The Discovery of Damaris

A LONELY GIRL

DAMARIS sat at her window, work in hand. She was in a big upper room of a very old house in a quiet London square.

It was her own room, and in the soft spring sunshine of that March afternoon it looked very attractive and comfortable. A thick Persian carpet was underfoot; the walls were covered with coffee-coloured paper, and all sorts and sizes of pictures hung upon them, from tiny water-colour paintings to heavy oil and a few very valuable and ancient prints. There was a low bookcase on one side of the fireplace, with some beautiful old china bowls resting on the top of it. There was a writing-table in one window, and a jar of yellow daffodils upon it. A chintz-covered couch was drawn up to another window. One or two comfortable lounge chairs, a work table of Indian design in red lacquer, and a curiosity-cabinet completed the furniture.

Damaris herself was the centre of her room. She was a slim young girl, with a proud carriage and poise of head. A small head she had, with soft dark hair wound round it in coronet form; her eyes were dreamy and wistful—grey eyes, with long curling black lashes. Her face was white and small, her mouth beautiful in its sensitiveness and delicacy of outline.

An observer of human nature said of her, when he had seen her for the first time—

"A soul built to suffer. Too tenderly shod for life's rough stones."

And one who knew her better said—

"She is not awake. There are slumbering fires which, once roused, will startle all by their fierceness."

She had a beautiful bit of tapestry on her lap. Quickly and deftly her fingers were forming wonderful flowers of rich colours. But her eyes were not always on her work. The window was open. On the opposite side of the street was the entrance porch of a private hotel. Motors and taxis drove to and from it continually, and Damaris's grey observant eyes noted all the arrivals and departures. A little smile flitted over her face as she watched an old lady and gentleman descend with difficulty from a taxi. An elderly maid followed them into the hotel, laden with bags and shawls and leading a King Charles spaniel behind her.

"They've come up again," murmured Damaris to herself. "I wonder if their daughter will come and see them to-morrow? I am sure she does not enjoy their visits to town."

A smart motor now claimed her attention. A mother and two very pretty daughters, escorted by a handsome man, alighted, and with a great deal of laughter and talk swept into the hotel.

A little sigh came from Damaris's lips.

"Such a good time going on, so close to me; and yet I might be in another world altogether."

"If you please, Miss, your Uncle Ambrose wants you!"

Damaris started at the voice. An elderly parlourmaid stood inside the door. She lumped up lightly from her seat, letting her work drop upon the carpet, and, throwing her arms above her head, gave a yawn.

"I'm coming, Stevens. It isn't tea-time, surely?"

"Very close to it," said the maid. "But your Uncle Simeon has brought a visitor in."

"Oh!" sighed the girl. "Another old man, I suppose!"

She followed the maid out of the room. The stairs were dark polished oak, and uncarpeted; the banisters beautifully carved; and the dark-panelled walls were lined with many gems of art.

Lightly she ran down two flights of stairs, and pushed open the door of the big drawing-room, or library as her uncles preferred to call it.

Two old white-haired men were standing by the window talking eagerly to a young one. They all turned at Damaris's entrance.

"Damaris, this is your Cousin Dane. You have never seen him. He has taken us by surprise. Landed from India this morning. He got sick-leave suddenly."

Dane held out his hand in friendly greeting.

He saw and noted the pride and grace of the girlish figure. She wore a blue-grey gown, and a few yellow daffodils were tucked into her belt.

"Cousin Damaris, isn't it?" he said, a smile lightening up his dark and rather stern-cut features. "If not first cousins, we are second, are we not?"

"Of course, you are second cousins!" said Ambrose Hartbrook sharply. "Now, Damaris, see that a room is prepared for Dane at once. You can give him the Sheraton room."

Damaris wheeled round and left the room as quickly as she had entered.

"Does my Cousin Damaris live with you?" asked the young man.

"Yes, her parents both died when she was a child. She has been at school till about three years ago; since then she has made her home with us. A good useful girl, but rather sleepy in disposition. I daresay she will make a good wife to someone some day."

Damaris caught the words as she closed the door. Her small head raised itself proudly, and a hot colour came into her cheeks.

"If a good wife simply means a good housekeeper, then, Uncle Ambrose, never, 'never!'" she muttered to herself.

She was not seen again till dinner time. She entered the library then, looking very fresh and girlish in a soft white silk gown. Dane Hartbrook's eyes noted her every tone and gesture. She did not speak much during dinner, which was served in old-fashioned state, and took a full hour to get through.

Then she left her uncles and their guest to their wine, and went back to the library, where she sat in a straight-backed carved chair and gazed broodingly into the fire. She did not turn her head when the door opened, but started when a voice said, close to her ear—

"Thank goodness, a visitor has arrived who is talking furniture shop. Now you can tell me what I want to know. Are our uncles in trade? Their talk is of nothing but choice objects of art—chiefly chairs and tables."

Damaris looked at him and smiled. He stood opposite her on the hearth-rug but did not return her smile. His brows were knitted.

"Do they keep show-rooms?" he persisted. "They talk of the 'Sheraton room,' and the 'Chippendale,' and the 'Jacobean,' and the 'Grinling Gibbons,' and goodness knows how many others! Uncle Simeon is now discoursing upon some old copper urns."

"No, they're not in trade," Damaris said simply; "they've made a hobby of antique things, and spend all their money on it. To have a room with one flaw or false note in it makes them miserable. Every different room depicts a different age. They will show you through the house to-morrow. But they won't show you my room. I have taken care to ensure privacy there. I have been allowed to pick up odds and ends of no particular value scattered over the house, and I've bunched them all together, and I don't care a button what period they belong to!"

Her tone was so emphatic that Dane began to smile.

"Uncle Simeon writes articles in the 'Connoisseur;' he writes and reads more than Uncle Ambrose does. Uncle Ambrose hunts in old curio shops, and goes sometimes all over the Continent after some treasure which he has discovered can be bought. If you want really to bring horror to their hearts, give them some pretty article, new or faked."

She paused. A softer look stole over her face.

"They are very good and kind to me. I don't want to laugh at them or criticise them; but with all the world before them and around them, it seems such waste to live and breathe in an atmosphere of old furniture!"

Dane drew in a long breath.

"And what do you do with yourself?" he asked, letting his eyes rest on her with pleased interest.

Damaris raised her head proudly.

"I am never idle," she said, with sweet aloofness in her tone.

"I suppose you have friends of your own?"

For some reason Damaris resented this catechism. She did not reply. She would liked to have said, "I am an upper servant in the house—a servant without wages. I concoct special polishes for the maids to use upon the furniture; I superintend their work and dust the valuable china. I am not allowed to pay visits or ask anyone to the house. I am a good useful girl, and will stay here until they find a husband for me. And it will be a husband of their liking, not mine!"

All this she thought, but pride and innate dignity kept her lips closed. Then, with a flash in her eyes, she turned the tables upon him.

"My life is not very interesting. Tell me about yours. Where do you live? Why have you come to England? Are you going to stay?"

"I've been in India for ten years—had a coffee and rubber estate out there, but had to chuck it on account of bad health. It's rotten luck to be told I can't live out there. I sometimes wonder whether a short life isn't to be desired. My parents, like yours, are dead. I have a sister somewhere; I must hunt her up. We have never corresponded."

"That's interesting," said Damaris, with bright eyes. "I wish I had brothers and sisters—anyone belonging to me! What an adventure to go through the country hunting them out!"

He looked at her.

"I wish I could look upon it in the light of an adventure. If I had come home with pockets full of money, it would be a brighter outlook."

"Oh, but how dull it is when you have all you want! And there's so much work to be done in the world, waiting for people to take it up. I'd like to walk out of this house to-morrow, and do something."

He sat down in an easy chair opposite her.

"I've heard that women talk like this at home. They don't out with us. Tell me what you would like to do."

Damaris looked at him steadily and gravely.

"I don't think I will—thank you," she said.

He felt sorry he had quenched her, but he was amused at her attitude.

"I will tell you what I want to do?" he said. "I want to settle down in a home of my own, somewhere. I shouldn't mind farming a bit of land, or something of that sort; but no city life for me!"

He stopped short suddenly.

Mr. Ambrose Hartbrook entered the room, followed, in a few moments, by his brother Simeon.

"Now," the latter said, rubbing his hands together, "what shall we do first, Dane? I want to show you my books. Ambrose wants to show you the house."

"Wouldn't the house be better seen in daylight?" queried Dane doubtfully.

Mr. Ambrose smiled.

"We never have full daylight in this house," he said. "No, I think the electric will serve our purpose perfectly. I should like to show you the rooms. We haven't a faked article in them; each a different period, and every detail as perfect as we can make them. Let us start at once. I will lead the way."

Damaris watched the two eager old men leave the room, the rather unwilling young man following them. She smiled to herself, and then sighed.

"If I could see the beauty in it all as they see it, I should be happier, I do believe," she murmured to herself.

Then she took up her embroidery, but the needle dropped out of her fingers. She leaned back in her chair and dreamily watched the dancing firelight in front of her.

Damaris did a good deal of dreaming, and her spirit was always ready to leap away from her narrow surroundings and career in a Will-o'-the-wisp fashion all over the world. To-night she went into the country to a thatched roof farm with diamond panes in casement windows. The rooms were sweet and dainty, but no antique furniture rested on their floors. There was a dairy with yellow bowls of cream, there was an orchard full of apple-blossom and daffodils, and there was a young woman sitting out in it with a child—no!—a cluster!—quite five sweet children hanging round her! And then a husband came marching through the soft green grass. But his face was indistinct—and it was not—no, it certainly was not the face of Dane Hartbrook!

When she got thus far, she shook herself impatiently and picked up her work.

It was some time before her uncles returned, and when they did, she stood up and announced her intention of going to bed.

"Oh, not yet," exclaimed Dane; "it is barely ten o'clock."

But Damaris would not stay. She knew the conversation would be entirely upon the worth of the antiquities just shown; and her Uncle Ambrose patted her on the shoulder in great good humour.

"Beauty sleep must not be forgotten, eh, Damaris? Run away to bed like a good child. We shall sit up for a couple of hours yet. Here, Dane, sample these cigars. They come from the East."

So Damaris disappeared, and Dane settled down to listen, with all the patience he could muster, to a long dissertation on the old men's hobby.

The next morning at breakfast Dane looked across to Damaris and said boldly—

"Will you come out with me this morning? I want to find my sister, and am going to run down to Richmond on the chance of finding her there."

Damaris hesitated to reply.

"You can go," said her Uncle Simeon.

So, an hour later, Damaris started from the house with bright eyes.

Dane looked at her with half-concealed approval. She was neatly and quietly dressed in navy-blue cloth coat and skirt, and a dark blue velvet hat. But a dainty little lace collar, and good gloves and boots, and a nameless air of distinction with which she carried herself made Dane feel proud and pleased as he walked beside her.

"I have never had a day out like this before," she said in an apologetic tone. "You must forgive me if I seem ecstatic over it. Uncle Ambrose has old-fashioned notions. I am allowed to shop alone, but never to go sight-seeing. Stevens must come with me then, and our time is limited to two hours. Are we going to have lunch out? How delicious! And may we go on the top of a 'bus? Stevens won't, but I always do, when I get a chance. I shut my eyes sometimes and fancy myself on the top of an old-fashioned coach or four-in-hand. Oh, isn't a spring day like this ripping? Look at that basket of flowers! Don't the violets smell?"

Dane stopped, bought a big bunch of Neopolitans, and presented it to her.

Damaris took it with a blush and pleased smile. As she fastened it in her jacket, she said—

"You don't think I expected you to give them to me? You must let me admire everything to-day, and take no notice. It's my way when I'm feeling happy."

She was like a child, so frank and free were her comments on all around her.

They took the train to Richmond, and then hired a taxi to take them to a certain address which Dane produced out of his pocket-book.

"My sister was lodging here five years ago with an old aunt. It's just a toss-up whether she'll be here still."

She was not, and the people of the house knew nothing of her. They were new inmates themselves, had barely been there a twelvemonth.

"I'm so sorry for you," said Damaris. "What will you do now?"

"We'll have a drive through the park, and then we'll have lunch. The 'Star and Garter' is no more, I hear, but we'll get food somewhere. Oh, I'm not worrying. I'll have another shot or two before I give up. My father had some old lawyer living in Bloomsbury. I'll look him up and see if he knows of her whereabouts."

Damaris enjoyed every moment of the day. Dane told her of some of his Indian experiences. He was a good talker, and she listened entranced. She in her turn became a little more communicative. She told him that her father had always lived with her two great-uncles, and that he was their favourite nephew.

"He met my mother abroad, and I was born in Florence. I always feel glad I was born in such a beautiful place. My mother died when I was born, and my father brought me straight back to London with my nurse. He died when I was five years old. I can remember him quite well. He painted beautiful pictures. But he was never very strong, and he caught cold when he went down the river one day to sketch, and he never got over it.

"The uncles handed me over to an old friend of theirs who kept a home school for Indian children. She was the only woman friend they ever had. She was very good to me, but I always spent my holidays with the uncles, and when I finished school came home to them for good. You see, not very much has happened to me yet. But I hope it will. I'm always hoping the doors will open and I shall get through to something different."

"Do you think the door is ajar to-day?" Dane asked, looking down upon her with amused interest.

She looked up at him and laughed.

"Perhaps it is open a crack, just enough for me to see through," she said; "but I shall walk out of it free one day."

They had lunch at Richmond; then, in the afternoon they returned to town, and he took her to a matinee. It was late when they returned, and Damaris had only just time to dress for dinner.

Her uncles were most punctilious, and nothing vexed them more than any irregularity in their usual hours.

For the rest of the evening, Dane devoted himself to them. Damaris sat very silent, retracing every detail of her wonderful day.

And when she sat working in her room the next day, she looked across at the hotel opposite with new feelings in her heart.

"I have experienced now what the girls experience over there. I shall not envy them so much now. I know how it feels to be taken out for the day and treated everywhere," she murmured to herself, with elation in her soul.

In the days that followed, she went about a good deal with her cousin Dane. Instead of disapproving of their intimacy, her uncles seemed to be encouraging it. Dane was not loth to have Damaris as a companion. She was fresh and amusing in her somewhat naïve comments on all she heard and saw, and he admired her grace and daintiness. He regarded her as a typical English girl.

Damaris began to wonder why she did not like him better. She came to the conclusion that it was because he was so very worldly-wise. In all his dealings with men and women, Dane seemed to have this principle underlying them: "How can I use them to my best advantage?" And this jarred on the girl's high ideals, and upon her conceptions of life as it ought to be lived.

"You are a dreamer," said Dane, laughing, one day. "Dreamers are generally failures in this world."

"Are they? Why?"

"Because their eyes are always on the unattainable, and they miss the opportunities of improving their present actual circumstances."

Damaris thought over this.

"The man with the muck-rake in Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's Progress' was condemned," she said thoughtfully. "He missed the sight of the crown!"

"I always did think Bunyan lacking in judgment," said Dane. "That man was making the most of his opportunities, and it is those who make the most of the poorest surroundings that get on in the world."

"'Oh, deliver me from that muck-rake,'" quoted Damaris softly to herself.

And Dane looked at her with impatient amusement. He was being continually surprised by her independence of thought.

At first, he treated her as a young unsophisticated girl. His tone was slightly patronising. He was ready to give her information on every point, and expected her to acquiesce humbly in all that he said. But he found she had a way of looking at him through her long eyelashes as if she were summing him up. And more than once, the enigmatical smile and silence with which she had met some of his assertions left him doubtful, and slightly uncomfortable.

Yet they were the best of friends. When he was away from her, he found himself counting the time to when he should be with her again. And she enjoyed the novelty of interchanging thoughts and ideas with someone who did not, like her uncles, consider that a woman's voice should be silent in the society of men.

ENGAGED

"MISS DAMARIS, my dear, trouble is on us! Come quick! Mr. Ambrose has had some kind of stroke!"

It was Stevens who came in upon Damaris as she was working in her quiet upper room. The girl was feeling dull and rather flat. Dane had been with them as an inmate of their home for two months. Now he had gone—he was still fruitlessly looking for his sister. But latterly, he had seemed to lose interest in her, and had been rather engrossed with some friends of his whom he had known in India, and who were now at home. He was at present with them in Scotland.

Damaris had met them once, and had not been very favourably impressed by them, but that was perhaps because they had not made themselves very pleasant to her. Mrs. Welbeck was a very smart-looking widow with three marriageable daughters, all of whom were older than Damaris, and very lively go-ahead girls. They seemed to have plenty of money, and were looking about for a country house in which they hoped to settle.

Damaris had felt, as she listened to their talk, how little she knew of the world in which Dane had lived, and how ignorant and unsophisticated she must appear to these wide-awake knowledgeable girls. When Dane had gone, she found herself continually wondering whether he would soon write and announce his engagement to one of these girls. She felt that either of them would have him, but was not sure whether he meant to marry at present, he seemed so well contented and satisfied with his present state. He had ingratiated himself into the good graces of his uncles, and had delighted them by his keen interest in some of their treasures. And they, as well as Damaris, had missed him very much since he had left them.

Damaris's thoughts, as she sat at her window and worked, had been in Scotland. She roused herself with a frightened start at Stevens's words. Illness of any sort had never come near her. She did not know how to deal with it. Her Uncle Ambrose used to boast that he had never had a day's illness in his life. Her Uncle Simeon was not so strong. He would get heavy chest colds, but Stevens would nurse him through them, and Damaris felt no responsibility about them.

"Oh, Stevens, what do you mean?"

"I've just found him on the floor in the library. Mr. Simeon has helped cook and me, and we have got him into his bed-room and on his bed. Mr. Simeon has rushed off for the doctor, but Mary and cook are no good at all, they're all in a shake, and I must get hot bottles to his feet. I want you to sit with him till I come back."

Talking rapidly, Stevens led the way to the bed-room, and Damaris followed her feeling dazed and bewildered.

Then ensued some very weary troubled days. The doctor came and went; Damaris developed into a very capable nurse. She and Stevens attended upon the invalid entirely between them. He was unconscious for some days, then recovered consciousness, and with difficulty tried to make his wishes known.

One afternoon Damaris was alone with him. He had been sleeping and was lying with closed eyes, when she suddenly heard him trying to pronounce her name. She bent over him.

"Yes uncle, dear? What is it? Can I do anything for you?"

He looked up at her.

"You must marry him," he said feebly. "A nice boy—knows the worth of things. We've talked it over—he's willing—and then—you'll get your share."

Damaris felt the blood rush into her cheeks. She felt that her uncle's mind was wandering.

He looked up at her uneasily.

"Yes—yes," she said, soothingly; "it will be all right. You are getting better, Uncle Ambrose. You will soon be all right again."

He shook his head feebly in dissent, but lay still. Then he spoke again—

"Simeon—he knows—codicil—he will tell you."

"Yes," said Damaris again; "it will be all right. I will ask him. You try to sleep again for a little."

He said no more, but after a time his breathing became so laboured and hard that Damaris slipped out of the room and called Stevens.

Those were his last words to her. He died two hours afterwards.

Mr. Simeon Hartbrook was inconsolable. He wired for Dane, but Dane was touring through the Highlands with his friends, and could not be found quickly.

Damaris and her uncle were the only ones who attended the funeral. She felt an immense pity for her Uncle Simeon. He seemed to be literally crushed by his loss, and was quite unable to settle any of his brother's affairs. It was very wet and stormy at the cemetery and he contracted a chill.

Stevens put him to bed like a child when he came home, but he insisted upon seeing Damaris, for he said he had business to discuss with her.

When she came to him, he looked at her helplessly.

"I am feeling very ill, my dear. If I don't get well, I want to tell you about—" He hesitated. "I can't remember—but Dane knows—he will explain—we felt he would value our things more than you would. He would not sell them. And you've been a good girl, and when you are married, he will do everything for you. He seemed to come just when we wanted him. It will be all right for you—but Ambrose thought it best."

"Yes, I'm sure it is all right," murmured Damaris.

She began to wonder if her two uncles had really been trying to make up a match between her and Dane. Her pride rebelled against such an idea, but she could say nothing to disturb her uncle at this juncture. She had a hopeless helpless feeling that everyone round her was going to die. If it had not been for Stevens, who never lost her cheerful composure, Damaris could hardly have got through those days.

When Dane eventually made his appearance, he was met at the door by Stevens who said reproachfully—

"You are too late, sir. You have been wanted badly. Both the masters are gone. I knew Mr. Simeon would never outlive his brother for long, and poor Miss Damaris has had everything to do and settle, with nobody to help her. She's fair worn out with the shock and distress of it."

"Goodness!" ejaculated Dane, aghast. "What a tragedy! And in such a short time!"

He went into the library and sat down on a chair as if he were stunned. Damaris came to him there. It struck him that she carried herself regally, and spoke to him in rather a cold, detached tone—

"Stevens has told you. Did you get none of our wires?"

"Only two," he answered. Then he sprang up and seized hold of her hands.

"You poor child! How I have failed you! Just when I ought to have been by your side, doing everything for you! And I was longing to be back—to put my fate in your hands. I wanted to have spoken before I left; but somehow I was afraid. I hoped being away a little might show you—well, you know—you did not seem ready to meet me half-way. Oh, what am I saying? Damaris, dearest, you will never be alone or friendless if you make me a happy man. I want to have the right to shield—protect—love you. Will you let me have that right?"

