Number Three Winifred Place

A STRANGER.

"THERE'S a ring at the door! I shouldn't wonder if it was somebody after lodgings! Look sharp, will you, Bertha, and don't go to sleep on the way. I never in all my life saw such a dawdle as that girl," concluded Mrs. Burrell.

It was a dismal afternoon in November. No actual rain had fallen since early morning, but the air reeked with damp, the sky was shut off by a dense haze overhead, and slush lay thickly on roads and pavements, while the thermometer stood at only one degree above freezing-point. Foot-passengers were hurrying to and fro, with a very evident dislike of the outer atmosphere, a very plain intention to get quickly through their divers businesses.

Mrs. Burrell's shop, No. 3 of a row, lay close to one of the greater thoroughfares, though actually situated in a side street. In Mrs. Burrell's estimation, the locality was "quiet": for though the rumble of traffic went on unceasingly, the said traffic did not pass her door. But some lodgers in Albert Terrace were wont to hold a different opinion.

The shop was well stocked with wools and fancywork of all descriptions, with Shetland shawls, worsted comforters, dainty work-baskets lined and unlined, supplemented by countless ornamental knick-knacks.

Part of the street was given up to shops, part to private houses, part to lodging-houses, pure and simple; not every one caring, like Mrs. Burrell, to combine the two vocations.

Mrs. Burrell herself was in appearance an eminently respectable and superior person, about fifty years of age, tall and upright in figure, with a sallow complexion and strongly-marked features. The curl in the end of her long nose, and the droop at each corner of her mouth, told tales of an uncomfortable temper; and her unsmiling eyes seemed to be ever on the look-out for something or somebody to blame. She had never yet learnt the happy and needful art of "shutting her eyes to things," had never yet realised the profound truth that other people's faults can no more be cured in a day than our own can be. Expecting absolute perfection in everybody—except of course in herself,—and failing to find what she looked for, she lived in a state of chronic dissatisfaction.

So Mrs. Burrell's pretty daughter, Hope, and still more, her sad-faced orphan niece, Bertha Stephens, and most of all her over-driven maid-of-all-work, Hannah Hoskyns, had altogether rather a "hard life of it," especially in the London season. Nothing so shadows the individual lives in a household as the perpetual presence of even one habitual grumbler, male or female.

As it was not now the season, Mrs. Burrell's "upstairs apartments" were empty, and had been empty for more than a fortnight. This was a somewhat unusual event, however. Mrs. Burrell's "connection" was so good, that even when London was most deserted, her rooms were often occupied.

Business in the shop had been slack that afternoon. Mrs. Burrell found time, without difficulty, to sit down to tea with her daughter and niece in the small parlour behind, keeping watch through the glass door for possible customers. Once a young lady in sable furs appeared, and Hope was despatched to meet a demand for "one skein of white Andalusian wool." Then came the ring at the side-door, which "might mean lodgers;" and Bertha disappeared.

"I never saw such a dawdle as that girl—never, in all my days," repeated Mrs. Burrell. "If your father, now, had had an idea of what he was asking me to undertake when he made me promise to keep her—"

"Why, mother, if we didn't have Bertha, we should be obliged to get in somebody else to do her work," said Hope.

"Then I hope it would be somebody I could depend upon," responded Mrs. Burrell. "Which is more than I can say for you two girls. I'm sure the trouble and the worry and the plague I have to keep things going, nobody knows."

Hope shrugged her shoulders, yawned, and drank her tea. Mrs. Burrell's mode of incessant faultfinding told ill upon this only daughter, inducing carelessness and a growing spirit of hardness, where a few words of kind encouragement would have made her willing to do her utmost. But—"nothing ever pleased mother," Hope was wont to say—"so where was the use of trying?" She had not been brought up by that mother to work from any higher motive.

The effect of the same treatment upon Bertha was different. A higher motive, lacking in Hope, was present in Bertha. She did not toil the less hard, though certainly she toiled the more hopelessly, so far as regarded the satisfying of Mrs. Burrell.

Bertha was not pretty, yet her face would have been very pleasant but for its singular sadness of expression. The downcast grey eyes were soft and pathetic, and she had a shrinking manner, as if labouring under a constant expectation of being blamed.

As a matter of fact, Bertha Stephens was expeditious in almost everything that she undertook. But Mrs. Burrell, deceived by her quietness, never could believe that she was not wasting her time. Some people count "speed" to be synonymous with "bustle."

"Well—here you are at last!" was the greeting she received on her return. "Who was it?"

"Only a mistake," Bertha answered. "A gentleman came to the wrong door."

"I thought it was something important, you were gone such a time."

Bertha sat down silently, making no attempt at self-defence.

"Have you finished putting up those curtains?" asked Mrs. Burrell, in a needlessly sharp manner. The question might just as well have been uttered kindly.

"Yes, aunt."

"You have been long enough about it, I hope! And the spots on the bedroom carpet,—of course you haven't seen to them."

Bertha looked perplexed. "Which spots?" she asked.

"As if you did not know. Don't pretend, Bertha. The best bedroom, of course. I showed them to you yesterday evening."

"You showed them to me, mother, not to Bertha," said Hope.

"Bertha knows better," said Mrs. Burrell curtly.

Bertha evidently did not know better. She remained silent.

"You will please to see to that as soon as ever you have done your tea. Anybody may call any day after lodgings, and I must have the place fit to be looked at. There's some one else come, Hope. Be quick."

Reluctantly Hope rose, leaving half a cup of tea to grow cold, and made her way into the shop. This customer kept her longer than the last had done.

Hope at length was free to turn once more towards the back-parlour. But hardly had she so turned, when she was arrested by a slight sound in her rear.

A lady had entered, and stood there,—quite a young lady, if one might judge from appearances, yet dressed in deep mourning, with a black crape veil falling behind, and a widow's cap within the bonnet. She was rather above medium height and slenderly made, with small hands clasping and unclasping each other continually. A red spot showed in either cheek, the dark eyes were dilated, while the muscles round the delicate mouth quivered with incessant motion.

"Can I show you anything, ma'am?" asked Hope.

"Thank you, no. I am not come to buy," the lady said, in a hurried yet gentle and gracious manner. "I believe—I believe you have lodgings in this house to let."

"Will you wait a moment, please? I'll call my mother," said Hope.

The lady remained motionless till Mrs. Burrell appeared, when she mechanically advanced towards the counter.

"I have been recommended to come to you," she said, in the same nervous though sweet voice which she had before addressed to Hope. "You have, I am told, rooms to let."

"Yes, ma'am," Mrs. Burrell answered agreeably. "How many would you please to want?"

"It is only for my little girl and myself. Your rooms are vacant now, I believe—at this present moment. I could come to you without delay?"

"Yes, ma'am," repeated Mrs. Burrell, for the last words had been uttered questioningly.

"I mean literally without delay—this afternoon," continued the lady, speaking again very hurriedly. "Circumstances have obliged me—There are reasons why I wish to leave my present rooms at once—immediately. It is not easy to find exactly what I want at such short notice, especially as I am a stranger to this part of London."

Mrs. Burrell was silent, looking with some wonder at the speaker's agitated lips.

"Indeed, I might say I am a stranger to London altogether." A faint smile accompanied the words, but was quickly lost in the painful quivering of every muscle. "Perhaps you would kindly—"

"Would you like to come inside and sit down, ma'am?" asked Mrs. Burrell, as the lady came to a sudden pause, pressing one hand to her side. "I'm afraid you are not very well."

"Thank you, no,—no; it is nothing. I must not waste a moment. The truth is, I have been a little upset to-day, and not being very strong—but it does not matter. If you would kindly tell me what rooms you have—"

"Three, commonly. Sometimes I throw in a fourth," said Mrs. Burrell.

"That would be much more than I need. But you do not let them all together?"

"Well, no; I like that best, ma'am, but I don't stand out for it," said Mrs. Burrell. "In the autumn, I had a gentleman and his wife in the parlour and best bedroom, and there was a single gentleman in the back bedroom. It's a tidy room enough, but there is no parlour belonging to it. I've turned the little lumber-room into a servant's room once in a way, but it is a trouble, and I don't care to have it to do."

"I think the one bedroom at the back might suit us," said the lady. "I cannot offer high terms. It is only for myself and my little girl, so we could manage nicely with one room. My little girl is only eight years old, and I shall have to leave her alone for several hours every day, while I am out—teaching." The speaker's lips trembled anew, as if this were a state of things to which she was not accustomed. "I am anxious to be in a house where she will be just a little looked after, and where I can leave her safely. She never gives trouble or gets into mischief. Still I do feel uneasy when she is alone, and your clergyman, Mr. Powis, told me—"

"Oh, are you a friend of Mr. Powis', ma'am?" Mrs. Burrell had not entirely liked the aspect of affairs hitherto, but now her face cleared.

The lady hesitated. "I cannot quite say that, but Mr. Powis mentioned your name to me, and assured me that we should be comfortable here."

"I don't think you need be uneasy, ma'am," Mrs. Burrell said, with complacency. "Though it isn't, of course, for me to say it; I never do have complaints as to any want of comfort. Mr. Powis often sends his friends to me; indeed, his recommendations have been helpful. He is a good man,—a very good man is Mr. Powis. He'll never fail to go out of his way to do a kindness to anybody, and that's what I like in a clergyman. It's fine to be a grand preacher, there's no doubt, but I like a clergyman who'll take a little trouble for the sake of folks."

Mrs. Burrell was really grateful to Mr. Powis for his frequent "recommendations" of her lodgings. She endeavoured to show her gratitude by forming one of his congregation at least once every Sunday. And if she rarely exerted herself to listen to his sermons, she rarely missed an opportunity of praising him.

"I am sure he is a good man," responded the lady,—"though indeed I cannot claim more than a bare acquaintance with him. But now will you kindly let me see your rooms? My name is Mordaunt—Mrs. Mordaunt."

MR. POWIS' VISITOR.

"YOU'LL have to look sharp, and get—why, where is Bertha?" asked Mrs. Burrell, entering the little parlour, with an air of perturbation.

"Gone upstairs," said Hope.

"That girl is never at hand when I want her. And you have no business here, Hope. Why are you not in the shop?"

"What did the lady want?" asked Hope, by way of answer.

"She is a Mrs. Mordaunt, and she has taken the back room. There isn't a moment to be lost, for it must be ready in less than two hours."

"Two hours!" repeated Hope.

"Yes, I don't know why. She is in some sort of trouble, and obliged to move in a hurry. She seemed dreadfully upset and flurried, poor thing."

"Only one lady?" asked Hope.

"There is a child too. You wouldn't think it, to look at her, but she has a child eight years old. It seems odd, a lady being content with one room, but it's easy to see she's poor. She goes out teaching. But she's a lady, and no mistake, so I suppose she's been reduced. I only hope I shall get my money regular."

"Oh, I dare say that will be all right," said Hope.

"I'm not so sure. There's no telling beforehand. I had my doubts from the first, and if she hadn't come from Mr. Powis, I wouldn't have fitted in things so easy for her. But Mr. Powis sending any one makes a difference."

Mr. Powis' name might this time have made rather less difference in the landlady's estimation, could she, by virtue of some unwonted power, have taken a backward glance into the study of St. Andrew's Rectory, less than one hour previously.

Mr. Powis was a tall and shy-mannered man, apt to be taken with bashful or silent fits, and never ready in speech. But he was, as Mrs. Burrell had said, and in a deeper sense than Mrs. Burrell had meant, a good man,—earnest and hearty in work for God, ready and self-forgetting in work for man. He was in appearance plain-featured, and at first sight not attractive. Yet people who went to him in trouble did not think him plain; and children were the last to count him unattractive.

He had been busy over his sermon that afternoon, when there came an interruption. Could he see a lady—a stranger? Mr. Powis hesitated. Would some other time do equally well? He was very much occupied. The answer returned was—No; it must be "now." Would Mr. Powis spare just five minutes?

The sermon-sheets were pushed aside, and a young fair woman in deep mourning appeared. She was even more tremulous and agitated then, than a little later at Mrs. Burrell's. He shook hands kindly and handed her to a chair, interested at once in her look, and foreseeing also at once that the five minutes were likely to prove elastic in nature. Mr. Powis could, however, bear an interruption patiently if there were a sufficient cause; and he read cause enough in the troubled face opposite.

Mrs. Mordaunt was the first to break the brief silence. Twice she tried in vain, voice failing her. The third attempt was successful.

"I am a stranger here," she said faintly. "I have no friends in London—no friends in England. My home has always been abroad,—and now it is all changed. I am a widow—and an orphan. I have come to beg your advice."

Mr. Powis signified his readiness to advise, more by gesture than by utterance.

"I must not take up your time—more than I can help," she went on hurriedly, with occasional pauses as if for breath. "But I have no friends,—none,—and I do so need one. And I have heard you preach once,—only once,—and I thought you would help me."

"Take time about it. Don't distress yourself," said Mr. Powis, pushing his papers farther to one side. "There is no need for haste. You are suffering,—ill, I am afraid."

"No, no, not ill. I have only been so cruelly agitated this morning, I cannot get over it. And I have no one to turn to—no one to help me. But you will be a friend—" and she looked up at him imploringly, like a child.

"I will do what I can indeed," he said. "Tell me your difficulty."

"I am encompassed with difficulties. I don't know how to breathe or how to move. And yet I must move, at once. I want to find lodgings in your Parish, if possible, to go into this afternoon. And I thought you would perhaps tell me where to inquire. I want to find a house where my little girl would be cared for, while I am out all day, teaching. That will have to be my work—teaching. Can you help me to find pupils?"

"Wait—one thing at a time," he said slowly. "You want lodgings for yourself and your child." He spoke the last word wonderingly. "I suppose she is quite tiny—poor little one."

"Rhona is close upon nine years old, and in mind is twice that. She has always been my friend and companion. You think me younger than I am!"—for he had uttered an exclamation.

"You look hardly over twenty."

"I am twenty-seven. I was only seventeen when I married. My husband was a clergyman, a chaplain in Italy. Before that I lived in the south of France, with my parents. So England is a strange land to me. I was an only child, and my parents are gone, and six months ago my husband was taken. I have only my little Rhona left, and 'very' little to live upon. So it is needful for me to work."

Mr. Powis made a sound of commiseration, and then thought silently. "Your husband's relatives," he said at length. "Are there none? Or will they do nothing?"

A rush of colour suffused her pale face. "No, no,—I can ask nothing of them. I must work for myself."

"But perhaps if they knew and realised the state of your affairs—"

"No, no," she said feverishly. "I cannot go to them—again. Oh no, it is impossible. If you knew all, you would say the same. They have always disliked me, and we have always been strangers. I must keep out of their way."

"You have not seen any of them since your coming to England?"

"Yes,—I 'have!'" she said with an effort. "I cannot again. That is at an end. It is quite at an end. I stand alone now, and I must stand alone. By-and-by my Rhona will work for me, but now I have to work for her. Will you not help me to find pupils? That is all I ask."

Mr. Powis again studied the question seriously, in his deliberate fashion, playing with a paper-knife.

"I have not told you my name," she said. "It is Mary Mordaunt. I trust you to take no steps whatever without my consent—I mean as regards my husband's relatives. If you hear of any Mordaunts at any time, or come across them, do not reveal where I am. I want only to get a quiet corner for myself and my child, and just enough work to eke out a living. You see I do not expect great things!" And she smiled sadly.

"Do you think you have strength for what you propose?"

"Oh yes, yes!—I am stronger than you would suppose. Only I cannot stand agitation. Since Arthur's death, I have been subject to this tremulousness—a kind of throbbing from head to foot. The least emotion brings it on, and my feelings have been cruelly tried to-day. But I do not mind work—any amount! And I know I have a gift for teaching. When I am peacefully alone with Rhona—away from discords—I shall be perfectly well."

Then Mr. Powis thought of Mrs. Burrell, and he told his visitor all about her.

"Let me know if you decide to go there," he said. "But about the question of teaching—"

"Yes, about that!" she said earnestly.

"I am rather in a difficulty, knowing so little of you." He was touched with her almost girlish simplicity in the matter. "People are usually rather particular in their inquiries."

"But you shall know more—I will tell you anything you wish. I think it will be easy to satisfy you. And there is one kind old friend, a French 'pasteur,' who will confirm all I say, if you care to write to him. My father was in the Indian army till he retired, and we settled down abroad. And my education has been a very thorough one. It used to be thought that I might have to teach one day—before I was engaged, I mean. I could undertake all the plain branches, and music and singing and drawing—only not German. French and Italian are almost the same to me as English."

"And—excuse me—your religious opinions?"

"When I heard you preach, it was just what my husband would have said," she answered, with a luminous gleam in her eyes. "I have always thought the same as Arthur. You can ask me any questions you like—another day."

"When was it that you heard me?" he asked, rising as she rose.

"Three Sundays ago. I have only been in London a few weeks. Some one spoke of you; and Rhona and I wandered off together. It was a very long walk, too long for either of us, and I could not attempt it again. But when I found myself in perplexity and trouble, my first impulse was to come to you."

"You cannot recall the text of the sermon, I suppose?"

Her lips could hardly form the words,—

   "'A Father of the fatherless, and a Judge of the widows, is God in His holy habitation.'"

"Ah, I remember," he said, as two burning tears fell. "Poor thing! But you will not say again, as you did just now, that you have no friend."

"I never say such things to Rhona," she answered brokenly. "I would not for worlds utter a word to disturb my child's faith. Rhona seems to live in an atmosphere quite above all doubts, and she does not know the difference between herself and me. I do believe, but I am at a lower level. I cannot see—cannot realise. Your sermon helped me,—if it would but last. Nothing lasts, except the darkness and the sorrow. Perhaps, if I were to hear you every Sunday, I might feel differently. I must not wait longer now. I have to find the lodgings, and to bring Rhona away quickly from where we are now. Good-bye, and thank you for all your kindness."

"We shall see more of you, Mrs. Mordaunt. You must come and make my wife's acquaintance, for she is tied to her sofa, and cannot go to you," were Mr. Powis' parting words.

MOTHER AND CHILD.

MRS. BURRELL'S apartments, when empty, were kept always in readiness for use at short notice.

Still, a good many minor arrangements had to be made, and the two hours proved by no means too long a time for all that needed to be done. Mrs. Burrell had scarcely finished a final light dusting of the room, when a cab stopped at the side-door, through which lodgers went in and out.

Mrs. Burrell was speedily there, wearing the agreeable manner which she rarely failed to put on towards strangers. It was a pity that she did not oftener wear the same manner in her own little home-circle.

The cab bore upon its roof a goodly amount of luggage. Mrs. Mordaunt entered the house first, with a quiet step and graceful bearing. Every trace of the nervous agitation, visible two hours earlier, had vanished. Close behind her came a delicate small-limbed child bearing a bird-cage swathed in brown paper, and having a face of rare beauty.

Mrs. Burrell involuntarily exclaimed, "My! What a pretty creature!"

And the wonderfully soft dark eyes were lifted to hers, with an expression which seemed to signify grave rebuke.

Mrs. Burrell was for the moment struck dumb. Bertha, standing behind, was absolutely thrilled by the sight of that little fair face, with its peach-bloom tinting and its broad serene brow. Her lonely heart went out with a bound, and clung to the vision of childish loveliness.

"Mother, shall I go upstairs and see our room, while you have the boxes brought in?" were Rhona's first words, uttered in a voice which rivalled Mrs. Mordaunt's for sweetness.

"Yes, certainly, darling. Some one will show you the way."

"Bertha can go," said Mrs. Burrell.

The child gave her a glance, and then went slowly up the first flight, clasping her burden tightly, and declining assistance.

"No, I do everything myself for Fay," she said, in her serious voice. "Is that the room? Mother described the house to me as we came, so I thought I should know. Please open the door, because my hands are full. Oh, what a nice cosy room! And such a bright fire!"

Rhona deposited the cage on a table, and looked round with flushing cheeks. "So nice!" she repeated. "And a bookcase for our books!"

Then she walked to the window, and was silent. A small court-yard lay below, and a high blank wall rose opposite. Rhona sighed twice heavily, as if with a feeling of oppression, and turned away.

"But I like the room itself," she said. "It seems cosy. Mother will be able to rest here. There isn't any noise."

"It is always quiet at the back of the house," said Bertha.

"I am glad of that. Mother does feel the noise so much. Please, will you help me get the brown paper off my cage?"

Bertha obeyed, looking once or twice at the child's fading colour.

Rhona began by helping her, but left off suddenly, and sat down on a chair close to the table, leaning an elbow on it, and resting her broad forehead on one of her little hands, while the dark eyes watched Bertha's movements earnestly.

"Please don't be too quick. Fay is so easily frightened," she said, in a low voice.

"I think you are tired, Miss Rhona," Bertha said.

"Yes,—oh, very," Rhona answered, with another long breath. "This has been such a dreadful day. I can't bear to see mother worried."

Then without changing her position, but with a look of interest, she added,—"Are you the landlady's daughter?"

Bertha shook her head. "Then you must be the niece. Mother said there were two. Have you lived here always? Is the landlady kind to you? Have you any father or mother?"

Bertha made another negative motion. "Mother died last summer, and father years ago, and I have nobody else belonging to me," she said huskily. "I have only been here six months. It isn't home."

Rhona's eyes were full in a moment, not overflowing, but brimming with unshed sympathetic tears. "I am so sorry,—oh, so sorry," she said, putting her hand on Bertha's arm. "My father died too, and that is why we are in such trouble. We used to live with him in Italy, and it was so lovely. But God took father away, and then we had to come to England. He took your mother too, didn't He? I think it must be almost worse for you than for me, because I have darling mother still."

Bertha was strangely comforted by the child's pity. All these past months she had been nursing her grief, struggling on in uncomplaining sorrow, knowing herself to be unwelcome under her aunt's roof, yet having no other home. Mrs. Burrell clearly disliked her, and from Hope she met with little more than indifference. Under a simple sense of duty, Bertha had striven persistently to do her best, but joy and loving-kindness seemed to have faded out of her life. Now, suddenly, a little sunbeam had fallen across her way.

"So mother and I can both feel for you,—oh, so much," continued Rhona, a checked sob rising in her throat. And then, with a look of pain, she put her hand to her brow. "I can't bear to see anybody unhappy; it makes me 'ache,'" she added pitifully. "Poor Bertha! I dare say it was just as bad for you to come away from your home to Mrs. Burrell's, as it was for us to leave dear Italy. I don't mean exactly 'bad.' Mother and I couldn't complain, because God's will is always right. But we were very very sorry, and that is not wrong, for the Lord Jesus was sorry, and He wept. Mother did cry so dreadfully at first, and then I always liked to think about His tears. Because He could understand it all so well. Some people don't seem able to understand at all."

"And you don't like London, Miss Rhona?" asked Bertha.

"No," said Rhona sadly. "Not yet. Perhaps some day I shall, but everything is so different. If only we could have gone on living in Italy, and if mother need not work! Only that isn't God's will; and mother says we must be willing,—we must not want to choose for ourselves. When that feeling comes of wanting Italy so much, it must be temptation. Don't you think so?"

"I don't know," faltered Bertha. Mrs. Burrell might be wanting her all this time, and she knew it; yet she stood as if fascinated, drinking in every word.

"Oh yes, you do. Everything is a temptation that makes us want to have things different from God's will," said the child, with a curious flash of her eyes. "He loves us so much, and He always knows what is best. How can we know? We just have to be patient now. But by-and-by,—oh, won't it be different?"

"By-and-by, when you are grown up, Miss Rhona?"

"Oh, I did not mean that at all. I didn't mean growing up. I meant the great wonderful 'by-and-by,' when mother and I shall see my own father again, and the Lord Jesus will be our King for ever. And we shall be 'with Him' then," added the child, in tones of awe-struck realisation, while her lips were grave, and her eyes shone. "Don't you know? Don't you remember—

   "'Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty'?

"Don't you think very often about that time when you are sad?"

Bertha was positively pale and trembling with undefined feelings.

She said, "No, Miss Rhona, I don't."

Rhona looked earnestly at her before speaking. Then there was a low, "Poor Bertha! It is much worse for you than for us."

Bertha involuntarily asked, "Why?"

"I think I'll tell you another time," said Rhona gently. "I am so tired now, and Fay wants his seed; and they are bringing up the boxes. But I am glad we have come here. I do like you so much."

Mrs. Burrell's voice was audible outside, containing some smothered indignation. "Bertha! What are you after? Just come and help, will you, and be quick."

The child's tired eyes gave a flash of half-comical meaning. "I should think Mrs. Burrell was cross sometimes," she said softly. "But go, you nice Bertha—don't stop."

Fay had to wait longer for his seed. There was a bustle in the room for some minutes, boxes being carried in and placed here or there. When the business was accomplished, they found that Rhona had coiled herself up in the corner of the hard sofa, and was sound asleep. One little hand supported her cheek, and a look of sorrow rested still upon the brow.

Mrs. Burrell had gone downstairs.

And Bertha, lingering to see if anything more were needed, murmured involuntarily—"She's a beautiful child, ma'am."

"Poor little pet!" the young mother said sadly. "It is such a baby-face in sleep, yet she is years beyond her age in mind."

"She doesn't look strong," said Bertha.

"No, she feels everything so acutely. They tell me her brain is far too active. She ought to have fresh country air, and not be allowed to read or think too much. But—" the pause following was expressive.

Before either could speak, Rhona stirred, and—"Oh, poor Bertha!" broke from her.

Mrs. Mordaunt gave one surprised glance at her companion.

Bertha volunteered no explanation.

"I think we will have our tea before I begin to unpack. Just tea and bread and butter, if you please," said Mrs. Mordaunt.

Bertha disappeared.

And Mrs. Mordaunt, with a sudden movement, knelt down beside the couch, her hands locked together. "O Rhona—my little Rhona, my own little darling!" she murmured passionately. "Thank God, I have you still."

For a moment her face was hidden. Then she looked up, to find Rhona's eyes fixed upon her.

"Mother, are you crying? Has anything fresh happened?"

"No, no, darling. I am only a little upset by all we have gone through. It is over now. See what a nice comfortable corner we have found."

"You don't think they will find us out and come here, mother?" asked Rhona anxiously.

"No, indeed, pet. How could they?" asked Mrs. Mordaunt, smiling, and smoothing the child's hair tenderly. "But we have had an exciting day, and I don't wonder that this little head is hot."

"I had such a pain before I went to sleep, and it isn't gone yet," said Rhona wearily. "Bertha was telling me about herself. She has no home and no father or mother, and she doesn't look happy. I do wish nobody had any troubles!" And the child sighed.

ANOTHER LODGER.

"YOU may as well get something to do, Hope, and not sit wasting your time like that," said Mrs. Burrell with some sharpness.

It was the evening of Christmas Day; consequently shops were closed, and business was at a standstill. Mrs. Burrell did not, like many of her neighbours, go in for Christmas festivities. She counted such doings a waste of time and of money. Beyond the presence of her favourite nephew, Neil Burrell, a young Parish schoolmaster, who usually spent his holidays under her roof, there was little to mark the date.

Snow had fallen heavily for some hours, and when evening came, the weather proved to be such that no one could venture out,—not even Hope, under her cousin Neil's guardianship. She was vexed at the deprivation, and sat discontentedly before the fire, while her mother and Bertha plied their needles, and Neil busied himself with a book. He was a quiet intelligent young man, more given to reading than to talking, as a rule.

The drawing-room apartments were empty still. Mrs. Burrell lived in daily expectation of fresh lodgers, and hitherto she had been daily disappointed.

"It is Christmas Day," Hope answered, without turning her head. "I don't see any need to sew on Christmas Day."

"There's no need to waste your time, whatever day it is," rejoined Mrs. Burrell.

Hope gaped listlessly. "I wish something would happen. It is so stupid, spending Christmas just like any other day. Except of course that we shut up, and that Neil is here. But Neil only sits and reads."

Neil good-naturedly laid down his book. "How is the poor lady upstairs getting on, aunt Burrell?" he asked, by way of conversation.

"What makes you call her 'poor'?" Hope inquired.

"Well, I don't know. She can't be very rich to live in only one room,—and she carries trouble in her face."

"I am sure I should be troubled about that child, if I was her," said Mrs. Burrell, adjusting a seam.

Bertha asked,—"Why?"

"Why? It's easy to see she isn't long for this world," said Mrs. Burrell. "I never came across such a child. The way she talks, it isn't natural. It's like an old woman that has had her fill of life,—and she scarcely nine years old! I don't mean to say she is going to die directly. But you mark my words,—she will never grow up."

"People can't tell beforehand," said Neil, noting Bertha's distress.

"She would be a pretty child, if she wasn't so grave," said Hope.

"I think her lovely," murmured Bertha. "It is a little angel's face."

"That's just what I say," Mrs. Burrell remarked conclusively. "She has the look of one who isn't long for this world. You can believe me or not as you like. Just you wait and see. I know!"

The bell at the side-door tingled furiously.

"Who is that, I wonder?" Hope said.

"Bertha can answer it," said Mrs. Burrell. "Hannah is busy upstairs. Be quick, and don't keep people waiting."

"I heard a cab," said Neil.

The others ascribed this to imagination. Yet when Bertha opened the door, letting in a rush of icy air and snow-flakes, there in very truth was a cab, dimly visible. Bertha shivered, but stood her ground. A gentleman descended with deliberation, picked his way across the snowy pavement, and entered.

"You can wait," he said peremptorily to the cabman, and then to Bertha, with equal peremptoriness, "Shut the door."

Bertha obeyed, not without an instant's hesitation. She found herself confronted by an elderly man, muffled up to the eyes in wraps. The said eyes surveyed her sharply, from beneath a pair of overgrown grey eyebrows.

"Mrs. Burrell's?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"I wish to see the lodgings,—vacant now, I am told."

"Yes, sir. I'll call Mrs. Burrell," Bertha answered, in accordance with repeated instructions.

"Stop. How many rooms?"

"Drawing-room and best bedroom," said Bertha.

"Humph! No other?"

"I think a small servant's room could be fitted up. Mrs. Burrell does it sometimes."

"That would do. A box-room, not for a servant. Any other lodgers?"

"Yes, sir; a lady."

"No babies?"

"No, sir, only one little girl."

"Past the crying age?"

Bertha could have smiled. "Yes, quite," she said.

"Doesn't race about or make a racket?"

"No, sir. I never knew a quieter child."

"How old?"

"About nine," said Bertha.

"Too young. Much too young," said the gentleman, with an odd expression. "Well, well, the rooms may do, perhaps."

"I will call Mrs. Burrell, if you please," began Bertha.

"Stop a moment—stop a moment. No such hurry. Parlour faces south, eh?"

"Yes, sir, and the bedroom too."

"Cooking good?" He lowered his voice to a confidential tone. "Be honest and speak out. It's no earthly use my coming if the cooking isn't good. I shouldn't stay a week. Good cooking is an essential with me—absolutely an essential."

"Mrs. Burrell is a first-rate cook," said Bertha.

"Come, that promises well. Does it all herself, hey?"

"No, sir, but she sees to it all, and does a good deal."

"Come, that's fair. Knows how to roast and stew and bake, and all the rest of it? Soup and fish; curries—'ragoûts'—everything of that sort, eh?"

"I think Mrs. Burrell could undertake whatever you are likely to want," said Bertha.

"Good. You look as if you were speaking the truth too."

Mrs. Burrell suddenly appeared on the scene, inwardly wrathful at not having been summoned.

"You can go!" she said in an undertone to Bertha, when some words of explanation had been uttered, and a private glance of displeasure was shot sideways. Then with a genial and smiling air, Mrs. Burrell addressed herself to the task of escorting her visitor upstairs.

"That isn't a bad-looking girl," he remarked.

"She's one of the best girls that ever was," said Mrs. Burrell, with an alacrity which would have amazed Bertha. "Just one of the old-fashioned sort, thorough in her work, and don't mind how much she has to do, and always has a pleasant manner."

"Knows how to wait at table?"

"Yes, sir. Bertha always waits on the drawing-room lodgers."

"Ha! So this is the parlour. Well—it might be worse. Tolerable as to size. You don't call that daub a picture, I hope. Better have bare walls than daubs. Never mind; I have pictures of my own, so it doesn't matter. Bedroom over this, I suppose. The girl said it faced south. One of these windows ought to be a bow. How large is the third room? Big enough to hold lumber? Yes, yes,—I'll see them both directly. May as well tell me your terms first."

Mrs. Burrell obeyed, and found no objections offered.

"I suppose you could have all made ready for me in a couple of days. Hotel life does not suit me, and I want to be settled for a time. No,—on second thoughts I shall not be able to come till next Thursday—if I decide to have your rooms. By-the-bye, you don't have any piano-strumming near?"

"No, sir; not even next-door."

"Neither side? Rare that, in London. And you are not musical yourselves, I hope?"

"No, sir," repeated Mrs. Burrell.

"If I come, I am likely to stay. I don't care for changes."

At this moment, to Mrs. Burrell's horror, the sound of a soft "contralto" came floating across the passage, through the shut door of the back bedroom.

"Mercy! What's that?" exclaimed the gentleman.

But when Mrs. Burrell would have spoken, he held up his hand, authoritatively imposing silence. They stood silent; the gentleman listening and the landlady chafing. Every word was distinct.

"'For ever with the Lord!'
    Amen; so let it be!
  Life from the dead is in that word,
    'Tis immortality.
  Here in the body pent,
    Absent from Him I roam,
  Yet nightly pitch my moving tent
    A day's march nearer Home.
 
 "My Father's House on high,
    Home of my soul! how near
  At times, to faith's foreseeing eye,
    Thy golden gates appear!
  Ah! Then my spirit faints
    To reach the land I love,
  The bright inheritance of Saints,
    Jerusalem above."

Mrs. Burrell fidgeted, but fidgeted in vain. Her possible lodger stirred not a finger.

There came at length a slight cough.

And then a child's voice said,—"Don't sing any more, mother darling."

The mother replying,—"Perhaps I had better wait a few minutes, Rhona. This London air seems to make me husky."

"Montgomery!" muttered the gentleman.

Mrs. Burrell stared, and after a moment's hesitation, her perplexity found vent in,—"Beg pardon, sir?"

"Montgomery! Wrote it, of course," said the gentleman impatiently. "Your walls appear to be uncommonly thin."

"I don't think they are, sir. And that is the first time I have heard the lady's voice, though she has been here more than a month. And she has not any piano."

"So much the worse," the gentleman made answer unexpectedly.

Mrs. Burrell stared afresh and was mute, while conducting him upstairs. He surveyed the two remaining rooms almost without a remark, went back to the drawing-room, and stood there absently, drumming on the table with the fingers of one hand.

"Very well. Next Thursday," he said, waking up suddenly.

"You decide to take the rooms, sir?" asked Mrs. Burrell.

"Of course. Did I not tell you so just now?"

Mrs. Burrell wisely refrained from answering in the negative.

He pulled out a piece of paper, wrote something, and handed it to her.

"My name and present address. I shall send some of my luggage on the morning of Thursday, and come myself after luncheon. Mind you have the rooms well aired,—and fires laid, but not lighted till I arrive. Dinner at eight o'clock. I will send you word what to get for me. And—by-the-by, you need not say a word to Mrs. Mordaunt about her singing. That is not strumming, you know."

