was likely to tell him to do, and, child though he was, he could see that Mrs. Doery would be no easy mistress. Her long hooked nose and prominent chin were of the nut-cracker order, the corners of her mouth were turned down, her eyes were clear but disagreeably piercing, and her whole aspect, though irreproachably respectable, was, to say the least of it, forbidding. Donovan tried to find some reason for her name, but she was singularly unlike the soft-eyed doe in the animal picture-book; in time, however, he discovered that there was another kind of dough, and thought he quite understood the reason of Mrs. Doery's name then, for her face was exactly of that whitish yellow colour, and, in spite of all remonstrances, he would call her nothing else from that day forth but "Doughy."

Mrs. Doery asserted her authority at once; it was a hot summer's day, and Donovan, as he walked down the platform, complained of thirst, and begged for something to drink. He had caught a glimpse of some of his little acquaintance on board ship standing within the refreshment-room with tumblers of delicious-looking milk in their hands, and this made him feel an uncomfortable craving for some. But Mrs. Doery gave a decided negative—they would be home at his grandfather's in good time for tea; if he was hot, that was the very reason why he should not drink; she was not going to allow bits and snacks between meals, and he had better put such fancies out of his head directly.

Old Mr. Farrant had two houses—Oakdene Manor, a country house which he had built for himself in one of the western counties, and an old family house, standing in the main street of a little country town at no great distance from London. It was to the latter place that Mrs. Doery conducted her little charge on the day of his arrival, for her master had lately had a paralytic stroke, and had given up all thoughts of re-visiting his newly-built house, which, after standing empty for some time, was eventually let to strangers. It was in the old red-brick house, with its narrow windows, and dark rooms, and stately solid old furniture, that Donovan's childhood was to be passed.

And somehow his childhood was not a happy one. He was very lonely, to begin with; there were no children of his own age whom Mrs. Doery thought fit to associate with him; his grandfather, though very fond of him, was too ill and helpless to be his companion; there was no father at hand to play at "bear" with him, and Mrs. Doery, though she was often excessively cross, could not in any other respect imitate that favourite animal of the nursery. Then he had so little to do. Mrs. Doery had at first instructed him daily in the three R's, and he proved very slow with the reading, only tolerable with the writing, but alarmingly quick with the arithmetic. He took to the multiplication-table, as Mrs. Doery expressed it, "like ducks to water;" he answered the questions in the book of mental arithmetic with a lightning speed which fairly baffled the housekeeper, and before he was five years old the longest sum in any of the first four rules would not keep him quiet for more than two minutes. But then certainly by this time he had taken to working problems in his sleep, and would awaken Mrs. Doery in the middle of the night by proclaiming in excited tones that if sheep were 39s. each, a flock of forty-five sheep would be worth £87, 15s., or some equally abstruse calculation. Mrs. Doery naturally liked to have her nights undisturbed; moreover, she had sense enough to be rather alarmed at this precocity, so she asked the doctor to look at Master Donovan, and the doctor, seeing at once that he was a clever, delicate, excitable child, strongly recommended that all lessons should be stopped till he was seven years old. Mrs. Doery obeyed this injunction strictly, and a time of woe to poor Donovan ensued; "don't do that" seemed to follow everything he attempted. He was not allowed to run about in the nursery, because Mrs. Doery "couldn't abide a noise," or in old Mr. Farrant's room, because "it was unfeeling to his poor grandfather;" if he ventured to make such a thing as a figure everything in the shape of a pencil was at once confiscated, and when he rebelled he was whipped.

For a little while he amused himself by turning the letters in his picture-book into figures and calculating with them, but Mrs. Doery soon found that he was up to no good, and forbade him to open a book without her leave. He was naturally bright and energetic, but he fell now into listless lounging habits, his high spirits breaking forth now and then, and carrying him into all kinds of mischief. He was very self-willed, and his battles with the housekeeper were numerous, but, though his will was quite as strong as hers, he was generally forced into a sort of grudging, resentful submission, for Mrs. Doery had what seemed to him a very unfair advantage in the shape of a stinging lithe cane, and though, when Donovan kicked or struck her, he felt miserable the next moment, she never seemed to feel the least compunction in hurting him, but on the contrary appeared to find a grim satisfaction in his chastisement.

It was all very puzzling, Donovan could not understand it, but then there were so few things he could understand, except the problems about the sheep and such like. Mrs. Doery found him difficult to manage, and therefore told him that he was the worst boy she had ever known, and the more she impressed his badness upon him, the more he felt that for such a bad boy nothing mattered, and the less pains did he take to obey her.

And so the years passed slowly by, and at last in the spring, before Donovan's seventh birthday, old Mr. Farrant had another paralytic stroke and died. Donovan cried a good deal, for though his grandfather had never been able to speak to him, yet he had always looked kindly at him and had seemed pleased that he should come into his room, and the little lonely boy had been thankful for that silent love, and was the truest—perhaps the only true mourner at his grandfather's funeral.

The old house seemed in a sort of dreary excitement all through the week preceding the funeral, and Donovan saw several people whom he had never seen before, among others his father's cousin, Mr. Ellis Farrant, a dark handsome man of eight and twenty, who patronised the little boy considerably, and held his hand while the Burial Service was being read, an indignity which Donovan resented keenly, trying hard to wriggle away from him. In the evening, however, he began to like his new cousin better; the doctor and most of the other guests left early in the afternoon, but Cousin Ellis and the lawyer from London were to stay the night, as they had to look over old Mr. Farrant's papers, a work which did not seem to occupy them very long, for when Donovan went shyly into the library with a message from Mrs. Doery, to know when it would be convenient to them to dine, Ellis Farrant declared that they had looked through everything and would have dinner at once, and then, with the bland, patronising smile which Donovan disliked so much, added that the little boy must certainly stay and dine with them too.

Patronage was unpleasant, but then late dinner downstairs presented great attractions to seven-year-old Donovan, and quite turned the scale in Cousin Ellis's favour. He sat bolt upright in one of the great, slippery leather chairs, so as to make the most of his height, and, though his grief was perfectly sincere, he nevertheless felt a certain melancholy pride in his new black suit, and a delightful sense of dignity and importance in dining with the two gentlemen. The conversation did not interest him at all, excepting once, when he heard his father's name mentioned, and then he listened attentively.

"Captain Farrant appointed you as one of his trustees, I believe," said the lawyer.

"Yes, in the will he made at the time of his marriage, which was the most terse will ever heard of; very little more than, 'All to my wife!'"

"Well, well," said the lawyer, laughing, "though it's against my own interests to say so, it's the concise wills which answer best; and no doubt this little man will be no real loser for receiving his property through his mother."

Donovan grew very sleepy at dessert, and found it difficult to maintain his upright position. The gentlemen sat long over their wine, and he was beginning to wonder drowsily why people eat and drink so much more in the dining-room than in the nursery, when he was roused by hearing his own name.

"Look here, little man"—it was Cousin Ellis who was speaking—"are there any cards in the house?"

"Cards? Oh! yes, lots!" said Donovan, rubbing his eyes. "They came after grandpapa's last stroke, with 'kind inquiries' on them, Mrs. Doery said."

Cousin Ellis and the lawyer laughed heartily.

"Not those cards, but playing-cards, Dono. Didn't I see a card-table in the library?"

But Donovan only looked completely puzzled, and his surprise was great when, on adjourning to the nest room, Ellis Farrant cleared one of the tables of the books and papers which had accumulated on it, and, with the slightest push, turned the top, disclosing in its centre two or three packs of cards. In another minute the whole thing was transformed into a square of green baize, and Cousin Ellis and the lawyer were shuffling the cards for their game. Donovan was not at all sleepy now. He felt all a child's delighted curiosity in something which was new and mysterious, and then, too, what splendid things these would be to calculate with; he wished he had found their hiding-place before.

"Do tell me their names. Do let me watch you," he begged.

And Ellis Farrant, who was in good humour at having found something to while away his dull evening, took the little boy on his knee, and while he played taught him his cards.

To hear once was to remember with Donovan. He not only learnt the names of the cards, but began to understand the principles of the game, and pleaded hard to be allowed to play too. But neither Cousin Ellis nor the lawyer would believe in his capabilities for écarté. The lawyer was good-natured, however, and, seeing the grievous disappointment in the little boy's face, suggested that they should let him have a game of vingt-et-un, and Cousin Ellis complied, limiting the stakes to threepence, and supplying the penniless Donovan from his own pocket.

Here was excitement indeed! calculation, judgment, memory, all called into action at once! And the little pile of coins before him was growing with magic speed, and vingt-et-un fell to him twice running, and the gentlemen told him laughingly that he was certainly born to win. It ended long before he wished, and Cousin Ellis changed his winnings for him into great bright half-crowns, and he went off to bed proud, and excited, and victorious, to play vingt-et-un in his dreams, only being disturbed now and then by a frightful nightmare of the queen of spades, grown to gigantic proportions, sitting on his chest and stifling him. And so ended Donovan's first introduction to the "tapis vert."

The next morning Cousin Ellis and the lawyer left for London, and the child was once more alone. The terrible flatness and depression which he felt that day might have been a lesson to him in after-life, and he never did forget it, although his experience had to be bought more dearly. He wandered drearily over the deserted house, and stole half timidly into the library, and looked again at the magical table, and felt the half-crowns in his pocket. But the fascination and excitement of the previous evening were gone, and, now that the sensation of triumph and victory had died away, he did not greatly care for the money; his head ached, too; the dreary emptiness of the house oppressed him; he began to feel that his grandfather's absence made a great difference to him, and that there was something very forlorn in the idea of being left alone with Mrs. Doery.

As time passed, however, he began to grow accustomed to things, and slipped back into much the same routine as before; meals, walks, and pretty frequent fights with Mrs. Doery, solitary games, fits of wild mischief, whippings, imprisonments, and vague wonder at the perplexities of life. His greatest enjoyment was to steal down into the library, softly to draw aside one of the shutters, and, when quite secure that Mrs. Doery was not likely to interrupt him, to take those wonderful cards from their hiding-place, and, with a dummy adversary, to play the two games of which he had mastered the rules, and various others of his own invention, always playing his adversary's cards with the strictest impartiality.

Another occupation there was too which helped to relieve the tedium of the long days, and this was carpentering. He was very clever with his fingers, and, luckily, the housekeeper did not object much to this pursuit, so long, as she expressed it, "he didn't do no hurt to the carpets or hisself." And Donovan obediently cleared up all his shavings and chips, and bravely endured his cuts and mishaps in silence. He became very expert, and one unfortunate day, when Mrs. Doery had gone out to see a friend, his ambition rose to such a height that he resolved to take the nursery clock to pieces in order to see how it was made, intending, after he had thoroughly mastered the details, to put it together again. So to work he went as soon as the housekeeper was well out of sight, and, with the aid of pincers, screw-drivers, and his dexterous little fingers, succeeded in dissecting the clock. It was wonderfully interesting work, so interesting that, although he was studying the anatomy of the recorder of time, he forgot that there was such a thing as time at all, and that, although the hands of the clock were detached from its face, and the pendulum was lying motionless in his tool-box, the inexorable old gentleman with the scythe was travelling at his usual pace, and bringing tea-time and Mrs. Doery in his train. He had just settled everything entirely to his own mind, and arranged which wheels to re-adjust first, when the door opened; he looked up—and there stood Mrs. Doery with a face of mingled astonishment and wrath which baffles description. It was in vain that Donovan pleaded to be allowed to set it right, and showed how neatly he had arranged the pieces; Mrs. Doery would not listen to a word, but taking the culprit to his room, gave him the severest whipping be had ever had, and Donovan cried piteously, not at all on account of the pain, for he bore that like a little Trojan, but because he was quite sure he could put the clock together again if "Doughy" would only let him.

It was not only by fits of mischief and wilfulness that Donovan gave the housekeeper trouble. Soon after his grandfather's death, he began, as she said, "to plague the very life out of her with questions." What was this? and why was that? and what was the reason of the other? pursued poor Mrs. Doery from morning till night. Taking the doctor's general directions into every detail, she had brought up her little charge in utter ignorance; he knew no more of religion than the veriest little heathen, and, though Mrs. Doery had taught him a short, doggerel prayer to say as he went to sleep, he was much too matter of fact and logical to care to say a charm addressed, as far as he knew, to no one in particular, and for which he could not understand the reason. It did not make him any happier to say

"Three in One, and One in Three,
One in Three, save me."

It only puzzled him completely, so he left off saying it.

But the service at his grandfather's funeral had awakened his curiosity; he could not understand it, and he could not bear not being able to understand. Mrs. Doery found herself obliged to give an answer now and then in order to quiet him, and Donovan learnt that people knelt down to "ask God for things," that "God was a Being who loved good people and hated bad people," and that "grandpapa had gone to heaven."

"Why, that's what you always say when you're surprised!" he exclaimed, when this last piece of information had been received. "'Good heaven'! you know. Is heaven a great surprise? What is heaven?"

"It's a nice place where good folk go," said Mrs. Doery, as if she grudged the admission.

"Is it in India?"

"Dear heart! The ignorance of the child! No, it's up in the sky."

"What do they do up there?"

"Sit and sing hymns and say prayers."

"What, like they did at the funeral?"

"Bless the child, I don't know; but you needn't trouble so about it, for it's only good boys as goes there."

"I don't want to, I'm sure," said Donovan, defiantly. "I hate sitting still."

But his mind was not satisfied, and Mrs. Doery was questioned still further.

"Doughy, what did they mean when they said grandpapa would never be ill again?"

"Why, folks never are ill in heaven."

"What, never? Oh! that is another reason, then, why I don't want to go there, for the nicest time I ever had was when I'd the measles; you never were so little cross in your life, Doughy." Mrs. Doery made no comment on this, and the little boy continued, rather anxiously, "I suppose, Doughy, you are very good, aren't you?"

"Well, Master Donovan, I try to do my duty by the house, and by you," said Doery, gloomily.

"That's a good thing!" said Donovan, relieved, "for you see, Doughy, I don't think we'd better go to the same place, we should be happier away from each other."

Mrs. Doery was wonderfully uncommunicative, but still the little boy occasionally plied her with fresh questions. One day he came to her with a perplexity which had long been troubling him.

"Doughy, who gives us homes?"

"Your papa, of course, Master Donovan."

"And who gave papa his home?"

"Why, your poor grandpapa."

"But who gave the first papa there ever was his home?"

"Bless the child! how should I know'? I don't suppose Adam had no home, so to speak."

"Why are some people's homes so much happier than other people's? It's very unfair."

"The good little boys are happy," said Mrs. Doery, "and the bad ones aren't."

"Then, if I was never naughty, should I have a nice home like little Tom Harris, with a mother to take me out with her."

"That's impossible to say," replied Mrs. Doery, gravely; "let alone the unlikeliness that you ever would be good, you see there's all them past times you was naughty; so you've not much of a chance."

Poor Donovan went away sadly, and yet with a great sense of injustice in his childish mind. That was almost the last question he troubled Mrs. Doery with.

But, though he was represented as so incurably bad, he would not entirely bow to Mrs. Doery's opinion. In his heart of hearts he cherished an ideal mother, who was to come back from India, make him good, and fill his life with happiness; she was to be just like Mrs. Harris, the grocer's wife, who took her little boy out walking, only her dresses were to be prettier, for the one thing he remembered about his mother was that she always wore pretty clothes. The events of his life were the arrival of the Indian letters, in which "papa and mamma sent their love to Dono;" but these were few and far between, for, although Mrs. Doery wrote each mail to give an account of Master Donovan's well-being, neither Colonel Farrant nor his wife understood the importance of keeping their memory green in the remembrance of their child by writing to him. The Colonel was absorbed in his work, Mrs. Farrant was absorbed in herself. Donovan had his ideal mother, nevertheless, and would rehearse her return, and talk to her by the hour; and, when Mrs. Doery took him for his walk, he would put his hand a little out on the side away from the housekeeper, making believe that his mother held it, and would turn his face up, as if he were talking to her, just as he had seen little Torn Harris do.

At last one never-to-be-forgotten day Donovan heard that he had a little baby sister, and before the novelty and delight of this news had had time to fade came a second letter with yet more wonderful tidings, a large letter for Mrs. Doery, and a little one enclosed for Donovan from his father—"Mamma and baby were coming to England to live with Dono, and he must take great care of them, and try to make them happy."

Never had the little boy known such intense happiness, his dream was actually coming true, mother was coming, mother who would not mind answering his questions, who would make him good, who would rescue him from Mrs. Doery's whippings; he could watch the grocer's little boy now when he passed by without the least shade of envy, for in a few weeks would not he too be walking out with his mother?

He watched the preparations which were being made in the house with a sense of exultant happiness, his grave quiet step changed to the bounding skipping pace of a merry child, and he was so good that even Mrs. Doery had no complaint to make of him. Then at length came the real day of arrival, and Donovan's feverish impatience was at length rewarded; a carriage stopped at the door, Mrs. Doery, smoothing her black apron, bustled out into the hall, and Donovan rushed headlong down the white steps to throw his arms round his mother's neck. But a sudden chill of disappointment fell on his heart, it was so different from everything he had planned. The tall pretty-looking lady stooped to kiss him, indeed, and her voice was soft and refined, if somewhat languid, as she exclaimed, "Dear me! what a great boy you have grown!" but it was not his ideal at all, not the mother to whom he could tell everything, or who would care to know. All this Donovan read in almost the first glance, as clearly as he had read Mrs. Doery's character on Southampton Pier.

He followed everyone else into the house and shut the door, Mrs. Farrant was already on the way to her room, and did not notice him any further, and he was too bewildered and disappointed to care to bestow more than a glance on the ayah and the little baby in long clothes.

By-and-by, he saw his mother again, but by this time he had grown shy, and only made the briefest responses to her questions, and before long she had disposed herself on the drawing-room sofa with a book, and he was left standing at a little distance with a Calcutta costume doll which she had just given him, and a very heavy heart. The doll only added to his disappointment. Surely the ideal mother would have understood how little he, a boy of eight years old, would care for a doll? He did not want presents at all, he wanted the dream-mother back again, and the conviction that she never could come back again was terrible indeed. It got worse and worse as the evening advanced, and at last he could bear it no longer, but, wishing his mother good night, crept upstairs though it was not yet his bed time, and shutting himself into the cupboard among Mrs. Doery's dresses gave vent to his misery. He did not often cry, even at the severest whipping, but that night he sobbed as though his heart would break; life had seemed hard and perplexing already, and now his ideal was gone!

But the loving hand which was guiding Donovan, though he so little knew it, was not going to leave him desolate. The perfectly loving sympathetic mother had indeed been denied him, but another treasure had been provided for him, which though it could not fill entirely the place of the dethroned ideal—the place which was to be always empty, always longing to be filled—was yet to call out his best and strongest feelings.

When at last he checked his sobs and crept out of the cupboard once more, the first thing his eyes rested on was the new baby sister lying asleep in her cradle. He was so miserable that he would even have thrown himself on Mrs. Doery's mercy if she had been there, and in another minute his tears broke forth again, as he pressed his face close to the baby's and told her all his trouble. Of course she woke directly, but he still sobbed out his story.

"Oh! baby, I'm so miserable—so miserable—mother isn't a bit what I expected."

The baby began to cry feebly, and Donovan, penitent at having disturbed her, took her with great care and difficulty from her cradle, and began to rock her in his arms, and as she slept once more, and as her weight became more and more difficult to bear, a new sense of love and protecting care sprang up in the little boy's heart, and he was comforted. Before long Mrs. Doery's step was heard without, and Donovan knew that if he were found he would certainly be whipped, but to try to put the baby back in the cradle would be sure to wake her, and she was worth suffering for.

Mrs. Doery was of course wrathful, and poor Donovan went to bed supperless and sore both inwardly and outwardly; but, as his wistful eyes closed on that day of disappointment, he clung to his one comforting thought, the little sister, his new possession.

As time passed on, the bond between these two grew stronger and stronger. Donovan centred all the love of his heart on the frail little life of the baby. The element of protection was his most pronounced characteristic; he was strong, and liked above all things to have something to take care of. And Dot, as they called the tiny delicate little girl, needed any amount of attention. From the very first everything seemed against her; her Indian birth, the trying voyage, the want of any real care from her mother, the miserable mismanagement of an incompetent doctor, all told grievously on the delicate little child. She had only just learnt to walk, or rather to trust herself to be piloted along by Donovan, when she began to pine and dwindle, and before long the hesitating footsteps were hushed for ever, and Dot lay down upon the couch on which her little life-drama was to be acted. A fall from her ayah's arms had, it was supposed, been the cause of the hip-disease which now declared itself. For a time everyone was sorry and disturbed, but soon they became resigned, and talked about "the dispensations of Providence." Only Donovan nursed his sorrow and indignation apart, conscious, in spite of his youth, that it was human carelessness, human misunderstanding, which had ruined the only life he cared for.

In the meantime, the lease of Oakdene Manor came to an end, and Mrs. Farrant and her children left the house where Donovan's childhood had been passed, to make their home in that place which old Mr. Farrant had planned so carefully, but had never seen.

The change was in some respects good for Donovan; he was just old enough to take an interest in the property which would, he supposed, be his own some day, and he liked the free country life. But in that comfortable English home, the apparent model of refinement and propriety, he grew up somehow into a very unsatisfactory mortal, unsatisfactory to himself as well as to others. He was scarcely to be blamed perhaps, for, with the exception of little Dot, there was not one good influence in the Manor household.

His mother's intense selfishness was perfectly apparent to him; he accepted it now with a sort of cold indifference when it only affected himself. It was so, and there was an end of the matter; he just put up with it. But, when Mrs. Farrant's entire absorption in self affected Dot, Donovan's indignation was always roused; there was an almost fierce gleam in his eyes when he found Dot suffering from the unmotherliness which had chilled and cramped his own life.

What, however, told most fatally on him was his mother's conventional religion. Mrs. Farrant went to church because it was proper, and insisted on her son's accompanying her. He obeyed, but went with a sort of stubborn disgust, hating to share in this act of hypocrisy. He was naturally acute, and at a very early age he found out that the lives of all the professing Christians around him were diametrically opposed to the principles of Christianity. It was all a hideous mockery, a hollow profession; even as a child he came to the sweeping conclusion, "They are all shams, these Christian people," and naturally went on to the resolution, "I at least will profess nothing."

His views received a sort of amused encouragement from his tutor, a man whom Mrs. Farrant had been delighted to secure for her son, because he was "so highly connected, such a very gentlemanly man." Mr. Alleyne was, however, in spite of his high connections, entirely unfit to be the tutor of a boy like Donovan. He was clever, but shallow, and he had dabbled in science, and rather prided himself on being able to appreciate the difficulties which great minds found in reconciling the new discoveries of science and the old faiths. He quoted Tyndall and Huxley with great aptness, and, though on occasion he was quite capable of appearing to be exceedingly orthodox, yet he was rather fond of styling himself an Agnostic when quite sure of his audience. He was not a sincere man; he liked talking of his "intellectual difficulties," and regarded scepticism as "not bad form now-a-days." When Mr. Alleyne found that his pupil was, as he termed it, "a thorough-going young atheist," he was a little amused and a good deal interested. He was not at all unwilling to forsake the more ordinary routine, and, throwing aside the classics, he allowed Donovan to devote most of his time to scientific subjects, which were far more interesting to both teacher and pupil.

Donovan had no respect for his tutor, but he was a good deal influenced by him. When by his father's desire he was sent at last to a public school, he was just in the state to derive all the evil and none of the good from school life. He had grown up in isolation, and he was naturally reserved, so that he did not easily make friends, and he was too wilful and incomprehensible to be a favourite with the masters. In mathematics, indeed, he could beat every opponent with ease, and carried off several prizes, but his success was merely that of natural talent, and never of industry, so that even to himself it brought little satisfaction.

And all the time slowly strengthening and developing was the intense love of play which had shown itself in his earliest childhood. Ellis Farrant had crossed his path several times since their first meeting, and Donovan, though he did not like his cousin, always enjoyed his visits, for then his passion could be gratified, and his monotonous and already unsatisfying life could be broken by the most delicious of all excitements.

Later on came the temptation at school; the suggestion made by a weaker and more timid boy was carried out unscrupulously by Donovan, his conscience completely overmastered by the thirst for self-gratification. Then followed exposure, disgrace, some injustice, and a most bitter humiliation.

His school-days were abruptly ended. What was now to become of him?

"But faith beyond our sight may go,"
He said; "the gracious Fatherhood
Can only know above, below,
Eternal purposes of good.
From our free heritage of will
The bitter springs of pain and ill
Flow only in all worlds. The perfect day
Of God is shadowless, and love is love alway."
                                                                                    WHITTIER.

Golden sunshine, clear blue sky, the fresh green of spring, and a light delicious sea breeze—all this outward beauty and gladness there was on the morning after Colonel Farrant and his son had arrived at Plymouth. And yet surely never had heart felt more heavy, never had existence felt more unbearable, than Donovan's as he walked slowly and dejectedly on the Hoe. Colonel Farrant had left the hotel early in order to get his business settled, and Donovan, with a restless craving for something to divert his mind from his disgrace, had wandered out alone. He was not very successful in his search for peace, for the more he struggled to find interest or diversion in all around, the more he felt the bitter pangs of remorse and angry resentment. Groups of happy noisy children were playing on the grass, and he thought of his own lonely repressed childhood, and felt that the lots of men were unjustly and unequally arranged. His head ached miserably from the effects of yesterday's blow, and the gauntleting had left him so stiff and bruised that every movement was painful; the mere physical discomfort made it impossible for him to forget himself or his troubles for a minute.

He stood on the highest point of the Hoe, and looked at the exquisite view before him—the stately ships at anchor in the Sound, Drake's Island, with its miniature citadel, Mount Edgcumbe, with its beautifully wooded banks, and its foliage fringing the water, the clear sharply-defined line of the breakwater, and, far out over the sparkling dancing waves, the distant Eddystone. And yet, though he could not be altogether insensible to the beauty of the scene, the brightness and rejoicing, even the industry and success which he saw, made him more angry and resentful, more hopeless and despairing. Was not he disgraced, humiliated? and, at the same time, had not his faults been unjustly exaggerated, his punishment unjustly given? Life seemed one long perplexity, and now he felt utterly hopeless, utterly purposeless, for success and pleasure had been his chief objects hitherto, and now he felt that he had failed shamefully, and that the failure was so great that all pleasure in life was over.

Yet, in spite of his remorse and misery, he was neither repentant nor humble, for Mrs. Doery's early training had ruined him in this respect. The soft, pliable years of his childhood had been left in utter ignorance, and when his powers of reason and calculation had been well roused and brought into action, he was presented with the image of a God always watching to detect sin, always in readiness to punish, a hard, stern, inexorable Judge, who admitted fortunate people to heaven, and dismissed unfortunate people to hell, with strict impartiality and entire absence of feeling. No wonder that an angry sense of injustice grew up in Donovan's heart, no wonder that he turned from the cruelly false representation which was offered him, and steadily refused to believe in it. And when, in course of time, he heard other and truer views than these, his heart had grown hard, and he had become so accustomed to rely on himself and his natural strength of will that he felt no need of higher help. Moreover, religion required that he should own himself to be utterly weak and God all-powerful, and he would own neither the one nor the other. Even now, with his sense of failure and misery, he would not yield; fate had been against him, he was sorry to have brought disgrace on his father, he was angry and indignant with the world, and dissatisfied with himself, but that was all.

Two vessels in the Sound had just weighed anchor. He watched them with a listless interest, wondering whither they were bound, and what would become of them; whether they would safely reach their destination, or whether a cruel fate would cast them on rocks or quicksands, to be hopelessly, irretrievably wrecked. A fate to be struggled against! It was his notion of life; and, as the stately ships left the harbour and sailed out into the immeasurable expanse beyond, he turned away with a firmer, more decided step, and a less dejected heart; fate had been against him all his life, but he would not despair. He would conquer fate by the power of his will, he would live yet to be an honour to his father!

Colonel Farrant's business did not detain him very long, and, as soon as lunch was over, he suggested that they might as well at least begin their tour that afternoon. Donovan was relieved at the proposal, and assisted in the choice of a horse and dog-cart with resolute if somewhat forced cheerfulness. His father was further than ever from understanding him now, and began to doubt whether the driving tour would be a success; but, with all his perplexing contradictions, Donovan was very loveable, and his eager questions as to the Colonel's Indian life could not but be gratifying to the father's heart. He, for his part, however, was a much less successful questioner, and could elicit very little as to his son's past life, for Donovan was reserved by nature, and had been made still more so by his education. He drew an impenetrable veil over his childhood, and answered all allusions to his mother with quick abrupt monosyllables; for he was far too proud to be a grumbler, and indeed his grievances were too deep to bear speaking of. Little Dot was the only subject upon which he talked naturally and unreservedly, and Colonel Farrant was glad to make the most of this.

Once, inadvertently, they touched on the subject of his school disgrace.

"How is your forehead to-day?" asked the Colonel, after they had driven some little way in silence.

"Painful; but not worse than might be expected," replied Donovan. "It's hard lines to have to suffer from a rascally dishonourable breach of rules."

"I'm afraid, Dono, you are hardly in a position to talk about breaches of honour," said his father, gravely and sadly.

It was his only word of reproach, if reproach it could be called, but its gentleness made Donovan feel more than ever what a man his father was, and the thought of the trouble he had brought upon him overwhelmed him anew with shame and sorrow.

Colonel Farrant, noticing the sudden change of expression, was touched, and hastily changed the subject. Before long, too, the weather claimed their attention, the sky, which had been bright and clear when they left Plymouth, was now black and threatening, while the light breeze of the morning was growing stronger and keener. Everything betokened a storm, and before long the rain descended in torrents, drenching the occupants of the dog-cart to the skin, while the western wind blew so strongly and gustily that to hold an umbrella was out of the question. For himself Donovan rather enjoyed it. There was a sort of pleasure in being buffeted by wind and rain, but he was anxious for his father, as he knew he was subject to severe attacks of rheumatism, consequent on rheumatic fever. They resolved to stop at the first place they came to, and at last, to their relief, they reached a quaint little fishing town, which boasted a very fair inn.

But, in spite of warm rooms, a good dinner, and a change of clothes, Donovan's fears were realized. The next day his father was entirely incapacitated by rheumatism, and to proceed was an impossibility; the rain, too, continued without intermission, and everything seemed to augur some little stay at Porthkerran.

The day passed slowly and wearily. Donovan wrote letters at his father's dictation, read the Western Morning News from beginning to end, and finally set out, notwithstanding the rain, to reconnoitre the place. On coming in again, he found his father so much worse, and suffering such pain from his heart, that he tried hard to get leave to go for the doctor, but Colonel Farrant did not take to the idea.

"There is nothing to be done. I've had these attacks dozens of times," he replied, reassuringly. "Besides, ten to one we should only find a quack in this outlandish place."

"The landlord says there's a first-rate doctor named Tremain, do let me send a line to him," said Donovan, anxiously.

"Well, well, perhaps if I'm not better to-morrow we'll have him. I'm sorry to keep you in this dull place, my boy, but to-morrow if it's fine we will try to push on."

Colonel Farrant spoke cheerfully, and as if he really hoped to be well again before long, and yet Donovan could not shake off an uneasy dissatisfied feeling, which returned to him more and more strongly after each visit to his father's room. They had a great deal of talk that evening, and Donovan began to feel that home would be very different now that his father had returned, more like the ideal home he used to fancy. Colonel Farrant, too, was immensely relieved and cheered, for his sickness and helplessness had brought to light many of Donovan's best qualities, his strength, his tenderness, and his ready observance, while his evident anxiety seemed to speak well for his awakening love.

It would be hard to say which was the more disappointed when, on the Thursday morning, Colonel Farrant proved to be rather worse than better. He was suffering so much, when Donovan went into his room in the early morning, that he could no longer say anything against the plan for calling Dr. Tremain, and Donovan dispatched a messenger at once with a note to the doctor, and before half an hour had passed was called down into the little sitting-room to receive him.

Dr. Tremain was standing by the window when he entered, and Donovan, glancing at him rather curiously, was at once prepossessed in his favour. He was a middle-aged man, but looked younger than he really was, in spite of evident signs of ill-health; his brown eyes were clear and shining, and there was a kindly light in them which was very attractive, his forehead was high and very finely developed, his features were regular and good, while a long light brown beard concealed the one defect of the face, a slightly receding chin.

Donovan was a rather good judge of character; his first sensation was one of relief that he had found a man whom he could trust, and who would probably understand his father's case; his next was one of surprise that anyone so refined, and evidently so clever, should remain buried in a Cornish village. He led the way at once to Colonel Farrant's room, and then waited anxiously below for the report. The doctor's visit was a long one, and when at length he came downstairs Donovan was alarmed to find that he spoke very seriously of Colonel Farrant's illness. The rheumatic fever had left his heart weak, of that Donovan was aware, but Dr. Tremain spoke of really grave symptoms of further mischief, aggravated, no doubt, by the fatigue of his return from India, and by the chill which he had taken during the drive to Porthkerran.

"And any mental shock, any trouble, would that be likely to affect him?" asked Donovan, speaking calmly though his heart began to beat very uncomfortably:

"It might, yes, it probably would," replied the doctor, "but he told me of nothing of the sort."

"No, I didn't think he would," said Donovan, controlling his voice with difficulty, "but he has had great and unexpected trouble; I have given him trouble."

The confession, coming from one evidently so reserved, had a strange pathos; Dr. Tremain held out his hand warmly.

"That must make the anxiety doubly trying to you; but do not be despondent, this afternoon I may be able to give a better account; in the meantime only see that your father is kept perfectly quiet."

Donovan had been miserable enough before, but this news added tenfold to his misery. At Colonel Farrant's request, he wrote at once to his mother, giving her full particulars of his father's state, and describing the kind of accommodation which was to be had at Porthkerran, if she thought of coming down to nurse him; he added these details because his father told him to, but he himself did not think for a moment that she would come, she always shrank from witnessing pain, and even disliked being in little Dot's room for any length of time.