One would have thought that Dane had chosen a most unpropitious moment to begin his wooing; but Damaris was feeling unhinged and desperately lonely. She had hardly known how to pass her days. The shock of her uncles' deaths had been great. She had always been treated like a child, and not allowed to act independently or have any responsibility. Now she was alone in this big house, and had to settle and arrange everything, with no help from anyone but Stevens. She felt incompetent, ignorant and forlorn, and longed for someone to be at her side to advise her. She had hoped that Dane would write or come; she had watched expectantly for some news of him day after day.

His impulsive speech and compassionate eyes, his tender hold of her, drove away the slight feeling of annoyance she had been cherishing. She had thought him selfish and unfeeling to stay away at such a crisis; now she realised that he had brought with him a sense of comfort and safety, and that she never wanted him to leave her again.

When his arm drew her gently to him, she did not resist; she only gave a long quivering sigh, and said—

"It is good to have you back again, Dane. I thought I could stand alone, but I find I can't. Take care of me."

And then she began to cry, and Dane rested her head against his shoulder, and kissed away her tears and comforted her.

A little later Stevens was taken into their confidence. She did not seem surprised at their news.

"Mr. Ambrose mentioned it to me before he was taken ill. He seemed so pleased you appreciated the house so much, Mr. Dane. He said to me, 'twas good to know you'd care for the things they had loved, when they were gone. It seemed as if he felt he would be taken soon."

And Stevens wiped her moist eyes as she spoke. She had been with her masters for over twenty years, and had a sincere affection for them.

Dane went away, but only to settle himself into the hotel opposite, and the next day he came over to the house and had a long interview with Mr. Hunter the lawyer.

Mr. Hunter was a little wiry wizened man with a very big forehead and beetling eyebrows, beneath which his piercing eyes would transfix and awe all who transacted business with him.

"I suppose I can see the will?" Dane said. "I understood from my uncles that, in the first instance, they had left everything to their niece, Miss Hartbrook, but that they were so anxious that we should make a match of it that they told me that they had drawn up a codicil in which we were made co-legatees upon our wedding-day. Is this correct? They need not have troubled to alter the will, Miss Hartbrook and I would have come together without it. A case of love at first sight!"

He gave a little awkward laugh, and felt annoyed at Mr. Hunter's glittering gaze.

"I am glad to hear it. Very glad," said Mr. Hunter. "I have known Miss Hartbrook from a child. She, in my opinion, deserves to be sole legatee; but your uncles were peculiar in their attitude towards women. They seemed afraid that she might marry someone unsuitable—someone who might not appreciate or value their hoarded treasures—so they wanted to safeguard her; and when you told them you hoped to make her your wife, they seemed to think her future was secure."

He paused, then cleared his throat.

"You may like to see the codicil. Everything is left unconditionally to you."

"Not unconditionally?"

Mr. Hunter handed him a copy of the will. The brothers had made their will together in a very quaint fashion, but it was all perfectly legal.

Dane read the codicil in silence, then he handed it back to the lawyer.

"Of course, it will make no difference to Miss Hartbrook," said Mr. Hunter; "for her uncles seemed quite assured that she would marry you. Apart from you, she will be left penniless."

"But she never will be apart from me," said Dane hastily. He got up from his seat and paced the room. Then he stood still.

"Does she know this? Has she seen this codicil?"

"No," said Mr. Hunter; "as she does not benefit directly by the will, I saw no need to let her read it. She has never asked about it, but I think that she imagines that the estate is divided between you. I don't approve of the codicil myself, and I told your uncles so. I was such an old friend of theirs that I felt I had a right to speak. But, as I say, I hope it will make no difference to Miss Hartbrook."

"She need never know," said Dane quickly.

Then Mr. Hunter and he began to discuss business matters together; and when the lawyer eventually left, Dane still paced the room with a frowning brow, and set determined lips.

"What a fool I was to be in such a hurry," he muttered to himself.

But when he next met Damaris, he was the tender demonstrative lover. She was very sweet, but still bore herself somewhat proudly. He felt that he did not yet wholly possess her heart.

Stevens watched over her like a dragon. She allowed her to go out with Dane, but did not encourage him to come much to the house.

"You are alone here," she said; "and I know how careful young ladies have to be. I wish Mr. Dane would find his sister. She would be good company for you."

Damaris felt very lonely in the big house. She sometimes went through the beautiful rooms with Stevens, but she could take no pleasure in their contents.

"It is a waste of life, Stevens," she said one day, "to spend all your money and strength on things that you have to leave behind you when you die. I keep thinking of that verse in the Bible:

   "'Then whose shall those things be which thou hast provided?'"

"They are yours, Miss Damaris—they will be when you're married," said Stevens, who could not follow her young mistress's train of thought.

Damaris looked round her with a little whimsical smile. She was standing in an oak-panelled Jacobean-furnished room. The great bed with its tapestry hangings, the old chests, and beautiful chairs, the heavy silver candlesticks on the carved oak mantelpiece, all seemed to her gloomy in the extreme, though the bright sunshine was streaming through the windows.

"I wouldn't sleep in this room, or take it for my own, Stevens, for a hundred pounds," she said; "and yet how Uncle Ambrose used to love it!" Her voice faltered. "Oh, Stevens, I do want them back. I feel frightened of the future. They were always so safe, so reliable!"

"They were very fond of you, Miss Damaris; and there, now—did I not tell you what Mr. Simeon said to me not long before his end? He said, 'Tell Miss Damaris that her mother's escritoire in my study is hers, as well as the furnishing of her own room. The rest will be her husband's property.' I don't quite make out what he meant, poor gentleman, for the whole house is yours, surely."

"I haven't seen the will," said Damaris, in hesitating tones; "but Mr. Dane seems to think they are his. And of course, when we marry, there will be no question of to whom they belong."

"Miss Damaris, my dear, I've known you from a child, but you don't appear to be over-eager about this marriage. If so be as you'll have enough left to you—and surely the masters have put you first—I'll be willing to go with you anywhere you like. But don't marry if you're not sure whether it will be a happy thing for you."

"You're a dear, Stevens," said Damaris, tears rising suddenly to her eyes; "but I am in no doubt as to what I ought to do. I am glad you told me about my mother's writing-table. I would like it moved up to my room as soon as possible."

Stevens bustled away to see that this was done.

Damaris crossed the room and opened one of the windows. Then, kneeling on a low stool, she leant her elbows on the window-sill and propped her chin in her two hands. She gazed down into the busy streets below dreamily. Her spirits had been so crushed by the calamity that had befallen her that at first she had simply acquiesced in all that came to her. Even Dane's proposal had almost left her unmoved. She regarded it as inevitable, because she felt that her uncles had wished him to share in their personal estate, and that it was the only way in which justice could be done him.

And Dane was very affectionate and tender with her for the first few days. She was soothed and comforted by his presence. Lately she had not seen so much of him. Mrs. Welbeck and her daughter were back in town, and he spent a good deal of his time with them. He naturally did not feel his uncles' deaths so deeply as Damaris did, and was vexed with her for refusing to go to entertainments with him.

Now, as she looked out of the window, the lethargic state of her mind seemed to be passing from her. A sudden vista of freedom and independence came to her, of taking Stevens as her maid, and travelling, of seeing some of the places to which she had always longed to go. She drew a long breath. She looked backwards half-fearfully into the sombre bed-room behind her.

"Did my uncles expect me to live in this house for ever and ever? Shall I never have any change? If I marry Dane, shall I still have to stay in these old rooms, and sit at home with my work, whilst he goes out and enjoys himself with other women? I feel that this will be my life. And oh! I just long to break away from it all! How often I used to wish that some change would come into my life. Now it has come—the door seems open—and yet I can't go out! And I'm afraid I don't like the idea of marrying Dane. I don't feel quite sure of him—but I have promised—and I seem shut-up to it!"

She sighed at such thoughts, then saw Mr. Hunter crossing the street towards the house.

She knew he was still busy over some of her uncles' papers. They had made him their chief executor, and he came nearly every day to the library to overhaul the contents of a big writing bureau that stood there. A sudden impulse took her downstairs. She determined to ask him the exact terms of the will. She had asked Dane more than once, but he had waived the subject, and she had a longing to know exactly how she was situated. When she entered the room, she found Mr. Hunter just settling down to work, but he turned at once towards her with a fatherly smile.

"Well, Miss Damaris, how are you? Why are you not out this lovely morning?"

"I hope I am not interrupting you," said Damaris, with dignity; "but I think I have a right to know about my uncles' will. I have never been told, and I should like you to explain it now. Have they left everything between myself and my cousin? Uncle Ambrose told me some time ago that I should come in for it all, but from what he said to me when he was ill, I fancy he must have made some alteration. They were so fond of Dane. They seemed to think he appreciated all their treasures more than I did."

Mr. Hunter hesitated.

"You place me in an awkward position," he said. "Has not your cousin told you? It will make no difference to you. Happily you two young people fell in love with each other before the codicil was drawn up."

"What is the codicil?" asked Damaris. "I really have a right to see it, if it has anything to do with me."

"Well, you are not a child, my dear, and so I will tell you. As I say, it will make no difference to you. Your uncles revoked their former will, and instead of leaving everything to you, left it all to your cousin unconditionally. I did not approve of the alteration, I protested against it; but your uncles were determined. Mr. Dane took their hearts by storm. You know their old-fashioned notion, that women were helpless as far as money or business was concerned. They were convinced that your welfare would be considered by your cousin, and that your marriage to him would be an accomplished fact."

Damaris looked at him with clear steady eyes.

"Then you mean to say that I am penniless, and that it will be no advantage to my cousin if he marries me? Can you tell me when he knew this?"

"When I showed him the codicil. It was a surprise to him as it is to you. He had always thought that you would be the chief benefiter by the will."

"And upon what date did you show him the will?"

Mr. Hunter referred to his pocket-book and told her.

Damaris stood before him very straight and slim. And as Mr. Hunter's keen eyes met hers, he knew that this was no weak helpless girl who would sink under the blow which she had just received.

"I think you ought to have told me this before," she said gravely.

"I think I ought," he replied. "It was weakness on my part not to have done so. But you asked no questions, and I knew what a troublous time you had had of it, and thought it best to defer the information. It will make no practical difference to you, will it?"

"All the difference in the world," she said.

And she walked out of the room, still carrying her head like a young queen, but with a heart as heavy as lead.

She went up to her own room, which was filled with the afternoon sunshine. Stevens and the maids had been there, for her mother's beautiful secretaire was in the window. It was of Chinese workmanship, so beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl that it was iridescent. Inside, it was fitted with sapphire-blue velvet. As a little child, she had loved to pass her small fingers over its surface. But now, for the time, she did not heed it.

She sat down at the open window with troubled eyes. She knew now that Dane had proposed to her before he had been told of the codicil; that he had been under the impression that he was offering himself to a young heiress. Was this the explanation of his gradual coolness and indifference to her? She could not but acknowledge to herself that, as a lover, he left much to be desired.

"But then," she told herself, "I am not in love with him. I don't know why I said 'Yes,' except that I knew the uncles wished it; and I was feeling so lonely and miserable, that it was nice to feel that somebody cared for me. What a shock it must have been to him when he was shown the codicil! Oh, I hope I don't wrong him, but I think—I think that money is more to him than a wife. I never have felt that I am worth very much in his eyes. I am not smart enough, or amusing enough to capture his heart. He much prefers to be with the Welbecks. It is good of him to have kept me in ignorance of my position. But I am thankful that I am ignorant no longer!"

As she sat, thinking deeply, she longed as she had often longed before, to have some woman to advise her.

And then Stevens came to the door.

"Mr. Dane has called. Will you see him?"

"Certainly," said Damaris with decision. "Don't show him up here. I will go to him."

Dane came forward, when he saw her, with outstretched hands.

"Damaris, dear, will you come out with me? I have been so busy the last few days that I fear you will think I have forgotten you."

He drew her to him and kissed her.

Damaris turned a little from him so that his kiss only touched the edge of her cheek; but he did not appear to notice anything amiss.

"I don't think I will come out this afternoon," she said, "it is too hot."

"I thought you might like to come round to the Welbecks. Mrs. Welbeck has called upon you, hasn't she? She's so anxious to befriend you. For my sake, you won't repel her advances, will you? She really would be a good friend for you, Damaris. She knows everyone worth knowing, and you can't always shut yourself up in this old house away from the world."

"But, Dane, it is barely a month since my uncles died. Nobody could expect me to be out and about just yet."

Dane made an impatient movement.

"You're so old-fashioned! Mrs. Welbeck was only saying yesterday that it must be very bad for you to be so much alone."

"Perhaps it is," said Damaris quietly; "but I am accustomed to it. I wish you could find your sister. It would be nice to know her."

Dane looked a little uncomfortable.

"I meant to have told you," he said. "I did trace her—at least, I heard all about her. But our family trouble has driven it out of my head. And I don't know that I should do her any good by going to see her. It might just unsettle her."

"Your sister, Dane?"

Damaris showed the amazement she felt.

He gave a short laugh.

"She's doing all right for herself. She's working in the City. The honest truth is, if I turned up, she would think I ought to keep her—especially now. I didn't know she was so badly off. The aunt she lived with left her nothing—old wretch! Her money went to her son who's abroad somewhere. I don't feel like having Nellie on me for good and all. She would expect to live with me—and how would you like that?"

"Do you think she is very like you, Dane?"

"Haven't a notion. Why?"

"She might be very different. She might prefer her independence. I can't think that you mean to leave her alone, and never let her know that you are in England."

"Oh, I'll see her some time or other," said Dane vaguely.

There was silence between them. He was conscious of her disapproval, and was annoyed with her in consequence.

"Now, I ask you again, Damaris, to come round to the Welbecks with me. Do it to please me."

"Is it their 'At Home' day?"

"Yes."

"Then I really cannot. Mrs. Welbeck ought not to expect me. I won't keep you, Dane, as you're going. Come round another day, and let us go out of London for a day. I should really enjoy that."

She parted from him pleasantly with a smile on her lips, and watched him go out of the house and walk down the street. She fancied she could see the relief he felt, in his light easy step and the swing of his broad shoulders.

And then she turned to go upstairs again, and these words escaped her—

"You will soon be rid of me, Dane. You will not have long to wait."

FREEDOM AT LAST

IT was the next morning that Damaris sat at her mother's escritoire. There were some old papers in it, and the little drawers needed tidying. But she found nothing of any value—a few receipted bills, some odd bits of sealing-wax, and some old-fashioned thin envelopes and paper. Then she opened a little secret drawer, and in it she found some old letters. They had evidently lain there unnoticed for many years. The ink had turned brown. She took them tenderly into her hand; they were addressed to her mother, and were all of them dated from "The Hall, Little Marley."

Damaris had always imagined her mother was an Italian of rather humble birth, as her uncles never mentioned her, and when she asked once if she had no relations, they answered severely—

"We are your relations. Are we not enough?"

Her fingers trembled as she opened the letters and read their contents. They seemed to be all written by a sister of her mother's, evidently a much younger girl than herself, and were addressed to Villa Rosini, Florence. This was the first one she read—

   "MY DARLING LILIAN,—HOW I loved getting a letter from you at last! Papa cannot prevent us writing to each other, can he? And what a heavenly life you must be leading! Miss Graves and I struggle on in the schoolroom, and mamma asks daily if I am improving in my studies. Oh, why did papa give us such a prig of a stepmother? I'm only happy when I get away into the stables, or ride off on Peter and have a good gallop over the common. Morris has just left the 'Britannia'—he's been home, and we've had fine fun together. Give my love to your Hubert. I hope I shall meet a handsome man like him when I grow up, who will marry me quickly before mamma can stop it. When I look at fat old Colonel Gascon in church, and think what Hubert saved you from, I feel I ought not to grumble at our separation. If mamma didn't keep up the bad feeling, papa would have you home again with Hubert, but she nags on about the disgrace you have been to the family, and what shocking characters all artists are! And then papa thinks he must agree with her. Did I tell you that Uncle Fred had discovered Hubert's queer old uncles in London? He said they were City people—but quite educated, and mad on collecting old furniture!

"Your loving—

"BARBIE."

The others were written in the same strain, mentioning the unhappy atmosphere at home, and breathing rebellion against the rule of the stepmother. Damaris was keenly interested in the discovery of her mother's relatives and home. It was a revelation to her that instead of her mother being socially inferior to her father—from her parents' point of view—she was his superior.

She sat for hours with these letters on her lap, reading and re-reading them, trying to fit in missing links, and picturing to herself this young aunt writing so lovingly to the absent elder sister.

"They were all written before I was born. I wonder if they ever knew of my existence. Father used to tell me how he hurried home to his uncles when my mother died. It is strange that they never made enquiries about me. I suppose they wouldn't care about a small baby. I wonder if they are still living?"

Damaris sat lost in thought, and was only roused by the luncheon gong. She said nothing to Stevens of her discovery. For the time, she kept it to herself.

Two or three days after, Dane surprised her by coming to the house about ten o'clock in the morning. He looked very alert, and informed her that two men from Christie's were coming by appointment to look over the house.

"They've heard how many treasures are in it, and are very keen to see them."

"What possible business is it of theirs?" said Damaris rather loftily. "I suppose you know that our uncles would never allow any dealer or trader in old furniture to enter the house."

"Ah well, times have changed. I wonder if you have any idea, Damaris, how much some of this old stuff would fetch at Christie's sales. They would figure in many thousands."

"But as you are not going to sell anything, it doesn't matter."

Dane looked at her.

"I am going to sell every bit of it," he said. "Why should I not? Do I want these immaculate Sheraton and Chippendale suites? I want money, and plenty of it. You shall choose any few bits for yourself, Damaris; but I am arranging with Christie for a sale as soon as possible."

Damaris drew a long breath.

"And they left everything to you because they thought you valued it all as they did!" She said no more, but walked upstairs away from him.

Dane shrugged his shoulders and went on with his arrangements.

And as Damaris in her sitting-room upstairs heard the tramp of the men's feet up and down, the stairs and in and out of the rooms, she murmured to herself—

"It is enough to make the ghosts of my uncles appear and walk through the house!"

Then she started up from her seat, for a scheme that she had been turning over in her head now seemed perfectly feasible.

"If he does it, I shall do it too. I want ready money more than he does. But I won't take one penny from him, and he might feel obliged to offer me some. Oh, I am as free as air at last! It would be bondage of the bitterest kind to live my life with him. Money is what he loves, no one or nothing else occupies his heart."

So, very quietly and determinedly, Damaris began to act for herself. She did not even take Stevens into her confidence. She went to a man who had worked for her uncles for years. He was a dealer in antique furniture and curios. And she brought him up to her sitting-room and sold him then and there everything that was of value in it.

When she came to her mother's secretaire, she hesitated. The dealer seemed keenly anxious to buy it. It had been given to her mother, she knew, by her uncles as a wedding present. Her Uncle Ambrose had been travelling through Italy, had come across it in Florence, and had despatched it to the young couple's villa there. Her father had brought it home with him, as his young wife had loved it.

After some discussion, Damaris agreed to let the dealer have it for a certain sum of money considerably under its value. She would let him know in three months' time if she wished to have it again. In fact, as she acknowledged to herself, she pawned it for some ready money. He asked when he might fetch the things away, and she told him in two days' time.

Then quietly and expeditiously, she began to pack some of her clothes in a light suit-case. All this was done in secrecy. Stevens wondered at her young mistress's silence, but there was something in the sparkle of her eyes, and in the animation of her voice, that made her hope she was recovering her health and spirits.

And then Damaris suggested to Stevens to take her usual monthly holiday. At first she had difficulty in making her do it.

"I don't like leaving you, Miss Damaris, my dear."

"But I want to be left. I am not at all lonely, and I mean to go out to-morrow myself."

"With Mr. Dane?"

"No; not with him. I am all right, Stevens. I do assure you I shall be. And I am happier than I have been for a long time. The future seems full of possibilities to me."

Stevens looked at her and smiled.

"You are young, and the world is before you, miss. I am glad you are happy. Mr. Dane will settle down soon, I hope. I shall be at ease when you are married. You are so lonely now."

No more was said.

Stevens departed for her home in the country at ten o'clock.

At eleven, Damaris ordered a taxi, and with her suit-case and her dressing-bag in her hand, went off to Paddington Station. There was a flush on her cheeks and a light in her eyes that had not been there for many a long day.

That afternoon Dane called to see her. He was handed a note by the housemaid, and this was the contents of it—

   "MY DEAR DANE,—I have slipped away from you for good and all. Our engagement was a farce. I don't know how we have managed to persist in it these last few weeks. I do appreciate your goodness in not having told me of the alteration of the will, but I am perfectly certain that you will be relieved than otherwise at my decision. We are not suited to each other, Dane. I think we have both realised this lately. I felt I could not stay to argue the point with you, and I am in a hurry to get away, so forgive my hasty departure. Now I know why you are loth to make yourself known to your sister, I feel the sooner I make room for her the better. You will do something for her, will you not? I shall like to think that you will. I am leaving no address, but I have made my own plans, and am very happy about my future. Perhaps one day we may meet again. The house is now your home, and not mine, and so you cannot expect me to stay in it.

"Your affectionate cousin,—

"DAMARIS."

Dane swore when he read this, and then, pacing the loom in his usual restless way, he came to the conclusion that Damaris was right, and they really had nothing in common, nor were in the slightest way suited to become husband and wife.