"No, sir," assented Mrs. Burrell.

"Good evening. Ahem! Did you say—?" And he paused again, with a rather curious expression. "Has she a husband living? Does he happen to be musical too?"

"Mrs. Mordaunt is a widow, sir."

"All right. Good evening."

Mrs. Burrell looked at the paper in her hand, read aloud,—"Colonel Smyth," and returned to the back-parlour.

"What made you stand all that time talking to the gentleman?" she demanded of Bertha. "Gossiping about Mrs. Mordaunt! As if she was any concern of his."

"I didn't!" Bertha answered in surprise. "He was asking about the rooms, and he would not let me call you sooner."

"You mean to tell me you were not speaking of Mrs. Mordaunt?"

"I told him there was a lady in the house, and a little girl, and I said she was not noisy. That was all," Bertha replied. "He asked questions, and I had to answer."

"He didn't ask her name, I'll be bound," said Mrs. Burrell.

"No, and I did not tell it him," said Bertha.

Mrs. Burrell turned upon her sharply. "Well, I did think you ware a truthful girl, anyway."

Bertha's pale face flushed. "I am speaking the truth, indeed I am," she said. "I did not know it mattered much either way, but I am sure I did not say Mrs. Mordaunt's name—quite sure."

"It doesn't matter, except that I hate gossip," said Mrs. Burrell. "And I hate to have a thing denied when it's been done. Why, the gentleman had her name as pat as could be."

"Bertha wouldn't deny what she knew she had done," said Neil persuasively. "The gentleman may be an old acquaintance of Mrs. Mordaunt."

"I don't think he can be," said Bertha. "He did not even know whether we had any other lodgers in the house."

"Well then, either you or aunt must have let slip the name, without thinking," said the young man.

"Not I!" retorted Mrs. Burrell. "Gossip isn't in 'my' line. And I don't mean it to be in Bertha's either. So you mind!"

COLONEL SMYTH'S ARRANGEMENTS.

THURSDAY came, and a supply of heavy luggage arrived, followed later by Colonel Smyth himself.

Divested of outdoor wraps, he showed as an elderly man, disposed to stoutness, yet of upright and military carriage. He had closely cropped hair, iron-grey in hue, and there was a certain fierceness about the outline of his grizzled moustache, calculated to intimidate the womankind. Moreover, his glance was severe, his manner was curt, his voice was peremptory, and he appeared to be altogether of a particular and impatient disposition.

Mrs. Burrell, Hope and Bertha, not to speak of Hannah Hoskyns, were hard at work for hours, attending to the Colonel's requirements. Happily for them, shop-business was slack that afternoon; yet somebody had to remain always within call. Moreover, preparations for the Colonel's late dinner took considerable time.

Even Neil was pressed into the service of the military man. That which had to be done, whether in the way of moving boxes, hanging pictures, or aught else, was done at once; for the Colonel would on no account consent to defer operations till the morrow.

"Sharp was the word," as Mrs. Burrell privately declared, in much dudgeon. And if anybody failed at a glance to see and carry out the Colonel's will, very sharp was the blame. "I'm sure, if I had known what he was going to be like—! I don't know what in the world we shall do, if he keeps on much longer. It's enough to drive us all frantic."

At length, the rooms were arranged; furniture was placed as the Colonel desired, "daubs" had given place to artistic views, lumber had found its way to the lumber-room, and countless fidgets had received attention. Books remained to be unpacked, but Colonel Smyth would trust no hands save his own about his beloved books. This point reached, he subsided for a while, and the ordinary work of the house might receive attention.

"Talk of trouble," Mrs. Burrell groaned. "That man gives ten times as much trouble in an hour as Mrs. Mordaunt does in a week."

"Men always do," Hope averred, out of her limited experience.

In truth, the occupants of the back bedroom had given little enough of trouble that afternoon. The young widow had spent the greater part of her morning in a long walk, the object of which was a possibility of regular employment as daily governess in a private family. But the hope had proved delusive.

Two hours of teaching every morning, with twenty pounds yearly by way of remuneration, seemed something worth grasping, in addition to her most slender income. Mr. Powis was actively interesting himself among his friends on Mrs. Mordaunt's behalf, and he had succeeded in finding two music-pupils, each for one hour weekly, at very low terms. It was something to make a beginning, he said, and Mrs. Mordaunt acquiesced. But as weeks passed with no further advance, difficulties loomed increasingly, and patience was sorely taxed.

Mrs. Mordaunt was not only a highly-cultivated but a highly-accomplished woman, thoroughly well fitted for the work of teaching. Yet this availed her little in London, without friends or recommendations. Mr. Powis spoke for her warmly, but Mr. Powis was only a recent acquaintance, and he had a character for being sanguine.

Since their simple early dinner, the mother and child had spent an undisturbed "tête-à-tête" afternoon. Mrs. Mordaunt was busied with some fine needlework. And Rhona sat close beside her, threading needles, and chatting often as if with a wish to wile away the long hours, but her fair brow looked grave with a reflection of her mother's evident sadness. This morning's disappointment had fallen upon them heavily.

Increasing darkness presently made needlework an impossibility. Lights were due; but though busy feet went to and fro in the house, no one entered. Mrs. Mordaunt laid carefully aside the delicate white cambric over which she had been employed, glad to take a few minutes' rest, for the morning's excursion had left her unnerved and wearied.

As the passing minutes grew into a full half-hour, she rang the bell, once and twice in vain. A third effort brought Hope, dusty and flurried, to ask what was needed.

"Candles, if you please, and I shall be glad of tea early," Mrs. Mordaunt said in her gentle way, contrasting not a little with the Colonel's dictatorial air.

But whether or no Hope marked the contrast, she was speedily distracted by fresh demands on the part of the Colonel, and forgot all about Mrs. Mordaunt's needs, while Bertha was not permitted an instant's freedom. Mother and daughter had to sit idly in the fire-light, and tea bade fair to be unusually late instead of unusually early.

"Mother, I think they ought to attend to us," said Rhona soberly. "I don't mind your having to rest a little longer, but I do want you to have a cup of tea."

"Everybody seems to be busy about the new lodger," said Mrs. Mordaunt.

"Yes,—he's a Colonel," remarked Rhona. "Colonel Smyth, Bertha says. I wonder if we shall know him."

"Not likely," Mrs. Mordaunt said, her lips hardly forming the words.

"Mother, you are so tired. Couldn't we ring again?" asked the child anxiously.

"Better not yet. We must have a little patience, darling."

"Then put your head down on the sofa-pillow,—so—sweet mother," Rhona said lovingly, as she twined a slender arm in one of Mrs. Mordaunt's, and bent over her, with wistful eyes. "Is that nice? Was it a very very long way this morning?"

"Yes, rather. But I don't mind the actual distance so much, Rhona. It is these noisy crowded streets which try me,—and the terribly unprotected feeling. I cannot shake off the nervousness of that, or of having to speak to strangers about myself. Sometimes I feel quite ill with the effort,—yet I ought to be able to do what other people do. I am afraid you have a poor weak silly mother, darling." She did not often betray her feelings thus to her child, for she had a dread of agitating Rhona. But occasionally a passing impulse proved too strong for her usual principle of action.

Rhona's pained voice in answer immediately opened her eyes to the mistake.

"O mother! Don't say such things. Please don't,—it makes me so unhappy, You 'know' I understand. Father always took such care of you, and you never had to do anything alone till—till—" the poor child could hardly speak, for struggling sobs. "O mother! I do wish I were old enough to take care of you. Couldn't you let me walk with you another time? I should like it so much; indeed I should. And I could wait outside the house for you, I shouldn't mind how long. O mother! Do let me, and then you won't feel quite so lonely perhaps."

"My pet, you 'do' make me ashamed of myself," Mrs. Mordaunt said, sitting up, and taking into her arms the little slight figure, quivering with distress. "Hush, darling,—don't cry, or you will make yourself ill, and that always gives me such a heart-ache. I will not call myself silly again, if it grieves you. But you know, I have to conquer these feelings of nervousness and weakness, darling Rhona. If I did not, I should be wrong, and foolish too. I 'have' to stand alone; and if it is God's will for me, He can give me strength. If dear father were here, he would wish me to do God's will bravely. So now you are not going to be unhappy any more. Let me see you smile!"

The smile came, but it was dim in kind. Tears flowed in one sense readily with Rhona, if her feelings were stirred or hurt for others. But in another sense, they did not flow easily. Unlike most children, she could not weep without positive physical pain and after exhaustion. For some minutes, neither spoke; and Rhona's head lay silently on her mother's shoulder.

"They seem quite to have forgotten us," Mrs. Mordaunt said at length, speaking cheerfully. "We shall be glad of our tea when it comes, shall we not?"

"Yes,—very," Rhona said, sighing. "Mother, isn't it funny how much harder it seems to be patient about little things than big things? I wonder why. I think I feel generally pretty patient about our great troubles,—leaving the dear Italy home and all that. But I 'do' get vexed when you want your tea so much, and they won't bring it. I get vexed if things are uncomfortable, and there is no real reason."

"There is always a reason," said Mrs. Mordaunt.

"Oh yes,—the people of the house are busy. But that isn't a good reason. They ought to remember us."

"But perhaps the good reason lies behind," said Mrs. Mordaunt, softly laying her hand on Rhona's. "When a great trouble touches us, we know it comes from God, and we lean on Him, and He comforts us. But when there are little worries, we think they only come from man, and we forget that the least things may be part of our discipline, and so we are easily upset and vexed."

"Such a little thing as tea being late,—is that a part?" asked Rhona slowly. "Mother, in our last lodging, when the woman was so careless, and cooked everything badly, I used to see how patient you were. Was that why?"

"That was why I tried to be patient, darling, though indeed I was not always. But I am sure that not even a pin's prick of worry can reach one of His children, without His permission. And if so, it follows that the little pin-prick is from Him, as much as the greatest sorrow,—and then it must follow that we have to accept all patiently."

Rhona folded her hands.

"I didn't see that before," she said quietly. "Then it is not wrong of them to keep us waiting, if they are just doing God's will."

"Ah, that is another part of the question," said Mrs. Mordaunt, almost smiling. "Neglect of duty is wrong in any case. It may be God's will that you and I should have our patience tried, but certainly it is not His will that anybody should be careless or forgetful. There is the same difficulty—if it is a difficulty—in great troubles, Rhona. Sorrow may come through another person's wrong-doing, and yet may come to us straight from God, though the wrong-doing could not possibly be as He wills. For instance,—suppose a thief came and stole everything we have here. He would not be doing God's will,—and yet the trial of losing our things would be sent straight to us from God."

"Oh yes,—I see," Rhona said. "I shan't mind little worries so much, if I think about them like that. Only I do wish the tea would come. Oh, here is Bertha at last."

NO FRIENDS TO THE FORE.

LESS than half-an-hour later, Bertha reappeared.

"If you please, ma'am, could Mr. Powis have a word with you?" she asked.

"Certainly. Show him in. And, Bertha, you can take away the tray."

Mrs. Mordaunt flushed slightly, as she heard the clergyman's approaching step. Her hand made a quick movement, as if to thrust out of sight the delicate needlework upon which she was employed. She checked the impulse, however, and continued sewing until he entered. What need to be ashamed?

"I have apologised before now for receiving you here—continental fashion," she said, rising. "You know it to be my only reception-room."

Mr. Powis deprecated any apology on her part. He was at first in one of his constrained moods, saying that he could not possibly stay, yet taking a chair, and seeming then at a loss for remarks. Mrs. Mordaunt saw his eyes travel questioningly round the room, dimly lighted with one candle, and she drew his attention to the sofa, where Rhona had curled herself up in her favourite corner, and had fallen asleep. He said "Ah!" softly, and drew his chair nearer.

Mrs. Mordaunt broke out suddenly—"London air does not suit her."

"No," he answered in a tone of consideration. "The child looks frail."

"She is just that—not ill, but frail. Sometimes I think I shall have to go away—to take her into the country. But—where?"

"You have no friends in the country?"

"None. And none in London either, for the matter of that, except you."

"My wife wishes to be your friend too, Mrs. Mordaunt. Will you not let her? She cannot come to you."

"I ought to have been to call, I know. It is neglectful. Forgive me. I seem to have no heart for anything."

Mr. Powis turned towards her with a look of interest. "Still so much depression," he said kindly, emerging from his fit of bashfulness.

"It is not mere depression. It is deadness," she said, in a low voice, with clasped hands, her eyes resting on Rhona's face. "I seem to see nothing, to feel nothing, to know nothing, except that Arthur is gone. It is a kind of spiritual paralysis. I have only power of feeling in connection with Rhona. Everything else is dull and dead."

"I think not entirely," he said.

"Yes,—entirely. You would hardly imagine how far it goes. My spiritual senses are in a state of blank. I cannot describe it. I can talk to Rhona—read the Bible with her, and speak of Christ. I know it all, and I find myself speaking as if I felt it all. But there is no feeling. When her dear little face lights up, there is no real response in my heart. And yet I cannot let her know how things are with me—I dare not. She suffers so intensely if she sees me grieved."

"There is no need," said Mr. Powis. "If Christ the Physician is acquainted with your state, you are not compelled—believe me, you are not compelled—to tell your symptoms to everybody around."

"But it seems almost hypocrisy to talk without feeling."

"I think not, I think not in your case. Numbness is not death. Sometimes we may be fully assured of a truth without the present power to feel. A severe blow may result in want of sensation. I think you have been stunned."

"Yes,—paralysed," she said in a low voice.

"Christ Jesus cured paralytics," said Mr. Powis.

Mrs. Mordaunt's eyes shone. "Thank you," she murmured.

"No lack of real feeling there, poor thing," the clergyman thought, but he did not say so.

Rhona suddenly opened her eyes, and after one bewildered glance, she sprang up to greet her kind friend, and was speedily seated on his knee.

"I must not wait," he said a minute or two later. "Mrs. Powis has two or three friends to tea, and she expects me back early. But—the fact is, Mrs. Mordaunt,—I came to see,—to inquire—to find out if anything had resulted from that lady,—from the hope of teaching, I mean." He was suddenly embarrassed and hesitating again. "That which you were to ask about this morning."

"It has fallen through," said Mrs. Mordaunt. "Rhona and I are sadly disappointed. Mrs. Hayes had just decided to have a resident governess."

"Disappointed,—yes, no doubt," Mr. Powis said, a slow smile creeping over his face. "But sometimes,—yes, sometimes, disappointment turns out to be in the end the best, the very best for us."

"I am sure of that," Mrs. Mordaunt could reply.

"Mother said she shouldn't wonder if something else quite as nice was waiting for her somewhere," remarked Rhona.

"It often is so,—often, with those who trust a Father's care," said Mr. Powis. "Will you, if you please, Mrs. Mordaunt,—will you kindly read this note? I am very glad you have had the little disappointment to-day."

Mrs. Mordaunt read of a lady, with three children, desiring to find a daily governess, who should teach for four hours every morning, remain to early dinner, walk with the children for an hour and a half every afternoon except Saturday, and receive the sum of fifty pounds per annum. "I should imagine from your description that Mrs. Mordaunt would exactly suit me," the lady wrote. "I have no one else in view. Would you kindly arrange for an early interview between her and me? I am anxious to have the matter settled, that lessons may begin again next week. I object to long holidays for the children."

"O mother! Isn't it beautiful?" Rhona exclaimed. "If the lady this morning had settled to have you, we couldn't have seen about this."

"No. In that case I should not have mentioned Mrs. Howard," said Mr. Powis.

It seemed to Mrs. Burrell a very odd, not to say uncomfortable coincidence, that neither of her two lodgers—the young widow and the elderly Colonel,—rejoiced in relatives or friends.

Mrs. Mordaunt made no secret of the fact in her own case. She told Mrs. Burrell frankly that her girlish home had been in France, that her married life had been spent in Italy; that consequently, she had had no opportunity of cultivating acquaintances in England. That having been herself an only child with parents now dead, both of whom were also only children, she possessed no living relatives of her own; and that as for her husband's relatives—

"There were some," she said hesitatingly, with a faint blush,—"but the terms on which they would wish to hold intercourse were such as she could not possibly consent to." With a sad smile she added,—"So you see, Mrs. Burrell, you will not be much troubled with callers while I am here. My only friend in London is Mr. Powis."

It was hardly wise to say so much, but being young and lonely, the temptation to seek a little sympathy was urgent. Mrs. Burrell rather objected to the state of affairs thus revealed, yet felt flattered by the confidence reposed in her.

"Dear me, ma'am, how melancholy!" she said more than once; and to do her justice, she sincerely pitied Mrs. Mordaunt. "For it's a forlorn position, there's no denying," she remarked afterwards to her daughter,—"and that young thing wants a protector. It's my belief she isn't long for this world; and whatever is to become of the child when she is taken, nobody knows. Why, there would be nothing but the workhouse. To be sure, she might be got into some sort of orphanage. But that kind of thing calls for a deal of interest and expense. I dare say Mr. Powis would do all he could, and that wouldn't be much; for everybody knows Mr. Powis hasn't got enough for his own children, let alone a stranger's."

Naturally the Colonel was less communicative towards his landlady than Mrs. Mordaunt. Yet, strange to say, he seemed to be in much the same condition with respect to relatives and friends.

Weeks went by, and nobody came to see him. Apparently too, he corresponded with nobody. Certainly not a letter had been brought to the house addressed to "Colonel Smyth" since his arrival.

He seemed content in his solitude. Every morning, after a hearty breakfast, he sallied forth, and did not return until luncheon-time. Every afternoon, he shut himself up, and either read or wrote or slept till about five, when he took another ramble, returning in time for dinner. Dinner was a serious matter in Mrs. Burrell's estimation; for though the Colonel usually contrived to make a very good meal, and sometimes condescended to allow that his landlady did "pretty well" in the culinary line, yet he rarely failed to indulge in complaints as to each separate item of food, no small trial to the temper of a good cook.

He paid his bills regularly, and that spoke in his favour. Still there was about him a slight flavour of mystery, aggravating to a landlady's feelings. There was no knowing who were his friends, or what were his occupations. He read much, and wrote a little, but all his books were locked up in the two glass bookcases, and all his papers were locked up in desks and drawers. The Colonel's keys were never visible, and nothing was ever left accidentally open. Mrs. Burrell would have prided herself in taking never a peep, if a peep had been in her power, but she objected to its not being in her power. She did not like "being distrusted."

The Colonel, however, caring little for her likes or dislikes, went on in his own fashion.

Mrs. Mordaunt was, soon after Christmas, started in her new vocation of daily governess. She found another acquaintance in the children's mother, but it was an acquaintance only, not a friend. Mrs. Howard rarely appeared in the school-room; and when she did appear, although kind, she was stately.

The young widow proved to be not only an accomplished but a most painstaking teacher; and the children soon repaid her trouble with warm affection. Mrs. Howard was fully satisfied, and that was all. She gave no thought to the home-life or possible home-cares of the gentle instructress.

Mrs. Mordaunt woke vividly to the change in her own position, shrank into a shell of reserve, and sensitively declined any further acquaintances offered by Mr. Powis, deferring still her long-talked-of visit to the clergyman's invalid wife. She pleaded her occupations and her lack of a sitting-room, and begged that no one might be asked to call, forgetting that for Rhona's sake, she ought to have been willing to put aside her own feelings in the matter.

THE COLONEL AND HIS LANDLADY.

THE Colonel and Mrs. Mordaunt had never yet seen one another. Neither of the two evinced any particular curiosity as to his or her fellow-lodger. Still it was singular that weeks should pass without an accidental encounter on the stairs or in the street.

Once, the doors of their respective apartments opened at the same instant. But before Mrs. Mordaunt could catch a glimpse of the Colonel, he had beaten a sharp retreat.

"What a funny man he must be, mother!" little Rhona said, laughing. "He seems to be quite afraid of you."

She had met him herself twice, and Colonel Smyth had looked steadily, with evident interest, at the child's fair face, but not a word had been exchanged.

Rhona's life at this time was a lonely one. From nine o'clock every morning until about half-past four in the afternoon, she had to employ herself as best she might in her mother's absence. There was nothing to be seen from the window, and her books were not many in number. Every day she had some simple lessons to prepare, set her by Mrs. Mordaunt the evening before; and when these were done, she read and re-read Rollin's "Ancient History," Mackintosh's "History of England," and a few more volumes of a like nature. Now and then Mr. Powis brought her a story-book for perusal, and had he understood what a boon he was conferring, he would have done so oftener.

The little delicate plant soon showed signs of drooping, under lack of fresh air and sunshine. Not so much to the mother's eyes, for Mrs. Mordaunt's return was always the signal for flushing cheeks and eager talk. But Bertha knew, as no one else did, how often the child sat listlessly, curled up in her sofa corner, too languid to employ herself, spending hour after hour in wistful dreams of the dear Italian home or tired longings for her mother.

Mrs. Mordaunt often took her for a little stroll in the afternoon, when her own day's work was done, little equal as she might be to this extra exertion. And sometimes Mrs. Powis' nurse, with half-a-dozen small children, called to escort her in a longer ramble. But London streets wearied rather than refreshed Rhona. And the afternoon stroll grew quietly shorter week by week, suiting the lessened powers of mother and child.

For Mrs. Mordaunt had never been strong, and her strength was now severely taxed. The walk to and fro, between Mrs. Burrell's and Mrs. Howard's, was far too long when supplemented by a considerable ramble with her pupils, and often by a little turn with Rhona. Also, she had the stress of four hours' teaching, and another hour at night with Rhona, not to speak of the continual weight at her heart whenever she was absent from her child. Rhona never complained, but Mrs. Mordaunt realised only too well the long and lonely days which had to be passed through. Moreover, the having to venture out in all weathers, after almost a lifetime in sunny southern climes, and yet more the continual struggle with her own nervous and shrinking timidity—a timidity natural to her, and fostered by a hitherto guarded and sheltered existence,—these things told heavily upon her. But she hardly knew how much her health was suffering. She was only bent upon keeping on.

Sometimes it occurred to her that the distance between her lodgings and her work was too great, and that she might be wise to search for a room nearer to Mrs. Howard's. Yet for Rhona's sake, she dreaded the thought of a move. During her long daily absences, the remembrance of Bertha was an unspeakable comfort. Mrs. Burrell was, in a general way, kindly disposed towards the child, but Bertha would have done anything for her. Busy as Mrs. Burrell kept her niece, Bertha rarely allowed an hour to pass, without glancing in, if but for one moment, to see if the child were happy. Besides, Mrs. Mordaunt was earnestly desirous to remain in Mr. Powis' parish. She felt that if anything happened to herself, he would be a friend to Rhona.

One foggy evening, the Colonel caught a cold, which after some days of neglect proved rather severe. He spent a whole morning over a blazing fire. Then masculine patience failed, and he sallied forth, in despite of rain. Naturally, the cold was worse next day. And Mrs. Burrell, being summoned by his express wish, found him doing the sick man in deplorable wise, rolled up in a big shawl, and coughing incessantly. Mrs. Burrell, accustomed to take a shady view of matters, thought him very bad, and told him so; whereat the Colonel's face grew longer, and his voice grew thicker.

"There's a very bad sort of throat going about," Mrs. Burrell said, by way of further encouragement. "Wouldn't you like to see a doctor, sir? We've got one living close by, quite handy."

Colonel Smyth growled a protest. "Only one doctor in the world whose opinion I value a rap."

"Well, sir, couldn't we get him?" asked Mrs. Burrell.

"No!" the Colonel said indignantly, forgetting at once his hoarseness and his reserve. "I wouldn't have him know I am in London,—on any account."

Then, seeing by his landlady's face that he had committed himself to something,—he did not exactly know what,—Colonel Smyth added, with a return of hoarseness,—"That is to say, I should not mind his knowing. But it might go farther."

"To be sure, sir," Mrs. Burrell said, as if she understood, which certainly she did not. "And you wouldn't like a word sent to any friend or relation neither,—some one, I mean, sir, that might come and help you get agreeably through a few days of illness, if it was to turn out to be anything."

The fish rose to the bait, but in such wise that Mrs. Burrell rather repented throwing her line. "Thanks, Mrs. Burrell!" the Colonel said sharply, in a voice of remarkable clearness. "You seem to take a great interest in my private affairs. I am much obliged to you for your solicitude. For the future, however, I recommend you to attend to your own concerns rather than mine. You may as well understand once for all that I have no friends and no relatives—"

"Dear me, sir, how melancholy!" Mrs. Burrell said to him, as she had once said to Mrs. Mordaunt, gratified curiosity predominating over annoyance.

"Will you be so good as to hear me out, instead of cutting me short?" demanded the Colonel. "I was about to say simply that I have no friends or relatives, whom it would give me at this moment any special pleasure to see, except—but it does not matter. If I choose to enjoy a few weeks or months in quiet, that is my own concern. I do not pretend to have no relations in the world—plenty of them, no doubt, to come and bicker over my goods when I am dead. But I have not the least intention of dying yet, so you really need not trouble yourself."

"I am sure, sir, I hadn't any idea of giving offence," Mrs. Burrell said, half-irate, half-apologetic. "But you see, sir, you 'do' look bad; and I thought—if it was to chance to be one of them throats—"

The Colonel coughed obediently to the suggestion, but repeated, "I am not going to die yet, Mrs. Burrell."

"No, sir, to be sure," assented Mrs. Burrell; "though I suppose, as one may say, nobody knows beforehand when his time is. And there was Mr. Green, in the next street, carried off by a throat, only ten days ago."

"Who is Mrs. Mordaunt's doctor?" asked the Colonel unexpectedly.

"She don't have one, sir, though to my thinking there's need. If anybody ever did look like a downright ghost, it's Mrs. Mordaunt when she comes back of an evening. And then there's the child."

"Where does Mrs. Mordaunt come back from?"

"She goes out teaching, sir," Mrs. Burrell answered, though convinced that what she said came as no news to the Colonel. "Every day except Sunday. And that child left alone from half-past nine—or I'm not sure it isn't nine—of a morning, till near five. It isn't Mrs. Mordaunt's fault."

"Every day from half-past nine till nearly five," repeated the Colonel.

"That's about it," said Mrs. Burrell, "and Saturdays no better; for if she's back sooner from Mrs. Howard's, she goes out again to give music lessons. It's my belief she's just killing herself. And the child sits there alone, hour after hour, as patient as a lamb,—never a tear nor a grumble. I get her down into our little parlour once in a way, but Mrs. Mordaunt seems to have a dread of the child making acquaintances. And Miss Rhona is always content. It isn't natural. I doubt she's too good for this world."

"Stuff and nonsense, my good woman," said the Colonel testily. "There is no such thing as being too good for this world. Bad people die quite as often as good ones."

Mrs. Burrell could not dispute the assertion, though of course she held fast to her own opinion. To do her justice, she was not yielding to a mere spirit of gossip, but was moved by an honest desire to interest the Colonel in Rhona, for the child's benefit. Being somewhat offended, however, at the term "good woman" as applied to herself, in what she counted a slighting manner, she showed signs of beating a retreat.

"Stop a moment. What is the matter with the child?"

"I don't know as there's anything particular, sir, only she looks pale, and don't seem to have any spirit. And she talks,—to hear her talk, it's like a dying person."

"Humph! Stuffed full of religious notions, I'll warrant," muttered the Colonel. "Children are regular little parrots."

"Yes, sir. But it isn't a parrot-like sort of way that Miss Rhona has. She's a child of wonderful feeling, and understands for all the world like a grown person."

The Colonel sat plunged in thought, his brows drawn together. Mrs. Burrell hesitated two or three seconds, then withdrew, shutting the door behind her.

That recalled Colonel Smyth to the present position of affairs, and he went back to the consideration of his cough. He did not, however, cease to consider Rhona also.

No immediate results followed upon the conversation. But in a few days, when his cough had vanished and he was abroad again, he began to institute a system of nods and smiles, exchanged between himself and Rhona, when they chanced to meet, which was not often.

Rhona learnt to look out for these occasional glimpses of the Colonel, as a pleasant excitement in her life.

No words were as yet spoken. And still, it never came to pass that the Colonel and Mrs. Mordaunt had an encounter.

A BUNCH OF GRAPES.

"MOTHER," Rhona said wistfully one morning; "I wish you had not to go to Mrs. Howard's."

Mrs. Mordaunt was vaguely conscious of the same wish. She had been very weary for many days past, and this day an indescribable weight of dizziness and confusion oppressed her. Breakfast had been a mere make-believe. Rhona's eyes watched her mother wistfully. She did not know what was wrong, but she could plainly see that all was not right.

"Mother, I do so wish you hadn't to go," she repeated.

"I must," Mrs. Mordaunt said, stooping to kiss the child.

"But you are not well. I know you aren't. Wouldn't Mrs. Howard let you off for just one day? Do you think she would mind? It is so cold and foggy. Look how thick the air is,—all yellow."

"Yes; I must not mind that. I am really getting used to the London atmosphere," said Mrs. Mordaunt, trying to speak cheerfully.

"We never had fogs in Italy, mother."

Mrs. Mordaunt put her hands to her brow with a sudden movement. "O Rhona! Don't talk to me of Italy just now. I can't stand it. Don't make me look back."

Rhona stood in silence, watching her mother's preparations. They were not so expeditious as usual. Twice she stopped, with a bewildered expression, as if unable to remember what had to be done next; and she would have forgotten her cloak altogether, if Rhona had not brought it. Mrs. Mordaunt was not naturally forgetful, and Rhona had a sense of something unusual.

A good-bye kiss was as always exchanged, and Mrs. Mordaunt moved away. At the door she paused, and came back.

"My darling," she said, bending over Rhona,—"did I speak crossly just now? I did not mean it, Rhona."

"O mother! No,—as if you 'could' be cross!" said Rhona eagerly, pulling Mrs. Mordaunt down upon the sofa, and clinging to her. "You are never never cross for one moment, darling mother; only you are so tired to-day."

"Yes,—I am tired," said Mrs. Mordaunt dreamily. "I think this fog oppresses me, for I feel as if I hardly knew what I am doing this morning. It must be a kind of stupid headache, I suppose. Perhaps having to attend to lessons will rouse me. I could not rest all night, and that is so wearying."

She laid her head down on the arm of the sofa, closed her eyes, and remained still.

Rhona watched her wonderingly.

"Mother, you look as if you were going to sleep," she said at length.

Mrs. Mordaunt sprang to her feet, with an incoherent exclamation, and a white scared look.

"O Rhona! You startled me so!" she said hurriedly. And then, with an attempt at a smile, "I—I think I forgot where I was. How stupid of me! I must have been almost asleep for a minute. My head feels so strange. But I must start at once, and walk fast."

"Couldn't we ask Mrs. Burrell to send word that you are not fit to go to-day?" pleaded Rhona, distressed at her mother's manner. "I am sure Mrs. Howard wouldn't mind. You do look so very pale."

"No, no, my pet, it will never do to let Mrs. Howard think me an invalid. I was only startled for a moment, and the strange feeling seems going off. Perhaps walking will do me good. If this fog lasts, the children will not be allowed to go out, and I shall get home early. That is one good thing about bad weather. Good-bye, my darling."

"Good-bye, 'sweet' mother," Rhona said passionately.

She stood, smiling, while her mother went out, and watched her over the balusters. But when the front door was opened and shut, a change came over the child's face. She went back heavily into the room, her little hands clasped, and large tears filling the dark eyes. Rhona would not give way willingly, and she took out her lesson books without delay. But the French translation made slow advance, and more than one bright drop splashed down into the fresh writing, making a smudge upon the page.

A tap at the door caused her to look up.

"Come in," she said, expecting Bertha.

Instead of Bertha, a sunburnt hand appeared, bearing a bunch of grapes; the hand being followed by some grizzly moustaches.

"Who is it?" Rhona asked, rather alarmed. Then in a changed tone, "Oh, I am so glad. Please come in."

"All alone?" asked Colonel Smyth, gratified at the manner of his reception.

"Quite," said Rhona. "Mother is always away all the morning, and most of the afternoon. Won't you sit down, please?"

Colonel Smyth disregarded the request, and stood looking fixedly at the child.

"Lessons a trouble?" he inquired.

"No," faltered Rhona.

"Something is, that's plain. Dear me, look here—why, it's a downright blot. Mother will be angry, I expect?"

"Mother is never angry—never," said Rhona. Then with a sudden movement she turned away, and her little hands went over her eyes.

"Come, come; that will never do!" said the Colonel decisively.

And before Rhona knew what was coming, she found herself seated on his knee, with his arm round her, and her head on his shoulder.

For two or three minutes not a word was spoken. Rhona gave one long sobbing breath, and then remained motionless,—greatly comforted.

"Better now?" asked the Colonel presently. "What is it all about?"

"Mother!" Rhona evidently thought no more explanation was needed.

"Ah!" the Colonel said, as if he understood. "But I would not cry about it if I were you. Crying does nobody any good. Do you like grapes?"

He held up the luscious bunch. Rhona allowed herself to be raised to a sitting position. "Yes,—thank you," she said wistfully. "We used to have them in Italy, but we don't now."

"Well, we will leave them here, and you can dispose of them at your leisure," said the Colonel, rising. "Come and take a peep at my room first."

Rhona followed at once, much interested. He took her round step by step, pointing out pictures, showing Indian curiosities, opening drawers full of tropical shells, bits of coral, or impaled insects. Rhona said little, but her eyes grew large and shining with eagerness, and the wan look passed from her face. The Colonel's attention seemed drawn to her irresistibly.

"Better now, my dear?" he asked a second time, as she stood gazing into a pink-lined shell from some Eastern strand.

"Oh yes, thank you," Rhona answered gratefully.

"Look here," said the Colonel abruptly, laying his and on the top of her head,—"I've a notion you read and think too much. Little girls of your age have only to laugh and skip."

It was not a childlike look that she gave him, with her soft serious eyes. "But I am mother's only friend now," she said. "So I 'must' think."

"What made you come away from Italy?" asked Colonel Smyth.

"Mother had not enough to live on there," said Rhona. She was usually as discreet and reserved as any grown person, but the Colonel had charmed her into confidingness. "We didn't know what else to do; and mother thought the aunts would help us, perhaps."

"The aunts," repeated Colonel Smyth.

"The three aunts in London," said Rhona. "Mother has nobody belonging to her except me, but they are my father's aunts." She spoke in a curious staid manner.

"Three Miss Mordaunts, eh?"

"Yes," Rhona answered. "But I don't like the aunts. One was just a little kind, and the others were so cross. They wanted to take me away from mother, and make me live with them. As if I 'could!'"

"Of course you couldn't," said the Colonel.

"Mother has nobody else,—and father told me I must never never leave her. I think it would kill mother to lose me."

"Of course it would," assented the Colonel, looking deeply interested, yet speaking absently.

"And when mother found out what they really meant, she was so frightened that she hunted for these lodgings, and we came off as quick as possible, and didn't tell anybody where we were going."

"Ran away, in short," said the Colonel, with a chuckle.

"Oh no, I don't think it was running away, because the aunts had no right over us," said Rhona seriously. "God gave me to mother, and they ought not to have wanted to take me from mother. If they would have had her too, it would have been all right, but they were so unkind to mother. Only think—if she had to live all alone, or among strangers! But we knew aunt Barbara and aunt Clara would be angry, and perhaps aunt Susanna too; and mother was afraid, so we came away quietly."