As Donovan wrote, Colonel Farrant lay perfectly still, thinking deeply, and when in the afternoon Dr. Tremain made his second visit, and could still give no more favourable report, the subject of his anxiety was revealed.

"Doctor, have you any lawyer in the place who would draw up a will for me?"

"There is one ordinarily," said Dr. Tremain. "But Mr. Turner is away now; I am afraid there is no one nearer than Plymouth."

"I have been thinking things over," said the Colonel. "It is many years since my former will was made, and, owing to many changes, I feel that it will be better to make an alteration. I feel fidgety and anxious to get things settled, it is provoking that there is no lawyer here."

"I do not know that you need feel any immediate anxiety," said the doctor; "what I have told you need not necessarily affect your life for many years."

"No, but it may affect it at any moment," said the Colonel, gravely. "I want to be prepared, I want to have everything in order for my boy."

Dr. Tremain, aware that worry or anxiety was very bad for his patient, thought of the best means of re-assuring his mind, and, after a moment's consideration, suggested that he should write both briefly and clearly his own wishes until a formal will could be drawn up. Colonel Farrant was much relieved by the idea, and directed the doctor to ask Donovan for a sheet of paper, upon which Dr. Tremain wrote at his dictation a clear and properly worded form, expressing his desire to devise and bequeath the bulk of his property to his son, Donovan Farrant, and providing an ample allowance for his widow during her life. Then one of the servants and the doctor himself witnessed the will, and the Colonel lay back again relieved and satisfied.

They were still talking on the subject when Donovan's voice was heard without; it was just post time, and he knew his father had a letter to send.

"I do not wish my son to see this, I wish him to know nothing of the transaction," said the Colonel, quickly.

Dr. Tremain had, however, already given the word of admittance, and Colonel Farrant. starting up hurriedly, took the will from the table and put it into the doctor's hand.

"Take it, take it, and not a word."

There was a sudden pause; Donovan came towards the bed just in time to see his father fall forward, and to hear a slight sound in his throat, of which he did not know the meaning. Dr. Tremain gave an inarticulate exclamation, raised the inanimate form and bent down close to it; then he glanced to the other side of the bed, to that other form almost as still and inanimate, to that other face, white, rigid, and agonized, and saw there was no need of words; Donovan understood that his father was dead.

All that a thoroughly good, thoroughly unselfish man can do at such a time Dr. Tremain did. He felt the most intense pity for Donovan left thus utterly alone, with a burden of remorse on his conscience, and this overwhelming grief at his heart; but it was difficult to be of much use to one so completely stunned and paralysed, and the doctor could only persuade him to leave the room.

Donovan moved away mechanically, and went down below to the little sitting-room. He felt scarcely anything but a dim, vague, undefined horror, a consciousness of a sudden blank in his life. The shock had been so great that, for the time, all his faculties were numbed, and he scarcely heard the doctor's words; he stood by the mantelpiece perfectly silent, perfectly motionless, with his eyes fixed on the centre ornament, a little tawdry shell house mounted on a board strewn with dried seaweeds. How many times he had dreamily calculated the number of Cornish cowries which would be needed to adorn fifty houses he did not know, but he was roused at length by the doctor's hand on his shoulder.

"If I can be of any use in sending off any telegrams for you, or helping you in any other way, pray tell me."

The words seemed to rouse Donovan, the rigid stillness of his face changed suddenly, the look of suffering deepened.

"My mother, I must let her know."

He sat down by the table and hid his face in his hands, battling with his emotion. The doctor had brought paper and pen; he offered to write the telegram, but at the proposal Donovan raised his head once more, and, with perfect control and calmness, took the pen in his hand and wrote, without a moment's pause or hesitation, the brief words which were to convey the news of Colonel Farrant's death to the rector of the church near Oakdene. He was the only person fit to break the news to Mrs. Farrant, the only person Donovan could think of at all, except Mrs. Doery or Ellis Farrant, and from them he instinctively shrank.

Dr. Tremain promised to see that the message was sent, and then very reluctantly took leave, trying, as he walked along the wet muddy road, to think of any means by which he could help the poor boy who seemed left in such a miserable friendless state. But it was a difficult question, and the doctor had arrived at no satisfactory solution by the time he had passed through the village and reached the gabled ivy-covered house where he lived.

Trenant was a delightfully comfortable house, prettily furnished, exquisitely neat, and in every way thoroughly well ordered. Some one was singing on the staircase as Dr. Tremain opened the front door, and as he took off his wet coat there was a sound of hurrying footsteps, and a pretty bright-looking girl of about sixteen ran to meet him.

"Papa, how long you have been out, and how shockingly wet you are!"

"Yes, it is raining heavily," said the doctor, taking one of the soft little hands in his as he crossed the hall. "Is your mother in, Gladys?"

"Yes, she's with the children in the drawing-room, and we've kept some tea for you. I'll go and see to it," and she ran off, finishing the song which had been interrupted, while her father went into the drawing-room.

Gladys was the eldest daughter of the house, and when her parents had chosen her name—a name which they considered as emblematic of happiness, in spite of certain questionings which had arisen among name fanciers on the subject—it would seem that some unseen fairy godmother had really bestowed that best of all gifts on their child, for Gladys was the happiest, most contented, sunshiny little person imaginable. Everything about her looked happy, her sunny golden-brown hair, her bright, well-opened, grey eyes, her laughing mouth, her little unformed nose, her dimpled chin, and fresh glowing complexion. She had, of course, her ups and downs like most people, but she was too unselfish to be depressed for any length of time, and too easy and accommodating to make much of such troubles and difficulties as she had.

In a few minutes the tea was ready, and Gladys, with a dainty little hand-tray filled with a plate of crisp home-made biscuits, and the cup and saucer, crossed the hall once more, passed the little conservatory where two canaries were singing with all their might, and entered the drawing-room, in which she found her father and mother talking together.

"They are strangers. The father had just returned from India," Dr. Tremain was saying. "And they were taking a driving tour in Cornwall; it's the saddest thing I've heard for a long time. Without the slightest preparation the poor fellow is left in this way, without a friend near him."

"He is quite alone then at the inn?" asked Mrs. Tremain.

"Perfectly alone, and I don't see how we are to help him. I thought of asking him here, but I feel sure he wouldn't come."

"Poor boy! How old is he?"

"About eighteen, I believe; but he's decidedly old for his age, he is a man compared with Dick."

"Oh! Dick never will grow old," said the mother, with a little sigh, as she remembered how far away was the sailor son. "But we cannot leave this poor Mr. Farrant without any sympathy. Would it be any use if I went to see him!"

"It would be the very best thing possible," said the doctor, "if you do not shrink from it too much. I am afraid you will find it very difficult to make any way with him, but I can't think of any other plan for helping him."

"I will try to see him, then, after dinner," said Mrs. Tremain.

"Is Mr. Farrant's father dead?" asked Gladys, as her father left the room.

"Yes, dear, quite suddenly. The shock must have been terrible to the poor boy."

"Oh! mother, how will you comfort him? How dreadful it must be to have such sorrow all alone!"

"Yes, terrible indeed," said Mrs. Tremain. "I am afraid we cannot do very much to comfort him, dear Gladys, but God can comfort him, and perhaps He may use us as His messengers of comfort; at any rate we can all pray for him."

"Yes, we can do that. But, mother,"—and a shade crossed Gladys' bright face—"it does seem so strange that some people should have so much more trouble than others. Dick and I, for instance, we have had scarcely anything but happiness all our lives. Of course Dick's going away is always sad, but I mean we've had no great sorrows. Doesn't it seem almost unfair, unjust, that lives should be so unequal?"

"It must seem so, until we can realize that we are all the children of a loving Father, who gives to everyone just what is best for them. If we remember that God's will is to draw us all nearer Him, to fit us for the greatest happiness of all, we shall surely trust Him to choose our joys and sorrows, and those of everyone else too."

"And yet, mother, it seems very often as if the troubles were just the very worst things for us, the things that made us go wrong. Think of poor Ben Trevethan at the forge; his wife died, and directly afterwards his son grew so wild, and took to drinking, and then just when Ben hoped to steady him again he was laid up for months and months, and the son grew worse, and at last ran away; it seems as if it would have been so much better if all those troubles hadn't happened together, as if the son would have had so much more chance of getting right."

"Yes, it seems so to us, dear," said Mrs. Tremain; "but you must remember that we cannot see the pattern which our lives are weaving, we can only go on bit by bit, remembering that there is a pattern, and that one day we shall understand why the dark shades, and the long plain pieces, and the bright glad colours were sent us. Ben Trevethan's life, and his son's too, will not be wasted, you may be sure; they will help to influence, to guide, or to warn other lives, all the time that they are weaving their pattern."

"Our pattern is very bright just now," said Gladys, raising her happy contented face for a kiss. "And baby Nesta is the very brightest sunniest part of it all!" and she sprang up to receive from the nurse the little white-robed baby, the new delight and treasure of the whole house.

Her song was taken up once more as she walked to and fro with her little charge, and the voices of the other children at their play came from the further end of the room, while Mrs. Tremain's thoughts reverted to the sad story she had heard, and to the work which lay before her that evening.

Her task was no easy one; she trembled a little when she was actually standing in the passage of the inn, having sent a messenger to ask if Mr. Farrant would see her. Dr. Tremain had been called out, and she had been obliged to come alone; this made the interview seem all the more formidable, but she was too unselfish to shrink from the difficulty. The messenger returned quickly, and she was ushered into the little sitting-room, speedily forgetting all thought of herself as she saw what utter misery was written on Donovan's face. He came forward to meet her, and bowed gravely; then, as she held out her hand with a few words of explanation and sympathy, he took it in his, answered briefly but courteously, and drew a chair towards the fire for her. She sat down, and he fell back into his former position, with his elbows resting on the mantelpiece and his face half hidden, as if he had done all that courtesy required of him, and intended to return to his own thoughts.

Mrs. Tremain's voice roused him; it was a very low gentle voice, and fell pleasantly on his ear.

"I cannot bear to think of your being all alone here," she began. "This inn seems so forlorn and comfortless for you. I wish we could persuade you to come to our house, you should be perfectly quiet and undisturbed."

She hardly thought that he would consent to this plan, but it made an opening for conversation, and it roused Donovan at once; his tone, as he replied, was more than merely courteous, and his sad eyes met hers fully.

"You are very kind and good to think of it, but I don't think I can come, thank you; to-morrow my mother will be here, and to-night I can't leave—I would rather——" he broke off hastily, unable to control his distress.

"You must do just what you like best," said Mrs. Tremain; "I can quite understand your feeling."

"It would be of no use," continued Donovan, recovering himself, but speaking in a low constrained voice. "Can I escape from my thoughts at your house any more than here? Nothing can make misery and remorse bearable."

"I suppose we all see the full beauty and goodness of those we love only when we lose them," said Mrs. Tremain, not quite understanding him, "and then we wish we had often acted differently to them; those bitter regrets are very hard to bear."

"Ah! you don't know, you can't understand what reason for remorse I have!" cried Donovan; and then he looked steadily at Mrs. Tremain for a minute, to decide whether he should tell her of his disgrace or not.

He saw a sweet, gentle, motherly face, a calm serene forehead, smooth bands of dark hair beginning to turn grey, delicately-arched and pencilled eyebrows, and dark grey eyes, which seemed to shine right into his, eyes which were clear, and unswerving, and truthful, yet full of tender sympathy.

His voice trembled a little, but yet it was a relief to him when he said, with lowered eyelids, and a burning flush on his cheek, "I have disgraced my father."

Before long Mrs. Tremain had heard all the particulars of his trouble at school, and had listened sadly to his account of the journey, and of his father's illness. She was sure that it was good for him to talk; if she had known that he had never in his whole life had such a disburdening, she might have encouraged him still more. She gave him all her sympathy, and when at length he relapsed into silence it was with a look of less hopeless misery on his face. Mrs. Tremain glanced round the room then, and saw that the meal prepared on the table was untouched.

"I have been keeping you from dinner!" she exclaimed, regretfully.

"No, indeed. I want nothing. I could not eat," said Donovan, decidedly.

Mrs. Tremain hardly felt surprised as she looked at the tough steak and greasy gravy, now perfectly cold.

"You must eat something," she said, assuming a gentle authority over him, which he was not at all inclined to resist. "Give me carte blanche with the landlady, and you shall have something you can eat directly. This must have been waiting."

"Yes, it has been up an hour or two," said Donovan, wearily, and he threw himself back in an arm-chair, while Mrs. Tremain left the room, returning before long with some hot coffee and a far more appetizing repast. She sat down with him, taking some coffee herself, and inducing him both to eat and to talk; and when at last she was obliged to go he was really cheered and refreshed.

"Mrs. Farrant will be here to-morrow," she said, at parting. "That will be a comfort to you."

Donovan did not answer. He would not show what his real feeling on the subject was, but only hardened his face, and, thanking Mrs. Tremain for her kindness, wished her good-bye.

So drives self-love through just, and through unjust,
To one man's pow'r, ambition, lucre, lust.
                                                                                            POPE.

On the following evening the little inn-parlour witnessed a very different scene. Donovan, who had known perfectly well what to expect, had, after a night and day of misery, settled down into a stony speechless sorrow, largely mingled now with bitterness, for the meeting with his mother had been most painful.

The trouble had sharpened Mrs. Farrant, and in the selfishness of her grief she made not the slightest allowance for the feelings of other people. Without intentional cruelty, without indeed thinking at all, she was absolutely merciless. Donovan had tried hard to meet her affectionately. Even his stiff reserve had melted in the greatness and honesty of his desire to comfort her. Anyone not entirely absorbed in self, must have seen and accepted such very real sympathy, but Mrs. Farrant saw nothing, thought of nothing, but wearied with her journey, unnerved by the sudden shock, vented her petulant grief on the only victim at hand.

It was a very grievous scene. On the sofa lay the widow, a beautiful and still young-looking woman, her face distorted now, however, by passionate sorrow, and wet with tears—that violent stormy grief which is soon spent, and which even already was mixed with angry reproaches. Standing by the window, in an attitude expressing rigid endurance, was the son, his face very still and quiet in contrast to his mother's, but with an indescribable bitterness about it which almost overpowered the sadness. He had learnt quickly that his presence was irritating instead of comforting to his mother. In a sort of proud hopelessness he moved away from her, and stood looking out across the dreary street to the grey sea beyond, while, as if in a sort of dream, he heard all that was going on: the ceaseless drip of the rain, the distant breaking of the waves upon the shore, the weary reiteration of sobs and reproaches from within. Harder and harder grew his face as he listened, just because his heart was anything but hard, and ached and smarted under that "continual dropping." How long it went on he had not the faintest idea, but it seemed to him that he had heard many times of his "disgrace," had often winced at the mention of his father's name, had silently listened to many unjust accusations, had long felt the grating incongruity of this stormy passion with the silent room of death above. It was a relief when at length, exhausted with her sorrow, Mrs. Farrant fell asleep. He drew nearer then, and stood silently watching her, looked at her soft brown hair, her faultless features, her singularly delicate complexion. It seemed incredible that one so beautiful and gentle-looking could have uttered such cruel reproaches, but it was by no means surprising to Donovan. He had been quite prepared for it, had learnt many years ago that his mother was a mother only in name, that the outgoing love of true motherhood was not in her, that the most he could ever expect for himself or Dot was a ghastly shadow in place of a reality. He had been a fool to think of comforting her! He would waste no more hopes on anything so hopeless. He flung back to the window, yet returned to spread a shawl over her feet.

The wretched evening wore on, Mrs. Farrant awoke, and with scarcely a word went upstairs to bed. Once more the room was lonely and still—infinitely more lonely even than it had been on the previous evening, for now Donovan's whole being was crying out at the injustice of its loneliness. Why, when he would willingly have shown tenderness and love, was he coldly repulsed? Why was he cut off from all sympathy? What was the meaning of the pain which had relentlessly pursued him from his very childhood? To these questions what answer could he make?—all seemed to him hopeless confusion and injustice. If for a moment his mind did revert to the thought of a Providence ruling over all, it was only to be as quickly repelled by the vision of the God presented to him in his childhood, for it was always to this teaching that he recurred when he allowed the subject to enter his thoughts at all. Mrs. Doery's misrepresentation had left its impress on his mind, while in later years the truths he had heard had always been so resolutely and speedily rejected that they had failed to leave their mark.

The room began to grow intolerable to him; he rushed out into the open air, and breathed more freely as the cold night wind blew upon him. The rain was still falling fast, but he scarcely noticed it as he strode on recklessly. The mere mechanical exercise was in itself soothing, and he might have trudged along the muddy road for an indefinite time, had not his attention been attracted by a distant sound of music. Drawing nearer, he found that the house from which it proceeded was Dr. Tremain's, and instinctively he approached one of the windows, and looked through the half-opened Venetian blind at the scene within.

Not a detail of that picture escaped him. A soft light falling through the opal lamp globe illumined the room, the pale French grey walls, the running oak-leaf patterned carpet, the deep crimson curtains, all harmonized to perfection. Seated at the piano was Gladys Tremain, her bright hair gathered back from her face, and her complexion, which was at times almost too highly coloured, looking absolutely perfect in the mellow lamp-light. She wore a very simple white dress, and her small soft hands seemed to touch the keys almost caressingly.

Donovan forgot his sorrow for a moment, and felt vexed when, as she stopped playing, the spell which had bound him was for the time broken by a voice which came from within the room.

"Sing something, Gladys; I'm tired of those old 'songs without words,'" and the speaker crossed the room, and came close to the piano, so that Donovan could see he was a boy of about his own age, of slight build and fair complexion, but not sufficiently like Gladys to be any relation, he fancied.

"You dare to grow tired of Mendelssohn!" said Gladys, with a fine show of indignation. "You boys have no taste whatever; one might as well play to—to——" She paused for a comparison.

"To the heathen Chinee," suggested her companion. "'What a lot of chop-sticks, bombs, and gongs!'—you remember the song, of course. That's Chinese art, you know."

Gladys laughed, and there was a merry little squabble carried on, as the two tried to play the air of the old nursery rhyme.

"Well, now will you sing after all?" said the boy at last; "we will allow, if you like, that it's a case of pearls before swine."

"Don't, Stephen," and Gladys really looked vexed.

"Why, isn't even that allowable? I didn't know you were such a little Puritan."

"You know I can't bear that kind of thing; it is such a pity to use——"

"A fellow can't be always picking his words—I'm sure it's as good as a proverb now," interrupted Stephen. "If you only knew what it was to have such a strait-laced mother as I have, you——"

"Find me a song," said Gladys, handing him a portfolio, and, though she spoke sweetly, there was a certain grave dignity in her tone.

The choice was soon made, but Donovan was so absorbed in watching Gladys that he scarcely noticed the first verse of the song, until a mournful refrain of "Strangers yet" recalled him painfully to himself. With strained attention he listened to the remaining verses:—

"After childhood's winning ways,
After care and blame and praise,
Counsel asked and wisdom given,
After mutual prayers to heaven,
Child and parent scarce regret
When they part are strangers yet.

"Will it evermore be thus,
Spirits still impervious?
Shall we never fairly stand
Soul to soul and hand to hand?
Are the bonds eternal set
To retain us strangers yet?"

"Absurdly impossible," was Stephen's comment at the end. "I had no idea it meant that kind of strangers—very dull too."

"The song or the parents?" asked Gladys, laughing. "In either case your answer will be equally rude. Here is papa," she continued, as Dr. Tremain came into the room. "I shall tell him what a teaze you are, Stephen; you're really getting worse than Dick."

"What is that doleful song?" asked the doctor, putting his hand on her shoulder as he bent down to look at the piece of music. "'Strangers yet!' Who were the strangers?"

"A parent and child, papa, and Stephen declares that it's absurdly impossible."

"Of course it is!" said Stephen, hotly. "Why, do you think when my father returns from his voyages that he feels a stranger to me, or that my mother doesn't know everything about me—rather too much, perhaps, sometimes."

The doctor could not help smiling at the rueful tone of the last sentence.

"Well, Stephen, I think in your case it would be 'absurdly impossible,'" he said, laughingly, "but I am afraid perfect comprehension between parents and children is not so universal as it ought to be, or as you seem to think it. Here comes the mother to give her opinion. But how is this?" for Mrs. Tremain had in her arms a clinging, four-year-old boy in the tiniest of white night-shirts.

"Jackie had a very bad dream, and the only thing that would set him right was just to come downstairs and see all the world again," she explained, smiling at the general exclamation.

In a moment the suffering Jackie became the hero of the evening, and was allowed to confide all his terrors to "papa," how a great tiger from the "Shosical Dardens" had come close to his bed to eat him up, till just at the supreme moment "mother" had heard his screams and had rescued him. A little re-assuring talk on the safety of tiger's cages, and a laughing affirmative to the question "And 'oo is very strong, isn't 'oo?" soon set Jackie's mind at rest, his sleepy eyelids began to close, and, having kissed everyone with drowsy solemnity, he cuddled up again to his mother and was carried off to bed.

"There is no doubt that those two understand each other," said the doctor, smiling thoughtfully.

"No, indeed!" said Gladys and Stephen, emphatically.

"No, indeed!" echoed Donovan, under his breath, and he turned quickly away with burning tears in his eyes, unable to bear the sight of the little home drama any longer.

Mr. Ellis Farrant happened to be in town when the news of his cousin's death reached him. It was the time of year when he found that it answered best to be in town, a time when he was sure of plenty of amusement, and could reckon on getting most of his dinners out. He was a man without any settled profession, of moderate income, but expensive habits, and, in order to reconcile these conflicting elements, he found it necessary to live as much as possible on his friends. It was not until late on Saturday afternoon that, on returning from his usual saunter in the park, he found Donovan's letter, with its brief formal intimation of his father's death. Ellis Farrant was startled, awed; he did not like being confronted with anything so gloomy yet so inevitable as death, it was a subject he invariably dismissed from his mind as quickly as possible, and now his cousin had died with an awful suddenness, and Ellis, whether he would or not, found his thoughts turning to his own death, that dismal goal which awaited him in the future. Where should he die, and how, and—and when?

His hand trembled a little as he again took up Donovan's letter, and strove to banish the uneasy reflections which were troubling him by a fresh perusal of the startling news; he found himself, however, gazing vacantly at the handwriting, rather than reading the sense conveyed by the firm, clear, somewhat cramped letters. Then his mind wandered off to Donovan himself, perhaps something in the writing reminded him of the clever, strong-willed, self-reliant boy who had so often been his companion. He had been expelled from school, the letter stated, the very absence of further comment or explanation showing how deeply the disgrace had galled the proud nature. Well, he would pass from disgrace to ease and pleasure, for was not he his father's heir? Ellis Farrant reflected for a few minutes on his good luck. Then with a sudden and vehement exclamation, he started to his feet. No, it was not so—he recollected now his cousin's simple will at the time of his marriage,—Donovan was not his father's heir, everything had been left to Mrs. Farrant. It had been little more than "All to my wife." He had laughed over the story of the shortest will long ago, he could not recall where or with whom, but he remembered clearly that Colonel Farrant's will had been to that effect, and the remembrance seemed to excite him strangely.

"In another year I shall be forty," he mused to himself, "what the world will call a middle-aged man. I hate that term middle-aged; but anyhow, I shall not look it, and I am tolerably—yes, really decidedly handsome."

He rested his elbows on the mantel-piece and surveyed himself critically in the mirror. In colouring and general outline of face he was sufficiently like Colonel Farrant and Donovan to show near relationship, but his features and expression were entirely different. The eyes of very dark steel-grey lacked the peculiar admixture of brown in the iris, which was so noticeable in Donovan's; they were hard, bold-looking eyes, unpleasant to meet. The firm well-shaped chin was contradicted by a weak mouth, which was only partially concealed by a bristling black moustache. But, in spite of these defects, he was, as he had said, a handsome man, or, at any rate, he was possessed of a certain brilliancy which generally passed for good looks.

Satisfied apparently with his own reflection, he turned at length from the mirror, and, sitting down to the table, dispatched first a telegram to Donovan announcing his intention of coming to Porthkerran the following day, and, secondly, the advertisement of Colonel Farrant's death to the Times, with an elaborately-worded eulogy and feeling description of the grief of the family. After that he relapsed into a profound reverie, from which he only roused himself to calculate what was the probable value of the Oakdene estate.

Donovan's Sunday at Porthkerran was almost as trying a day as the previous one at school had been. Possibly his grief and wretchedness might have induced him to enter the church, had not his recollections of the last Sunday deterred him. Never could he forget the slow torture to which he had then been subjected! The intolerable length of the day, the two services, the sermons with their direct reference to the sin which he had promoted, their unsparing condemnation of the ringleader, the sudden turning of all eyes to his place, the struggle between his sense of shame and his pride, the angry resentment of the injustice and exaggeration. He lived it all over again as he walked gloomily along the Porthkerran cliffs, and the silent repressed indignation did him no good.

It was with his very worst expression that he went to meet Ellis Farrant; his face was dark and proud and cold, yet even then the contrast between the cousins was very marked. Donovan's, though the more hopeless face of the two, had a certain nobility nowhere traceable in Ellis's bold, self-satisfied mien; the one face expressed a restless craving for something beyond self, restrained only by a powerful will, the other expressed little but self-satisfaction, and a sort of defiance and bravado.

Yet the sympathy which Ellis expressed so readily and fluently both to Donovan and to his mother was not altogether artificial; he was by no means heartless, although undoubtedly he was a selfish scheming man, bent upon furthering his own interests. In the pursuance of his own aims, however, he occasionally felt kindly disposed towards others, and he admired, even liked, Donovan.

On the Monday all was changed, however. The simple and beautiful burial service had fallen with little effect on the ears of the two chief mourners; all that remained of Colonel Farrant had been laid in the little churchyard of Porthkerran. The two cousins and the doctor had returned in silence to the inn, and then, as soon as Donovan was out of earshot, Dr. Tremain took Ellis Farrant aside.

"There is but one more duty, Mr. Farrant, which I have to discharge, and that is to put you in possession of the will which Colonel Farrant executed just before his death. I should have given it you earlier in the day, only there has been no opportunity, for I promised the Colonel that his son should know nothing of the transaction."

"A will—a codicil, I suppose," said Ellis Farrant, hurriedly taking the sheet of paper from Dr. Tremain and unfolding it. Though he was weak and impulsive, he was too thorough a man of the world not to have his facial expression in very fair command; he betrayed little but surprise as he read his cousin's most unwelcome change of purpose, and his voice was cool and steady as he again folded the paper and turned to Dr. Tremain. "I am named as my cousin's sole executor, I see; this must be referred to his lawyer in London. Many thanks to you, doctor, for your considerate help."

Dr. Tremain rose to take leave, and Ellis, accompanying him to the door, found Donovan in the passage outside, and left him to see the last of the guest.

"We leave early to-morrow," he began, hurriedly, "so I must wish you good-bye now, Dr. Tremain—thank you for your kindness."

"I hope we may meet again," said the doctor, shaking his hand warmly, and looking with grave compassion at the miserably hopeless face before him.

"Will you thank Mrs. Tremain for her kindness to me," continued Donovan, still with the air of one wearily discharging a duty of courtesy, "and for the flowers she kindly sent this morning?"

"Certainly, I will give her your message, and when next you come westward I hope we shall see you at Porthkerran. Good-bye!" And the doctor turned away rather sadly, and set out homewards.

Before he had gone far, however, he heard hurrying steps behind, and his late companion once more stood beside him.

"Forgive me," he said, hoarsely, "I was cold and ungrateful, I shall not forget your kindness, only now I'm too wretched to feel it. Don't think too hardly of me." And before Dr. Tremain could do more than show his answer by look and gesture, Donovan was half way back again to the inn.

During this time Ellis Farrant had been giving vent to his rage and disappointment within the house. That all his schemes should be frustrated by a paltry piece of note-paper, witnessed by a doctor and a servant, was inexpressibly galling. Had the will been elaborately drawn up, and duly besprinkled with meaningless legal phrases, it would not have caused him half the annoyance. It was the absurd littleness, the perfect simplicity of the thing which chafed him so. Was there no flaw to be detected?—no, not the very slightest even to his longing eye. Would it be possible to call his cousin's sanity into question? No, utterly impossible, there could be no doubt of that. There was a moment's pause in Ellis Farrant's thoughts, a pause in which he fully realised the defeat of his purpose; he heard Donovan return to the inn, and at the sound of his footsteps he hastily shuffled the will into his pocket, but the precaution was needless, for the footsteps passed by, and presently the door of Donovan's room was closed and locked. Again Ellis drew out the will and looked at it fixedly; it was a little crumpled now, he noticed the impression of his Indian-grass cigar-case upon it; what a frail, trumpery, perishable thing it was—he began to dwell on this thought with satisfaction instead of bitterness. Then he looked again at the signatures of the witnesses: "Thomas Tremain, Surgeon, Trenant, Porthkerran." "Mary Pengelly, Servant, Penruddock Arms Inn, Porthkerran."

A maid-servant and a doctor living in an obscure Cornish village, what had he to fear from them? And the boy upstairs? Why, he knew nothing, and never need know—never should know, and with sudden resolution Ellis tore the sheet of paper in half, and in half again. Then a great horror seized upon him, he turned very cold, and fell back in his chair, shuddering violently. It was done, and there was no retrieving the deed! He mechanically fingered and counted the six fragments, looking at each with a vacant terror. By and by the terror began to take definite shape. What if the boy were to come down? He must completely destroy all remains of this detestable will, of this little heap of paper which had been the will. He was very cold, he would order a fire, and he crossed the room with unsteady steps to ring the bell, but paused with the caution of guilt when his hand was on the bell-rope. Supposing Mary Pengelly should come, supposing she caught sight of these fragments! he felt as if she would instantly perceive them in the securest hiding-place. No, he must light the fire himself, and with nervous haste he drew a box of fusees from his pocket, and with considerable difficulty succeeded in kindling the damp wood into a blaze. Then he carefully placed the little heap of paper in the very centre of the grate, and watched anxiously while gradually the edges curled upwards, the whiteness was scorched to brown, then to black, fringed with sparks of red, finally to a swift yellow blaze, while the last black shreds of Colonel Farrant's will were borne up the chimney by the sudden draught. Not quite the last, however, for one fragment had fallen to the side of the fireplace, and floated down on to the fender just as Ellis thought all was over. He snatched it up, and would once more have thrown it to the flames had not something forced him to look at it; scorched and half charred as were its edges, he could plainly read the words—"My only son Donovan." A swift pang of regret thrilled him for a moment; then a sound in the passage outside renewed his guilty terror, and, stooping down, he held the fragment to the blaze with his own fingers, scarcely feeling the near approach of the hot flames, in his relief that the last vestige of the will was finally disposed of.

DUCHESS OF YORK.
    "Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy,
    Thy school-days frightful, desperate, wild and furious.
    * * * * * * * * * *
    What comfortable hour cans't thou name
    That ever graced me in thy company?"
KING RICHARD.
    "If I be so disgracious in your eyes
    Let me march on, and not offend you, madam."
                                        King Richard III.—Act iv, Sc. 4.

In this country the power of the man in and out of society is all but supreme. Wherever he is he overpowers and rules, and shadowy crowds yield to his spell. At his beck they join a crusade, or forswear their own existence. As he dictates they are protoplasms and sporules, or divinities. They throb with his affections, they pant with his desires, and rise to his aspirations. They see as he sees, hear as he hears, and believe as he believes. This is the power for evil or for good.

                                            The Times. Christmas Day, 1880.

Oakdene Manor was a comfortable though somewhat prosaic modern house, built by Colonel Farrant's father on the site of the old Manor House farm, which had belonged to the Farrants from time immemorial. It stood on the very verge of a beautifully-wooded hill overlooking one of the simple yet lovely valleys which abound in Mountshire, with distant glimpses of blue-grey downs, a view of which it was impossible to tire. The shrubs, which had been planted nearly eighteen years, were now in their full perfection; a long approach, bordered on each side by pines and laurels, led to the pretty creeper-laden porch, while beyond and to the front of the house lay a somewhat curiously-planned garden, formed into four terraces cut one below the other on the side of the hill. At the foot of the lowest terrace there was a somewhat overgrown pond, and beyond this a thick wild wood, sloping down to the valley. It was rather a late season, and, though the first week in June was nearly over, the trees were only just beginning to look really green. It seemed a wonderfully slow process this re-clothing of Nature, at least to little Dot Farrant it seemed so; but she lay watching the trees so continuously from day to day that, although Mrs. Doery affirmed that she must see them grow, the long expectancy of spring was really more protracted to her than to those who watched the growth and progress less carefully.

Her couch was, as usual, drawn close up to the window on a showery afternoon of early June, and she had contrived to while away the time very pleasantly by watching the sudden changes of storm and sun on the wood below, for Dot had something of an artist's eye, and was quick to mark the effects of light and shade. Happy little observations of this kind were indeed but too often all she was fit for; grievously fragile and delicate, she was, as Mrs. Doery expressed it in broad terms, "diseased through and through." And yet it was on the whole a happy and singularly child-like face. Her complexion was pale but very fair, the delicate contour of her features was still so far unharmed by suffering as to show her childish years; her hair was strained back from the forehead and just fell to the shoulder in soft, dark-brown masses, and her eyes were almost exactly like Donovan's, dark hazel, full of pathos, but expressing less painfully the sad unsatisfied craving so noticeable in his.

This was perhaps to be accounted for; to Dot everything she needed, so it seemed to her, was summed up in her brother. Donovan was her friend, her comforter, her teacher, her playfellow; when he was with her, her days were almost uniformly happy. She would bear her pain in patient silence for the sake of pleasing and sparing him; and when he was absent the thought of what he would have liked, and the remembrance of his own patience and control nerved her still to endure and to copy her ideal. Her love really amounted to worship.

But, deeply as he loved her, Dot could not at all fill this position to Donovan. She was indeed to him both friend and comforter, and, in a sense, also teacher and playfellow, but he was of course the strong one, she leant on him utterly, and he—he had nothing to lean on but himself, or rather would accept nothing. The strong craving was there, only his pride of will held it in iron fetters.