"She's pretty and well-bred, and isn't a fool, but she's so prudish!" he said to himself.

Selfishly, he never gave her future a thought.

But when he met Stevens the next day, the vials of that good woman's wrath were let loose upon him.

She made him read the letter Damaris had left for her—

   "MY DEAR OLD STEVENS,—I can see how round your eyes will get when you come back and find me gone! I had to run away from you, for you would have cried and remonstrated and refused to let me go, and there was really nothing else for me to do. I have discovered that I am left absolutely penniless, and the house is Mr. Dane's, and I will not be dependent on him for charity. For, Stevens, dear, after fighting against it for some weeks, I know for certain now that I made a great mistake in becoming engaged to him. He and I are absolutely unsuited to each other, and the more I see of him, the more convinced I am of it.

   "Don't fret for a moment about me. I have money, for I have sold the contents of my room, and I have a small balance of my dress allowance in the bank. I know exactly what I mean to do. I am out on an adventure, and I thrill when I think of it. I shall be perfectly wise and prudent and proper. I shall get into no scrape at all. And, later on, I may write to you and tell you where I am. But not just yet. I know you would have liked to come away with me, but I'm afraid I could not have afforded to keep you with me. And you might not have approved of my intentions. Stay with Mr. Dane if you can. But I have your home address, and I can always write to you there.

   "Mr. Dane is selling all our uncles' treasures. How it would break their hearts if they were alive! I felt I wanted to get out of the house before Christie's vans came to remove it all. No more for now. I feel like a bird flying out of his cage. Good-bye, and a thousand thanks for all your kindness and devotedness.

"Yours always affectionately,

"DAMARIS."

"Now, sir, what are you going to do? The poor child casting herself out in the streets with hardly a penny in her purse! And I don't wonder at it; for you, who said you were going to wed her, leaving her alone day after day to her sorrow, and she knowing you were off to enjoy yourself with your fine London ladies! 'Tis enough to make her march off in disgust of heart; but where she is and what she is doing is past my understanding! Oh, it was a sorry day when your foot crossed our threshold!

"Miss Damaris gave up her young life and spent all her beauty and freshness in pleasing two old men, who always told her they would leave her their all. And then you come along and you made my poor masters believe in you; and you vowed to them how you adored their treasures, and they thought and said to me how much more you cared for it all than dear Miss Damaris, and you all the time laughing in your sleeve at them. And no sooner do they lie under the ground than you set to work to sell what they have spent their lives in collecting.

"But I would forgive you that treachery; yes, I would, with all my heart, if you had the least bit of love for my sweet young lady. You professed that you cared for her; you led my masters to believe you did. Do you think they meant her, poor child, to be turned out of her old home penniless? If any harm comes to her, you will be the cause of it. You've treated her as no gentleman would treat a dog. You forced yourself upon her when you thought she had the money, and when you found the money would be yours without her, you turned the cold shoulder and despised and neglected her. And you've driven her away—she, a poor innocent girl who knows nothing of the world's wicked ways—out now without a soul to protect or care for her. Are you going to sit here doing nothing? Isn't there ways of tracing and finding the lost? Don't you mean to do it?"

Stevens gasped for breath.

Dane had listened to her tirade with amused indifference; but once or twice he felt the sting of her tongue. But he was not going to be browbeat by a woman. He answered her very sternly—

"If you weren't in a very hysterical state, Stevens, I should give it to you well for your impertinence and foolishness. I am as vexed as you are at Miss Hartbrook's disappearance. She is behaving like a silly foolish child. We shall doubtless hear from her in a day or two, or from the friends to whom she has gone. Of course, I shall make immediate inquiries for her. Her nerves must be much upset to make her behave so. But as her affianced husband, I consider she has treated me extremely badly. She certainly does want to see more of the world and have her mind broadened. She has secluded herself in this gloomy old house and refused to come about with me till she has got all kinds of delusions and false fancies into her head. I am not going to be cast on one side in such a manner. And when I find her and bring her back here, I shall show her that it is she who has behaved badly and in a most dishonourable and treacherous manner!"

He walked out of the room, leaving a tearful Stevens gazing after him in a dumbfounded fashion. He did in his own way try to trace Damaris, but days passed, and he was entirely unsuccessful.

He thought that she was swallowed up in the great metropolis. Neither he nor Stevens had any idea that she had gone out of London.

Stevens knew that she had no friends, and every day she would roam up and down the streets and parks, hoping to come across her.

Then Dane suddenly paid off all the servants, Stevens amongst them, emptied the house of all that was in it and shut it up, went to Paris with Mrs. Welbeck and her daughters, and never mentioned Damaris by name.

Stevens went home, comforting herself with Damaris's promise to write to her there.

Six weeks afterwards, Dane's approaching marriage with the youngest Miss Welbeck was announced in the "Morning Post."

Meanwhile, Damaris was pursuing her own plans with much deliberation of purpose.

As her train steamed out of Paddington station, she felt she was on the threshold of a new life. She was thrilled to her finger tips with the excitement of the moment.

"Now I know what a runaway feels like," she said to herself, as she gazed out at the country to which she was so swiftly passing. "I ought to feel frightened and depressed at my uncertain future. I don't even know where I am going to sleep to-night. But there are inns in every village, I know, and there must be one in Marley. How little I thought I should be so delighted to get away from Dane! When first he came, I admired him so much; but lately he has felt like a regular old man of the sea on my shoulders. He looks as handsome as ever he did, but it's his mind that is so sordid and mean. I felt contaminated by it when I talked to him."

Then she began to muse upon her plans.

Damaris had determined to seek out her relatives. She had made a note of the address on the old letters she had found in her mother's desk, and she was going down to the village of Marley to see if any of the family were still left in the neighbourhood. She did not intend to make herself known to them directly. She hoped, if her grandfather were dead, that her mother's young sister might be still living. She was her hope, for Damaris felt that she would be received by her for her mother's sake.

In a little bag tied round her neck and secreted under her dress was the whole of her property in bank notes. She was not an inefficient housekeeper, and she calculated that she could live for many months in a quiet way upon what she possessed. Not a shade of anxiety for the future dimmed her outlook.

As she sat back in a third-class railway carriage, her grey eyes were full of dreams: her lips closed with determined resolve. And her heart was beating unevenly, for the spirit of adventure had seized hold of her, and there was the excitement of a strange unknown future before her. The realisation that for the first time in her life she was her own mistress, and a free agent, brought a wonderful rest and relief to her soul.

"I may make mistakes," she was assuring herself; "but I shall have no one to scold me if I do. I am responsible to none. It is new life to me; and how exquisite it will be to wander through the country at my own free will, to have turned my back for once and all upon London's grimy stuffy streets and houses! I will never go back there again if I can help it!"

A COUNTRY LODGING

"LITTLE MARLEY," sang out the one and only porter at the small country station, which was Damaris's destination.

She stepped out on the platform with a brave heart, and looked around her. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and on this June day the sun was beating down fiercely on the dusty road outside the station. Fields stretched around it; there was no village to be seen.

"Where is the village," asked Damaris.

The stationmaster, a little stout fussy man, came bustling forward.

"Are you expecting a trap, madam? Marley is a good two miles off. Maybe you are going to the Hall?"

"Oh, no," said Damaris hastily. "I have come into the country for change of air. Is there a good inn in Marley?"

The stationmaster looked at her curiously.

"Well," he said, slowly, "there's the 'Black Swan,' but it's hardly accommodation for a lady."

"I dare say they may be able to direct me to some rooms," said Damaris; "unless you know of any—do you? Is there any nice farm near?"

The stationmaster turned to the porter.

"Tom, is Mrs. Patch letting rooms this summer, d'ye know?"

"I've heerd tell she is," replied the porter slowly.

"'Tis the baker's, madam—corner of the village as you go in."

"Thank you very much. Will you keep my case here till I send for it? If it is only two miles, I can easily walk there."

"Look here, miss," suggested the porter in a more animated tone; "if you don't come back in a couple of hours, I shall know you're biding with Mrs. Patch—I go home to tea at six and pass her door—I'll bring up your case with me, and you won't be troubled to do nothing."

Damaris smiled at him gratefully.

"That will be very good of you. I suppose I can't miss my way?"

"Keep straight up the lane and turn off to the right at the first cross-roads," said the stationmaster. "And if Mrs. Patch have lodgers, she'll tell you whether Merry Cross Farm might put you up."

"Thank you very much."

And as she left the station behind her, Damaris said the herself—

"How simple and easy everything is in the country. I suppose they all know each other and each other's business."

The air seemed fresh and sweet; the trees and hedges had not long worn their fresh coats of green; honeysuckle and wild rose were just beginning to blossom; and Damaris lifted her eyes and heart up to the blue sky with a feeling of exultation.

"I don't care where I sleep," she asserted to herself, "as long as it is clean. But I had a fancy for a village inn. They sound, in books, so romantic and picturesque."

When she reached the cross-roads, she began to feel very warm and a little tired. She was carrying her dressing-bag, which was heavy, and seeing a fallen trunk of a tree lying in the hedge, she sat down on it to have a rest. Presently she heard voices in the distance, and in a few minutes, two people came walking past her. The woman was tall and rather broad-shouldered, she had a quantity of golden-brown hair, and wore a white serge coat and gown and a white panama hat with a plain band of black round it. She had a walking-stick in her hand, and strode over the ground in rather a masculine fashion. The man, who was in grey flannel, was just a little taller than she was, and was evidently enjoying a joke with her, for his laugh rang out, and she said rather sharply—

"I do wish you would be sensible."

"But I couldn't at this juncture, to save my life," was the light retort.

They passed on with just a side glance at Damaris, and she gazed after them with the greatest interest.

"I am sure they must come from the Hall," she said to herself. "They look like it."

Then she got up and pursued her way to the village. It seemed a long straight highroad now, but she presently passed a couple of labourers' cottages, then a farm-house, and at last came to the village. The square tower of the church stood up in the middle of it. She soon saw the baker's shop, for loaves of bread were in the window. It was a thatched white-washed cottage, that presented its end to the village street. A small wooden gate opened into a very pretty flower garden, and the cottage faced it. The door stood open, and a stout motherly-looking woman, with arms akimbo, was talking to a little wizened old man in the porch.

"No, Job, you don't, now! If you value beer more than bread, take your coppers to the 'Black Swan'; if you want the bread, hand out your coppers, for I'll not trust you, so there!"

Damaris opened the gate, and both man and woman turned towards her in surprise.

"I have been told that you let rooms," she said, addressing the woman; "have you any vacant at present?"

Mrs. Patch led the way in hastily, but the old man held out some coppers.

"Here, give us a loaf—the missis must come first, I reckon; but you never were neighbourly, Mrs. Patch."

"Excuse me, miss, one moment."

Damaris found herself in a charming little kitchen; everything was bright and shining, from the freshly black-leaded stove to the copper pans on the dresser, and the red flower-pots of geraniums upon the deep window-sill.

When Mrs. Patch had dismissed her customer, she turned to Damaris.

"Will you be wanting a bed-room only?"

Damaris hesitated.

"I should like a sitting-room, if you have one."

"For how long?"

"I am not quite sure. I have come from London, and I want to spend summer in the country."

"And 'tis only for yourself?"

"Yes, I am quite alone."

Mrs. Patch glanced at Damaris's black clothes, and nodded her head in an understanding fashion.

"Well, what be you prepared to pay? 'Tis best to be quite business-like at first go off."

"I should like to see the rooms first," said Damaris, with quiet dignity.

Mrs. Patch led the way upstairs.

"I've lodged the curick for two years in these here rooms, so you may judge they're quite in style. I have a small parlour downstairs, but I'm not favourable to lettin' it, for I come of a long fam'ly, and they have a way of droppin' over on a Sunday, and I puts 'em in it while I'm dishin' dinner. Now what do you say to these?"

She ushered Damaris into a tiny room with a very big bed and a very big press. There was just room to walk between them. The window overlooked a bit of wild common, and Damaris was delighted with the view. The sitting-room was next to it. It was also small, but very snug and clean. There was a small horse-hair couch with white crochet antimacassars draped over it, a round table, a cupboard in the wall, and a row of books on the top of it. An arm-chair, also horse-hair, a cane chair, and a little table with a stuffed owl in a glass case upon it completed the furniture of the room.

Mrs. Patch stepped up to the window.

"The curick used to sit in this here window in his arm-chair with his pipe, and he told me he wanted no more on earth," she said solemnly. "He was a student o' human natur', same as I am myself. An' if you step up you can see the 'Black Swan,' and every man and boy that frequents it; an' you can see the Rectory door, and the folks who go in and out, an' also the church gate; an' also by cranin' your neck, you catches a sight of the front lodge gate to the Hall; and every blessed person that comes up and down the village street is straight before your eyes. Why, London couldn't give you more, now, could it?"

Damaris's sense of humour was tickled, and she laughed out so merrily that Mrs. Patch gazed at her in astonishment.

"If you only knew," Damaris said apologetically, "that my life has always been that—sitting at a window and watching people outside. I want something different now. I want to be outside myself."

Then, seeing that Mrs. Patch was still gazing at her gravely, she said hastily—

"I am sure these rooms will do very nicely, and on a wet day I shall enjoy looking out of my window very much. Now, about the charge?"

"Do you want me to feed you same as I did the curick? Thirty shillings he gave me every week, everything included, and he said I fed him like a prince. And he paid in advance, like the gentleman he was."

"Then I would like to do the same, please."

Damaris took out her purse, and laid down two notes on the table.

Mrs. Patch took them and thanked her, and Damaris told her that her luggage would be following shortly.

"That will be all right, and, if you're not tired, maybe you'd like to take a little walk round, so as to find your way about, while I'm putting sheets in your bed and having a dust round. You'll find us a quiet house. My husband is in the bakehouse when he ain't out on his rounds, and his mother, who lives with us, is bed-ridden. And you'd like an early tea, no doubt. Shall we say five o'clock?"

Damaris assented. She was more than willing to go out. As she descended the small stairs, the smell of hot bread was so appetising that she longed for her tea hour; and then the sweet country air took her thoughts away from food.

Not very far from the house, she found an old wooden gate partly open, a little lane behind it led right up to the common. She followed this up a short rather steep ascent, and then the common lay before her as far as her eye could reach. Great clumps of golden gorse brightened the landscape for miles, but there were also beautiful groups of old trees—beeches, hawthorns, oaks and ash broke the monotony of the ground. She was tired with her journey and did not go very far. She found a seat below an old oak—a thicket of hawthorn was behind her, and in front an open expanse of fresh green earth and blue sky. Larks were mounting in the air, singing as they went.

Damaris had as yet not found much comfort in prayer. It had been more of a form of words to her than of reality, but now she felt impelled to look upwards and thank God that she had been led to this village.

"I have fallen on my feet. If I do not find any trace of my mother's family, I shall at least have the enjoyment and rest of a visit here. I could not have found rooms in an easier fashion. I walked straight into them. It really does seem as if everything had been made easy for me."

She sat there for nearly an hour deep in thought. She knew she had taken rather a rash step in severing herself so suddenly from her old home and belongings, and yet she did not for an instant regret it.

When she returned to her rooms, her face was as bright as a child's. Mrs. Patch had spread tea in the little sitting-room, and it looked most inviting.

"I've b'iled you an egg, and there's a bit of cress from the brook which comes down from the common, and the gooseberry jam is my own making, and there's bread and butter as much as you can eat. If you're come from London, you're ready for a meal I'm sure."

She lingered as Damaris sat down at the table and poured herself out a cup of tea from the little brown tea-pot.

"It's just delicious, every bit of it," she said enthusiastically; "and oh, what a wonderful common you have!"

"Most folks like that. Master and I be wondering what made you fix your fancy on Marley as a place to come to. 'Tis out of the usual way for sight-seers."

Damaris had yet to become acquainted with the insatiable curiosity that exists in most small country villages. She answered carefully—

"It was an aunt of mine who mentioned the common in one of her letters. I thought I would like to see it."

"Did she live here once upon a time? Or, maybe, came to stay. Perhaps a visitor at the Rectory or Hall?"

"It was a long time ago," said Damaris, and her tone was very dignified. "She was staying here, no doubt; but I had a fancy to come. Is there any bell to ring? You would like to know when to clear away."

"Oh, we have no bells in this house," said Mrs. Patch. "Just give a tap with your heel on the floor, or give me a call down the stairs. And then, at nine or so, I'll bring you a cup of cocoa and some scones to go to bed on."

She bustled downstairs.

Damaris wondered if it would be difficult to keep her secret.

When Tom Webb brought her suit-case up to the house, the talk outside the gate was distinctly audible to her through the open window.

"Good evening, Mrs. Patch. We've sent you a nice young leddy, h'ain't we? Me and Mr. Page say she be no or'nary female out for a few days' burst!"

"Hem!" said Mrs. Patch, coughing discreetly. "She has the appearance of quality, sure enough, but you has to take these young lonely ladies carefully. I studies human natur', Tom, as you know. She has somethin' she's not a mind to tell. I can tell it in the look of her eye. Why did she come here? There's an aunt, she told me, who knows this part, but she didn't give me the name o' her aunt, and was standoffish in her voice. I'll find out about that aunt before very long!"

"No you won't," said Damaris to herself.

She shut the window gently, for she had heard quite enough to be undesirous of hearing more.

"What an interfering curious old landlady I have got," she thought, with dismay in her heart. "How awfully careful I shall have to be. I told her too much. I shall be more discreet in future."

Mrs. Patch certainly got no more out of Damaris that night.

The next day was, unfortunately, wet. After she had had her breakfast, Damaris took out her work-bag and began to embroider. About eleven o'clock, Mrs. Patch came in to ask her something about dinner, and then Damaris asked if the old mother would like her to pay her a visit. Mrs. Patch looked quite pleased.

"She's rare glad to have a chat with anyone—the curick used to pop in nearly every day. He called her gran'ma."

So Damaris was taken along a tiny passage and into a very clean and rather spacious bed-room. The old woman, sitting up in bed with her clean frilled cap and spectacles on her nose and a big Bible in front of her, made a pretty picture of old age, and Damaris lost her heart to her at once.

"You look as if you have just walked out of a book," she said to the old woman.

"Well, she's always happy—I will say that for her," said talkative Mrs. Patch, gazing at her mother-in-law with rather a critical eye. "There be those who are always up and those who are always down. I studies human natur', and so I knows. For myself, I keep on the level, and that's the comfortable way to take life. I don't get over-expecting things, nor do I get excited to tears, and so I get no disappointments. And I'm not in the dumps on a wet day, and think I'll never be happy agen if the master drinks too much or gets in a vile temper. I just take things calm, and keep my fears and tears for only very best occasions." Then, in an aside, she whispered, "Don't mind mother when she talks pious. 'Tis her way with us all. We smiles and takes no notice."

She left the room. Damaris slipped into the chair by the bedside, and old Mrs. Patch looked up at her with a happy smile.

"'Tis nice to see a bright young face, though I fear you've known sorrow."

"Yes," said Damaris softly; "I have lost two old uncles with whom I always made my home. I have nobody to look after me now. It does give one a lonely feeling."

The old woman put her hand on her Bible.

"But if you know the One Who gave us His Word you're comforted."

Damaris did not answer. She began to ask questions about the village and its inhabitants. Then she asked the momentous question—

"Have you any gentle-people round here? There is a big house called the Hall, isn't there?"

"Yes, 'tis our squire lives there—Sir Mark Murray—and a nice hearty gentleman he is. I've known him these thirty-seven years or more—I went into service with his first wife. She was a sweet gentle lady—but proud—oh, so proud on occasions!"

"Is there a big family at the Hall?" Damaris asked. Her soul was in a tumult. Her mother's name was Murray. Was it possible, she wondered, that Sir Mark was her grandfather?

"No, for they've been scattered. There was a nursery full of them when I went up to the Hall as nurse. Miss Lilian, slim and straight as yourself. 'Tis strange, but as you came in the room, I said to myself, it's just as if Miss Lilian be standing there! She was a beautiful child—wayward, but oh, such ways with her! And then there was Master Herbert. He's married now, and has a large family, and lives up in the north. Miss Lilian married, too; but that was a sore trouble. She went out to Italy with an aunt and met a young fellow there, and they got married on the quiet. There was a rare rumpus here, but I can't tell you the whole story. If her mother had lived, it would have been different. But the second Lady Murray never liked her—Miss Lilian used to treat her haughty like, and refused to obey her. Anyhow, she didn't live very long—poor Miss Lilian died after she'd been married a year. Where was I? Polly always says when once I begin talking of the family, I never stop. Then there was Master Walter; he still comes down from London now. He's in a lawyer's bar, I think."

"A barrister," murmured Damaris.

"Yes, that's it. I know they told me he was called to the Bar—and it's not public-house bar, but a lawyer's one. And Master Morris—he came next—he's a captain of a ship now. And then there's Miss Barbara the baby, when I first went and took charge of her."

"And where is she?" asked Damaris, breathlessly. "Is she married?"

"No, that she isn't; but she might have been again and again. She's mistress of the Hall now. Lady Murray died five years ago, and, if I may say so, the squire seems happier and younger now that she's gone. She was a bad-tempered woman, and hadn't the grace of God to keep her temper in check."

Damaris was silent. She had hardly expected to find her grandfather and aunt still living in the same old house. She thought it an extraordinary coincidence that she had come to the very house in which an old servant of her family was still living.