"What was their reason for being unkind to your mother, my dear?"

Rhona reflected. "I am not sure that I ought to say more," she replied. "Mother thought she knew, and of course she told me her thoughts. But I almost think mother will say I have talked too much already about our affairs. And, please, she would not like you to tell anybody else about us and the aunts, because we don't wish them to know where we are."

The Colonel was a good deal diverted at the old-fashioned preciseness of manner. "You are safe with me, my dear," he said. "I have no friends just now to talk with; and if I had, your information should go no further. Now I have an engagement, so I must say good-bye. But you ask your mother's leave this afternoon, and I will take you for a walk to-morrow."

"May I? Oh, that would be nice," said Rhona. "Only, won't you come and see mother, and ask her yourself?"

"Well, no—I think not—on the whole," said Colonel Smyth. "Some day I may peep in on you again, if she doesn't forbid it. I dare say you feel lonely sometimes when your mother is away."

Rhona was silent, and the Colonel awaited an answer.

"It is not exactly loneliness," she said in a soft reverent voice, peculiar to herself. "God is always here, you know."

Colonel Smyth positively started.

The words came with a certain assured sweetness, not at all as if the child were merely repeating what she had been taught to say, but rather as a simply assertion of that which in her own experience was true.

"So I cannot be really alone," she added. "But I do long often to have more of mother. And it is nice to have somebody come in for a little talk. I think I am fond of talking."

"You shall talk to me as much as you like," said the Colonel, stooping down, and letting his grey moustache brush her forehead. "Good-bye,—and mind you don't think any more about anything for the rest of the day."

Rhona reckoned that if the fog continued, her mother would get away from Mrs. Howard's in time to reach home before three.

The fog did continue. At noon, it lightened slightly. But by half-past two, it had grown again yellow and dense. There could be no doubt whatever that Mrs. Howard would keep her children indoors that afternoon.

Yet three o'clock and half-past three came, and Mrs. Mordaunt did not appear. Four o'clock, and she remained absent.

The next hour passed wearily to Rhona, who was sadly disappointed. No doubt, Mrs. Howard had kept her governess to amuse the children indoors. Rhona thought this rather hard. She did so want her mother to have a little extra rest for once.

Five o'clock passed, and still the minutes went relentlessly by, while Rhona sat waiting. She was no longer able to employ herself with books or work.

Bertha presently came in, and said,—"It is quarter to six, Miss Rhona. Your mamma seems late to-day. Will you wait for her, or have tea now? I do think you want it."

"I'll wait, please; it is no matter about me," said Rhona. "Bertha, I can't think what keeps mother so long. She is always home before this."

"I suppose she has to pick her way slowly," said Bertha. "We haven't had such a fog all the winter through. Perhaps the lady has made her wait because of the weather."

"Oh no, that isn't like Mrs. Howard at all. And mother would be sure to come."

"Perhaps she has missed a right turning somewhere," suggested Bertha. "That would make her late. But there are always people about, so she could ask her way. I wouldn't worry, if I was you, Miss Rhona. I must go now, for there's aunt calling, but I shan't wait long before I bring you a cup of tea."

She kept her word, and the cup of tea came, while Mrs. Mordaunt still remained away. Rhona could eat nothing, but having disposed of the tea, she sat patiently in the sofa corner, with her little hands clasped, and her large eyes bent ceaselessly on the door.

Half-an-hour later, Bertha reappeared, carrying a neat purse-pocket-book of dark morocco, rather large for a lady's use.

"Miss Rhona," she said, and she looked anxious,—"isn't this your mamma's?"

Rhona raised herself upright, and took the purse. "Yes," she said gravely. "That is mother's. It used to belong to father."

"She must have dropped it as she was going out this morning. Hannah found it just now, lying in a corner of the hall, close to the front door. I think there is money inside, Miss Rhona, but you wouldn't know how much there ought to be."

"Yes; I know," said Rhona, in the same serious tone. She counted slowly the contents of the two pockets, and glanced through a few papers. "It is all right. But—"

"I am glad she didn't drop it outside," said Bertha.

"But mother has been thinking all day that the purse was lost," the child said sadly. "I am so sorry; for she was tired enough before. And if the fog was ever so bad, she wouldn't have been able to get into an omnibus, because she has no money with her—not one penny."

"She could take a cab, and promise to pay here," suggested Bertha.

Rhona shook her head. "That would cost too much," she said. "Especially when mother would be thinking that she had just lost her purse. Poor darling mother!"

WHERE COULD SHE BE?

"HEY? What? I don't understand," said Colonel Smyth sharply.

"If you please, sir—"

"What do you mean by coming in like that without knocking? Insufferable impertinence!" growled the Colonel, in angry tones.

For he had been indulging himself in a lengthy evening siesta, and like the rest of the world, he objected much to be caught napping out of authorised hours. The Colonel sat bolt upright, and made believe to have been absorbed in the book which lay open on his knee.

"If you please, sir, I did knock,—several times," Bertha answered, "but I could not make you hear."

"The noise in the street, my good girl, always that wretched rumble going on. And when one has an interesting book into the bargain,—but mind you knock another time loud enough to get an answer. Well—what do you want?"

"It is half-past nine o'clock, sir, and Mrs. Mordaunt hasn't come back," said Bertha. "Mrs. Burrell thinks you might perhaps be able to advise us what to do."

"Not come back! Mrs. Mordaunt! Where from? What is she about?"

"Nobody knows, sir. She went to her teaching in the morning as usual, and that is the last seen of her. Miss Rhona expected her home about three o'clock. We are afraid she must have lost her way in the fog."

"Not at all surprising if she has,—a comparative stranger to London! No doubt she will have taken shelter somewhere."

"Miss Rhona is so frightened," said Bertha. "We can't persuade her to go to bed."

"Frightened! The child! Of course she is, poor little mite. Thoughtless of the mother, not to manage differently."

Colonel Smyth considered; then asked,—"Where does she go to her work?"

Bertha named the square.

"Humph! Easy enough to miss a turning in the fog between that and this. I wouldn't answer for coming straight myself. Probably they have kept her for the night,—most humane thing they could do under the circumstances."

"Miss Rhona thinks her mother is sure to have started for home, sir."

"Miss Rhona knows no more about the matter than anybody else. Children are always positive," said the Colonel.

"And there is something else too," Bertha continued, after a slight break. "Mrs. Mordaunt dropped her pocket-book in the hall, as she went out this morning, so she has no money with her."

"People don't commonly carry money in pocket-books, my good girl."

"This is a particular kind of pocket-book-purse," said Bertha, preserving her quiet manner. "Miss Rhona knows her mother has not a penny with her besides. And if anything was to happen to Mrs. Mordaunt,—such as being knocked down or run over in the fog,—there would be nothing about her to show who she is, or where she lives."

"Umph! I don't like that," muttered the Colonel. "Not of course that one need suppose anything 'has' happened to her. Still, people have no business to go about in London, without their names and addresses in their pocket."

"She thought she had, you see, sir. But I have not put this idea into Miss Rhona's head. There is no need to frighten her more."

"Of course not—of course not. I'll come and see the child if you like."

Bertha opened the doors with alacrity, ushering the Colonel into Mrs. Mordaunt's room. He expected to find Rhona sobbing and distressed, with ordinary childish show. Instead of which, he came upon a calm and tearless little face, white as marble, with the large eyes widely opened, and only a slight quiver round the lips, telling of strong feeling below.

"Well, my dear, so mother hasn't come back yet," said the Colonel, sitting down beside her.

"No," said Rhona, looking up in his face. "And I can't go and find her! If only I were old enough! Bertha says I must not go out; and I am afraid mother would not let me."

"Pshaw, my dear; nobody could find anybody such a night as this. You would be lost yourself, before you reached the end of the street," said the Colonel, with an uneasy conviction that Rhona would look upon him as the right person to search for Mrs. Mordaunt. "Much worse than looking for a needle in a haystack, and you know how hopeless a matter that is. Mother has no doubt missed her way in the fog, and wisely taken shelter somewhere."

"But she has nowhere to go," objected Rhona.

"Plenty of places in London," said the Colonel. "There are always shops; and anybody would give one shelter on a day like this. I should not wonder for my part, if Mrs. What's-her-name has kept your mother for the night."

"Oh no, I am sure she would not," the child said decidedly. "And mother would not stay. She would be quite quite certain to try to get home."

"You see, one can't possibly do anything except wait," explained the Colonel, putting down a mental suggestion that one might do something else. "If your mother is there, she is all right. And if she has taken shelter in a shop, she is all right too. And if she really has tried to find her way home, and has wandered out of the road,—why, it comes to the same thing, for she will 'have' to take shelter somewhere until the morning. She might in such a case be anywhere, far or near. Hunting for her would be an absolutely hopeless matter. It is a thousand pities that she didn't take a cab, and drive straight back, while she was able,—I doubt if even a cabby could find his way far now. But she is not used to London yet, and perhaps the idea did not occur to her."

"Mother might think of that, but she would not do it," Rhona said.

And the story of the purse followed.

Colonel Smyth listened, as if he had not heard the same before, and Bertha stood patiently near the door, without uttering a word.

"Come, that explains a good deal," he said. "One may almost look upon that fact as a satisfaction, my dear, seen in one aspect. Having no purse, she would not, of course, get into an omnibus, and thinking her purse lost, she would not like to venture on a cab. No doubt she has tried to walk home as usual, and has missed her way, and some friendly individual has given her shelter."

It was all very simple and encouraging, if only Rhona could have been sure.

"So now, my dear, you will be a good sensible little maid, and go to bed and sleep soundly till she comes back in the morning," pursued Colonel Smyth.

Rhona shuddered. "Oh, not to bed!" she said. "Oh no,—not to bed. I never went to bed without mother's kiss. I'll wait here."

"But you can't sit up all night," remonstrated the Colonel. "I do not in the least expect your mother to return before daylight. The fog has been tremendous the last two hours. Wherever she is, there she will have to stay."

"I think she wouldn't wish you to stay up, Miss Rhona," said Bertha.

"Ah,—just so," said the Colonel, catching at the suggestion. "Mother wouldn't wish it. You have to do exactly what she would like if she were here, and of course she would tell you to go to bed. Why, look!—you haven't eaten the grapes yet. Your mother shall have some more, so don't keep these. I promise to send somebody early to-morrow, to ask about her at Mrs. Howard's. But most likely, she will appear before we can send. Don't distress your little heart; mother is old enough to take care of herself, after all."

"God will take care of her," said Rhona, in a low voice.

"Very well, my dear, put it any way you like," answered the Colonel; and he said good-night in a hurry.

"Bertha, it is nearly ten o'clock," said Rhona slowly, when he was gone, and her look was very pitiful.

"Yes, Miss Rhona; I do think your mamma must have taken shelter somewhere, just as the Colonel says."

"I wish I knew," Rhona answered, sighing deeply. "I do wish I really knew. But I'll go to bed now, because mother would like it. I don't want any help, Bertha, only please come back presently, just for a minute."

"Yes, Miss Rhona. Would you like to have me in the room to-night? I could sleep on the sofa."

"No, thank you," replied Rhona. "Mother might come in any time,—only please come to see me the last thing. And if mother rings at the front door, you'll be 'sure' to hear?"

Bertha could see how strongly the child's self-command was strained, and she dreaded that sleep might prove an impossibility.

"Yes, indeed, dear," she said, "I will be sure. But I don't expect your mamma back before to-morrow."

"You don't know and I don't know," said Rhona. "Only God knows. And He can take care of my own sweet mother."

Bertha lingered yet, though aware that she was required elsewhere. "You'll ask Him, won't you, Miss Rhona," she said.

"I am asking Him all the time,—every minute," said Rhona. '"It is the only thing I can do. O Bertha! If I were a big strong man like the Colonel, I wouldn't sit indoors, and leave mother out in that dreadful fog, with nobody to help her."

"You see, Miss Rhona, the Colonel doesn't believe she is out in the fog now; and he doesn't know where to go."

"Ah, but I would try," said Rhona plaintively. "And if my father were here, he would go. There is nobody now to take care of mother."

"Except—" Bertha said in a low voice.

"Yes,—except God. I mustn't forget," said Rhona. And then with a sigh, she rested her head against Bertha, murmuring, "O Bertha! It 'does' ache so."

Bertha hardly knew whether the "aching" referred to head or heart; perhaps it was to both. "Yes, I know," she said sadly. "But you'll get into bed now, Miss Rhona, and try to go to sleep."

Rhona answered in the affirmative, though with a sound of hopelessness. An hour later, when Bertha came softly in, the child was lying quietly with clasped hands, and wide-open unresting eyes. Further on, when once more she stole down for last glimpse, she found the same. So the hours of the night dragged by.

Morning dawned, clear and sunshiny, the dense pall of yellow fog having vanished like a dream. Some mistiness still hovered over the great city, but this was soon dispelled.

"There will be nothing to keep mother from coming home early this morning," said Rhona, as Bertha stood by her side. The child seemed less affected by her long night-vigil than Bertha had feared. She looked pale and heavy-eyed, but the eyes themselves were full of peace.

"You have not had much sleep, dear," Bertha said pityingly.

"I couldn't," Rhona answered. "I did so long to know where mother was. The first part of the time seemed almost more than I could bear. I could only just pray and pray that she might be safe. And then I had such beautiful thoughts of how the Lord Jesus loves mother,—oh, such love! It made me so happy."

"He loves you too, Miss Rhona," Bertha said gravely.

"Yes,—oh, I am sure of that. But the other thought was what comforted me. I had a feeling of mother lying in His arms, and being taken care of until He brings her back to me. I do hope He will bring her very very quickly. Bertha, I am going to get up now, so as to be ready."

"Yes, dear," Bertha said, and she turned away, lest Rhona should see the tears in her eyes.

Colonel Smyth's morning meal did not take place till nine o'clock. But at eight, he came to Mrs. Mordaunt's room, hat in hand. Rhona had been dressed for an hour, and was taking her breakfast.

"Oh, are you going to look for mother?" she said eagerly.

"I'm just thinking of asking at Mrs. Howard's door, my dear, whether she is still there, and if so when we may expect to see her. You poor little white-faced mite! Come, cheer up; we shall soon have her back now, I don't doubt. You don't call that scrap of dry toast 'breakfast,' I hope! Here, my good girl,—" he turned to Bertha, who had brought in the small tray—"just get for the child some of that cold chicken which I had yesterday. She wants feeding up—looks like a wraith already," muttered the Colonel. "Mind, Rhona, you are to eat a good meal."

"I don't think I am hungry, but I'll try," Rhona said gently. "How kind you are."

"Pshaw! You are the first person that ever thought so. I'm capable of a feeling of humanity, perhaps. Good-bye. I shall soon be back again."

There was much looking out for the Colonel's return, downstairs as well as upstairs. He entered at length by the shop, instead of through the usual side-door, having been absent considerably more than an hour, and asked of Mrs. Burrell, "Not come back yet?"

"Mrs. Mordaunt? No, sir."

"I am afraid it is a bad business," said the Colonel. "She left Mrs. Howard's early yesterday—two o'clock in the afternoon."

Mrs. Burrell uttered a sound of dismay and commiseration.

"The fog was hardly at its worst then, certainly not so bad as an hour later. Mrs. Howard advised her to start immediately after luncheon, on account of it, and recommended an omnibus. She says she saw little of Mrs. Mordaunt, but thought her looking extremely ill. And the children say she seemed confused and unlike herself all the morning. I asked if she had discovered the loss of her purse while there, and it appears not; at all events, she did not allude to it.

"Really I do not know how to tell that poor child. We must do so gently; merely suggest that she has probably found shelter somewhere, and may return at any moment. If she has simply wandered out of her way, and taken shelter for the night, she would return early, of course. I made a good many inquiries of policemen and in shops, all to no purpose. Nobody appears to have noticed her. And in London, how can one expect that any one should—such a day as yesterday?"

"I hope she hasn't been run down in the fog," Mrs. Burrell said, with a lugubrious expression.

"I hope not, but it is by no means unlikely. Mrs. Howard showed feeling. I told her she ought to have sent the poor thing back before luncheon, or else have kept her altogether—and she wishes now that she had done so. No good blaming folks after the event, however. A good deal seems to hinge upon that unfortunate dropping of the pocket-book. If it had been in her pocket, the news of an accident would have reached us before this. As things are, if she were knocked down and stunned, they would not know where to send word, until she came to her senses again."

The Colonel went slowly upstairs, heralding his approach by creaking boots.

Mrs. Burrell remained behind, and might perhaps be excused for a wonder how the rent of Mrs. Mordaunt's room was to be paid, if Mrs. Mordaunt did not return.

"There could be nothing for that poor child but the workhouse," she said.

IN THE FOG.

AS stated by Mrs. Howard, the young widow had left her house at two o'clock in the afternoon. It was very foggy even then, though not so dense as a little later.

Mrs. Mordaunt hardly knew how she had dragged through the weary hours of that long morning. It had been hard to keep her attention in any degree fixed upon the children's lessons.

Julia, the eldest girl, remarked more than once, "I am sure you are not well, Mrs. Mordaunt."

And she answered, with a faint smile, "Only a bad headache, dear. I shall be better by-and-by."

But the headache grew worse, as time went on.

At luncheon, she could eat nothing. And even Mrs. Howard, usually a most unobservant person, noticed her extreme paleness.

"I should advise you to get home early," she said, with unwonted kindness. "The children cannot, of course, walk out, and if the fog were to increase, you might have difficulty in finding your way."

"It is bad enough now," Julia said, as they rose from table.

"Yes. I really think you would be wise to take an omnibus for once, Mrs. Mordant, rather than to trust to your own powers," said Mrs. Howard.

"It would be the best plan—perhaps," replied Mrs. Mordaunt, with the same effort after attention, which even the children had observed over their lessons. She had repeatedly failed to answer questions, until twice or three times addressed.

Now she went back mechanically into the school-room. But instead of putting on bonnet and cloak, she sat down at the table, and rested her forehead on her hand.

The children cast wondering glances.

"I'm sure the fog gets more yellow every minute," Julia said at length. "Mamma advised you to make haste."

"Certainly—thank you—I am forgetting," Mrs. Mordaunt exclaimed, and she started up nervously, as in the morning with Rhona. "How strange! I fancied I was at home. I thought—"

She stopped and gazed round, as if in perplexity.

"Did you? How funny!" said Julia. "Here is your bonnet, Mrs. Mordaunt. Can't you find your gloves?"

"My gloves! Oh yes; I knew there was something," said Mrs. Mordaunt faintly.

"Annie has them. Look,—here they are. I do think you are dreadfully tired to-day; aren't you?"

"Yes. I must try to get rested before to-morrow," said Mrs. Mordaunt, speaking in a more natural voice. "Good-bye, dear."

The children kissed her as usual, and then from the window watched her leaving the front door, and passing away into the fog.

"Poor Mrs. Mordaunt! She looks as if she could hardly walk," Julia said pityingly.

Some little distance had to be traversed before an omnibus could be met with. Once at the right spot, she might be carried to the very corner of Mrs. Burrell's street, within a few yards of the house-door.

As yet, Mrs. Mordaunt had not discovered the loss of her purse. Generally she would have done so in a very short time. But this day, she was so oppressed and confused that much might pass unnoticed.

A crossing lay before her, easy enough to an experienced Londoner, but presenting serious difficulties to one so timid and so little used to London streets. Mrs. Mordaunt often waited at this spot fifteen or twenty minutes, before venturing to trust herself among the throng of vehicles. Sometimes she found a friendly policeman to escort her over.

To-day, no policeman came within sight, and the fog made matters worse than usual. She had a sensation of being suffocated by the thick air; while the incessant noise brought on such dizziness and confusion of brain that she scarcely knew what she was about. Twice in desperation she started, and twice rushed back, barely in time, as a heavily-laden omnibus loomed suddenly through the mist, almost upon her.

Trembling from head to foot, with wildly beating heart, she waited,—still on the wrong side of the road,—noting how every omnibus seemed full, and wondering whether she should obtain a seat, even if she could get across. An easy matter usually, at that time of the day, but people evidently preferred trusting to others' sagacity, rather than to their own.

Each moment the fog was thickening. Should she try again to cross, or should she walk towards home, and seek a less crowded spot farther on? By so doing, she would lose the possibility of a certain short cut, which might prove desirable, in case the omnibus plan was a failure.

A sudden doubt swept through her mind. Had she crossed already, or had she not? On which side of the road was she really standing? Where lay her home?

Mrs. Mordaunt staggered back against the wall, unnoticed and panting for breath, as she strove to regain her self-command. But the confusion of memory would not right itself. She found herself in a state of utter bewilderment. If only the ceaseless rush of sound would stop for one moment, that she might think. All clearness of recollection was gone. How weird and unnatural seemed this world of yellow fog, with dim lights and figures looming past, ever coming and vanishing! Who cared what became of her? A terrible wave of desolation passed over the poor young thing; and still she could hear the throbbing of her own heart, above all outer noises, and still she vainly sought to disentangle the confusion of brain.

What was it she had to do? Where should she go? In which direction lay her home? "Had" she a home?

It was at this moment that she put her hand into her pocket to feel for the purse which always lay there. The movement was a purely instinctive one, connected with her wish to get into an omnibus. The loss of her purse became, however, at once apparent.

A deadly coldness crept over her from head to foot. In that purse was all the money on which she could count, to support herself and Rhona for a month to come. Doubtless she had been very imprudent to carry so much in her pocket. But the danger of leaving money in lodgings had seemed to her inexperience the greater of the two.

"I must have dropped it somewhere on my way," she muttered. "Perhaps—perhaps at Mrs. Howard's. I must go back at once." That it could have been absent from her pocket all day, did not occur as a possibility.

Momentarily aroused by the shock, and forgetting her bewilderment about the crossing, she retraced her steps, earnestly scanning the footpath as she went. It would have been an almost hopeless search, in such a fog, even had the purse been really dropped thereabouts.

After walking the length of a street, she was seized with dread lest she might have passed it by; and she went slowly a second time over the same ground. Then she resolved to return straight to Mrs. Howard's. But confusion and faintness were resuming their sway, and unconsciously, her next turn was a wrong one.

With the lost purse prominent in her mind, she pressed forward, persistently searching right and left, often turning back to hunt anew, and becoming entangled in a labyrinth of strange streets.

Gradually, it dawned upon her mind that she ought by this time to have reached Mrs. Howard's. Before she had time to feel alarmed, she struck upon a thoroughfare which in the fog seemed to her identical with the one she had already tried to cross. To recognise surroundings was not possible, but she had dim glimpses of cabs and omnibuses proceeding cautiously past.

"Singular," she murmured, "I thought I was going just the other way. But this fog is so confusing. Well, I cannot get into an omnibus now, and I am so tired, I must go straight home. Perhaps I shall find the purse to-morrow at Mrs. Howard's."

That suggestion came soothingly, but it did not remain in her mind. No longer troubled by a doubt as to which side of the road she was on, she resolved not to attempt crossing till later, and started without delay in what she believed to be the direction of Mrs. Burrell's house, little dreaming that each step was carrying her farther away.

Fog and darkness closed her in, yet still she pressed forward, though with faltering limbs. There were certain landmarks by which she felt sure of recognising, even in such fog and darkness, the nearness of the right street. But somehow, as minutes passed, she forgot to look for them. The recollection of her lost purse was again uppermost in her thoughts. A vague feeling that something had to be found before she might go home, urged on her weary feet. And for once, the poor young mother had no remembrance of Rhona. She knew nothing of the lapse of time, nothing of the distance traversed. For a while she was only conscious of her loss, and of the ceaseless impulse to press forward; but these were slowly merged into a sense of terrible heart-sinking, of a dragging weight at every limb, of an irresistible longing for rest.

Only to be at home! Only to be able to lie down somewhere! That at last was the one desire. Mrs. Mordaunt had forgotten her purse, forgotten Rhona, forgotten everything except just the agonising need for repose. Each step taken, it seemed to her that she could not possibly take another. Where she was going or wished to go, she had no power to think. The outer fog seemed to be stifling her very breath; and the fog within her brain had deadened all consciousness except of exhaustion.

She walked on still, but moaned faintly from time to time, and staggered often. Oh for some quiet corner, wherein to be alone and still!

"Cab, ma'am?"

Mrs. Mordaunt had passed beyond the busy neighbourhood of shops, unknowingly, and was among private houses, where foot-passengers were few. She had come a long way, longer than would have been possible under ordinary circumstances, and the feverish excitement which had borne her on was all but at an end.

A "four-wheeler" had stopped, and the man bent over inquiringly from his box. "Cab, ma'am?"

"Yes," she said, and he descended.

The cab would be a place to rest in, and further than this, her thoughts could not go. Lost purse and lack of means to pay were forgotten. She stumbled feebly, stepping in, and the man gave a helping hand.

"Awful day, mum," he said, with a look at the white face. "Where to, please?"

"Where to?" repeated Mrs. Mordaunt. "To—"

There was a pause, and the man waited. All power of thought had passed from her.

"To—to—Number Three—" and again a pause. "Number Three, Winifred Place," she said, speaking mechanically, yet in a clear and natural voice.

But that was not Mrs. Burrell's address. Only the number was right.

THE THREE AUNTS.

WHILE Rhona watched and waited through that foggy afternoon, and while Mrs. Mordaunt was wandering about, no one knew whither, three ladies sat over their tea at No. 3, Winifred Place, close to Burton Square.

These were "the aunts" of whom Rhona had spoken confidentially to the Colonel. For over thirty years, they had lived in this prettily furnished West-End abode. It had been purchased in more prosperous days, when the Miss Mordaunts had a father living, and plenty of money at command. Much less money lay now within their reach; yet they preferred exercising any amount of economy in small things, to the giving up of their London home.

Whatever form this necessary economy took, it did not appear to touch the comfort of their outward condition. There was about them a general air of cosiness and satisfaction, as they sat round a little basket table, dallying with tea and cake, after the fashion of dames who have plenty of leisure at command.

Miss Mordaunt, a well-dressed woman, fifty-five in age, occupied the principal arm-chair, holding herself with the pose of one who knew or believed that her personality was of some consequence in the world. She wore an elaborate cap and rich ruffles, and her slender arched nose suffered from the incongruity of a low and narrow forehead. Barbara Mordaunt, the eldest of nine sisters, only three of whom were still living, had always been reckoned good-looking, though her good looks were not enhanced by the expression of self-complacency.

Miss Susanna Mordaunt, known in familiar circles as "poor Susie," or "poor dear Sue," lacked only three of Barbara's years, but lacked altogether her imposing presence. "Poor Susie" was, and ever had been, small, plain, and afflicted with painful shyness. She rarely ventured to hold an opinion of her own, contrary to Miss Mordaunt's; or if she held one, she rarely ventured to let it appear. Susie Mordaunt had been the snubbed member of the family; nevertheless, she bore an expression of content, unmixed in her case with self-satisfaction.

Between Susanna and the youngest sister, Clara, lay a gap of nearly twenty years, bridged over by the six remaining sisters, none of whom now survived. Two of the six had been married, one to an Irishman, one to a Scotchman, and they had left two widowed husbands—Mr. Malony in Ireland with ten children, and Mr. Macpherson in Scotland with nine children; the large family being in each case accompanied by scanty means.

Clara Mordaunt, though on the wrong side of thirty, looked young still, being tall, slender, and almost pretty, with a repetition of Barbara's marked yet delicate features, and with a better forehead.

In addition to the nine Mordaunt daughters, there had been two sons, one a little older than Barbara, still living, one a little younger than Barbara, many years dead.

Henry, the eldest, the greater part of whose life had been passed in India, was a somewhat singular man. As a boy, he had been unpopular in his own home; and later on, a severe disappointment had affected his character unfavourably. He had never married; he wrote home seldom; and for eighteen or nineteen years, his face had not been seen in England. Sometimes, in one of his brief and rare epistles, he spoke of retiring. But again, if pressed to do so, he would ask, what was the use? All his interests were in connection with India and the army; and in England, he would have nothing to do.

William Mordaunt, the second brother, gentle and yielding in nature, had been the idol of his nine sisters. And when he died, the general devotion was transferred to his only son, Arthur Mordaunt,—that same Arthur whose widow and child were now residing at Mrs. Burrell's.

But Arthur Mordaunt was of a different stamp from his father. The devotion of his numerous aunts implied also their management of him, and he had no notion of being so managed. When they wished him to become a lawyer, he wished to become a clergyman; and his will carried the day. When they desired him to settle down in England, he desired to go abroad; and his determination proved the strongest. When they would fain have had him marry a "sweet girl" of their own selection, he preferred to choose for himself; and choose for himself he did, despite all advice and opposition.

There came slowly between him and them a widening gap of separation, the result of all these pullings in opposite directions. "The aunts," headed and represented by Barbara, could not get over his disdain of their "sweet Lucy," could not believe that his Mary was a desirable wife for him.

Gradually the correspondence between him and them languished and ceased. His whole heart was wrapped up in his Mary, and they almost ignored her existence. No actual quarrel took place, but there was a falling apart.

When Arthur Mordaunt was suddenly taken, more than two years had elapsed since the last letters exchanged between him and the Miss Mordaunts. Even the news of his death failed for a considerable time to reach them. This fact was less strange than it might seem; for Miss Mordaunt had an aversion to daily papers, and the small "weekly," in which alone she indulged, gave scant information. Mary Mordaunt ought doubtless to have written, but she did not.

The unexpected arrival of Arthur's young widow and child in London was a severe shock to the three aunts, who once had so dearly loved their nephew. Sorely as he had afterwards disappointed them, they had not ceased to love him. But none of the three—except perhaps "poor Susie,"—felt the slightest disposition to welcome Mrs. Mordaunt with cordiality. Things could not now be helped, it was true; yet undoubtedly she had been the main cause of Arthur's indifference to "that dear Lucy Miles" in the past, and of his subsequent long expatriation. Mary Mordaunt's beauty and grace did not incline the heart of Barbara any more favourably towards her, but rather the reverse. There were associations in connection with her very charms, which turned their sweetness into acidity.

The child, however, was Arthur's child, and William's grandchild; consequently, the affections of all three aunts went warmly out towards Rhona. Not that the warmth appeared in manner. Miss Mordaunt prided herself on a calm and passionless demeanour; and Miss Mordaunt had ever been Clara's model, while Susie's natural disposition had been, with much perseverance, snubbed into something of the same outward shape. But though little was said, much was felt.

Rhona Mordaunt might have no doubt whatever in her little heart that the conduct of "the aunts" was purely and simply unkind. Rhona, however, knew nothing of their real motives. She could not penetrate the workings of Barbara Mordaunt's mind, or see how much of a real wish to do right existed there, side by side with much self-deception as to what was right.

Those who knew the Miss Mordaunts well were often struck by a certain peculiarity in their modes of action. It was observable that they never seemed able to take any view of a subject except from their own particular standpoint. It was observable also that they never deemed it necessary to explain to others their reasons for action. Susanna Mordaunt might have been an exception, but she was in chains to her sisters' opinion on all points. Where Barbara went, there Clara went, and there Susanna was dragged meekly in their rear.

They were "a very united trio," friends said, not disapprovingly, but sometimes with a smile.

It was of course right that they should be "united;" yet strong affection is by no means inconsistent with freedom of thought. Barbara and Clara Mordaunt, so far as was in their power, checked all freedom of thought in Susanna.

It had appeared to Barbara a thing desirable that their home should become the home of little Rhona Mordaunt. Several arguments helped to this conclusion. She wished it for her own sake; she wished it for the sake of her dead brother and nephew; she wished it for the child's sake; she wished it above all for Clara's sake. The elder sister was often troubled by Clara's listlessness and want of regular occupation. It seemed to her that a bright intelligent child in the house, to be petted and cared for, might supply the lacking occupation, and might arouse Clara from her growing habits of indolence and inertia.

Clara, without fathoming all her elder sister's motives, fell in cordially with the idea; and Susanna not only fully agreed, but would have liked to give a home to Rhona's mother as well.

In this desire, Susanna outstripped the others. Barbara had not the slightest intention of offering an asylum to the friendless Mary Mordaunt.

"For a few days, it would be all very well," she said, "but for a permanency, never!" She counted such a step impossible, seen from a pecuniary point of view; and she counted it undesirable, seen from every other point of view.

With the young mother in the house, Rhona could in no sense become their child, and the required occupation for Clara would still be wanting. There would be inevitable clashings of authority, and the peace of their home might be lastingly broken up.

Moreover, Mary Mordaunt had no particular claim upon them. She must, of course, expect to work for her own living. And to support herself alone would be a far easier matter than to support herself and Rhona. So reasoned Barbara, coveting the possession of the lovely and thoughtful child. It really did appear to her, seen purely from her own standpoint, the kindest and most natural step, under the circumstances, that she should offer a permanent home to her nephew's child, thus setting the young mother free, not merely to toil under the drudgery of a daily teacher's life, but to accept a situation of resident finishing governess, such as she was well qualified to undertake.

"Why, she might make at least a hundred guineas a year," Barbara said.

This being Miss Mordaunt's view of the question, she made her proposal in straightforward terms, under the pleasant conviction that she was doing a generous deed. It scarcely even occurred to her, when she thought with secret pleasure of the child's presence in the house, how keen must be the opposite feeling of Rhona's mother at the bare idea of losing that presence. She only saw the matter from her own side.

Mrs. Mordaunt's startled and unqualified refusal came to the sisters with something of a shock, and roused feelings nearly allied to anger. Mrs. Mordaunt, though never ungentle, was greatly agitated; and Miss Mordaunt was betrayed into some strong expressions of displeasure.

"You are acting very foolishly, Mary, in refusing what is so plainly for the child's benefit," she said, as she took her departure at the close of a long and emotional interview.

Mary Mordaunt was palpitating and quivering like an aspen leaf; while Miss Mordaunt had a flushed appearance, and reined up her head frequently, with an air of injured dignity.

"I think you ought at least to be grateful for what is so kindly intended, and not be betrayed into such a show of temper. However, I shall not yet look upon the matter as settled. You are speaking hastily now, and it is better that you should have time to weigh it quietly. After a few hours' consideration, you will probably see things as I do myself. To-morrow morning, I will come again, at this time, for a little more conversation on the same subject. I shall not see you again to-day."

Barbara had little doubt that, by means of continued pressure, she should in time be able to bend Mary Mordaunt to her will. She left her sister-in-law alone for the remainder of the day, restraining Susanna and Clara also from going to the lodgings. Nothing was farther from the thoughts of any one of them, than that the young widow should take sudden flight before nightfall, leaving no clue by which her whereabouts and that of the child might be traced. But so it was.

When Barbara Mordaunt made her call next morning, as appointed, soon after half-past ten, she found the small sitting-room and bedroom empty. Mrs. Mordaunt had "paid up her week," the landlady said, and had settled all her little bills. But she had offered no word of explanation as to the unexpected move. For Barbara there was not a note or even a message.