"'If the ash before the oak,
Then you may expect a soak;
If the oak before the ash,
Then 'twill only be a splash,'"

quoted Dot, merrily, as she lay watching the dripping trees glistening in the sunlight. "Doery, do you hear? We are going to have a fine summer, for the oaks are twice as forward as the other trees."

Mrs. Doery was sitting before a large work-basket, darning stockings; by the gloom and sourness expressed on her features, it might have been supposed that she was the constant sufferer, and bright-faced Dot the able-bodied person.

"Well, Miss Dot," she answered, in a depressed voice, "I'm not much of a believer in such signs as them. The weather is as contrairy as most other things and folks; reckon that it'll do one thing, it's sure to go and do another."

"I suppose things do go rather contrairily," said Dot, coining a word upon Mrs. Doery's model. "Certainly just now everything seems gone wrong," and she thought with a sigh of the loss of the father whom she had never learnt to know, and of Donovan's school disgrace.

"I've lived sixty-eight years come Michaelmas," replied Mrs. Doery, "and I never knew it otherwise; folks generally get just what they don't want, and when they don't want. There was your poor grandpapa, just as he'd built this house, he was laid up with paralysis, and never so much as saw it finished. There was me myself" (Mrs. Doery was very fond of dilating on her past life), "just as I'd got used to doing for my poor master, comes Master Donovan to plague the life out of me; and then, as if I hadn't had enough of trouble and worriting, you, who I thought would have been a good baby, turns out sickly and invalidated." (Mrs. Doery rather confused long words at times.) "This last month, too, has been a regular chapter of misfortunes; I counted on it that at least Mr. Donovan would have done us some credit at school, seeing that all the folk say he's so clever—too clever, Dr. Simpkins used to say when he was little; and now here he is home again, with nothing but disgrace to bring us."

"Doery, how can you!" interrupted Dot, with burning cheeks. "You know how sorry he is—how dreadfully unhappy."

"Miss Dot," said Doery, a little severely, "I've known Mr. Donovan a sight longer than you, and, mark my words, he's no more sorry than—than—you are," she ended, not very conclusively. "It always was the way; the more I punished him for his faults, the less sorrow he'd show; he'd only get angry, and that's what he is now. I know well enough that look on his face, and it's never sorrow that brought it there. If you think he's a-grieving over his fault you're mistaken, Miss Dot; he's thinking of them fellows who gave him the mark on his forehead."

Doery had a good deal of shrewd common-sense, and she was not far wrong here; the only pity was that her penetration did not go a little further, and convince her how very much at fault her early system of training had been.

"Oh! but, Doery, that was such a cruel, mean, unjust thing to do," pleaded Dot, with tears in her eyes. "How can you wonder that he felt angry? Oh! I can't think how anyone could have hurt my dear, dear Dono! They must have been wretches!"

"Those who do wrong suffer for it," said Mrs. Doery. "Mr. Donovan had done harm to the school, and the school was bound to show what it felt. Not but what I'm sorry enough that they've made that scar on his forehead, for he's a fine handsome lad, no one can't deny," and for a moment the old woman's face was softened, for she was not without a certain pride in her troublesome, ill-starred ne'er-do-weel.

"Will the mark always stay, do you think?" questioned Dot, with feminine anxiety.

"Always," said Mrs. Doery, with a sigh; "he'll always be known by it, like Cain, to his dying day."

"Who is Cain?" asked Dot, whose bringing up equalled Donovan's in ignorance.

"Cain was a bad man, who murdered his brother, and had a mark put on his forehead," said Mrs. Doery.

"How horrid!" shuddered Dot. "But I thought you said the other day that it wasn't proper for little girls to hear about murders, when I wanted to hear what cook had shown you about one in the newspaper."

"There are murders and murders," said Mrs. Doery, sagely. "Cain is different from the ones now-a-days; he's—he's—instructive as well as destructive."

Dot smiled a little, but did not ask for the story; her thoughts had wandered back to Donovan.

"I am sorry, you know, Doery, that the scar will show always, because it will help to remind people of Dono's trouble, and I want them to forget very soon."

"You won't find that folks will forget, Miss Dot, so don't expect it; a bad beginning is a bad beginning, nobody can't deny, and I've always found that, if people once get a bad name, they keep it. I can't say, either, that I see any signs of Mr. Donovan's turning over a new leaf; he's as obstinate and as headstrong as ever. I've told him many a time since he wasn't higher than that table how 'Don't care' came to the gallows, but he was always one for tossing back his head in that haughty way, minding no one in the world but himself. He'll come to no good."

"Don't say such dreadful things, Doery," said Dot, between laughing and crying. "Dono will be 'contrairy,' as you say the weather is. He will turn out exactly the opposite to what you expect, he will, I am sure. People can't help loving him, and then, you know, he will get happy again. Oh! I am so glad he comes back from London to-day. How long it seems since Cousin Ellis took him away! What is the time, Doery? Do look before you begin that new row. He was to be at the station at four o'clock."

Mrs. Doery's respectable silver time-keeper pronounced it to be four already, and, though the station was three miles off, Dot insisted on having her couch wheeled to the window facing the carriage-drive, that she might watch for him.

In the drawing-room below, Mrs. Farrant was roused by the sound to a remembrance that her son was returning that afternoon.

"Doery really should oil the wheels of Dot's couch," she reflected, drowsily, with the discomforted feeling of one disturbed in the middle of a siesta. But somehow she could not compose herself to sleep again, though she still lay comfortably on the sofa, allowing her thoughts to roam idly where they pleased.

It was now three weeks since Colonel Farrant's funeral. His widow had returned to Oakdene, and had resumed her former habits of life, not exactly with the courageous "re-beginning" of submission—for it was no very great effort to her—but rather with the acquiescence of an inert mind. The passionate vehemence of her grief had exhausted itself at Porthkerran. It had been an unusual effort to her, for she was not by nature passionate. Her reproachful anger with Donovan, and her long fits of weeping, had completely worn her out; all bodily exertion was distasteful to her, and this excessive agitation, so very foreign to her nature, had told greatly on her physical health. It was therefore perhaps well for all parties that her inactive mind and dormant affections allowed her so soon to return to her ordinary life, though Donovan, with what seemed like inconsistency, maintained that he would rather have gone through endless repetitions of the stormy scenes at Porthkerran than have witnessed this calm, placid forgetfulness. To his strong and positive nature his mother's character was a complete enigma. The bitter anger was something he could comprehend, though it had wounded him to the quick, but the speedy return to quiet indifference could not possibly be understood by him, or sympathised with, and for that reason it wounded him still more.

And yet it would be hard to blame poor Mrs. Farrant altogether, for her natural temperament and her circumstances had a great deal to do with her failings. The only daughter of a widowed cavalry officer, she had never known anything of home-life. She had married Colonel Farrant almost as soon as she left school, and had passed at once into all the cares and responsibilities of a household, and the pleasures and trials of a military life abroad. At Malta she had been the gayest of the gay, and, though feeling some natural pride in her child, had very little time to notice him at all. In India her health had suffered, and, naturally indolent, she had fallen into the luxurious, semi-invalid ways so hard to break loose from. Then came the return to England, which had been agreed upon on account of her health, and for the last ten years she had led a quiet, indulgent, easy life, enjoying the society to be had near Oakdene in a subdued lazy way of her own, and making one yearly effort, namely the removal to the London house for the months of May and June. So far as circumstances and natural character can be put forward as an excuse, Mrs. Farrant might reasonably claim a lenient judgment, but no one need be the "slave of circumstance," and no nature can be so hopelessly inert, or weak, or bad, that rightly directed and resolute efforts will not reform it. But Mrs. Farrant had never made a resolute effort of this kind. She was one of those people who let themselves drift along the stream of life. She never tried to row, never hoisted a sail, never even touched a steering rope. She had had a sharp, sudden shock; for a moment her quiet course had been interrupted, but now she had resumed it, and allowed herself to drift along placidly as before.

This was the head of the Oakdene household, the influence for good or for evil of the inmates of the Manor; a woman who could best be described by negatives—not good, and yet not exactly bad, not evil intentioned, and yet without a single good motive, not unkind to her children, yet never loving, not in the world's opinion irreligious, yet never penetrating beyond the outer shell of religion. There was only one thing in which she was positive—love of herself. Her dreamy, unregulated thoughts generally hovered round this point of interest; her health, her comfort or discomfort, her dress, her employments, her amusements, and curiously, one exception outside herself, her lap-dog. Upon a handsome, bad-tempered, snowy Pomeranian named Fido, she lavished the time and caresses which her children had failed to obtain from her.

On the afternoon in question she lay calmly meditating on the sofa in her usual fashion, meandering on from subject to subject.

"Doery should really oil those wheels. I wonder what nerve is affected so strangely by any sound like that? Perhaps it is the sympathetic nerve. If so my sympathetic nerve must be very susceptible—very. But all my nerves are susceptible, as Dr. Maclean used to say at Calcutta, 'You are all nerves, my dear madam.' He was a handsome man, Dr. Maclean, only a little too grey. How pleasant those years in Calcutta were, if it hadn't been for the heat and for my health suffering so, I could really wish to go back there. Charming society it used to be, only one paid for the exertion of going out; the balls were delightful, but I was a martyr to headaches the next day." An interlude of vacancy, terminated by a series of sharp barks from Fido. "Down, Fido, down! What is it, poor little dog? Ah! he heard wheels. Good little Fido, quite right, little doggie, bark away, only not too near my ears, please! It cannot be a visitor, for I've not sent out my 'return thanks.' It must be Donovan. I do hope he has come back in better spirits, it is so wearing to me to see him with a gloomy face. Is my cap straight, I wonder," and she glanced at her reflection in the looking-glass. "This new cap really suits me very well, only the lappets are so in the way on a sofa. What a quick, sharp step Donovan has, quite a military tread like his poor father's. Ah! he has gone upstairs to Dot's room, so I may as well have my afternoon tea before seeing him." Another thoughtless interval, this time broken by the entrance of the servant with a little solitaire tea-service, and a plate of broken biscuit for Fido. Mrs. Farrant roused herself.

"I forgot to tell Charlotte this morning that Mr. Donovan was expected. Just tell her to get his room ready."

The page received the message, and retired noiselessly, while Mrs. Farrant stirred her tea, and lamented over the cares and troubles of housekeeping.

In the room above, the "quick, sharp step" had been listened to with very different feelings. Dot wriggled about on her couch impatiently.

"Oh! Doery, do open the door," she cried. "I'm so afraid he will go into the drawing-room. I want so to hear. Yes—no—he is coming upstairs!" and she half raised herself in her excitement.

"Lie still, Miss Dot, and be patient," said Doery, scrutinizing the heel of a fresh stocking. "Dear me! one would think you were expecting the Prince of Wales and all the royal family!"

"Here he is! here he is!" cried Dot, ecstatically. "Oh! Dono!" and her little weak arms were round his neck in a minute, with all the clinging warmth of a childish, half worshipping love.

"Well, little woman," he exclaimed, after she had released him, "how have you been getting on? You have actually a little colour in your cheeks for once."

"Oh! it is so beautiful to have you back again," said Dot, happily. "It has seemed such a long fortnight; and how tall and old you look, Dono. And, oh! you're letting your moustache grow again. Look at him, Doery."

Thus reminded of Mrs. Doery's presence, Donovan turned round hastily to greet his old enemy.

"How are you, Doery? And how do you think Miss Dot is?"

"Thank you, Mr. Donovan, my health is very well," answered Doery, precisely. "And as to Miss Dot, her face is flushed just from excitement, and nobody can't deny that she's been very poorly this last week."

He listened with the wistfulness of one obliged to obtain the news nearest his heart from a detailer not greatly interested in the matter. A shade of disappointment and anxiety stole over his face as he turned to look at Dot, but she soon made him smile again.

"I am as well as possible now you are come. Last week it got hot so quickly. Was it hot in London? And what did you and Cousin Ellis do?"

Donovan gave as bright a description as he could of what had been in reality an unhappy and unsatisfactory time, but he was not sorry to be interrupted before long by a sound of scratching at the door.

"It cannot be Fido, because he always barks so at you," said Dot, wonderingly.

"No, I expect it is my present for you, who has had the impudence to run upstairs before he was called."

"Your present! Oh, Dono! and a live one!"

Donovan opened the door, and admitted a fox-terrier puppy, whose whines of delight at finding his friend were drowned in Dot's delighted exclamations.

"Is he for my very own? Oh! Dono, what a dear old boy you are! What made you think of it!"

"The fellow tacked himself on to me one day in the Strand, and absolutely refused to go. That's ten days ago now, and, as he's not been advertised for, I thought I'd bring him home to you. Come here, old fellow, and see your new mistress."

The dog pattered up obediently, and Donovan lifted him on to the couch that Dot might stroke him.

"He's a darling," said the little girl, rapturously; "such nice eyes he has, and half his face black and half white, and a white and yellow coat."

"White and tan," corrected Donovan. "He'll be a capital dog when he's full-grown; he's quite young now. What shall we call him? Harlequin?"

"No, that's too long, and it must mean something that's lost and all alone," said Dot, meditatively. "Rover would do, only it's so common."

"Vagabond, Tramp, Waif, or Stray," suggested Donovan.

"Oh! Waif—that's beautiful, and so nice to say. Does that mean something that's all alone, with nobody to take care of it?"

"Yes, a thing tossed up by chance; it'll just suit the beggar. We must teach him—" he broke off hastily as the door opened, and rose to meet his mother; but their greeting was brief, for a sudden barking, yelling, and howling filled the room, and caused both mother and son to turn hastily.

There stood the handsome Pomeranian in a perfect fury, his tail absolutely bristling with wrath, and there, from his vantage-ground on the couch, stood the plucky little Waif, barking vigorously in self-defence. Before Donovan could re-cross the room, Fido had sprung on to the couch and had seized the smaller dog by the ear, while poor little Dot shrank back in terror, adding her cries to the general hubbub. Donovan's first care was to put one of his arms between her and the combatants, and then, seizing his opportunity, to sweep both dogs on to the floor with the other.

"Fido, Fido! my poor dog! Save him, Donovan, take him from that savage creature!" cried Mrs. Farrant, fairly roused and frightened.

"He's twice the size of the other," said Donovan; "he'll maul Dot's poor little puppy to pieces. Leave off, you wretch!" and, with a well-directed blow, he drew Fido's attention from the fox-terrier's ear to his own hand, and, after a sharp tussle with the angry animal, succeeded in kicking him out of the room.

"Where did this dreadful new dog come from?" asked Mrs. Farrant. "I never saw a more hideous creature. You surely don't intend to keep it in the house?"

"He shall not be in your way, and Fido will not attack him again, I should think. He certainly isn't a beauty, but he's of a very good breed," and Donovan called the dog to him, and began to examine his ear.

"It is all bleeding," said Dot, piteously; "and oh! Dono, look at your hand."

"A souvenir of Fido's teeth," said Donovan, smiling rather bitterly; for, though as a rule he was exceedingly fond of animals, he had a strange dislike to the Pomeranian—perhaps because it usurped so much of his mother's time and thoughts, perhaps because of the dog's marked aversion to himself.

"Dear me! I hope it won't bring on hydrophobia; I have such a horror of hydrophobia," said Mrs. Farrant, nervously contemplating the wound from a distance.

"I'll put a hot iron to it, if it will relieve you," said Donovan, half scornfully, adding, with a touch of malice, "And, if Fido is mad, a bullet will soon settle him."

It was an uncalled-for and foolish speech; it touched Mrs. Farrant in her most sensitive part, and widened the gulf between her and her son. He felt it the next minute, and was vexed to have put himself in the wrong.

"You are very inconsiderate," said Mrs. Farrant, plaintively. "You know what a companion Fido is to me, and yet you can speak so unfeelingly about his death. And the poor dog may be hurt and suffering now. I must find him at once."

Donovan opened the door for her, just pausing to see Fido run to meet her, safe and unharmed; then he turned again into Dot's room, muttering under his breath, "Managed to put my foot into it, as usual!"

Mrs. Doery offered to bind up his hand, while Dot, with all the colour flown from her cheeks, watched sympathetically, observing at last, after a long silence,

"It is very odd, Dono, but you and mamma never do like the same things."

It had been an unfortunate meeting, there was no doubt of that, the feud between the dogs seemed likely to destroy what little peace there ordinarily was in the household. Everything was as usual against him, so Donovan bitterly complained, he never got a fair start in anything. It was with a very clouded brow that he went down to dinner—the tête-à-tête dinner with Mrs. Farrant. It was not that he had expected great things, he knew the return would be painful; but half unconsciously when away from his mother she always slipped back into a sort of faint resemblance to his childish ideal; with him it was the very reverse of the proverb—"Les absens ont toujours tort." Absence invariably toned down his mother's failings, magnified her good points. Thus at every fresh meeting the terrible sense of loss and insatiety was borne in upon him with new force, and he was invariably sore-hearted, restless, and ill at ease. This evening, too, he was vexed with himself, and, with the perverseness of a proud nature, he showed his vexation not by trying to make amends for his unguarded speech by extra courtesy, but by becoming silent, and grave, and constrained. Perhaps it was scarcely to be wondered at that, on returning to the drawing-room after this singularly dull and spiritless meal, Mrs. Farrant should at once sink into an easy-chair and become engrossed in a new novel. Donovan stayed only a few minutes, his mother never looked up, Fido growled at him; he resolved to go up at once to Dot. But even this was denied him. Mrs. Doery met him at the head of the stairs like a dragon—he could not see Miss Dot, it was impossible; she had been very much upset indeed with all the excitement and noise, and Mrs. Doery had just managed to get her to sleep.

Donovan slowly walked downstairs again. Alone, with nothing to fall back upon, with a miserable sense of present injustice, and a past which he was always trying to escape from, the quietness of the house seemed unbearable to him. He must go somewhere, do something to drown these miserable thoughts, to fill this wretched emptiness. The servant was in the dining-room clearing the table; he suddenly made up his mind.

"Tell Jones to saddle the cob at once."

The order was given briefly and decidedly; he turned on his heel, hesitated one moment, then crossed the hall to the drawing-room.

"I am going to ride over to Greyshot, mother—can I do anything for you?"

"Nothing, thank you," said Mrs. Farrant, drowsily; then, half rousing herself, "You'll not be late, Donovan, because the servants don't like sitting up."

"I shall not be late," he repeated, mechanically, as he glanced round the prettily-furnished room, comparing it with that other brightly-lighted room which he had looked into not very long before. Such contrasts were dangerous in his present state of mind; he closed the door, and paced up and down the hall, fiercely flicking at his boots with the end of his whip. Then his horse was brought round, and, mounting hastily, he rode off in the direction of the neighbouring town.

The cool evening air and the peaceful summer twilight were in themselves soothing. Donovan was neither artistic nor imaginative, but yet such things had a certain influence over him, and the beauty, perhaps still more the peacefulness of the scene, quieted for a time the bitter inward cry. But it could be only for a time; his restless misery was far too great to be subdued by any outward agency; he soon fell back into his habitual reverie of gloomy dissatisfaction. How perplexing and useless life seemed to him!—the past how full of pain and failure, the present how unjustly empty of all that could be called happiness, the future how dreary and hopeless! He put his horse into a hand-gallop, and tried to stifle his thoughts—tried to think of anything in the world but his own wretchedness, but without success; his mind was self-centred, his thoughts naturally turned to that centre. He could force himself for a time to think of other things, but there was always an under-current of morbid discontent colouring his views of everything.

It was in this state of unavailing mental struggle that he reached Greyshot. It was now between eight and nine in the evening, and the traffic of the day was nearly over, the shops were closed, or in the act of closing, and the pavements were crowded with people belonging to the poorer classes, tired hard-worked men and women, either returning from their employment, or lounging about in the cool of the evening for the sake of change and refreshment.

Greyshot was rather a gay place, and, though the season fell later in the year, the streets had been fairly full that afternoon, when Donovan had passed through them on his way from the station to Oakdene. He was struck with the contrast between the afternoon and evening crowd. Fashionable, well-dressed, smiling idlers at the one time; tired, hard-featured, shabby toilers at the other. Here was fresh injustice, he said, with his usual hasty judgment and strong conviction. He almost hated himself for riding at ease through the throng of tired pedestrians; could only reconcile himself to it by remembering his many grievances, and surmising that the poorer street passengers were better off than he in many ways. He did not bring the same argument to bear on the question of the afternoon promenaders, or remember that the evening throng at least had the satisfaction of using their life, while the idlers—perhaps he himself—were simply abusing it.

Still brooding over this injustice in the different lots of men, he reached the town-hall, and reined in his horse for a minute that he might look at the various placards. He saw with relief that something unusual must be going on that night, for the hall was lighted, and a pretty continuous stream of people, chiefly men, were passing up the broad flight of steps. "Grand Concert, on Wednesday Evening!" no, that was the Wednesday in the following week; a "Rose Show!" the next day; ah! here it was. "This evening, at 8.30, Mr. Raeburn will deliver a Lecture, in the Town Hall, on 'The Existence of a God—Science versus Superstition.'" Donovan looked at his watch; it was exactly the half-hour. He hastily rode on to the nearest inn, put up his horse, and, returning, passed swiftly up the steps and into the hall.

The place was crowded with men, chiefly artisans and mechanics, though with a sprinkling of the more highly educated. Donovan glanced first at the eager, listening throng, and then instinctively his eyes followed theirs to the platform at the further end of the room, and were riveted as by a magic attraction on the speaker. The fascination was instantaneous and complete. He saw before him a tall, powerful-looking man, with masses of tawny hair overshadowing a very striking face—a face which, in spite of its rather austere lines, still allowed play to a variety of expressions: to burning zeal, to infinite sadness, occasionally to withering sarcasm.

Luke Raeburn was, before all things, a strong man, and in looking at him specialities sank away into insignificance. His deep-set earnest eyes, his firm uncompromising mouth attracted little notice, because the whole man was pervaded by a marvellous force, a concentration of energy which carried all before it. His voice was at once deep and powerful, aided by no theatrical gestures, but made particularly winning by its mellowness, its perfect modulations, its thrill of intense earnestness. All these were powerful accessories to the lecture itself. They influenced Donovan undoubtedly, but it was not the voice or the "presence" of the man which stirred his soul so strangely. The very first sentence which fell on his ear forced him to listen as though his whole life depended on it. "I can find, and you can give me, no proof of God's existence." The words caused an electric thrill of sympathy in his heart. He stood motionless, quite unconscious of all around; his whole being absorbed in the argument of the lecturer—this man, who, through the firmness of his convictions, was spending his life in trying to overthrow what he termed the "mischievous delusion of popular Christianity."

To Donovan, with his miserable sense of injustice, every word seemed a relief, although it was only a more vigorous repetition of his own. cry. But in this lay the secret of its influence. The lecturer was putting into words, and clothing with marvellously able arguments all his own thoughts and opinions. To some of the listeners the force and fascination of the lecture lay in the novelty of the ideas it conveyed, but with Donovan it was otherwise. The lecturer's beliefs exactly coincided with all his own ready-formed notions, and perhaps no idea is more powerfully attractive than that which, being at the same time higher and more subtly argued than your own crude previously-formed judgment, yet in the main corresponds with it. A speedy sympathy is established; the pride of the less gifted mind is gratified; the great powerful intellect agrees with it, has experienced its doubts, has felt its miseries. Donovan felt himself one with the speaker, and he was so very, very rarely agreed with anyone that the sudden consciousness of unity and sympathy was almost intoxicating in its novel delight. He listened breathlessly to the clear, satisfying arguments, and when, at the end of an hour, the lecturer brought his address to a close, and invited answers and objections to what he had said, Donovan felt giddy and exhausted, half inclined to leave the hall, and yet unable to go while the man who had fascinated him so strangely remained. During the brief pause that ensued a middle-aged mechanic, who was seated at the end of one of the benches not far from the place where Donovan stood, rose to go. Donovan moved forward to take his place, and for a minute, owing to a fresh influx of people, the two were kept facing each other. A shade of pity crossed the rough features of the mechanic as he looked at the flushed, excited face of the boy, so young and yet so full of unrest.

"My lad," he said, in a low tone, "I see you're sore moved, but take my advice and come away. Yonder man speaks grand words, but it's not the truth."

Donovan was too much of a Republican to be the least offended by this speech, but he was little accustomed to receive good advice, still less accustomed to put it in practice. He hardly gave it an instant's consideration, so firmly was his mind set upon hearing Raeburn speak once more.

"One doesn't get this chance every day," he answered. "I must hear the end of it."

And so the warning friend passed by, and Donovan, having rejected the guidance sent, took the vacant seat, and waited with some impatience for the reply of the first objector.

The speeches of the opponents were limited to ten minutes, too ample an allowance, Donovan thought, for the first speaker was insufferably dull and wordy. After the clear, terse, powerful sentences of the lecturer, anything so verbose was at once irritating and bewildering, and the minds of the audience, which had been strained to the very highest tension during Raeburn's address, now began to wander. Donovan again found his gaze riveted on the lecturer's face, and gave a sigh of relief when the ten minutes' bell was struck in the middle of one of the meandering sentences, before the speaker had made a single point. After another brief pause, a tall, nervous-looking clergyman mounted the platform, and with evident reluctance, conquered only by a sense of duty, began to speak. His voice was weak, but he was very much in earnest, almost painfully so, and real earnestness felt and expressed cannot fail to arouse interest. He prospered well at first, yet his argument was not in the least conclusive to Donovan's mind, and he was not surprised when, at the close of the ten minutes, Luke Raeburn drew attention to an utterly illogical statement which had escaped the speaker. An earnest parting protest and attempted explanation were not of much use, for Raeburn responded with perfect courtesy but crushing logic, and the clergyman went back to his place with a terribly grieved look. Donovan saw it all, was sorry for the man, and half won over by his humility, his evident sorrow, and by sympathy with his sense of failure. For a moment he wavered, or rather allowed the arguments of the other side to recur to him, but it was only for a moment. The third speaker mounted the platform with no diffidence; he was a large, solid, self-satisfied man, with a voice which made the hall echo again. Evidently he thought noise would make up for want of matter, for he scarcely tried any steady line of argument. He was vehement, positive, illogical, and, after a violent tirade against the wickedness of atheism, finally turned round upon the lecturer, and hurled the most insolent questions at him. Donovan was disgusted alike at his vulgarity and the worthlessness of his speech. Raeburn was at once invested with the dignity of a martyr, or, at any rate, of an unjustly-used man, and his sharp and marvellously powerful retort delighted Donovan as much as it irritated the vehement objector. The contest ended grievously, for in a parting protest the speaker hopelessly lost his temper, became violent and abusive, and quitted the platform and the hall in a towering rage. It was a sad display for one who professed to be an ardent supporter of Christianity. Luke Raeburn felt that nothing could have weakened the cause more successfully, and naturally he did not hesitate to use the argument in favour of his own views.

There was a prolonged pause after the exit of the angry man; no other objectors cared to come forward, however, and at length Raeburn stood up for his final speech. The clear, quiet, impressive tones fell like rain after a thunderstorm upon the rapt listening men. Donovan scarcely breathed; he had never in his whole life heard anything so marvellously attractive. The cool penetrating words, the sarcastic yet dignified allusions to the last speech, the wonderfully able arguments, were irresistible to him. This man was in earnest, terribly in earnest, and he had the grave calmness of perfect conviction.

What was he upholding, too? Self-restraint, self-sacrifice, temperance, truth at whatever cost. There was indeed much that was noble and elevating in his speech—only the one great blank, which to Donovan was no blank at all.

It was over at last, the assembly broke up, and Donovan groped his way down the street, and mounting his horse, rode back to Oakdene in the starlight. He felt wonderfully stimulated by what he had heard, roused to enthusiasm for the man, for the views he held, for the life of toil for the general good which he not only recommended, but himself lived. Luke Raeburn had influenced him greatly, but it was the speech of the self-satisfied opponent which sent him home that night a confirmed atheist, a bitter-hearted despiser of Christianity.

Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair.
                                                            WILLIAM BLAKE.

Give a dog a bad name, and hang him.
                                                                        Proverb.

Ellis Farrant had taken Donovan up to town on the pretext of arranging various matters of business, but he had been careful to leave many things unattended to, as he was anxious to have an excuse for a speedy visit to Oakdene. His guardianship was likely to prove a very convenient aid in the furtherance of his scheme, for what could be more natural than that he should frequently go down to inspect his young wards, and what could offer more convenient opportunities for winning his way with Mrs. Farrant than such visits. A little time, however, must be allowed to pass first. Ellis made arrangement for staying in town till the middle of July, and resolved to go down to Oakdene then, for as long a visit as seemed advisable.

His arrival really pleased and roused Mrs. Farrant, for it must be owned that Oakdene had not been the liveliest of homes during the summer. Visitors of course had not been received, Donovan had been unusually taciturn and moody, and though the favourite Fido, and the unfailing succession of new books, and the comfortable sofa by the open window, rendered life bearable, any interruption to such quiet monotony was a relief even to one so indolent as Mrs. Farrant.

To Donovan the arrival of his cousin brought a strange mixture of annoyance and satisfaction. He too was glad of an interruption to the dreary quiet of the house, but nevertheless Ellis managed to irritate him not a little. The nominal business matters which had formed the excuse for the visit were put forward from time to time, but neither mother nor son was business-like, and Ellis used to let the conversation float on quietly into other channels, so that very little was really arrived at. He was a clever, shrewd man, and his visit was a long series of manœuvres. He never lost sight of his two great aims, the first was to win the regard and confidence of Mrs. Farrant, and to secure this he studied most carefully her character and tastes; the second was to induce Donovan to lead as inexpensive a life as might be, during the time of his guardianship. What became of him after he was of age he neither cared nor thought of, for before that time he hoped to have won Mrs. Farrant's hand.

It was about two or three days from the beginning of his visit that he first began to question Donovan cautiously as to the future. They were out riding when he resolved to risk the attempt.

"Beautiful country about here," he remarked, carelessly.

"Yes," replied Donovan, laconically; he did not care to show any interest in such a remark from one who evidently cared nothing in reality for scenery.

"Much hunting in the neighbourhood?"

"No; it's not a hunting county."

"But you have good shooting, I hear."

"Oh! yes, we can have any amount of that. Won't you come down for it this autumn?"

"Thanks. If I have time I should like nothing better. You will be here of course?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Donovan, rather hesitatingly.

Ellis Farrant felt a little uneasy. Had the boy made up his mind to go to the university? Would he want to enter any expensive profession? He must find out, and, if so, try to put some reasonable obstacle in the way.

"You have found these months a little dull, I expect, but next year you'll be up in town for the season—it'll be very different."

"Life's disgusting everywhere," said Donovan, gloomily.

"No, no," replied the man of the world, lightly. "There's plenty of enjoyment if you look out for it. Cheer up, my boy, you let yourself brood over things too much. 'Let bygones be bygones,' and face the future, and let your guardian know plainly what you want."

The speech sounded frank and kindly. Donovan involuntarily came a little out of his shell.

"I don't know that there's anything I want," he said, slowly, "and yet I want everything. Did you ever feel as if nothing in the whole world were worth a fig, as if nothing could ever satisfy you?"

A perplexing question! Why did the perverse fellow begin to moralize on abstract subjects, just when he wanted to arrive at plain facts?

"I know quite well what you mean," he replied, glibly. "You will soon live it down. I think you should mix more with companions of your own age."

He felt that this was a hazardous suggestion, but ventured it with his customary boldness.

"I hate fellows of my own age," said Donovan, shortly.

"You are a misanthrope, I'm afraid," said Ellis, breathing more freely. "You would not like to go to Oxford or Cambridge, I suppose."

"No, certainly not."

"And you are not exactly—not passionately—fond of work?"

Donovan smiled a little.

"Well, no, I can't say I am."

"You would not like to be a barrister or a—parson?"

"I?" cried Donovan, in amaze. "In all conscience—no!"

"There is no need, not the slightest," said Ellis. "In fact, I don't think you're in the least suited for any profession. You can live on here very comfortably. No doubt your mother will make you a handsome allowance when you're of age; for, though you are not exactly your father's heir, it will come to much the same thing in the end."

"Yes, I suppose so," said the unconscious Donovan.

"I should rather like you to do a little reading, however," continued Ellis. "I must not forget that you are my ward, you know. What do you say to going in to some tutor at Greyshot two or three times a week?"

"I don't mind. I will do so, if you wish. How would a travelling tutor be? I must say I should like to spend a few months abroad."

An inconvenient and expensive project! If Donovan were away, he could not come down to Oakdene so easily. But Ellis was too far-sighted to give a definite refusal to the request.

"Well, we will think of it," he said, quite in his pleasantest manner. "I'm glad you told me what was in your mind. We can talk it over with your mother."

The two relapsed into silence after this, Ellis trying to think of reasonable objections to this new idea, Donovan sketching out in his mind the plan of his tour on the continent. He longed inexpressibly for change of scene, and travelling offered very strong attractions to his restless mind.

But a sudden revulsion of feeling came before long. As they rode down the long, shady drive, and dismounted at the door of the Manor, he heard a childish voice calling him, and looking up, he saw Dot's little pale face eagerly watching him from her window.

He mounted the stairs very slowly, struggling hard with himself. Dot would certainly miss him very much, would be much happier if he did not go, and yet the craving within him for change was almost irresistible. Oakdene began to feel like a prison to him. Selfishness, or, as he called it, common sense, whispered that it was mere folly to think he could always be tied down to one place. It would be narrowing, cramping, bad for his health. The absurdity of thinking of this, however, struck him with sudden force as he entered Dot's room. How could he think of himself so much, when she lay on the same weary couch day after day, and yet contrived to be so patient!

"I'm so glad you've come back, Dono," she exclaimed. "Doery's been down in the housekeeper's room for hours, and Waif and I have been so dull."