Then, not liking to appear too inquisitive, she asked about the Rector.

"He's a dear kind man, but his wife is just an angel of goodness. Our old rector died two years ago, and he always had to have a curate, for he was very bronchitisy for long before he was taken. But Mr. Dashwood does all the work easy, and his sweet young wife visits us all most regular. Ah! You wait till you see her, and you'll love her as we all do."

"I think you must all be very happy in this village," said Damaris thoughtfully.

The old woman smiled a little sadly.

"Our village is made up of what every village is, miss—the good and the bad together. And we all have our sorrows—my daughter-in-law downstairs has buried three fine sons, and no chick or child left. But we aren't left ignorant of the wicket-gate. Our Rector points to that very clear."

Damaris smiled.

"I am not good, Mrs. Patch, I wish I was; but I always have loved the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' I used to revel in it when I was a small child. I'm so glad you know it."

The old woman pointed to a big book on her chest of drawers.

"There is old Bunyan! I used to have it in the Hall nursery, and show the children the pictures. Have you started out yet with your face towards the Holy City, miss, may I ask?"

Damaris looked doubtful.

"I don't think so," she said.

"Then you've never felt your burden heavy! You've got it on your back, you know, and you'll never get inside the gates with it there."

Damaris looked thoughtful. She did not feel inclined to copy her landlady's example to "smile and take no notice."

But further conversation was stopped by the younger Mrs. Patch coming up with a basin of gruel for the old woman, and Damaris took the opportunity of slipping away. Her mind and heart were too full of her grandfather and aunt being so close to her to take in anything else at present.

MAKING ACQUAINTANCES

IN a few days, Damaris had settled down into her lodgings with a comfortable feeling of security and peace.

Mrs. Patch, junior, amused her by her flow of talk; she listened to her but would give her no information about herself.

On Sunday, she went to church in the morning. The country service was a novelty to her after the fashionable churches she had frequented in town. She sat well back in the church, and was intensely interested in watching the congregation arrive.

The Squire's seat was in the chancel behind the choir boys, and Damaris's heart beat rapidly when she saw a tall smart-looking old man lead the way up to it, and the woman and man who had passed her in the road on the day of her first arrival following him. She could hardly believe that the handsome golden-haired woman was her mother's sister. She had such an air of youth about her, and yet bore the stamp of a strong masterful woman. Damaris wondered if she could ever pluck up courage to speak to her.

And then she saw the Rector's wife come in and take her place in one of the front seats. She was a slight graceful woman with a very sweet face, and led a little curly-headed boy by the hand. Damaris had heard that he was her one and only child. Another seat in the church held some nice-looking people—two old ladies and a dark handsome man with a short square beard. The rest of the congregation consisted of the villagers.

More than once Damaris met the eyes of her aunt, and of her companion who sat next her. She shielded herself as much as she could from observation by a pillar near her, and was rather relieved when the service was over.

It was a little too early for summer visitors, and many glances fell on the tall graceful girl in mourning at the back of the church. Damaris felt almost self-conscious as she walked through the churchyard. Once she caught the words—

"So that is Mrs. Patch's new lodger. What a pretty girl! Who is she?" And her cheeks burned as she hurried on.

When she got to her rooms, she found the kitchen downstairs full of Sunday visitors. There was a smell of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and of hot pastry in the oven. Damaris felt she was the recipient of oven smells day in and day out. She wondered that a baker did not give his oven a rest on Sunday, but she enjoyed a hot plate of roast beef and vegetables and the inevitable Yorkshire pudding, followed by a gooseberry tart. And then she slipped out of the house, and found her way up to the common.

It was a lovely afternoon, and not too warm for walking. A fresh breeze met her as she walked on farther than she had ever walked before. The peace and quiet of it all delighted her. Her thoughts were, of course, on her mother's home. It had been a shock to her that morning to see that her aunt was so young in years. She had foolishly pictured her as a gentle elderly lady who would receive her with open arms. She realised now that, according to the letters she had in her possession, Barbara Murray could be only thirty-eight or thirty-nine. Old Mrs. Patch had talked of her as a young lady still.

"She's hard, Miss Barbara is," she had said, when talking of her to Damaris. "Her temper was spoiled by her ladyship, who never understood children. Miss Barbara might have had a sweet temper had she been handled differently, she's high-spirited and boyish—she always liked her brother's pursoots, but she seems harder than she is at heart. She grew up thinkin' everybody against her, and she must defend herself. Often she has rushed off to me, when she could bear herself no longer, and I've told her patience always wins the day. Of late years, she's grown more reserved and proud. But she's a warm heart when once it is reached."

This description of her aunt made Damaris shy of making herself known to her. She had not imagined she would find it difficult to introduce herself, but now she put it off from day to day, hoping that some opportunity might be given her, rather than that she should have to make it for herself.

She was so deep in thought that she hardly noticed where she was going, until she found herself at the end of the common facing another small country village. An old red brick house was before her surrounded by elms; and further down the road were a cluster of cottages, with the usual village church in the midst of them. Very few people seemed about, and as there was a seat on the common by the side of the road, Damaris sat down upon it to rest.

Presently an old lady came out of the big iron gates leading to the house in front of her. She gazed anxiously up and down the road, then came across to Damaris.

"Excuse me, but have you seen a black-and-white fox terrier? I have lost him. He has periodical fits of running away, which annoys me very much."

"I have not noticed any dog," said Damaris.

The old lady looked at her sharply.

"I see you are a stranger."

"Yes," Damaris answered; "I am lodging in Marley, and have come across the common for a walk."

"Really? It is a good four miles. Now I should not wonder if Scott has gone over to Marley to-day, for my nephew is staying at the Hall for a few days, and he always follows him if he gets a chance."

Damaris remembered seeing a small fox terrier dancing round the Hall party when they left the church. She mentioned this, and the old lady looked quite relieved.

Then she took a seat by Damaris and became very communicative.

"It's quite a comfort to see anyone to talk to. You mustn't mind me—I am very unconventional. I always do as I like—custom or propriety does not affect me in the least. Now, if you were lodging in this village, I would have you in sometimes to talk to me when I'm feeling dull. You can talk, I suppose? Some young people won't open their mouths to old women. Are you like that? The young won't remember that old age will come to them. I was like that myself."

"I think I like old people better than young ones; I am more accustomed to them," said Damaris. "I have lived with two old uncles for the last four years since I left school, and now they are both dead, and I miss them more than I can say. I am afraid I used to grumble sometimes when they were alive, they kept me from knowing people, but now I almost wish them back."

"I hope they left their money to you," said the old lady bluntly.

Damaris shook her head.

"Perhaps they had not any to leave."

"Oh, yes—a good deal; but it went to their nephew."

"You interest me. Go on. What are you going to do now?"

Damaris did not know why she confided in this stranger, but she felt she had gone far enough.

Her tone was very dignified as she said—

"I shall manage very well, thank you."

"How can you, if you have no money? Don't be foolish, child. Have you no other relations?"

"I could easily earn my livelihood by needlework," said Damaris, gazing before her dreamily. "I was told at the Art School in Kensington, where I had a few lessons, that they would always take my work. I copy old tapestry patterns."

There was a pause. Then the old lady introduced herself.

"I am Mrs. Bonnycott—everybody calls me Kitty Bonnycott. I've lived in that old house there all my life. It came to me at my father's death. I have three farms and a good bit of land, which my nephew looks after. He's like a son to me, and we're very good friends; but I don't tie him to my apron strings, and every now and then we want a change from each other, and then he goes off to the Hall, they're always glad to have him there. Barbara and her brothers and he all grew up together. I live my own life. I garden, and look after my dogs and goats, and have my finger in most of the village pies. How do you like the Rector's wife at Marley? She's county, you know—would marry a parson—told me she loved the idea of being a shepherdess! And she's a charming young creature. A little too pious for me, but I laugh at her; and she takes it in very good part."

"I have not met her yet," replied Damaris, feeling bewildered by the old lady's confidential talk; "but I saw her in church to-day and think she looks perfectly sweet."

"And how long are you going to stay at Marley?"

"I do not know."

Damaris's cheeks flushed in spite of herself.

Mrs. Bonnycott looked at her with a pair of very sharp far-seeing eyes.

"I ought to be in church this afternoon," she said, after a moment's pause; "but our vicar annoyed me this morning, so I am punishing him by my absence. I'm a most regular church goer as a rule; we have no evening service, and the afternoon is a trial in summer! He refused to give out a notice I sent to him. It was an invitation to the six old almswomen to a strawberry tea. Is it wicked to mention strawberries and tea in church? I suddenly thought of it as I was walking to church, and I wanted them to come to-morrow. My vicar is a very proper young man; he is always afraid of doing something unclerical or unorthodox. I have no patience with him."

Damaris could not help smiling. Then she asked the name of the village and was told it was Fallerton.

"I am the only resident in it of any account," said Mrs. Bonnycott; "but we have plenty of neighbours within driving distance. The Gores are nearest to me; they go to your church because they had a quarrel with our vicar over some of his vestments. They're starched old maids, both of them, but we're very good friends. Their brother would marry Barbara Murray to-morrow if she would have him. He worships the ground she treads upon; and I think she's a fool, for he's an intelligent upright man, whose only fault is that he's too easy-going, and lets his sisters rule him. He has the hobby of bee-keeping. His apiary is well worth seeing. He's a bit of a naturalist, too; you meet him lying out in the woods or on the common watching the habits of some insect or bird. But I'm not very fond of men with beards, are you? I always fancy they are hiding up a weak mouth or chin."

Damaris laughed, then got up to go, and the old lady insisted upon shaking hands with her.

"We shall meet again. When next I am in Marley, I shall come to see you. When we don't bake at home, we get our bread from Patch. I'm sure you're lodging there, though you didn't tell me so. They are the only rooms to let that I know of!"

Damaris parted from her, feeling as if she had made a friend. Mrs. Bonnycott was a pretty old lady with a wonderfully clear complexion, bright brown eyes, and an upright active little figure. Her eyes twinkled as she talked, as if she were always seeing a hidden joke. Damaris had a happy feeling as she talked to her, and as she walked back over the common, she hoped that she might soon see her again.

As she was nearing Marley, she met Barbara Murray and Mrs. Bonnycott's nephew. Barbara had half-a-dozen dogs with her, and Scott was evidently one of them, for his master said as they passed her—

"My aunt won't sleep to-night without him. I tell you Scott rules the house; but the walk over the common is good for both of us."

The breeze brought Damaris the added words—

"Who is she?"

And Barbara replied indifferently—

"How should I know?"

Damaris returned to her lodgings feeling rather tired and quite ready for her tea.

Yet an hour later, she slipped into the little church again for the evening service, and enjoyed it.

The next afternoon, Mrs. Dashwood, the Rector's wife, called upon her.

Damaris succumbed at once to her charms. She almost felt inclined to confide in her, her history, but her natural reticence forbade her.

"I am so glad you came straight to the Patch's. I always think I should enjoy living here myself. Doesn't the smell of hot baked bread make you feel fed and clothed and housed all at once? It always gives me the sense of comfort and home. Now don't be lonely, will you? And if your days are long, will you help me at the Rectory? I am always trying to catch up the work that is waiting for me even in this small village. Do you like being busy? I believe you are a dreamer. But dreamers develop into doers. Look at Joseph!"

Damaris's eyes sparkled.

"Yes, I have been a dreamer, and my life for several years has fostered it. But I am just waking up now; and oh, Mrs. Dashwood, I want to do something!"

Mrs. Dashwood leant forwards with her pretty entrancing smile.

"Then you and I will do together for a little while. We are both pilgrims, aren't we, travelling the same road? And just for a little time, we will walk side by side."

Then she put her hand on Damaris's arm caressingly.

"Is our goal the same, do you think?"

Damaris looked doubtful.

"I don't know."

"Have you the driving force necessary for all work? 'Such' a force! 'The love of Christ constraineth us.'"

Sudden tears filled Damaris's eyes.

"I have often thought about those kind of things, but I have been so alone. I have had no one to help me. You remind me of old Mrs. Patch and her 'Pilgrim's Progress.'"

Mrs. Dashwood laughed happily.

"Yes, you can't say you have no one to help you, dear, with that old saint in the house. I don't quite know why you chanced on our little village as a rest cure, but I see now there was no chance in it. You were sent here to be helped, and to have your soul rested as well as your body. How I do hope and pray you won't miss it. And now I must be going. My mothers' meeting begins at half-past three, but I felt I must just see you first. Will you come to tea with me to-morrow, and make acquaintance with my small son Eddie? You see what a conceited mother I am! But he really is nice to know."

She was gone like a flash of light, and Damaris was left with a longing to know her better, and with a pleased anticipation of going to tea with her the next day.

Mrs. Patch came in after she had gone.

"Our Rector's lady never stays anywhere quite long enough," she said; "that's all the fault we finds with her. But her days is near as crowded as mine. She flings me a pretty word.

"'Mrs. Patch,' she says, 'I wish I could be your lodger one day; I would cast off my housekeeping cares, and have a blissful time. Your rooms,' she says, 'have all the true atmosphere of restfulness and comfort.'

"Ah, Mrs. Dashwood—she has the observing eye—same as have myself, bein' a student of human natur. Did she have a few words with you to the improvin' of your soul? I reckon she'll have been finding out if you're a worker or not. 'Tis her craze—that of work. She even taxes me with it, though she do allow that I've enough to do to keep my household goin'."

Damaris listened a little impatiently. She grew rather tired of Mrs. Patch's flow of talk, and slipped away from her with the excuse of going out for a walk on the common.

She went up to the Rectory the next day, and found Mrs. Dashwood, in her pretty morning-room, busy cutting out a lot of garments for her village working party.

Her little boy was by her side, pretending to help.

Damaris stooped to kiss him. She was rather shy of children, never having had much to do with them.

"Do you like kissing me?" Eddie asked, looking up at her with a pair of huge blue eyes. "I aren't liking it myself."

Damaris laughed, and Mrs. Dashwood looked up from her work.

"Eddie, remember you are a little gentleman. That is not a polite way to speak."

"But gentlemen aren't kissed," said the small boy. "Everybody kisses me, but they doesn't kiss Daddy."

"I won't kiss you again," said Damaris—"not unless you want me to."

And then Mrs. Dashwood set her to work; and as they cut out they talked, and Damaris found herself giving many confidences about her past life.

Eddie retired to a corner of the room to play. His mother said that his nurse had gone out for the day, so that she was in charge of him.

Presently a whistle was heard in the garden, and Eddie dashed out of the open French window, crying out excitedly—

"It's my Mr. Stuart!"

Mrs. Dashwood gave a little sigh.

"I hoped we should have had a quiet afternoon together, but Stuart Maitland is such an old friend that he walks in upon us whenever he likes. I knew him before I married. Have you met him? He lives with an old aunt just across the common. He looks after her property, but it is not enough to occupy a man of his abilities. We call him the Admirable Crichton. Here he comes."

"Well, Tina, slaving away as usual? What a woman you are for scissors! Now it's garments for the village, isn't it? Last time you were making havoc of your rose beds for some wedding."

Mrs. Dashwood laughingly shook hands with him, then introduced him to Damaris. He looked at her with a frank smile.

"Our third meeting. Three is my lucky number! I knew I should speak to you the next time I saw you."

Damaris smiled back. Her head was high, and her manner dignity itself; but there was something in Stuart's voice that always brought smiles to those with whom he spoke.

"You saw each other in church, I suppose?" said Mrs. Dashwood, turning briskly to her cutting out again.

"Oh, that wasn't a meeting; the first time Miss—Miss Hartbrook—I hope I've caught the name—was sitting by the wayside, and Barbara and I discussed her hotly for a good ten minutes after we had passed her. Then we met her again on Sunday afternoon crossing the common, whereupon we discussed her again; and now I shall go back, and most likely we will all discuss her for the third time."

"That makes me feel a person of some importance," said Damaris; "but I am learning from Mrs. Patch's talk that everybody is of importance in the country."

"You're right there. Allow me to relieve you, Tina. Don't dare to say I can't wield the scissors as well as yourself. Sit down and rest that long back of yours. What is that husband of yours doing? If I had a wife and she helped me with my sermons, I would help her with her scissors. That's fair play. Miss Hartbrook, when you listen to our Rector's sermons, and he startles you with a very straight hit which knocks you flat, that is one of his better half's bits of composition."

Stuart was rapidly cutting out children's frocks as he talked.

Damaris gazed at him with amused astonishment.

Mrs. Dashwood had laughingly taken a seat and drawn her little boy to her side, but her quick observant eyes were following her new assistant's rapid cuts, and twice she corrected him.

"Now," she said, "give me back my scissors. I am rested. Won't you play to us?"

"Yes, play, and I'll dance!" cried Eddie.

The next moment, Stuart was at the piano playing the merriest jigs and snatches of nursery rhymes. Eddie capered up and down, occasionally bursting into songs in which Stuart joined him. He had one of the softest and most mellow tenor voices that Damaris had ever heard. Suddenly he stopped.

"That's enough for you, old boy. Now I'm going to play to Miss Hartbrook. And then it will be your mother's turn. Now, Miss Hartbrook, what will you have—grave or gay? I think I know."

He began to improvise. Damaris listened, entranced, for she knew at once he was a real musician. And from a very sweet and plaintive little melody, he turned to some Norwegian Folk Lore airs, and then finished with a very inspiriting Polish March.

"To cheer you up!" he remarked, twisting round on the music stool.

"Thank you very much," said Damaris.

He turned back to the piano, and began playing "O Rest in the Lord," "Comfort ye My People," and "He shall Feed His Flock" followed. And when he stopped playing, there was a grave stillness in the room.

He stood up and drew a deep breath.

"Music is meant to portray religion, isn't it?" he said.

"What a dangerous gift it is," Mrs. Dashwood said thoughtfully. "It appeals to the best and worst inside us."

"Will you have me to tea?" Stuart asked, as he took an easy chair and hoisted Eddie upon his knee. "Barbara has taken it into her head to pay calls this afternoon, knowing that I won't accompany her. And Sir Mark has shut himself into the library with some business papers, and told me he didn't want to be disturbed."

"Of course, we will give you tea. How long are you staying at the Hall?"

"Only till to-morrow. I know you feel I've been idling here too long, but I've been making sketches and plans for some model cottages Sir Mark wants to build."

"Anything else?"

He laughed.

"Oh, a few. Don't make me blow my own trumpet before Miss Hartbrook, but you know I'm a handy man, and I find jobs everywhere. That reminds me—I've promised the rector to get rid of those crows' nests in the belfry. I'll go now. Would Eddie like to come with me?"

"Oh, mummy, let me!"

Mrs. Dashwood looked dubious.

"He'll be breaking his neck."

"Will Miss Hartbrook come and look after him? I'm sure you've done enough cutting out!"

Damaris was not very keen on going, but Mrs. Dashwood seemed as if she would like her to do so.

"You will hear the tea-bell. I'll have it rung outside the house, and when it rings, bring Eddie in, will you?"

As Damaris walked through the garden, Stuart talked to her as if he had known her all her life. He interested her at once; there seemed no subject on which he could not talk. And though his tone was gay, he could drop suddenly into the gravest vein.

"Of course, you've lost your heart to Tina. I tell Barbara she's lucky to have her near her. But women are a mystery to man in their dealings with one another. Barbara keeps her at arm's length. I think she is afraid that Tina will tackle her on religious subjects. She's tackled me, and she'll do the same to you before you've been in her company very long. But if you know a good thing, why shouldn't you try to pass it on? And I bless the day when I was enlightened and set going by her. Now, young man, what is it?" He turned to Eddie.

"I want to ring the bells. Will you take me?"

"Not if I know it! But we shall climb the tower, and you shall show Miss Hartbrook the hill where the rainbows end."

"I believe I met a relation of yours on Sunday," said Damaris suddenly.

"Did you? It was my aunt. A dear old talkative soul. Was she on the common?"

Damaris gave an account of her meeting.

Stuart's eyes twinkled.

"Did she tell you of our difference of opinion? I wanted a certain man dismissed—a farm-hand who is an idle loafer. She wants him kept. So I said I would go away for a few days and let her see for herself how he worked. I received a repentant note this morning, so I'm going back to her to-morrow."

"How nice to be able to run away when things go wrong!" said Damaris.

"That's a nasty one for me!" laughed Stuart. "Have you never run away from anything?"

"Oh, yes," said Damaris hastily; "I'm doing it now." Then the swift colour came to her cheeks. "I am my own mistress," she added. "I sometimes wish I were not."

"Ah," he said, "independence has its drawbacks. Now, it's a queer thing, but, from the look of your carriage and walk, I said to Barbara, 'That girl is on her own—no doubt of it.' And I was right."

"Do you think me an adventuress?" said Damaris, with a little smile. "I am out on an adventure."

"Shake hands," said Stuart, holding out his hand to her. "I'm an adventurer born. That's why I'm a Jack of many trades and master of none. I'm always seeing things on in front that beckon to me, and I invariably plunge after them. But I'm sticking to my aunt now. I've been all over the world."

"Oh," said Damaris, with a long-drawn sigh; "I wish I had—I do adore seeing new strange places."

They reached the place, and climbed up into the belfry; then Damaris took Eddie up to the top of the tower out of danger's way. He had been there before, and was very proud of pointing out to her different landmarks.