"One would suppose the silly young thing was running away from a set of vipers," Miss Mordaunt said indignantly to her sisters, an hour later, for once excited and upset. "I never heard of such a thing in my life! To treat her best friends in such a way! But it just shows her to be unworthy of our kindness. Did she suppose we were going to steal the child without her consent? Foolish woman! She ought to know better what is for Rhona's interest."

So strong indeed was Miss Mordaunt's displeasure at poor Mary's unwise flight, that her sisters seldom ventured to allude to the subject. As weeks passed by, the very names of "Mary Mordaunt" and "little Rhona" were unheard among them.

But on this foggy afternoon, the absent ones were much in the mind of Susanna; she could not have told why.

And as they sat long over their tea, she broke out—"I do wonder what has become of poor Arthur's wife and child,"—the next moment growing alarmed at her own temerity.

"I suppose they are where they have chosen to go," said Miss Mordaunt, with a composure which might have been taken for hardness. "We have no responsibility in the matter. Mary is not a girl, to be under our control."

"Only she is so young,—hardly more than a girl in age. It does seem to be our duty to find her again, if possible."

"I do not see any question of duty in the matter," rejoined Miss Mordaunt. "If Mary chooses to write, she is at liberty to do so. Otherwise, we are not bound to trouble ourselves."

Certain words darted into Susie's mind,—"Am I my brother's keeper?" But it was an understood family axiom that "Barbara always knew best." And Susie put the words aside, yet found herself continuing, with a meek persistency—

"Sometimes I can't help wondering—if we were just to advertise—"

"Advertise!" Miss Mordaunt's eyebrows took a journey more than half-way up her low forehead. "My dear Susie! What will you propose next? This is capital tea, Clara, though I do not like the Assam flavour."

"But they might be in want," said Susie.

"They might, of course,—and that might bring Mary to her senses. I doubt if anything else is likely to do so. When people are thoroughly wilful, they commonly have to pay for it. However, Mary has something to depend upon, and no doubt she has friends in London. When she requires our aid, she will come and ask it."

"You would not send her away, sister?" Susie spoke beseechingly.

Miss Mordaunt's eyebrows repeated their former movement. "I should be sorry to make any promises beforehand. Mary has treated us so far with scant civility. If she were willing to apologise—"

"O Barbara! It was only the thought of losing her child. She is so sweet—so gentle—"

"Yes, as long as she can have everything her own way. I am not hard upon her, Susie, but you must not expect unreasonable things. What has put this into your head to-day?"

Susanna looked ashamed, and murmured something about "the fog."

"Sue would have taken in Mary as well as Rhona," remarked Clara carelessly. "Fancy! Having her always about—never a moment to ourselves."

"Susie knows better," said Miss Mordaunt. "She is as well aware as I am that we could not possibly afford the additional expense. Rhona alone would have involved considerable need for increased economy."

"Oh yes, of course," Susie said hurriedly. "Only if it 'had' been possible—"

"Which it was not," Clara said decisively. "Why, we can't now afford more than three shillings a pound for our tea, and when dear papa was alive, we always gave six shillings."

"Which it was not," added Miss Mordaunt, almost simultaneously with Clara. "Why, Susie, I explained the whole matter to you one day lately, and made it perfectly clear."

Explaining is not always making clear, and so Susie might have answered. Anything connected with figures or prices fell always to a jumble in her brain. She only ventured, however, to remark, "Of course you know much best,—only I cannot help being sorry for poor Mary. She has such a sweet face; and Rhona too."

"Sweet faces are often deceptive—as we know," said Miss Mordaunt. "Mary has evidently been made too much of, and is in fact thoroughly spoilt. The child is very pretty, I grant, though I could wish she were more like Arthur,—less of a Willis. If we had her to ourselves, we could train her into our ways, but I should be sorry indeed to undertake her, with the mother at hand to counteract all our efforts. However, I really see no use in all this talk. If Mary chooses to let us know her address, she can do so any day. Till then, we have nothing to do but to let her alone. Can you tell me, Clara, how long it is since our last letter from Henry? It seems to me that he is keeping us this time even longer than usual."

Clara shrugged her shoulders. "Henry is a sort of outside-the-world being to me," she said. "I sometimes wonder if he really is my brother."

"You don't mean that, and I do not like to hear you say it," responded Miss Mordaunt. "Remember Keble—

"'No distance breaks the tie of blood,
  Brothers are brothers evermore.'"

"Oh yes, of course," said Clara, to whom the couplet had been so often quoted as to have lost its force. "I don't suppose distance does affect the tie,—but coldness and silence do."

"It is Henry's way. He was always so different from our dear William."

The three faces had a saddened look of recollection for a moment.

"Well,—but about Henry's letters," said Clara. "We have heard absolutely nothing since last March; and then only a scrap of paper, scrawled over. And before that, we had a letter,—nine months earlier. And before that, a gap of two years."

"But Henry promised not to treat us so badly again," said Barbara, who always felt herself bound to make excuses for the oldest member of the family. "And in his last, he seemed to hold out hope of coming home before long. I feel sometimes that we really ought to meet."

"He ought to retire and live with us," said Clara decisively. "It is not as if there were any money-difficulty. Most unmarried brothers as well off as Henry is, would be delighted to share what they have with their sisters. But he never seems to dream of such a thing."

"We must not blame him. He may have reasons—difficulties—unknown to us," said Barbara.

Clara started suddenly up, and went to the window. "A cab stopping here! How black and thick it is! I can see nothing. But I am sure I heard wheels. Yes, and there is the bell."

A long parley appeared to take place at the front door. "What can Janet be about?" Miss Mordaunt asked once or twice. "We shall have the house full of fog."

Clara had left the window and returned to her seat near the fire. "A mistake probably," she said. "Anybody might go wrong, such an evening."

The maid-servant at length appeared, wearing a bewildered look.

"If you please, ma'am, there's a cab come, and the man says he has brought the lady home."

"Brought the lady home!" echoed three voices, in varied pitches of astonishment.

"Yes, ma'am. I told him we didn't expect any lady, but he wouldn't go. He says she told him '3, Winifred Place' as plain as could be. And he wants his fare."

"The lady had better give it him," said Clara. "What nonsense!"

"The man must be drunk," said Miss Mordaunt.

"I don't think he is, ma'am. He speaks quite quiet and sensible."

"Then it is a mistake. You had better ask the lady's name."

"If you please, ma'am, he did go and speak to the lady, and he couldn't get no answer. And he said he didn't mean to go away without I or somebody would look at her. He didn't know if it was a swoon or death, he said."

"Poor thing! Some stranger taken ill," said Miss Mordaunt. "The wisest thing he can do is to carry her to the nearest hospital. You did not go outside in the fog, I hope, Janet."

"I went to the cab-door, ma'am, and he held the lantern," said Janet, shivering at the recollection, yet gratified with her own cautious manner of breaking the news. "And please, ma'am,—it is Mrs. Mordaunt."

Barbara, Susanna, and Clara were on their feet simultaneously.

"Mrs. Mordaunt! Why did you not tell me at once?"

"Please, ma'am, I thought you would be startled. It frightened me like, to see her."

Janet was a confidential servant, of long standing, and she pretty well understood the condition of family affairs.

"Mrs. Mordaunt!" repeated Barbara. "And the child?"

"She's alone, ma'am. Miss Rhona nor nobody isn't with her. And she do look bad."

Miss Mordaunt for once forgot to be dignified. She hurried into the passage, fluttered and agitated, and stood at the open door, regardless of the rush of fog, inquiring where the cabman had found his "fare." He gave particulars briefly, as to time and place, volunteering the information that the lady had appeared to him, when first he addressed her, to be ill. Since telling him where to go, she had not spoken, and seemed to be unconscious.

"Sister, I hope it isn't anything infectious," whispered Susie, in a timid voice, edging up behind. "Don't you think—perhaps—the hospital—?"

"Certainly not," said Barbara. "That would not be returning good for evil. She has come to us in distress, and for to-night at least, she shall stay. You need not go near her, if you are afraid. Cabman,—" Barbara raised her voice,—"can you bring the lady in?"

The task proved not an easy one, but he accomplished it.

Barbara went before into the study, and signed him towards the sofa.

Mary Mordaunt lay there, as he placed her—silent, lifeless, deathly pale.

Clara had grown almost as colourless.

"What does it mean? Where can the child be?"

"I cannot tell. Clara, do not come in if it alarms you." Barbara spoke gently this time, not as she had spoken to Susie, for then there had been a grain of contempt. "I think Mary must have fainted. It may be nothing worse than a faint. When she comes to herself, she will tell us about Rhona. But we must have the doctor to see her, and he will say what is the matter. You had better pay the cabman, and ask him to leave a message at Dr. Wynne's. I am sure Dr. Wynne will come at once, if possible."

"In this fog?"

"Doctors never think about weather," Barbara answered quite sincerely. "I should not like any needless delay."

Every remedy that she could suggest was tried, and tried in vain.

More than an hour passed, and then the doctor arrived,—an elderly man, of strong bodily and mental build, with silver-grey hair, and quiet eyes. He had been a friend of the Mordaunt family for over forty years.

Under his superintendence, stronger means were employed for the restoration of the poor wanderer. And by-and-by, the watchers were rewarded by seeing the soft dark eyes unclose.

"She does not know us," Barbara said, in disappointment.

"Speak to her," said Dr. Wynne.

"Mary!" Barbara's voice was rarely to be heard in so tender an utterance. "Mary dear,—don't you know me? Mary, where is your little Rhona?"

But the question passed unheeded, and there came no sign of recognition.

STILL ABSENT.

"ALWAYS wasting your time up in that room! I tell you what it is, Bertha,—I won't have you go on so any longer, and that's a fact. I don't mean to have everything in the house go to wrack and ruin for want of proper care, just because you haven't eyes nor ears for anybody except that child. It is all very well to pay proper attention, and I'm as sorry for her as the rest of you, but I just 'won't' have you running in every half-hour to dawdle and gossip. You've got your work to do, and I expect to have it done,—if not, you'd best look out for a home elsewhere, and the sooner the better. Look at the dirt left in this corner. I never knew anybody so careless before. There's no manner of dependence to be put upon you."

Mrs. Burrell was, as she would herself have described it, "out of sorts" that morning; and she found some relief in venting her uncomfortable sensations thus. The present condition of things affected her peace of mind; and since no one could be lawfully blamed for their said condition, she took refuge in blaming Bertha with undue severity for certain unwonted, touches of neglect.

There could be no doubt that Bertha was a little infatuated about the fair child upstairs. She was ready—metaphorically—to kiss the ground on which Rhona trod, and for Rhona's sake, she could even slur over certain duties. The blame, though disproportioned to the offence, was not altogether undeserved.

"So you mind!" continued Mrs. Burrell. "Mind!—You don't go to Mrs. Mordaunt's room again in a hurry, without I send you."

"Good-morning, Mrs. Burrell. Anything gone wrong?"

Mrs. Burrell's wrathful look changed suddenly, as she found herself face to face with the Colonel.

Bertha passed on silently, and the landlady said in aggrieved explanation,—"Only that girl, sir. But young things will be young, and one can't look to have them different."

"Scolding won't make them old before their time," said the Colonel, and he too left Mrs. Burrell to her own reflections.

A whole week had gone by, and still Mrs. Mordaunt remained absent. Not a word from her or about her reached any one. Colonel Smyth had inquired and advertised in vain. Possibly the advertisements might have been successful; for though the Miss Mordaunts read few papers, they had relatives and friends not so self-denying. But Colonel Smyth perhaps did not feel himself at liberty to reveal Mrs. Mordaunt's abode to her husband's relatives, if the doing so could be avoided; and he couched the advertisements in vague language.

Though Mrs. Mordaunt had not returned, the child was still at Mrs. Burrell's, living in the back bedroom. Thus far, she had not needed to appeal to anybody's generosity. Mrs. Burrell supplied all her wants, conjecturing that the contents of the purse would be amply sufficient to meet this week's expenses, and possibly the expenses of a week or two beyond. But afterwards?

That was the question which fretted the landlady's mind. Suppose Mrs. Mordaunt did not return, what was to be done with the child? It was not of course to be supposed that she—Mrs. Burrell—could keep on Rhona Mordaunt indefinitely, without remuneration. The idea was absurd. No one could expect it of her. But she did greatly wish that other people would allude to the necessity for some early change, instead of leaving the suggestion to spring from herself.

A whole week! What could have become of the poor young widow? Everybody was asking this question, though nobody seemed to trouble his brains as to its effects, possible or probable, upon Mrs. Burrell's pocket.

In the Colonel's mind, little doubt existed that Mrs. Mordaunt had been run down in some crowded thoroughfare, and killed on the spot, thus finding in the great metropolis a nameless grave. Almost the only alternative, according to his view of the case, was that she might have wandered away in the bewildering fog to the brink of a certain canal, not so very far distant, and there, with one sudden splash and one brief struggle, have ended her sad short life. Mr. Powis held much the same opinion. But nobody had ventured to suggest such ideas to Rhona. She was daily and hourly watching still, with unshaken hope, for her mother's return.

"I should think it can't be very much longer," she had said that morning to Bertha, while taking her simple breakfast. The child looked sadly pale and thin, and her dark eyes wore a touchingly wistful expression. "It can't be very much longer, Bertha. Colonel Smyth thinks she must have been knocked down and stunned in the fog." Rhona was always recurring to this idea, as if to reassure herself. "Just stunned, and that might not mean she was so very very much hurt. He says she might be carried to a hospital, or taken into somebody's house,—and if she were stunned, she couldn't tell them her name or where she lived."

"Colonel Smyth has asked at some of the hospitals, has he not, dear?" asked Bertha.

"Yes, and he can't hear anything. But you see, they would not know her name, so she might be somewhere without their finding her. O Bertha! If only she had not dropped her purse."

"God will take care of her," said Bertha in a low voice.

"Yes,—I try not to forget that. Of course He knows all—everything. Mother says we must trust Him. Bertha, don't you think it must be just as Colonel Smyth says? He understands better than we do."

"I dare say he does, dear." Bertha found it hard to meet the child's gaze.

"So it can't be a very great deal longer, before she comes," continued Rhona. "When people are stunned, it doesn't generally last longer than a week, does it? I asked Colonel Smyth, and he said there was no knowing."

"I shouldn't think it did—often," faltered Bertha.

"And every single day is nearer her coming back," said Rhona. "I don't think I ever had such a week,—oh, so long. The minutes seem to creep—creep. And I am always thinking I hear mother's step,—and yet she never comes. If only I just knew where she is, I could bear it better. I 'could,'" repeated the child, with an indescribably pitiful look.

"I am sure you do bear it all wonderfully, dear," said Bertha. "But you must eat some breakfast now."

"I could eat, if mother came back. It doesn't seem as if I could now," the child said wearily; and then heavy tears fell, not with a burst of weeping, but in slow large drops, like the beginning of a thunder-shower.

Bertha could not but stay to comfort the lonely child; and that was how she came in for a scolding from Mrs. Burrell.

All this time, the Colonel continued to pay frequent visits to Rhona, showing great interest in her well-being. He entered her room at least three times a day, and he sent her many little delicacies from his own table, but he did not ask her to take meals with him. Thus far—with the caution, perhaps, of an old bachelor—he seemed desirous to avoid committing himself, and anxious to eschew responsibilities. But the question of Rhona's future haunted the Colonel at least as much as it haunted Mrs. Burrell. Something would have to be done soon, and he knew it.

Three more days of waiting exhausted Mrs. Burrell's patience. She found her way into the back bedroom, soon after breakfast, and stood uneasily within the door, one hand fidgeting the antimacassar over a chair-back.

Rhona was seated at the table, writing a French translation. There was a singular fortitude about this frail child. She seemed bent upon keeping on exactly in the same lines of conduct and occupation which her mother, if present, would have had her pursue. The opening door caused a tremulous start as if from an electric shock, followed by a look of bitter disappointment. It was so a dozen times a day.

Mrs. Burrell meant to be very kind. She began by asking how Rhona was, hardly prepared for the reply,—

"I shall be quite well when mother comes back."

"But, Miss Rhona—" said Mrs. Burrell

"I can't till then. Of course I can't. It makes me 'ache' so, to have her away all this time," the child said sadly. "But she is sure to come soon. Don't you think so?"

Mrs. Burrell was at a loss. She could say neither "yes" nor "no," with those eyes upon her,—eyes which seemed to have gained in size and brightness, the last few days, and in a kind of intense watchfulness.

"Miss Rhona, I don't want to trouble you," the landlady remarked, after a pause. "But your poor mamma always settled with me every week for the week's expenses. And it is two days after the usual time,—two days and more."

"Oh yes, yes,—I oughtn't to have forgotten," said Rhona hurriedly, her face working. The long strain of suspense was telling greatly upon the child. "I have enough, in mother's purse,—quite enough for this week, and next week, and more. Mother would want me to pay, I am sure." She drew the large purse with some difficulty out of her pocket.

"It don't matter just this moment," said Mrs. Burrell, feeling uncomfortable. "I'll bring the bill to-morrow. You see I'm only a widow myself, and obliged to work for my livelihood. If I could afford to keep you without pay, I'm sure I should be glad enough. But that is just what I can't do."

"Oh no, and there is no need," said Rhona. "Mother will be back in a day or two. She is sure to come very soon now."

"But if she didn't, Miss Rhona?"

"If she didn't!"

The dark eyes turned an appalled look upon the landlady.

"Well, Miss Rhona, you needn't be vexed," said Mrs. Burrell, misunderstanding the expression. "Of course nobody can tell what has become of your poor mamma,—if we could, there 'd be no need to wonder. And if she don't come back soon, I don't see what you're to do."

"I can't do anything. I can only just wait," Rhona answered, her face taking its most unchildlike expression. "I must wait till God brings mother back to me."

"Yes, of course, Miss Rhona." Mrs. Burrell spoke rather pettishly. "Yes, of course,—that's all very proper and nice, I don't doubt,—but people can't live upon waiting, nor upon hopes. I suppose you haven't got enough in your poor mamma's purse to keep you for very long. I've been thinking whether there aren't any friends or uncles or aunts of yours, who would take you in and give you a home, so that I should have my room free to let to somebody else, if it was to happen that your mamma 'didn't' come back;—for a good long while."

The appalled look returned as a flash; and in deference to it, Mrs. Burrell added the last five words after a break, originally intended to be a full stop. But the break was too long, the first intention too distinct. Rhona read her real meaning.

A pause followed. Mrs. Burrell was uneasy at the effect of her own words. Rhona sat still, with her little hands loosely folded, uttering not a sound, but staring fixedly at the landlady, while a grey hue overspread her face.

"I don't mean anything particular, so you needn't be frightened," Mrs. Burrell was constrained to add. "You see you're only a child, Miss Rhona, and you don't understand. But people must look forward and arrange things, or, dear me, how ever could the world get along?"

Rhona neither stirred nor spoke, and her fascinated gaze remained unchanged.

Mrs. Burrell winced under it. She thought Rhona was trying haughtily to stare her out of countenance.

"I don't see that you've any call to look at me like that,—I don't really, Miss Rhona. It isn't like a young lady. I'm sure I have been a good friend to you, and anybody would say so. I'd do more if I could, but the fact is I'm not well off, and I don't mind saying it. I have got myself and my own girl to consider, not to speak of a niece put upon me as it was. And it's no use to say I'm not enough burdened already, for I am.

"I didn't mean to put it into your head about your poor mamma never coming back,—though to be sure everybody is saying it, and the Colonel most of all—but I don't see how you are to go on week after week and nothing settled. I thought maybe the Colonel might do something, but he don't seem disposed. And if there's relations they ought to be told,—that's 'my' opinion. Your poor mamma said one day that there was some she didn't want to have to do with. But if there's no other home for you, and they are willing to take you in, I don't really see as you've got much choice. That's all I have to say, and it's my duty to say it. But I didn't mean to startle you, of course, Miss Rhona. Do wake up, and look natural, and stop staring,—it's enough to give one the creeps, I declare, to see you."

THE COLONEL AND RHONA.

COLONEL SMYTH tapped thrice during the delivery of Mrs. Burrell's speech, and receiving no answer, he peeped in and entered.

"Nobody spoke, so I thought nobody was here," he said. "How is the little maid this morning? Why, Rhona! Hallo!"

"I'm sure I didn't mean any harm," began the now alarmed landlady.

The Colonel cut Mrs. Burrell short. He strode past, caught up the stony-faced child, carried her to the window, and flung it open.

"Water!" he said in a loud peremptory voice.

And Mrs. Burrell brought a tumbler, "all of a tremble" herself, as she afterwards declared.

Colonel Smyth forced a few drops through the clenched teeth, and dashed some lavishly into the rigid features.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked fiercely.

"I'm sure, sir, I hadn't any idea of making Miss Rhona ill," Mrs. Burrell said, in a voice half-aggrieved, half-apologetic. "I'm sure I didn't say anything much. It wasn't to be expected I could go on day after day, and not a word said,—keeping a child without pay that has nobody belonging to her."

"Pay!" said the Colonel, with flashing eyes. "Bring your bill to me to-morrow morning. You hear?"

"Yes, sir," Mrs. Burrell answered, pallid between contending emotions, as indignation fought with prudence.

"And if you say one word more to this child about the matter—I leave that day week. You understand?"

"Yes, sir," repeated Mrs. Burrell, trembling with anger, yet by no means forgetful that the Colonel was a lodger worth retaining. "I'm sure I hadn't the least wish to say what I oughtn't to Miss Rhona. I only just said her poor mamma had always settled with me every week, and so she did,—and I only just asked her what she meant to do if Mrs. Mordaunt wasn't to come back soon—as I've heard you say you didn't think she was like to do, poor thing."

"Hold your tongue!" commanded the Colonel. "The child is coming to."

A gasping cry told of returning life; and then there was a burst of agonised sobs and hysteric laughter.

Colonel Smyth would not have believed this ordinarily quiet and gentle child to be capable of so wild an outbreak. The pent-up billows of the last ten days had their way at last. Once and again, the paroxysm seemed dying away, only to return with renewed violence. Rhona was evidently conscious, for she shrank and shuddered at Mrs. Burrell's touch, and clung to the Colonel as if for protection.

Some measure of embarrassment might under the circumstances have been natural to an elderly bachelor, whose acquaintance with childish tears had been hitherto of the slightest. But the embarrassment, if felt, did not appear. Those little clinging fingers sent a curious thrill of pleasure through the Colonel's hardy frame. He would not have her out of his arms. And when the landlady suggested and brought eau-de-Cologne, he applied it himself, clumsily yet tenderly. Then as the rending sobs of distress changed into moans of sharp bodily pain, always more or less the accompaniment of tears with Rhona, he paced the room, bearing the slight creature in his arms, now and then touching her forehead with his moustached lips, till the moans too died away, and Rhona was asleep.

"Best thing for her, poor mite!" the Colonel muttered.

He allowed the much-exercised landlady to depart, and carried Rhona into his own sitting-room. There, laid on a comfortable sofa, with a shawl spread over her, she spent many hours in unconsciousness. The Colonel had his own luncheon, without disturbing the sleeper; and his usual walks were foregone that he might keep watch beside the couch. He had a book in hand, but he read little. Ever and anon his glances wandered to the small delicate face, with its broad saddened brow, and long lashes lying on white cheeks.

From time to time, Rhona stirred uneasily, and more than once she clasped her hands with a muttered—"Mother!" But still she did not wake.

The Colonel put down his book, and gazed steadily at Rhona. A curious far-away look came into his own eyes, as he did so,—a look of sorrowful recollection. The Colonel's rugged features were strangely softened by it.

"Wonderful likeness!" he murmured. "Why didn't I let myself see Mary Mordaunt sooner? Folly, to put off. As if I ever meant her to go on so any length of time! Poor thing!—And she might have been spared this. I shall never forgive myself. A young lonely thing like that, with a double claim on me. Why should it be worse to see Margaret's child than Margaret's grandchild? And I was thirsting for it all the while. If the look in her eyes had been like this child's, I couldn't have resisted it. Well, well, well,—no use to worry myself now. There's only this poor little one to see after."

The Colonel actually gave vent to a heavy sigh. He went slowly to a drawer, unlocked it, and drew out a small morocco case, containing a miniature likeness. Then for two minutes he stood at the foot of the couch, comparing in a succession of glances the girl-face in the picture and the child-face on the pillow.

"I believe it will almost serve for a likeness of Rhona herself a few years hence," he said, as he locked up the little case.

"Rhona."

He bent low, and spoke the word gently. Colonel Smyth was not commonly counted gentle, but all the dormant tenderness in his nature was drawn out towards this child.

She started instantly into full consciousness, almost instantly into full recollection. One "Mother!" burst from her lips at the moment of awaking, and then, with a low, "Oh, I forgot!" she hid her face.

"Come, my dear, you are to take this," said the Colonel. "I thought you would like sandwiches better than anything else,—not so much trouble to get through. Don't feel hungry, do you? But you are going to eat to please me."

Rhona silently submitted, so far as making the attempt was concerned, though success was small. He had soon to take away the plate. She gave him one soft grateful look, and then lay again with closed eyes, and a look of patient suffering. The Colonel was very much at a loss how to deal with the child. He drew a chair to her side at length, and sat down.

"Rhona, can you bear a few words?" he asked. "I am afraid Mrs. Burrell has been bothering you, and I want to set matters right. Try not to cry, my dear—" as two heavy drops fell.

"I wouldn't if I could help," said Rhona gently.

"Mrs. Burrell said something about bills, didn't she? I have told her she is to bring the bills to me, and not to say another word to you."

Rhona looked at him anxiously, and tried to raise herself.

"Don't move, my dear,—what do you want?" asked the Colonel, as she fell back.

"I can't sit up," said Rhona. "I wanted to get out mother's purse."

"If you like to put the purse in my charge, I will keep it for you safely, and not spend a penny in it till—" the Colonel paused. "Till your mother comes home," he had been about to say. But he did not believe Mrs. Mordaunt ever would come home. Was it true or false kindness to buoy up the child with hopes which would probably never be realised?

He knew how she was looking at him, waiting for more; but the sentence remained unfinished.

"I should like to give it to you, please," Rhona said at length, in a tone of indescribable sorrow, which went to the Colonel's heart. Not for years had his sympathies been so stirred.

"Remember, Rhona," he said, as he helped her to get out the purse—"nobody really knows. Your mother may come back yet. We must not make up our minds too hastily."

"But you don't think—you don't 'think'—" the child said in a low voice of agony, tears running down her cheeks.

Colonel Smyth hesitated again. He could not say "Yes." He would not say "No." Something else was in his mind to be said; only he had not meant to commit himself so soon. But Rhona's face was too much for him, and prudent considerations went to the winds. What he did was to lift her again on his knee, folding her round with his strong arms, and letting her head lie on his shoulder, while he asked in a tone husky with strong feeling,—

"Will you be my own little girl, just till mother comes back? Perhaps she will yet,—nobody knows. Shall I take care of you till then?"

Rhona clung to him silently, weeping still, yet with a lessened sense of forlornness.

"You don't want to go to those aunts of yours, do you?—The Miss Mordaunts that you told me about."

"Oh no, no, no," sobbed Rhona, with sufficient childish energy. "Oh no, no,—they were so unkind to my sweet mother."

"Then you shall not. We will keep out of way for the present. And you will be my little girl now,—just till mother comes back. Do you think you can manage to call me 'uncle,' instead of 'Colonel Smith?'"

"I don't mind," Rhona whispered. "I mean, I'll try,—if you like."

"I should like it much best."

"I'll try," repeated the child. "Only you are not my uncle."

"Never mind that. Perhaps some day you will wake up and find that I am. Queerer things do happen."

"I don't see how I could, because I haven't got any uncles," said Rhona soberly. "Father had no brothers, or mother—mother—either."

"Never mind, my poor little one," the Colonel said soothingly. "You will not object to having a new uncle now, at all events. And mind,—you have to tell me everything you want, just as if you really belonged to me. You understand?"

"So Miss Rhona is to take her meals with the Colonel," said Mrs. Burrell, having received orders to that effect, later in the day. "Going to see after her till Mrs. Mordaunt comes back, he says! Well, of course it's no business of mine, so long as my bills are paid. But Mrs. Mordaunt won't come back, and he'll be tired of her before a month is over. 'I' know what gentlemen are. 'I' should have said she ought to have gone to her own relations, and not be put upon a stranger. Of course it isn't my business. And the Colonel will manage things his own way. The way he spoke to me this morning, I shan't soon forget." Mrs. Burrell was sore still, and disposed to view the Colonel's actions with jaundiced eyes.

AN EVENTFUL EVENING.

THE Colonel found himself in for a month of nursing, or of something nearly approaching thereto. It was a novel position for him. He had always abhorred invalids and eschewed sick-rooms, with the self-indulgence of a man whose own comfort is his prime consideration.

And here he was suddenly, not far from his sixtieth year, after a long and undisturbed bachelor-life, with a frail little creature on his hands, broken-hearted at losing her mother, positively ill from mental stress, entirely dependent on the Colonel's generosity, and unconsciously able to turn him to right and to left with one glance of her sweet sad eyes.

The Colonel succumbed to the new condition of things, once and for all; and Mrs. Burrell had no choice but to follow suit. She was privately wrathful at times, declaring to her daughter and niece that "everything in the house had to give way to that child, whether or no!" meaning, doubtless, "whether or no she herself approved."

But she attempted no open resistance; not even when Colonel Smyth desired that Bertha should sleep in the back bedroom with Rhona, and be considered her special attendant. He offered additional remuneration for the same; and Mrs. Burrell liked the remuneration though not the arrangement. Bertha undertook her share of the matter with silent rapture, and a warm affection sprang up between her and the child.

"You nice Bertha!" Rhona would call her often, in grateful tones.

Of course the Colonel was direfully ignorant as to children's needs and sick people's ways. Hothouse grapes in profusion were all very well, but he was impressed with the necessity for lollypops and bulls-eyes for infant delectation. And his anxiety to "feed up" Rhona upon the rich soups, stews and curries, in which he himself delighted, was only equalled by his astonishment at finding them rejected.

"Mother wouldn't let me," in the child's languid voice, always put an end to persuasions.

But he gave way reluctantly, and found her tastes enigmatical.

Rhona had no appetite and no spirit. She lay day after day upon the sofa, sometimes in her own bedroom, more often in the Colonel's sitting-room, always greeting him with a smile, but unable to employ herself. She had evidently accepted the thought that her mother would not return; and with this acceptance, all interest in life seemed to have died away.

After the first storm of sorrow, there were no more outbreaks; only she would often lie with closed eyes, slow tears stealing from beneath her lashes, while the broad brow was dented with pain. French exercises were no longer attempted; and even story-books, though gratefully received, were not read.

Mrs. Burrell recommended calling in a doctor, but the Colonel was averse to this.

"There was nothing the matter with the child, only fretting," he said. "She would get over it in time."

He did not realise that persistent fretting might at last end in positive illness; and he had an odd feeling that to summon a doctor would imply a need for anxiety. Colonel Smyth did not wish to be made anxious about Rhona, for she was twining herself round his heart. It was curious to see how he shortened his daily walks, and absented himself from his usual outdoor resorts that he might spend hours beside the child.

Mr. Powis came in now and then to visit her, though not greatly encouraged by the Colonel. But as yet, Rhona could say little to either of them. She seemed to want only to lie still.

It came to the Colonel's hearing one day, as a result of his inquiries, that just about the date of Mrs. Mordaunt's disappearance, the body of a woman had been found in a certain canal,—a young woman, dark-haired, slender, dressed in mourning, apparently most respectable, perhaps even a lady, but having about her no name or address. The place was at a considerable distance where the body was discovered, but higher up in its course that same canal passed within a mile and a half of Mrs. Howard's house. The poor young woman had received Parish burial; and beyond these facts the Colonel could find out little. He had, however, small doubt from that hour that his conjecture as to drowning in the fog was correct, and thenceforth, he began to count little Rhona indeed his own.

It was not his intention that Rhona should ever hear this sad tale. But his resolution to keep silence was shaken.

"Rhona, I wish I knew what would do you good," he said one afternoon.

He had taken her on his knee, and she was lying in his arms, sadly silent as usual. The stir of her eyelashes showed that she was not sleeping. Colonel Smyth had a strange sense of pleasure in the feeling of the little head resting on his shoulder. He began to wonder how he had managed to live alone so many years.

"I wish I knew what would do you good," he repeated. "I don't like to see my little girl always so white and tired."

"I shan't be tired—some day—perhaps," murmured the child.

"But I want to know of something that will make you less tired now," he said.

"There isn't anything—except—" Rhona said.

He felt the sigh which finished her broken utterance.

"My little pet, I should like to see you happier," said the Colonel.

"I don't think I am exactly unhappy," said Rhona, with a singular sedateness. "I think I am happy."

Colonel Smyth lifted her up, and looked earnestly into the pale face, with its large wistful eyes.

"No, no, no," he said. "That is not happiness. I want to see you merry and gay like other children—able to jump, and laugh, and play. But it is too soon yet, isn't it? Now, now, don't cry—" as two or three glittering drops fell. "Crying always brings on the pain in this poor little head, and that makes you feel so dull."

"I can't help it when I think of mother," whispered Rhona, with an evident struggle to speak. "It is so—'so' dreadful not to know. If only I just knew! If only I just knew!" And she wrung her hands together.

"Just knew?" repeated the Colonel.

"Where she is!" Rhona answered, with bitter tears. "If only I could know!"

"It is worse being uncertain than not knowing,—even if you had to be sure of the very worst?" the Colonel said questioningly.

"Yes,—oh yes," sobbed the poor child. "I can't bear not to know. I do so want to go to her—and take care of her—if she is ill."

"You poor little mite, you want taking care of yourself," said the Colonel.

And then he debated the matter silently, plunging at length into a sentence, without much idea of how it was to end—

"Rhona, your mother was a good woman, very good,—and she was lonely and had a great many troubles, I suspect. Suppose it was as we fear, that some accident had happened in that fog, and so she never could come back. I don't say it is so, but suppose it were? Mother would be safe in heaven then, wouldn't she? Don't you think she would be very happy there, much happier than she was here?"

The Colonel felt uncomfortable at his own words; for certainly the very last happiness he desired for himself was the happiness of heaven. But he guessed rightly that no other line of argument would avail to comfort Rhona.

"She wouldn't be glad to leave me," the poor little lips faltered.

"But she would be happy there, Rhona—I suppose—with your father, you know. People are always happy in heaven," said the Colonel, vaguely trying to administer the right sort of spiritual consolation.

"Oh yes,—yes," Rhona answered. "If only I knew!"

"It would make you feel easier in mind to picture your mother as in heaven, instead of perhaps suffering among strangers," suggested the Colonel. "Then I can tell you more than you know yet. Can you bear to hear the worst, my little girl? There was somebody found drowned in a canal, soon after that foggy day, and she was dressed in black and had no name upon her. I think it must have been your mother, Rhona. I think she must have lost her way in the fog, and have wandered to the canal and fallen in. They say that drowning is a very painless death,—much more painless than being run over, for instance. And now she will never have any more troubles, you know."

The child heard in absolute silence. He could not detect even a quiver of her eyelids. The Colonel waited silently the space of two minutes, and then grew alarmed. Had she fainted?

"Rhona, my dear! Rhona!" he said. "You are not asleep, my dear?"