The loneliness rose up before him vividly—months and months of it. At the same time a glorious vision of life abroad—Italy, Switzerland, mountains, freedom! He was quite silent, but Dot was accustomed to his taciturn moods, and chattered on contentedly.

"And poor Waif, you forgot to take him with you, and he was so miserable when he heard you ride off, he scratched at the door and whined dreadfully, and I couldn't of course get up to let him out, so at last he came back very sadly with his tail between his legs, and cuddled up to me for comfort. Do you know, Dono, I believe he begins to love you as I do, almost."

"And you don't cry when I go out riding," said Donovan, smiling.

"No, only when you go quite away; when you used to go back to school, and when Cousin Ellis took you away last time."

"What a silly little Dot! What makes you cry?"

"Why, because I love you so," said Dot, wistfully. "And everything seems so horrid when you're away. Will you have to go away again, do you think? Will Cousin Ellis and the lawyers want you any more?"

"Oh! no, I shall not be going away again," he said, in rather a forced voice. Then, after a pause: "I say, Dot, this room is stifling. Shall I open the other window?"

She assented, and he crossed the room quickly, threw up the sash, gulped down a mouthful of fresh air, and registered a silent vow that he would never leave her.

"I wonder what makes your forehead look so battered to-day," resumed Dot, as he sat down beside her again. "It always reminds me of a bent penny I had for a long time. And some days the bend in the middle seems to show more. I think it's on the days when you don't talk much."

Donovan laughed heartily, shook off his taciturnity, and did his best according to Dot's principles to straighten his brow.

"A phrenologist once told me that my forehead meant all sorts of things: mathematical ability, reasoning, and music, but he was sadly out, poor man, in that last, for I haven't a grain of music in me."

"I wish you had," said Dot, "because I like it so much, and the hand-organs so very seldom come."

"Shall I get one, and grind away in the passage?"

"That would be always the same one. We should get so tired of the tunes."

"Yes," said Donovan, laughing again. "Don't you remember the story of the organ-grinder who somehow came into some money, and the first thing he did was to rush frantically at his organ with, 'Bother! you shall never go round again,' and smash it to pieces."

Dot laughed long and merrily.

"I wish you could play the piano as Cousin Adela used to. It sounded so nice coming up from the drawing-room."

"Would you really like it?" said Donovan. "I will try to learn then. We'll have a piano over from Greyshot, and it can be put up here."

"Oh! Dono, how delightful! But won't it be dull for you, as you don't like music? And do you think you'll be able to learn?"

"We'll have no end of fun over it," he replied, cheerfully. "And as to being able—I believe we're able to do anything we've a will for."

That evening, after Mrs. Farrant had left the dinner-table, Donovan relieved his guardian's mind by one of his quick abrupt speeches.

"On thinking it over, I find I had better not go abroad."

"Oh! just as you like, my dear fellow," said Ellis, trying to conceal his satisfaction. "Most happy to advance you the necessary funds, you know. I should think though that, as you say, it would be better to stay here. Your mother will be glad to have you."

Donovan bit his lip, and did not reply, and Ellis, perfectly well aware that he had touched on a sore subject, changed the conversation. His ward's decision was convenient. For once he must be careful to please and humour him a little, so he renounced for a time the pleasure of irritating his victim, and they spent a very amicable evening over the billiard-table.

It is an undisputed fact that one piece of villainy invariably leads to others. When Ellis Farrant, in a moment of anger and disappointment, had destroyed his cousin's will, he never once thought of all it would lead to, but little by little he began to realise that a good deal of plotting and scheming would be necessary, and perhaps a few trifling deceptions and injustices, before he could profit by his crime. He was relieved to find that the coldness between the mother and son still existed, for it was, of course, all in his favour. He had rather dreaded the effects of those months of quiet intercourse; but all had gone as he wished. Mrs. Farrant did not in the least understand Donovan, he was not in any sense a comfort to her, therefore there was all the more hope that she might be led to confide in Ellis, that he might become a necessary part of her existence. During this visit he was obliged to be kind and conciliatory to his ward, and was too prudent to show any marked attentions to Mrs. Farrant, but he succeeded in enlivening the house wonderfully, and received a pressing invitation to come down in the autumn, bringing his sister Adela with him. He remained till the 12th of August, and then went up to the North for grouse-shooting, well satisfied with his success at Oakdene.

The Manor was not a little dull after he left. Mrs. Farrant, to relieve the monotony, sent out her cards, and found some slight occupation in receiving the visits of her neighbours and acquaintance. Donovan rode in to Greyshot three times a week to his tutor's, studied "Mill's Logic," and worked hard at his music. Strangely, although he was really no lover of the art, he found a peculiar satisfaction in working even at the mechanical exercises; his master scarcely knew what to make of a pupil who, with very little actual talent, surmounted difficulties so quickly, and showed such untiring perseverance. Indolent as he seemed, he could yet show the most indefatigable zeal when he had a sufficient motive, and, with a view to pleasing Dot, he bent his whole will to the work.

With the exception of this satisfactory effort, the autumn was a very painful one to him. As soon as his mother began to receive visitors again, he could not fail to become aware of the marked coldness with which almost everyone treated him. He had never had any special friends in the neighbourhood, but now he noticed that old acquaintances who had formerly been civil and friendly looked askance at him; he was under a cloud, he had lost his good name. It was not much to be wondered at, perhaps, and yet it seemed cruelly hard that he should be thus cut off from all intercourse with those better than himself. The cautious world said, with its usual prudence, that it would never do not to show marked disapproval of disgrace and wrong-doing. Donovan Farrant had been expelled from school for most dishonourable behaviour (his crimes were by this time absurdly exaggerated by report), it was quite impossible that he could be allowed to mix with the immaculate sons of the neighbouring homes. Intercourse must be as much as possible discouraged; the acquaintance was most undesirable. A young man who never went to church, who had been seen at one of Raeburn's lectures, who was dangerously handsome, and unmitigatedly bad, could not be visited. The neighbours all tried to ignore his existence; he was either entirely cut, or treated with the coldest and most distant civility.

Misanthrope as he was, Donovan felt this treatment keenly, and resented it. It was hard, and cruel, and unjust; he used it, as he used everything else at that time, as an argument against Christianity. Nor did his mother make matters pleasanter to him. She, too, found out the coldness with which he was treated, and it vexed her; one or two of the more kind-hearted neighbours referred delicately to the subject, and, though Mrs. Farrant paid little attention to her son's doings as a rule, this roused her to remonstrate with him.

"Donovan," she said, in her complaining tone, one evening, "I really wish you would be more careful how you go on. Mrs. Ward was here to-day, and she said she was extremely sorry to hear that you had attended some shocking infidel lecture at Greyshot. Is it true that you went?"

"Perfectly, barring the adjectives," replied Donovan, crossing the room, and resting his elbow on the mantel-piece.

"But really you should not do such things," said Mrs. Farrant, plaintively. "What made you think of going?"

"I wished to hear Luke Raeburn's views," said Donovan, still keeping his face steadily turned towards her.

"It is absurd for a boy of your age to think of such things. What can you understand about his views?"

"More than I can of any other views. But I'm no Raeburnite—I don't care enough for the human race."

Mrs. Farrant wandered off to another grievance.

"Well, I really wish you wouldn't get yourself so talked about; it's very unpleasant for me. Why won't you come to church on Sunday, and be like other young men?"

"Because, whatever I am, I'll not be a hypocrite," said Donovan, with some sharpness.

There was silence for some minutes after this. Mrs. Farrant fanned herself, and Donovan tormented the feathers of an Indian hand-screen. At last, with a rather softened expression, he continued—

"I'm sorry, mother, if I spoke rudely, but that is a thing I cannot do to please anyone. If you dislike my going to hear Raeburn so much, I will not do it again."

"I only wish you not to make yourself a byword to the neighbourhood," said Mrs. Farrant, rather peevishly. "I do not care what you do as long as you behave respectably."

"No, you care for nothing, I see, as long as people hold their tongues," said Donovan, with one of his rare and curiously sudden bursts of passion. "Is it wonderful that I should be going to the dogs, when this is all you give me? What else can you expect?"

She did not in the least understand him, but his vehemence terrified her; she burst into tears.

"It is very unkind of you to speak so angrily; you know how anything of this sort upsets me," she sobbed. "I did think that the only son of a widow was expected to show some feeling for his mother, and you—you are only a grief and a disgrace to me."

He was softened in an instant, tried to take her hand in his, and spoke as gently and tenderly as he would have spoken to Dot.

"Forgive me, mother—I am a wretch; but indeed, if you would let me, I would try to be more to you."

He would have said more, but words never came easily to him, and he felt half choked now with emotion.

"You are so inconsiderate," said Mrs. Farrant, drying her eyes. "I'm sure I wish your guardian were here; he at least would have some sympathy with me. I wish you would try to copy him a little more."

The reference to one whom Donovan so little-liked or respected was very trying; he drew back.

"It is just as I told you at Porthkerran," continued Mrs. Farrant. "You never think of anyone but yourself, you are always bringing trouble and sorrow to others." Then, looking up, and seeing that Donovan, in his agitation, was breaking the feathers of the hand-screen, she sharpened her voice, "Cannot you even help destroying the things your poor father brought back?"

He did not attempt to answer. What was the use of speaking? What was the use of trying to bridge over the hopeless gulf between them? It was more in despair than in passion that he flung down the screen and strode out of the room.

After this there was peace for some little time, if such dreary aimless existence could be called peace. There was, at any rate, no open disagreement. Mrs. Farrant was too inert and Donovan too self-restrained to admit of frequent quarrels between them; they lived on in quiet coldness, meeting at meal times, talking on indifferent subjects, then parting again, each to resume his or her separate life. There were faults perhaps on both sides, a resolute and continuous effort from either must have broken down such an unnatural state of things. But neither of them made such an effort, Mrs. Farrant, even had she thought of it, would have been too indolent to persevere; Donovan had tried twice, and thrown up the attempt, at once too proud and too hopeless to resume it.

In October Ellis Farrant came according to his promise, bringing his sister Adela with him. She was some years his junior, and as she had the same class of good looks and general brilliancy as her brother, and dressed fashionably, she still passed for a "young" lady, although she was considerably over thirty. Ellis had not introduced her to Oakdene without a special reason. She of course knew nothing of the depth of his schemes, but he trusted her with enough to make her a valuable ally.

"Now this is how matters stand," he had said to her, as they were driving from Greyshot to Oakdene. "Mrs. Farrant is as dull as she well can be in this hole of a place, and I want to have plenty of opportunities for letting her feel that I can enliven it. Do you understand me, or must I speak more plainly."

His sister laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

"Do not trouble yourself, I understand perfectly. You wish to be beforehand with the army of suitors who are sure to attend upon a pretty, rich widow, by no means past her youth."

"Exactly," said Ellis, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. "Last time I was here I could do but little, it was too early days, for one thing, and then there was the boy to be looked after; but now I want you to engross him a little, and set me at liberty—do you see?"

Adela Farrant laughed again.

"You cunning Ellis! You have entrapped me into a dull country house just to further your own ends, and then you set me down to amuse a schoolboy."

"Pardon me, but he is by no means a boy," said Ellis. "He is, or considers himself, all sorts of things, a philosopher, a radical, an atheist, and, joking apart, he really is old for his years. You may find him a little stiff and haughty at first, but you'll soon get to know him, and he'll give you some amusement; besides, he's handsome—very—an Apollo—an Adonis."

"And in his nineteenth year!" concluded Adela, with a gesture of contempt. "However, I'll try to amuse him, out of regard for you. Why, here we are at the Manor, and there is your Apollo of the clustering curls at the door. What a grave saturnine face! but you're quite right, he's very good-looking; Roman, not Greek, though. Augustus Cæsar come to life again."

The first evening was, according to Ellis Farrant's views, a perfect success. He had free scope for conversation with Mrs. Farrant, and she grew quite merry and talkative under the combined influence of his attentions and his sister's animation and gaiety.

"It is so pleasant to hear fresh voices," she said at dinner time. "I grow very tired of tête-à-tête dinners with Donovan."

This was exactly what Ellis wished, it was quite an effort to conceal his satisfaction. He looked at the young host at the head of the table, and wondered how he would enjoy being ousted from his position.

Adela's work was not quite so easy. She found Donovan very grave, almost repellent, not at all inclined to be more than coldly courteous. She persevered, however, and, being clever and really good-natured, she gradually won her way. Nor was she so dull as she had fancied would be the case. The haughty nil admirari spirit of her special charge rather attracted her. She found herself really anxious to win his good opinion, and set herself to find out his likes and dislikes. And Donovan really liked her in a manner, was grateful for her kindness, and felt a sort of relief in having a bright, talkative, pleasant woman in the house. When Ellis did not care to go out shooting, Adela generally proposed a ride, and so managed to engross her young cousin for two or three hours; in the evening, too, she would keep him turning over the leaves of her music in the back drawing-room, leaving her brother to amuse Mrs. Farrant, and her light, meaningless talk generally sufficed to prevent the chance of their being interrupted by Donovan.

Sometimes, however, her conversation jarred on his mind. One afternoon when Adela in her light fawn-coloured dress was sauntering round the garden, gathering a few late roses, with her usual cavalier in attendance, their talk turned upon rather graver matters than was ordinarily the case.

"What a pretty view that is of the church tower," she exclaimed. "I should like to sketch it, such a tiny grey little place it is! but really I was quite surprised last Sunday to find it a regular resort of fashion, the toilettes were amazing, quite a study; your mother says that the people come to it from Greyshot, that they are attracted by the surpliced choir and the chanting. It seems so odd to think of things of that sort being novelties; you are dreadfully behind the world here in Mountshire."

"No great loss perhaps in those matters," said Donovan.

"What a prosaic mind you have!" said his cousin, lightly. "And, by-the-by, that reminds me, I meant to take you to task before. Last Sunday I looked round expecting to find you ready to carry my prayer-book, and behold! you were nowhere to be seen. Your mother says you never do go to church. How is that? it is really very shocking, you know."

"One can't profess what one does not believe," said Donovan, gravely.

Adela passed on into the greenhouse and cut the last rose there before replying; then, joining him again, she said, in her light half laughing tone,

"You men are really dreadful now-a-days, the whole race seems to have grown sceptical. Now, why don't you come to church, and be good and orthodox?"

As she spoke she handed him the rose to put into the basket. It was an exquisite blush rose, and he held it in his hand abstractedly, not exactly seeing its beauty, and yet feeling some subtle influence from its purity and fragrance. He did not answer, and Adela continued:

"Don't think I shall be hard on you, there never was a more lenient person—besides, scepticism is always interesting. Not, you know, that I am not all that is proper and orthodox, you mustn't think that for a moment. I like to be comme il faut in everything—that is not quite a right expression, is it? more suited to matters of etiquette than religion,—however, it does not signify, turn it into Latin in your mind. I am very orthodox, but I can quite sympathise with sceptics—is that sense? Now do tell me why you don't believe the things that I believe; they say it is always well to hear all sides of a question, and on this subject I have scarcely heard anything."

She had rattled on in her usual fashion without looking up; had she noticed the change in Donovan's face, her womanly tact would have warned her to be more careful, for he looked as nearly contemptuous as good manners would allow. His voice, was grave and displeased as he replied, and had a strange ring of pain in it.

"It is not a subject I care to discuss, thank you."

They walked on in silence, Donovan trying uneasily to understand his own feelings. Why did he not care to discuss this subject? Was it that his cousin's lightness jarred on him? was there some latent sense of reverence in him—some yet slumbering faith faintly touched by her flippant tones? Or was it—could it be—that he, Donovan Farrant, was ashamed of the views he held? ashamed of not being like the rest of the world?

Adela knew, from the tone of the answer which her question received, that she had made a mistake; flippant, conventional, semi-religious talk evidently grated somehow on her cousin's mind; she made haste to recover her place in his estimation by referring to the subject nearest his heart.

"Shall we take these flowers to Dot? She likes flowers in her room, doesn't she?"

His brow cleared instantly.

"Yes, let us go. Dot is very fond of you, Cousin Adela; you have cheered her up wonderfully."

Adela smiled; her kindness to little Dot was the one fair bright spot in her life just then; it was pleasant to dwell on one thing in which her motive was really good, and she was too really kind to like to remember that she was acting as a sort of decoy towards Donovan.

Dot held out her hands eagerly for the flowers.

"What beauties!" she cried. "I was afraid they were all over."

Donovan took the blush rose and arranged it in her dress, where its soft colours helped to relieve the blackness.

"You and Cousin Adela have had such a long talk," said Dot, watching with interest while the flowers were arranged in her vase. "I saw you from my window. What were you talking about?"

"Oh!" said Adela, with a little pause, as she adjusted a leaf, "we were talking about the church."

"There's many changes there, miss," said Mrs. Doery, looking up from her work. "Seems to be the way with these new-fangled ministers. Still they say the boys in their whites is very attractive, and nobody can't deny that the church is fuller than it used to be."

"I have been telling Mr. Donovan that Mountshire is very much behind the world," said Adela. "In our parts we should be quite surprised not to find a choir."

"Well, miss, I suppose it's very right and proper, but for myself I liked the old days when we had just the parson and the clerk. Now they sing-song all the things so, and I can't seem to pick myself up."

Adela tried not to laugh, and asked the name of the clergyman.

"Mr. Golding, he's the white-haired one. You'd 'ave thought he was too old to like such new ways, but I make no doubt he's led on by the curate, who is but young; and as to him, miss, he gets through the service so quick you wouldn't believe, but I never can hear a word when he reads off the old fowl's back."

Adela and Donovan burst out laughing, and no sense of the respect due to Mrs. Doery could stop them. Dot, not understanding, looked perplexed till Adela explained.

"The reading-desk in church, dear, the lectern, is like an eagle. Oh! Mrs. Doery, you mustn't mind our laughing, but really that is worthy of Punch."

Doery was, luckily, not at all offended. She could not pretend to learn all the new names they gave the things, and probably she thought of the lectern as the "old fowl" till the day of her death.

After a certain fashion, Adela's visit really did Donovan some good. It roused him from his moody silence, made a change in his monotonous life, and shielded him to some extent from Ellis Farrant's annoyances. For, during this visit, Ellis was not all careful to keep himself in the boy's good graces, and, in the brief time that they were necessarily thrown together, managed to annoy him considerably. Donovan had always the ruffled, uncomfortable consciousness that his guardian was making a good thing out of his office. He was naturally very careless about money matters, scarcely giving them a thought; but even easy and generous natures are often roused by feeling that they are being traded upon. The length and frequency of his cousin's visits might be overlooked perhaps, but when, in the course of the month, he went with Donovan to some races at a neighbouring town, and coolly put down all the expenses to Mrs. Farrant, his ward was naturally indignant; and this happened not once only, but several times. The loss of the money was nothing, but the injustice was very irritating. Injustice was Donovan's watchword, and this slight but aggravating specimen of it was a constant thorn in his side.

Another vexing thing was Ellis Farrant's behaviour to his mother. He used to perform all kinds of little services for her; waiting on her sedulously on every possible occasion, with a marked ostentation which seemed always trying to indicate to Donovan, "This is what you ought to do." Even had such attentions been possible to him, he would have been for too proud to take such a broad hint, and Ellis was probably aware of this, or he would not have risked giving the advice: it was everything to him that Mrs. Farrant should feel the great difference between his conduct and her son's. On the whole, there was some reason in Donovan's complaint that autumn—life had always seemed to him hard and perplexing, and it grew more so.

O, ye wha are sae guid yoursel',
    Sae pious, and sae holy,
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
    Your neebour's faults and folly.
Ye see your state with theirs compar'd,
    And shudder at the niffer,
But cast a moment's fair regard
    What maks the mighty differ?

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,
    Right on ye scud your sea-way,
But in the teeth o' baith to sail,
    It makes an unco lee way.

Address to the Unco Guid, or Rigidly Righteous. BURNS.

"I may be wrong, Mr. Ward. I can't pretend to much wisdom. I'm an old, unlettered man, but it seems to me that folks are rather hard on the poor boy; but I may be wrong, I quite allow I may be wrong."

The speaker was a grey-haired, elderly man, with a thin, worn face, kind eyes, and rather bent shoulders. His companion, Mr. Ward, was the Squire of Oakdene, a short, broad, grey-whiskered country gentleman, somewhat bluff, but still good-natured enough in his way. The two were returning from a meeting of the church-wardens on an afternoon in January, and happening to see Donovan Farrant sauntering along the road in front of them, with his dog at his heels, they had begun to talk of him.

"I'm sure I wish to be hard on no one," said the squire, swinging his stick rather vigorously. "But you know, Hayes, the fellow has a very bad reputation. No one has a good word to say for him."

"Poor boy," said old Mr. Hayes, compassionately. "I suppose it's all true; but you know one must remember that he's never had a father to look after him."

"Yes, I know that," said the squire, reflectively; he had sons of his own, and had very strong ideas about paternal influence. "That's quite true, and may excuse him to a certain extent. But then it's impossible to take up with him. I couldn't have him mixing with Harry and Ned. It isn't that I wish to be uncivil to the boy, but really it would be most unwise. I don't know what Mrs. Ward would say if I proposed it. Now you, Hayes, it's different with you; you're a bachelor, and could easily be a little friendly with him."

"Yes," hesitated Mr. Hayes; "but you know I'm afraid he'd find me a very dull companion. I'm only a stupid old man, and he is young, and very clever, they say."

"Bosh!" said the squire, contemptuously—"he ought to be proud to shake hands with you. You're a great deal too humble-minded, Hayes. I've no idea of being so deferential to the young generation. There's a great deal too little of the Fifth Commandment now-a-days; it wasn't so when I was a boy."

"I felt very sorry for them this Christmas," resumed Mr. Hayes, gently; "the Manor must have been a sad house; but it's very hard to know how to help people when you can't send them blankets, or coals, or Christmas dinners."

"And young Farrant is a precious deal too proud to be helped in any way," said Mr. Ward, with a laugh. "But, after all, I am sorry for the boy; it's a sad start in life to have lost one's good name. What's he after now, stooping down in the snow? We shall catch him up, and, if so, I must speak to him."

A miserable-looking cat, drenched with water, and with a tin pot tied to its tail, had been lying half dead by the roadside. Donovan, who was a great lover of animals, had of course hastened to the rescue; he had just released the poor terrified creature from its instrument of torture, and was holding it in his arms, rubbing its wet draggled fur, when, hearing steps, he glanced round, and found himself face to face with Mr. Ward and Mr. Hayes. The colour rushed to his cheeks; he had not time to assume the look of cold haughty indifference with which he usually confronted his neighbours. He looked so handsome and boyish, and so unlike a reprobate, that Mr. Ward felt his compassion rising and his scruples diminishing; besides, the conversation had rather softened him, and he held out his hand cordially.

"Well, Farrant, how are you? Mrs. Farrant is quite well, I hope? You know Mr. Hayes, don't you? Why, what's that?—a drowned cat?"

"Some brute of a boy has nearly killed it," said Donovan, indignation making him speak naturally. "I think it will come round, though, as soon as I can get it to a fire."

That an atheist should bestow his attention on a stray cat was very surprising to the squire. He began to like the fellow. After all, there was some good in him.

"Had any skating yet?" he asked, in his kindly voice.

"No; our pond is half overgrown with mares-tail; besides, it's too small to be worth anything."

"Oh! you must come over to our place," said the squire, with good-humour, which astonished Mr. Hayes. "Our young people have been on the small lake to-day, and I daresay the large one will bear to-morrow. You used to be rather a swell at skating, if I remember right."

"I am very fond of it," said Donovan, and his eyes danced.

"Then come over to-morrow, and whenever you like; it isn't often we get a frost like this."

"Thank you—I will be sure to come," said Donovan; and as they parted he lifted his eyes to the squire's with a long searching look, at once wistful and surprised; then, whistling to Waif, he walked away with the cat under his arm.

"Now what on earth did I do that for?" said the squire, as he and Mr. Hayes turned down the lane leading to the Hall gates. "I don't know what my wife will say, but really, Hayes, I don't dislike the boy; and how his face lighted up at the thought of the skating! He's not a bad fellow, after all."

Mr. Ward was quite right in surmising that his wife would be vexed when she heard of the invitation he had given; he tried hard to mention it casually when he got home, but there was an undisguisable anxiety in his voice as he observed,

"Oh! by-the-by, my dear, I met young Farrant just now, and asked him to come over for skating to-morrow."

Mrs. Ward looked up with as much annoyance as it was possible for a good, kind-hearted woman to show.

"You asked Donovan Farrant to come here?"

"Not to the house, my dear, only to skate on the lake. I really don't see how I could avoid it; he is a first-rate skater, and this is the only ice for miles round."

"But only the other day, Edward, you said you wouldn't have him about with the boys on any account. I really think you might be more careful. It will be beginning an intimacy, and then, with such near neighbours, we shall find it impossible to break it off. It is just the most dangerous time, too, with Harry back from Oxford, ready to make friends with anyone, and Ned fresh from school."

"My dear, surely they needn't become friends because they skate on the same lake; besides, I assure you young Farrant is not so bad as people make out."

"Well, Edward, he is not at all the kind of companion I like for the boys, and I've heard you say the same thing yourself. No one visits him, he reads with that Mr. Alleyne at Greyshot, a most unprincipled man, and you yourself heard that he attended Raeburn's lectures."

"I heard that he had been seen at one," said the squire, rather testily.

"And that is quite enough, I am sure, to prove him an unfit companion for our children," replied Mrs. Ward. "Only the other day, too, I met him at the library and heard him asking for books on Positivism; besides, no one invented the account of his school life, I suppose."

"Well, he's not likely to talk either of Raeburn or of Positivism on the ice, I should think," said Mr. Ward, with a smile. "Come, my dear, it is not like you to be inhospitable, let the poor fellow be here just this once."

"Of course he must come now you have asked him," said Mrs. Ward, with a sigh. "But I am vexed about it. I do think one should be careful with boys like Harry and Ned, and with three girls only just out. Donovan Farrant is so good-looking."

She sighed again. The squire laughed heartily.

"Now about the boys I don't feel so positive, I own, but you may set your mind quite at rest about the girls, for this dangerous young fellow whom you dread so much is a professed woman-hater. And you know, my dear, even the author of evil is not so black as he's painted."

Mrs. Ward sighed, but she said no more, only secretly in her heart she hoped the frost would not continue.

Donovan was on the ice before anyone else the next morning, and for some time had the lake to himself. By-and-by two or three carriages drove up with people from the neighbourhood whom he knew slightly, and towards the middle of the day the squire and his two sons came down, but, beyond an ordinary greeting, very little passed between them. The squire was too good-natured a man not to feel glad that, in spite of his wife's scruples, he had invited the objectionable neighbour to come; his intense enjoyment and his first-rate skating were pleasant to watch, too. Mr. Ward really felt sorry when, early in the afternoon, he saw him taking off his skates."

"You are leaving very soon," he said, kindly. "I hope it is not on account of luncheon. Won't you come up to the house and have something?"

The invitation slipped out naturally, the squire found it hard not to be hospitable. But luckily Donovan declined. He never left Dot now for a whole day, and, giving the ordinary excuse of "an engagement," he left the lake, the squire of course inviting him to come again the next day, and as long as the frost lasted.

Mrs. Ward was much relieved when, on coming down from the house with her daughters and her niece, she found that the object of her alarms was really gone. Everyone was singing his praises—that was a little annoying, certainly—but she learnt from her husband that he had been far too much taken up with his figure-cutting to trouble the boys with his company, and with that she was satisfied, and dismissed the subject from her thoughts.

The next day, however, was not nearly so propitious. To begin with, the girls would go on the ice in the morning, and, though Mrs. Ward hurried over her housekeeping and followed them as quickly as possible, she found that already the intimacy which she so much dreaded had begun. The first sight that met her eyes as she emerged from the shrubbery was a little knot of people gathered together on the bank. Her husband leaning on his stick and talking jocosely, her younger daughter, and her niece, Maggie White, just preparing for their first start, and Donovan Farrant kneeling in the snow, putting on her elder daughter's skates. It was very provoking! Why had not the girls been more careful? Why had she not sent down the servant to help them? Why did her husband stand there so carelessly, laughing and talking? Her greeting to Donovan was stiff and chill, but he was much too happy to care, the day was gloriously fine, the frosty air invigorating, Mr. Ward and his daughters had been kind and friendly, Maggie White was bewitching, for once in his life Donovan was perfectly and healthily happy. He had been on the ice for some time, his usually pale, dark face was all aglow with the exercise, and his eyes were sparkling with excitement, he certainly looked most provokingly handsome, and perhaps there was some cause for Mrs. Ward's anxiety,

"How could you let him help the girls like that?" she said, reproachfully, as the skaters glided swiftly away. "I thought, Edward, you told me he was a regular misanthrope."

"Well, I don't see that he has done much harm, my dear,"' said the squire. "Common courtesy would require him to help the ladies, and I'm glad to see him lose that cold proud look; he was more of a boy to-day."

"I have warned the girls to be careful, but there's no knowing what Maggie will do. She's a dreadful little flirt!" and Mrs. Ward looked anxiously across the lake to the place where Donovan was giving her niece a lesson in the figure eight.

"Well," said the squire, consolingly, "Maggie's a very nice girl, at any rate, and if she is, as you say, a flirt, then you may be pretty sure that she won't get her heart broken. Ah! here come the Fortescues. We have quite a nice number here to-day;" and the hospitable old gentleman hastened forward to receive his friends.

"You are the only good skater here," said Maggie, looking up admiringly at her instructor. "Where did you learn? And how can you manage to do all those wonderful figures?"

"They are only learnt by practice," said Donovan. "I learnt at school, and at my old home near London. You can do anything well, if you give your whole will to it."

"Can you?" said Maggie. "I can't. I expect I've had as many weeks of skating as you have had days. I come from Canada, you know; but I shall never be able to do these figures as you do."

It was pleasant to be made much of and flattered; an entirely new experience to Donovan. He thought Maggie White the prettiest and pleasantest girl he had ever seen. They talked on naturally and easily, and it was not surprising perhaps that Donovan was in no hurry to part with his new companion, or that he enjoyed skating rapidly up and down the lake hand in hand with her more than cutting figures by himself. Nor did it occur to Maggie that she was guilty of any great enormity in enjoying herself too. Once she said, in her pretty way,

"I am keeping you from doing what you like, please go away and leave me. I am taking up all your time, and spoiling your skating."

And Donovan, though he was no "lady's man," could answer very truthfully,

"You are making me enjoy it perfectly."

Then they began to talk again of Canada, and she described all its delights to him.

"Such fun we used to have in the skating season. Sometimes we had regular balls on the ice. It was so delightful! Oh! Mr. Farrant"—as a sudden thought struck her—"could we dance now? I'm sure you, who skate so beautifully, would waltz to perfection."

It was very innocently proposed. In a minute Maggie had proclaimed the news to her cousins as they passed.

"We are going to dance. Why don't you?" And then in a minute the deed was done, and Mrs. Ward saw with dismay that Donovan Farrant and her niece were actually dancing together.

Ice-waltzing was a novelty at Oakdene, and everyone turned to watch the graceful movements of the little Canadian girl and her partner. Twice they made the circuit of the lake, then, as they passed near the bank where Mrs. Ward and one of her daughters were standing, Donovan overheard the words:

"I must stop this. With Donovan Farrant, too. The last person in the world——"

Maggie felt a quick movement in the arm that was round her waist, and suddenly her partner stopped, saying, in an odd changed voice,

"I think Mrs. Ward wishes to speak to you."

"To me? All right, auntie, I'm coming. I won't be a minute, Mr. Farrant."

She skated swiftly to the bank, and listened, with downcast eyes, to her aunt's words.

"My dear, I don't quite approve of this. I'm sorry to interrupt your pleasure, but you must allow me to judge in this instance." Then, as Donovan drew near, she turned to him, trying to convey her meaning as civilly as she could. "I have been telling my niece that I think perhaps ice-dancing is a little out of place here. You will understand, I am sure, Mr. Farrant."

Yes, he understood perfectly. The face which had so lately been boyishly happy and bright was suddenly overcast, the eyes saddened, the mouth re-assumed its bitter look, and, without a single word, Donovan raised his hat, turned away, and skated rapidly to the other end of the lake.

The brightness of the day was gone for him after that. He went on skating, but with no animation. Once young Ned Ward came up and asked him to do the figure of double eight, with which he had been astonishing the quiet Oakdene skaters early in the morning, but be complied so moodily that the boy soon left him to seek more genial companions. Then Donovan resolved to go home. He had been repulsed, and, just as it was in his home life, so too, in this instance, one repulse was enough. He had neither enough love nor enough humility to lay himself open again to the chance of a fresh rebuff. After the first, he invariably shrank into himself, becoming a little harder, and colder, and more severe in manner.

He skated to a deserted corner of the lake, climbed the bank, and took off his skates; then involuntarily he looked back on the animated scene with a sore-hearted regret. The sun was already getting low, though it was not three o'clock; its level rays cast a red glow over the wide white expanse, dotted here and there by the dark gliding figures of the skaters. The shore was fringed with tall trees, their black stems serving as a relief to the general whiteness, and their branches drooping gracefully under the heavy yet feathery-looking rime. There was an intense stillness in the sharp frosty air, the voices of the merry crowd rang out clearly; once Donovan felt sure he heard Maggie White's girlish laugh, and it grated on him. But in another minute all his morbid and selfish thoughts were suddenly scattered to the winds, for while he was still looking across the lake he saw the ice in the centre bend, then, with one vast booming crack, it parted asunder. In an instant all was confusion. Donovan sprang from the bank, and ran at full speed to the scene of the disaster, all petty and personal feelings driven out by the absorbing general interest and alarm. Several people were in the water, struggling, sinking, rising, vainly clutching at the slippery edges of the broken ice. Those who were safe bent forward helplessly on their skates, trying to reach a hand to their friends in distress, or calling loudly for help, for ropes, for every sort of aid which was not at hand. Two ladies were submerged; Donovan coolly selected one of them while he drew off his coat, then, without an instant's hesitation, he plunged into the icy water. His example was speedily followed by Harry Ward, ropes were hastily brought on to the ice, the rescue began to seem hopeful. Donovan was an expert swimmer; a few strokes brought him up to the sinking girl, who, dragged down by the weight of her skates, was being drawn in under the ice. From this he freed her without much difficulty, but she was insensible, and he found that to get her out of the water was quite another matter; he tried several times, but without success; each time the edges of the ice broke away with the weight, and all he could do was to keep her head above water, while with increasing difficulty he struck out with his free arm. The others had been rescued, or were being helped, and at length a rope was brought to his aid, a noose was thrown round him and his burden, and, after a short fierce struggle, he found himself safely on the ice.