The tea-bell rang too soon; but on their way down they met Stuart, who showed them four huge nests he had rescued from some beams in the roof.

"They're big enough for you to sit in, Eddie," he said.

"Oh, no, fanks; I don't want to sit on eggs!" he promptly replied.

And then they all went into the Rectory to tea.

Stuart went with the Rector afterwards.

"My husband wants to show him some old papers he has unearthed from the vestry," Mrs. Dashwood said to Damaris. "Stuart Maitland is one of the most gifted men I know. He says he happens to have clever hands, but it is his brain which directs them. You heard him play. He paints exquisite water-colour sketches, and has written two books. He is a very good architect, and is a member of the British Archaeological Society. I don't think there is anything that he can't do. I always say, when I have him in the house, that I have a plumber, carpenter, glazier, and general repairer. He ought to be a poor man."

"And has he no profession?" asked Damaris.

"I am sorry to say he has not. He was left an orphan when he was quite small, and came into a good bit of money when he was of age."

Then Mrs. Dashwood began to talk to Damaris of the village, trying to interest her in the people. When she got up to go, she said—

"You will let me see more of you, won't you, dear? I want to know you better. And we have had an interrupted afternoon."

"I shall love to come and see you at any time," said Damaris warmly.

And as she walked home, she determined she would pursue the acquaintance. Yet somehow or other Stuart Maitland obtruded himself, and overshadowed gentle Mrs. Dashwood in her thoughts.

A SUDDEN DEPARTURE

"MRS. BONNYCOTT to see you, miss."

Damaris was sitting writing in her little sitting-room one afternoon, when Mrs. Patch opened the door to announce the visitor.

Damaris had been trying to concoct for about the twentieth time, a letter to her grandfather announcing her existence. But nothing that she wrote satisfied her.

"If I could only see him! And if my aunt were more approachable! I wonder if I had better confide in Mrs. Dashwood. I don't know why I feel so shy about mentioning the subject. I know they are all curious about me, though they are too well-bred to say so. I don't know why I should appear such a mystery. In these days, girls live alone, and earn their own living."

She was glad to be able to change her thoughts.

Mrs. Bonnycott was breathless with her climb up the steep stairs.

"I told you I should come and see you, didn't I," she said, taking the easy chair Damaris pulled forward, and looking round her with her keen bright eyes. "You have a very snug little room here. What a pretty group of wild roses. I've just come from the Hall—been lunching with Barbara. You don't know each other yet? Barbara is a queer girl—she has too many men friends to be interested in her own sex. You have met my nephew, I hear. What do you think of him? Don't fall in love with him, will you? For I warn you he is not susceptible to women's charms—likes to chum up with them, but no more. He was engaged once, and says, never again; but he was young and she was young, and they were both too self-willed. She broke it off, and married somebody else two months after. But Stuart thinks that every other girl would be like her. Now tell me what you have been doing with yourself. I have interrupted you in writing, I see. So glad you have some friends to whom you can write. I was afraid you were a forlorn young creature with no friends at all. Mrs. Patch tells me you had an aunt who lived in these parts once."

"I don't think I told her so," said Damaris a little stiffly. "I said I had seen 'Marley Common' mentioned in an aunt's letter, and that made me come."

Mrs. Bonnycott gave a funny little chuckle.

"We're all very interested, not to say inquisitive, in these parts when a lodger comes to settle amongst us."

"I have only one friend in the world," said Damaris slowly and thoughtfully, "and that is an old servant who has known me from my babyhood."

"What a treasure. Is she in service still? If not I wish you would give me her address. I want a good maid—housemaid. Would she suit me?"

"She might," said Damaris, smiling, "but she is still in London in my old home—and will no doubt stay there."

"Is that where the nephew lived who ousted you? Have you made any plans for the future? I'm interested in you. Do you know you are too dainty a creature to be wandering over the world alone?"

"Oh, I have my plans," cried Damaris desperately, "but I can't talk about them."

"That's a pity," observed the old lady in a disappointed tone. "Young people always think life is easy to manage, and they won't confide in their elders, and troubles follow. But if you do get into trouble, write to me. You know my address. 'The Manor House, Fallerton.'"

"You are very kind," said Damaris, gratefully. "I don't find my life easy to manage at all. I have a very difficult task in front of me, and I am so cowardly that I feel, though I have begun to grapple with it, that I shall not be able to carry it through."

"And you've come down here to think things out quietly?"

"Yes—partly."

"Well—well—if you won't confide in me, you won't. But I still want you to come over and spend a day with me. Come next Saturday, will you? If you enjoy the walk, come over to lunch, and I will show you my garden and my pet goats. I keep eight of them."

"Thank you very much. I shall be very glad to come."

Mrs. Bonnycott did not stay very long, and though Damaris was entertained by her bright talk, she was relieved than otherwise when the visit came to an end.

"I can't go on like this," she said to herself. "I must do something definitely—I never imagined that everyone in the country would be so curious about strangers. I am sure Mrs. Bonnycott will get it all out of me when I go to lunch with her. And yet I do like her. And it is such a change to know some women of the right sort. I have seen so few of them in my life."

Two days afterwards, Damaris got her chance of doing "something definitely."

She was sitting with old Mrs. Patch, and hearing of the old times at the Hall, when suddenly the door opened and Barbara appeared.

She looked rather taken aback at seeing Damaris there.

"Well, Nanny, how are you? It's an age since I've been in, isn't it? I've brought you some of our early peaches."

"This is Miss Hartbrook, Miss Barbara, dear—she lodges with us, and is very kind in coming and sitting with me."

Barbara inclined her head a little stiffly, and Damaris at once made a move.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Patch, for the present," she said, and then she slipped away, going back to her own rooms.

But inside, she stood still—a sudden impulse seizing her.

"Now is my opportunity. She will pass my door going downstairs. I will call her in and tell her. I will—I must have the courage to do it. It is so much easier seeing her here than going to the Hall."

Now that the time had come, Damaris found her limbs trembling beneath her. She feverishly unlocked her small dressing-case, and produced her mother's letters. Then she tidied her sitting-room, placing her best easy chair in the window, and arranging one for herself in the background. She found herself preparing nervously her important announcement.

"How shall I begin? In books they generally rush into the arms of their long-lost relations; but I can't fancy myself doing that with Aunt Barbara! She's a man's woman they say, and hard of heart—perhaps I am making a mistake. My grandfather might receive me more warmly. Had I better wait and speak to him? Oh, how long she is! I wish she would come out. I hate the suspense of it!"

She paced the room, trying to control her agitation.

"What shall I say? I feel I shall stammer and break down. Perhaps she will refuse to come in. I wish she would, then I shall go to my grandfather."

Time went on. She heard the murmur of voices along the passage, and once Barbara's rather deep laugh rang out. Damaris was devoutly thankful that the landlady had gone to the neighbouring town that day to market, for otherwise she would run the risk of her mounting the stairs to enjoy the visitor's conversation. At last, the bed-room door opened and Barbara came out.

"Good-bye, Nanny. Take care of yourself."

Damaris opened her door.

As Barbara strode along the passage, she was pulled up by a very quiet voice.

"May I speak to you, Miss Murray, for a few minutes?"

They faced each other. Barbara's eyes were opened wide, her astonishment was plain to be seen.

Damaris stood with her proud little head in the air, she was white from emotion even to her lips, but her voice was well under control. There was not a quiver in it. Her request was almost like a command.

Without a word, Barbara came in. She had to stoop her tall head to get in at the door.

Damaris pulled forward the easy chair, and then seated herself. There was a moment's silence between them. Barbara evidently did not intend to speak first.

"I have wanted to speak to you for some time. It seems my opportunity. I have something to tell you."

Still silence. Then Damaris took her mother's letters in her hand, and handed them to Barbara.

"Do you know these letters? Will you read them? They were written by you many years ago."

Barbara frowned heavily as she opened the letters. Damaris watched her breathlessly, but she saw no sign of feeling in the handsome fresh-coloured face bending over them.

One by one they were opened and read. Then at last Barbara looked up.

"Where did you get these? How do they come into your possession?"

"They are my mother's letters. I am her daughter."

Barbara stared at her uncomprehendingly. "My sister had no children."

"Were you never told that she had? Surely my mother wrote to you before—before her death?"

"Will you kindly give me your account of it."

Something steely and fierce flashed out of Barbara's blue eyes.

Damaris faltered—she began to get a little incoherent.

"I can't give you the account of my birth. But it was in Florence, and after my mother's death, my father brought me to his uncle's house in London, which has been my home ever since. I—he never told me—I never knew—until I found these—I wonder you never asked about me—but of course I was provided for—and I took everything as my right—but when I found myself penniless, I began to wonder if I had no other relations, and then I found these. My father died many years ago."

Still Barbara did not speak, she sat gazing out of the window like one in a dream.

Then suddenly she turned her face towards Damaris.

"What other proof can you show me that you are my sister's daughter? Have you your birth certificate?"

"No," said Damaris, hesitating; "no, I do not know where that would be. It may be in Florence. I have not seen it amongst my father's papers. My uncles may have destroyed it."

Barbara smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile.

"We have only your word to go upon. We must have more than that."

The colour rushed into Damaris's cheeks.

"Do you not believe me? Do you think I am telling lies? Don't I know my own mother's name, and all the circumstances connected with her life in Florence."

Barbara smiled again.

"My dear Miss Hartbrook—if this is your name—it is curious I should not have recognised it before, but I had almost forgotten my brother-in-law's existence, and the name is an ordinary one; but if it is, I cannot forget that you have been in the habit of talking a great deal with our old nurse, from whom you would have got all our family history. She doubtless mentioned to you, as she did to me, a certain resemblance in you to my sister—there is nothing to prevent you building upon this and using it for your own ends. I don't say you have; but legally you must give us other proof. These letters were written by me, but they may have passed through many hands; and how are we to know that you are the rightful possessor of them?"

Damaris was silent. Never had such a possibility presented itself to her! Not to be believed was a fact that she had never contemplated. Such a rush of hot indignation and wounded pride seized hold of her that she could not trust herself to speak.

At last, she moved across the room and held open her door.

"I am sorry I have told you," she said. "If my relations do not wish to own me, there is nothing more to be said."

Barbara took her dismissal very calmly.

"I will keep these letters," she said, moving across to the door, "as they are my property. And I will talk it over with my father, and you will hear from us again. It is strange that you should have taken so long a time to make yourself known to us. If your purpose in coming here was to show us these letters, why did you not do it at once? It looks as if you were taking time to find out all you could."

Damaris said nothing. Her eyes flashed indignantly, and she closed the door upon her visitor with bitter disappointment and anger in her heart.

"They won't believe me! They don't want to believe me. Instead of being glad, she hated the very idea of my existence. Never, never, shall I be dependent on them! Never shall I enter their house! I wish I had never come here! I wish I had never spoken to her! I shall go straight back to London and get work. And I shall never think of them again. I have lived without them all these years. I can live without them still. I shall go back to London and write to Stevens and get her to come and see me, and tell her all about it."

In a tempest of fury, Damaris paced her room, then seized hold of her suit-case, and began flinging her clothes into it. She knew there was no train to town that day which she could conveniently catch, but she felt she must do something towards preparing for her departure. Then she put on her hat and slipped quietly out of the house. Making her way to the station, she found out the first morning train to town, and arranged with the friendly porter to call for her luggage on his way to the station the next morning.

When she returned to her lodgings, she found her landlady still away. So she went in to see old Mrs. Patch, and told her she must go back to London.

"It is very sudden and unexpected, but I must go," she said. "I sha'n't forget you, Mrs. Patch, and our quiet talks. You have done me a lot of good."

"But, dear miss, have you spoken to Polly? She'll be in a sore way at losing you so suddenly."

"I'll pay her an extra week. I only took my rooms by the week. I always knew my time here would be uncertain."

"I shall miss you sorely. You seem so young and lonely. I wish you had the Lord as your Guide."

"How do you know I have not?"

"I don't think you've got rid of your burden yet. You don't even feel the weight of it, do you?"

Damaris looked at her.

"I'm afraid I don't. But is it necessary? Can't I be good without feeling I'm a very wicked sinner?"

Old Mrs. Patch laid her hand tenderly upon her arm.

"You will never love until you know what you've been saved from, dearie. We are told in the Book that it is those who have been forgiven most that love most. And it seems to me there be few people nowadays who feel the horror of sin."

Damaris was silent. She looked wistfully at the old woman.

"I will think about it, Mrs. Patch. I promise you I will. It is so good of you to care about me at all. I feel as if I'm leaving my best friends here."

"And must you go?"

"I must."

When Mrs. Patch, junior, returned from her marketing, she was very perturbed at the thought of losing her lodger.

"We were just becoming acquainted, and you'd settled down comfortable. Why so sudden, miss?"

"I can hardly tell you why," said Damaris a little coldly.

She felt thankful that nobody knew of the interview she had had with Barbara.

She left very early the next morning, and she wrote a little note to Mrs. Dashwood which she meant to post on her way to town. It ran as follows—

   "DEAR MRS. DASHWOOD,—Forgive me for not coming to wish you good-bye. I am leaving suddenly—as suddenly as I came. I do thank you for all your kindness. I should like to think that one day I may meet you again. I hardly know what is going to happen to me. But I have nothing to fear.

"Yours lovingly,

"DAMARIS."

When she reached the station, Stuart Maitland was just leaving it. He was on horseback.

"Whither away?" he asked her cheerily.

"On adventure bound," she said, trying to speak lightly.

"I believe you're running away again," he said, looking down upon her with a quizzical glance in his eyes.

She nodded, then held out her note to him.

"Will you do me the favour of taking this to the Rectory? You will be passing it, won't you? I did not know you were out so early."

"Farmers are up at five o'clock, and it is just on half-past eight. Of course, I'll take your note. I think it's very shabby of you to treat us like this. Aren't you booked for my aunt for to-morrow?"

"I—I quite forgot. I'll write to her from town. Will you make my excuses? I did not think I should have to leave so soon, but I must."

"If you were my sister," said Stuart, looking at her gravely, "I should take you by your shoulders and march you back to your lodgings again. What has happened? Treat me as a brother—a chum."

Sudden tears came into her eyes.

"I can't—I wish I had never set eyes on Marley. I wish I had never known any of you!"

There was passionate resentment in her tone, and she passed swiftly on to the ticket-office.

In another five minutes, she was in the train, speeding away towards London.

Stuart rode thoughtfully on. He gave in the note at the Rectory, had a glorious gallop across the common, and reached home in time for breakfast.

When he gave his aunt Damaris's message, she became quite excited.

"What has happened to the child? I was looking forward to having her here. And she had no intention of leaving us for a long time. She is alone in the world—she told me so—and means to earn her own living. She's the last girl in the world to fend for herself in London. She's such a dainty, high-bred little creature! Did she seem down in spirits?"

"Angry—a regular little spit-fire," said Stuart, devouring his plate of kidneys and bacon with a healthy appetite. Then he brought down his fist on the table heavily. "By-the-way, I wonder if Barbara is in the business? Somebody has angered her. And Barbara went to see the old nurse yesterday. I wanted her to call on the child, but she was strangely averse to doing so. She said she would like to find out about her first. The young lady is very mysterious."

"Not to me," said Mrs. Bonnycott. "As straight and simple as she can be, though she wouldn't tell me her plans. But I begged her to write to me if she were in trouble at any time, and I believe she will."

Stuart went about his daily work with a strange oppression of mind. He laughed at himself for it.

"It's too ridiculous to trouble over a passing visitor as I am doing. But I'm honestly disappointed. She was worth knowing, and I meant to know her well."

He was in the hayfields most of that day, working as hard as any farm-hand. He did not come into the house till nine o'clock, and then was handed a note which had come from the Hall for him. It was from Barbara—

   "Do, like a good boy, come over as soon as you can. I badly want advice.

"Yours,

"BARBARA."

His aunt refused to let him go to the Hall that evening.

"I have put off my dinner to have a late supper with you. Miss Barbara must wait. It will do her no harm. You are not her lover, are you?"

"Goodness—no!" said Stuart, with an astonished laugh. "What a woman you are!"

"I never try to be anything but a woman," retorted his aunt sharply. "Barbara has no right to expect you to be at her beck and call at all hours of the day. The groom is going over to Marley to-night. He's calling at the mill about some oats for the stables. Write a note, and he will take it. Say, that when the hay is saved, you can give her your attention."

Stuart smiled to himself. His note was as short as Barbara's.

   "Expect me to breakfast. I can only give you an hour.

"STUART."

A CONSULTATION

"NOW then, pump it out. What's up?"

Barbara and Stuart were in the big dining-room at breakfast. Sir Mark was not down. He often had his breakfast in his room, and this was one of the occasions when he did so. It was an ideal summer morning. The big French windows were opened wide. There was a sweet smell of freshly-mown grass coming into the room from outside. The gardener was busy on the big lawn with the mowing-machine. Great shrubs of glowing flame-coloured azaleas bordered the lawn. The breakfast table, with its choice china and silver and bowls of roses, appealed to Stuart's artistic taste. And, looking across at Barbara in her cool white linen gown, with her beautiful golden head, and her fresh frank face, he acknowledged that she suited her surroundings.

But he saw, from a bewildered look in her eyes and a restless movement of her graceful hands, that Barbara was in trouble.

She was toying with a scone and honey upon her plate—in reality eating nothing, only making a brave pretence of doing so.

"You're a dear to have come over. I feel I 'must' take counsel with somebody, and there's nobody like you for good sound sense when there's real need for it. I never slept a wink last night; and father is furious with me."

"That I can hardly believe. Sir Mark furious? I never thought he had a spark of temper in him."

"You would have been undeceived if you had heard him last night. And you will never guess the cause of it. That pretty little girl who is lodging here."

"Ah!" said Stuart, putting down his cup of coffee which was on the way to his mouth. "I thought as much. Then you sent her away."

"How did you guess? But I didn't. I hadn't the remotest intention of doing so. I never was so astonished in my life as when I went round yesterday afternoon and found her flown. Mrs. Patch could not understand it. At first, I thought it proved that my suspicions were right—that she had failed in her little plot, and had fled because she saw that we were not easily taken in—but now, I don't know."

"Have the goodness to explain yourself for I'm in the dark."

"I'll tell you all. Do you remember my sister Lilian?"

"The one that married some artist fellow and died out in Italy?"

"Yes; she was only married a year. Well, this girl says she is her daughter!"

Stuart stared at her.

"What? This is interesting! That accounts for her appearance."

"Oh, I see you're ready to believe in her at once! When she first sprang it upon me—the day before yesterday—I was so dazed and bewildered that I could hardly take it in. I was at school, remember, when Lilian died. It was my first term, and my stepmother simply wrote and told me the bald fact. I was never told she died at the birth of her child. I never knew she had one. This girl produced some old letters of mine written to Lilian soon after she married. And in my cautious way, I asked for more proofs of her relationship to us. Anybody can get hold of old letters. I did not doubt her being a Hartbrook, but I thought she might be some other member of the family who was using the letters for her own ends. She naïvely told me that she began to hunt round for some relations when she found herself penniless. That looked fishy. And I asked her why she had kept quiet so long. She has been here nearly a month, and is lodging in the house with old Nanny. She could not have done better if she had wished to spy out the land and discover all our family history. Nanny had told her she was very like Lilian in appearance."

Stuart made an impatient movement.

"Be patient; I want you to see things from my side. I told her I would show the letters to my father, and that she would hear again from us on the matter. She dismissed me like a little tragedy queen. You should have seen her eyes flash. She was simply furious with me, and said if we did not wish to own her, there was nothing more to be said. Now do you think me much to blame?"

"You are rather a sledgehammer sometimes," said Stuart, pushing his chair back from the table and walking restlessly up and down the room. "You might have let her down a little more gently. But you never liked her being here, did you? You took some unaccountable prejudice to her ever since we saw her sitting in the hedge."

"Perhaps it was the contradiction in my nature," said Barbara, with an honest smile. "You gushed over her so!"

"A man doesn't gush!" said Stuart sharply. "But I do recognise beauty when I see it, also good breeding. I'd bet a hundred pounds that girl is no common adventuress!"

"Well, now keep calm. I don't want you to get angry, because I want your help. Come back and finish your breakfast, and I'll tell you more."

Stuart subsided into his chair again.

"I came back and took the letters straight to father, who became most excited. I always feel that he still has a very soft place in his heart for Lilian. My stepmother had an iron will, and he was completely subjugated by her. I asked him if he had ever heard that Lilian had had a child, for it was news to me. He said he knew that she died at a child's birth, but had quite understood that the child had died too. I asked him if he had any letters about it. He said no, the husband had written to my stepmother, and he thought the letter had been destroyed.

"Then I asked him if he had kept any of my stepmother's papers or letters. He said he had kept a small private desk of hers. He had locked it up in one of his drawers after her death, and had never touched them. So I asked him if he would mind looking through them. He did it at once; and I helped him.

"For a long time we found nothing to throw any light upon it, and then we came across two letters—one from Hubert Hartbrook to my stepmother, and one from dear Lilian to me and which had been purposely kept from me; I don't know why my stepmother did not destroy them. I suppose we must forgive the dead. I dare say she was afraid of upsetting me when I was at school. How she hated Lilian! I suppose because Lilian never would make herself civil to her.