"Oh no. I am so glad you have told me," Rhona answered in a low unchildlike voice, full of sorrow, and joy. "I am so glad I know,—so glad I know."

"And you will not fret so much, my little girl," said the Colonel. "You are going to belong to me now, and I am going to take care of you for mother's sake. You will try to love me, Rhona."

"Oh yes, I do love you," Rhona answered in same strange voice, and she sat upright on his knee, deathly pale. "I am so glad."

"Not glad of what I have told you! Impossible, my dear," expostulated the Colonel, not liking the unnatural light in her eyes.

"Oh no!"

He did not know what to make of the child. "Put your head down here, and try to go to sleep," he said coaxingly.

She went back to her former position in obedient fashion, but presently he heard her murmur,—"God's will—"

"Yes,—" said Colonel Smyth uneasily.

"Mother said I must love His will,—every bit of it. I couldn't till now."

"People are not expected to like trouble, Rhona."

"No, not trouble," Rhona replied in sweet grave tones. "But God's will."

"I suppose that sometimes comes to the same thing," said the Colonel.

Rhona did not attempt to disentangle the matter for him; perhaps she did not even see his difficulty. Her next remark startled him considerably.

"I wish it was time for me to go too!"

"To go to bed?"

She fairly smiled. "Oh no. I meant, to go to heaven."

"My dear, you must not talk like that. It is positively wrong," said the Colonel. "I never heard of such a thing! A little girl of your age wanting to be dead! It is quite wicked."

"Is it? Mother didn't tell me so," soberly answered Rhona, less affected by the Colonel's energetic protest than he had intended her to be.

A happy thought struck the Colonel. "I am sure your friend, Mr. Powis, would say the same. You talk of liking God's will, and then you want to die in a hurry before your right time. Why, the two things are incompatible. Of course it is not the Divine Will that everybody should die directly trouble comes. People must show submission and bear up courageously, or the world would come to a standstill. You ought to wish to live, and to do your duty in your station, and to be—ahem—a useful member of society," concluded the Colonel, looking down with a rather odd feeling upon the pure and peaceful little face.

"Yes," answered Rhona meekly. "I suppose I didn't think of all that. I only wanted so much to be with mother. But I should like to be a 'useful member' very much,—only I don't exactly know what it means."

The Colonel's lips twitched under his moustache.

Rhona had her most thoughtful look.

"Oh, I know—" she said after a pause. "There's a chapter in the Bible, with ever so much about members, and one member feeling with the rest. Mother talked about that sometimes. She said all the members might be useful in their own ways."

The Colonel grunted a monosyllabic answer.

"But I don't see how I can be useful to you," said Rhona gently.

"You shall mend my gloves for me, some day,—when you are well. I have never had anybody to do that for me since—"

"Since you were at home and your own sisters did it?" suggested Rhona.

"No, not my sisters. I meant somebody else," said the Colonel, in a constrained voice.

"Was it a great friend? Somebody that you loved very much?" asked Rhona, deeply interested.

The Colonel's sunburnt face changed a little. "Yes," he said. "But that is a long while ago."

"And was she very fond of you?" asked Rhona.

"I thought so—at one time," muttered the Colonel.

"And did she always go on mending your gloves as long as she lived?" pursued the child.

"Oh dear, no,—not nearly so long. She grew tired of me," said the Colonel, with a thin disguise of outside indifference, penetrated at once by Rhona.

She gave him one sorrowful look, and then clasped his arm.

"I don't like her at all. She ought not to have got tired. You are so good and so kind. But I shall always, always like to mend your gloves, uncle. And I shall always love you."

"You are my own dear little girl!" whispered the Colonel.

He sat up late that evening, alone in the drawing-room, with a book on his knees which he could not read. Memories of olden days were stirred,—memories of one, once dear to him, nay always dear, though the love which still lived in his heart was mingled with bitterness. Colonel Smyth was one of those rare specimens of mankind, with whom to be once deceived is to be always deceived, once disappointed always disappointed. Not that his had been an unhappy life. He had found other interests, had made other friends. But no second woman could fill the place once held in his heart by a certain Margaret Willis; no later love could usurp the place of his first love. His brother officers had found him brave and true; not a religious man, even in profession, but morally irreproachable; and among them he had been as a rule popular. Towards women, however, his ordinary manners had been marked by a brusquerie which in the opinion of some amounted even to bearishness,—until little Rhona won her way into his affections, putting aside all barriers.

"Would she be like the rest of them?" he sometimes inquired mentally, jumbling "the rest of them" dismally together in the grey light of his own early disappointment. Would she ever become fickle and uncertain, ever learn to rejoice in her womanly power to wound? He put this question to himself now, sitting alone in the lamplight, and his own answer was an emphatic negative. A vision rose in his mind of a fair and brilliant face, side by side with Rhona's placid brow and sweet eyes.

"No, no, no,—wonderfully alike, but not the same. And Rhona has had a different training. Too much religious talk of course; but something genuine below."

From memories of Margaret Willis, he passed by an easy transition to yet earlier recollections. He felt himself once again a little boy at his mother's knee,—a peculiar and wilful child understood by no one except that mother, so early taken away. His life after her death had been a continuous knocking of his own hard corners against those of other people, more especially in the home-circle.

He could hardly have told at first what had called up these pictures, till he seemed suddenly to hear his mother's soft voice asking,—"Does my Harry love Jesus?" That was the association; Rhona's reverent utterance of the holy Name.

Everybody else in the house had gone to bed; and still the Colonel sat on, plunged in deep reverie. The reverie unexpectedly became slumber.

Had Colonel Smyth not been thus stirred and roused, so as to break through his usual habits, they might have all been burnt to death in their beds that night. It was one of those merciful mysterious Providences, which we may note but cannot explain, except by ascribing them to Divine watchfulness and Fatherly care.

The Colonel slept long and soundly, leaning back in his comfortable easy-chair. But by-and-by a dream began to trouble him.

He thought himself sailing on the high seas, going out to India, young again in years, with hopes for the future bright and strong within him. He was not alone, for two women stood, one on either side of him; on the right his mother, as he dimly remembered her, soft and tender and shadowy; on the left a young girl, brilliantly fair and beautiful, so like little Rhona in feature that she might be Rhona grown up, only 'not' Rhona.

"She is mine now,—my own," Colonel Smyth murmured. "Mine always. No one can ever take her from me."

He would have clasped her hand, but the fingers round which his own closed were cold as ice, and seemed to shrink out of his grasp. Then as he looked at her, she slowly faded and changed, till Margaret was gone, and little Rhona stood there in her stead, looking up with wistful eyes, and saying, "I shall always love you, uncle."

Even in his sleep, Colonel Smyth sighed bitterly, though he laid a kind hand on the child's head.

Then suddenly, he saw red flames springing from the deck, in front and on either side, and the air was thick with smoke. None but himself seemed to see the peril they were in. Captain and crew went quietly about their occupations, while those red flames curled upwards, and a strange sense of nightmare withheld the Colonel from uttering a sound. Rhona stood by him still, but his mother's form was changing.

"Must I lose all again?" he vainly strove to say.

And she answered the unspoken question in soft far-off tones, "Yes,—all,—until my Harry learns to know and to serve JESUS."

She seemed to pass away like a mist-wreath into the flames, with a smile upon her lips.

Then at length, the cry of "Fire! Fire!" burst from the Colonel, but nobody paid attention.

He called aloud in vain, while the flames drew nearer, and he was rooted to the spot. He struggled fiercely in his sleep, under the sense of helplessness. And as he strove, Rhona turned to him with an ineffable smile, and the Name upon her lips which she so loved to utter. Then she too passed upwards, and the Colonel was left alone, feeling himself cut off from her for ever.

"Rhona! Rhona! Come back!" he cried, and there the dream ended.

Colonel Smyth awoke, absolutely trembling, and covered with cold perspiration. "Pshaw!" he exclaimed. "How utterly absurd! I never dreamt such nonsense in my life."

He pulled out his watch mechanically. "Half-past one! Unearthly hours! No wonder I took to dreaming. Something at dinner must have disagreed with me. Well,—I must go to bed at once."

Ha! What was this strange odour, and the thick mistiness filling the air, both of which the Colonel had at the first moment been too bewildered to perceive?

"Smoke! That's not right!" He started immediately into full wakefulness.

Three strides took him to the door, but when he flung it open, eddying wreaths came rolling in. The Colonel recoiled, aghast. A strong smell of burning pervaded the atmosphere, and distant crackling with a continuous low roar struck upon his ear.

The house was on fire,—and not a soul among the sleepers aware of the fact. Standing there,—as for one half-second he did stand,—he could distinctly hear the landlady's nasal utterances upstairs.

"Fire! Fire! Fire!" Shouts from the street now reached him. Had the outer world only just become aware of the terrible fact?

"Fire! Fire! Wake up! The house is on fire!" rang through the passages in the Colonel's stentorian tones.

An answering shriek from above showed that he was heard. Disregarding all else, he rushed into Rhona's room.

A fierce glow from beneath cast sufficient light through the striped blind to guide his steps. But the heat was intense, and the smoke stifling. The fire seemed to have originated on this side of the house.

A sharp shake aroused Bertha, and she sprang up, stupefied yet conscious. Five minutes later, she would have been past easy awakening.

"Quick, not a minute to spare," the Colonel said, as he passed on, and caught up the sleeping child, wrapping a large woollen shawl around her.

"Throw on anything—dressing-gown and blanket. Ha!" as the contact of her bare feet with the floor caused an exclamation. "Yes, your shoes. Quick, my good girl."

Rhona lay heavily in his arms, uttering not a sound. The Colonel paused an instant to snatch up a long towel, plunge it in water, and twist it round the lower part of his face, letting one end drop protectingly over Rhona's mouth and nose. He dipped a second, and flung it to Bertha.

"Do as I do," he said briefly. "Now come."

Opening the door, he went straight to the stairs, followed closely by Bertha. What had become of the two upstairs, he could not pause to think. His whole energies were bent on saving little Rhona first from the terrible death with which she was threatened.

Thick waves of smoke met them, stinging and choking. But for the protecting towels, they could not have advanced a dozen steps.

Descent by the staircase was impossible. That soon became evident. The roar of flames and the rush of burning smoke increased each instant.

Colonel Smyth grasped Bertha's arm, feeling her stagger. "Back! Back!" he said. "Upstairs at once! To my bedroom! This way is hopeless."

How they managed the ascent, he never afterwards knew. Supporting the child on one arm, upholding and urging Bertha with the other, he seemed possessed of almost superhuman strength. Leaving the drawing-room floor behind, they pressed upwards, guided by the glare of light from below, and by screams from above.

Mrs. Burrell and Hope had quitted their own bedroom at the back of the house, for a glance downstairs, being at once beaten back by the sights and sounds encountered. They had rushed into the Colonel's front bedroom, to find no Colonel there. Hope was leaning out of one window in her nightdress, shrieking continuously; and Mrs. Burrell, in a red shawl, stood by her, wearing a look of utter despair.

FIRE!

SHUTTING the door behind him, Colonel Smyth went swiftly to the second window, bearing still the unconscious child, and dragging the half-stupefied Bertha. He flung it open, and a cry of horror broke from the gathering crowd below, at the sight of three more threatened victims.

"No way out, I suppose, along the leads, either front or back?" Colonel Smyth inquired of Bertha.

As yet, Mrs. Burrell and Hope, in their absorption of terror, had not become aware of the Colonel's entrance.

Bertha's "No, sir," was bewildered.

He saw that she hardly knew what she said.

"Take the child for a moment!" And he laid Rhona in the girl's arms.

Then he was gone from the room, but only for a few seconds. Almost before Bertha had time to conjecture his purpose, he returned. And as he reached the window, Rhona opened her eyes, revived by a breath of fresher air.

"No hope there," he said gloomily. "I had thoughts of a descent at the back, making use of the cistern,—but the flames are all over it. Why is there no fire-escape?"

The Colonel was a brave man, but the threatening peril was very terrible, rendered still more terrible by his utter helplessness; and his cheeks blanched as he gazed.

To meet death on the battle-field would have been far easier.

"What are they about?" he groaned inaudibly. "The fire has made fearful way."

"Can't we get out?" Rhona asked, her clear voice sounding distinctly through the roar of the fire and the shouts of the crowd.

She seemed to have wakened quietly to a full sense of the position, and her large eyes were dilated with fear. She had slid partly out of Bertha's arms, which indeed were hardly able to bear her up, and stood leaning against her kind attendant, swathed still in the blanket from head to foot.

"I hope so,—very soon," the Colonel answered gravely. "I expect a fire-escape every moment. You have no ropes here, my good girl?" he asked of Bertha in a lower tone.

She shook her head mutely.

"The sheets—" said the Colonel.

Mrs. Burrell and Hope, becoming suddenly aware of their presence, rushed to the same window. Mrs. Burrell passionately implored aid, and Hope fairly flung herself at Colonel Smyth's feet, with sobs and incoherent shrieks.

"Hush! Be quiet," he said sternly. "Don't you see that we are all in the same condition? Here! You had better help me fasten the sheets together. Not you, Bertha,—don't leave Miss Rhona."

Hope was limp and helpless, but Mrs. Burrell, though refusing to move far from the window, gave some assistance. The Colonel worked as a man works for his life; and, in an incredibly short space of time, the improvised rope of sheets and blankets was ready for use. He brought it to the window, and there paused. The descent thus would be a passage through smoke and flame.

"Will any one make the trial?" asked the Colonel, looking round.

Hope hid her face.

Bertha said steadily, "I will take Miss Rhona down, if you wish, sir."

He looked at her and at the child, and shuddered.

"It would be a bare chance," he muttered. "Hardly a hope. Hanging so close to the windows, the sheets would certainly take fire. Wait a few more seconds," he said aloud. "The escape, if it comes soon, will be better."

Hope flung herself wildly on the knotted bedding. "Oh let me down, let me down," she cried piercingly; "I can't stay here. Oh let me down—quick—"

Colonel Smyth made no fresh protest. He was indeed unable to decide whether the peril of going or of delaying were the greatest. With compressed lips, he attached the end blanket to her waist, folding her up in it as much as possible, and helped her to mount the sill. But a glance over proved too much for her fortitude, and with a scream she fell back into the room.

"Don't you mean to go, Hope?" asked her mother in a voice of sullen misery.

"Oh, I don't know," gasped Hope. "Oh, I don't know. It looks so frightful. Oh, what shall I do?"

"The floor burns my feet," murmured Rhona patiently, and Colonel Smyth caught her up in his arms.

"What can they be about? Why don't they come?" he groaned, as she clung to him.

"I don't think we shall be burnt. God will take care of us," said Rhona.

"Pray to Him, my dear,—you know how. Pray for all of us," whispered the Colonel.

"I am praying all the time. God will take care of us," Rhona said again. But after a moment she added softly, "Only He might want to take me to mother that way. Would it hurt very much?"

Colonel Smyth could not answer, and again Hope sprang up wildly. "Oh, it burns, it burns," she screamed. "Oh, let me go down. I can't stay here."

"You must choose for yourself," Colonel Smyth answered gravely. "I don't know that this is long enough, and—"

"Oh, but it is worse waiting here. It is frightful," shrieked Hope. "Let me down,—quick—quick."

Bertha again received Rhona, supporting her with difficulty. And in another instant, Hope was hanging over the depth. Her shrill cries of terror rang piercingly through the night-air, and the crowd below seemed to watch with suspended breath. Colonel Smyth paid out the improvised rope rapidly yet cautiously. But that which he had dreaded came to pass. It proved too short; and as she hung some little way from the ground, for two short seconds of agony, a leaping tongue of fire set light to the sheets by which she was suspended.

Those above could not distinguish what went on so close underneath, but Hope's screams ceased, and the weight which depended on the Colonel's hands was suddenly lightened. Whether the change meant life or death to Hope, they could not tell. A flame was running up the twisted sheeting, which Colonel Smyth held, and he flung it down as useless.

"No hope now—that way," he muttered.

Then a loud cry rose from the people, resolving itself into joyful words. "Ha! The escape at last!" echoed Colonel Smyth, with relief unutterable.

At last, and not too soon. Was it even in time! A dull crash told of the first floor falling in, and flames rushed wildly out from the lower windows, fanned by the strong breeze.

Another minute found the ladders in position, and a brave man rapidly mounted through whirling smoke.

Their rescuer appeared suddenly close to the window, a helmeted figure, framed in coils of smoke, steadying himself in his perilous position. What had to be done needed to be done quickly. For a man to remain outside there any length of time was an impossibility. Colonel Smyth would fain have sent the child down first, but Mrs. Burrell pushed resolutely to the front, and no time could be wasted in parleying. As she flung herself over the windowsill, the man grasped her. And almost before she knew what would happen next, she was performing a swift descent down the canvas trough, to be safely caught by expectant hands below.

Another rush of flame, this time from the drawing-room windows, compelled the fireman to beat a retreat. He held out his arms, and Rhona was dropped into them.

"Come at once, sir," he said, seeing only the figure of the Colonel in that fire-illuminated window. For Bertha had sunk to the floor.

Those in the street saw the fireman reappear, descending through the smoke, saw him pause and falter while still some way from the ground, saw the child slipping from his grasp. A wail of horror broke from many, but another fireman rushed underneath and caught the little figure in his arms, thereby changing the wail into a frantic cheer. The poor fellow reached the bottom in safety, though nearly fainting, and Rhona's last rescuer, handing her over to a gentleman not far-off, immediately went up to the ladder in his stead.

Rhona's new friend, a strongly-built young man, perhaps about eight and twenty in age, carried her quickly away from the vicinity of the burning house. As the fresher air again recalled her scattered senses, she was startled to find herself in the grasp of strange arms. The face which met her opening eyes was reassuring, yet her first impulse was a distressful struggle, and an imploring, "Wait! Oh, please wait! Don't take me anywhere till he is safe."

"You shall wait near, my dear. I am only taking you to a house across the road," the gentleman said kindly. "Is he your father?"

"No, it is my uncle,—it is Colonel Smyth. Oh, why doesn't he come down?" Rhona asked in an agony. "Please, please, I can't go till he is safe."

"I am afraid of your taking cold," the gentleman said. Yet for an instant he had to pause that he might wrap more closely round her the blanket, disarranged by her struggle.

It was a wild scene, viewed from where he stood. The house threatened to become soon a mass of fire; and thus far, the steady play of the engines seemed to take no effect. At the windows of houses round about, opposite and on either side, faces of ghastly pallor and fear were visible in the red glare, which glowed upon glass panes, and lent a false hue to the dark sky.

Again the booming crash, and the burst of flame told of a floor falling in. Then a gust of wind swept the heavy smoke aside, and Colonel Smyth could be seen, still at the window, apparently striving to lift a heavy weight.

"Oh, it is Bertha! O uncle!" cried poor Rhona.

One fireman, striving to ascend, had already been beaten back half-way, but another now essayed the same successfully. A few more seconds of terrible suspense, and he was on his way downward, bearing a female figure. The Colonel following, seemed in some way to slip or fail, when getting out of the window, and was all but precipitated upon the pavement below. He caught the ladder with one hand, and somehow regained his footing, showing an activity hardly to be expected at his age. The remainder of the descent was accomplished by him without accident. A sudden change in the wind appeared to have taken place; and though flames leaped out fitfully, charring the canvas bagging, yet the chief rush of smoke and heated air was now in another direction.

But of all this, including the Colonel's most narrow escape, Rhona saw nothing. One glance only was permitted. Then despite sobbing protests, she was borne hurriedly to a house over the way, near the farthest end of the street.

"Yes, yes, my dear child, you shall know all as soon as possible," the gentleman said soothingly, as answer to her pleadings. "I cannot keep you out here in the night-air. I will come and tell you directly your uncle is safely down."

"They won't let him stay there,—poor uncle! They won't let him be burnt to death," said Rhona's quivering lips.

"No, no, don't be afraid. Think how many people there are to help, and they will do their utmost. See, I am going to take you in here to a friend of mine, a kind old lady."

"But I don't know her, and I haven't any frock," said Rhona.

"Never mind the frock. You and Mrs. Montague will not be strangers long, I am sure."

It was a private house at which he stopped, just beyond the region of shops. The front door was on the latch, and the inhabitants were evidently astir. Rhona's friend entered with the air of one much at home. He carried her swiftly upstairs, clearing two steps at a time with long easy strides, tapped at a door, and on receiving no answer walked in. A candle stood alight on the dressing-table, and the bed bore signs of having been slept in that night, but nobody was present. Rhona was laid on a couch, still rolled up in her sheltering blanket, and an eider-down quilt, caught up from the bed, was spread quickly over her. The gentleman paused then and bent down, looking into her eyes.

"Will you be afraid, my dear, to lie alone for a minute?"

"No," said Rhona, returning the gaze. "I don't think I am afraid—exactly."

"I am going to see after Colonel Smyth. You would rather I should do that than stay with you,—but Mrs. Montague will come directly. Somebody might be a little hurt at the fire, and I am a doctor."

"Oh please, please, go—" Rhona implored, shivering violently, though not from cold. "Oh please, don't wait."

Presently a lady entered, little and old and gentle, dressed in a quaint flowered wrapper, while a soft cream-coloured shawl was folded round her shoulders and passed, mantilla-wise, over her head. The face within these creamy folds was singularly small, aged yet delicate, worn yet still attractive. Rhona saw so much, almost without seeing, as a little wrinkled hand patted her fingers in soothing fashion, rubbing away their chill.

"Now the other hand, if we can get at it. They have rolled you up into an Egyptian mummy. Ah, here comes the hot stuff, to put a little colour into those white cheeks. It is well I bade my maids light a fire and have boiling water ready, thinking either might be needed. Drink it up, little one and after that you shall rest in my nice bed."

ACROSS THE WAY.

COLONEL SMYTH came down the ladders quickly, though stepping with caution, even with difficulty. On reaching the ground, his first words were, "Where is my little girl?"

"She's all right, sir,—taken to a house near. You'd best stand back," one of the men said. "Is there nobody else in the house?"

Colonel Smyth half answered in the negative, and checked himself. "I do not know. There is a servant girl,—sleeping downstairs, I believe. What of her?"

"Pulled out of her bed just in time, sir,—found first of all, when the alarm was given. Nobody else, you are sure?"

"Quite sure. Thank God!" the Colonel said involuntarily. "Then all are saved. No, I am forgetting,—how about the girl I let down from the window?"

"Fell to the ground and broke her leg," the informant answered. "A doctor has seen to her, and sent her straight off to hospital. He is the same that carried the little girl away too."

"No hope of rescuing any of my belongings, I suppose," the Colonel said, looking up regretfully at his flame-wreathed drawing-room windows. "Well—let them go. Life is worth more than books and pictures. Where is the child?"

A hand was laid on his arm, and a voice said, "You had better come farther back. There is danger here?"

Colonel Smyth obeyed the touch mechanically, and the other continued, "I have taken your little girl to a friend of mine in this street. Will you come there too?"

"Thanks," the Colonel replied. "Yes, the sooner the better. I don't seem to be of any use here."

It was well they had not far to go. Mrs. Montague's house-door was no longer on the latch, but Mr. Wynne had provided himself with a latch-key, and they entered without ringing. Colonel Smyth staggered, and dropped into a chair.

"Never mind me. It is nothing," he said hastily, as if ashamed. "Where is Rhona? Not hurt, is she?"

"No, not at all. But you are," Mr. Wynne said.

"Rather scorched, I believe. I'll go to Rhona. The child must be frightened. By-the-by, what of my landlady?"

"Uninjured, but a good deal excited at the loss of her property."

"With some reason, perhaps. And the daughter—broken leg, they say."

"That, and other injuries. Gone to hospital at once; and the mother has been taken in two doors from this."

"And—yes—Bertha—what of her? I lost sight of the girl after we came down."

"She has been received in the same house as Mrs. Burrell. After seeing to your hurts, I must take a look at her,—but I am told that she does not seem much the worse for her adventure."

"Capital girl, plucky to a degree. I shall not lose sight of her, if I can help it. Has anybody any notion how the fire originated?"

"There is some idea. The servant girl was found asleep on her bed, fully dressed. The mischief evidently began in the neighbourhood of the kitchen; and she confesses to a vague recollection of leaving her candle on the lid of a box which contained shavings, meaning to go back and fetch it. She says she was so tired that she dropped down across her bed for two minutes' rest, before finishing what had to be done. The remainder may be imagined. It is a marvel that she was not burnt in her bed, before help came."

"Heinous carelessness!" muttered the Colonel. "But the poor thing was worked off her legs and out of her proper senses, I do believe. Well—Mrs. Burrell has to pay a heavy penalty. I hope her property is insured."

"I cannot say. I have not spoken to her yet. I am going to send word upstairs that you are safe; and then I must see to your hurts."

"Send word? I'm going myself," Colonel Smyth answered, starting up. "I want to satisfy my own eyes with a sight of the child."

Mr. Wynne looked doubtful, but made no protest. They were speedily within the bedroom, where Rhona lay, anxiously watching.

At the first glimpse of Colonel Smyth, she sprang up in bed with a cry of joy, sharpened into almost a scream.

Colonel Smyth was startled at the energy with which the child flung herself upon him. Mrs. Montague had arrayed her in a dressing-gown of deep pink flannel, but Rhona's cheeks outdid the hue of her pretty wrapper.

"Gently, my dear!" Mr. Wynne said, noting the Colonel's sudden wince.

He loosened her clutch with a firm hand, and laid her back on the pillow. "You must keep still, or we shall have to leave you."

Rhona had no sign of stillness about her. She remained obediently, as placed, but with eyes that shone like stars, and with breath that came in hysterical catches.

"Oh, I'm so glad, so very very glad," she said. "It is almost 'too' good. I didn't really think you could have got down. O uncle—uncle—"

"Hush, hush, my little girl; you will be ill if you excite yourself so," said Colonel Smyth, stooping to kiss her. "That is not like my gentle good Rhona."

"I don't feel gentle to-night, not a bit—and not good either," said Rhona, speaking rapidly, and flashing her large eyes to and fro. "I felt good up in that room, when we thought we should all be burnt, but not now. I suppose it is because I am so very very glad you and Bertha are safe—poor nice Bertha. And Mrs. Burrell too,—only I don't like her so much—not nearly so much. Uncle, you don't know how dreadfully frightened I was about you. And the kind doctor went to see if he could do anything."

"I found him on the ground, quite safe," said Mr. Wynne.

"Quite safe from the flames!" said Rhona, with a shudder. "I keep seeing those flames all the while. Dear, dear uncle! Only think if you hadn't come down in time! Oh, are you quite sure the flames won't catch this house, and burn us all up?"

"No fear of that," said Colonel Smyth, with an involuntary contraction of his brow, as she clasped his left hand.

"But I am so afraid—suppose they should!" said Rhona, shivering. "And we mightn't all keep awake, and mightn't know in time."

Mr. Wynne was noting the two faces carefully. He bent a little over the child, and said,—"There was a wise man once, little Rhona, who could say,—

   "'What time I am afraid, I will trust in THEE!'"

"That was King David," said Rhona hurriedly, with a brilliant smile. "It's in the Psalms, and mother did love that text so. She used to say it often."

"Then you must try to say it now."

He had not meant lip-utterance, but Rhona took the advice literally. It touched them to see the slender hands clasped, while a look of earnest gravity came over the broad brow.

   "'What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.'"

The words were not spoken to Mr. Wynne, or for Mr. Wynne's hearing. Rhona's eyes had a far-away look for a moment, before coming back to his face.

"Must I say it again?" she asked with curious simplicity.

"No, my dear," said Mr. Wynne. "You must 'think' it now; and keep yourself from talking. Colonel Smyth is coming into the next room with me for a little while."

Colonel Smyth obeyed the hint. He went straight to the window of the front room, looked out and remarked, "The glare seems lessening." Then he turned and said, "Will you help me off with my coat—carefully, please."

"Your hands are a good deal scorched," said Mr. Wynne.

"Yes, rather, but the shoulder is worst. I gave it a wrench somehow—getting out of the window—slipped and nearly fell, I believe, and saved myself by one hand. It was touch and go! Whew!" Colonel Smyth winced and paled at the light touch of Mr. Wynne's fingers. "Yes, just there. I did not know how bad it was till Rhona threw herself upon me. But no use minding. The coat has to come off somehow."

"Not that way," Mr. Wynne said, with a restraining gesture. "Wait a moment."

He was gone quickly, and reappeared with a large pair of scissors. The coat-sleeve was speedily ripped up from wrist to shoulder, Colonel Smyth submitting with only one remark,—

"Do you know I don't possess another coat in the world?"

"There are tailors in London," said Mr. Wynne.

And after a brief examination, he uttered one word—"Dislocated."

"Well, I am an old soldier, and can stand a good pull," said the Colonel. "By-the-by, are you a surgeon?"

"Yes."

"Seems a lucky event that you happened to be on the spot. You live near, I suppose?"

"No; I was called up late to a patient in this neighbourhood, and happened to be passing the end of the street on my way home, just when the alarm was first given."

"That poor girl, Bertha, will need you presently, I suspect, Doctor,—by-the-by, I have not the pleasure of knowing your name. May as well put my shoulder straight first, if you don't object."

"I am not wanted there. Dr. Marsden, living in the next street, has made his appearance, and will see to her at once. My name is Arbuthnot Wynne,—Mr., not Dr. as yet."

Colonel Smyth's movement of surprise was marked.

"You seem to recognise it," Mr. Wynne said.

"I remember a certain Dr. Wynne many years ago,—a man nearly of my own standing."

"My father probably. He is in full practice still, and we live together."

"Your patients being his, and vice versa, I suppose. Well, the sooner this little business is attended to the better. I can stand a wrench fairly well. You don't advise chloroform, do you?"

"I don't think it is necessary," said Mr. Wynne. "Will you lie down here, if you please?"

AFTERWARDS.

"THAT'S over!" said the Colonel, with an air of relief, when the bandaging was complete. The setting of the dislocated shoulder he had borne in a manner worthy of his profession; and though rather yellow-white still about the lips with pain, he was disposed to self-congratulation. "I see you inherit your father's fingers."

"A good inheritance," responded Mr. Wynne. "You will have to take things quietly for a few days."

"Well, yes, so I suppose,—as far as possible. You used to live in Burton Square, if I remember rightly?"

"We live there still. I do not recall your face, Colonel Smyth,—or your name."

"I dare say not. 'Smyth' is no very distinctive cognomen," said the Colonel, with an odd dry laugh. "And you were a mere boy in those days, a nice little lad with curly hair. Thanks, that is much more comfortable. I must get a ready-made coat in the morning, somehow, to go about in. By-the-by, I should wish you to consider me 'your' patient,—exclusively."

"And not my father's? What! Did he and you fall out in past days?"

"No, no—not at all, quite the reverse. I had a marked admiration for his skill,—always used to declare he was the only medical man living whose opinion I valued a rap. But I have found a second; and the hands that begin a job may as well finish it."

Mr. Wynne was aware from Colonel Smyth's face that some other reason lay beneath. "Very well," he said. "You shall be my patient strictly. I must see you again to-morrow."

"I can't give you any address for to-morrow. Rhona and I are houseless wanderers. I must take her to some hotel for two or three days, and decide on future plans."

"We shall see in the morning. I am not sure that it will do to remove Rhona so soon. The child is a good deal shaken."

"No wonder, poor mite. She kept up splendidly at the time, but that tells upon one afterward."

"She is a winning little maid," the doctor said.

"You would think so, if you knew her! The most extraordinary child I ever saw,—like a grown person in her feelings and ways. There's something about her, positively, which almost seems to belong to another world."

Mr. Wynne's eyes said plainly, "Perhaps it does."

After a pause, he remarked, "I have seen a face very like hers."

"Where? When?" asked Colonel Smyth.

"I cannot tell you. I don't possess my father's memory in respect of faces. When I have seen the same before, it comes back to me, but not always with the name attached."

"You don't think you may have come across Rhona herself before? It is not a common type of face."

"Too far back for that. I have merely a vague impression of such a face years ago, in my young days."

"Your young days!" repeated the Colonel. "Why, you are hardly out of boyhood yet."

"Twenty-seven to-morrow,—to-day, I mean. I forgot that 'to-morrow' had come," Mr. Wynne said quaintly.

"I wish you many happy returns," responded the Colonel, with promptitude. "Now I must take another look at my little girl, and then see what they are doing at Number Three."

"I am afraid nothing can be done there, beyond preventing the spread of the fire. As for Rhona, I must forbid you her room to-night. She does not know you are hurt, and we must avoid any increase of excitement. It is a frail little being, and I am afraid she may suffer more than any one from this night's work. For yourself, I prescribe quiet. Mrs. Montague's spare room is ready for you, and,—No, of course you can't sleep,—" with a smile. "But you must have bodily rest."

"What will your friend think of this midnight invasion!" asked the Colonel.

"She will thank me for acting as I have done. Now, Colonel, I will show you to your room; and for ten minutes, you may count me your valet."

Colonel Smyth "pshawed" and apologised, laughed, and disclaimed the need of help, but finally had to submit.

Mr. Wynne then went out to make inquiry as to the fire, and brought back such tidings as he had expected to bring. The condition of Number Three was hopeless,—the house being completely gutted, and promising to become a mere shell. The efforts of the firemen were chiefly directed towards the protection of neighbouring houses. A few pieces of furniture and two or three pictures had been rescued, but the contents of the house generally were lost.

"Well, Rhona is safe," Colonel Smyth made answer. "I am not ruined, happily, though I should have liked to save my books."

A few minutes later, Mr. Wynne was by the side of Rhona. She lay tossing to and fro with wide-open eyes, watchfully guarded by the little old lady in flowered wrapper and creamy shawl.

"I don't feel the very least inclined to sleep," Rhona said, looking up at Mr. Wynne. "I can't forget those dreadful flames, creep—creeping up after us. Mayn't I get up and go to uncle? Oh, but I haven't any frock."

"No; so you must be content to stay in bed," said Mr. Wynne.

"Must I stay in bed all to-morrow, and next day? It takes such a time to get a frock made."

"Perhaps we may find a frock somewhere ready-made, that will fit you. But you have to lie quiet now."

"I wish uncle would come. Why doesn't he?" asked Rhona.

"You forget that it is the middle of the night. I have sent him to bed; and now I am going to send Mrs. Montague to lie down, while I stay here."

Mrs. Montague rose at once.

"But I have got her bed," said Rhona.

"There are other beds and sofas in the house, my dear," Mrs. Montague said. "You will call me when you want me, Mr. Wynne."

Then she kissed Rhona and went away.

"You are sure uncle isn't ill?" said Rhona suspiciously. "Quite perfectly sure."

"No, not ill," said Mr. Wynne. "But he has hurt his shoulder, and I want him to have a few hours' rest."

"Oh, I 'do' want to see him again," exclaimed Rhona tearfully. "Mayn't I get up and sit by him? I'll be so good. Please do let me."

"No, Rhona."

"It isn't as if I were tired," pursued the child with unwonted wilfulness. "I'm not tired a bit, only everything seems so funny. Oh!" And she gave a violent start. "Oh! I never thought till this moment! Fay,—poor little Fay; oh, how could I be so cruel, so wicked?"