With a masculine dislike of being helped, he sprang quickly to his feet, left his insensible burden to the care of other hands, and looked round for his coat. Perhaps those who had seen him helped out with the rope did not know he was a rescuer—perhaps, in the excitement and hurry of the moment, he was overlooked; at any rate, no one spoke to him, and all at once his sore morose feeling returned with double force. The people were beginning to leave the ice quickly, the girl whom Donovan had rescued began to revive and was carried up to the house; he turned away in the opposite direction, picked up his skates from the bank where he had left them, and strode fiercely away in the direction of the Manor. He had done his best; one word of praise, or even of recognition, would have sent him home happy, but by some odd chance, even when he deserved commendation, he failed to get it. Probably he would have disliked being thanked above all things, and yet the absence of gratitude irritated him; it was unjust, no one ever gave him his due, the world was full of injustice. Over and over in his mind went the weary, bitter, discontented cry; perhaps his outward condition affected him a little, adding fuel to the flame, for, although he considered himself too philosophic to be troubled by mere bodily inconveniences, the truth was that he felt them more than most men, though he had great powers of endurance. The icy cold bath which he had just had, and the discomfort of his cold, clinging, dripping clothes, at any rate served to remind him continually of his grievance, just as the wound he had received in the school gauntleting had reminded him for days of that injustice. He had scarcely passed the Hall gates, when he was roused from his dismal thoughts by an unexpected greeting.

"Nice bright afternoon," said old Mr. Hayes, shaking his hand. "Have you been on the ice? Ah, yes, I see you have your skates."

"Yes; there's been an accident," said Donovan, "so I am going home. The ice on the large lake gave way."

"Bless me!—no one hurt, I hope? Did anyone go in? Why, now I notice you are all wet. Dear, dear! what a terrible thing! How many people fell in?"

"I should think about half a dozen," replied Donovan, swinging his skates and trying to look unconcerned.

"And all were rescued? that's a comfort. And you were helped out quickly, I hope?"

"Oh! yes," said Donovan, too proud to explain, "I was hauled out."

"Poor fellow! but what a shock it must have been! You'll be taking a chill. You must come in with me and have something hot, yes, indeed you must, I'll take no denial. Here we are, you see, at my door. Come in quickly and have something, and then walk home briskly and change. Now what shall it be, whisky-punch or negus! I'm an abstemious man generally, but this is the real time for such things, wet to the skin and chilled to the bone, dear, dear! Now come in, come in."

Mr. Hayes had not been disabused of the old ideas about alcohol, but, whether he was right or wrong, Donovan's brow gradually relaxed under the influence of the old man's kindness and hospitality; he followed him obediently into the little villa, which, though only inhabited by the bachelor Mr. Hayes, was as scrupulously neat as any old maid's dwelling.

Mr. Hayes rang the bell in the little parlour, all the time making much of his guest. Could he not accommodate him with a change of clothes? Should he send up to the Manor, &c.

A grave staid housekeeper appeared to answer the bell, and Mr. Hayes perhaps thought it would be well to quicken her movements by telling her the news of the village.

"Some hot water and a lemon and some sugar, please, Mrs. Brown. There has been an accident on the ice in the Hall grounds, and this gentleman has been in the water and is very wet."

Then the old man went to the cellaret, and, the housekeeper having returned with the other ingredients, he began with infinite pleasure and fussiness to make the punch. He would not let Donovan stay for long, but as soon as he had done justice to the steaming beverage, started him on his walk home, with paternal injunctions not to stay about in his wet things, and to be sure to come in again soon and cheer up a solitary old bachelor.

Donovan smiled to himself at the last speech. Was it not rather the "solitary old bachelor;" who had cheered him? The kindness and hospitality drove away for the time his gloomy thoughts, but they returned to him as he entered his own home and threw down his skates.

"Good-bye to you, at any rate," he murmured. "I shall never go there again."

Dot, with her quick all-observing eyes, saw at once that something was wrong when Donovan came into her room. Yesterday he had returned in the highest spirits, that very morning he had started with the look of bright expectation on his face which the little sister liked to see, but; now he was grave and sad, with the expression which he always wore when any allusion was made to his school disgrace—the expression which Dot never cared to put into words—a hard, bad look.

"You are back earlier than you said," she began. "Have you not had good skating?"

"Yes—no," he moved away from her to the fireplace, and kicked the coals in the grate with his heel.

"He never stirs the fire with his foot except when something is wrong," soliloquized Dot; then aloud,

"Have you seen mamma, Dono?"

"No."

It could not be any quarrel, then, in that quarter. What could have happened? He was so disinclined to talk, however, that she did not venture to ask any more questions, and in a minute or two he walked across the room, opened the piano, and began to practise. He had chosen something of Sebastian Bach's, and laboured away at it, at first mechanically and doggedly enough, but by degrees with immense satisfaction and relief to himself. A stately, measured, dignified strain it was, with one little fidgety, fugue-like passage; he played five bars of it over and over till the disappointment, and anger, and moodiness gradually died out of his heart, and poor Dot began to beg for mercy.

"You must have played it a thousand times," she said, laughing, and Donovan laughed too, left the piano, and came to sit beside her.

"Bach is as good as a tonic," he said, cheerfully. "That old fellow always sets me right,"

She saw now that she might talk to him, and began to question him about his day. He always told her his troubles, but this afternoon he tried to make light of them.

"We had a glorious time in the morning, the ice was perfect. About the middle of the time the Miss Wards came down, and their cousin, Miss White, a very pretty girl from Canada. She skated nicely, was much more up to things than anyone else, and for a little while we danced together. Mrs. Ward did not approve of that, though. I overheard her say something not too complimentary, and then she managed somehow to stop it, at which, you know, Dot, I was just a little cross. But, just as I was coming away, guess what happened."

"An accident! Oh! was it an accident?" cried Dot, excitedly. "And you were brave and helped the others, and Mrs. Ward was obliged to like you very much?"

He laughed a little, but rather sadly.

"No, Dot. You are running on too fast. I was born under an unlucky star, and shall never be able to win honour or respect."

He gave her a detailed account of the whole affair, and was rewarded by her delighted pride in his attempted rescue.

"Dono dear, you ought to have a medal for it, a medal, you know, from the Society for Promoting—what is it?"

"Cruelty to animals," suggested Donovan, wickedly.

"No, no, you bad boy. Something about being 'humane' and they give medals to people who save people's lives. Just fancy, Dono, you could wear it on your watch-chain. It would be so nice."

"Too nice for the like of me," he said, lightly, but with a stifled sigh. "They keep things of that sort for the good boys."

"And no one even thanked you? That was a shame," said the little sister, indignantly. "Never mind, Dono, you are my hero, my very own, and you're the dearest old boy in the world."

Perhaps it was as well that the frost only lasted three days longer. The skaters grumbled sadly, but two people at Oakdene were considerably relieved. The one was Mrs. Ward, who rejoiced that "that dangerous young man" could not again imperil her children, the other was the "dangerous young man" himself. But if Donovan did not easily forget injustice, neither did he forget even the most trifling piece of kindness. After his next day's shooting, he left a brace of pheasants at old Mr. Hayes' door, and this made an opening for a further acquaintance. Mr. Hayes wrote to ask him to dinner, and, as such invitations were rare, Donovan was pleased enough to go. It was a tête-à-tête dinner. Old Mr. Hayes was past sixty, and Donovan not yet nineteen, but, in spite of this disparity in age, the evening was a very pleasant one, and did him good. It was a fresh interest, an insight into a new home, and also into a life whose simplicity, kindliness, and content could not fail to strike the most casual observer.

Mr. Hayes lived very frugally as a rule. The game was an unwonted luxury, and his evident appreciation of it was very pleasant to Donovan. He himself had a hearty but philosophic appetite, to which nothing came amiss, dainty discrimination was not at all in his line, but he enjoyed watching old Mr. Hayes discuss his present, glad that what had been pleasure to him in the shooting should be real pleasure to some one else in the eating.

"You are like Squire Thornhill in 'The Vicar of Wakefield,'" said Mr. Hayes, when the house-keeper had removed the game, "who brought his own venison with him when he dined at the vicarage. What! You don't know the book? Is it possible? Well, I suppose it's old and behind the times now; but, my word! how I have laughed over it, and cried, too, for the matter of that. 'Moses at the Fair,' and then 'Olivia!' Ah! he was a grand fellow, old Goldsmith. There are no such writers now-a-days."

Then by-and-by some question of Donovan's drew out an account of Mr. Hayes' former life, the rough discipline of the old boarding-schools, the early drudgery in a merchant's office, his gradual advance till he had become a partner in the firm, the losses they had had in the time of the Crimean War, finally his ill-health, and his retirement, with a modest income, to the little country villa. A life of toil, and care, and hardship, with what seemed a very slight reward to Donovan, but which the old man himself evidently considered quite sufficient.

"And now, you see," he concluded, "when my health is uncertain, and I can't do what I once could, why, here I have a cosy little berth to myself, with no cares or anxieties. It was always my castle in the air, this, a little house in a country village, with a bit of garden, and a place to keep fowls in. The thought of this helped me through years of care and labour. Always remember to have your castle in the air. That's my advice to you."

"What is the use, sir, if it never comes to anything? Except at cards, the luck is against me always. And is there not a proverb, 'Blessed is he that expecteth nothing'?"

"Well, well," said Mr. Hayes, "perhaps you're the wiser and more rational. I don't know exactly about expecting—you must expect very patiently, at any rate. But a 'castle' is a great blessing; I should miss mine sadly."

"You have a new one, then?" said Donovan, amused.

"Oh, yes; since I came here, I have fixed upon a visit to Switzerland as my 'castle.' I've been saving up for it this long time, and I've mapped out my route, and chosen what hotels to go to, and calculated just what it will cost; and then, you know, when I meet with travellers, I get hints from them, and put them down in my note-book. Now this is what I intend to do, starting, you know, from Newhaven to Dieppe," &c., &c.

The whole tour was detailed with enthusiastic delight, and Donovan listened, unable to help admiring the child-like, contented old man.

"And when do you think your 'castle' will come off, sir?" he asked, when the whole plan had been related.

"Oh! that I can't tell at all," said Mr. Hayes, rubbing his hands. "I have not saved enough yet; but won't it be a grand tour! Come, own that it's a 'castle' worth having."

Now a boy is, of all wild beasts, the most difficult to manage.—PLATO.

"You see, dear Mrs. Tremain, one must be so careful with boys; there are so many temptations into which they are likely to fall, and, humanly speaking, there is no such careful and saving influence as a mother's."

The speaker, Mrs. Causton, was a middle-aged lady, with no-coloured hair brought low on each side of her brow, and a rather care-worn face, which expressed kindly intentions, but yet at the same time seemed a little formal. An old friend of Dr. Tremain's, and the wife of a naval officer, she had lately settled down at Porthkerran in order to be with her son Stephen, a boy of nineteen, who was to spend a year in Dr. Tremain's surgery before going up to London to "walk the hospitals." Mrs. Causton was such a near neighbour that she was an almost daily visitor at the doctor's house, and her easy informal comings and goings never interfered with anything that was going on. The two ladies were sitting by the open window of the breakfast-room one warm summer morning, when Mrs. Causton made the remark about a "mother's influence;" Mrs. Tremain, with the daintiest and most exquisitely neat workbox before her, was busy with some folds of blue cambric, out of which her skilful, and therefore graceful-looking hands, were devising one of little Nesta's frocks; and Gladys, at the far end of the room, was giving Jackie a reading-lesson.

"And yet," began Mrs. Tremain, in answer, "I can't help thinking that a certain amount of independence is almost necessary; a boy must learn sooner or later to stand alone."

"Yes, yes, sooner or later, of course. Stephen must be alone in London next year. I wish it could be otherwise; but you know I never could be in London, unfortunately; the air is like poison to me. He must be alone then, but I can't help dreading it very much; he has scarcely ever been away from me, not for more than a few days at a time in his whole life. I could never make up my mind to send him to school; there are so many temptations in school life; I always dreaded it for Stephen."

"One wants a great deal of faith with children," said Mrs. Tremain; and as she spoke, though the words were by no means lightly meant, there was a little smile of amusement about her lips, for she knew she was poaching on Mrs. Causton's manor.

"Ah! dear Mrs. Tremain, no one knows that better than I do; it is faith from the beginning to the end, how else could one bear the anxieties, the—— Well, Jackie dear," as the sturdy little four-year-old boy, released from his lessons, sprang towards her with the affectionate rough demonstration of arms and legs common to most children of his age. "It was only last Sunday that I was trying to tell dear little Jackie something of the nature of faith; one cannot too early impress it on a child. Do you remember, darling, what I said in Sunday-school?"

"This is Fliday," said the matter-of-fact Jackie.

"Yes, but can't you remember such a few days ago as that? What did I say faith was?"

"Oh! I lemember," said Jackie, looking up brightly. "An apple-pie in a boat."

Mrs. Tremain and Gladys could not help laughing, Mrs. Causton looked perplexed for a minute, but Jackie ran off contentedly to his play, and never waited for the explanation.

"Poor little man, I see how it was. I just gave them an illustration, you know, told them that if they went down to the beach with me one day, and I was to say, 'Look at that boat in the distance, it has an apple-pie in it,' and they were to believe there was an apple-pie in it, that would be faith. It is always well to choose attractive illustrations for children, but dear little Jackie of course was rather confused just now."

"Aunt Margaret," said Gladys, for, though Mrs. Causton was no real relation, the children had known her all their lives, and had christened her "auntie," in American fashion. "Aunt Margaret, what would you have done if Stephen had had to go to sea like Dick?"

"My dear, I could never have allowed it," said Mrs. Causton, quickly. "Of course, naturally enough, at one time Stephen did wish to go with his father, but it could never have been allowed. From the very first I determined that he should be a clergyman or a doctor, the only thoroughly good and Christian professions, to my mind."

"Oh! but, auntie, think of the number of good men there are in other professions," said Gladys, with girlish vehemence, provoked by the narrowness of the remark.

"I like a consistent calling," said Mrs. Causton, "and you know, Gladys, humanly speaking, it is often difficult to lead a consistent life in a more secular profession."

Gladys was silenced but not satisfied. When Mrs. Causton had gone she returned to the subject.

"Mother, Aunt Margaret seems to think that very few people are Christians. She talks as if all the world, except just a few people like herself, were wicked."

"Your aunt has very strong opinions. I do not agree with her always," said Mrs. Tremain. "Nor need you, Gladys."

"But, mother, it's so tiresome to have to hear people say things like that, it's so—so narrow! What would she do if there were only two professions in the world, if every man was a clergyman or a doctor? And if the other things must be done and seen to, why, it must be right for some one to do them."

"Do you know," said Mrs. Tremain, smiling, "that you are a very hot little arguer, Gladys? I fancy, like most women, that you have just a little personal feeling mixed with your views. Were you not thinking of Dick when the other professions were being decried?"

"You always know everything," said Gladys, resting her arm on Mrs. Tremain's knee, and shading her brow with her hand. "Yes, I was thinking of Dick. I believe he's the best middy in all the navy. You know, mother, what Captain Smith said about his influence on board. I'm sure his life is as consistent as Stephen's will ever be."

"We are getting rather little and personal," said Mrs. Tremain. "Don't let us take to crying up our own belongings, and comparing them with other people's. Of course you are proud of Dick, dear, and so am I, but he is not a paragon of virtue."

"Oh I no, I can't bear paragons," said Gladys, laughing, "they are always prigs. Dick is a regular boy still, that's why he's so nice. I wonder whether Aunt Margaret thinks it very risky for him to be left to himself so much. I believe Stephen wants to be let alone a little, he always looks so bored when auntie begins to talk at him. You know, mother, she really does talk rather much, she always tries to drag in religion, and sometimes it does come in so oddly. And then she is always saying 'humanly speaking.' I can't bear those little phrases. I think auntie must be descended from some of the old Puritans. I'm sure she'd have liked those funny, made-up names. She chose Stephen's name because it was in the Bible, and she thinks Gladys sounds so like a heathen. She wonders you and papa chose it for me."

Mrs. Tremain laughed.

"Well, Gladys dear, live up to the best meaning of your name, and I shall be quite satisfied. Now let us have our reading together. The weather looks promising for our picnic this afternoon, does it not?"

Later in the day the whole family, including Stephen and Mrs. Causton, were to meet for an out-of-doors tea-drinking. It was a half-holiday, and the two younger boys, intervening between Dick and little Jackie, were to come over from their school at Plymouth. The doctor had promised to get his rounds done quickly, and Stephen was released from his duties for an hour or two. To children, and to child-like minds, it is seldom that a great expedition or an expensive picnic gives the pleasure which a more simple and homely one does. It is not the great, formal, country excursion, with its grand toilettes and champagne lunch which dwells in the memory, and is looked back upon with pleasure, it is rather the simple "day in the country," when there were no liveried servants to carry the provisions, when our own arms ached with the burden, when, with a sense of delicious novelty, we ourselves spread the cloth on the turf, or boiled the kettle over a gipsy-like fire of sticks, or roamed in delightful freedom in what seemed a paradise of rest and greenness, away from the "haunts of men."

About two miles west of Porthkerran the cliffs were broken into a sort of cleft or narrow valley, and here a beautiful wood had sprung up, which in spring was carpeted with primroses and anemones, and where in summer forget-me-nots were to be found by the side of the little streams which trickled through the wood to the sea. It was in this place that the Tremains were to spend their afternoon.

"It was very good of you to spare Stephen," said Mrs. Causton to the doctor, as he helped her out of the little pony-carriage, in which the elder ladies and the two younger children had come. "I sometimes fancy that he does not get out enough. I hope he deserves his holiday?"

"Yes, a little country air will freshen him up," said the doctor, without replying directly to the question.

The mother's instinct was quick to note this.

"I hope you are really satisfied with Stephen?" she said, anxiously. "I hope he isn't idle?"

"Oh!" said the doctor, re-assuringly, "I don't think he's more idle than many boys of his age. I daresay he told you that I was down upon him rather sharply yesterday. He forgot an important message, and I was obliged to lecture him a little."

"He never told me," said Mrs. Causton, with some vexation in her tone. "I would always so much rather know things of that kind. I cannot get him to be open with me."

"You can hardly expect that he will tell you of every trifling scrape he gets into," said Dr. Tremain. "That was all very well while he was in petticoats, and the more spontaneous telling there is still the better, but perhaps one can hardly expect it in such a matter as that."

"I like perfect confidence between a mother and son," said Mrs. Causton. "Who should help him and advise him, if I do not?"

"Quite so. It is everything to have strong sympathy and understanding, but confidence cannot be forced, or it is utterly worthless, and a boy of nineteen is generally rather a tough customer to deal with."

"You think so?" questioned Mrs. Causton.

"Yes, I think undoubtedly that from eighteen to one and twenty is one of the most difficult periods of life. Boys, and in many instances girls, too, begin then to have a good deal of liberty. The old discipline is cast off, they have to rule their own actions to a great extent, they have to face the problems of life, and forming their own opinion strongly on every point, whether it is beyond their comprehension or not, they battle along not unfrequently a misery to themselves and to their friends, till, after dearly-bought experience, they at last settle down, more or less contentedly, with some of their conceit knocked out of them."

"Stephen is not conceited," broke in Mrs. Causton. "I don't think anyone could call him conceited; and as to his opinions, why he holds everything that I do. He has never been any trouble to me in that way, and in these days, when young men so often hold such dreadfully unorthodox views, that is saying a great deal."

"I don't think Stephen is in any danger of being unorthodox," said the doctor, rather drily. Then after a little pause he added, "I meant that I don't think he ever thinks enough to have any difficulties. But in one way, Mrs. Causton, I do think he might be in danger, he is far too easily led."

"He is naturally gentle and pliable," said Mrs. Causton. She would not say, "weak."

"And there is, I think, his danger," said the doctor. "Old John Bunyan showed a wonderful knowledge of life when he made Pliable the one to go half-way into the Slough of Despond, and never win through it. I don't want to make you anxious about Stephen, but of course, since the lad's been with me, he's been in my mind a good deal, and I can't help thinking that he wants more of a backbone; he has not enough steadiness; he is too loose in his management of himself. I do not think he knows how to steer his own course."

"But I am still with him; he cannot go wrong now very well," said Mrs. Causton.

"But you cannot always be with him," replied the doctor. "Depend upon it, the best thing you can do is to teach him self-management. There is an old saying, which of course you know, about the child who is 'tied to his mother's apron-strings;' perhaps it seems cruel of me to quote such a rough simile to you, but, you see, there is danger in it—it makes a boy weak and helpless, instead of bracing him for his part in life, as I know you and all good mothers would wish to do."

"Well, what shall I tell him?—what is his chief fault in his work?" said Mrs. Causton, with the rather fretted manner of one taking uncongenial advice.

"Don't bother him—let him alone a little," said the doctor, cheerfully. "Some day I mean to give him a good blowing up; he must learn to keep the surgery more tidy."

Mrs. Causton was a little annoyed at this sudden descent to what seemed to her such a trifling and mundane matter, but Dr. Tremain's next sentence cleared her brow once more.

"You must not mind my talking so plainly to you about the boy; you see, I've been his father's friend ever since we were lads together, and so I can't help taking a special interest in Stephen. But don't let us spoil our afternoon's pleasuring with educational bothers. Where will you and the mother sit? Here is a nice tree ready felled—what do you say to that? I shall leave you to gossip while I go mothing."

So the doctor, taking his butterfly-net, walked off into the wood, tapping the tree-trunks every now and then in search of spoil, and closely followed by Jackie, who promised to be as keen a naturalist as his father.

Mrs. Tremain took out her knitting, and, while talking with her companion, kept an eye on little Nesta, who was now more than a year old, and just beginning to run alone. From their place the two ladies could catch glimpses of the deep blue of the Porthkerran Bay through the overhanging trees, while occasionally merry voices in the distance told of the presence of the children. The quiet country "stillness" was very refreshing, but Mrs. Causton could not quite free herself from the uncomfortable impression which the doctor's words had left on her mind; had she been able to see into her son's heart at that moment, her anxiety would have been still greater.

"How jolly this is!" said Stephen, as, leaving the dusty highway, they entered the cool green shade of the wood. "I used to think it must be so dull down here at Porthkerran; it seemed like the ends of the earth when we were living in Sussex."

"Cornwall is the best place in the world," said Gladys, with pride. "I can't think how people can live in places where they have to wear gloves always, and walk about in their best clothes."

"I thought girls always liked dress," said Stephen.

"Oh! yes, of course, in a way; it is nice to have pretty things, but not to be always bothered with them," said Gladys, stooping down to gather some forget-me-nots.

The younger boys had wandered on in front. Stephen was not sorry to be left behind, for he was rapidly gliding into love with Gladys. He gave to her now the confidence which his mother had so much wished for.

"Sometimes I think, Gladys, that I shall be obliged to go away from here," he began—"before my year is over, I mean."

"Oh, will you?" said Gladys.

"Would you—would you be sorry if I went?" questioned Stephen, anxiously.

"Of course," said Gladys, with almost more frankness than he desired—"dreadfully sorry. We should all miss you; and besides, Aunt Margaret has taken the house now."

It was too general and prosaic a view to please Stephen; however, he continued—

"I fancy your father is not pleased with me; he was awfully vexed yesterday."

"Was he? Why was that?" asked Gladys, looking up with innocent sympathy.

"Why, they sent up word from the inn that Mary Pengelly was much worse, and I forgot to tell him."

"Oh, Stephen! and did it matter much?"

"I don't know. I don't think it could have made much difference. She died this morning."

There was a little silence after this, then Gladys said,

"I've often noticed that papa is more vexed by carelessness than by great big faults, and you see, Stephen, this might have been so dreadful, if he could have saved her by going earlier."

"Oh! I don't think he could. She's been supposed to be dying for a week. Don't look so awfully grave, Gladys, I shall be very careful, of course, after this. I mean to turn over a new leaf. You don't know how I should hate to leave this place. You don't know how I care for—for you all."

The colour had risen to the roots of his hair, and Gladys for the first time caught his meaning. Half pleased, half frightened, her strongest impulse was to run away, to put a stop somehow to the tête-à-tête; for the first time she felt that there was a difference between walking alone with Dick and walking alone with Stephen, and, with a sudden shyness which she had never known before, she looked about for some way of escape.

A brilliant butterfly fluttered past her, and, with relief in her voice, she said, quickly,

"Oh! I do believe there is that rare 'blue' which Jackie wanted. I must catch him."

And, while Stephen wished all the rare "blues" at the other side of the world, Gladys sprang across the little brook, running in swift pursuit of her victim. Stephen sauntered on rather discontentedly, but taking care not to lose sight of the brown holland and blue ribbons, which flashed rapidly hither and thither in the chase, threading the woody labyrinth. When at last he came up with her, the butterfly was secured, and the rest of the party were in sight.

Then came the merry preparations for tea; the boys gathered sticks and nursed the flickering blaze, Gladys began to spread bread and honey, like the queen in the nursery rhyme, and Dr. Tremain, returning with his prey in a dozen little boxes, devoted himself to making jokes for Mrs. Causton's benefit, and good-naturedly entered into all the children's arrangements, though, like most middle-aged men, he hated the discomforts of an out-door meal. The most noteworthy incident in the day to Stephen was that afterwards, as they were still resting in the shade, from time to time singing rounds and catches, Gladys began to make her forget-me-nots into tiny nosegays. There was one for everybody, but the greater number of them were destined to "bloom their hour and fade," only one was carefully preserved among Stephen's untidy haunts. There was this much of good in him, that he was capable of recognizing Gladys' beauty and goodness, but unfortunately she did not greatly influence him.

            She was sent forth
To bring that light which never wintry blast
Blows out, nor rain nor snow extinguishes—
The light that shines from loving eyes upon
Eyes that love back, till they can see no more.
                                                                                    LANDON.

A little child shall lead them.
                                Book of the Prophet Isaiah.

It is an old saying, and perhaps a truism, that self-sacrifice always brings its reward; not exactly the substantial reward promised in a certain moral song which is put into the lips of children, in which a charitable loaf-giver is represented as receiving "As much and ten times more," but a reward in some form perhaps hardly understood now, but no less real because we cannot grasp or fathom it. In one sense great gain is consistent with loss, perhaps follows upon it almost as constantly as joy follows upon pain.

It was not a tangible reward which Donovan's self-sacrifice met with. Our highest and best gifts are never tangible, but it was a reward which was one of the best and most lasting influences of his life. When he resolved to devote himself entirely to Dot, instinctively his thoughts grew less morbid and selfish. His life, which seemed so purposeless and useless, twined itself round her life, and found the object it needed. His creed indeed remained unaltered; the angry sense of injustice still lurked in his heart, but everything was now subservient to the one ruling interest, and, through all the bad influences which were besetting him continually during the two years which elapsed after his father's death, the unconscious loving influence of the little child kept its hold upon him.

His was a nature formed either for great good or for great evil. Whatever he did he did thoroughly; whether it was the reading of a fairy-tale to Dot, or the mastery of some difficult passage of music, or his nightly card-playing at the Greyshot club, he bent his whole will to the work, intent upon making whatever he was engaged upon a masterpiece of its kind. In spite, then, of all the evil at work within him and without, Donovan had really improved. At twenty, he was far more manly, more tender and considerate, and, though his self-reliance was still unshaken, he was no longer the self-absorbed, gloomy, taciturn fellow he had been. To make himself companionable to Dot, he had been forced to rouse himself; abstract speculations, long, dismal reveries were incompatible with the line of life which he had marked out for himself. What might have done very well among the Alps must be entirely avoided in the little invalid's room, and he exerted himself with such firmness of purpose that in spite of his natural tendency to melancholy, and the bitter spirit which his early education had produced, he became bright and cheerful, sometimes even merry. This was, of course, when he was with her; at other times he was often sadly moody, and the coldness with his mother increased rather than diminished; indeed, he saw very little of her, for, when Dot did not need him, he could always find amusement at Greyshot, though his passion for cards did not lead him among the very best companions.

And all the time Mrs. Farrant allowed herself to drift down the stream of life placidly. The world seemed to her a little dull, but no doubt other people found it so. She had many comforts; she would not complain. In what she considered peaceful and virtuous content, she stroked Fido, received visitors, drove out in her victoria, and read light literature. Twice a day she visited Dot's room; a sort of duty call, which both mother and child took as a matter of course, but did not in the least care for; and occasionally Donovan occupied her thoughts for a few minutes. She would feel a sort of pride and pleasure as she noticed what a fine-looking fellow he was, or would be vexed and annoyed that the neighbours shunned him, but it never occurred to her that she was at all responsible for him, that it was through her neglect and unmotherliness that he was driven away from home to spend his evenings at a disreputable club.

In the second spring after Colonel Farrant's death, it was arranged that the Oakdene family should go up to town for the season. Mrs. Farrant had left off her weeds. Ellis and Adela urged them to come up for at least a few weeks, and as the house in Connaught Square, which had been let for the last two years, was now at liberty, there seemed no reason against it. Donovan was glad enough to go. He had begun to crave for a change of scene, and, though he was too unsociable and silent to care for the sort of gaieties which his mother enjoyed, London offered many other attractions to him.

Dot's room was in the front of the house, that she might have the benefit of the square garden, and, when she had recovered from the fatigue of the journey, she was able thoroughly to enjoy the change. Donovan had not noticed how very thin and weak she had grown lately. He was never away from her, and so did not see the change, as a fresh-comer would have done. It was a chance word of Adela Farrant's which first drew his attention to the fact.

"Why, my poor little Dot," she exclaimed, coming into the room a few days after their arrival, "how thin and white you have grown; you're just like a little shadow. What have you been doing to her, Donovan?"

The light tones and the smiling face of the speaker were a strange contrast to the startled abrupt interrogative which escaped Donovan, and the look of pain which came over his face.

"You think her changed?"

"Yes, very much; I believe, dear, they've kept you mewed up in the country a great deal too long. You wanted a little change and amusement. You wanted me to look after you, now didn't you?"

Conscious that she had made rather an unfortunate remark, Adela talked on good-naturedly to the little girl, and once or twice tried to draw Donovan into the conversation; he did not seem to hear her, but stood leaning against the wall at the foot of Dot's couch, looking at her with a sad, anxious, pained scrutiny. Adela's words had sent a cold chill to his heart. Was it true? Was Dot really changed? Was she more fragile and delicate-looking than usual? He tried to look at her as if he were a stranger, tried to find the bare, undisguised truth.

Dot was now twelve years old, though her little helpless form was so tiny that she looked more like a child of eight; he seemed never to have really looked at her before, and, though he knew every line of her face by heart, its beauty had never before struck him. She had always been to him just Dot herself, it had never entered his head to think whether she was pretty or not. She wore a loose white dress, and over her feet was spread a many-coloured Indian shawl, the same shawl which he remembered seeing in the ayah's arms on that day of wretchedness and disappointment in his childhood. The window was open and the summer wind played with her soft brown hair as it lay on the pillow; he noticed a strange waxen look about the little childish face, and the beauty of the rounded serene forehead, with its too apparent network of blue veins, the soft grey-brown eyes, the tender little smiling mouth, struck him as it had never struck him before. It could never be, oh! surely it could never be, that she would be taken from him! Fate had been so cruel to him, it would surely leave him the one thing he cared for still! The mere thought caused him such agony that he could hardly contain himself; it was only from his habitual self-control, and from his love to Dot, that he could force a smile to his lips as she looked up at him appealingly.

"Dono, do you hear what we are saying? We are saying you must go out more while you are here. Cousin Adela says you are very unsociable."

"Yes, you are a regular bear," said Adela. "I'm quite ashamed of you, sir, you've no excuse whatever. With your advantages you might turn the heads of half the girls in town."

"A desirable employment," said Donovan, veiling far deeper feelings with a sarcastic smile.

"There, I told you he was a bear! See how he speaks to me!" said Adela, with mock anger.

"I beg your pardon," he said, laughing. "But if that is the 'whole duty of man,' it's beyond me; I can't turn neat compliments to pretty women, it's not in me. Some fellows are born to it, it comes as naturally to them as card-playing comes to me. One can't go against mature."

"You ought to do your duty," said Adela, with playful severity.

"And if I were to ask, like Froude's cat, 'What is my duty?' you would answer, I suppose, like the sagacious animals in the parable, 'Get your own dinner,' and add, perhaps, 'at some grand house belonging to one of the "upper ten."' That is my duty, I suppose."

"He is talking riddles to me, Dot," said Adela. smiling. "What cat does he mean?"

"Oh! the cat in 'Short Studies on Great Subjects,'" said Dot, readily. "Such a jolly story it is! The cat wanted to know what was the good of life, and everyone gave her such funny answers. The owl said 'Meditate, oh! cat,' and so she tried to think which could have come first, the fowl or the egg. Dono laughed over that story more than I ever saw him laugh before."

"But, to return to the charge," said Adela, "why were you not at Lady Temple's last night?"

"Because I've forsworn such vanities," said Donovan, contentedly. "The night before I dutifully attended my mother to three fashionable crowds—'perpendiculars' is the best name for them, for there is generally barely room for standing—and, as we elbowed our way through the third set of rooms, I made up my mind that society wasn't in my line."

"People never know when they're well off," said Adela. "Many men would be thankful enough to be in your shoes, and to be introduced to such a good circle, and, instead of making the most of your advantages, you think of nothing but those wicked cards."