"The only thing, Stuart, that makes me believe in this girl was the look in her eyes, and the set of her head when she opened the door and dismissed me. It took me straight back to Lilian, who used to sweep from the room after some of her rows, and regard the stepmother as if she were the dirt under her feet. If this girl is her daughter, she has not my phlegmatic soul, but the same hot pride and temper as poor Lilian had."

"Go on," said Stuart; "what did the letters say?"

Barbara took a small letter case out of her pocket, and put the two letters into his hand.

"Read them. They are very characteristic of the writer."

Stuart read as follows—

   "DEAR LADY MURRAY,—I write to you, as we fancy all letters are opened by you. Will you let Sir Mark know that my dear wife died yesterday. She has not been at all strong, and the worry of having all her letters returned by you no doubt told upon her. She lived to see her little daughter, but sank from exhaustion twelve hours afterwards. I shall take the child to England with me. If her grandfather ever wants to see her, he can write to me. But this will be my last letter to Marley.

"Yours,

"H. HARTBROOK."

"That fellow had some grit in him," said Stuart thoughtfully, as he folded the letter and handed it back. "I suppose Lady Murray never showed this to your father?"

"No; she carried her spite beyond poor Lilian's death. My father had never been given any of Lilian's letters. My stepmother kept the key of the post-bag and doled out all the letters herself. Now read this one from Lilian to me. It is almost sacred, and yet you are such a friend that I want you to see it."

   "MY DEAREST BARBARA,—I must just write you a line, for I feel weak and unready for the strenuous time in front of me. If my darling little one lives and is motherless, I hope that when you grow up, you may see it and love it for my sake. I hope it will be a girl, for she would comfort my poor Hubert. I am sure I shall not come through. My heart is with you and with father. I wish I had not married as I did, but I felt that we would never be allowed to do so at all if we waited for father's consent. Lady Murray must have made him write as bitterly as he did when I announced our engagement. And Hubert has made me happy, and we have had a lovely year together.

"Your loving sister,

"LILIAN."

Stuart handed this back to her without a word.

"Well, you have read them, and you can imagine how father and I felt. He was most eager to see the girl, and told me it would be quite easy to write to the English chaplain in Florence and get him to make inquiries about the birth of the child and its baptism. Of course, I told him that if the father took the child straight back to England, he most likely would not have had it baptised in Florence. Anyhow, after breakfast yesterday morning, I went down to the Patches, and actually found the girl had decamped and had left no address.

"Father was dreadfully put out when he knew. She might have waited as I asked her to."

"I met her at the station."

"Oh, Stuart, what did she say?"

"She said she was 'on adventure bound,' that she wished she had never come to Marley, or seen any of us."

"That doesn't sound well. She may be an imposter."

"No, she is genuine," said Stuart gravely. "And if you were more observant, and not quite so self-absorbed, you would know it."

"Oh, Stuart, do I deserve that?"

"Yes, I think you do. You have trampled on her pretty heavily. Suppose that she is your niece, and, through adverse circumstances, nearly penniless, you have sent her back to London to sink or swim, and ten chances to one, she'll sink."

"But she has her father's relations. She has no appearance of poverty. That girl has been brought up and educated in the most comfortable circumstances. Unobservant as I am, I could see that."

"She told my mother that her father is dead, and also her uncles who have brought her up. She means to earn her living in London by needlework. A risky proceeding, I should say."

"What are we to do?" Barbara asked rather helplessly.

"Get Walter to look up the quarters of these defunct uncles; there may be someone there who will still be in touch with her. If we weren't in the middle of the hay, I would go to town for you. Why don't you go yourself?"

"What good should I do? It is like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"Do you want to find her?"

"Of course I do! Don't think me my stepmother over again. After Lilian's letter to me, I feel bound to discover her child, if it is alive. I'll write to Walter by the next post. Father has already written to Florence. There are many points in her favour. Do you know what her Christian name is? Damaris; Mrs. Patch has told me that. Lilian had a beloved school friend called Damaris Trenchard. She may have told her husband to call the baby that. It's a queer coincidence, anyhow, for it is not a common name."

"I haven't a shadow of doubt as to her identity. Haven't you a portrait of your sister in the house?"

"Yes, upstairs. That was my stepmother's doing. She banished it to our old schoolroom. Come and see it."

They left the dining-room and walked up the broad oaken stairs and along a gallery till they came to a baize door which led to the old nurseries and schoolroom. Here, in a shabby, empty room, they saw Lilian's portrait facing them as they came in.

It was a full-length portrait of her dressed in her riding-habit leaning against one of the pillars of the front porch of the house; two greyhounds were nestling against her. She held her head proudly, and there was a defiant rather scornful curve in her beautiful mouth. It was the picture of a girl in all the splendid indifference and glory of her youth, and it was Damaris to the life, only a little more hard and bitter than the Damaris of Stuart's acquaintance.

Stuart gazed at the portrait earnestly.

"The same wonderful starry grey eyes with the long curled lashes," he said. "Why, Barbara, if you knew this picture well, how could you fail to recognise the likeness?"

"I don't know the picture well," said Barbara, looking up at it with a wistful expression. "I haven't been in this room for years. I had only my memory to guide me. And I did recognise a resemblance when she bowed me out so haughtily. But all the same, we must have more legal proofs than we possess at present that she is really our relative. And meanwhile, the difficulty of her whereabouts is not solved."

"And she may be starving in London," said Stuart.

"Don't rub it in. We must find her, even if we employ Scotland Yard."

"We can hunt up her old uncles' will and see who proved it. This nephew, I suppose, who disinherited the girl. He must know where she is, or the lawyer. She must have a little money, and most likely draw it through him. You write to Walter, for no time should be lost; and then, if she's not found by the time the hay is done, I'll go up to town and hunt for her myself."

With this promise Barbara was fain to be content.

Her brother Walter was written to; he wrote back in a fortnight's time to say that the house had been sold, and young Hartbrook had gone abroad.

The family lawyer had informed him that Damaris had simply disappeared one day, leaving word behind that she was very content with the plans she had made for herself, and preferred to give no address. He added that she had taken a certain sum of ready money with her, but otherwise was penniless, and had not given her cousin the chance of providing for her. With regard to her identity, the lawyer knew that Hubert Hartbrook had arrived with her as a small baby many years ago, and his uncles had taken him in, and given their great-niece a home from that day.

When Sir Mark heard this, he became more anxious than ever to find her.

"To think that she came down to make herself known to us, and then, directly that was done, she should run away and leave no traces behind her! I wish she had come to me, poor little soul. You deal so harshly with people, Barbara—you frightened her away. I suppose she thought we would not own her!"

"Yes, I was harsh," said Barbara honestly. "I am sorry for what I said now: but we will find her, father, and if she proves to be Lilian's child, you may be sure that I will welcome her. I don't know how it is, but I never take to young girls, and I did not take to her. I thought she was an imposter."

"You always believe the worst of people," said her father gravely; "it's a bad fault for a woman, Barbara."

"Now, father, you have scolded me enough; I am angry with myself. But I'll do my best to trace her. It was temper that took her off—unless she really went to find the proofs we ought to have. She may have done that. If so, we will hear from her again. And I think we had better keep this matter to ourselves. I don't want the whole village to get hold of it. I know Stuart does not intend to tell his aunt, because she is such a chatterbox."

"I met Mrs. Dashwood," Sir Mark said, "when I was out this morning, and I told her all about it; only I asked her not to let it go any farther."

Barbara smiled.

"I believe Mrs. Dashwood is like a Father Confessor to you! But she's safe enough. As she knows, I think I'll go and see her this afternoon. I believe she heard from her."

Barbara found Mrs. Dashwood in.

"I'm not a very frequent visitor to the Rectory, am I?" she said, when Mrs. Dashwood had expressed her pleasure at seeing her. "But my self-confidence has received a shake, and as father has told you everything, I thought I would like to know what you think about it."

"I am so glad you have come to me. I am longing to hear more details. And I am troubled about her disappearance, as I don't believe she had anywhere to go to."

"But she can't be quite friendless."

"She told me she had led a very secluded life with her two old uncles. They would not allow her to make friends—the old are very selfish sometimes—and she had very little knowledge of the world. I don't think I shall be betraying her confidence when I tell you that she left her old home because it had become the property of her cousin, and she would be beholden to him for nothing."

"But that was foolish and proud."

"I gathered that there had been an engagement between them, and that neither of them were happy together, so she thought the best thing was to break it off and come away. All the money and property was left to him. She was in an awkward position."

"I wonder," said Barbara, musingly, "if she is really Lilian's daughter?"

"You have reason to be proud of her if she is. I wish you had known her as I did. You could not have failed to be interested in her."

"I had one interview with her and that was a disastrous one to us both. Did she ever give you a hint of why she had come into this part of the world?"

"No; but I knew there was something on her mind."

"Why didn't she come to us at once with her story? That is what puzzles me. It was not straightforward."

"You must make allowances for her youth. Of course, you would not have acted so; but I think her courage failed her. She said once to me that you looked very alarming, and that she wondered if she would ever know you. I said that you were not fond of calling upon anybody, and that you never called on the few lodgers who came and went. You don't, do you?"

"No," said Barbara, in her blunt fashion: "why should I? You do it because they become your parishioners for the time being. I should never have called upon her if she had taken root here. I was petrified when she told me she wished to speak to me."

"Poor little Damaris! So reserved and dignified in some ways, so frightened and childish in others. I can't bear to think of her in London alone. She is very sensitive and highly strung, and it is only the rougher natures that can stand the working life in London."

"Oh, every girl does something nowadays!" said Barbara. "But, of course, she is too young and pretty to be without any friends in London. I am very sorry about it all. I don't know how we are to find her."

"Have you thought of advertising in the daily papers."

"Do you think that any good? Personally, I never look at the advertisement column in any paper, but perhaps she might. I'll mention it to father."

"And I'll pray about it," said Mrs. Dashwood simply; "that is my way, you know. God knows where she is, and He can, if He will, make her whereabouts known to us."

"I wish I had your faith," said Barbara lightly, and then she took her departure.

IN LONDON

WHEN Damaris reached town, she took a bed-room for herself at the Paddington Hotel. She was so uncertain about her movements that she only booked it for one night. Her idea was to get hold of Stevens, whom she expected to find in her old home. And early the next morning, she made her way round there. To her dismay, she found an empty house in the hands of painters and decorators. She spoke to one of the men, and asked if he knew where Mr. Hartbrook was. The man said he did not know that name, but that the present owner of the house was a Captain Douglas.

Perplexed, and bitterly disappointed to find Stevens gone, Damaris made her way to a neighbouring dairy, from whom they had always had their milk. They told her there that all the servants had left a fortnight previously; that young Mr. Hartbrook, they believed, had gone abroad; and that the house had been sold.

Damaris was quite dazed. She felt as if she were suddenly flung out into an unfriendly world, and all her belongings swept away from her.

"What am I to do?" she asked herself. "I can never afford to live in an hotel. I must try to get some comfortable rooms somewhere. I expect Stevens has gone home to her people. I will write to her at once. I long to tell her now what I have been doing."

She walked round the square, wondering what she had better do. Her courage rose to the occasion, she would not allow herself to feel helpless and unnerved.

Then she went to a chemist at the corner of the square. She had known him for years. Her uncles had dealt with him, and she thought he might know of some respectable rooms. He was only too pleased to try to help her.

"I wish I did know of some rooms near here," he said; "but London is very full just now, and I think you will find difficulty in getting any. I suppose you wouldn't like a boarding-house? I know an inexpensive one in Bayswater. My wife's cousin keeps it. Of course, she may be full up; but you could ask her if she could take you. I'll get the address. I know she has several young ladies who go out to their work every day from her house."

"Thank you. I think I might try her," said Damaris hopefully.

She received the address and started off for Bayswater. It did not look very prepossessing when she reached it. It was a dingy house in a dingy terrace, but when the door opened, everything looked clean and shining inside, and a smiling little maidservant took her into a small back parlour where very soon Mrs. Jute made her appearance. She was a tall anxious-faced woman with short-sighted blue eyes. Damaris mentioned the chemist by name.

"I am glad you know him," Mrs. Jute said, "for it will make other references unnecessary. Is it as a permanent boarder you wish to come?"

"I can't quite say," said Damaris hesitating; "I want to stay in London for the present."

"I think I have a small single room at the top of the house," said Mrs. Jute. "Will you be in to meals?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Then I must ask two pounds for the week, fires and meals in bed-room extra."

Damaris considered.

"May I see the room?" she asked.

Mrs. Jute led the way. They toiled up three flights of stairs, the stair carpets giving way to cheap oilcloth as they ascended. When Damaris saw the room, she gasped. It had a sloping roof, and seemed stuffy and airless. There was a small iron bedstead, a washstand, and chest of drawers. The latter served as a dressing table, and the looking-glass upon it was cracked. A strip of stair-carpet was by the bed. Drab-flowered paper was on the walls; there were no pictures or ornaments of any kind. There were coarse lace curtains to the windows. The blind was stained and discoloured. All her life Damaris had been accustomed to beautiful furniture and luxurious surroundings. This room did not seem fit for a servant to sleep in. But it was clean; her quick eyes noted that.

"It is very small," she said.

"It is the only one I have."

"Then I think I will take it."

"Are you at work anywhere?"

"Not just yet. I embroider; and I was wondering how I could sit up here in the hot weather."

"Oh, but there is the drawing-room," said Mrs. Jute hastily. "You can always sit there. Most of my young ladies are out in the daytime. Miss Hardacre is the only one that uses it, and she's a very quiet little lady. I'll show you the drawing-room. It has a nice balcony in front."

She led the way downstairs. Damaris followed her with a sinking heart. She had scorned her uncle's exquisitely furnished rooms, now she began to wonder why she had. The drawing-room was in partial darkness; the venetian blinds were down. There was a round table in the middle of it with some fashion papers and a book or two. On a dingy green velvet sofa by the window lay a little old lady in cap and shawl. She hastily rose when Damaris came in, and the girl saw that she was slightly deformed.

"Please don't let me disturb you," said Damaris pleasantly.

"Oh, not at all—not at all—I was having a little mid-day nap. Would you like the blinds up?"

"No, no," said Mrs. Jute; "this young lady is only looking round; we won't disturb you, Miss Hardacre."

They went downstairs, and Damaris arranged to come in that same day.

She felt almost as if she were in a dream. Was it only the day before that she had been at Marley? It seemed like a year to her. But she would not let herself stop to think. She went straight off to the Kensington Art School. She had brought a bit of her needle work as a specimen of what she could do, and to her great delight was given a commission at once to start a curtain border. The pay was small, but she felt it would be better than nothing, and she returned to Paddington to fetch her suit-case.

On the way to her new quarters, she began wondering what had become of all her clothes. She had left them all behind when she had gone off so suddenly, meaning to send for them later.

"I don't want to write to Dane; perhaps Stevens knows about them. I will write to her at once."

So when she reached her small bed-room, she got out her writing-case and wrote her letter. It was a little cooler now. The afternoon sun was hidden behind the opposite houses. She went downstairs and posted her letter, then she went into the drawing-room.

Miss Hardacre was now sitting in an easy chair by the window, reading.

Damaris took another chair and commenced her embroidery. Before very long, she and Miss Hardacre were chatting pleasantly together. She was told about each inmate of the house. There was Mary Watts, who was a daily governess to a London vicar's family; she was a Girton student, and had very advanced ideas of women's position in the future. Then there were Fanny and Florence Crane, two sisters, both employed in type-writing offices in the city.

"They are not very refined," said Miss Hardacre, "and seem to have their heads only full of men, and of dress and amusement; but Fanny is kind-hearted, and when once I had a very bad cold on my chest, she came in one night and poulticed me, and looked after me until I was well again."

Then there was a Mrs. Pounds, who had a private sitting-room and a pet dog, and only appeared at meal-times. And there was a Mr. and Mrs. Lawford; he was in some City business, and was a meek little grey-haired man entirely ruled by his wife who taught dancing in a good many suburban schools, and had no time for housekeeping or looking after a house of her own. Then there was a Miss Green, an art student, and her great friend, a Mrs. Wood, a widow, who was a journalist. These completed the party.

"I am an idler and drone myself," said Miss Hardacre; "but I have not the health for work. And I am thankful to have a roof over my head in these hard times. I used, years ago, to have a dream of a little cottage in the country with a rosy-faced smiling village girl as a maid, but it never came to pass. And at the time I was thinking of it, my only brother was in sad difficulty and I was glad to help him; and I have never had the energy or money since to start a home. I had furniture then, but I had to sell it."

"And is your brother alive?" questioned Damaris, with interest.

"He died two years ago out in Australia."

There was a pause, then Miss Hardacre said, "When I was your age, I lived in the country. My father was in the Indian Army, but he retired when I was quite half-small. I received my hurt—" she glanced at her shoulder as she spoke—"in a carriage accident. It kept me from marrying, of course, and from a good many girlish pleasures. But I am boring you with my reminiscences."

"I like to hear them," Damaris assured her.

"My parents both died when I was about thirty, and then I lived with a devoted friend of mine. She was more than a sister to me; such a clever woman she was—too clever for me. I became quite bewildered with her theories. The worst trouble in my life was when she died, and it was in such sad circumstances." A look of pain crossed her face. Then she said in a lighter tone, "Ah, well! Time heals, to a certain extent. I have out-lived all my hopes and aspirations, and when one expects nothing, one learns to be content."

"That sounds very depressing to me," said Damaris; "surely we can always hope. Good people tell one of the life to come."

Miss Hardacre looked over her spectacles at her.

"Do you think that life will bring us more than this world gives? As far as I see it, it will be one long expiation for all our misdeeds here—or, as the Bible tells us, an everlasting condemnation."

Damaris shook her head.

"Ah, I don't think that. I am not very religious, but good people all seem to have hopes of a better time coming."

"I don't know," said Miss Hardacre feebly. "I lost my faith long ago, when Annie died. I told you she was clever. She took up Christian Science, and never rested till she got me to believe it, too. She was much better than I. And she never expected illness would come to either of us. When it came to her—she died of an internal growth—she laughed at her symptoms and fought bravely till she could fight no longer. I can never forgive some of her friends. They came round her and told her she was failing in trust and right thinking. She knew she was not, but this made her very unhappy; and just before she died, she told me that everything had failed her. I cannot talk about it, but everything failed me too, and I have believed in nothing ever since. I don't know why we were brought into the world. Some of us are not necessary in this life. But I don't know why I am talking in this miserable strain to you. When one is young one does not trouble about serious subjects. It is only when we get old and lonely that thoughts come to us. I try not to think, but just take a day at a time. It is the only way."

Damaris looked a little troubled.

"I have lately come across two very happy people," she said; "one an old bed-ridden woman, the other a young active one. And they both believe firmly in the Bible, and stake all their hopes of future happiness upon its promises."

"Yes—yes," said Miss Hardacre hastily; "I used to read it once." Then, wishing to change the subject, she said, "I met a nice girl once who had the same name as yourself. Have you any relations of the name of Hartbrook?"

"Yes, one or two. Where did you meet this girl?"

"It was before I came here—about three years ago. I was in lodgings in Bloomsbury for a short time, and she occupied an attic room above mine. She was in deep mourning like yourself, and was just beginning to earn her own living. She was rather an amusing creature—very kind to me."

"Do you know where she is now? She might be a cousin of mine; we were hunting for her everywhere a short time ago."

"No, I have lost her address. But it's rather a strange proceeding—our birthdays happen to fall on the same date, and we made a compact that we would write to each other for them once a year. My birthday will be next week, so I shall, most likely, hear from her, but I am afraid I shall not be able to write to her in time. It was very careless of me."

"I should like to find her out if she is my cousin," said Damaris wistfully. "It is nice to have somebody belonging to one, is it not?"

"I will certainly let you have her address when she writes. She is not at all like you in appearance."

"No, I am supposed to be very like my mother, and she was not a Hartbrook."

When, a little later, Damaris sat down to a long table in the shabby dining-room downstairs, she again cast her mind back to the carefully-appointed and well-cooked dinners in her uncles' house. Here there was a strong smell of cabbage-water, and burnt fat on the fire. The table cloth was soiled and creased, the silver like dingy pewter, the glasses dull, as if washed in greasy water. A half-dead maiden-hair fern was in the centre of the table, and some faded roses in four specimen glasses were round it.

The dinner consisted of some very greasy soup, boiled leg of mutton, and a treacle roly-poly. To most of the hungry workers, who had had a scanty lunch in the middle of the day, this fare was both acceptable and sustaining, to Damaris, it was most unappetising. She sat at Mrs. Jute's left hand, the usual place for the latest comer, and on her other side was Miss Watts the governess who overwhelmed her with talk and questions about herself and circumstances. Damaris noted how several of the other boarders stopped their conversation to listen to her replies, and she resented the inquisitiveness of both questioner and listeners. Her replies grew shorter and colder until at last Miss Watts turned from her with a little impatience, and she was left to finish her meal in peace.

After dinner was over, a certain proportion of the diners came into the drawing-room. A bridge table was moved out, and Mr. and Mrs. Lawford, Miss Green and Mrs. Wood sat down to play. Mrs. Pounds seated herself on the sofa and talked to Miss Hardacre, but she soon went upstairs to her own room, and Miss Hardacre went up herself at nine o'clock. Nobody spoke to Damaris, and she worked at her embroidery till half-past nine; then she, also, retired to her room, and surprised herself by a sudden burst of tears when she was alone.