"I don't understand," said Mr. Wynne.

"Fay,—my own dear little bird,—I never never thought of him," Rhona said passionately, tears streaming down her cheeks. "So cruel, so horrid of me. Oh, do, do please send somebody quick to save him! Please do."

Mr. Wynne did not move. "Somebody else may have remembered the bird," he said.

"Oh no, I'm sure they wouldn't. He was in my room, and nobody else went there. And I never thought of him, nor Bertha either. And father gave him to me. What shall I do?" Rhona sobbed, even wildly. "Oh, please, can't something be done? Can't they get him out?"

"If he has not been taken out already, nothing can be done now. The floor of your room has fallen in. It is just possible that the bird may be among the few things saved, but I do not expect it," Mr. Wynne said thoughtfully. "The little creature would very early be stifled by the smoke."

"And my own father gave him to me," moaned Rhona.

Mr. Wynne allowed her to sob freely for two or three minutes. Then his hand came on hers, and his voice said gravely—

"Rhona, I think you are wrong."

She looked up suddenly, as if in surprise.

"Yes, wrong," he repeated. "I do not think you ought to grieve so much for the bird, instead of being thankful for the many lives spared. Think how terrible it would have been if the fire-escape had arrived too late; or if Colonel Smyth had not been able to get down in time. The loss of your pet is a small matter in comparison."

"Oh yes, yes,—only I did love him so," Rhona answered sadly. "I think I should not mind so very very much, if only I had not forgotten him."

"You could not help forgetting him. When Colonel Smyth carried you out of your room, you were unconscious, or nearly so."

"Was I?" asked Rhona, in surprise. "I don't remember. It all seemed so dreadful. Then it wasn't really cruel of me to forget Fay."

"No, not at all. And your maid too was so stupefied by the smoke and heat that though she was just able to walk, she had not power to think. Besides, the little creature was probably dead, even then. It does not take much to kill a bird."

Rhona sighed heavily. "And all mother's things are gone," she said. "But I'll try to be good and not grumble. I 'am' glad nobody was burnt. And I suppose Mrs. Burrell is worse off, because she has lost her house and everything. Poor Bertha too, Bertha has nobody belonging to her, and Mrs. Burrell always seems vexed because she has to keep Bertha. Do tell me how Bertha is."

"Quite herself, I am told, and really very little hurt. You will see her no doubt in the morning."

"It was like being 'brands plucked out of the fire,'" murmured Rhona. "I couldn't help thinking of those words when we were up at the window. Somehow I didn't feel so frightened then as I do now. I do want mother to-night."

"But you have a kind uncle," said Mr. Wynne.

"Yes, very very kind, only of course, he isn't my mother," Rhona answered sorrowfully. Then with a sudden change of mood, she burst out laughing. "And he isn't my real uncle either. How funny that seems! He only makes me call him 'uncle,' and I love him dearly. There was somebody else once who loved him, and she used to mend his gloves. But that person got tired of him. 'I' shall never grow tired of my dear dear uncle. I shall always love him—always—all my life long,—and I'll always always mend his gloves."

"Rhona, you have talked enough," said Mr. Wynne, rising and going to the dressing-table, whence he brought a small tumbler. "You are to drink this, and then you are to say nothing more for half-an-hour."

"But I don't want medicine. What is it?" asked the child.

"Never mind. You must take it."

Rhona obeyed. "But I can't go to sleep," she said.

"Then keep awake; only do not talk."

"Must I be left alone?"

"Not if you are a good child, and do as you are told. If you go to sleep, you shall find me here when you wake."

"And may I get up then? Oh, but I haven't a frock."

"I think we shall be able to manage. My little cousin is about your size, and she has plenty of frocks."

"Does your little cousin live with you?" asked Rhona eagerly.

Mr. Wynne answered "Yes," and held up a silencing finger.

Rhona smiled, then shut her eyes, and settled into an attitude of repose, exercising an amount of control over her nervous excitement which he had hardly expected.

He sat motionless, watching the sweet face, with its tense brow and quivering lashes. "Where have I seen that look before?" he questioned with himself.

THE MORDAUNT HOUSEHOLD.

"SUE."

Susanna Mordaunt started out of an absent fit, and said hurriedly, "Yes, Clara. Yes. Did you speak before? I didn't hear. I was only thinking about—. But is anything the matter?"

"A good deal, I should have thought. What are you mooning over now?"

"Oh, I was only—only—just thinking," said Susanna, in a tone of apology. "One can't help thinking a little sometimes, you know."

"One wouldn't wish to help it, I should suppose. What an absurd way you have of putting things?" the younger sister said tartly.

"I was only just wondering about that poor little Rhona," said Sue, accustomed to such snubbings.

"Wondering does no good," responded Clara.

She was unwinding wool at the drawing-room bay-window, full in the spring sunshine, and an occasional whisk or tug told of considerable pettishness. The winder whirled round by fits and starts, answering accurately to her mode of management.

"It seems to me that Barbara is perfectly demented," she broke out at length.

"Why?"

"I don't profess to know why. I only state the fact. How on earth are we to meet all these extra expenses when our income is barely enough for our three selves? Here has Mary been in this condition for weeks—and how long she may go on so—"

"Not in the same condition all the time," broke in Susanna.

"Quite as bad, at all events. And she has been in this particular state for weeks—three or four certainly—so I only said what was true. Who can tell when she will get over it? She may never recover at all, but just drag on a miserable existence for years, with no more sense than a baby. Such things do happen. And we have to bear all the expense of the night nurse, and of medicines, and of extra help in the house, and very likely of Dr. Wynne's visits too. We can hardly expect him to give all this attention to a mere stranger for nothing, as he does to us.

"But Barbara is infatuated. If I venture a word about expenses, she only says, 'It will be all right.'

"'I' should say it would be all wrong. She cares for nothing in life just now, except Mary. I believe she will fall ill herself soon with over-nursing. And what is the use of it all? Mary is not our own niece. She has absolutely no real claim upon us."

Sue had words in her mind about "the claim of helplessness," but she lacked courage to bring them forth. Fearing to be laughed at for the expression, she kept silence, and then was distressed at her own cowardice.

"For my part I am sick of it all," Clara continued pettishly. "I don't see why we are to be worried and put out of our way, just for the sake of Mary. Barbara is never free now—hardly ever in time for meals—and in a perfectly 'distraite' condition when she does vouchsafe us half-an-hour of her company. She seems to have no interest to spare for anything or anybody outside Mary's room. And I know what it will all mean by-and-by. Nothing but scraping and saving and paring, and not being able to afford this, that, and the other, for a year to come. Besides, when Mary does get better—if she ever does—what is to become of her? I hope to goodness she is not to be a permanent member of our family."

"I don't see why not," said Sue faintly.

"If you don't, I do. Of course it sounds a charming arrangement, but I for one should detest it. I can't endure those soft pretty women, who are always looking out for admiration. And suppose the child turns up, are we to take both of them in? We may as well decide at once to live on bread and water. It is not long since Barbara would have said the same, but her ideas seem all upside down. Not that I expect that Rhona ever will turn up. I believe the child is dead, and that is what has driven Mary out of her mind."

"Oh, don't say that, Clara; it gives such a wrong impression!" protested Sue.

"What, saying that Mary is out of her mind? I don't know how else to describe it. From the day she came to the house, she hasn't recognised a single person, and has scarcely spoken a rational sentence."

"But the first part of the time it was delirium."

"Very much like madness, I should say, and this is very much like idiocy. I don't quite know which is the worst. Three weeks and more of delirium—"

"Not more," put in Sue softly.

"Yes, more!" Clara reiterated, as if her assertion settled the matter. "And since then, as much sense as a baby two months old."

"But, Clara, that is only weakness. Dr. Wynne hopes it will soon pass off. He said yesterday that after such an illness, we must expect her to live for a time a mere vegetable existence."

"I don't believe Dr. Wynne knows anything about it, nor anybody else either," retorted Clara. "No one can tell what brought the illness on. And sometimes people's brains are so much affected by illness, that they never have their full senses again—never. A nice pickle we shall be in, if it turns out so with Mary. I don't see for my part what business we have had to take such a burden on ourselves."

Barbara was standing within the door, as the last words were uttered. She came with her dignified air to the table, and asked, "What would you have wished, Clara? Surely not to turn the poor thing out upon the world."

"I don't know what I wish, except to have things as they used to be," Clara answered, with tears in her eyes. "It is all miserable now. Nothing goes right; and Sue is my only companion from morning till night."

Sue took the implied slight calmly, saying, "I wish I were a better nurse that Barbara might be more often free to sit with you."

"I do not wish it," said Barbara. "Clara must not try to draw me from my duty."

"Is it our duty?" Clara questioned. "What is Mary to us?"

"She is Arthur's wife—William's daughter—"

"By marriage—"

"Yes; by marriage, of course. And she has thrown herself upon us in her helplessness. Could we have refused to take her in?"

Sue's face said, "No."

Clara slightly shrugged her shoulders, and snapped her worsted with a harder tug than usual. An impatient exclamation broke from her.

And as she joined the severed ends, Dr. Wynne was announced. He entered, hat in hand, an elderly man with silvered hair and placid eyes, yet not altogether unlike his son in manner and general contour.

"Good-morning," he said to one, and "How do you do?" to another. After a few remarks, there was the usual question, "What about the invalid to-day?"

"I think there is a change for the better," said Barbara. "She still notices nothing that goes on round her. But twice this morning, she has answered a question put to herself."

"Do you think she ever will or can get back her full senses, Dr. Wynne?" asked Clara bluntly.

"I have no reason for supposing otherwise," said Dr. Wynne in a laconic manner. Clara was not a favourite of his.

"But how long will she be like this?"

"I have not seen her to-day. Miss Mordaunt's report sounds hopeful."

Then, before going upstairs, he mentioned casually the fact that his son, Arbuthnot, had been up all night at a fire.

The ladies asked interested questions.

"Arbuthnot was called suddenly, after midnight, to a patient at a considerable distance," Dr. Wynne said, "and he came in for this fire on his way home. No lives have been sacrificed, happily, but it seems to have been a narrow escape with some of the inmates. The fire-escape had been called elsewhere, and barely arrived in time. One girl, lowered by sheets from a top window, broke her leg; and a gentleman dislocated his shoulder—a Colonel, I think my son said. The Colonel's little girl was saved too—a pretty child, according to Arbuthnot. He sat up with her the rest of the night, fearing the effects of the shock."

"So kind of him—just like Mr. Wynne," murmured Sue.

"Well, yes; Arbuthnot is never reluctant to take trouble," said Dr. Wynne. "Besides, he is fond of children, and he is a boy still in his love of adventure."

"And I suppose there was work for him to do,—broken bones," suggested Miss Mordaunt, little dreaming of the close connection which existed between herself and the "pretty child" of Dr. Wynne's story.

"He had his share. I saw him go off this morning with a bundle of clothes for the child, pretty nearly everything having being lost. However, I have really heard very few particulars. Now, Miss Mordaunt, if you will kindly let me go upstairs—"

They stood soon beside the bed. Rhona would hardly have recognised her mother in the wan wasted being, with half-closed dim eyes, and transparent powerless fingers. As a rule, during these days of deadly weakness, Mary Mordaunt paid no manner of attention to those around, and the task of arousing her sufficiently to receive food or medicine was a constantly recurring difficulty. Dr. Wynne had truly described her state as a mere "vegetable existence." She breathed and lived and took nourishment, but all thought and memory seemed to have fled.

This day there was a change. When Dr. Wynne drew up the blind, letting a ray of light fall upon the bed, and then bent to examine her face, the heavy eyes were lifted to his with an intelligent look, and a faint smile parted the white lips.

"Come, that is better. How do you do?" Dr. Wynne said gently, taking one of her hands.

"How do you do?" Mary repeated mechanically.

"Not so weak to-day, are you?" asked Dr. Wynne.

Mary watched him, with a puzzled languid look.

"Who is he?" she whispered at length.

"Dr. Wynne," Barbara answered. "Our kind Dr. Wynne, dear, who has been to see you every day, for such a long time. You will know him again now, I think. And you know me, don't you, Mary?"

The gaze was transferred to Barbara for two seconds.

"Yes," Mary said indifferently.

Dr. Wynne's hand made a silencing gesture, when Barbara would have pressed the matter.

Mary sighed, shut her eyes, and gave no more sign of attention through the rest of his short visit.

Outside the room Barbara said, "I think one word would rouse her now,—the child's name."

Dr. Wynne shook his head. "Too great a risk at present," he said.

"But surely anything would be better than this state?"

"We can hardly say that. There might be more harm than good in such an arousing. Remember, if the death of the child has been the direct cause of this illness, any agitation connected with the subject might cause a relapse. And a relapse now would almost certainly be fatal. No, we must be patient a little longer. There is undoubtedly an improvement to-day."

Barbara accompanied him to the front door. As he went down the steps, the postman came up, and Barbara received a letter from his hands. She hardly glanced at it, being more intent on first telling her sisters exactly what Dr. Wynne had said.

"But when Mary is well, where is she to go?" asked Clara.

"Time enough to think about that," Barbara answered. "Our way will be made clear."

"It isn't generally made clear as one wishes," said Clara pettishly. "Who is that letter for?"

"For me. I do not know the handwriting," Miss Mordaunt said in an absent tone; and then her face changed suddenly. "How strange! My last letter to Henry returned from India! Not from the Post Office. Somebody has enclosed it in an envelope, and written,—look—'Not here—gone some months ago.' Extraordinary."

"Odd!" echoed Clara.

Barbara's face showed agitation. "Where can Henry be? He has never failed before to give us notice of any permanent change of address. I thought he was a fixture in that appointment."

"Nobody is a fixture now in India," said Clara. "Well,—he is a queer sort of brother. I suppose he will deign some day to tell us his whereabouts. Meantime, we must remain in blissful ignorance."

"Clara, you don't understand," said Barbara, in distress. "It is not merely a question of his telling or not telling. Suppose something has happened to him. Suppose he has been taken ill, and died suddenly—"

"I wouldn't fancy that. Of course we should have heard," said Clara, while Sue looked sorrowful.

"I am not so sure. Who would tell us? Henry's friends are not our friends."

"Well, I think we ought to take in a daily paper," said Clara promptly. "But as for Henry, I really don't believe there is anything wrong. I really don't, Barbara," and she spoke affectionately, wishing to cheer her sister.

Clara cared little herself for this almost unknown elder brother. But Barbara had been his companion in childish days, and loved him still, despite long years of separation and coldness.

"I wouldn't fancy troubles, if I were you. Henry always was an erratic being. I dare say he has gone rushing off to Kamschatka or the Cape, and has forgotten to leave directions for the forwarding of his letters. We shall hear from him by-and-by; and he will count us very silly to have supposed that anything was wrong. Couldn't you come out for a walk with me this morning, instead of spending all your time in Mary's room?"

A LINK WANTING.

"I DON'T think, for my part, there ever 'was' a woman so badly off as me; and I don't care who hears me say it neither," Mrs. Burrell declared in aggrieved tones, while her solemn eyes looked more solemn, her long thin nose seemed longer and thinner, and the drooping mouth-corners hung lower than ever before. "It's no manner of use telling me other people have troubles too. Of course they have; and what then? I suppose I know about other people as well as you do, for the matter of that. Besides, other people don't lose their husbands, and have their houses burnt down, and their children's legs broken, and everything lost, all of a slap, as one may say. No; it is no use your telling me other people are as badly off as me, for I don't believe it."

Neil Burrell had not made the remark imputed to him by his distressed aunt, though doubtless he had intended to bring it forth, and probably she read it in his face. A telegram from Mrs. Burrell had brought him to London the second day after the fire. He found his aunt still domiciled under the roof of the hospitable groceress who had first received her, dressed in borrowed clothes, and in a condition of greater depression over her losses than of thankfulness over her safety. Neil had paid a visit of inspection to the melancholy ruins of "Number Three," and now sat to condole with his aunt.

"And I always 'shall' say it was a shame of the Colonel to let down Hope, poor lamb, knowing as he did she couldn't get safe to the bottom. I shall always say it was a shame," reiterated Mrs. Barrel. "Why, he wouldn't let Miss Rhona go so; and if it wasn't right for one, it wasn't right for the other. If I hadn't been near crazy with the fright, I should have stopped her. And now she'll die in hospital, and I shall never see her again."

"Oh, I don't think she'll die, aunt," the young man said cheerfully. "People don't die of broken legs. You'll soon go and see her, and find her better, I don't doubt. There is sure to be regular days for friends being admitted."

"And how am I to stay in London, so as to go to her?" demanded Mrs. Burrell. "I that have got no home now, and nothing belonging to me. It isn't as if my poor husband was alive. There's nobody for me to turn to. Why, the very gown on my back isn't my own. 'I' to come to wearing charity! I wonder whatever my poor dear husband would have said."

"But it won't be all a dead loss to you, aunt. You've insured well, I believe."

"And if I have, what then?" Mrs. Burrell wanted to know. "I suppose the money won't come in to-morrow. And how am I to get clothed and fed, till it does. I can't take another shop and start it afresh, all in a minute. And I'm sure I feel so upset and shaky, I'm fit for nothing, and shan't be for weeks. And there's Mr. Powis been in here this morning, telling me I ought to be thankful and resigned. It's easy for folks to talk. If 'his' house was burnt down, I expect he wouldn't be so particularly thankful."

"I don't suppose he meant to say you ought to be thankful for that, aunt, only thankful that things are not worse," said Neil. "But there's something I want to say—"

He had tried before and failed.

"Worse! How could things be worse?" Mrs. Burrell demanded. "Unless Hope had been killed outright; and we don't know yet that she isn't."

"Aunt, I just wanted to say—" began Neil again.

"And the fuss that is made about Bertha," pursued Mrs. Burrell irately. "One would think she was the chief person in all London. Dr. Marsden going in to see her, and Mr. Wynne asking how she did, and Colonel Smyth talking of her bravery. The girl's head will be just turned. I don't see for my part what she did so very extraordinary, more than other people. She always was quiet. But there! I'm used to ingratitude, and I've pretty well given up expecting to be put in my proper place. Bertha must look out for herself now. 'I' can't give her a home any longer, for I've none to give."

"Good evening, Mrs. Burrell. What were you saying about Bertha?" asked Colonel Smyth, at that moment ushered in by Mrs. Burrell's hospitable hostess.

"Good evening, sir," Mrs. Burrell said grimly. "I was only just telling my nephew, Bertha would have to look out for herself for a bit. Seeing I haven't any longer a home of my own, it isn't to be expected I can provide a home for her. I'm sorry I have to say it, but—"

"Not at all, not at all! No need to be sorry," said the Colonel. "I have had thoughts of proposing to Bertha to become Miss Rhona's personal attendant, and I am very well satisfied to learn that she is free. We must have somebody, and the child is accustomed to Bertha's ways. That will provide for your niece, and will be a satisfactory arrangement in every way,—supposing she is willing. We shall probably leave London in a day or two for the west of England, and Bertha can accompany us."

Mrs. Burrell's face expressed the reverse of gratification.

"So that matter is easily settled," pursued the Colonel. "I was afraid you might not wish to part with her. Now I can broach the subject without delay. Bertha is with Miss Rhona at this moment, I believe."

"I don't know as I should altogether say Bertha was fit to be a lady's maid," remarked Mrs. Burrell.

"A lady's maid!" Colonel Smyth laughed. "I dare say not! My little girl hardly requires a full-blown lady's maid yet. Bertha is thoughtful and dependable, and the child likes her. I'm not at all afraid that she won't do. How are you going to dispose of yourself, Mrs. Burrell?"

"That's just what I wanted to say," broke in Neil. "I have been trying again and again, but I couldn't get her to listen. Aunt, it 'll make Nannie and me as proud and pleased as can be, if you'll come and stay in my cottage for a few weeks, till you've had time to look about you, and see what to do next. I don't pretend it's anything much of a place, but I know it is clean, and Nannie will do her very best to make you comfortable,—that I'm sure of. When Hope is better, she can come and share your room, if you haven't settled plans by then. I had a mind to propose Bertha coming too, but it seems she's provided for."

Neil looked regretful, and Mrs. Burrell suddenly resolved to further the Colonel's proposal. She did not wish Bertha to become an inmate of Neil's little house.

"I don't mean to say, sir, that there is anything against Bertha," she remarked, turning to the Colonel, and forgetting that she had not thanked Neil for his generous offer. "Bertha isn't fit, to be sure, for a fine lady's maid, but, as you say, it's not that you want, sir. Bertha is willing enough, and never fails to do her best; and she thinks there's nobody in the world like Miss Rhona. She'll be glad enough, I don't doubt; and if she wasn't, I'd soon make her."

"Thanks, but you may as well leave the matter to me," responded the Colonel curtly.

And Neil asked, "Will you come, aunt?"

Mrs. Burrell's gratitude, if tardy in expression, was sincere.

Colonel Smyth left soon, signing to Neil to follow him. Outside the door, he thrust a slip of folded paper into the young man's hand, saying, "Don't think this a liberty, but you will be at some expense with Mrs. Burrell. Use it any way you like for her,—no need to say anything. I gave her a five-pound note this morning, to cover what might be due for my rooms or Miss Rhona's."

Colonel Smyth strode away, and Neil found himself in the possession of a ten-pound Bank of England note.

"I like that Mr. Wynne so much. He is nice," said Rhona, an hour later.

She was on a little couch near the fire, dressed in borrowed clothes which did not fit her well, and the small slight figure seemed slighter than ever. The nervous excitement of the previous day had given place to weakness and lassitude, but she still suffered from fits of sudden terror if left alone.

"Yes, he is very nice," said Colonel Smyth, who had just come into the drawing-room, looking well and vigorous, despite bandaged shoulder and arm in sling.

On his entrance, Mrs. Montague went away, and the Colonel took a seat close to the child.

"Yes, Mr. Wynne is very nice," repeated Colonel Smyth thoughtfully. "But I am seriously meditating how you and I shall get away from him."

"Get away from Mr. Wynne," said Rhona in astonishment.

"Yes,—elude him, in fact," said the Colonel, watching her expression. "I am thinking of taking you first to Bath, and then—somewhere else."

"I know what 'elude' means," said Rhona soberly. "But Mr. Wynne won't come after us."

"Well, perhaps not," said the Colonel.

Then both were silent. Some other idea, foreign to the subject in hand, seemed to have possession of Rhona's mind. A wave of colour rushed suddenly over her face.

"Uncle, may I ask something?"

"Anything in the world, my little dear."

"I thought I heard you tell Mrs. Montague that I must have a new frock," said the child in a low voice.

"More than one," said the Colonel lightly. "As many frocks as you like, Rhona. We'll get one here to start with, and then you shall choose in Bath anything that takes your fancy,—pink and blue and green and all sorts. Somebody is coming from a shop to-morrow morning to take orders. Mrs. Montague would not have you bothered about it to-day. But of course we have to get a whole new wardrobe for you—hats and bonnets, and boots and shoes, and—and—pelisses and capes,—and in fact everything."

"I don't think I want a great many new frocks," said Rhona gently. "And I haven't left off black, you know, for father!" The Colonel had lost sight of this fact, and was rather staggered. "Please," continued the child, with a manifest effort, "please, uncle, may there be a little bit of crape on my frock? Because—because—"

"There, there, my pet, don't cry," the Colonel said, stooping with his newly-found tenderness to kiss away two heavy tears. "I am a stupid old fellow, and I forgot you were in mourning still. But you shall have anything in the world that you wish, only don't cry."

"I should like to have some crape on my frock," said Rhona sadly. "People all do, and I haven't yet. And I think—I think—now—I'm afraid—mother can't be coming back—"

Colonel Smyth thought the same. He was unable to contradict her.

"I know I oughtn't to be too sorry," sobbed the child, breaking into irrepressible weeping. "And I do try, I do try to be good. But oh, I do want so to see her again—just once—only once."

Colonel Smyth always felt himself at a loss when this trouble came up prominently. He was aware of the kind of comfort which she needed; and he was aware also of his own inability to give it, further than in a very vague and superficial manner. Kind words and touches were all that he usually attempted on these occasions.

"You won't feel it so acutely by-and-by, my poor little one," he said presently, finding her grief not easy to soothe. But this caused such heartbroken sobbing that he speedily regretted the utterance. "Why, Rhona, Rhona!" he said almost reproachfully. "What has come over my little darling to-day? Don't you love your old uncle still?"

"Oh yes, yes," Rhona answered, with bitter tears. "But I do so want mother,—I do so want mother. I don't know how to get on without her. If I only could see her again, just for one minute,—only one minute."

"Rhona, do you know you are making me very unhappy?" said the Colonel, stooping over her. "If I knew how to take better care of my little pet, things would be different."

"No, no; it isn't that," cried Rhona almost passionately. "I love you dearly, and I always shall, and you are so, so good to me. But you aren't mother. Nobody can be mother. I wouldn't be naughty if I could help it, but oh, I do want mother to-night."

Then, as she buried her face in the sofa-cushion, trying to smother the sobs, he heard her moan brokenly,—"Mother—mother—do come—O mother! I do want somebody—somebody—to teach me—"

Colonel Smyth listened, and could make out no more. "What is it you want, Rhona?" he asked.

She had evidently spoken her thought unconsciously, and was startled at the question.

"Somebody to teach you what, my dear?" he went on.

Rhona gave him one hasty look with full eyes, and hid her face anew. "I didn't mean to say it," she sobbed. "Nobody ever speaks to me now—about—about Jesus—and mother always did. I do want mother to-night."

A pause followed, somewhat perplexed on the part of the Colonel. Tears seemed to be lessening; and for once, it was almost a relief to him to note the signs of pain, which would render her unfit for conversation. Sobs gradually came to an end, and Rhona lay back patiently, with closed eyes and drawn brows, one of her little hands clutching the back of the sofa.

But as the Colonel remained silent, she looked up at him with a frightened expression, and said—"Don't be angry, please."

"My dear, I am not angry," said Colonel Smyth.

"I didn't mean to say that. Oh, don't be angry,—please, please don't."

"I am not angry, Rhona, not the very least, I assure you," said Colonel Smyth, stooping down to kiss her. "It is much best that you should say what is in your mind. There is nothing to be angry about. But I don't exactly understand why you wish to be spoken to about things that you are already well acquainted with," the Colonel said in a measured manner, as if he were counting out his words. "You are always a good little girl."

"Oh no, not lately. I've been getting all wrong, and mother would help me—"

"Well, well, I can only say I have not seen it," said the Colonel. "You shall tell me another day what you have done that is so wrong."

"It isn't doing. I don't feel rightly," said the child in a low voice: and again she repeated, "Mother would know."

"I am afraid I can't promise to talk to you like your mother, Rhona. You see I was differently brought up, and—in fact, it is not my way. But if there is anything I can do, that you would like, such as—such as reading to you, for instance—"

"Mother always read the Bible to me every evening," said Rhona wistfully. "And sometimes a hymn."

It cost the gallant Colonel much more of a struggle than might be supposed, to answer,—

"I'll do that, if you think it will make you happier."

Rhona accepted the offer unhesitatingly; and evidently without a question in her mind as to his willingness.

"Before I go to bed?" she asked.

"Yes, if you like, my dear," said the Colonel, with internal reluctance.

"Mother always talked to me and explained," said Rhona.

A bright idea struck the Colonel. "I couldn't possibly do that, my little girl, but you shall tell me what your mother used to say, and that will keep her teaching in your mind." Then to avoid further awkward suggestions, he said hurriedly,—"Come now, don't you want to know why you and I are going to run away from Mr. Wynne?"

"Is going to Bath running away?" asked the child languidly.

"Well, yes, in a sense,—if our object is to avoid him."

"But I don't see why you want to avoid him, uncle."

"That is what I have to explain. There are two doctors, named Wynne,—this young Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, and his father, Dr. Henry Wynne. They live together in a house which happens to be very near to those three aunts of your father's, who were such a trouble to you some months ago. Well—it happens that once upon a time, I knew Dr. Henry Wynne very well, and if I saw him, he would recognise me directly. Then of course, he would mention having seen me to my—ahem, to those good aunts of yours, the Miss Mordaunts. And that might bring them here, and then they would see you. Indeed, it is an event—their seeing you, I mean—which might come about any day, apart from an encounter between Dr. Wynne and myself. If our friend, the doctor, happened to meet the Miss Mordaunts, and happened to mention you by name—"

Rhona's eyes were strained and intent, as she drank in every word. And before he came to a pause, she was trembling like an aspen leaf. "Oh, take me away,—please take me away!" she entreated.

"There's nothing to be frightened about, my little girl. I'll undertake to protect you against all the aunts that ever existed. But perhaps you don't care to see them just yet."

"No, no, please,—they wouldn't let me stay with you." Rhona looked positively blue with terror.

"Don't be afraid," repeated the Colonel. "You are my little girl now, not theirs. But I don't think you would be any the better for having them in and out, at present. So you and I will go straight to Bath, the day after to-morrow—if you can have a new frock so soon. And when we are at Bath, we will settle what to do next. What do you say to the country—real thorough country, with any amount of fields and wild flowers? Yes, I see by your face that will do. And I have just settled with Bertha that she shall come with us, as your maid, to take care of you. You like Bertha, I know—and when I have to be out, I shall be able to leave you with her safely."

Rhona's eyes sparkled. "O uncle, how lovely! I did dread losing that nice dear Bertha. And now Mrs. Burrell won't be able to scold her any more. And I do love the country."

"So I imagined. Now it is all settled, and you must go to sleep," said the Colonel, with his caressing air. "Shut your eyes, little one."

"I can't think why you are so kind," Rhona whispered, as she obeyed.

A connecting chain hung at this moment between Rhona and her mother, almost complete. One middle link alone was wanting.

Dr. Wynne, daily attending Mary Mordaunt, knew the outline of her story, knew about the child whose position was a problem in the Mordaunt household, and knew the child's name to be "Rhona."

Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, on the other hand, had accidentally come across Colonel Smyth and Rhona, and had seen much of them during three or four days. He knew Rhona's Christian name, but not her surname, for the Colonel had evaded an inquiry on this point, and delicacy withheld Mr. Wynne from pressing the matter further. He also knew Rhona to be the Colonel's adopted child, and believed her to be at least no near relation. He was a little perplexed as to the real connection, certain words having dropped from the Colonel rather at variance with an assertion of Rhona's. The doctor had, moreover, heard that Rhona's mother was supposed to have been drowned. He gathered altogether that some slight mystery existed, in connection with the Colonel, with Rhona, or with both.

The one link wanting to complete the chain which might have brought mother and daughter together again, was that Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne mention little Rhona by name to his father, that Dr. Wynne's attention should be arrested by the said name, and that through a few natural inquiries, the whereabouts of Mary Mordaunt's child should be revealed to the aunts.

But this link was not yet supplied. It happened that those few days were exceedingly busy ones to both the older and the younger medical man. They scarcely met even at meals, and exchanged few words except on business. Moreover Colonel Smyth's evident reserve as to his own affairs and evident wish not to be seen or recognised by Dr. Wynne, rendered Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne doubly cautious in speaking about him.

Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne was much less intimate than his father with the Miss Mordaunts. He had been acquainted with them all his life, but the acquaintance had never ripened into friendship. General particulars as to the appearance, disappearance, and reappearance of Mary Mordaunt had reached him. If, however, he knew vaguely that there was a child in the question, he did not know the child's name, and "Rhona" was a word which called up no associations in his mind. He had not seen Mary Mordaunt, during her brief former stay, near the Miss Mordaunts; and her story as a whole had made no particular impression on him. Dr. Wynne, not Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, was the family physician at Number Three, Winifred Place.

That the link should have remained long unsupplied was, under existing circumstances, hardly possible. Only three days after the fire, however, Colonel Smyth announced his intention of proceeding within twenty-four hours to the west of England. "Bath first,—then either sea-side or country," he said. Sufficient wearing apparel for the journey would arrive, according to promise, that same evening, and "the sooner they could be off, the better."

Mr. Wynne, though rather astonished, had no objections to offer. Colonel Smyth's shoulder was doing as well as could be wished, and medical advice if required could be readily obtained in Bath. Rhona was still shaken and poorly, but change of air and of scene might be the best possible remedies for her overstrained nerves. So the matter was speedily settled. Mr. Wynne had again a curious consciousness that the Colonel wished to avoid further intercourse with himself and his father; yet he would have found it difficult to give a reason for the feeling.

Mrs. Montague had insisted on the Colonel and the child remaining in her house during these three days, though perhaps the nearness of No. 3, Albert Terrace, was hardly desirable for Rhona. Mrs. Burrell had already gone to pay a long visit to Neil and his sister. Hope, still in hospital, seemed to be doing well.

Bertha was now installed as Rhona's attendant upon liberal wages, five pounds of which were paid her in advance by the Colonel for immediate necessities. The fire, causing this change of condition, had opened out a new vista of happiness to poor Bertha.

Hannah Hoskyns, believed to have been the unfortunate cause of the fire, had been sent home without a character, bitterly abused by her former mistress.

About ten days after the disappearance of Colonel Smyth, with Rhona and Bertha, from the neighbourhood of London, the elder Dr. Wynne was suddenly laid aside by a sharp attack of bronchitis. He had been an unusually healthy and vigorous man hitherto, but for once he was forced to succumb, and his busy son had to fill the place of two as best he might.

Therefore, it came to pass that at the hour when Dr. Wynne usually dropped in to see Mary Mordaunt, not Dr. Wynne but Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne appeared.

He was slightly apologetic, being well aware that the ladies of "No. 3, Winifred Place" objected to his comparative youth.

"Yourself, please,—not your son!" Miss Mordaunt had been known to say majestically to the elder doctor, when on one occasion, being severely pressed with work, he had ventured to send Arbuthnot in his stead. But this day there was no choice, Dr. Wynne being a prisoner to his room, voiceless and almost breathless.

"Really I am very sorry about Dr. Wynne, very sorry indeed," Miss Mordaunt said. "He seemed the day before yesterday to be rather unwell; and yesterday, as he did not come, I feared his cold might be worse. One never expects Dr. Wynne to give in, but of course he must not run risks. Do you think he might be able to come to-morrow? One day more would not perhaps signify, and as he has watched the case all through—"

Arbuthnot Wynne knew his father to be in for at least a week's imprisonment, and suggested that it might be hardly wise to leave the invalid so long.

"No, certainly not,—though she seems better,—I could not undertake the responsibility. I am only afraid she may not like a stranger about her. But please come upstairs. I know your time is valuable just now. I hope Mary will not be startled."

She preceded him upstairs, and opened the bedroom door.

When they entered, it was Mr. Wynne who started, not Mary Mordaunt.

That face! He knew it immediately, recognising at a glance its marvellous likeness to the fair little face he had seen less than a fortnight earlier. Frail and wan, transparent and nerveless, as this young creature was, he could not mistake the resemblance. The same broad brow, only not quite so full and intellectual, the same delicate outline of feature: only sharpened by illness; the same large dark eyes, only heavy and dim.

Beyond one slight start, he did not betray himself. But when he took her hand, and asked how she was, she lifted her eyes to his, with a look of indescribable bewilderment and sadness, muttering confusedly, "Rhona! My little Rhona! My child Rhona!" And again he found difficulty in controlling his surprise.