"Of course it is very wicked indeed to think of such things as whist, or loo, or euchre; instead of that my cousin would wish me to spend my evenings in the virtuous employment of talking nonsense in aristocratic drawing-rooms, or flirting in ball-rooms," said Donovan, with a satirical smile.

"Your cousin would wish you to be a great deal more polite," said Adela, laughing, "and she does not like to be snapped up in that way, for all the world as if you were a machine for cutting people's words up—a chaff-cutter!"

"At any rate, I was not chaffing," said Donovan, relapsing into good humour.

"Did you ever know anything like him?" said Adela, with another laugh. "He can make as many bad puns as ordinary men when he tries, but let him be in society, and he's a bear—a gloomy Spanish don—more morose and formal and stupid than anyone I have met in my whole life."

"You mustn't scold him," said Dot, not quite understanding the banter, and hurt that anyone should think Donovan otherwise than perfect; "you don't know a bit how good he is if you say that. When I was so ill six months ago, he was with me almost always, and often he used to sit up all night with me."

"I didn't know you had been ill—worse, at least," said Adela.

"Yes; it was in the autumn, when Cousin Ellis had come down for the shooting, and Dono missed ever so many days because he wouldn't leave me. Dono is the best nurse in the world; his hands are so clever, they never hurt like Doery's, and, do you know, once our old doctor wondered how it was he was so quick and clever and steady-handed, and Dono told him it was because he played billiards so much."

"Some advantages, you see, Cousin Adela, in being a born gamester," said Donovan, with rather a sad smile, as he looked down at Dot's little weak fingers wreathing themselves in and out of his.

"Well, I'm glad you can turn into a sick-nurse," said Adela. "You have brought out a new side of his character, Dot, and deserve a vote of thanks."

"Oh! and Waif brought it out too," said Dot, eagerly. "Waif had the distemper dreadfully last year—he nearly died. The vetchi—what do you call the animal-doctor?—said that he would have died if Dono hadn't taken such care of him; he sat up with him two nights, and that saved his life. Isn't Waif a dear dog, cousin?"

"Well, I don't think he's a beauty," said Adela, looking down at the fox-terrier, who was licking his master's hand.

"He can do lots of tricks, though," said Dot; "he's wonderfully clever, and he loves Dono so!"

"Have you seen Ellis's new dog?" asked Adela, who rather wanted to bring the conversation round to her brother. "He has a new retriever. I suppose you have seen Ellis himself, have you not?"

"Well, yes, seeing that he's been in here every day," said Donovan, not in his pleasantest tone.

"Oh! but you're such an unsociable fellow," said Adela. "One might be in the house for hours and not see you. Ellis said something about meeting me here at five o'clock. I think I had better go downstairs and see if he has come."

"Oh! stay with Dot a little longer," said Donovan. "I daresay he has not come yet; I'll go and see."

Adela consented to stay on, and Donovan, with Waif at his heels, went downstairs. Opening the drawing-room door unconcernedly, and hastily glancing round to see if his cousin were there, he was suddenly confronted by a sight so unexpected, so disagreeably startling, that for a moment he stood rooted to the spot, unable to speak or move. His mother, half smiling, half tearful, had both her hands clasped in Ellis Farrant's; he was kneeling beside her in such a theatrical attitude that, if Donovan had not been altogether dismayed and astounded, he must have been amused.

Mrs. Farrant, looking up, saw her son, and, with a sudden blush, began nervously, "Oh, Donovan!" then, turning to Ellis, faltered, "You must tell him."

It was not a pleasant task, but Ellis, in the triumph of his victory, could afford to meet a trifling annoyance of this sort. With much real trepidation carefully hidden beneath his most jaunty manner, he crossed the room to the mute statue-like form, which would not move a hair's-breadth to meet him.

"Well, my boy, I see there is little need to tell you; I'm the happiest man in London, Donovan. Your mother has consented to be my wife. You must not be angry with me; come, now, I am not going to steal her away from you—of course we shall all live on at Oakdene together. It is not every boy of your age whom I should look forward to having as a son; but you, Donovan, it is very different with you; we have always been friends, have we not? I remember him," he continued, turning to Mrs. Farrant, "when he was quite a little fellow, and as sharp as a needle, though he couldn't have been more than seven."

All this time Donovan's face had only grown more hard and flint-like. Ellis, with his usual tact, saw that his best policy would be to retreat at once, ignoring his ward's anger, and taking his congratulations for granted. He pressed Mrs. Farrant's hand in his.

"I must leave you now, dearest. You must talk this over with your son." Then turning to Donovan, "Stay, and hear all from your mother. No, leave me to let myself out. Adela said I should meet her in Dot's room. I'll just run up."

Already he seemed to behave as if the house were his own. He held out his hand cordially, but Donovan would not see it, still in perfect silence he turned hastily to open the door for his cousin, moving for the first time during the interview. Ellis went out smilingly, pretending not to notice the absence of all response, but as the door closed, and he went slowly upstairs alone, his brow clouded even in this his moment of victory, and between his teeth he hissed out the words, "Young viper! I'll teach him to find his tongue! We'll have a rather different interview, my friend, when you come of age!"

Donovan had been half paralyzed while Ellis remained in the room, but no sooner had he left it than, with sudden reaction, the frozen blood seemed to boil in his veins. The stony look on his face changed to passionate earnestness, and crossing the room in hurried strides, he stood close to Mrs. Farrant.

"Mother!" he gasped. Only that one word, but there was such intensity, such pleading, such misery in the tone, that the most eloquent entreaties could not have been so stirring.

"Don't agitate me, Donovan. I have been so excited already," cried Mrs. Farrant, shrinking from him, really alarmed by his looks. "Don't, pray don't look so wild. I am very sorry if you have been taken by surprise. I thought, of course, you saw last autumn how it was."

"Last autumn!" said Donovan. "Last autumn I could think of nothing but Dot. I was blind—hoodwinked by his devices. Oh! mother, do not, do not let it be. I see now how it has all been—one long piece of manœuvering from the very first. He has been trading on us. He brought his sister down to dazzle me, to draw off my attention. Mother, do not trust him, he is false, and treacherous, and mean. He will make you miserable!"

"It is not your place to speak like this," said Mrs. Farrant, with some resentment in her tone. "You forget that Mr. Farrant is my future husband; you forget that you are speaking to your mother."

"I do not forget," cried Donovan, vehemently. "It is because I cannot forget you are my mother that I must speak. I am your son, and you must and shall hear me. I know Ellis Farrant better than you do. You only see the sleek, bland, polite side of him; but I have seen him with other men. He is false, and grasping, and selfish. If it had not been for him I might not have been what I am now. Mother, do not throw yourself away on such a man as that. It will bring nothing but wretchedness on us all. For Dot's sake, for your own sake, do not let this be!"

"I wish you wouldn't talk so wildly," said Mrs. Farrant, half crying. "I don't know what you mean by saying such dreadful things about your—your guardian. It is very hard that directly some one else begins to love me you should suddenly wake up from your usual indifference. You never loved me yourself, and you will not let anyone else love me."

"It is not true," said Donovan, greatly agitated. "I could have loved you dearly, mother, if you would only have let me. I do love you—far, far more than that other man, who only wants your money. Send him away; do not listen to him. Let us be what nature meant us to be to each other!"

"You are mad! You frighten me. You make my head ache," said Mrs. Farrant, petulantly. "You have never shown me any particular attention. I scarcely see you, except at mealtimes. It is unreasonable of you to be vexed because I accept an offer of marriage."

"Have I driven you to it?" cried poor Donovan. "Would I not willingly have been more to you! Did I not tell you so long ago? And you turned from me. You told me to be more like that knave!"

"If I told you so before, I certainly repeat it now," said Mrs. Farrant. "Your guardian is a gentleman. He would never speak in such a way to a defenceless woman. When my only son can attack me so fiercely, I think it is time I accepted a husband to protect me."

"Fiercely! Protect you!" echoed Donovan, in a voice which, though less vehement, was full of pain. Could she have thought his passion of re-awakening love, his eager longing to save her from certain misery was fierceness? Bitterly wounded, he turned away with one despairing sentence. "We shall never understand each other."

"Perhaps not," she replied, "but, at any rate, we must not again discuss this subject. It would not be right for me to listen to you, or for you to say such things again. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he murmured, "I have said my say." Then, looking down at her again, he added, in a strangely repressed voice, "When will it be?"

"I do not know," she faltered. "Perhaps—perhaps at the end of the season."

There was a moment's pause, then in silence Donovan crossed the room, and would have gone out, but, by some sudden unknown impulse, Mrs. Farrant stopped him.

"Dono!" it was the old childish name, and it checked him at once. "Dono, come back, come back and kiss me."

For years and years the formal salute had passed between them every day, now for the first time it was spontaneous, or rather Mrs. Farrant felt for the first time a mother's natural craving for affection, and Donovan was allowed to give expression to the love which had never really been quenched, only shut down and restrained.

The unwonted piece of demonstration helped in part to take the sting from the unwelcome news. Donovan's face as he returned to Dot's room was sad indeed, but no longer bitter.

"Oh! Dono," she cried, eagerly, "have you heard? Has Cousin Ellis told you?"

"Yes, I have heard all," said Donovan, much more quietly than she had expected.

"And you do not mind so very much? I was so afraid you would be vexed, because last time Cousin Ellis was with us you kept on wishing he would go."

"I shall wish it pretty often again," said Donovan, with a half smile, "but there is no good in crying out now, the deed is done, and we must make the best of it. I have said all I can say, and it is no good."

"You have been with mamma?"

"Yes, we had a strange talk and a strange ending to it; we must not forget she is our mother, Dot."

"Oh! but what shall I say when she comes?" said Dot, anxiously. "I can't say I'm glad. What am I to do?"

"Show her that you love her," said Donovan.

Dot looked doubtful and troubled, but, as Donovan sat down to the piano, and began to play one of her favourite airs by Mozart, she reasoned with herself till her resolution was made.

"It is far worse for him than for me, he will have to give up all sorts of things when Cousin Ellis marries mamma, and I know that he does not like him at all. Doery said last autumn that Cousin Ellis spoke shamefully to him sometimes, and Doery doesn't often make excuses for Dono. I am very selfish to mind about it myself, when I don't even know why I mind. I'll try to be nice when mamma comes up."

While the mournful sweetness of "Vedrai Carino" was still filling the room, Mrs. Farrant entered. Donovan went on playing, knowing that Dot would be less shy if her words were sheltered by the music; but there were no words at all, Dot only looked her love and put both arms round her mother's neck.

Donovan had not known his father sufficiently well to feel his death very acutely. The shock at the time had been great, and his grief then had been very real, but he had soon recovered from the blow, and now regarded it rather as a loss which was to be deplored than as a life-long sorrow. But with the prospect of his mother's second marriage his thoughts naturally reverted to his father; he lived over again the sad meeting after his school disgrace, the day at Plymouth, the brief time at Porthkerran, and lastly the awful scene, when in an instant, without a farewell word or look, his father had been snatched from him. Slowly and carefully he retraced the past, recalled all the conversations between them, remembered his father's courtesy, his sympathy, his gentle yet deeply-pained allusion to the "breach of honour." What a contrast he was to Ellis Farrant! The one refined, dignified, upright; the other ostentatious, false, and grasping! Donovan could not judge people by the highest standard, but he had a standard of his own, and Ellis fell immeasurably below it. His mother had once accused him of being self-satisfied, but his self-reliance was not self-satisfaction, he was in reality often bitterly out of heart with himself, only the sweeping condemnation of all his acquaintances forced him to assert himself. They considered him a black sheep, and yet he felt he was not all that they represented him. Still there had been truth and sadness in his words to his mother, when he said that Ellis had made him what he was; even with his scanty light he knew perfectly that his life was not what it ought to have been; goodness and honour were to be respected, and he struggled on in a blind endeavour to reach his own standard. The remembrance of his father helped him to a certain extent, but it could not exercise a really strong influence over him, for it was merely the remembrance of what had once existed, and had now passed away utterly and for ever.

When not occupied with Dot, or engrossed with his favourite pastime, life seemed to him very hollow and unsatisfactory. When Mrs. Farrant desired it, he went out with her; when Adela particularly asked him, he would consent to escort the two ladies to whatever place of amusement they wished to go to, but it was all very uncongenial to him. At concerts, not being really musical, he soon grew weary and bored; at the theatre he laughed bitterly at what seemed to him a mere travesty of real life, in which virtue was rewarded and vice punished in an ideal way, very unlike the injustice of real existence. At balls, or at fashionable receptions, he saw merely the falseness of society, the low motives, the heartless frivolity, the absurd vanity of the individuals composing it. He was certainly free from the annoyances he met with at Oakdene; no one looked askance at him here, no one had time to think of such trifles; but, after the first novelty had worn off, the change ceased to satisfy or relieve him. He was really unhappy, too, about his mother's second marriage. Little by little, as he felt sure of his ground, Ellis Farrant had withdrawn the mask of friendliness, and had allowed Donovan to see what he really was; it had at present been done only in part, and with great judgment and tact, but it was just sufficient to rouse his dislike, and to make him inclined in arguments with his mother to speak against his guardian, while Mrs. Farrant was of course stimulated to defend him.

Matters were thus with the son; with the accepted lover—the successful schemer—they were not much more happy. A great writer of the present day has said that, if we do injustice to any fellow-creature, we come in time to hate him. It was thus with Ellis Farrant; he had gone down to Porthkerran at the time of his cousin's death, feeling a sort of admiration and fondness for Donovan; the boy had always been pleasant and companionable; he liked him as well as he liked anyone outside himself. But then followed the sudden act of glaring injustice, and as time passed he began to dislike his unconscious victim more and more. The sight of him was a continual reproach; he was uneasy and restless in his presence, even at times afraid of him. In the moment of his triumph and success, his hatred increased tenfold, and though, when he went up to Dot's room after his interview with Mrs. Farrant and Donovan, his manner was bland and smiling, Adela knew him too well not to detect the latent irritation. Anxious to know all the particulars which could not be mentioned before the little girl, she took leave rather hastily, tripped lightly down the stairs, and, as soon as the hall door had closed behind them, turned round eagerly to her brother.

"I congratulate you, Ellis!"

Ellis had overheard Donovan's eager tones of expostulation as he passed the drawing-room door, and the scowl on his face did not at all befit an accepted lover.

"Where do you want to go to?" he said, crossly, not attending to her words.

"Back to Eaton Place," said Adela, who was staying with some friends. "What is the matter with you? I thought all had gone so well."

"Well!—yes, so it has in the main, only that young cub came in and spoilt it all; he's really insufferable."

"Now don't speak against my Augustus Cæsar," said Adela; "he's not a bad boy at all. What did he do?"

"Do!" said Ellis, smiling a little—"he did nothing; he stood and looked at me with a stony face, very much like an old Roman, as you are always saying."

"I can just fancy it," said Adela, laughing, "and my noble brother didn't quite enjoy the lofty scorn. What did he say to it all?—was he not surprised? He went down so casually and unsuspectingly to see if you had come that I had hardly the heart not to give him warning. However, I kept my promise to you, didn't I? It was well past five when I let him go down."

"You managed very well, and I'm much obliged to you," said Ellis, recovering his good humour; "he came in the very nick of time, and saw it all at a glance."

"Poor boy!—what did he say?"

"Nothing; he looked thunderstruck, and never said a single word—was as mum as a dummy, in fact."

"Or as dumb as a mummy," said Adela, with a light laugh. "And you, I suppose, talked glibly, and promised to be a devoted step-father?"

"Something of the sort," said Ellis, smiling.

"Well, I don't wonder he doesn't like it," said Adela. "Of course, he is practically master at Oakdene; he won't enjoy making way for you."

"I don't suppose he will," replied Ellis, thinking of far more serious matters than his sister. "But you know, my dear, we can't all win in the game."

"The winner can afford to moralise," said Adela, rather contemptuously; "but I must not scold you, for you have managed your work very neatly, and of course I'm glad of your success. When is it to be?"

"The wedding? I don't know. Perhaps the end of July. Anyhow, I'm afraid I shall miss the grouse this year."

"You horrid, matter-of-fact creature, to think of it even," said Adela. "Middle-aged lovers are no fun. They have lost the romance of their youth."

"We will leave that kind of thing for you and your Cæsar," said Ellis, laughingly, as they took leave of each other.

"A thousand thanks," said Adela, with a mocking bow, "but I have done with my 'beardless youth,' now that your affairs are settled. It was the dullest flirtation I ever had; for, quite between ourselves, that sort of thing is not in Cæsar's line."

"I daresay not. Mum as a dummy, you know!" and Ellis turned away with a laugh in which there was much spite and little merriment.

Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear
    Too calm and sad a face in front of thine;
    For we two look two ways, and cannot shine
With the same sunlight on our brow and hair.
On me thou lookest with no doubting care,
*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *
... But I look on thee—on thee—
    Beholding, besides love, the end of love,
Hearing oblivion beyond memory;
    As one who sits and gazes from above,
Over the rivers to the bitter sea."
                                                                        E. B. BROWNING.

"On the 29th inst., at St. George's, Hanover Square, Ellis Farrant, only son of the late J. E. Farrant, Esq., and nephew of the late Thomas Farrant, Esq., of Oakdene Manor, Mountshire, and Rippingham, Surrey, to Honora, widow of Colonel Ralph Farrant, R.A., and daughter of the late General Patrick Donovan. No cards."

Two old maiden ladies, who were spending their summer holiday at a watering-place in the south of England, and were partaking of a rather late breakfast in the coffee-room of the best hotel, wondered what there could be in the first sheet of the Times to cause such a sudden change in the face of their neighbour at the next table. The kind old souls had made a little romance about the handsome, grave-looking young fellow, who had come to the hotel a few days before, and used to sit down to his solitary table in the coffee-room, never seeming to care to talk with anyone. Miss Brown, the elder, had made up her mind that he was an Italian. He was dark and melancholy-looking; Italians were dark and melancholy-looking, therefore the young man was doubtless Italian. Possibly he was an exile, and probably he was married, the Italians, she believed, did marry young, and no doubt his wife was a heartless, worldly person, and caused her husband endless trouble. Miss Brown the younger was inclined to think the young man a Spaniard, there was something very Spanish in his grave, dignified deportment. (N.B.—Miss Brown had never seen a Spaniard in her life.) She had met him on the stairs one day as he was going out, and he had taken off his hat as he passed her. Very few Englishmen would have done that; he was certainly a foreigner of some sort. She, however, scouted the idea that he was married, and made up her mind that he was crossed in love.

"There is the young foreigner," Miss Brown had said to her sister as Donovan came into the coffee-room that morning. They had agreed to call him the foreigner, as a sort of general term which suited the opinions of each.

"He is coming to this side of the room," said Miss Marianne, looking up from her egg, but hastily and decorously turning to the window, and making a vague remark about the weather when she found the dark, flashing eyes of the stranger glancing across at her from the other table.

"He looks rather happier this morning," said Miss Brown, in a low tone.

Miss Marianne of course wished him to look gloomy, and tried to see something melancholy in the way in which he sipped his coffee, stroked his moustache, and cut his roll in half, gently insinuating to her sister that men in good spirits would have broken a roll; that to be so methodical in trifles was, she thought, rather a sign of—in fact quite supported her theory. Both ladies were a little startled when the hero of their romance called a waiter, and without the slightest foreign accent asked if the morning papers had come.

"Strange that he should care to see English papers," said Miss Brown, musingly.

"I believe I have heard that Spaniards are very good linguists," said Miss Marianne, timidly.

"Not half so clever as Italians, my dear," said the elder sister. "Think of Dante, and—and Garibaldi."

Miss Marianne was rather overwhelmed by the mention of these great men, and did not for a moment question that they had been renowned linguists; she did indeed try to think of some Spanish celebrity of equal renown, and racked her brains for the name of the author of "Don Quixote," but it had escaped her memory, and before she could recall it the waiter returned with the newspapers. The "foreigner" took the Times and glanced rapidly down the first column; Miss Brown would have liked to think that he looked at the agony column, but his eye travelled too far down the page for that, he would have passed the space allotted to sentimental messages, and have reached the uninteresting notices of lost and found dogs, &c.; Miss Marianne had the best of it now—he was evidently looking at the marriages. The two sisters almost gave a sympathetic start, when suddenly their neighbour's forehead was sharply contracted, and a quick flush rose to his cheek. What could it be? The marriage of the girl whom he loved? There was real and undoubted romance here, not a question of it. How interesting hotel life was, it must be something like watching a play, though Miss Brown had never been to the play—she would have thought it exceedingly wrong. Poor boy! how impatiently he throws down the paper, it falls on to the floor, and Miss Marianne, leaning back in her chair and trying to see below the cloth of the adjoining table, maintains that he has put his foot on it, actually "crushed it under foot," that is very romantic! Then he hastily drains his coffee cup, and when he puts it down, the flush has died away from his face, and has left it very pale, and cold, and still. The arrival of the paper seems to have taken away his appetite, for he abruptly pushes back his chair, leaves his half-finished breakfast, and stalks out of the room.

The sisters were much excited. As they walked on the beach that morning they agreed that East Codrington was a charming place. Some people called it dull, but for their part they thought it a most amusing little town. It was very pleasant to meet fresh faces, very interesting to watch other people's lives. Miss Brown said that the sea air or something made her feel quite young again. Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when Miss Marianne suddenly caught her arm, exclaiming,

"Sister, look, there is the 'foreigner' again!"

Miss Brown looked along the esplanade for the solitary figure with the grave dark face, but could not see it.

"There! there! not nearly so far off," said Miss Marianne. "Don't you see him reading to that little girl in the invalid chair?"

"Impossible!" said Miss Brown, quickly. "He is far too young to have a child of that age; but it is the 'foreigner' I see, she must be his sister. Suppose, Marianne, we sit down a little."

Miss Marianne owned that she was tired, and the two ladies established themselves on the beach, about a stone's throw from Dot and Donovan, taking care to choose a side posture, so that on one hand they could watch the sea, and on the other the hero of their romance. Every now and then the breeze wafted a sentence of the reading to the two sisters. They exchanged glances with each other, and Miss Marianne whispered, "English!" Then something in the book made both the reader and the listener laugh heartily, and the name of "Ali Baba" was caught by Miss Brown, who nodded to her sister, and whispered, "The Arabian Nights." Then came a fresh mystery, the reader's face suddenly became dark and overcast, and there was quite a different tone in his voice as he read the words, "You plainly see that Cogia Houssain only sought your acquaintance in order to insure success in his diabolical treachery."

Now why should Cogia Houssain bring such a strange bitter look into anyone's face? Presently the story of the "Forty Thieves" was finished, and the hero's face was good-tempered again, he moved the little invalid's chair quite to the edge of the esplanade, as near as possible to the shingle, so that without wilful listening the two old ladies could hear all that passed perfectly; whatever their hero was when alone, there could be no doubt that he was merry enough now.

There was a laughing discussion about the dog's swimming powers.

"You only tried him once in the Serpentine, you know," said the little invalid. "I don't believe you dare try him here."

"See if I don't!" said Donovan, laughing, and whistling to the fox-terrier. "I'll throw him a stone."

"No, no, that's no test," said Dot. "Throw him your new stick. Ah! I believe you're afraid to! You don't think he'll get it back!"

"You dare me to?" asked Donovan. "Come along, Waif, and show your mistress how clever you are."

The dog followed his master obediently across the shingle to the water's edge, and plunged in valiantly as soon as the stick was thrown. Donovan had sent it far out, and the receding tide was bearing it further still, but Waif swam on indefatigably, and, after some minutes, clenched it successfully in his teeth, and turned back again. Dot waved her handkerchief from the esplanade in congratulation, and both dog and master hurried up the beach towards her; on the way, however, Waif paused to shake the water from his coat, and, unluckily, the two old ladies were within the radius of the drops, and received a sort of shower bath. Donovan hastened up to apologise.

"I am afraid my dog has been troubling you. I hope he has done no damage?"

"Oh! none, thank you," said the sisters, smiling. "Salt water never gives cold. We were much amused by watching him in the sea."

"He's a capital swimmer. My little sister wouldn't believe he was a water-dog," and then, raising his hat, Donovan passed on with a triumphant greeting to the little invalid.

"Well, Dot! own now that you're beaten."

"Quite beaten. He was splendid," said Dot, enthusiastically.

Presently, as the old ladies rose to move on, and passed close to the brother and sister, Dot looked up in her sweet shy way, and said,

"I hope Waif did not hurt your dress just now?"

Miss Marianne, with a beaming face, hastened to re-assure her.

"Not in the least, my dear, thank you," and then, touched by the fragile little face, the old lady began to search in a Mentone basket that she carried for some of the beach treasures which she had been picking up. "Would you like some shells, my dear? We have found some rather pretty ones this morning."

Dot's shy gratitude was very charming, and Donovan, always pleased by any attention shown to her, began to talk to the old ladies, quite forgetting his usual haughty reserve.

The Miss Browns' romance certainly died out in the light of truth, but they were much interested in the brother and sister, though their hero had proved to be neither a Spaniard nor an Italian. Donovan, however, was rather a puzzle to them. In a few days' time, Miss Marianne learnt to her regret, from some other people at the hotel, that her hero, though so devoted to his little invalid sister, was the most noted billiard-player in the place, and the gentle old ladies regretted it, for, as Miss Brown the elder said, "it was a dangerous taste for such a young man, particularly as he seemed to be his own master." They talked the matter over together, but agreed that they could not presume to offer advice; however, an occasion soon came when their consciences would not allow them to keep silence.

It was Sunday morning; Miss Marianne timidly suggested that, if it would not be wrong, she would very much like a little turn on the esplanade before going to church. Her sister was rather puritanical; however, she thought there could be no harm in "taking the air," so, armed with their large church services and hymn-books, the two old ladies set out. The day was intensely hot and sultry, the sea was as calm as a mill-pond, the tiny waves lazily lapping the shore as if they, too, felt the heat, and could not dance briskly as usual. There was a quiet Sunday feeling all around; no stir of business or traffic; the church bells ringing for service, and the passers-by walking quietly, with none of the hurry and bustle of the ordinary every day passengers. The old ladies enjoyed their walk, but just as they had turned for the last time before going in the direction of the bells they caught sight of their friends in the distance; there was the invalid chair, with the little pale-faced child, and on a bench beside her was Donovan, in a most unsabbatical light-brown shooting-jacket, and cloth travelling-hat; to add to it all, he was smoking, and to the Miss Browns the sight of a cigar was always a sight to be deplored, but on Sunday smoking seemed to them little better than sacrilege. Miss Marianne was almost disarmed by the courtesy of the greeting, but her sister would not allow her face to soften; good looks and pleasant manners were all very well, but "Sabbath breaking" was a sin which could not be passed by, so she tried not to see the fascinating dark eyes, and said, gravely,

"Are you not coming to church to-day, Mr. Farrant?"

"No, Miss Brown," replied Donovan, not at all offended by the question, to which indeed he was pretty well accustomed, "Dot and I mean to sit here and enjoy the view. A beautiful day, is it not?"

"It is very pleasant to see you so attentive to your sister," said Miss Brown, severely, "but religion ought to stand first, young man. The soul ought to be considered before the body."

"There is a very good preacher at St. Oswald's," suggested Miss Marianne, timidly.

Donovan looked at her half sadly and half amusedly, but shook his head, and the two ladies passed on, Miss Brown gathering up her skirts as though she would really be sorry to touch such a hardened and misguided sinner.

He resumed his cigar, but with rather a clouded brow, wishing that people would leave him unmolested. Dot was the first to break the silence.

"What does 'soul' really mean, Dono?" she began, in her childish voice. "Doery calls old Betty, the charwoman, 'poor soul,' but I fancy that is because her husband drinks. Are we all poor souls?"

"Most of us," said Donovan, shortly.

"But what is a soul?" persisted Dot.

"A name given by some people to the mind," he replied. "Though I daresay those old ladies would not agree to that, and would tell you it was quite a different part of you."

Now Dot had lived on contentedly for many years in entire ignorance, but she was just beginning to be roused, and the words of the two old ladies had perplexed her.

"What part of us is it?" she questioned.

He hesitated for a moment.

"The part you love me with, I suppose."

"Then do you think it would be really good for the part you love me with to go to church?"

"No, you sweet little arguer, I don't," he replied, smiling; "and, if it would, I shouldn't go and leave you in your pain, but don't trouble your head about the matter, darling. If religion makes sour, selfish, soul-preservers like that, it stands to reason it's false. I'll have none of it! Fancy listening to a sermon with the idea that it was virtuous, and leaving you to Doery's tender mercies, or all alone with the sun blazing in your eyes!"

He held the umbrella more protectingly over her as he spoke, and was rather vexed to see that her usually smooth serene forehead was knitted in anxious thought.

"What is the matter?" he asked, jealous of anything which she kept back from him.

"I am so puzzled," said Dot, wearily. "I don't know what people mean by religion; my head aches so. Do you think I ought to make myself think what it is?"

"Of course not, you dear little goose," he said, stroking back the hair from her hot face. "Who put such morbid ideas into your head?"

"No one," said Dot, wistfully, "only it seems as if we ought to find out which is right, you or the other people."

"It will not make much difference, perhaps," said Donovan, throwing away the end of his cigar. "We shall all come to an end, I suppose—be smoked out and thrown away, so to speak."

Dot looked troubled, and he hastily bent down and kissed her.

"We are talking of things we know nothing about, dear. You and I must love each other, that is all I know. Don't let us talk of this any more, it only worries you."

"But, Dono, just one thing more. When it is all done, when we die, shall I have to leave off loving you?"

A black shadow passed over his face, but he did not answer. Dot understood what he meant, and clasped her tiny fingers round his tightly.

"Oh! Dono," she said, mournfully, "I couldn't bear to stop loving you—I had never thought about that. Oh! I hope I shall live to be very, very old, even if I'm always ill. Why is your face so white and stiff, Dono? Are you thinking what you would do if I didn't live to be old?"

"Don't!" he cried, passionately, and there was such anguish in his tone that Dot looked half frightened, and faltered,

"I didn't mean—I'm very sorry."

He kissed her, and she noticed that his lips were very cold, and his voice, though quieter when he next spoke, sounded odd and unnatural.

"It is all right, darling—I didn't mean to frighten you—it is nothing. I must be alone—I must think."

He moved her chair into the shade, and then walked along the shore battling with the terrible thoughts which filled his mind. What if Dot should be taken away from him? It was the same agonizing idea which Adela's words had suggested to him not long before. Now he was alone and could allow himself to face it, could relax for the time the control which in her presence he was obliged to keep up. Throwing himself down on the shingle, he allowed the shadowy foes one after another to throng up into his mind, wrestling with each in a vain, hopeless endeavour to crush them. Sooner or later the end must come, he knew it perfectly well, and yet, like a hunted creature, he tried for some possible means of escape, or at any rate of delay. Could he force himself, for the sake of peace, to believe what popular religion taught? No, he told himself that it would be as impossible as to believe in the old Norse legends of the happy hunting fields. There was no escape for him, the separation must be faced.

He lay stretched out on the pebbles with his face turned from the light, more wretched and forlorn than the poorest beggar in East Codrington. His miserable struggle and dumb despair were at last broken in upon by the sound of a voice in the distance, a high-pitched man's voice, which beat uncomfortably on his ear, and sounded melancholy and depressing, as open-air speaking generally does sound. He started up impatiently, and saw that a street preacher had gathered together a little knot of men and women on the beach, at no great distance from him. He disliked the interruption, and yet, with a sort of curiosity, sauntered towards the little group, and listened for a few minutes, but unfortunately the preacher happened at the minute to be denouncing "modern ritualism" with much bitterness, and he soon turned away contemptuously. Did not these professing Christians "bite and devour" one another? Did they not unsparingly condemn all with whom they did not agree? And, holding the views they did about the future state, did they not still live easy, quiet, indulgent lives, though they believed that more than half mankind would finally be "lost"?

By-and-by there was singing; with great gusto the preacher started the hymn "There is a fountain." Donovan's misery had been keen enough before, this just made it complete. The old melody—powerful though it is when sung by a great multitude—has something extremely aggravating about it.

"I will believe—I do believe!"

Over and over again with emphatic untunefulness the motley crowd roared and shouted the refrain.

Donovan's dark face grew darker, he set his teeth, listened for a time, then walked away with a look of intense scorn, resolving in his own mind that, miserable though he was, he would at least be honest, no cupboard faith for him!

Dot did not allude to the conversation again. She could not bear to risk recalling the look of pain to Donovan's face, and if she puzzled over the difference of opinion which had attracted her notice, she kept her difficulties to herself; but she fancied she understood why it was that, not long after that Sunday, Donovan made arrangements with an artist staying in the hotel to paint a miniature of her. A sweet, wistful, and yet childlike face it was, but the artist idealised it, and gave to the beautiful eyes more fulness of satisfaction than just at that time they really expressed, leaving it to the lips to show whatever latent sadness or desire there remained.

In September the visit to Codrington was ended; Mrs. Doery was obliged to be at Oakdene to superintend the preparations for the return of her master and mistress, and Donovan wished to be at home when his mother arrived, chiefly from a dislike to coming back when his step-father was actually installed in his new position as head of the household; he chose to be there beforehand, and awaited the return in a sort of proud silence, never even to Dot breathing a single word which could tell how much he dreaded it.

On the whole the event proved to be not half so disagreeable as he had expected. Ellis was kind and conciliatory at first, and, though his patronage was hard to bear, Donovan had sense enough to be thankful for whatever would avert an open quarrel. He felt instinctively that sooner or later there would be disagreement between them, and for Dot's sake he was glad to keep the peace.