"Oh, I shall never stand it! I hate these people! I can't bear their talk, it's all sordid and horrid. I don't mind poor little Miss Hardacre, she's the only nice one amongst them; but it's dreadful to feel so lonely! I wish I hadn't come away from Marley so hurriedly. How delicious the country was! And the people! I might have made nice friends if I had stayed on there, and yet I couldn't have done it when Aunt Barbara looked upon me as an imposter. I don't know what will become of me! I used to think it would be so delightful to be independent, and able to do exactly as one liked. But I don't find it so pleasant now. And when my little store of money is gone, I shall never earn enough to keep me going."

She went to bed very miserable; the heat and airlessness of London kept her awake. She felt as if she could not breathe in her tiny room. At last, she dropped off to sleep.

And when she woke the next morning things did not look so black. The buoyancy of youth asserted itself, and, after a couple of days had passed, she became accustomed to her atmosphere, made friends with her fellow-boarders, and was happier in consequence. On the third day, Stevens appeared. She had come up to London on purpose to see her young mistress, and Damaris cried when she saw her.

She took her out into Kensington Gardens, and there in a quiet part under the shade of the trees, they talked over matters together. Stevens was astounded to hear that Damaris had discovered her mother's family, but very vexed that she had not been taken into her confidence.

"If you had taken me with you, Miss Damaris, I would have made things all clear. I could have told them that I received you as a little baby from the hands of your father. You went off so hastily that you did not even take your jewel case with you. And there is a necklet of pearls which belonged to your mother, and two rings. Your aunt would have recognised them.

"You were baptized at St. Stephen's Church, and I was there holding you, and you were as good as gold and cooed up into the vicar's face as he took you in his arms. I think I had better go down to this place you've been staying at. I feel I could give them a piece of my mind for daring to doubt your word."

"Now, look here, Stevens, I absolutely forbid you to do anything of the kind! They don't wish to have anything to do with me. I could see my aunt did not. And I am not going to live on their charity. I am not going near them again, and I don't wish you to do so. It makes me wish I had never told you, when you talk so."

"My dear Miss Damaris, you're very young, and much too pretty to be knocking about London alone. You've always had your comforts, and you can't go on living where you are. I know what they boarding-houses are like—'specially the cheap ones. And 'tisn't fit for you. I'm simply furious with Mr. Dane to sell up the old masters' things and turn you out of the house without a penny!"

"I turned myself out. Would you have liked me to marry him, Stevens?"

"No; I had uncomfortable moments thinking about it. He was too selfish and pleasure-loving to make a good husband. I'm glad I gave him a piece of my mind. I spoke straight out when I had your letter, and he deserved every word I said. It was a sorry day when he came into the house. But that's neither here nor there. What we've got to do is to think what will become of you. Your bit of money won't last long, Miss Damaris. It seems to me you had best come home with me for a time. But your relations are bound to do something for you. 'Tis no good to be proud, there's no shame in taking from your own flesh and blood. The sooner you and they comes together the better for you all."

"Stevens, do you know that hundreds of girls, no older than I am, are earning their own living in London? I mean to do it, too. I shall go on working for the Art School for as long as they want me. If that fails, I shall get some other job; I am no early Victorian girl. I mean to do as others do. And you see if I don't weather through all right. Now I want to ask you about my clothes. I never imagined that cousin Dane would send you off, or I should not have left them behind."

"I packed three big trunks myself, Miss Damaris, and they're stored for the time, but your jewel case I took with me, knowing as you would write sooner or later and let me know where you were. I've brought it up with me."

Stevens produced it. She looked terribly anxious, and Damaris laughed at her anxiety, feeling much more ready to go on living by herself in the face of her opposition.

Nothing would induce her to yield to Stevens's entreaty that she should be allowed to go down to Marley and interview Sir Mark Murray herself.

"'Tis the gentleman you should have gone straight to, Miss Damaris, not the lady. Men always see the rights of things quicker than us women. They aren't so prejudiced and suspicious as we are. A man goes straight over an obstacle in his way, a woman looks round the corners and tries to edge round it."

"I don't see the simile," said Damaris, smiling. "Sir Mark would have made shorter work of me, I expect. We won't discuss it any more; but before you leave me, you must promise not to communicate with any of them without my permission."

It was some time before Stevens would do this, but at last, Damaris wrung the promise out of her by threatening to move her present quarters and not tell her where she would be. Just before Stevens left, an inspiration seemed to come to her.

"Miss Damaris, I've saved a good bit, and have got rather tired of service. I was only telling my sister so the other day. How would it be if I were to come up to London and take a nice little house somewhere and let lodgings? You could be my first lodger, and maybe I could get others, and I have a cousin a first-rate cook; I believe she'd join me. I should be comfortable about you, then. And by-and-by, you'd see different, and would want to live with your relations."

"I think it would be charming, Stevens, if you could do such a thing. Go home and think about it, and meanwhile I shall stay on where I am, till your idea can be carried out."

Stevens went off, smiling; but once away from Damaris, her face settled into one of the most anxious gravity.

"She's such an innocent child, and has been so sheltered all her life, that 'tis terrible to think of her on her own. It's to be hoped it will not last long. And if I can't bring her and her grandfather together without breaking my promise—well, I'm not so clever as I'm given credit for!"

THE RUNAWAY IS TRACKED

IT was Miss Hardacre's birthday. Damaris had gone out early and bought her a lovely bunch of flowers. She was getting really attached to the quiet little uncomplaining woman, but longed sometimes to be able to cheer her by a more hopeful outlook.

Miss Hardacre was disappointed not to have received a letter from her young friend, Miss Hartbrook, but about eleven o'clock, when she and Damaris were sitting in the drawing-room together, and just arranging to take a little walk in the gardens a visitor was announced, and a tall rather shabbily dressed girl appeared, with a fair honest face, and a lot of curly red-brown hair.

Miss Hardacre threw up her hands.

"Is it you, Nellie!"

"My dear Unnecessary One, it is. Me in the flesh! I have a holiday, and instead of writing, I determined to come in person and congratulate you on another year having slipped away in this vale of tears."

They kissed each other affectionately, and Miss Hardacre hastily introduced Damaris, who was making a move from the room.

"Don't go, dear, till you have spoken to each other and found out if you are relations."

The girls looked at each other. Then Damaris asked quietly—

"Have you a brother called Dane, I wonder?"

The girl gave a short laugh, but not a very pleasant one.

"Why, yes, I have, and once upon a time I prided myself upon the fact. Who can you be? The young cousin who lived with my two old great-uncles whom I never saw?"

"Yes; but why have we never known each other? Why have you kept away?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I was brought up by my mother's family, and lived with an aunt till about four years ago, when she died. It was only last week that I heard in a roundabout way of my brother having come home, and of having come in to all our uncles' money. Wouldn't you have thought he would have sought his sister out and let her share a little of his abundant wealth?"

"Oh! But he did, he did; he hunted everywhere for you," said Damaris eagerly. "We all did, but you had disappeared."

"I'm glad to know that much. Of course we were bad correspondents—I used to write to him when I was quite a girl, but he never answered me, so I left off writing. He never sent me one halfpenny, though I know he was doing very well for himself out in India. Of course, as long as my aunt lived, I did not need help, but I had a stiff fight afterwards. I'm just keeping my head above water now as The Unnecessary One knows; but it rather set my back up when I heard that the lawyer had given him my address, and yet that he never troubled to write me one line, or make one effort to see me." Then she looked a little sharply at Damaris. "You are engaged to him, are you not?"

"Not now. I was for a short time."

"Oh! Then does that mean that you have lost your home?"

"The house and furniture are sold. I don't know where your brother is now."

"But you were left some of their money, weren't you?"

"No, I received nothing."

"Shake hands! You and I are fellow sufferers then. But money isn't the only thing in life. There are plenty of good things besides. Health and brains. I'm told I have them both. You're lucky in rubbing against Miss Hardacre. Isn't she a little dear? I was very down in my luck when I first saw her. She comforted me like a mother."

"I have no comfort to give anyone," Miss Hardacre protested mournfully.

"But you've got sympathy—that's quite as good. Has she told you my nickname for her cousin? She's imbued with the idea that she is an unnecessary being on the face of the globe, so I rub it in. But I know there 'll be an empty spot in my heart when she goes out."

Damaris smiled. She liked this bright, brusque cousin of hers, and before long, they became quite intimate. Nellie Hartbrook had come to take out Miss Hardacre for the day, and she extended the invitation to Damaris. At first, she declined it, but she saw that they really wanted her to come with them, and so the trio departed together, all having lunch at a quiet little restaurant of Nellie's choice.

Then she took them to an afternoon concert at the Queen's Hall—Damaris discovered that Miss Hardacre was passionately fond of music, after which they had tea together, and Miss Hardacre and Damaris only returned to the boarding-house in time for dinner.

But the cousins had been able to talk a great deal together, and though Nellie did not advise her to change her quarters at present, she told her that if she wanted any city work, she believed she could put her in the way of doing something.

"We won't lose each other. It's nice to have some relations, isn't it?" Nellie said. "And I believe you and I have a good many tastes in common—witness both of us taking such a liking to the Unnecessary One."

Damaris acquiesced eagerly. She felt her heart go out to the brave uncomplaining girl, who was so cheerful on so little of this world's bounty.

She discussed her with Miss Hardacre the following day.

"It is such an extraordinary coincidence that I should find her through knowing you," Damaris said. "If only I had been able to find her before, I believe her brother would have done something for her. He talked as if he would."

"But what made him change so?"

"I don't know. He did change in a remarkable way; it was that which made me feel I could not marry him. I think he had expensive tastes, and made friends with some extravagant women, and then wanted all his money for himself. I wish Nellie would make herself known to him now. He might do something for her."

"She will not do that, I am afraid. I think that both you and she are very proud. Too proud to be beneficial for yourselves. But Nellie is a dear girl."

Miss Hardacre spoke with feeling.

"You would never take any money from people who did not want to give it to you, would you?" Damaris asked.

"If I were very poor, and if it were my right, why should I not?"

"I don't believe you would."

Damaris's tone was emphatic, and Miss Hardacre smiled.

"Ah, well! One does not know what one would do until one is tried. I am thankful I have just enough to keep me from anyone's charity at present." She sighed. "We all have to leave our money behind sooner or later. When one gets old and feeble, the less one has, the less anxiety is in one's life."

"I'm afraid I rather like comfort—even luxury," confessed Damaris.

"I can see you have been brought up in it."

And then Damaris found herself confiding in Miss Hardacre. She told her of her life with her uncles, of Dane's arrival, and of her sudden departure, and then of Marley and its inhabitants, but she did not touch upon her connection with the Hall. That, she felt, she must keep to herself. She simply stated that she went to Marley because an aunt of hers had once lived there—and Miss Hardacre asked no inquisitive questions, not even why she had left her lodgings so suddenly and come to London to get work.

Damaris haltingly tried to explain.

"I felt I must get to work, but I was sorry to leave the village. I have missed a good deal by coming away. I went there feeling very unhappy, but I began to get comforted and cheered. Two people helped me a lot—a very pretty bright young rector's wife and an old bed-ridden woman. They both had shining eyes and soft tender voices, and they talked of good things so happily and naturally that it made me want to hear more. I wish you had heard them! Mrs. Dashwood said she thought I had been sent to Marley to be rested in my soul and body, and she hoped I wouldn't miss it. I did miss it; I came away hurriedly, though I was dimly seeing that they had something good which I did not possess."

"It's a matter of temperament," said Miss Hardacre in a dreary tone. "I don't think people's talk affects me much. I have grown beyond that."

It was strange how she and Damaris talked together in that shabby drawing-room.

Damaris often looked back in her after life to the hot August afternoons in that darkened room, where she and Miss Hardacre had sat and worked and talked together. She could always picture the faded carpet and ugly ornaments, the hot stuffy velvet couches and chairs, the faint rumble of the distant traffic through the open windows. She could see the little high-shouldered lady with her pale patient face and sad blue eyes.

And the memory of their conversations there never left her. Politics, philosophy, and religion all had their share. Both—old woman and young girl—were feebly trying to penetrate some of life's mysteries, but the key was for the time out of their reach. They could only wonder and ponder—and if the hopelessness of the elder's outlook sometimes dimmed the buoyant aspirations of the younger, the irrepressible energy and high spirits of the latter gave fresh inspiration to the former.

And so the summer months slowly passed, and Damaris still remained at Mrs. Jute's boarding-house.

Stevens wrote occasionally. She was planning to come up in the autumn with her cousin, and take a small house in town where she could let lodgings.

Nellie Hartbrook often came over to see Damaris and her old friend. It was she who showed them the announcement of her brother's engagement to Miss Welbeck in the "Morning Post." But she was determined not to make herself known to him, and Damaris felt she would give herself no pleasure by doing so.

One afternoon, as Damaris was on the top of a 'bus, she saw the figure of her grandfather walking along Pall Mall. For one wild moment she felt inclined to get down from the 'bus and make herself known to him, but he was swept from her sight in a moment, and she knew that she would never have had the courage to speak to him.

She had moments of contrition, sometimes. She felt she had acted hotly and impulsively in coming away so quickly. Her aunt had said that she would hear again from them; she had never stayed to give herself that chance, and now, as time passed, she began to wonder if she had been right in acting so.

And then, one afternoon towards the end of September, she went shopping in Oxford Street. She was tired when she had finished her purchases, and was just turning into some tea-rooms at the top of Regent Street, when she suddenly came face to face with Stuart Maitland.

A little startled, she was bowing rather stiffly to him and passing on, when he stopped her. He was in orthodox London clothes, and looked very smart, and very pleased to see her. Holding out his hand, he said, with his frank friendly smile—

"Surely we are too great friends to pass each other by?"

She returned the smile.

"I am just going in here," she said.

"Let me come with you. I like a cup of tea as well as any woman; and I want to hear how you are getting on."

Damaris was vexed with him for following her into the tea-rooms. She carried her head high, and spoke in a remote cold tone.

But he would not be snubbed. He found a quiet corner in an upper room, and took the ordering of the tea into his own hands.

Then, when they were settled at their table, he looked across it at her with eyes that twinkled irrepressibly.

"You are not glad to see me—why not?"

"I don't know how much you know," said Damaris frankly but gravely.

"I know everything, and can't conceive why you ran away just at the critical moment."

"You cannot know everything," said Damaris with dignity, "or you would quite understand that to stay was impossible to me."

"Because of Barbara's thick-headedness?"

"Because she refused to believe me, and doubted my word, and was convinced that I was only staying at the Patch's to spy, and discover all I could about the Murray family."

There was hot indignation in Damaris's tone. Her eyes flashed, and Stuart saw that he must move warily.

"Barbara was unprepared for your announcement. She was awfully sorry afterwards. Do you know that we have been trying to trace your whereabouts ever since you left Marley?"

"If you are on Miss Murray's side, I am sorry that we met," said Damaris stiffly.

"Oh, but it isn't a question of sides, is it? I honestly confess I do feel like one of the family. But you are one of us, remember!"

"Miss Murray says I am not. I do not ever wish to see her again," said Damaris, snapping her pretty lips together like steel.

"Well, don't let us talk about her any more. Do you know that my aunt is in town at the Langham? I was just on my way to see her. She knows nothing of all this, so you won't let your wrath rest on her, will you? She would be so glad to see you. She has a slight cold, and wrote me that she was feeling very dull. Will you take pity on her and come over with me, after we have had tea, to the Longhorn? She has a private sitting-room there."

Damaris hesitated.

"I don't know that I shall have time."

"Where are you staying?"

Damaris looked at him steadily.

"I don't feel inclined to say at present." Then she added with girlish eagerness. "There is nothing to hide, but I don't want the possibility of a visit from—from anyone at the Hall. It is quite a quiet respectable boarding-house. I may be moving somewhere else very shortly."

"You can easily send a wire saying you 'll be dining out. Yes, I mean it. My aunt will be very angry if you don't stay to dinner with her. We'll discuss it later. Try one of these iced sandwiches. They aren't half bad. I think you are looking rather thin. Haven't you found August very trying in town?"

Damaris felt as if her breath were being taken away. In a pleasant but determined fashion, Stuart seemed to have taken full possession of her. As to quietly dismissing him after tea, as she had at first intended to do, that now seemed quite impossible. She really liked Mrs. Bonnycott, and would be glad to see her again. She lapsed into conventional talk about the weather and politics, and London sight-seeing. Stuart talked with enthusiasm over everything. When they had finished tea, he insisted upon paying the bill; and then for a moment dropped his easy bantering tone.

"Miss Hartbrook, I'm your friend, don't forget it. Don't treat me as if I am a naughty curious meddling boy. I'm going to advise you for your good, and you must take it in good part. I want you to tell me everything you can about yourself. There's no hurry. Do you mind my having a smoke? Your place is at Marley Hall, not in London. We are all convinced of that. Your grandfather is longing to see you, but, of course, he wants all the proofs you can give him of your being his daughter's child. That is only reasonable, isn't it? Have you got any more proofs that you can produce?"

Damaris glanced up at him with a little rebellious curve to her lips. She looked like some pretty wilful child defying authority; and then suddenly her expression changed and melted. She put out her hand with a little French gesture.

"Forgive me. You have always been kind to me. I will tell you all I can. It was my ignorance that made me go down to Marley without any proofs. Somehow I thought the letters would be sufficient to establish my identity."

She then told him about Stevens and her mother's jewels, and her baptism at St. Stephen's Church. And then, she added—

"And Stevens knows something else besides. I was not born at the little villa Rosini just outside Florence, which was my parents' home; but my mother went into Florence before I was born, and I expect my birth was registered there, for my father never went back to the villa to live— only to pack up. He came straight to England after my mother's death."

"Ah, that will make it easier for us. We thought you would be registered outside Florence, in the little village close to the villa."

"You do identify yourself with the Murrays."

"Can't help it. I always have. Now then, shall we go and see my aunt?"

"I can't stay to dinner."

He smiled.

"We'll see about that."

Damaris had dropped her dignified reserve. Stuart had always a very genial influence over people, and she chatted to him as they walked to the Langham about Marley and its inhabitants.

"I have often wished myself back there," she said. "I should really like to go on living with the Patches, and be friends with the Hall."

"Oh come, that doesn't sound well, when they are your relations."

"Do you really believe that?" Damaris fixed him with her steady grey eyes.

"I do indeed, honour bright! I told Barbara so at once. You are the image of your mother's portrait taken when she was about your age. You wouldn't like to remain an outsider always, instead of being in your proper home?"

"They are not bound to give me a home," said Damaris slowly. "I feel that Miss Murray does not like me, and never will."

"You don't know Barbara. Her heart lies deep, but it is a big one."

Damaris was silent.

When Mrs. Bonnycott saw her, she was delighted.

"The lost child! My dear, what a joy! And now you will tell us the meaning of your sudden departure. We were regarding you as a pleasant fixture, and then you absconded without a word of explanation. Where are you living, and what are you doing? Come and sit down and tell me all about yourself."

"I will leave her with you, Aunt Kits. She is going to dine with us, and then I will take her home. I have a little business to do, but I'll return shortly."

He went away before Damaris had time to contradict his statement.

She found it difficult to make her explanation.

"I told you I was not well off," she said. "I could not go on living at Marley doing nothing. I should have had to make a move some time and—and I felt it was best to go away quickly."

"But why didn't you leave us your address? I went round to Mrs. Patch, and she shook her head mysteriously, telling me she was a student of human nature and that there was more in you than was given credit for. She talked as if you were a burglar or a spy in disguise! Why were you so mysterious?"

Damaris smiled.

"I did not mean to be. I did not realise you were all so much interested in me. I came as a stranger, and I thought I could go away as such. I am earning my living now, as I told you I should, by art needlework. I was a pupil long ago at Kensington Art School, and they remembered me, and are very good in employing me. I'm in a quiet respectable boarding-house in Bayswater, and I came across Mr. Maitland quite by accident this afternoon. I think this is all my history. There is nothing mysterious in it."

"Well, I can't make head or tail of it. Stuart has been making quite a rumpus over your disappearance, he is always talking about it. And ever since we have been in town, he has been looking out for you. At first I thought he must have fallen in love with you, but he was quite angry one night when I taxed him with it. He said he was only acting on behalf of your friends who wished to find you. I asked him who your friends were, but he put me off, and told me if I happened to come across you anywhere, I must make a point of finding out where you were staying.

"You're looking very sweet, my dear. A little thinner, but you always dress yourself with such distinction. I'm so very glad to see you again. And now you shall come up to my bed-room and take off your hat and make yourself thoroughly comfortable. Ah, here comes Stuart? He has not been gone long!"

Stuart had only been to the nearest post-office and wired to Barbara—

   "Elle est trouvé. Will write.—STUART."

A SUCCESSFUL ERRAND

IT was not the slightest use for Damaris to say she could not stay to dinner. Both Mrs. Bonnycott and her nephew would hear of no refusal.

"You are under no compulsion to dine at your boarding-house to-night," said Stuart, "Send a wire to them. Here is a form, and the hall porter will send it off."

"You are paralysing me," said Damaris with a nervous little laugh. But she took the form and wrote her wire.

As Stuart held out his hand for it, she hesitated.

"As a gentleman," she said, "I suppose I can take it for granted that you will not read it?"

"You are afraid I shall see the address? My dear Miss Hartbrook, of course I won't read it. But wild horses will not prevent me from seeing you home to-night. You can't help yourself. I have found you, and I do not intend to lose you again. Never!"