Mary Mordaunt was slowly waking up from her impassive and enfeebled condition. And during the last few days, the name of Rhona had been on her lips. As yet, however, nothing fell from her which might afford any clue to the truth about the missing child. And Dr. Wynne, at his last visit, had still forbidden any direct attempt to find out particulars from the invalid.

So Barbara was not a little dismayed to hear Mr. Wynne ask quietly, "Is Rhona your child, Mrs. Mordaunt?"

"Mr. Wynne, will you kindly come here for a moment," she said hastily, moving towards the bow-window, with a somewhat imperative sign to him to follow her. Miss Mordaunt had known Arbuthnot Wynne as a schoolboy, and she never lost sight of this fact.

RESTORED HOPE.

"YOUR father does not seem to have explained—" Barbara breathed in an undertone, as she stood facing Arbuthnot Wynne in the bow-window. "I thought he would have done so. If I had not been taken by surprise at your coming, I would have told you more myself."

"My father is hardly in a condition to speak much this morning," said Mr. Wynne.

"But you are surely acquainted with general particulars? No fear!"—as he glanced towards the bed. "I am speaking low, but it would be just the same if I spoke loudly. Mary hears nothing and heeds nothing, except what is immediately addressed to her. She has been in this state for weeks, ever since the delirium left her. It is an extraordinary state, almost as if she had been stunned, and could not rally. I cannot get your father to say what he thinks, except that matters will improve as she grows stronger. But he will not allow us to put any questions to my niece."

"No questions!" said her listener.

"I mean, on that point, about the child! You know of course that there was a child, her only one. When she left this neighbourhood before Christmas, in a fit of vexation at a plan of my proposing—poor Mary!—she took the little girl with her. We heard no more of either of them, till she came back, alone, and so ill as to be unable to speak rationally. For weeks, she never mentioned the child except in delirium, and then quite incoherently. It is only the last few days that she has begun to speak of her with any appearance of sense. The day before yesterday, Dr. Wynne told us to do nothing until he should come again; and yesterday, as you know, he was unable to pay his visit. I am very much perplexed. It seems as if we ought to make use of this opportunity to discover more about the child,—and yet—if it would do harm to my niece—"

"I think you had better let me see how she is," said Mr. Wynne.

"Yes, certainly. But it is not as if you had been with her all through," said Barbara dubiously.

Mr. Wynne's "Yes" was rather mechanical than assenting. "And the child's name is Rhona?" he said in a dreamy manner.

Unexpectedly, there came a muttered echo from the bed,—"Rhona! My little Rhona!" as if in response.

"We have to avoid saying that name in her hearing," said Barbara softly. "It is the one thing she notices now, and the one thing which excites her."

"The child is—how old?" asked Mr. Wynne.

"About nine years old."

"Like the mother?"

"Some say so. I do not think so much of the likeness myself, though certainly the eyes and general outline are much the same. I never saw a sweeter child. Poor little thing! It is sad if she has been thrown upon strangers all this time. But our fear is that she has died, and that her death has caused this illness. I must not take up your time, only I am sure you will be cautious. Dr. Wynne is so very much afraid of a relapse."

Arbuthnot Wynne went back to the bedside thoughtfully. He could feel no doubt in his own mind as to the identity of the two Rhonas. At this moment, he was so completely occupied with the endeavour to unravel the perplexities of Colonel Smyth's conduct, that it actually did not occur to him to tell Miss Mordaunt there and then his belief that the child was found; neither did her last words reach his understanding.

Could Colonel Smyth have known that Rhona's mother lay ill at No. 3, Winifred Place? Did he wish deliberately to keep mother and child apart? Was his conduct governed by a dread of losing the child, a determination to keep her to himself at all hazards? These thoughts flashed like lightning through the young doctor's brain, as he passed from window to bed. Barbara saw only a slow step and absent manner. She wished, with a touch of impatience, that Arbuthnot Wynne were more like his father.

The usual questions were asked, Mary paying no heed to the questioner. But as he stood somewhat long, watch in hand, examining her pulse, she moved restlessly, and lifted her eyes again, with a pleading mutter—"Rhona! My little Rhona."

Arbuthnot Wynne restored the watch to his pocket, and said composedly—"Rhona is well, Mrs. Mordaunt, I believe."

Barbara was horrified, and vainly strove to catch the doctor's eye. He was looking steadily at Mary Mordaunt, and she returned the gaze pitifully, wistfully, as if struggling to see through a fog.

"My little Rhona?" she repeated.

"Yes, your own little Rhona," responded Mr. Wynne. "She is coming to you by-and-by."

Mary's eyes brightened slowly into such intelligence, as had not been seen in them once since her arrival at Winifred Place. "Rhona is coming! My own little Rhona! O aunt Barbara! Do you hear?"

Barbara stood rigidly irresponsive and cold.

"By-and-by," repeated Mr. Wynne, in the same quiet yet cheerful voice, and he gently patted Mary's hand. "You must get a little stronger, and then you will be fit to see her."

"Dear little Rhona! My own little darling!" murmured Mary, with some agitation.

"Yes, dear little Rhona. She is a sweet little girl," said Mr. Wynne soothingly. "So like you in face."

Mary absolutely smiled. "So like—everybody said."

"No one could help seeing the likeness," Mr. Wynne answered.

"Will she come to me soon—soon?" asked Mary.

"Very soon, I hope. Rhona has gone into the country, with kind friends, for change of air. You will like to see your dear little girl come back, looking rosy and well. Children love the country," said Mr. Wynne, speaking rather monotonously, and appearing unconscious of Barbara's distressed endeavours to beckon him away.

"Rhona loves the country," echoed Mary. Then a perplexed expression came over her face, and she murmured—"Friends! Friends!"

Mr. Wynne dared not risk a mention of Colonel Smyth, unknowing what associations she might have with the name. "Very kind friends," he said. "Everybody loves little Rhona."

Mary's troubled look continued. She was evidently more awake to past and present than she had yet been, but some sad dread or bewilderment hung about her still. The wistful dark eyes seemed searching for more information.

"I thought—I thought—" she muttered confusedly. "I can't remember—but—I—I thought—"

Mr. Wynne's hand was on her wrist again. "Never mind. It will all come back by-and-by," he said. "Try to lie quiet now, and think of little Rhona playing among the daisies."

"The daisies!" And there was another smile. Then with a start and moan—"But Rhona—Rhona—they said she was dead. I heard them say my little Rhona was dead."

"You heard wrongly. Rhona is not dead."

Mary looked at him in a half-wild manner, singularly contrasting with her late torpidity. "But they said she was dead, and I could not bear it,—I could not wake up to life again. If Rhona is dead, I want to die too."

"No," Mr. Wynne said gravely, "you would not wish that. You would wish to live and to serve God. But your little Rhona is not dead."

"Where is she?" Mary asked.

"She has gone into the country with friends. She is not at Mrs. Burrell's any longer," said Mr. Wynne.

"Mrs. Burrell!" Mary evidently recognised the name, though her memory was confused. "Oh yes,—Mrs. Burrell."

"Rhona is not there any longer," said Mr. Wynne, his last remnants of doubt as to the truth of his conjecture entirely dissipated. "She has been taken into the country for change of air that she may become rosy and strong. You will be content to wait a little while, until she can come back to you."

"Oh yes,—I can wait now. My little darling!" murmured Mary, and she smiled peacefully. "My own little Rhona."

She lay whispering—"Rhona! Sweet Rhona!" for some seconds, till her eyes seemed to close of themselves, and she sank into such a calm and natural sleep as she had not enjoyed since the beginning of her illness.

Mr. Wynne stood silently watching her, till that stage was reached; and then he turned to leave.

Barbara, listening to all this, was utterly aghast. She really credited Arbuthnot Wynne with inventing a pretty little fiction for the purpose of temporarily cheering the invalid, and all her righteous indignation was aflame.

Leading him downstairs into the drawing-room, she shut the door, turned herself about, and broke into the ejaculation—"How you 'could!'"

Mr. Wynne faced her with the slightest possible smile, and made no answer.

"How you could!" repeated Barbara.

"I beg your pardon. Could what?"

"Could raise false hopes,—could lead her to believe that we know what we do not know. But I must undeceive her at all risks. I can never lend myself to such a plan. Your father would never—"

"My father is perhaps not acquainted with certain facts—"

"I assure you he is. I have informed him of every particular. Do you know that you may have done irreparable harm?" said Barbara, much excited and alarmed. "Your father has been so anxious that her thoughts should not be turned in the direction of the child, at least until we can be assured that she is still living. And now you have led her to expect to see Rhona again almost immediately. It will be impossible to quiet her down."

"By-and-by, I said."

"But you promised it. You undertook to say that Rhona would come. And we do not even know whether the child is alive. I suppose you were playing upon words when you said she was not dead,—but however true in one sense of those who are in heaven, that certainly is not the sense which you have conveyed to Mary. Poor dear Mary! I cannot imagine what I shall say when she questions me, as she is sure to do, now you have thoroughly aroused her. Excuse me, Mr. Wynne, but you are young, and I do think that if you had simply followed out your father's plans with my niece, it would have been wiser—would have been more seemly. I have no more to say, except that I at least cannot pretend what I do not know to be true."

"Neither could I!" said Mr. Wynne, apparently content that Barbara's remarks should enjoy full swing before he made his own explanation.

"But—pardon me—I think you have done so."

"You are supposing too hastily that I have no reason for my line of action," said Mr. Wynne gravely. "What will you say, when I tell you that I not only suppose, but have the fullest conviction, that little Rhona is at this moment alive and well,—that only a few days ago I actually held her in my arms?"

Miss Mordaunt looked at him in bewilderment. Was he trying to take her in also?

"Well?" he said, unable to help smiling.

"But why—why not speak sooner—if you have really known this?"

"I did not know it."

"Did not know, and yet you profess to have seen Rhona, to have held her in your arms. You are pleased to speak in enigmas," said Barbara impatiently.

"You shall have plain English. Did my father happen to mention to you, rather more than a fortnight ago, a bad fire which took place one night, at which I was present? Several people were saved, including a little girl."

A light flashed into Barbara's mind. "Yes, yes," she said eagerly. "Of course I remember. And that child—"

"Was named Rhona. I carried her from the spot myself, when she was brought down the fire-escape. A pretty little dark-eyed girl, about eight or nine years old seemingly,—the adopted child of a Colonel Smyth, living in the same house. They were lodgers at a Mrs. Burrell's,—and you may have observed just now that the name 'Burrell' was familiar to Mrs. Mordaunt."

"I could not think what you meant," Barbara said.

"You had not the clue; and it was hardly possible to explain all this in Mrs. Mordaunt's presence."

"And the child's name was Rhona—Rhona Mordaunt?"

"The name of the child was Rhona. I can say nothing as to the surname. 'Mordaunt' would of course have arrested my intention at once, but I had no associations with 'Rhona.' Till within the last half-hour, I had no idea that your little missing niece was named Rhona. It may seem strange to you, Miss Mordaunt, but so it is. As to the surname, Colonel Smyth twice evaded inquiries—so distinctly that I could not ask again. The relationship between him and the child puzzled me a good deal."

"But he could not have adopted her long. Did he profess to be a near relative?"

Mr. Wynne shook his head. "The matter seemed to be in a state of entanglement. Rhona called him 'uncle,' but told me once plainly that he was not her uncle. On the other hand, Colonel Smyth once spoke to me in a manner which certainly implied that she was his great-niece. Colonel Smyth had dislocated his shoulder, and Rhona was suffering from the night-alarm. I attended them both for three or four days. Then the Colonel started off with his little charge to Bath, saying that he meant to take her afterwards into the country for thorough change. So my assertions upstairs were strictly true."

"I beg your pardon for having doubted you. But, Mr. Wynne, suppose after all it were not our little Rhona? Suppose she proved after all to be another child of the same name?"

"I hardly think such an outcome of the affair possible. My old friend, Mrs. Montague, who sheltered them after the fire, told me a few more particulars, which I noticed little at the time, though now they seem important. The little Rhona's mother, a pretty young widow, was at the lodgings with the child until after Christmas,—how long after I cannot say. Mrs. Montague often saw her going to and from her daily work as governess. One very foggy day, she disappeared, and she was believed to have been drowned in a neighbouring canal. They say a body was found, sufficiently resembling her. But the matter seems to have been clothed in mystery. Since then, Mrs. Montague has frequently seen the Colonel and the child walk out together. I believe she took it for granted that he was her grandfather. People may live almost next-door to one another in London, yet know strangely little of each other's circumstances."

"Extraordinary!" Miss Mordaunt said repeatedly during this narration. Her remark at the end was, "Yes, true, but women have generally more curiosity than men. Would not your friend at least know whether the mother's name was Mordaunt?"

"She might, probably. I did not hear her mention it."

"And you made no attempt to find out, from her or from other people? The landlady, for instance."

"I am not a woman," said Arbuthnot Wynne, with a half-smile. "I hardly exchanged a dozen words with Mrs. Burrell; and the child was always spoken of as 'Rhona' or as 'Miss Rhona.' No, I made no effort to discover anything further. It was not my business, and I avoided asking questions, since the Colonel evidently did not wish me to be enlightened. You must remember that I did not dream of the child's connection with you. Nor did I, till the last, expect to lose sight of them so soon."

"Well, we must write immediately to this Colonel Smyth. I must write," said Barbara.

"Of course I could make inquiries now of Mrs. Montague and of others in the neighbourhood," said Arbuthnot Wynne thoughtfully. "Mrs. Burrell has left London, but her address would probably be known to some of her acquaintances. Yes, we must communicate with Colonel Smyth, if possible. But there lies the difficulty. He gave me the name of the hotel in Bath to which he was going ten days ago."

"Would he not be there still?"

"Hardly. He spoke of remaining in or near Bath three or four days."

"And that was ten days ago! But letters would be forwarded after him. If we could find the child, it would put fresh life into Mary. What a mercy that you came in to-day! We might not have found out about Rhona for months."

ABOUT THE AUNTS.

"WHAT are you looking so grave about, my little girl?" asked Colonel Smyth.

About a fortnight had passed since the journey from London to Bath. It seemed a natural thing now, to Colonel Smyth, having a child and her maid as part of his "impedimenta."

They had spent five or six days in Bath, shopping vigorously. The Colonel had taken Rhona to the best shops in and about Milsom Street, allowing her such a choice of pretty things as she had never enjoyed in her life before. He was anxious to interest her, to draw off her attention from sad recollections. And it was not in child-nature not to be charmed. Rhona took the matter with a certain outward placidity natural to her, but enjoyment if subdued was genuine.

Dress interested her least. She was bent upon having a due amount of crape upon her new black frocks, and enforced the same with sad earnestness. That once settled, the possession of clothes seemed to come to her as a thing of course; only she showed herself solicitous that the Colonel should not spend too much, amusing him greatly thereby.

"Not that, please; it is very nice, but it is too expensive," she would say in her gentle way, when goods were spread upon the draper's counter, or when hats and bonnets were pulled forth by the milliner.

"Not a penny too much, my dear!" the Colonel would answer, and the "expensive" article was at once chosen.

Rhona thanked him always, though with a doubtful look.

But when he led her into a large fancy warehouse, and desired her to select what she would in the way of desk and work-box and travelling-bag, her eyes did shine,—not only then, but during hours after, while unweariedly examining the intricate fittings of her new morocco, rosewood, and leather possessions. Finding the plan so far successful, Colonel Smyth followed it up perseveringly.

Next day he had her at a jeweller's, for the choice of a little silver brooch, locket and chain. The morning after, their destination was a bookseller's, where he presented her with a Turkey-morocco bound Bible, and a Church Service to match. That day's work transcended all, in Rhona's opinion. Her childish delight in her new treasures was a pretty sight, and it did the Colonel's heart good.

Yet even at her brightest, a shadow would often sweep over the sweet face, and if the Colonel asked,—"What now, Rhona?" the answer invariably was, "Mother would be so pleased! If only mother could see them all!"

They had remained two nights in their first Bath hotel, moving then to a second, with no expressed reason on the part of Colonel Smyth. He resolved next to give Rhona a week or two of sea breezes, before trying the effects of country air, and took her straight to Ilfracombe.

A new vista of delight opened there before the child's wondering eyes. She had never yet tasted the charms of English sea-shore life. Hours were spent in scrambling over the rocks and up the hills, with the Colonel. Happily for her, he loved walking, and as her powers of exertion increased, she could never have too much of it. At first, every effort wearied her, but before the close of one week, a marked change had taken place, shown by increase of colour and appetite. Colonel Smyth had never seen her look so well. His devotion to the child grew daily, till at length he was scarcely happy to have her out of his sight; and his love was abundantly returned.

More than a week of fine weather was succeeded by high winds and drenching rain, rendering it impossible for Rhona to go out. Two days of imprisonment passed cheerily enough, filled up with arrangements of shells and seaweeds collected during hours of sunshine.

On the third afternoon, Colonel Smyth left her busied over glove-mending,—Bertha as usual sitting with her during his absence. He was gone longer than he intended. On his return, the gloves were forsaken, and Rhona sat alone in the window, looking out with sorrowful intentness at the sea. The voice with which she greeted him told of some hidden distress.

He was soon beside her, taking her small hand in his, and asking—"What are you so grave about, my little girl?"

"Oh, I'm only—thinking," said Rhona, with one of her deep sighs. "I have been talking to Bertha."

"What about, Rhona?"

There was no answer, and Rhona's face went down on his knee.

After a minute, the Colonel repeated his question.

"I've been talking—at least, Bertha has—about—oh, only about herself," said Rhona. "She went away before you came in, for fear you should see she had cried. She didn't cry much, but only a little. It made me unhappy, because I don't know how to help her. Mother could, but I can't. I do wish mother was here."

"Bertha was wrong to trouble you," said the Colonel.

"O no, no,—" and Rhona looked imploring. "Oh, please don't stop her. She has nobody else in the world to speak to: and I like it. I do like it, uncle. Please don't stop her."

"Well; I will not," said Colonel Smyth, passing an arm round the child. The other arm was still in an invalid condition. "I wish I could cure you of suffering so much for other people. It is not necessary, my little girl."

"Isn't it? Mother always said it was right to feel. She said that was what the Bible meant by weeping with those who weep," said Rhona.

"Yes, no doubt, but there are different modes of feeling. I don't like to see my darling unhappy. Perhaps I could help Bertha. Is it money she wants?"

"No, it isn't that at all," said Rhona, with a half-smile. "It isn't that sort of thing. She wants—I don't know what. She isn't happy, and she can't believe she will ever go to heaven. And I don't know how to help her."

"I should think you could help her about as well as anybody," said the Colonel.

"O no; because I am only a little girl. I want somebody to help me."

"Rhona, you are not going to cry?"

"I'll try not," whispered the child.

"I don't understand what you mean by wanting help. You said something of the kind once before. I have read a chapter of the Bible to you almost every evening since then,—certainly we have not missed twice. But that does not seem to be sufficient. What more do you want?"

"I don't know," Rhona answered faintly.

And he asked—

"Is that quite true?"

"No,—I didn't mean to say it,—I didn't mean to tell a story," said Rhona hurriedly. "I only meant—"

"You do not know how to express yourself? Is that the difficulty? Try! It might do you good."

Rhona hid her face more completely, and was silent.

"Is Bertha's state of mind the only trouble? I think if I were you, I should advise her to consult somebody,—some clergyman, like your friend, Mr. Powis."

Silence still. The Colonel tried to obtain a glimpse of Rhona's face.

"My dear, if you break your heart to this extent for other people's worries, how will you ever get through life? Come, Rhona,—Rhona, my pet!"

"Oh, it isn't only that," Rhona broke out at length. "It isn't only Bertha. It's about me too."

"What about you, darling?"

"I'm not right,—I can't keep right. Mother used to talk to me about the Lord Jesus, so often. She used to tell me,—used to help me. It seemed so different. I can't feel now as I did then. And I know I'm wrong—I know I'm wrong—and I don't know what to do. Oh, I don't know what to do."

Tears were still restrained, but the fight for composure was doing her more harm than tears would have done.

Colonel Smyth drew up her face, and kissed the drawn brow tenderly, though in another moment, it was again hidden, pressed into his right shoulder.

"What is it that you feel to be wrong, my little girl?"

"I can't feel—can't feel—rightly—about—the aunts."

Colonel Smyth was very much taken by surprise.

It took him some seconds to get over his astonishment, and to ask—

"What do you mean?"

"I can't feel rightly,—I can't forgive them. I can't feel as I ought. I can't forget."

"Can't forget what?" He thought he knew, but his wish was to draw her out.

"What they did—to—to mother? If they hadn't—if they hadn't—mother might never—never—"

That sentence could not be finished. The child was shaken by a passion of weeping, but her physical strength was greater than some weeks before, and she had it sooner under command than of old. "Oh, don't ask, please don't ask," she gasped, when able to speak. "I didn't mean to cry, but I couldn't help it. Don't make me speak of them, please. It does make me so miserable. I can't forget,—and I can't—can't forgive them. And if I don't—"

"My dear, you have had ample reason for feeling vexed with the Miss Mordaunts."

"No, no,—not to feel as I do now. It isn't right. It is very very wrong. You don't know—you can't see into my thoughts. And if mother were here, she would help me—she would talk about Jesus!"

"Would that help you?"

"O yes!"

He let her cry still for some minutes, soothing her by degrees. When she had grown calmer, he said—

"I am going to ask you to do something for me now."

"What?" asked the child.

Colonel Smyth's bronzed cheek took a deeper tint than usual.

"Nobody has ever spoken to me about Him for more than fifty years. I want you to begin doing so."

She looked up in startled wonderment.

"Nobody for fifty years!"

"No, not since my mother died. I have heard sermons, of course, but nobody has spoken to me of Him. Will you try, my little girl,—try to talk, just as you would to your mother? I think it might help you,—and perhaps—perhaps it might help me too."

Rhona could give no direct answer to the request. She only clasped his arm, and half-sobbed—"Oh, you dear dear uncle!"

NUMBER THREE, AND NUMBER THREE.

"NO answer to my letter, Mr. Wynne. A week to-day since it went off," said Barbara Mordaunt. "My sister-in-law's questions are becoming very difficult to evade."

"She certainly improves," said Arbuthnot Wynne.

"Yes, but how will it be, when she has the shock of learning that the child is lost to us again?"

"She must not at present have that shock. You must avoid the word 'lost' in speaking of Rhona."

"Easier to avoid the word than the sense," said Miss Mordaunt.

"I would keep clear of both. After all, it is merely a question of time. Sooner or later, we shall trace them. And there is hope so far, in the fact that your letter has not been returned to you."

"Hardly likely to be as yet. It will probably lie waiting at the hotel for weeks. It may have been forwarded after Colonel Smyth,—but could any man delay answering such an appeal?"

"Unless—" Arbuthnot said dubiously.

"Unless—Yes—"

"One hardly likes to suggest the idea. But Colonel Smyth certainly was an enigma to me. I could not at all see through him. The only clue which has occurred to my mind, and which I do not wish to entertain, is that he really is not anxious to find the mother and to restore the child."

"Impossible! Human beings are not such monsters!"

Arbuthnot's lips parted in a smile. "I should not describe Colonel Smyth as a monster," he said. "But—"

"It could not be. The thing is out of the question."

"Such things have been, I should be very sorry to accuse the Colonel of any such motive, without strong proof. But I confess, he was a perplexing subject. His evident shrinking from an encounter with my father was and is a mystery to me."

Barbara stood in thoughtful silence for some seconds. "I do not know what view to take," she said at length. "Do you think we might venture to name Colonel Smyth to Mary?"

"That has occurred to me. I will see how she is to-day."

Nearly a week earlier Arbuthnot Wynne had paid a visit to old Mrs. Montague, for the purpose of learning all he could from her and others about the child. Inquiries had resulted in the knowledge that Rhona's surname was indeed Mordaunt, and that the Colonel was generally believed to be no relation, having only adopted the little girl after the disappearance of her mother.

Mr. Wynne had also succeeded in obtaining Neil Burrell's address, and a letter was forthwith despatched to Mrs. Burrell, asking where Bertha Stephens could be found, and requesting an answer by return of post. The answer came as desired, bringing disappointment with it. Mrs. Burrell had had no news of Bertha since leaving London. "Not one word of thanks from that ungrateful girl," the writer complained. She could not say anything at all about where Bertha might have gone. So this clue failed.

Standing by Mary Mordaunt's side, Mr. Wynne noted a marked improvement in her condition. She asked questions confusedly still, and memory was at fault, but powers of mind and body were returning. "I think we shall have her in an arm-chair soon," he said.

Then, when she asked in anxious tones for her child, evidently under a vague impression that he had a hand in the management of affairs, he said, "Rhona has gone into the country with your friend, Colonel Smyth."

"My friend!" She looked bewildered, and her eyes roved round the room.

"With Colonel Smyth," repeated Mr. Wynne in a distinct voice. "He was in Mrs. Burrell's lodgings. Was he not a friend of yours?"

"Colonel Smyth! At Mrs. Burrell's!"

"Yes,—Mrs. Burrell, Number Three, Albert Terrace."

Mary started sharply, and put her hand to her head. "Number Three—Number Three—" she muttered hurriedly. "Number Three—Winifred—Winifred—"

"Albert Terrace, not Winifred Place," said Mr. Wynne. "Mrs. Burrell was your landlady, at Number Three, Albert Terrace. And Colonel Smyth—"

Mary held her forehead still, looking eager and nervous, as recollections came upon her. "Mrs. Burrell—oh, yes—Number Three, Winifred—"

"No; Albert Terrace," said Mr. Wynne patiently. "There was Hope Burrell too, the landlady's daughter, and Bertha—"

"O yes, that nice Bertha!" said Mary. "Yes, I remember. And Rhona, Rhona, my little Rhona!"

"Yes: and Colonel Smyth," said Mr. Wynne again.

The name seemed at last to arrest her attention. "Colonel Smyth—" she said. "Yes,—Colonel Smyth—"

"You knew him very well, I suppose?"

"O no, not at all," she said, with a vague little laugh. "Why, I never saw him."

Arbuthnot Wynne naturally regarded this as a slight hallucination.

"No—never," repeated Mary, evidently trying to recall the past, and she laughed again. "He was such an odd man. But Rhona liked him—my little Rhona. When is Rhona coming to me—please—please?"

"By-and-by," said Mr. Wynne; and no more was said about Colonel Smyth.

Mary recurred, however, many times to his name during the day, sometimes with a half-smile, sometimes with the remark, "Such an odd man," and sometimes with confused recollections of other events in connection with him.

"That has not cleared up matters at all," Arbuthnot said later in the day, when relating to his father what had passed.

Dr. Wynne, though better, was still a prisoner, his attack having proved a sharp one.

"I shouldn't have expected that it would," Dr. Wynne answered drily.

"It was worth the trial. The most singular thing to my mind, is the extraordinary likeness of the two faces—Mrs. Mordaunt's and little Rhona's,—not only one to another, but both to a third which I have seen somewhere and at some time. I cannot recall time or place."

Dr. Wynne looked surprised, and said, "I should not have expected you to remember her."

"Whom?"

"Mrs. Pratt."

"I have not the least recollection of the name."

"No,—it is her face that you recollect. She was in and out a few times one winter long ago. You were a mere boy at the time, but no doubt you may have seen her occasionally. I had known her earlier; and when she happened to be in London with her husband, she consulted me upon her health."

"Then the likeness—Was she any connection of Mrs. Mordaunt?"

"Rather near! Mrs. Pratt was Mrs. Mordaunt's mother."

Arbuthnot's "Ha!" was expressive.

"That is not all the story. As a girl, she was intimate in the Mordaunt household. There was at one time an affair between her and the eldest son, Henry Mordaunt."

"She must have been a pretty creature."

"One of the loveliest women I have known, and one of the most disappointing. She was engaged to Henry Mordaunt for two years, and then threw him overboard for the sake of Lieutenant Pratt. When Arthur Mordaunt engaged himself to Mary Pratt, the Miss Mordaunts were greatly displeased. They have never admitted that the fact of the young lady being the daughter of Mrs. Pratt had any connection with their displeasure, but no doubt it was so."

"And the name of Mrs. Pratt before her marriage was—?"

"Margaret Willis."

Arbuthnot mused a little.

"Henry Mordaunt—" he said, at length. "I am half ashamed to ask,—but is he living still?"

"Others are putting that question beside yourself. Miss Mordaunt has not heard from him for many months, and her last letter was returned from India by a stranger. He was a singular character,—naturally blunt and reserved, and made worse by being misunderstood at home. I always believed that there was more good in Henry Mordaunt than appeared on the surface,—more warmth of heart than was supposed. But he never was a favourite with his sisters; and Miss Willis' conduct certainly had a souring effect upon him. It must be nearly twenty years since he last came to England."

"Then I may safely say, I do not know him. Hardly likely that he should have come into our nursery to make my acquaintance," observed Arbuthnot. "I have learnt more about the Mordaunt family in the last fortnight than during all those twenty years. Somehow they never interested me particularly."

"And they do now?"

"Rhona does," said Arbuthnot.

WYVERN HOUSE.

ONE hot June day, two flys might have been seen proceeding through lanes and high roads, in a pretty midland district. Fields and meadows, trees and hedges, formed the chief features of the landscape, with finishing touches of cows and sheep. Occasional ponds made a variety, and occasional hills broke the level line of the horizon.

The second fly was closed and heavily loaded with luggage. One young woman, respectably dressed, sat inside. The foremost vehicle, which was open, held two individuals—a grey-haired gentleman of soldierly aspect, and a fair child in deep mourning. The large soft eyes of the little girl were roving eagerly to and fro, while the gentleman seemed well content to watch her face.

"How pretty!" she said repeatedly. "O uncle, how pretty! Mother used to talk so about the fields. I do love them. And shall we live in the country always—quite always?"

"I don't know about living there always," Colonel Smyth answered. "If we like the old house, we may find it pleasant for part of the summer. London is best for winter."

"I don't like London ever the best," Rhona said decisively. "I think country is much much the nicest. Oh, look—look, uncle, at those sweet little lambs. I wish I could play with them. And those big birds."

"They are rooks. That is a rookery," said Colonel Smyth.

"Is it? I thought they were crows. Mother said once that she liked rooks so. But the dear little lambs are the prettiest. See, there are more of them! O uncle!"

Words seemed to fail Rhona. She laid her hand on his knee, and drew a deep breath of satisfaction.

"We must be getting near the house now," said Colonel Smyth, delighted with her delight. "I wonder how you will like it, my little girl."

"I am sure I shall like it, if there is a garden," said Rhona. "I can see some chimneys, uncle, and ever so many trees all round. Do you think that is the house, perhaps?"

"May be so, my dear. I am as much a stranger to the place as you are yourself."

"It does seem so very funny that you should never have seen your own house."

"Not so funny, when you remember that it has not long been mine. The old lady who left it me in her will was living here less than two years ago."

"And was her name Mrs. Smyth?" asked Rhona, in a meditative manner.

"Her name was Mrs. Smyth."

"And was she your grandmother?"

The Colonel laughed heartily. "No, not my grandmother."

"Or your aunt?"

"No," said the Colonel.

"She couldn't have been your mother, because of course you wouldn't have left her to stay all that great while in India."

"Perhaps not," the Colonel said, more gravely. "No, she was no relative of mine at all, but she left me her house for the sake of her only son, who was a great friend of mine in India."

"I should have thought she would have left it to him!"

"So she would have done, no doubt; but Captain Smyth died some years ago, and she had nobody else belonging to her."

"I think it is very funny that you have the same name as Mrs. Smyth, and yet you aren't any relation," Rhona said deliberately, as if weighing the matter.

"People change their names sometimes," said Colonel Smyth, watching the effect of the words. "Mrs. Smyth made a stipulation in her will that her heir should take her name."

The full sense of his utterance seemed to dawn upon Rhona slowly. She was looking about still, but after nearly a minute of silent enjoyment, her eyes went to his face in perplexity.

"But, uncle,—have you got 'two' names?"

"Yes," Colonel Smyth answered. "The old and the new. Some day I will tell you what the old name is, but not to-day,—not yet. See, Rhona, this really is the house; we are turning in at the gate."

"Oh, what a beauty of a house!" Rhona exclaimed, delicately ceasing at once to ask questions. "Oh, isn't it sweet! Such lovely creepers all over it. And the roses!—Oh, the roses."

Colonel Smyth lifted rather than helped her out at the front door, and led her through a quaint lattice porch into a still more quaint sitting-room, furnished in the style of a century earlier. But things, if old, were well preserved.

Rhona gazed round her wonderingly, and took refuge in the deep window, where roses clustered outside. She stood there in a trance of happiness, which yet was clouded by one shadow. What would not this have been to her mother? A sigh broke from Rhona, and for a moment her eyes were dim with tears.

Colonel Smyth and Bertha were busy with the luggage, but presently a step made her turn, and she found a middle-aged person behind, dressed in black, with cap and spectacles, most respectable in appearance.

"Pretty little dear!" the new-comer murmured. "And a orphan too."

Rhona said, "How do you do?" politely, and put out her little hand.

It was immediately taken possession of.

"Pretty dear! And such sweet manners too!"

"Yes, yes, the Colonel says to me, 'She's a lady, Mrs. Burrows,' and so for sure she is. I'm Mrs. Burrows, my dear, and been Mrs. Smyth's housekeeper for over thirty years, and the Colonel's now to continue. And before that in her service nigh upon fifteen years. Yes, it's forty-five years I've lived in this house, and never had but one mistress. A good mistress she was too,—ah, dear me!—but that's over and gone. My new mistress don't seem like to be a hard one!" And she laughed.

"Are you going to have a new mistress now?" asked Rhona gently.

"That's about it, Missy. The Colonel says to me, says he, 'I'm bringing you a new mistress, Mrs. Burrows, and you'll find her in the drawing-room.'

"Dear me, it did put my heart all of a flutter, and me looking for a bachelor household. And I never to be at the door in time to welcome you,—all the fault of that Tom, calling me into the yard just when the carriages was coming round the corner. But I'll be even with him yet. So I came off here, all of a flutter as I say, to see my new mistress."

"Uncle didn't mean me," said Rhona, distressed. "I am not anybody's mistress. I am only a little girl."

"And the Colonel's adopted daughter, ain't you, Missy?"

"I don't know. Yes, I suppose so. I am his little girl, and he is my uncle," said Rhona.

Mrs. Burrows nodded. "That's just it, my dear, just it exactly. You'll please forgive me for calling of you 'my dear,'—I'm that taken aback by finding you no bigger, after what Colonel Mord—goodness me, what am I after saying next? And I've got that London maid to see to, so you'll excuse me being all of a flurry, my dear. It's the first time we ever had a maid in the house out of that wicked London, and I'm all of a tremble to think of the ways we'll learn from her."

"Oh, I don't think you need be afraid, because Bertha is so very good," said Rhona earnestly.

"Well, I hope it may be so, my dear, but London's a place knowledgeable for wickedness, and we ain't used to such ways here. But I've got to see after her, howsomever. I shouldn't wonder if you'd like a cup of tea, Miss."

"I should—so much," Rhona said gratefully.