What he really suffered from chiefly that autumn was an utterly different thing. Under the new régime, Doery had been constituted housekeeper; Ellis was hospitable, and constantly had the Manor full of his friends, so that Mrs. Farrant did not care for the burden and anxiety of household management; it was quite another thing to the quiet routine which she had been able to superintend with little trouble before her second marriage. Mrs. Doery therefore ascended in the domestic scale from nurse to housekeeper, and a new attendant waited on Dot in her place. It seemed a very trifling change in the house, only a new servant, only one insignificant addition, hardly worth thinking of, but to Dot the change meant the opening of a new life. Now, at last, she began to understand the meaning of things. Phœbe, who had been blessed with better teaching than poor old Mrs. Doery, and was more loving and kind-hearted, opened an entirely new world to her little helpless charge, and Dot, in her simple, childlike happiness in the new revelation, wondered why people had not told her before, but never thought of blaming them for the ignorance in which they had let her grow up.

Her simple, unquestioning acceptance of the most incomprehensible doctrines was a marvel to Donovan; he could not the least understand it. Dot once or twice spoke with him on the subject, but he always silenced her gently, for, though he could not understand or sympathise with her new happiness, he was unwilling to interfere with it, or to trouble the child's mind with his own views. He thought it all a delusion, and it pained him that she should believe it; but, seeing how much it must soften both life and death to her, he was willing that she should believe in the delusion. Still the trial to himself was very hard to bear, for though to Dot the change seemed only to intensify her love, and in no way to interfere with Donovan's place in her heart, he necessarily felt that there was a barrier between them; what to him did not exist was everything to her; till lately she had depended entirely on him, now he was superseded—dearly loved still, but yet superseded. This was a greater trouble than all the annoyance of his mother's second marriage. Donovan loved Dot so blindly and solely that the idea of not reigning alone in her heart was terrible to him. Ever since his childhood he had been her protector; to yield her to any other love in which he believed would have been very hard, but to allow his place to be usurped by that which he could not comprehend or believe to be, was bitter beyond all thought. It was, perhaps, the most severe test of his love that there could have been; he passed through it without faltering, tried to find comfort in the sight of her serene happiness, and bore his pain in silence; the fact that it was a strange, unnatural, morbid pain did not make it any easier to endure, but quite the contrary.

Ellis Farrant, not having too tender a conscience, managed to enjoy his new position thoroughly for the first few months. He was in many ways a good-natured man, and it was very pleasant to him, after his bachelor life and small income, to find himself at the head of a comfortable and even luxurious home; his wife was pretty and placid, his means were ample, he was able to ask his friends down to Oakdene for the shooting, and altogether he thoroughly appreciated his change of fortune. For a little while he even felt kindly disposed to Donovan, for, as he said to himself, the poor wretch would have a hard enough life next year, when he came of age, and might as well enjoy the present. He even at times began to regret the part he had set himself to play, wavered a little, and half contemplated starting his ward in some profession fairly and honourably. If Donovan had behaved sensibly, this really might have come about, but he was not sensible. In a very short time he began to grow weary of making polite responses to his step-father's patronage; he never openly disputed his authority or actually quarrelled with him, but he allowed his dislike to show itself, and took no pains to be pleasant and companionable. Ellis was not a man to be trifled with; his kindness was a mere impulse, and directly he found that Donovan did not respond to it, he took offence, and disliked him a great deal more than he had previously done.

It was a most unsatisfactory household. An outsider, locking into the luxurious dining-room of the Manor, might not have discovered anything amiss, certainly; Mrs. Farrant, at the head of the table, looked young and pretty and languid; Ellis, at the opposite end, seemed hospitable and good-natured; Donovan had apparently everything that could be wished in circumstances, health, and personal advantages. But beneath all this outward appearance was a miserable reality of injustice, jealousy, and hatred.

One evening in December, after Mrs. Farrant had left the dinner-table, the storm broke at last. Donovan had been more than usually gloomy and depressed. Dot had just had one of her bad attacks; he was worn out with attending to her; he was morbidly unhappy at the change in her views, and her supposed change towards himself, and his manner towards his step-father had been so short and sullen that the elder man's patience at length gave way.

As the door closed behind Mrs. Farrant, her husband refilled his glass, drained it, and then suddenly confronted his step-son with the fierceness of a weak, impulsive man who is thoroughly exasperated.

"I tell you what, Donovan, if you go on any longer in this way, you can't expect me to be civil to you. Do you think I shall stand having a mute morose idiot of a boy always at my table, a skeleton at the feast? If you don't mend your manners pretty quickly, you won't find this house comfortable."

Donovan did not reply, but cracked three walnuts in succession without even looking up. The absence of retort only made Ellis more angry, however.

"Do you not hear me, sir?" he continued, still more vehemently.

"Yes," said Donovan, looking up at last, and speaking in a singularly controlled voice, which contrasted strangely with his step-father's violence.

Ellis raged on, doubly irritated by the mono-syllable.

"Do you think it is pleasant to me to have your gloomy face always haunting me? I tell you I'd rather sit opposite a skull and cross-bones! I'm not going to have my new home spoilt by an insufferable cub of your age."

Now, with all his faults, Donovan had one good quality which often stood him in good stead. Old Mrs. Doery had at least taught him one useful lesson in his childhood. She had taught him to restrain himself, a lesson which, in these days of universal license to the young, is too often neglected. Many people would have fired up at once, if they had been spoken to in such a way. It would have been hard under any circumstances, but when the words were addressed to him in the house which had been his own father's, and by the man who had ousted him from his proper place, it must be owned that they were most intolerable. He flushed deeply and bit his lip.

"I am glad to see you have the grace to be ashamed," said Ellis, provokingly, impatient of this continued silence.

By this time Donovan had himself well in hand. His face was calm and rigid, and he could trust himself to reply without losing his temper, though his cold pride was not likely to choose wise words.

"I am sorry to have annoyed you, but naturally 'as you have brewed so you will drink.' I have not changed particularly in the last few months, and I suppose last summer you foresaw that there would be two incumbrances in your new home."

Of course this only angered Ellis still more.

"You young puppy!" he exclaimed, angrily, "do you remember whom you are speaking to? Do you know that I can turn you out of the house, if I like? Do you recollect who I am?"

"Yes," said Donovan, ironically, "I remember that you are my father's trustee and my guardian."

Ellis suddenly changed colour, pushed back his chair, and began to pace up and down the room. His step-son's words had stung him far more deeply than the speaker intended. "His father's trustee!" yes, and what a trustee! The name itself was a reproach and a mockery! He felt afraid of Donovan, ashamed to look at him; his recent anger and hatred suddenly died away into a trembling shrinking dread. This boy, whom he had cheated and robbed and fatally injured, was able at times to influence him greatly. He felt that he must be pacified and kept at bay during the few months which remained of his minority.

On the whole, Ellis did not look very much like a happy bridegroom and head of the household as he came back to the table. He was ashy pale, and his hand shook as he poured out his next glass of wine. Donovan, as he waited, with his cold impassive face, expecting a fresh burst of anger, was surprised when his step-father next broke the silence, to find that the storm had been as brief as it had been severe. There was an almost pitiable struggle for really frank reconciliation in Ellis's tone as he said,

"Come, old fellow, don't let us quarrel; we have always been friends. I spoke hastily just now, but, you know, you really cut your own throat by looking so glum. Everyone would like you twice as well if you had a little more go in you. Probyn was saying only the other night what a clever fellow you were. He said he hadn't met a better whist-player for years. You think everyone's against you, and so you're morose and reserved, but I don't know a fellow who has more advantages than you, if only you'd condescend to use them a little more. There! you see I'm giving you quite a paternal lecture. Put that in your pipe, and smoke it. What do you say to some cribbage, now?"

"I'll come down at ten," said Donovan, allowing his face to relax; then, sweeping up a handful of walnut shells, he left the table, and spent the rest of the evening with Dot, making a miniature fleet of boats, to her great content.

Heart's brother hast thou ever known
    What meaneth that No more?
Hast thou the bitterness outdrawn,
    Close hidden at its core?

Oh! no—draw from it worlds of pain,
    And thou shalt surely find,
That in that word there doth remain
    A bitterer drop behind.
                                                ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.

"Phœbe says she doesn't think I shall be really frightened when the time comes, and there isn't anything really to be afraid of, you know—it is so different now; when we talked about it at Codrington it all seemed so dark and dreadful I couldn't bear ever to let it come up to be thought over. How long one can put away things when they are not nice to think about?"

"Then why do you talk like this, what good does it do?" questioned Donovan. It was a December afternoon, and they were talking in the twilight.

"I'm sorry, I had forgotten. It was very selfish," said Dot, penitently. It was so hard for her to remember that Donovan did not share in her new sense of relief, that she more than once made little allusions of this sort; had she been less simple and childish, his want of participation would have made her unhappy, as it was, however, she was content to leave it, sure that in time it would come to him.

Donovan was very irritable that day, not, of course, with Dot, he was always gentle with her even when in his worst moods, but he was in one of his querulous, carping humours, and quarrelled with everything he read. The oft quoted line of Pope's,

"One truth is clear, whatever is is right,"

was quite sufficient to call forth an angry tirade.

It was a lie, it could not possibly be proved! Were murder, and fraud, and oppression, and injustice right? People had no business to make great, false, sweeping assertions of that kind. The anger soon came down to more personal matters.

"Was it right, do you think, that you and I should have been left to old Doery, and bullied and tormented as we were? Was it right that you should be mismanaged and half killed by an owl of a country doctor? Is it right that you should be suffering as you are now?"

"Some things do seem hard," said Dot, "but we have not got to understand why everything is, and I think it's best to be still and take what comes. Do you know, Dono, sometimes when I'm very cross with the pain for coming back so often, I think of what we saw at Codrington. Do you remember the little bay where the rocks were, and how we used to watch the waves dashing so angrily against the very tall upright rock, and passing so quietly over the little ones? I think if we are patient, and don't set ourselves up to fight against the pain and grumble at it, it is not half so hard to bear."

Now Donovan had always felt a sort of sympathy with the tall solitary rock, with its hard jagged outline, braving in its own strength the power of the waves. Dot's idea did not please him; patience, lowliness, and submission were virtues far beyond his comprehension, and he felt very strongly that painful sense of separation which had sprung up so strangely between them during the last few months. He felt far away from Dot, and he hated the feeling and quickly changed the subject.

"Shall I read something else to you?" he asked.

"I should like some music," said Dot, knowing that this would lead to no discussion which could displease Donovan, and then ensued what some people would have thought a rather incongruous selection, ranging from Sebastian Bach to the latest popular song, and from "Vedrai Carino" to "The Green Hill far away." There was no distinction in music to Donovan, he played all Dot's favourites one after the other. In the middle of the last hymn Mrs. Farrant came in. It was the time of her second daily visit.

"Pray stop that tune, Donovan," she said, plaintively. "We are always having it in church, and I am so tired of it, the boys sing it frightfully out of time, and always get flat in the last line. How do you feel this afternoon, Dot?"

"Better, thank you, mamma," said Dot, looking wistfully across the room at Donovan, as he tossed aside the hymn-book impatiently.

"Really better?" questioned Mrs. Farrant, with anxiety, for Dot had been suffering so much more lately, that even her calm phlegmatic nature had been stirred to uneasiness and apprehension.

"Yes, I think so," said the little girl. "Dono and I have been settling our Christmas presents, and what do you think he is going to give me, mamma? A clock—a dear little clock of my very own."

She had gained the end she wanted; Donovan, who had been at the other side of the room, turned round, met her eyes, and came to her.

"Dono spoils you, I think," said Mrs. Farrant, smiling; and somehow the words, trifling as they were, drew the three together. Donovan recovered his temper, and for once talked naturally before his mother, teased Dot merrily, and quite surprised Mrs. Farrant by his high spirits. "I never saw you so talkative before," she remarked, as the dressing-bell rang, and she rose to go.

"It is Dot who teaches us how to laugh," said Donovan. "You are a little witch, and sweep away bad humours instead of cobwebs."

Christmas to Donovan only meant a full house, an incomprehensible gaiety and good humour, a conventional old-fashioned dinner, which he did not like, and a certain amount of holly and ivy. In his different way he was quite as far from understanding it as poor old Scrooge in the "Christmas Carol." The year before old Mr. Hayes had dined with them, but he was now far away, for, not many weeks before, his "castle in the air" had become a reality; an old friend of his had returned from the United States, having made his fortune; he had come to Oakdene to see Mr. Hayes, had discovered the great wish of his old school-fellow, and had suggested a six months' tour on the Continent, in which he was to bear the greater part of the expense. So the old man in childlike glee had let his cottage and started for Italy, taking a cordial farewell of Donovan, and recommending him to follow his plan, which was now coming to such a successful issue.

The guests, therefore, this year only consisted of Adela Farrant and two friends of Ellis's; nor was the misanthropical Donovan very sorry that such should be the case. There was something almost ghastly to him in the merriment which everyone seemed to think it right to force up. The real happiness of the season was of course utterly unknown to him, and he had not even any recollections of the "merry Christmas" of childhood to fall back upon.

Adela tried to tease him into a little conversation as she sat beside him at dinner, but it was hard work.

"Do you know, Donovan, I was staying at a country house in Sussex last September, and the first night I got there I saw some one who reminded me so much of you."

"Indeed!" replied her taciturn companion.

"He was not so much like you in face as in manner; I thought to myself, no one but my cousin Donovan sits through an evening in such complete silence, and afterwards—what do you think?—I found out that your double was dumb."

Donovan laughed a little.

"I can't make small talk," he said—"I told you so long ago."

"Oh! of course your great intellect can't stoop to frivolities," said Adela, with pretended sarcasm in her tone, but laughter in her bright eyes. "Perhaps you would kindly give me a little instruction, though, on some of the weighty subjects that fill your brain."

He laughed again, but then, thinking of his misery at Codrington, added, quite gravely,

"My brain is anxious just now to forget certain weighty subjects, not to rake them up. Dot came out with one of her quaint remarks the other day, which mix in so strangely with her childishness; she noticed how wonderful it was that you can put any subject out of your head, when it is not pleasant to think of it, for an almost unlimited time."

"My dear cousin," said Adela, "do you mean you always keep skeletons in your cupboard?"

"The world is full of grim things—I try to forget them," said Donovan.

"You're the most extraordinary person," said Adela. "You actually never mean to face these things?"

"Not till I'm obliged to," said Donovan.

"Perhaps that accounts for your stupidity," said Adela, with a daring flash of her dark eyes. "A thousand pardons—I mean the brevity of your remarks."

"There you have the worst of it, cousin, for 'Brevity is the soul of wit,'" said Donovan.

"Ah! well, I think you are improved; you shall not be scolded," replied Adela, good-humouredly; then, resuming her playful maliciousness, she continued—"It was such a pity you weren't at church this morning; the decorations were beautiful, really quite worth seeing—a cross and two triangles of white azaleas sent by the Wards, any amount of wreathing round the pillars, and some charming devices in Epsom salts on a red background."

Donovan naturally scoffed at this.

"I can't think how you can like that sort of thing—if you despise and condemn pagans, why do you borrow their customs?"

"You hard, matter-of-fact creature! Why, of course we must have a little beauty. Can't you understand what a help it is?"

"No, I can't," said Donovan, shortly. Then, as the blazing Christmas pudding was brought in, he continued his grumble. "This, too, is an absurd, senseless old custom. What good does it do us all to sit round the table and watch blue flames, and then eat a horrible, black, burnt, compound, like hot wedding-cake?"

"You are a wretch," said Adela. "You would like to sweep away all the dear old manners and customs, and start us all in a new order of things, where men would be machines, and everything would be done by rule and measure. You would like us all to be as rational and comprehensible as vulgar fractious, now would you not?"

"It would simplify life," said Donovan, smiling.

"I knew you'd say so," said Adela, triumphantly. "It's really quite dreadful to talk to such a flint. Have you no associations with the dear old things? Were you never young?"

"No, I don't think I ever was," said Donovan, with a touch of sadness in his voice.

The conversation somehow paused here, until an uncontrolled yawn on Donovan's part stimulated Adela to a fresh effort.

"You are horribly uninteresting," she said.

"Yes, I'm most abominably sleepy. I was up last night."

"Ah! so Dot told me," replied Adela. "You tell her stories, she says, just like the wonderful story-teller in the 'Arabian Nights,' one after the other."

"It amuses her," said Donovan, "and sometimes I have sent her to sleep in that way, but we couldn't manage it last night. She is dreadfully worn out to-day after all the pain."

"These attacks seem much more frequent than they used to be," said Adela.

"Yes," he replied, and there was something in his voice which made Adela suddenly grave, but in a minute he recovered himself, and with his ordinary manner asked if he should peel an orange for her.

Just then some carol-singers began a hymn outside, but the rest of the party were not quite in the humour for hymns.

"Oh! those boys sing so badly," said Mrs. Farrant. "Do send them away, Ellis."

"Yes, I think we had about enough of them this morning at church," said Ellis, and he would have sent word to them to go had not Donovan risen.

"I'll take them round to the other side of the house," he said. "Dot likes music."

"What!" exclaimed Adela, "you mean to countenance a heathenish old custom, after all you have said?"

"Dot will like it," he replied, as if this were a sufficient reason for countenancing anything.

The little invalid's room seemed very quiet and dim after the merry voices and bright lights down below, and yet it was an unspeakable relief to Donovan to be there with her once more, away from the hollow merriment of his step-father and the other guests, away from Adela's good-humoured banter. Dot was in bed, and there was about her that terrible stillness of utter exhaustion which makes illness, and especially a child's illness, so very sad to see. She was quite worn out with sleeplessness, and, though the pain was less severe than it had been, her face still bore marks of suffering. She did not move as Donovan entered, but welcomed him with her eyes.

"You have done dinner quickly to-night," she said. "You have not been hurrying to get back to me?"

"No; but some carol-singers have come," said Donovan, "and I thought you would like to hear them."

"Oh, I am so glad!" she said, with child-like pleasure. "I did so want to hear the carols that Phœbe has been telling me about. Please draw up the blind, Phœbe, so that they may know we are listening. Oh! there is my clock striking. Hark!"

Donovan's present, an exquisite little travelling clock, stood on the mantelpiece, and as Dot spoke it chimed the hour, then struck eight o'clock in sweet, low, muffled tones, like the sound of a distant cathedral bell.

"It is so beautiful," she said, happily. "It will make the night go so much more quickly. Now put your arm round me, Don dear."

Then the choir-boys outside began their carol, the voices sounding sweet and subdued as they floated up into the silence of the sick-room. At first the words seemed almost incongruous, the dear old Christmas hymn had surely not been meant for such sadness, and suffering, and anxiety? But the shrill fearless trebles went on, and Donovan and Dot listened.

"God rest you, merry gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
Remember Christ our Saviour
Was born on Christmas Day;
To save us all from Satan's power.
When we were gone astray;
O tidings of comfort and joy,
                        Comfort and joy,
O tidings of comfort and joy!"

Dot caught the refrain which came at the end of every verse, and was delighted with it. By-and-by the singers went away, and Dot asked to have some reading. Some one had sent her a leaflet hymn; it was a description of the "City with streets of gold," and Donovan read it through patiently, though it seemed to him sensational and unsatisfying, and he was grieved to think that she could care for such material delights as were described. It was a positive relief to him that she did not like it. To sing and rest in a luxurious city could not be her ideal of a future life.

"And besides," she said, in her quaint way, "there isn't time to think about the houses, and the streets, and the gardens, they don't make the home; it is something like the home here, I think; you know, though Oakdene is so pretty, it is only because you are here that I love it, it is you that I think of, not the house."

There was a pause in which the candle flared for a moment in its socket, and then died out, leaving the room in darkness. The maid had gone away. Donovan would have rung, but Dot stopped him.

"We won't have another," she said. "I like to be in the dark when you hold me near you; and, look, we can see the stars, there is dear old Orion, he's my very favourite of all, I always look for him. And, Dono dear, while we are all alone like this I want to tell you something, you won't like it now, but some day I am sure you will. When Phœbe first told me everything it was only through you that I could at all understand. I had to think first what love was, and what giving up was, and then I thought of you, and how you loved me and gave up all your life to me; no, I know you will say you didn't give up anything, but you have, Don, you have given up pleasure, and rest, and change, and all sorts of things."

"But do you think I could have been happy, do you think life would have been tolerable if I had gone away to enjoy myself and left you alone?" said Donovan, hoarsely.

"No, Don," she replied, nestling closer to him, "I was quite sure you never could, and then you see I could believe how the greatest love of all could not leave us."

He gave a mental ejaculation of thankfulness that Doery had never grieved the tender little soul with her cold-blooded Calvinism. Dear little girl! she was happy enough in her new convictions, he would not for the world have disturbed her; in the dark he even smiled a little to think that he had actually helped towards establishing the "delusion" in her mind, had helped to set up his rival.

The next few days passed hopefully, Dot seemed to grow a little stronger again, and, as she had rallied from so many attacks, they all began to feel relieved, and to fancy that anxiety was over for the present. There was to be a dance at the Manor on the 31st, and when, at Christmas, Dot had been so seriously ill, Mrs. Farrant had almost decided to postpone it; however, she seemed to recover quickly, so the arrangement was not altered, and the house was soon in that state of excitement and turmoil which invariably precedes any unusual event of the kind. Adela Farrant was quite in her element, and even succeeded in stirring up Donovan to such an extent that he came down, from what she called his "high horse," and condescended to show some interest in the arrangements. She was therefore doubly astonished when, about eight o'clock on the evening of the dance, she met him on the stairs, to find that all his interest had suddenly abated.

"Try to get this affair over as quickly as you can," he said, as they passed each other.

"What do you mean?" said Adela, standing still. "You are coming down, are you not?"

"No, I can't, it's quite impossible. Dot is so restless and poorly, I'm afraid she is in for another of her bad attacks; I want you to get the people away as soon as may be, the noise is sure to worry her."

"Oh! she'll be asleep before it begins," said Adela. "No one will be here till nine o'clock, I should think."

"Well, I hope it will be so. It's an abominable nuisance, though, that the house should be all upset to-night."

As he spoke, he opened the door of the little invalid's room, and shut himself in, while Adela passed down the stairs to the drawing-room, a little annoyed at what she called "Cæsar's desertion," and vaguely uneasy at his account of Dot. One of the guests was, however, greatly relieved at his absence; Mrs. Ward really began to enjoy the evening when she found that the "dangerous young man" did not appear; she was quite content that her daughters should dance with Major Mackinnon and Mr. Probyn, two friends of Ellis Farrant's who were staying at the Manor. They were quite distinguished-looking men; Mrs. Ward was glad that her girls should have such nice partners, and remained in happy ignorance that they were in reality characters beside whom the poor black sheep of Oakdene would have become almost white in contrast.

Meanwhile, in the room above, Dot was in that state of strange, restless misery which always preceded her attacks—A sort of anticipation of the pain. This was the time when her courage was most apt to fail; she could not bear the thought of the suffering beforehand, though, when it actually came, she was always brave and patient. In vain did Donovan try every possible means of sending her to sleep. Every preventative which the doctors had ordered to be tried at such times had of course been brought to bear upon the poor little girl, but to-night nothing seemed to have any effect. Donovan read to her, played to her, told her story after story, but she grew rapidly worse, and they at length realised that some fresh form of illness must have set in; much as she had suffered, she had never been in such terrible pain before. Old Mrs. Doery, who had nursed her through so many illnesses, was summoned at once, and the younger nurse went downstairs to find a messenger who could be sent for the doctor. The house, however, was all in confusion, and in a few minutes Phœbe returned in despair; the other servants were too busy to go; she could not even persuade any of the servants of the guests to ride over to Greyshot with the message.

"This miserable dance!" exclaimed Donovan, angrily. "Well, I must go myself, then; I shall be quicker than any of those lazy knaves."

But Dot clung to him.

"It is so hard to bear without you. I will be good if it's really best, but—but——"

It cost him a hard struggle to decide, but, knowing that an unwilling messenger would be slow, he felt that the only sure way was to go himself; there was no time to be lost. He bent down to kiss the poor little quivering lips, and said, very gently and firmly,

"It is best, darling. Be brave; I shall not be long."

She tried to smile, and he hurried away, sick at heart. Rushing headlong downstairs, snatching up his hat from the stand, brushing past some astonished visitors, he ran at full speed to the stables, saddled the cob with his own hands, and in five minutes was on the road to Greyshot. He had dashed out from the heated room just as he was; the night was piercingly cold, the snow was falling fast, and the north wind blew the flakes into his eyes, so that he was almost blinded by them; he shivered from head to foot, but did not know that he shivered—all that he felt was an overwhelming anxiety and dread. What if he should never see Dot again? The extraordinary severity and suddenness of this illness had alarmed them all—what if she sank under it? And he had refused her last entreaty! Oh! bitter agony, what if he reached home too late! "Too late! too late!" The very sound of the horse's hoofs echoed his fears, the muffled footfall as they galloped on over the snowy road. And yet it was the only sure way of getting the doctor; he knew he had been right to come; it might—it was just possible that it might save Dot some minutes of pain—it might save her life. But again his heart sank down like lead under the oppression of the one horrible fear. That ride was ever after a sort of nightmare recollection to him.

At last he thought it was ended; he sprang down at the door of the doctor's house and rang furiously. The footman appeared in answer.

"Dr. L—— was dining at Monklands."

Monklands was about two miles on the other side of Greyshot.

Poor Donovan rode on almost despairingly, cursing his cruel fate. It was half-past ten by the time he reached the house; then, to his relief, he saw that Dr. L——'s carriage was standing at the door. He would not dismount; the doctor came out to him at once, and, on hearing his account of Dot, prepared to come to her directly, left a hurried message of farewell to his host, and springing into his carriage, drove home, promising to come on to the Manor as quickly as possible.

Donovan had neither whip nor spurs, but he had what is far more efficacious—the power of communicating his thoughts to animals; the cob seemed to gather from the feeling of his hand on her neck, from his occasional ejaculations, all the anxiety of this ride. In spite of the deep snow, he galloped on bravely; on through the open country, through the silent Greyshot streets, along the white deserted road, till at length the lights of the Manor shone out through the branches of the ghostly-looking oak-trees, the bright lights in the lower windows, and the dim light in the upper room. Donovan's heart gave a great bound when he heard in the distance the music of the string quartette and the sound of dancing. It was well with Dot then! In common decency the house would have been in silence if his fears had been realised. Forgetful of everything but the one absorbing interest, he dashed into the house, through the hall and up the broad staircase; Miss Ward and her partner, who were pacing up and down in the cool, stared at the sudden apparition with its snowy garments and strained expectant face; he never even saw them, but, hurrying on, threw aside his wet clothes, and in five minutes had reached Dot's room. As he opened the door two sounds mingled for an instant in his ear. From below came the sound of the "grand chain" in the "Lancers," and from the sick-bed came a low sobbing moan. Phœbe was saying something to the little girl; he caught the words of one of her favourite hymns—

"We may not know, we cannot tell,
What pains He had to bear."

Dot saw him in a minute and gave a relieved exclamation.

"Oh! Dono, I'm so glad you are back; I've wanted you so dreadfully. Let me hold your hands."

His face, which had been rigid during the time of his anxiety, was changed now to the look of tenderness and even cheerfulness, which he had learnt to wear when with the little girl.

"Dr. L—— will be here almost directly, and then he will make you more comfortable," he said, taking his place at the bedside.

"Oh! Dono," she gasped, "sometimes I think I shall never be comfortable any more."

"You thought so last time you were ill," said Donovan, soothingly, "and then after all you had some quiet days."

"Yes, but this is worse. Oh, Dono, Dono!" and again she broke into that wail of pain which pierced the hearts of the watchers. Donovan was the only one who never lost his control; he was always ready with quiet, tender words; sometimes when the pain was lulled for a few minutes he would even make the little girl smile.

At last the doctor came, and Donovan waited in fearful suspense for his opinion; he waited outside the room in the gallery, pacing up and down miserably, feeling chafed and annoyed by the laughter and noise which reached his ears from below. After some time Dr. L—— came out, with a face which only too fully confirmed his fears.

"Cannot this noise be stopped?" he asked, a little impatiently.

"It shall be," said Donovan, with bitter earnestness. "She is in danger, as I thought?"

"Yes," said Dr. L——. "Mrs. Farrant ought to be told at once."

"You mean that—that the end is near?" questioned Donovan, startled, in spite of his forebodings.

"It is an acute attack of inflammation; I am afraid she must sink under it," replied the doctor, gravely.

Without a word Donovan went slowly down the stairs to the room where the dancing was going on. A Highland reel had just begun; the tune "Tullochgorum" rang in his head for weeks after. The greater number of the guests were looking on at the dancers. Donovan saw that his mother was quite at the other end of the room, and, as he was arranging how best to reach her, Ellis caught sight of him and hurried towards the place where he was standing.

"How now, Donovan, come to dance after all, and in that old shooting-coat?"

"You must stop this; Dot is ill," said Donovan, in a hollow voice.

"My dear fellow, you ask impossibilities; one can't turn away seventy guests at a moment's notice."

"She is dying," said Donovan, and the words sounded strangely out of place in the midst of all the gaiety and merriment.

"Dying!" echoed Ellis, startled and shocked. At an ordinary time he would have enjoyed the opportunity of thwarting and annoying his step-son; only a moment ago and something of this sort had been in his intentions, but that one word scattered all mean and unkind thoughts; before the angel of death even this selfish and dishonest man became softened and awed.

"I will arrange it; the music shall of course be stopped," he said, in really kind tones.

Donovan thanked him, and asked him to tell Mrs. Farrant, and Ellis at once complied, crossing the room to the place where his wife was talking with the squire, and telling her that she must speak to Donovan for a moment outside.

She was so completely overcome by the unexpected news that Donovan was almost in despair. To be kept away from Dot was terrible, and yet he could not leave his mother in her distress. Speaking with the perfect gentleness and control which seemed specially given to him that night, he at last persuaded her to come and see the little girl, overruling the sobbing, shrinking appeal, "that it was so terrible, so sad—and she couldn't bear to go in that dress."

But a very few minutes beside the poor little child's bed proved too much for Mrs. Farrant's powers of endurance. The sight of her suffering was indeed terribly painful, and with a mother's instinctive love awakening in her heart, but without a mother's long training in self-denial and devotion, Mrs. Farrant naturally could not control herself in the least; she burst into tears, agitated Dot, and had at last to be taken from the room.

"I love her so," she said, piteously, to Donovan, as he half carried her along the gallery, and helped her on to her sofa.

He bent down and kissed her.

"You will come in again when you can?" he said. "We will tell you when there is any change."

Adela came in while he was speaking, and he left her with Mrs. Farrant, and hastily returned to the sick-room. Dot was now growing delirious with the pain, but, though she could not bear anyone else even to touch the bed-clothes, she liked him to hold her hand, and her unconscious words were always spoken to him. The solemn midnight was undisturbed by music or merriment; instead of dancing the old year out and the new year in, the guests were driving sadly from the Manor. Dot was moaning in the last sharp struggle of her little life, and Donovan was watching beside her in anguish which could only have been suppressed by the purest and truest love.

There was not the smallest hope now. The long night hours dragged slowly on, the death-agony grew more and more intense, and the doctor could do absolutely nothing to lessen the pain. Poor old Mrs. Doery quite broke down, and sat rocking herself to and fro with her face buried in her apron. Phœbe, with a white face, stood ready to do whatever she was told. Donovan, never once faltering, bore up with what the doctor described afterwards as "really extraordinary fortitude, almost as if the poor little girl's death would not be such a dreadful blow to him." In reality, he was so absorbed in her that he had not a thought to spare for the future, and while he was near her it was absolutely necessary that he should be perfectly quiet and controlled.

Once, for a few minutes, however, the doctor asked him to leave the room, and then his strong will gave way. Ellis had left Adela with his wife, and, unable to go to bed, had stretched himself on a sofa which, in the general disarrangement of the house, had been placed at the end of the gallery; he was beginning to get drowsy when the opening of a door roused him. Was it all over, he wondered! He sat up and listened. A terrible cry of anguish in a wailing, child's voice told him that Dot still lived. Then for the first time he noticed that, in the dim light, a few paces from him stood Donovan. He, too, must have been listening, for he made a half-choked exclamation as the sound reached him, and staggering forward, not noticing his step-father, sat down on a chair near him, and with his arms stretched across the table, and his head buried, gave way to an overwhelming burst of grief. Ellis was really touched, and almost infected too. Instinctively he tried to show his sympathy.

"Donovan, my poor fellow, don't give way. While there's life there's hope, you know."

"I wish she were dead," he groaned; "out of the pain."

"But she may get better," suggested Ellis.

"No," he answered, with a great sob which shook his whole frame, "it's only a question of hours—hours of torture!"

Then springing up in a sort of frenzy, and dashing the tears from his eyes, he seized hold of Ellis's arm.

"Here! you who believe in a God—get down on your knees and pray for her—pray that she may die!"

Without waiting for an answer from the astonished Ellis, he turned to the window, tore back the curtain, threw open the casement, and leant out into the black night. Somewhere, somewhere in that yawning space there surely must be a Power who could help him in his fearful need! His whole heart went out in a passionate cry to the vast unknown.

"God! God! Exist! Be! Stop this agony! Let her die! What good can it possibly do? Let her die!"

It was the first prayer he had ever prayed.

There was a touch upon his arm, he turned and saw Phœbe standing beside him.

"Miss Dot is asking for you, sir, but won't you take something before you go back?"

He shook his head, but, as he passed Ellis, asked him to give Phœbe and Mrs. Doery some wine. Then he went back to the sick-room, composed his face with an effort, and resumed his place beside Dot.

"Dono, talk to me," was the very first request, and he did talk bravely and soothingly, in the continuous way which Dot always liked. Taciturn and unimaginative as he really was, he had long ago learnt to overcome all his natural difficulties, and utterly to disregard his own tastes and inclinations when Dot was in any way concerned.

At last the pain grew less severe, the poor exhausted little life began to ebb away fast. When the longed-for relief came, Donovan knew that the end was very near. He breathed more freely.

"The pain is all gone," whispered Dot, after a long quiet interval, "will it never come again? Is it gone for always, Dono?"

"Yes, darling, I think quite gone," he replied; his dreary creed did not allow him to say more.

"It is so comfortable," she murmured, drowsily.

Before long Mrs. Farrant and Adela were summoned, and Ellis too came in, and kissed the little worn face, and poor Waif crept after them all, Donovan lifting him up that Dot's hand might stroke his head for the last time.

By-and-by the room was quiet again, only Donovan, the two nurses, and the doctor stayed to watch the end. The perfect silence was at last interrupted, a sudden shiver passed through the little wasted form.

"I am so cold, Dono," she murmured, moving her hands nervously about the coverlet, "put your arm round me again; oh! it is getting so dark, hold me, Dono, hold me! Is it wrong to be so frightened?"

"I am holding you, darling," he replied, "there is nothing to fear."

But the words died from his cold lips as he uttered them, he felt that he could not comfort her, that she was beyond his help; and her next words seemed to pierce his heart.

"I can't feel your arms, Dono, I can't see you."

A stifled moan escaped him, he bent low over her, and again and again kissed her cold damp brow.

"I did not mean to vex you, darling," she gasped, "it will be better soon, perhaps. Say me the hymn about the light."

He repeated Newman's "Lead, kindly Light," which, for some unknown reason, had always been a great favourite with Dot, he knew it perfectly well, and would, of course, have said anything to please her, nor did he feel what a hideous mockery the words were to him, he was too completely absorbed in thinking of her. After he had finished the hymn, there was a long pause during which her breathing became more and more difficult. Donovan's whole being seemed to live with each effort, he too drew each breath slowly and painfully. But there came a respite before long, the light did shine through the gloom, and a look of almost baby-like peace stole over Dot's troubled face. She did not speak a word, it never had been her way to say very much, but by-and-by Donovan overheard faint half-dreamy whispers, and knew that she was speaking with a little child's confidence to God.

"You will comfort Dono, won't you, and we will be all quite happy together."

The words died away into indistinct murmurs, she sank into a painless, half unconscious state.

It was not till this time that one thought of himself came to trouble Donovan, but as he knelt by the bedside, with Dot's head resting on his arm, as he listened to—almost counted—the sighing breaths, his desolation broke upon him. In a few minutes all that to him made life worth living would have passed away for ever! Death, to him truly the king of terrors, was here at the bedside, and he was powerless, helpless, he could only wait for the grim unknown to snatch little Dot away—away into a forever of nothingness! His brain reeled at the thought, he could not control the shuddering agony which made his limbs almost powerless and brought to his strong firm face a pallor almost as deathly as that of the little dying child.

"You had better rest a minute," said the doctor. "It is too much for you."

But the thought of losing even one of those precious last minutes—of resigning his place to another—seemed intolerable. He signed a negative with some impatience, raised Dot a little higher, smoothed back the hair from her cold forehead, and waited, trying to control the trembling which might disturb her, to regulate the half-choked gasping breaths which would agitate his whole frame.

Then came an unconquerable longing for one more word from her, one more recognizing look. The struggle between this desire and his unwillingness to break in upon the comparative peace of her last moments grew to anguish; passionate entreaties rose to his lips, and were only checked by the fiercest effort of will, wild impossible longings surged up in his heart, and above all was a fearful realisation that the time was short, that minutes, perhaps seconds, were all that was left to him.

But the spiritual current of sympathy which had united the two in life was as strong as ever, they had been all in all to each other, and even now, in the very moment of death, little Dot felt instinctively that Donovan wanted her.

Half rousing herself from the state of dreamy peace she had fallen into, she felt for his face, drew it nearer to hers, and, with long pauses between the words, whispered,

"I've asked to be quite near you still. I think God will let me. He is so very good, you know—you will know."

That perfect confidence of hers made death a happy thing. In her untroubled child-like faith she had no manner of doubt that the Father who loved them both so dearly would one day teach Donovan what His love was.

A minute after came a scarcely audible request.

"Kiss me, Dono."

He folded his arms round her, and pressed his cold lips to hers; in another moment a shudder passing through the little frame told him that he was alone in the world.

                Then black despair,
The shadow of a starless night was thrown
Over the world in which I moved alone.
                                                                    SHELLEY.

Truth's golden o'er us although we refuse it.
                                                                E. BROWNING.

Great sorrows affect people so differently that it is often hard to know how to sympathise with those in trouble, the spoken words of comfort which may soothe one person may simply torture another, the reverential silence congenial to some seems cruelly cold to others. Grief, too, falls in so many different ways; to some it comes like a heavy physical blow, the bitterness of the pain, the shock to the whole system is so great, that for a time the senses fail, and a merciful unconsciousness and a faint, gradual return to life lessen to some extent the first anguish of suffering. To some sorrow comes piercingly, their imagination—all their faculties—seem for the time quickened by the pain, memories of the past crowd around them, visions of a barren future stretch out before their aching eyes, and this in the very first moments of their sorrow; grief is to them a sharp-edged sword, laying bare in an instant the very fibres of their being.

But there are others to whom sorrow comes in a more awful form, the blow falls on them, but no momentary unconsciousness comes to their relief, they do not sink under their load of pain, but stagger on in dull hopelessness; they may be spared the sharp realisation of the grief which pierces the heart, but their case seems more pitiable; for, instead of struggling from the depths of woe to calmness and peace, they labour on with a terrible weight on their hearts, a weight which numbs the faculties, and crushes the bearer into "dull despair." And then, as nature re-asserts herself, and the perceptions regain their vividness, a fearful re-action sets in, the despair deepens, the weight of woe becomes each day heavier to bear; this is the stony sorrow which human sympathy seems utterly powerless to reach, and which finds no outlet.

And yet the "All ye that labour and are heavy laden," has for hundreds of years brought to the world's Consoler those who are most borne down—most crushed by their grief.

Donovan knew the invitation well enough, but these things were to him as "idle tales;" to his suffering there was no relief because he would not stretch out his hand to take: he was as much alone as it is possible for any of us to be alone. A child may utterly refuse obedience to its father, may reject all love, in its ignorance may even refuse to believe in the love. Strong in its rebellion, it may shut itself away, bolting and barring the door upon the love that would seek it out; but, though it may refuse to remove the barrier, the father is still the father, and though the child cannot see how true and real his love is, because of the obstacle it has with its own hand raised between them, the strong love will surely never rest until it has conquered the child, and shown it its mistake; nor is it ever really alone—the barrier is only a barrier.

Donovan had thus shut himself into himself; with the dead calm of a worn-out body and an utterly despairing heart, he closed the door of Dot's room behind him, and with slow, dull, spiritless steps walked along the gallery. Ellis was standing in the doorway of his dressing-room; he came forward as his step-son passed, but the question he would have put died on his lips as he looked at Donovan's rigid face. He shuddered as the hollow, unnatural voice uttered the words he had expected, but had not dared to ask for—"She is dead!"

Ellis had not very often visited his little step-daughter's room; every now and then he had bought some trifling present for her, or had sent her a message by Donovan, and occasionally he had spent a few minutes beside her sofa, partly because he was anxious to keep up appearances, and wished the household to think him a worthy successor to Colonel Farrant, partly because of the real good nature which still to some extent guided his actions. His sorrow at her death was more genuine than might have been expected, and he had enough sympathy with Donovan not to torment him with common-place condolences, but to let him pass by in silence, feeling rightly enough that he was the last person who could venture to approach his grief. He waited until the door of his step-son's room had closed behind him, spoke a few words to the doctor, and then with rather hesitating steps went to Adela's room to tell her the news. At his knock she came to the door; she was wrapped in her dressing-gown, and her hair was loose and disordered. Ellis thought she had never looked so old before; her greyness and wrinkles, which he had never noticed, showed plainly enough now that she was en déshabillé; she looked what in truth she was, a middle-aged woman, and Ellis, who could not bear to face the fact that both he and his sister were no longer young, shivered a little. Did not each advancing year bring them nearer to the dreariness of old age, and, what was worse, nearer to the terrors of death! Death was an awful thing, and death was in the house at that very moment.

"What is it?" asked Adela—"is it all over?"

"Yes, it is over," he replied, gravely. "I must tell poor Honora. Come with me, Adela; she is so exhausted, I am half afraid how she will bear it."

"Other people may be exhausted too," said Adela, rather sharply. "What has become of Donovan? He has been in there all night."

"He has gone to his room. I was afraid to speak to him, he looked—I can't tell you how he looked. Yes, go to him, if you like, but you won't do him any good, poor fellow. It must have been an awful night."

Adela was thoroughly kind-hearted; she hurried at once towards Donovan's room, not allowing her natural shrinking from the sight of pain to hinder her an instant. It was certainly a relief, when she had received the word of admittance, to find that no spectacle of overpowering grief was to meet her gaze. The room was very cold and almost dark; a faint glimmer of light from the window, and the outline of a figure with the head drooped low, showed her where her cousin was. She groped her way towards him, her misgivings returning when he still did not speak or stir.

"Donovan," she said, with quick anxiety in her tone, "is anything the matter with you? Are you faint?"

Her words surprised him; he mused over them half curiously before replying. How strange it was to be asked if anything were the matter when he was simply crushed! And yet perhaps, in a sense, nothing was the matter—nothing mattered at all now that Dot was dead. And Dot was dead, she had passed away for ever.

"Donovan," pleaded Adela, "do speak to me—do break this dreadful silence!"

"She is dead," he replied, slowly, and then again his head drooped, and there was another long pause.

The window was wide open. The icy night air made Adela shiver; she looked from the faint grey sky to the snowy earth, and then in despair she looked back to her cousin's face, which, though indistinctly seen in the dim light, was evidently as cold and still as marble. The tears rose to her eyes and overflowed as she felt her utter powerlessness to relieve that stony sorrow. A half-stifled shivering sob roused Donovan at last.

"You are cold," he said, still in the same terribly hollow voice, and then he moved forward and shut the window.

She was now so thoroughly frightened by the strangeness of his manner that she lost all control over herself, and it was, after all, Donovan who had to quiet her grief.

"Why do you cry?" he said. "The pain is over for her, all is over; after all, it is only ourselves who suffer. One can endure a great deal, and sooner or later we too shall die think of the peace of that nothingness!"

"Oh, don't say such terrible things!" said Adela, shuddering and sobbing still more violently.

"It is my one comfort," he said; "but you, with the belief you profess, can need no comfort from such as I—your beautiful legends should comfort you."

"Yes, yes," she answered; "only it is so hard to be resigned. But, Donovan, I did not mean to be so weak; I wanted to be of use to you, indeed I did, and I have worried instead of comforted you."

"You have been very kind," he said, in a more natural tone; "but there is only one comfort, and I have told you what that is." Then, as she started with a sudden new terror, he put his cold hand on hers and added, "No, you need not be afraid; death is the comfort, but I shall not seek death in the way you fear—that is a cowardly thing to do. You need not think I shall try that way to rest."

"But is there nothing I can do for you?" asked Adela, awed and quieted by his strange manner.

"I should like you to go to my mother," he replied, without any hesitation.

Adela looked again at the white, stony face, but it was perfectly resolute, and she had no choice but to obey. With a heavy heart she went to see the other mourner, and tried to soothe the passionate weeping and bitter remorse of the mother.

The interview with his cousin had in some degree roused Donovan; he could not sink back to the state of lethargy in which she had found him. His power of realisation had to some extent returned, and the dead calm gave place to restlessness. He paced up and down the room with unsteady steps, then, chafed by the narrowness of the space, he opened his door and wandered along the gallery, down the stairs, and through the deserted rooms below. Everything had an utterly desolate look; the faint morning light revealed the drooping wreaths and decorations, the remains of the candles, which had guttered down into shapeless masses of wax, looked grotesquely forlorn, while the supper-room, with its disordered table and its profusion of fruit and flowers, was perhaps the most dreary-looking of all. The effect of the whole to Donovan seemed simply ghastly; "The Reel of Tullochgorum" rang in his ears, recalling all its miserable adjuncts, the noise of the gay crowd, the scraping and twanging of the instruments, above all, Dot's cries of anguish—those heart-piercing cries which were to haunt him for months.

By-and-by, as the daylight increased, the household began to stir; a maid-servant came into the drawing-room and re-arranged and dusted the furniture, from time to time casting half timid half compassionate glances at the restless figure pacing to and fro; doors were opened and shut, a general sound of sweeping and moving furniture made itself heard, a clatter of cups and saucers; bells were rung, footsteps hurried to and fro; Major Mackinnon's voice was heard asking for his boots. There was something awful in this business-like rebeginning of life. Dot was dead, yet for him life must go on in the old grooves,

"Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow,
Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow."

The common-place bustle, the vision which had crossed his mind of the long barren years became at last intolerable. He hastened up the stairs once more, and from the force of long habit found himself on the way to Dot's room. The blinds were down; the cool green light quieted his restless impatient movements. He closed the door, and stole with hushed steps to the bedside. Then the forlornness of his grief broke upon him fully. No eager welcome from the soft, childish voice, no loving look from the dark eyes, no arms stretched out to cling round his neck, but only a motionless silent outline beneath the white sheet. He could not look at the veiled face, he turned away and threw himself on the ground in a terrible, silent agony.

After a time, the quietness of the room began to influence him. Only a few hours before it had been the scene of such weary suffering that the peacefulness of the present could not but seem doubly striking. The peace of non-existence! He hugged the thought to his heart, and in thinking of it forgot for the time his own pain. Then he slowly dragged himself up, and kneeling by the bed, drew aside the sheet. Nothing could have softened his suffering so completely as the sight which met his gaze. The beautiful little face seemed only a degree more pale and waxen than in life; the forehead, no longer contracted with pain, gleamed white and serene and starlike; the brown hair lay lightly on the pillow, the pale still lips smiled, the tiny thin hands were folded in solemn repose. How long he knelt silently beside her he never knew. He was roused at last by old Mrs. Doery. She came in, wiping her eyes with her apron, and for a minute stood at the foot of the bed, watching the two children whom she had brought up—the dead and the living. Perhaps the sight of the living one touched her heart the more keenly, for there was an unwonted tenderness in her manner as she addressed him.

"I was looking for you, Mr. Donovan," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. "It's time you took some rest. You must be worn out."

Worn out! Ah! no. How he wished he had been! But he did not resist her when she urged him to go to his room. The quiet, passive, painless state he was in led him to acquiesce in anything. Later on, Ellis came to him, offering to see to all the necessary arrangements; he thanked him quietly, and consented. Then Adela came and begged him to see his mother, and he went for a little while to his mother's room, and described everything which had happened on the previous night, tranquilly, almost coldly. So the day passed on, and night came. The household was still once more, all were sleeping quietly; only Donovan lay with wide-open eyes, staring out at the black night, counting the hours mechanically as they passed, wondering now and then if he still lived, if this strange, numb passiveness were life at all.

The next two days went on in much the same way. The funeral was to be on the Saturday; on the Friday morning Donovan's unnatural calm began to give way. He had now been four nights without sleep, and the dull weight, the numbness of stifled pain was beginning to tell on him. When, on that day, he went as usual to Dot's room to gaze on the one sight which had served to comfort him, he received a sudden shock. The first great beauty of death had faded gradually, but, as that morning he gazed down on the tranquil face, he saw for the first time the faint evidences of mortality. The sight seemed to pierce his heart; he rushed away wildly, as though to escape from his grief; he paced with desperate steps up and down his room, trying in vain to forget what he had seen, trying to assure himself that it would not, could not be. "Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." The bitterness of the verdict was almost unbearable, for to him the perishable body was all that was left; unspeakably dear as it must be to all, it had to him a tenfold preciousness. His grief bordered so nearly on madness that everyone began to shrink from him in terror, and all that terrible day he was alone, now battling with his anguish, trying in vain to govern himself—now allowing his crazy sorrow to drive him as it pleased. At length, when night was come—the last night before Dot was to be borne away from him to the churchyard—he went once more to the death-chamber. The little white coffin was closed—he did not regret it; he would not look on her again, only his frantic pacings to and fro seemed more bearable in that room than in his own. Dot's little clock chimed the hours softly in muffled tones, and each stroke seemed to fall with knife-like sharpness on his heart. Time had ceased for her, but for him it went on, wearily, ceaselessly. That was the only distinct thought which continually surged in upon him. "My days go on. My days go on."

At last with a feverish craving for air he threw open the window, and leaned out into the cold still winter night. A winding sheet of snow on the earth, purple black heavens, and stars shining out gloriously in the frosty atmosphere met his gaze. All was grand and peaceful, all contrasted strangely with his mad, fevered agony. He grew more quiet. Orion gleamed down on him pityingly, a child's voice whispered from the past, "He is my very favourite of all." Were the soft dark eyes watching him perhaps in his anguish? was the happy free spirit near him? Would all—every comfort be denied him because in his ignorance and self-reliance he refused to believe?

He shut the window once more, stood quietly for a minute beside the coffin, then stretched himself out on the hearthrug, and, before the little clock chimed again, was sleeping profoundly. The only comfort he was capable of receiving was given him—a night of unbroken rest, a short lull from his despair.

That sleep saved him; the terrible strain of his attendance on Dot, his hopeless sorrow and long wakeful nights, had brought him to the very verge of serious illness; when he awoke late on the following morning, his mind had recovered its balance, he was sufficiently strengthened to take up his heavy load of sorrow and bear it manfully. Ellis and Adela were unspeakably relieved, when they met him, to find bow great a change the night had wrought, the stony want of realisation, the frenzy of overpowering grief, had given place to a more natural sorrow, he looked indeed very much as usual only that all his former characteristics seemed deepened, the mouth looked a little more bitter, the eyes more despairing and contradictory to the rest of the face, the curious brow had more of what Dot had called its "battered" look, the whole expression was sterner and older.

For the first time he came down to breakfast and took his usual place at the table, perhaps anxious to face the rest of the party before the funeral, or with a sort of desire to go through with everything properly. They were all very kind to him, there is enough of good in most people to make them compassionate to great grief—for a time. As they left the breakfast-room a servant met them carrying some beautiful hot-house flowers.

"From Mrs. Ward, sir," she said, putting into Donovan's hands a card with, "kind enquiries and sympathy."

He looked at it for a moment, then threw it aside with bitterness which astonished Adela, and said in his most chilling tone,

"It is too late now."

"No, I think there will be room," said Adela, misunderstanding him, "we have a great number of wreaths, but I think I can arrange these flowers."

"The world's sympathy!" he replied, bitterly, clenching and unclenching his hands rapidly, as was his habit when strongly agitated, "never to come near her in all those years of suffering, but to send a showy wreath for her coffin."

"Would you rather they were not used?" asked Adela, doubtfully.

"Oh! let us take what we can get from the sympathising world," he answered, "rate it at what it's worth, only don't ask me to be grateful." And then with a fierce sigh he turned away.

The day was clear, bright, and frosty, the little churchyard at Oakdene was crowded with people, for poor little Dot's death had awakened sympathy which her life had failed to win; rumours had got about that the funeral was to be a choral one, and all the acquaintances of the Farrants who had been at the interrupted dance drove to the little country church to "show their respect" to the dead and the living, while many of the Greyshot townspeople walked over either from curiosity, or from that love of a pathetic sight which is latent in not a few hearts.

The sun shone brightly down on the snow-covered graves, on the throng of spectators, on the clergyman and the choristers, the rays fell too on the white pall laden with wreaths, on the black dresses of the mourners, and on Donovan's stern hopeless face. He would willingly have dispensed with the service, which was to him only a mockery, but the arrangement of all had helped to cheer Mrs. Farrant, and as long as he could see the last of the little coffin he was willing that the others should gratify their taste, and gather round Dot's grave with prayers and hymns and flowers. Gravely he followed the choir into the church, gravely sat in the pew while the last strains of the hymn were sung; the other mourners knelt for a minute, he was too honest to do that, but the consistency of an atheist rarely receives anything but hard words, and all the spectators were inexpressibly shocked.

He was far too miserable to notice the looks of shrinking aversion or righteous indignation which some of the congregation turned on him as the procession passed out to the grave, but just outside the porch, in a momentary pause, one whispered sentence fell on his ear.

"Oh, no; atheists are always hard and unfeeling!"

He could not help knowing that the words bore reference to him; their injustice stung him a little, and he became conscious that the eyes turned on him were hostile and unsympathising—became indeed aware for the first time that the churchyard was crowded. Well, it would soon be over. He heard nothing more till the sound of the earth falling on the coffin roused him from his own thoughts; then with a sudden pang and shudder he caught the words—"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust"—and he was one of the "men without hope."

The people bowed their heads as the clergyman read the closing prayers, but Donovan, with a wild look in his eyes, stood erect and motionless; his one longing was for solitude, and when, after the benediction, another hymn was given out, he felt that he could bear up no longer. Turning rapidly away he strode through the staring crowd. What did it matter if his action were misinterpreted? What did he care if the general sense of decorum was offended? It mattered little, for whatever he did was sure to be considered the wrong thing! "Dust to dust." How the words haunted him! Oh, to get away somewhere from his anguish—away from the cruel world with its harsh judgments, to lose himself in darkness! He rushed on wildly through the churchyard, past the long line of carriages, along the snowy road to the Manor. He was mad enough and miserable enough for any desperate deed, but whatever his intentions had been they were frustrated, for his physical strength gave way; he sank down exhausted on the floor of a little arbour in the Manor grounds.

He was roused at length by a soft stir in the place; then came a low whine, and looking up, he saw Waif beside him, his round brown eyes full of tears.

"Ah! you understand, do you, old fellow?" he exclaimed, faintly.

He allowed the dog to lick his face and hands for a minute or two, then, as the carriages were heard in the drive, he started up; he knew that Dr. L—— and one or two other visitors would return to lunch, and, though he shrank painfully from seeing them, he felt that he ought to go in. Waif's loving devotion had soothed him. Ashamed of the cowardly longing to end his life which had almost overmastered him, he struggled to his feet, patted the dog, and made his way to the drawing-room, there to do what he felt to be his duty in the way of talking to the visitors. Well for the world that it is not all made up of logically consistent men and women, well at any rate for the Donovans of the world that there are children and dumb animals who love and sympathise without question, without reservation.

Blessed little Waif! You have done a better day's work than all the throng of people in the church and churchyard, you have been the saving of your master. There is indeed One

"Who by low creatures leads to heights of love."

So, Waif, take courage and keep your eyes open, this is your day; men have for the present little to say to Donovan, they shrink from him: it is clearly intended that you should see to him, and in doing so you will be following in the steps of those other dogs who tended the deserted beggar as he lay at the rich man's gate.

The possible stands by us ever fresh,
Fairer than aught which any life hath owned.
*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *
A healthful hunger for the great idea,
The beauty and the blessedness of life.
                        Gladys and her Island. J. INGELOW.

The school-room at Trenant was quite the favourite room in the whole house. In summer time its two French windows, opening on to the lawn, gave a cool out of door feeling, and, if you are obliged to spend a lovely June morning in the house, it is some consolation to have Nature brought as near to you as possible; in winter its coziness was admitted by all, its fireplace was large and burnt better than any other, its half high brass fender made an enchanting footstool, its old-fashioned sofa was exactly the shape which tempts you to curl yourself up with a story-book and forget the cold, and its bookshelves contained such a heterogeneous assortment of volumes that almost everyone could find something to his or her special taste. But the time most favourable of all to the school-room, was the time known as "blind man's holiday" in the winter; it had long been the favourite family gathering place, and on the afternoon of New Year's day—the same New Year which had brought sorrow and bereavement to Oakdene Manor—a very merry party had congregated round the hearth. In the centre of the group knelt Gladys with one arm round Jackie to ward off all danger of fire accidents, and with the other spare hand distributing smooth, brown, hard-skinned chestnuts from a bag; the school-boys, home for their Christmas holidays, sat on the fender punching holes in the nuts before they were put down to roast, and Stephen Causton stood, poker in hand, ready to rake out the lowest bar of the grate at the last moment. It was what Gladys called a "toasty" fire, not a blazing one, but a deep still red one which sent out as much heat as could possibly be desired, and cast a rich glow over wall and ceiling, making the holly wreaths on the picture frames shine out in bold contrast to the blackness of the shadows, and adding such lustre to the old green curtains and furniture, that their faded shabbiness was no longer noticeable. The faces, too, of the little group were ruddy in the firelight, and the golden threads in Gladys' brown hair shone out brightly as she bent down over the wriggling struggling Jackie, whose patience was sorely tried by the slowness with which the chestnuts roasted.

"We must take some to mother and Aunt Margaret in the drawing-room," said Gladys; "how soon will they be ready, Stephen?"

"Not yet; besides, I'm certain my mother wouldn't touch one," said Stephen, a little sulkily, "she doesn't understand that sort of thing."

"My stars! What, not like chestnuts!" ejaculated Bertie, with raised eyebrows.

Gladys and Stephen laughed a little, it was not exactly the want of appreciation of chestnuts which had given the sullen tone to the assertion; Mrs. Causton's utter contempt for the things of this world was not a little trying to her son, and Gladys understood that it was this in general to which he referred. Certainly it did seem a pity, she thought, that Aunt Margaret should speak so very unreservedly, and often so very inopportunely, about religious details, and it seemed strange that she did not notice how it repelled and annoyed her son.

Stephen had left Porthkerran in the previous October, and was now "walking the hospitals." The few months of London life seemed already to have altered him a good deal, he was older, more decided and opinionated, even—Gladys fancied—a little less refined than when he left. But the change which she noticed chiefly in him was an increased dislike to Mrs. Causton's peculiar little phrases and her untimely allusions. His mother worried him, and he allowed this to appear far too plainly.

"Let us wish over them," said Jackie, meditatively, "cos you know it's quite the first time this year we've eaten them."

"I know what the Jackal would wish for," said Bertie, teazingly, "he'd wish for jam at tea; wishing's awful bosh, Jackie, you mustn't be such a baby."

The corners of Jackie's mouth were turned down ominously, and nothing but Gladys' promptitude averted a storm.

"Nonsense, Bert, he wouldn't do anything of the kind; we shall all wish over them, and Jackie shall have the first that's done, because he's the youngest; now, Jack, a very wise wish; what is it to be?"

Jackie thought for the space of thirty seconds, while he tore open the hot chestnut. Then with the conscious importance of one who looks far into the dim future, he announced,

"I wish to be a tiger-hunter in Africa, I shall not go now, I shall wait till I'm sixteen, then I shall be a man, and I shall shoot all the animals, escept a few which I shall catch with nets, and bling home to keep in the nursely."

This wish excited a good deal of laughter, for the heroic tiger-hunter of the future had been known to run away from a good-sized dog, and the unkind brothers were sceptical as to the bravery his sixteen years would bring him; but Jackie gnawed his chestnut contentedly, and joined in the laughter.

Nor did the wishes of the other boys rival his in enterprise. Bertie wished to be a sailor like Dick, with a "jolly lot" of climbing to do. Harold aspired to an archbishopric, because it would be "such a lark to be cock of the walk, and to have a big palace to live in." Stephen expressed a modest wish to discover something like the "circulation of the blood," as Harvey had done, and make himself a name to be remembered.

Last of all came Gladys' wish, and all eyes turned upon her as she tossed a chestnut to and fro in her hands, and thought. At last raising her face, she said,

"I wish to be like the people in 'Real Folks,' who got a lot of little children together on Saturday afternoons, in some great, bad town, and gave them a 'good time.'"

"Dirty little children—ugh!" exclaimed Bertie, in disgust.

"Beastly!" said the archbishop of the future, laconically.

"Oh! if you want dirty children," said Stephen, "come to Lambeth. You'll see a goodish few there."

As he spoke the door was opened by Mrs. Tremain.

"All in the gloaming," she said, brightly. "I told Aunt Margaret we should most likely find you here; what a delicious smell of roasting!"

"It's chestnuts, mammy," shouted Jackie, at the top of his voice, as he dragged his mother to a chair, and took up the position on her knee to which, in Nesta's absence, his right was indisputable. "Mammy, do eat this one, it's such a beauty."

"Aunt Margaret, do you like this low chair?" said Gladys, as Mrs. Causton joined the group gathered round the fireplace.

"Thank you, my dear, no, I think I will sit at a little distance, as I must face the cold outside in a minute, it is well not to enjoy too much of the warmth. You have a very large fire."

This last sentence had something of reproach in it, and it stimulated Stephen to a quick rejoinder.

"Prime, isn't it."

"Still," continued Mrs. Causton, "in such a severe winter it seems almost incumbent on one not to be too lavish in the coals which are so much needed by the poor."

"It doesn't make the poor people any warmer for us to be cold," said Stephen, with a suppressed growl.

"Nurse always makes up big fires," said Gladys. "She says it's more economical than always feeding a little one. Won't you have a chestnut, auntie?"

"No, thank you, my dear. It is not more than two hours till dinner time, and I do not think it well to eat between meals."

The chestnut-eaters, conscious of a wicked enjoyment, munched on in silence, the idea of a possible abolition of all promiscuous and informal "feedings" between meal times was not to be tolerated for an instant.

Mrs. Tremain changed the subject.

"And you really go back to London to-morrow, Stephen? You have had a very short holiday."

"Yes; still a few days is better than nothing," he answered, tilting his chair backwards and forwards.

"I only hope, Stephen, that you'll work well," said his mother, anxiously. "These long winter evenings are excellent for reading."

Stephen yawned.

"Do you like your lodgings?" asked Mrs. Tremain.

"Oh! they're awfully dull," said Stephen. "Still they're near the hospital, and that's a great thing."

"And your landlady seems a thoroughly nice woman," said Mrs. Causton, who had taken the rooms herself, and had been favourably impressed by the four large family Bibles placed as ornaments on the conventional lodging-house drawing-room table, as well as by the conversation of the landlady.

"She's well enough," said Stephen, "when she's sober."

Mrs. Causton lamented the deceitfulness of appearances, and said she would look out a tract which Stephen could give to the poor woman. The younger boys, wearying of this talk, began to grow noisy, and it was a relief to everyone, including Stephen, when Mrs. Causton said it was time for them to go home.

When Gladys came back to the school-room, after seeing the last of the two visitors, she found her mother alone; the children had dispersed to their play, and Mrs. Tremain sat silently by the fire, which had now sunk rather low.

"A few more coals, I think, dear," she said, as Gladys closed the door and hurried towards the hearth, "and then, as the room is quiet, I want to have a little talk with you."

Gladys put on the coals quickly; her mother's tone had made her feel a little anxious, for though their "talks" together were many, they were not generally spoken of beforehand in this way. Was there some new arrangement to be made, some difficulty to be discussed? Could there be bad news from Dick? Gladys tormented herself with a variety of suppositions, and lifted up such an anxious face to her mother that Mrs. Tremain could not help smiling.

"Did my voice sound so very serious," she said, "that you conjure up all sorts of evils in a minute?"

"Oh! mother, how did you know I had?"

Mrs. Tremain smoothed the anxious, questioning forehead by way of reply, then she began, without further delay, to relieve her child's mind.

"Nothing is wrong at all, dear; but your Aunt Margaret has been talking this afternoon to your father and me. You know that she has taken a little villa at Richmond for the next six months; she wants to be nearer Stephen, and, though she cannot live in London, she thinks that, if she were there, Stephen could spend his Sundays with her. But she dreads the loneliness very much, and cannot bear the thought of settling down by herself in a strange place. She is very anxious, dear, that you should go with her for a time."

Poor Gladys' heart sank; that indefinite expression, "a time," rang unpleasantly in her ears, and the thought of being weeks, or perhaps months, away from home, was terrible to her. Then, too, though she was fond of Mrs. Causton, she was often a good deal annoyed by her peculiarities; and if these were noticeable in the sort of intercourse which they had had at Porthkerran, what would they not be in the close intercourse of daily companionship? It was in rather a choked voice that she asked, after a pause,

"Must I go, mother?"

"It is, of course, dear, for you to decide," said Mrs. Tremain. "If you feel very strongly against it, we should not think of sending you."

"But you wish me to go," said Gladys, a little resentfully, feeling, too, that the very fact of having the matter left in her own hands hardly gave her the choice of doing as she wished; she could not deliberately choose for herself the easy, comfortable, home-keeping path which she longed to take.

"That is hardly a fair way of putting it," said Mrs. Tremain. "For ourselves, darling, of course we want to keep you; for Mrs. Causton's sake and your own, I should like you to go."

"For my own!" exclaimed Gladys, greatly surprised.

"Yes, quite for your own, dear; you have scarcely ever been away from home, and it is time that you should see a little more of life; the change will be good for you in every way. I think it will help to widen you."

"You think me narrow-minded?" said Gladys, pouting.

"Yes, dear, I do—a little," said Mrs. Tremain, laughing. "I don't think you have much sympathy with people you don't agree with, and the best cure for that will be to get out of the old grooves for a little time."

"But you surely don't want me to learn to think differently, and to come home again not agreeing with you and papa?" questioned Gladys.

"No, certainly not; that would not be growing wider, only shifting your narrowness in a new direction."

"But Aunt Margaret is the narrowest person imaginable," said Gladys, perversely. "I shall only grow like her."

"I think not," said Mrs. Tremain; "you would more likely be driven to the opposite extreme. But that is not exactly what I want; I want you to learn to see her real goodness, and to sympathise with that, trying to pass over the little things which annoy you. Besides, you will see other people; the world of Richmond is larger than the world of Porthkerran."

Gladys was not convinced all at once, but before many days had passed her decision was made. Home was to be renounced for six long months, and a new phase—not the least arduous—of her education was to be begun under Mrs. Causton's guidance.

Her stay at Richmond was certainly productive of some good results. Stephen found his home visits attractive, and never failed to appear on Saturday afternoons. Mrs. Causton thoroughly enjoyed her bright cheerful companion, and Gladys herself, in spite of unconquerable home-sickness, found much that was pleasant in her new life, and for many reasons never in after-years regretted the decision she had made.

She saw then, with the strange thrill of joy and wonder which such realisations bring, that on this decision and on this visit to London hinged almost all that was most dear to her in the future, and that, unconsciously, she had then taken the first step towards the attainment of her wish over the chestnut-roasting.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

LONDON: PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.