And Mrs. Burrows bustled out as the Colonel came in.

"Well, my pet, have you been making acquaintance with the old housekeeper?" he asked, kissing her. "A worthy soul, and of course I must keep her on, though really she has so long been head-woman here, and her husband head-man, that I only wonder they admit me at all."

"I like Mrs. Burrows," said Rhona, looking up in his face. "Uncle, she called you 'Colonel Maud' just now, and I don't think she meant to do it. I couldn't help hearing it—it came out so quick."

"You shall call me Colonel Maud too, if you like," said the Colonel, with a comical expression.

"I don't want to, uncle. I only thought I ought to tell," Rhona said, flushing.

"You are a little soul of honour," said the Colonel, kissing her. "Never mind what Mrs. Burrows says. How do you like the new home?"

"Oh, very very much," Rhona answered.

As weeks passed, this first impression was strengthened. The house proved to be not only pretty, but comfortable. Colonel Smyth was not, generally speaking, a lover of rural scenes. "Real country meant real dulness," he had been often heard to assert. But for Rhona's sake, his inclinations seemed to undergo a change; and the time spent at Wyvern House was to him a time of no little enjoyment. Shady lanes and green fields, flowers and ferns, rambling and gardening, became matters of new interest, in connection with the delight they afforded to Rhona. She seemed at length to shake off the long oppression caused by her mother's disappearance, and to become a happy child again, brighter in spirits and healthier in face than ever yet since her father's death.

Colonel Smyth was perfectly happy in her happiness. He never wearied of attending to his darling's wants, walking with her, gardening with her, reading with her, doing his utmost, indeed, to spoil her, had Rhona been an easily spoilable child. Many would in her place have suffered from his unlimited devotion and indulgence, but her intense conscientiousness and strong sense of duty were great safeguards.

The evening Bible-reading was now an established custom, and it was to Colonel Smyth an increasing pleasure. Memories of early days were often stirred, not to be again laid to rest. The plain reading of a chapter was gradually growing into a systematic half-hour's study, with much looking out of references. Rhona could never talk to him so freely as to her mother and Bertha; yet her simple faith and vivid realisation of unseen things were sufficiently apparent, to shake the Colonel out of his long-settled religious torpidity, and to set him thinking. The thinking led in time to prayer, and prayer led in time to a new life. With him, as with many, the spiritual dawn broke slowly, but already a change could be seen.

Since coming to Wyvern House, no further conversation had taken place about "the aunts," or about Rhona's feeling respecting them. From certain slight indications, the Colonel was convinced that she had not forgotten the subject. It seemed, however, to have fallen so far into the background amid her new interests, that he hoped it might in time die out of existence.

It was the Colonel's pleasure to escort Rhona on Sundays to a Church at some little distance, partly for the sake of the walk, partly because he desired at present to avoid meeting acquaintances in the village. One Sunday, however, many weeks after their arrival at Wyvern House, the fair weather, which had so far served them well, gave place to drizzling rain. He yielded reluctantly to Rhona's entreaties, and consented to take her for once to the Parish Church. His dislike arose in some measure from fear of a chill for Rhona, but still more from an objection to being the centre of interest to the village congregation. The ordeal had, however, to be borne one day; and the Colonel at length resolved to face it like a man.

During the Prayers, he was uncomfortably conscious of many gazing eyes. But when the clergyman had mounted the pulpit, his thoughts all went from himself to Rhona. For the text given out was—

   "If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses."

Colonel Smyth soon regretted greatly that he had not kept Rhona at home that day. She listened to the sermon quietly, but with a look of earnest thought which gradually grew into an expression of intense sorrow, and tears were soon running down her cheeks. Once or twice, the little hand was lifted to wipe them away; otherwise, she remained very still. The Colonel could do nothing then, and as they went home, no word was spoken.

When the house was reached, she ran away to her own room. At dinner, she was evidently struggling to be calm, and to respond to his cheerful conversation, but she could eat little, and tears soon broke out anew.

The Colonel would not leave her. He made the child lie on a sofa, petted her, and finally read her to sleep.

She woke up better, but still troubled and sad.

Tea passed quietly, and then Colonel Smyth lifted her on his knee, folding his arms round her.

"I wish I had not taken you out this morning, my little girl," he said.

RHONA'S REAL UNCLE.

"I'M glad I went," Rhona answered in a low voice. "Please, may I go this evening too?"

"No, my pet. I couldn't think of such a thing,—such weather!"

"But the clergyman didn't finish all he had to say this morning,—and it was so—so interesting—"

Rhona's voice faltered.

Colonel Smyth would have described the morning's sermon as being the very essence of dulness. He did not yet understand how even the dullest sermon may bear its message from above, to one heart among many wearied listeners. After a puzzled pause, he said only—"You liked it!"

"O yes,—so much—so very much," Rhona answered, unconscious of the note of admiration.

"But you mustn't talk about it, if talking makes you cry," said the Colonel, noting suspicious signs.

Rhona was so long silent that he supposed her to be falling asleep again, when a remark came in a wide-awake tone:

"I do wonder if aunt Barbara thinks I am angry with her still."

The Colonel's first impulse was to laugh, but Rhona's voice sounded intensely serious, and he feared to hurt her feelings by any sign of lightness. So he only stroked her head, and said with due gravity, "I should not think she would suspect you of it, my dear."

"Of course she doesn't know about—about—mother," said the child, with an effort. "And most likely she only thinks mother is keeping me away still, for fear she should want to have me to live with her. If she did know about mother, she would want me now, I dare say."

"And you would naturally go there, if you were not my little girl."

"I like being your little girl, after mother's," said Rhona softly. "I shouldn't like to go away to aunt Barbara. I don't think I could bear it. I do love you so."

"You don't think she and I are at all alike?" asked the Colonel.

"Not a bit. O no, not the very least! I love you so," repeated Rhona. "And I didn't love aunt Barbara, at least, not properly. I do wonder why she wasn't kinder to mother. But mother thought she knew."

"What did she suppose was the reason?"

"I don't think I remember—exactly," said the child. "Mother said there were more reasons than one. But she knew they hadn't been pleased with her mother once for something,—mother didn't say what it was. That was my grandmother, you know. Mother said aunt Barbara and all of them had once been vexed with her. But I don't see that that was any reason. Mother couldn't help what my grandmother had done, and people oughtn't to keep on being vexed such a time."

"Quite true, my little girl," assented the Colonel.

Then after a short silence Rhona broke out unexpectedly—

"I did like that sermon this morning."

"Did you? I don't think I did. It made me sleepy."

Rhona's wondering gaze was too much for him, and he could not help laughing.

"Don't think me very naughty, Rhona. It was all quite true, no doubt, but—"

"I liked it," said Rhona again, in a serious tone. "It showed me how wrong I had been. And mother said we ought to be very glad of anything that showed us what we really are."

"'Wad some fay the giftie gie us!'" muttered the Colonel rather perversely. Then he kissed Rhona's brow. "Well, my darling, it can't be anything very bad that you really are."

"Oh, but it is. You don't know," said Rhona sadly. "I wasn't sure till to-day."

"Sure of what?"

"About the aunts. I haven't ever really really in my very heart forgiven them. I haven't liked to think about aunt Barbara. I did mean to forgive, but it wasn't true forgiveness. I didn't want ever to see her and aunt Clara again; and I couldn't pray for them."

"All that seems to me perfectly natural, under the circumstances," said Colonel Smyth. "In fact, it is only right that you should feel a certain measure of just indignation."

"O no, because it isn't that, it is wicked indignation," said Rhona, her chest heaving. "I ought to be able not to be angry when I think of aunt Barbara's face. Didn't you hear this morning, how he said—said—it would—would grieve the Lord Jesus—"

One sob could not be suppressed. "I don't mean to cry,—I'll try not," Rhona said, with long breaths. "But oh, I do want to do right,—I do want to do right. And I know I have grieved Him. It hasn't been real forgiveness."

"How are you going to make it real?" asked the Colonel curiously.

"I think I shall write to aunt Barbara, and tell her I am sorry for the naughty feelings."

The Colonel was startled. "But aunt Barbara does not know you have had those naughty feelings. Would it not vex her to hear of them?"

"I don't know. I don't want to vex her," said Rhona. "But mother said we ought to confess to people, if we had done them any wrong."

"Well, yes,—if one has done wrong. I am not so sure about wrong thoughts."

Rhona seemed perplexed. "I don't know exactly how else to manage," she said. "I do want not to have the bad feelings again. And I thought, perhaps,—perhaps—if I wrote to aunt Barbara—"

"I see no harm in your writing to her," said the Colonel, after some cogitation. "On the whole it is a good plan. No need to say much about your own feelings, my dear,—at least that is my opinion. Just a kind little letter, saying that you think she would wish to hear from you, and that she ought to know about your dear mother,—stay, I have a better plan to propose. Suppose we run up to London for a week, and call on the aunts. You can say what you like then,—much quicker work than writing. And we can see your friend, Mr. Wynne."

"I should like that," said Rhona. "And you will come with me to aunt Barbara."

"Yes, certainly. I shall not let you go out of my sight. Why, she might eat you up! Don't write beforehand. We'll go straight in, and take them by surprise."

"Uncle—" Rhona said tremulously—"uncle,—do you think?—Don't you think?—Won't they want to take me from you?"

"They shall not do it, my pet, whatever they may wish."

"But they are my real aunts, and you are not my real uncle. And perhaps—"

Colonel Smyth had it on the tip of his tongue to say,—"But I am your real uncle, Rhona." He could have uttered the words with truth. Yet he hesitated.

He had gone on step by step for so long that his reserved nature now shrank with strong dislike from the necessary explanations. Like many another moral coward, he was disposed to put off the unpleasant moment as long as possible. That the fact itself would give joy to Rhona, he could not doubt. But he was a little afraid that to her transparent nature, the prolonged concealment might appear blameworthy.

"Rhona, will you trust me?" he asked, kissing her. "I promise faithfully that you shall not leave me against your will."

"I know you'll try your very best," the child said sorrowfully. "But you haven't seen aunt Barbara. She is my father's very own aunt, you know, and she is sure to say she must have me."

Reluctance of every kind gave way before those troubled eyes. "My pet, you are worrying yourself needlessly," Colonel Smyth said. "Shall I tell you a secret, Rhona? I meant you to know it soon. Aunt Barbara is your own aunt, it is true, but—but—ahem—but the fact is, my darling, I am just as much your own uncle. And since your dear mother's death, no one has a better right over you than I have. It is true. I am your aunt Barbara's own brother, Henry."

Rhona looked bewildered and white. "And not Colonel Smyth!" she said.

"Yes, I am Colonel Smyth,—more strictly, Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth. It is not long since I took the name of Smyth, in addition to my own, consequent upon this property being left to me. Do you understand, darling? I am your own uncle, Henry Mordaunt-Smyth. So aunt Barbara cannot possibly steal you from me."

He heard a low murmur of, "I am so glad!" and read a certain peaceful satisfaction in the way she laid her head upon his shoulder. He let her remain quiet, and she was the first to break silence.

"Doesn't aunt Barbara know you are here, uncle?"

"Why, no—" said Colonel Smyth. "Not exactly. I am afraid I have treated the aunts rather badly. But the truth is I am not much of a letter-writer. It is a great many months since they heard from me."

"And they don't know that I am your little girl?"

"Not a word of it. They don't even know, so far as I am aware, that I have taken the name of Smyth, or that I am in England."

"I should think they must want a letter very much."

The Colonel's conscience smote him. "Perhaps they do," he said. "It has been hardly fair, after all. We'll go and see them."

Another pause, and Rhona spoke again. "If only you had found out sooner," she said sadly, "mother needn't—mother wouldn't—perhaps—"

Cowardice prompted the Colonel to make no answer, but he resisted the temptation. "I did know, my little girl," he said regretfully. "You cannot be more angry with me than I am with myself, for not speaking sooner. I can't explain to you all my reasons,—you would not understand them."

"But you don't mean—you don't mean—" said Rhona, lifting her face. "Uncle dear, when we were at Mrs. Burrell's, and when you wouldn't ever meet mother on the stairs, you didn't know then!!"

"Yes, I did know then," said the Colonel courageously, glad at last to speak out. "I knew you were related to me even then—from the very first day I went to the house. That was partly what decided me to take the rooms. But I had a fancy not to be known for a time by old friends and connections—so I just dropped the name Mordaunt, and called myself only Colonel Smyth. It was foolish, no doubt. And I had a fancy to find out all I could about you and your mother, before taking any steps—before helping her, I mean. I had loved your father when he was a boy, but I wanted to know what she was—whether she was like somebody else whom I had once known. I cannot explain all! Only I meant no unkindness to either of you. I should like you to be able to believe that.

"I really did intend to do something very soon for your mother, and not to let her go on teaching always,—but—well, I could not make up my mind exactly what to do, and there were old associations which made me inclined to put off the first meeting—and—The fact is, your old uncle acted very foolishly, my darling, and he is very sorry for it. Can you ever forgive me, Rhona?"

"O uncle! I do love you so! I know you didn't mean it," Rhona broke out passionately. "But oh I—if only you had spoken sooner,—if only you had spoken just a little sooner!"

TOGETHER AGAIN.

"HOW strangely one may be mistaken in other people! I never knew you till now, aunt Barbara. So very very good you have been to me! I can never repay you."

"It is easy to be good to people, if one loves them," Barbara answered.

"I don't know about being easy,—and I do not know why you should love me. I have been nothing but a trouble."

"I have not felt you a trouble."

"No, because you are so good—so self-forgetting. You must let me thank you this once, dear aunt. I sometimes feel as if the weight of obligation were more than I could bear."

Mary Mordaunt looked wan and shadowy still. She was exceedingly fragile after her illness, and would remain so, the doctor said, for a long while. Callers were still almost entirely forbidden, for the slightest excitement brought on confusion and forgetfulness; and she had not yet been downstairs.

Many weeks had now gone by since Mary first learnt that her little Rhona was still living. Before that, through some inadvertent remark uttered within her hearing, she had fully believed the child to be dead. Gradually, and not sooner than was found needful, it had been broken to her that Rhona's present whereabouts was unknown. Mary bore the shock better than was expected, though it threw back her recovery for at least a fortnight. She seemed to have learnt in this illness a new calm, to have gained a new power of waiting. Possibly some part of the calm was due to her uncertain memory, and her want of power to realise things.

Advertising had not yet been tried. Arbuthnot Wynne's conjecture, as to the motives which swayed poor Colonel Smyth, had been so strongly adopted by the three aunts, that they were quite convinced of its uselessness. To advertise would simply be, they said, to drive the Colonel deeper into retirement. Mr. Wynne recommended the attempt being made, but the ladies deferred following his advice. Private inquiries were instituted in divers directions, thus far with no results. Barbara would have given much to find the child, and so to still the wistful longing in Mary's eyes. But "that wicked man," as Clara commonly designated the unfortunate Colonel, had taken his measures effectually, and Rhona's retreat remained undiscovered.

"You must not think of it as an obligation at all," Barbara kindly answered. "Do not distress yourself, Mary, about gratitude. I am quite content to have shown you that at least my intentions from the first were not cruel."

"Cruel! O no. If only I had not been so foolish and impulsive!"

"It is easy to look back afterwards, and see that we did not, either of us, act too wisely. But that is over now."

"I hope somehow—some day—to be able to repay," whispered Mary. "When I am strong, and can work again."

"That will not be yet. You have to submit to be taken care of at present. And if it is God's will for you, I am sure you will not murmur."

She found this simple suggestion always efficacious.

Mary smiled faintly. "No," she said. "Oh, how my Rhona loves His will."

"And you too, Mary?"

"Yes, I think so." A strained look came into her eyes, as she repeated—"Yes, I think so. Before my illness, there was such a blackness of darkness everywhere? It comes back in memory sometimes, and makes me shudder. I hope never to go through the same again. But things seem different now—the darkness is gone. I don't think I wish to have what God does not choose for me. Perhaps it is partly because I have no strength—no power to feel anything keenly."

Two days later, Mary was permitted to make her first excursion downstairs. Barbara presided at afternoon tea, Mary lying upon a sofa, white, frail, and placidly smiling. Sue hung about the couch in a state of dumb devotion; and even Clara, who had thus far held out in some measure against the invalid, at length succumbed, showing a kindness equal to Barbara's.

Tea was almost finished, when Mary said wistfully—"I suppose nobody has heard anything more of Mrs. Burrell lately?"

"Why, yes," Barbara answered. "I did not care to trouble you by bringing up the subject, as there was nothing good to report. But Mr. Wynne told me that she had at last set up a new shop near her old quarters,—the next street, is it not, Sue? Mrs. Burrell has heard nothing of her niece, and cannot tell what has become of her."

"It seems strange," Mary said.

"More than strange. A most ungrateful girl," observed Barbara. "It is her simple duty to write, after all that Mrs. Burrell has done for her."

"I shouldn't wonder if her silence is all the fault of that wicked Colonel," said Clara. "I told Mrs. Burrell that he was probably the one who ought to be blamed. She said she shouldn't wonder, for she always had had her doubts about him."

"But Bertha Stephens is not a child, to be entirely under his control," said Barbara. "However, we shall know more some day soon." And she spoke cheerfully for Mary's sake. "If other means fail, I really think we had better in a few days try advertising. Does Mrs. Burrell seem doing well in her new shop, Clara?"

"Things looked prosperous, but she spoke dolefully. I should take her for an arrant grumbler," said Clara. "A very unpleasant old woman, in my opinion. The daughter is a pretty girl. She is going to be married soon to the young schoolmaster who took in Mrs. Burrell after the fire,—her nephew, isn't he? It seems a happy arrangement. I suppose the engagement is a satisfaction to Mrs. Burrell, but she looked uncommonly grim over even that."

"If you please, ma'am, a gentleman wants to speak to you."

The door had been opened noisily, and these words came with abruptness. The parlour-maid being out that afternoon, her place was temporarily filled by the housemaid, a new importation from the country.

"Really that girl is too much for civilised nerves," muttered Clara. "Shut the door, Maria."

"A gentleman!" repeated Barbara. "What is his name?"

"He didn't give no name, ma'am." Maria stood with her fingers on the door-handle, unheeding Clara's order.

"Then ask him."

"I did ask him, and he said it was of no consequence, ma'am, and could he come in?"

"You had better say I am engaged, and he can call again. Or stay,—perhaps it will save trouble in the end if I see him now. Show the gentleman into the dining-room."

Maria retreated awkwardly with that intent, and nearly backed into the arms of somebody close behind.

"Hallo, look out!" a gruff voice said; and then,—"I suppose we can come in. Stand back."

"Please, sir, if you please, sir,—this way, sir," protested Maria.

But her efforts being vain, she resigned herself to the inevitable, and looked on, open-mouthed.

Those within the drawing-room saw a grey-haired and upright gentleman enter, leading by the hand a child in deep mourning.

Barbara's first impulse was to rise and say severely,—"There is some mistake. I desired that you might be shown—"

"How do you do, Barbara?" said the new-comer, flushing slightly under his bronzed skin.

"Henry!"

Barbara was not easily overcome, but she actually turned pale, and sat down, motes dancing before her eyes, and bees buzzing in her ears. The child was unnoticed by her in that moment's agitation. She had no thought except for this brother, so long absent, so suddenly restored.

"Sue,—Clara,—it is Henry,—our Henry!" she muttered.

Hers was not however the only recognition.

"Barbara!—It is Rhona!" Clara exclaimed in amazement.

At the same moment, the child's glance fell upon the sofa near the fire, partly sheltered from observation by a large screen.

Mary already knew all, and was receiving her joy calmly. A bright flush rose in either cheek, and she clasped her hands, neither starting nor exclaiming, but lying quietly, with riveted gaze. For two or three seconds, Rhona had been unconscious of her presence.

"MOTHER!"

Mary's colourless face had flushed, but Rhona's bloom gave place to deadly pallor. For Mary had known the child to be living, while Rhona had believed the mother to be dead. No other sound came from either. Rhona was by her mother's side with a spring, lying over her, clasped and clasped, in a very agony of joy, too intense for any other manner of expression.

The silence was absolute. Mother and daughter remained locked together in that wordless grasp, as if they might never part again, and the face of neither could be seen. Sue was quietly dropping tears behind the screen. Clara seemed lost in astonishment. Barbara still looked pale and overcome. Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth had no eyes except for Rhona.

"This will not do," Barbara said, and she glanced from one to another with a husky laugh. "We all seem petrified. Henry!"

The Colonel turned to her, as with a new idea, and stooped to bestow a kiss. "I declare I'm forgetting," he said apologetically. "We have not met for so long. It is rather a shame to take you by surprise, in this fashion."

He paid the same brotherly attention to Sue and Clara, then turned anew to the sofa.

"Rhona,—my little girl," he said.

A moment's silence, and he repeated, "Rhona!"

"Yes, make her stand up, Henry. Mary will be worse," Barbara said, in sudden alarm. "But how Rhona happens to be with you—! It is all a mystery."

The Colonel left explanations till later. "Rhona, my pet!" he said again, and he touched her arm.

She raised herself slowly, pale as ashes, and lifted her eyes to his with a dazed dreamy look. Then there was a flush, and a low cry, as Rhona flung herself upon him. "O uncle, uncle,—O uncle, it is mother, it is my own own sweet sweet mother!" she sobbed wildly. "I don't know what to do,—I don't know how to bear it,—I am so glad!"

The three sisters were in tears, and not they only, for the Colonel himself was actually sobbing. Of all who were present, Mary alone kept calm. She lay placidly, with folded hands, and a smile of indescribable content.

"It is more than I dared hope," she whispered, so low that Sue alone overheard. "To see her so well cared for—so bright and strong—the little darling! My God, how I thank Thee! Thou hast been better to me than all my fears."

"Rhona, don't—don't now—hush, my pet," the Colonel was saying huskily. "You must not make yourself ill."

But this was no manner of weeping to make any one ill. Rhona was soon able to go back to the couch, with a face of eager joy, clasping one of the Colonel's hands, and clinging afresh to her newly-found mother.

"I don't think we shall ever be able to be glad enough," she whispered, "It is all so beautiful!! And to think of finding you here—with aunt Barbara! And oh, mother darling, I do want you to love my dear dear uncle. He is so good, and he saved me out of the fire, and he has given me such lots of things. I do love him!"

"Is it Colonel Smyth?" asked Mary, turning to him with a grateful smile. She had heard and seen nothing as yet, beyond Rhona.

"It is Henry Mordaunt—aunt Barbara's brother—your husband's uncle," the Colonel said, bending over her. "You shall hear all soon, Mary. Your little Rhona has been a dear child to me this summer."

"It is all so strange,—so bewildering,—I cannot quite understand," Mary said patiently. "But I have my darling,—my darling,—thank God for that."

GATHERING UP THE THREADS.

"I SUPPOSE I must not venture to say what I feel," Miss Mordaunt remarked, as a preliminary to the giving forth of her opinion. "But I certainly do think it has been a most extraordinary proceeding. To spend months in London,—not only in England, but actually in London itself, not half-an-hour's drive distant from us,—and never to let your own sisters know that you were on this side of the globe! It is most extraordinary! Not only that, but to have property left you, to take a new name, to retire from the army, to change your whole manner of life,—and still to leave us in ignorance! I do think we have reason to be pained, and I confess I am pained, more than you can imagine. Our dear William would never have treated us so. I should not have expected any great show of confidence from you, but this is going far indeed. I do think you have not acted rightly towards us, not even with due respect,—I am not speaking of affection."

Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth paced to and fro impatiently during his sister's harangue. It was not the first he had had to endure, and he was beginning to feel irritated. Rhona had been all the evening absent from him, in her mother's room. He had of course yielded to the general wish that Rhona should at once take up her abode in the house, though himself bent upon sleeping at the hotel, despite all opposition. But after weeks of close companionship, he felt at a loss without the child's loving little face and voice; and his three sisters could by no means supply her place.

There had always been friction between him and them in past days; and the friction began again so soon as they came together. Pleased though Barbara really was to have him back, she reverted at once to her old custom of complaining about this and wondering about that, while Clara trod in her footsteps. It was just what he had expected, and just what he had all along sought to avoid. He began to wonder that even Rhona had succeeded in drawing him out of his comfortable retirement.

"I suppose you may venture to say what you like," he responded tartly to Barbara.

"But, Henry,—if you only will consider! Of course you do not like us to be vexed, and you expect to be received just as if you had treated us with brotherly confidence. But if you only would consider! Think how it will look in the eyes of our friends! Think of Dr. Wynne! I assure you I feel bewildered. All these months within almost a walk of one another, and not a single word from you to enlighten us! What could have been your motive? Were you offended with us? Did anything in our last letters displease you?"

Colonel Smyth hesitated, frowned, and finally laughed.

"It's of no earthly use being put out," he said. "I always was an odd fellow and did things my own way. You must put up with me as I am, and not count me worse than the reality. The thing is done now, and can't be helped. I promise not to treat you so cavalierly again, and that is all I can do. You will have to forgive and forget."

"I may forgive, but it is not easy to forget," Barbara said coldly, for her pride and affection were alike wounded.

"No, indeed," echoed Clara, who alone beside was present, Sue having vanished.

Colonel Smyth sat down and was silent, seemingly lost in thought.

Barbara, looking at him, was struck again, as she had already been, with a nameless change in his face, with a certain softness of expression underlying the rugged outline. Her conscience gave a stab. Henry might have acted wrongly, but what was she about, to visit his wrong-doing upon his head?

"Yes, we 'will' forgive and forget," she said, and rising from her seat she kissed him twice. "There shall be no coldness between us after all these years of separation. We will forgive all, and try to forget. Perhaps—I dare say it was so—perhaps you did not at first really mean to carry the thing on so long."

"No; you are right there," the Colonel said, looking relieved. "I certainly did not intend it. I was drawn on, step by step."

"There are a few points that I am not clear about yet," Barbara observed, after a moment's thought. She and her sisters had been put into possession of a good many facts that evening, but the outline needed filling up. "I suppose you decided to retire, after hearing that Mrs. Smyth had left you her property. Strange that you should have received so much from one who was a complete stranger to us!"

"I must have mentioned Captain Smyth to you. There was a strong tie between us, in the fact that I was once able to save his life at the risk of my own. Mrs. Smyth never forgot it. Yes, I settled to leave the army immediately—but I had had thoughts before of doing so. Why I didn't write to tell you all these things I really don't know. A matter of laziness, I suppose. I am only surprised that nobody should have seen a notification of my change of name in any English paper. It must surely have been in some of them."

"No one did, at all events. I wrote to you about Mary, soon after poor Arthur's death."

"Yes; that letter reached me, and helped to hurry me home. You'll excuse my saying so now, Barbara, but I didn't like the view you seemed to take of Mary's position—saying she had no claim upon any of us."

"Did I?" Barbara looked thoughtful. "I forget."

"Something to that effect. The next letter from you reached me just as I was on the point of starting for England, and was full of indignation at Mary's flight and concealment."

"I thought she had treated us wrongly."

"And she thought the same of you. Oddly enough that mail brought me another letter, from a complete stranger, an English clergyman in Italy, who had been a friend of poor Arthur's. He wrote to say that he was very anxious about Mary,—'young Mrs. Mordaunt' as he called her,—that she had seemingly given offence to her husband's relatives in London, and was consequently alone and friendless. He was too poor himself, he said, to give material assistance, and he did not know what would become of the poor young thing,—could I help her?—and so on. Stay, I have the letter in my pocket-book. I can read you the last paragraph.

   "'Mrs. Mordaunt writes to my wife in confidence, and I must not therefore say much more, but I cannot abstain from this effort to find her a friend in her great need. If you are disposed to do anything, please direct your inquiries towards a certain Albert Terrace in the neighbourhood of — Street. I entreat you not to write one word of this to the Miss Mordaunts, your sisters. Mrs. Mordaunt seems to dread inexpressibly the idea of her present retreat being discovered by them.

   "'You may wonder how I am acquainted with your name and address, but I had much to do after the death of Arthur Mordaunt, with looking through his papers. By the same means, I am also aware that you have had thoughts of an early return to England. I trust this may be the case. I hardly see how you can do anything for Mrs. Mordaunt at a distance. Once more, I entreat you to remember that all this is in the strictest confidence, and that not a word of it may reach your sisters!'"

"He seems to have looked upon us as terrible ogres," Barbara said, with an uncomfortable laugh, and then tears sprang to her eyes. "Well, I have done my best to convince people—"

"I am sure you have, and most successfully," said the Colonel, in a tone of kindness. "But this will help to explain to you my silence."

"Did you answer the letter?"

"No. Perhaps I should have done so. I respected his confidence, and mentioned his letter to no one, until this evening. I would rather that it should go no farther."

"Of course,—you may trust us," Barbara said, with a glance at Clara. "I think you should write to him now, for my sake, to explain how matters really are. Then you went to Mrs. Burrell's lodgings, on purpose to be under the same roof with Mary."

"I went to an hotel, on my first arrival in London; and a few inquiries soon made me acquainted with the fact that a Mrs. Mordaunt was lodging at No. 3 Albert Terrace. I really had not made up my mind what to do next, for I was anxious to know more about Mary, before committing myself. But, learning that there were vacant rooms in the same house, I went there—on Christmas Day, I believe—not with any fixed intention of taking them. However, while I was in the house, I happened to overhear Mary's voice singing a hymn, and somehow that settled me. It was absurd, of course,—but the contralto was so exactly like Margaret's, and the hymn, one that she used to sing for the children. I knew it again directly."

"I wondered if you had ever thought of the connection," Barbara said.

"Of course I did," the Colonel answered gruffly.

"And then you told Mary who you were?"

"No, I did not. If I had, all this trouble might have been spared. I could not make up my mind to any definite course of action. Partly laziness, perhaps,—I didn't want to be bothered,—and there was a stupid feeling which you won't understand—a dislike to seeing her."

"I think I do understand," Barbara said in a gentle tone.

"Not that she really is so very like. The resemblance in Rhona is much more striking. However, one thing and another made me hold aloof and put off doing anything, week after week. I was beginning to pick up an acquaintance with the little one, and that was all."

"And you were supposed all the while to be merely a Colonel Smyth! I wonder your letters did not betray you."

"That was easily avoided. Letters went to my bankers', and remained there till I called for them. There was no difficulty in keeping up my incognito, and the only person who showed curiosity was my landlady. Certainly I came rather near discovery at the time that Wynne was in and out, but he is a thorough gentleman and asked no needless questions. Well—I suppose my wish for secrecy went too far in the first instance. One is drawn on somehow, and once fairly in for it, I felt less and less inclined to break out of the coil. Then Mary disappeared, and I found myself with the child left on my hands. She is a sweet creature—wins her way into one's heart. I seem to have thought of nothing but Rhona lately."

Clara was opportunely summoned out of the room, and Barbara, looking earnestly at her brother, said—"You are altered, Henry."

"If I am, it is the child! You would not have said so six months ago."

"I never saw you so like our dear William."

"Pshaw!" the Colonel said, half-touched, half-amused. "I tell you it is only that child! She can twist me round her finger."

"She seems to have been to you a little angel unawares," said Barbara. "As Mary has been to us."

"There was not the same need with you three good creatures. Did you know that I have been for years past a man of no religion—practically none?" In a husky tone, the Colonel added—"That little one's sweet words and ways have, I hope, brought me to my senses."

"I know you never talked: but I always hoped you felt more than appeared on the surface."

"I can't talk now—it isn't my way. But there used to be no feeling—and lately it has come," said the Colonel. "More than mere feeling, I hope."

Habitual reserve checked further confidence, and both were silent for some seconds.

"What do you think of doing next?" Barbara asked presently.

"I can't part with the child, and where she is, Mary of course must be. I shall offer them both a home."

"Ours would have been open to them." Barbara looked disappointed.

"No, no, better not—you three do well together, and five women under one roof is too much!" The Colonel evidently meant what he said. "Not that Rhona is a woman yet, but she will be by-and-by. Clara would inevitably clash with her; and my little darling is too sensitive for sharp words. You have been at great expenses already—by-the-bye you must let me help you in that matter—and your income won't stand any amount of drain. Besides, you could not really wish to deprive me of the child—you don't know all that she is to me. No, no, my home must be hers and Mary's. You do not think Mary will object."

"I should say she would be only thankful to accept your offer. Mary is hardly in a state now to object to anything—she has grown so curiously passive. Dr. Wynne does not think her mind can ever again be quite what it was before her illness. I mention this, because you ought to understand what you are proposing to take upon yourself."

"We will look well after her, and Bertha will be an invaluable help. She is a thoroughly good and reliable creature. I have taken her into my confidence lately."

"You will need a confidential servant with Mary, for some time to come—when she is able to be moved, I mean, which will not be yet. But what if Mrs. Burrell wants Bertha again?"

"Mrs. Burrell has given up any rights she may have once possessed. Bertha promises to remain with me."

"Was it your doing, or Bertha's own fault, that Mrs. Burrell never heard from her?" inquired Barbara.

"My doing entirely. I told her I had reasons, and requested her not to write. Later on, I gave her some little notion of the real state of things. Well—I must be off. It is getting late, and I want to look in on Dr. Wynne and his son. But I must say good-bye to the little one first. Ah, here she comes—" as Rhona ran in, with shining eyes and brilliant cheeks. "She looks well,—eh, Barbara?"

"That is excitement," Barbara answered. "But she really does seem stronger."

The Colonel was folding Rhona in his arms. "Had a happy evening with mother, my pet?" he asked.

"So happy—oh, so happy," Rhona answered, drawing long breaths, and laying her head on his shoulder. "I can't tell you how very very glad I am. It does seem all so beautiful. And I've been telling mother all about you, uncle, and she says she can never never thank you rightly."

"Nobody wants thanking," said the Colonel. "Tell mother it was all a selfish pleasure."

"I don't think I can say that, because it wasn't selfish. And oh, aunt Barbara—please—" continued Rhona, with a deepening colour—"I want so very much to tell you that I am sorry I had such naughty thoughts about you. I didn't know you were nursing darling mother all that very time."

"My dear!" Barbara said in surprise.

She checked an inclination to inquire what the child meant, and patted her cheek.

"We will not think any more about past mistakes, Rhona. They are all at an end now."

"Yes, we have to think about the future, not the past," added Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth. "I must say good-bye—"

"Good-bye!"

Rhona broke into his utterance with a startled intonation, absolutely growing pale, to the Colonel's great satisfaction. He had had some fear of finding himself entirely supplanted in her affections by the restored mother.

"No, no, my darling; not real good-bye—only good-night. I will be back in the morning. If mother is willing, we shall not be separated. Do you think she will come and live with me, and bring you too? That is what I want—that you and she and I should make a home together."

"And Bertha too?" asked Rhona breathlessly.

"Yes, Bertha too. We can't do without her."

"And will it be in the country, uncle?"

"Well, yes, I think so—all the summer. London in the winter, probably. What will mother say?"

Rhona sprang to the ground and fled like a little lapwing. She was back before they could have thought it possible.

"Mother says it is the loveliest thing that could happen, and she would so like it, and you are the dearest dearest of uncles," Rhona cried rapturously, throwing herself upon him.

"Then that is a compact between us," the Colonel said, smiling.

THE END.

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