The colour ebbed and flowed in Damaris's cheeks. He took her wire and handed it to the porter. Mrs. Bonnycott took her upstairs to her room, chatting to her rather irrelevantly of London and of all she had come up to do.

When they returned to the private sitting-room, they found Stuart just opening the lid of the piano.

He looked at Damaris with one of his irresistible smiles.

"Having forcibly taken possession of you and being determined to keep you prisoner till it pleases us to let you go, I now proceed to soothe your ruffled pride and charm away all antagonism and hot temper. Take a comfortable chair and close your eyes. You have no idea what a heavenly frame of mind you will be in before long."

"Oh, if you are going to play, I can't talk," said Mrs. Bonnycott a little impatiently.

"Give me a quarter of an hour to disperse the wrinkles on Miss Hartbrook's brow."

"I shall write a letter. I ought to have written it before. Your music never impresses me, as I often tell you."

Mrs. Bonnycott moved to her writing-table, and Damaris was nothing loath to sit still and listen to Stuart's music.

She could not feel angry with him, but she was annoyed at his masterful manner. This was not the Stuart Maitland she had known at Marley.

"He thinks I am alone, and have no one belonging to me, so that he can treat me as he likes," was her first thought. And then she began wondering why he should trouble about her at all.

But he began to play; his liquid touch and wonderful technique excited her admiration at once. Then the melody of his music took full possession of her, and she listened as if in a dream.

Time passed, and Stuart was at the piano a good half-hour. He himself had no sense of the time when he was playing. At last, Mrs. Bonnycott, having finished her writing, interrupted him.

"I want to tell Miss Hartbrook a lot of things, and it will soon be dinner time. Have you nearly finished?"

Stuart crashed down his last chord and got up from the piano.

"And now you have forgiven me," he said to Damaris.

"You know your power as a musician," said Damaris, with a little laugh. "How I would like to hear music like yours every evening!"

"Thank you. But I can't play to order. There are days when I couldn't touch a note to save my life. I don't worry you for days together, eh, Aunt Kits?"

"No, no! I'm thankful you aren't always at it. You have too many irons in the fire."

The evening passed very pleasantly to Damaris. Mrs. Bonnycott was an amusing talker and Stuart seemed bent on drawing Damaris out. She found herself talking happily to both of them. But when the time for her departure came, she appealed to Mrs. Bonnycott.

"Will you ask your nephew not to see me home? If he puts me into a bus at the corner of the street. I can get to my boarding-house without a change. I am quite accustomed to go about alone. Every girl does it nowadays."

"My dear, do you think I have authority over Stuart? Long ago, I decided that if he and I were to live at peace together, we must go our own ways and be absolutely independent of each other. Occasionally we have words, but very seldom. And I think he ought to see you home. It is too late for you to be out alone."

"We'll have a taxi," said Stuart cheerfully.

Damaris was dumb. She felt helpless to offer any more resistance.

When she and he were driving off together, he dropped the bantering air he had adopted towards her and spoke very gravely.

"Now we can talk freely. I don't want my aunt to know of your connection with the Hall till it is made public. Tell me exactly why you want to hide yourself away from us all? Doesn't it look as if you are not sure of your facts?"

"No," said Damaris; "it is because I have lost all desire to own the Murrays as my relations. I need not make myself known to my grandfather. I feel I would rather not, now. They don't want me, and I don't want them."

"That is rather childish. Having started the ball rolling, you must continue to roll it till it reaches its destination! By that I mean you must go through with what you have begun. I think if you are willing to meet your grandfather, all will go smoothly.

"But I don't want to meet either of them until they are convinced that I am not an imposter. I won't do it. I warn you, if you do discover my address to-night, I shall just move my quarters to-morrow. I won't see either Sir Mark or Miss Murray. I am not going to own them as my relations until they own me."

"I see. Then we must get the last missing link in the chain. And I'll get that myself. I'll go right off to Florence to-morrow and get the register of your birth."

Damaris exclaimed—

"Why should you do such a thing? You're almost a stranger to me."

"But I'm not a stranger to Barbara. You shan't be molested till I come back, if you promise on your honour to stay where you are. Come now, be reasonable; wouldn't you like it all cleared up and made right? We want you back at Marley. You were making friends there before you went away. Of course you want to right yourself in Barbara's eyes. And the old man is longing to get hold of you even now."

"If I stay where I am, will you in your turn promise not to give them my address? I can't run the risk of having them come to interview me. It is useless until they have the proofs they want of my relationship to them."

"Very well. I'll promise not to tell where you are till I come back from Florence. Now, have you any idea where in that city you were born?"

"I have no idea, neither has Stevens; but I had an Italian nurse who went back to Italy when I was about six months old, and Stevens told me her name. It was Thérese Adalmi, and her father kept a tobacco shop rather near the church of Santa Croce. Some of the family may be living there now."

"This is first-rate," said Stuart, getting out his pocket-book and jotting down the names. "I've got a clue to work from. Don't you ever wish to visit your birthplace?"

"It has been the dream of my life," said Damaris enthusiastically.

"What a pity you can't come out with me? Shall we go together? Don't look so shocked! It's only convention that forbids us. But we'll wait. Perhaps one day—who knows—you and I may find ourselves there!"

When the cab stopped at the boarding-house, Stuart insisted upon accompanying her up to the door. Then he wished her good-bye.

"You shall be left in peace," he said; "only remember you have promised to lunch with my aunt next Monday. You won't see me for a week or so, and when I come back, I hope I shall be able to report success."

"You are not really going to Florence?"

"Yes; I start to-morrow."

"I shan't know how to thank you," murmured Damaris.

"If I'm unsuccessful, no thanks will be necessary. In any case, I'm pleasing myself, and travelling is never an effort to me. Good-bye. Will you wish me good luck?"

"I suppose so," said Damaris, looking up at him with troubled eyes. "I hardly know what I wish."

He stood for a moment looking down upon her almost tenderly.

"I admire your courage, Miss Hartbrook, but my wish for you is that you find a safe and sheltered harbour very soon. You don't know how roughly the sea can treat a light little unprotected craft like yours! Good-bye—or shall we say 'au revoir'?"

He was gone, and Damaris went in. She seemed to have been in a different world that afternoon. Quietly she slipped up to her room, for she did not want to meet any of her fellow-boarders that night.

The next morning she found herself pouring out the whole story to gentle Miss Hardacre. She could keep it to herself no longer, and the little lady listened with breathless interest.

"It is like a story in a book. My dear child, why did you not tell me about it before? I don't think you have acted quite wisely, and I wish you had some other person who would help you besides this young man. I don't quite like the sound of him."

"Don't you. He rather fascinates me. He is not really so rude as he sounds. He has a soft voice, and he is very courteous to women. He seems as if he is always looking out for something to do for them. But I confess he is trying to manage me now. For my own good, he would say. And I'm not so sure of that. Oh, dear Miss Hardacre, I can't tell you how I dread another uprooting! I have a presentiment that if I go to Marley Hall, I shall have a difficult time."

"Of course your grandfather will offer you a home there, and I shall lose you. We have just touched each other's lives, and then we pass on!" Miss Hardacre's tone was sad.

"I don't mean to lose you," said Damaris emphatically; "never! Nor Nellie either. And perhaps, after all, my grandfather may be content that I should lead my own life. He cannot coerce me. I can be perfectly independent, and yet pay him a visit occasionally if he would like to see me."

This was the course that Nellie advised when she heard the news. Damaris talked the whole matter over with her when she came to see them.

"You see, I look at it from a working point of view. This is a strenuous time for our country. Everyone ought to be up and doing. What is this Mr. Stuart's profession?"

"He has none; he helps his aunt on her small property and looks after two or three farms she has. But he is very gifted; he plays and writes and paints, and can turn his hand to anything!"

Nellie tossed her head.

"I know the sort. They just play at farming, and have a jolly easy life of it. That kind of man ought to be swept out of existence!"

"My dear Nellie!"

"I mean it. Every life ought to be full of service for their country and its needs. It is an abomination to live a purposeless existence. I should like to talk to him. Oh, there's so much that wants doing!"

Damaris laughed at her enthusiasm.

"Mr. Maitland's life is full of service for individuals," she said; "that is his 'forte.' He befriends every one he comes across. Mrs. Patch told me, when I was staying at Marley that he was kindness itself to anyone in trouble, and that all the villagers loved him. You can't deal with mankind 'en masse.' And I am leading a comparatively idle life, yet you have never scolded me."

"I am wondering when you will wake up," said Nellie, looking at her with a friendly smile. "You have plenty of time for thinking over your needlework. I hope your thoughts will lead to action sooner or later. But it's men I am talking about. Look at my brother! He's going to be married soon, and then he'll settle down in idleness somewhere, just spending his money on luxuries to keep him comfortable! I think there ought to be a law in England that every British citizen should contribute something towards the improvement of the State, either by his personal brain power and work, or by his property and money."

"What have I to give?" murmured Miss Hardacre.

"You, my little dear, can give your good advice and sound counsel to the young and ignorant around you. I think that teaching and educating the masses is sound good work. But they don't only want to be taught arithmetic and history and geography, and all the ordinary ologies in the schools. They want to be made to understand the laws and rights and privileges of the British constitution, and of what a unit ought to be. Oh, you can laugh at me, you two. But I'm one of the working class, remember, and I see what a ferment the whole working class is in, from the farm labourer to the bank clerk. Half of them don't know the meaning of responsibility and patriotism. Their circle begins and ends with self. And they want to be taught. They want to be shown points of view from every side, not only from their own. They want to be taught political economy—well, I won't go on. I get rather hot when I am on my pet subject. If I were a rich woman, I would go round the country as a lecturer. I think I would have a motor caravan, and visit the country villages as well as the towns."

"Would you be another agitator?" questioned Damaris, who was seeing her cousin in a new light, and hardly understood her.

"I am going to shut up," said Nellie determinedly. "But when I think what opportunities some of these rich idle men are losing, it makes me furious!"

"We started from Mr. Maitland, but he is neither rich nor idle," said Damaris quietly.

Nellie would say no more until just as she was leaving, and then she kissed Damaris affectionately, saying, in Miss Hardacre's words—

"We are going to lose you. Only don't settle down in your luxurious life and do nothing. You will be ten times more responsible for your opportunities then than you are now."

"Responsible to whom?" asked Damaris. "Do you believe we are responsible to God? You always say you are not religious."

"Responsible to your country," said Nellie, hesitating for a moment.

Damaris shook her head.

"No—responsible to God. I met a Mrs. Dashwood at Marley. I should like you to know her. Her gospel is work, but she has no vague ideas about our responsibilities. She says we have each our life work, and if we miss it, we shall have bitter regret later on. It is strange that you and she should meet on one point, for you are not a bit alike in most things."

"For that I'm devoutly thankful," said Nellie, laughing.

"You wouldn't say that if you saw her. And as regards your losing me, I am never going to lose touch with you, if I can help it. Why should I? We are relations."

Nellie smiled.

"I am not envious of you. But isn't it strange that fortune favours some so much more than others? You and I were both brought up by old relatives who led us to expect that we should be well provided for at their deaths. We were disappointed, and cheated of our expectations—left almost penniless, weren't we? And I am almost penniless now—just earning enough to house myself and dress like a labourer's daughter. You have fallen on your feet after a very short interim of discomfort. Your future will be as comfortable and luxurious as your past. Even more so. Well! I am not envious, as I say. I think I am better fitted to knock round town than you are. I am not so sensitively formed. And I know my environment is more stimulating than yours will be."

"You are taking too much for granted," cried Damaris, with a distressed look in her grey eyes. "I am not owned yet, and if I ever am, I doubt if I shall be welcomed. I daresay I shall soon find myself back in London again, from choice. I do not know what will happen to me. But I do know that I have you and Miss Hardacre in my heart, and there you both shall stay."

"Dear child!" murmured Miss Hardacre.

Nellie stopped and kissed them both, and then took her departure.

"I am heartily and sincerely glad about it, Damaris, dear; but we shall miss you out of this bit of the world, I can tell you that!"

Those were her parting words, and Damaris said—

"I really do wish that it was you to claim relationship with them, and not myself. I am content to be here."

She went to see Mrs. Bonnycott several times, and then one day they received news of Stuart. He wired to his aunt:—

   "Returning on Tuesday. Book room for me at hotel."

To Damaris he wrote a letter:—

   "DEAR MISS HARTBROOK,—Will you be glad to see me or sorry? For I have been successful in my search. Your old nurse is still alive, and helped me to discover where you were registered. Enclosed pale pink roses were picked by me at the Villa Rosini this morning. It is empty. You will have to come out and stay in it one day. I hope you will give me a smiling welcome.

"Yours most sincerely,

"STUART MAITLAND."

Damaris drew a long breath as she read this. Was she glad or sorry, she wondered. Did it mean a complete change of life to her? She was glad that she would be vindicated in her aunt's eyes, but would her aunt receive her with delight? She shivered in anticipation of their meeting. Outwardly she was very quiet and calm, but Miss Hardacre, who watched her with loving eyes, saw that the two days of waiting were a great strain to her.

Tuesday came and passed. Damaris was glad that Stuart had not rushed round to her directly on arrival.

But about half-past ten the next morning, she was told that a gentleman had called to see her.

The drawing-room was empty. Miss Hardacre had gone to her room to get ready for her daily walk. Stuart was shown up, and Damaris met him with a quiet handshake.

She was in a grey cloth gown. He thought he had never seen her look so spirituelle and dreamy.

"I do thank you with all my heart for the trouble you have taken," she said.

"It was no trouble," he said simply. "I felt when I started on the quest that I had a fair chance of winning through. I have come round to ask you what you intend doing?"

Damaris looked at him with a little smile.

"Ah! That is better," she said; "I was afraid you had come round to manage me again. Will you tell me what you have done? I suppose you have written to Miss Murray."

"Yes, at once. And she and Sir Mark are here. They are at the Grosvenor Hotel. They want to see you, but I have not given them your address."

Damaris looked round the shabby room.

"It is no good my seeing them here, there is no privacy. I suppose I had better go to them?" There was an appealing note in her voice.

"Of course, you might come to my aunt's rooms at the Langham, and they could meet you there; but I fancy you would find her rather in the way. She would naturally be very excited about it."

"I would rather not do that."

"Then let me get a taxi, and we'll drive straight to the Grosvenor. I should get it over as soon as possible, if I were you."

"Yes," said Damaris slowly, "I will."

The door opened at this juncture, and Miss Hardacre appeared.

"Damaris, dear, I am ready-oh, I beg your pardon!" She shrank back, but Damaris led her forward.

"Miss Hardacre, you know everything; may I introduce Mr. Maitland to you. He has come to tell me that Sir Mark Murray and his daughter are in town; and I am going to them now."

Stuart gave a little courteous bow.

Damaris turned to him.

"This is one of my greatest friends. I don't think I could have stayed here without her. She has been most awfully kind to me."

Miss Hardacre's eyes filled with tears. She looked a pathetic little figure as she stood there.

But Stuart's whole face softened as he addressed her.

"Then as a friend, you will rejoice in Miss Hartbrook's discovery of her relations," he said.

"Yes," said Miss Hardacre, "even though it will take her from us, I am sincerely glad for her to have a happy home."

Damaris left the room to dress for the occasion. She felt that now the time had come for her to meet her grandfather, the sooner it was over the better.

She re-entered the drawing-room in a very few minutes. A grey straw hat with a mauve wreath of flowers round it was on her head. As she drew her grey gloves on, Stuart thought she was the picture of dainty sweetness. She stooped and kissed Miss Hardacre.

"I shall soon be back, and then I'll tell you all about it," she said. And then she and Stuart left the house together.

THE FAMILY MEETING

BOTH Stuart and Damaris were very silent during the drive to the Grosvenor Hotel. When they alighted, Stuart said—

"I'll say good-bye. I won't come in with you. I've done my part. I promised Barbara to find you and bring you back to them again, and I've done it. And you must forgive my summary way of taking possession of you."

Then, seeing that Damaris was white even to her lips, he added, "Of course, I'll come in with you if you would rather. Are you nervous?"

"Thank you, it will be best for me to see them alone. It is rather a nervous opportunity, isn't it?" She smiled up at him sweetly as she spoke. "I am most grateful to you, though I know it's for my aunt's sake that you have been so busy on my behalf."

"Oh, give me a little credit for wanting to help you, too."

He went off, and Damaris found herself standing in the entrance hall of the hotel, feeling more lonely and insignificant and helpless than she had ever felt in her life before.

A page-boy took her upstairs to a private drawing-room, and then the door opened and she was announced.

Sir Mark was standing by the window looking down into the street below. Barbara was seated at the table writing a letter. She was clad in a brown velvet gown. Without her hat she looked more womanly, and the sunshine streaming in from the window, rested on her golden head making it the brightest spot in the room.

Sir Mark wheeled round, and, stepping forward, took Damaris by both her hands and drew her towards him.

"Let me look at you, my dear," he said in a husky voice. "I have had my poor Lilian in my thoughts all this morning. They say you are like her."

Barbara rose from the table.

Damaris first looked at her grandfather, then turned to her.

"Do you believe in me yet?" she asked. "I have brought you a little of my mother's jewellery, which she left me—you will no doubt recognise it. And an old servant of my uncles will come and see you if you like, and answer any questions about me."

Then, taking out her jewel case from her bag, she laid it upon the table and stood beside it a little proudly.

"My dear," said Sir Mark, looking at her, "I want no other proof than your remarkable likeness to your mother. That is sufficient for me."

Barbara smiled.

"You must not bear me a grudge for my first suspicions, Damaris. I have been quite as anxious to find you as my father. And we are very grateful to Mr. Maitland for the trouble he has taken for us." She bent forward and kissed Damaris suddenly. "There! We must remember we are aunt and niece now," she said. "There need be no awkwardness of feeling between us."

Sir Mark looked as if he could not take his eyes off this new granddaughter of his.

"I hear you were down in our village for two or three weeks, and never made yourself known to us," he said. "I can't understand why you did not come up to the Hall at once."

"When I first went down there," explained Damaris quietly, "I did not know whether I should find you still living there. I went to find you out, and then somehow or other my courage failed me, and I put it off from day to day. I am very sorry. I see it was foolish."

"You could have written if you were shy of coming," said her grandfather. "I can't think why you did not write before. I had no idea of your existence. What made you come down to discover us?"

A pink flush came into Damaris's cheeks.

"I don't want to hide anything from you," she said; "I was in trouble. I was engaged to be married to my cousin, who came in for my uncles' money, and I was obliged to break it off. I could not go on with it. I was living in his house, and I had to leave it, and I did not know where to go. I suddenly came upon those letters in my mother's desk, and it was those which made me come down to Marley."

There was a little silence. Barbara spoke first—

"It does not matter about the past, father. Damaris would like to know what she is to do. Do you wish her to return with us at once?"

"Of course; of course. What else should she do?"

"But," said Damaris, a little hesitation in her tone; "I don't want you to offer me a home because I am your grandchild. I can earn my own living. I am sure I can. And I have a cousin who is doing it; and I know she would let me live with her if you did not like the idea of my living alone. May I tell you my own plans? Our old servant Stevens is going to let lodgings in town, and I can be her lodger. I have got work from the Art Needlework School—and for the present, at least, I can pay my way."

"Absurd!" ejaculated Sir Mark. "I should not be likely to let a grandchild of mine fend for herself in London. No; we have room and a welcome for you at the Hall; and the sooner you come there, the better. We shall be returning to-morrow, and you had better come with us."

Barbara said nothing. Damaris looked in a perplexed fashion up at her.

"Couldn't I—would you allow me to follow you—say in a week's time? I must see Stevens again, and explain things to her; and I should like to see my cousin—"

"Look here!" said Sir Mark a little irritably. "We don't want to hear anything about your connections on the Hartbrook side. When you come to us, you must forget them."

Damaris's head was raised at once.

"I am not ashamed of my father's relations, nor would you be, if you were to meet them. I couldn't give up my friendship with Nellie. Though I have not known her very long, I would not do it on principle. If I come to you, I could not be in bondage—I must be free to keep my own friends if I wish."

Sir Mark stared at her, and Barbara surprised them both by a hearty laugh.

"For goodness sake, father, don't let us have a repetition of the old times. You always sound a good deal more autocratic than you are. Damaris is a modern girl; she will expect the same liberty that I have. Why shouldn't she keep in touch with her cousin? As long as she is a quiet respectable girl, there can be no harm in her."

"You will find I am kept in very good order by your aunt, little girl. What's your name? Damaris, isn't it? Well—we won't begin to quarrel the first day of our acquaintance. Come and give your grandfather a kiss, and tell him that you like the look of him."

Damaris went up promptly and kissed him. "Indeed, I do like the look of you very much," she assured him, with her pretty smile. "And I think it is very kind and good of you to give me a home at once. But will you give me a week longer in town to make my arrangements for coming to you."

"Shall we, Barbara?"

"Of course, father. She can come to us any day next week."

And so it was settled.

Damaris felt as if she were in a dream. She could hardly realise that her whole life was going to be changed so soon. But she accepted her grandfather's invitation to lunch, and chatted to him quite pleasantly throughout the meal.

Barbara was rather silent; but Damaris felt that she had no opposition or dislike to be met with from her.

She left them at three o'clock. Her grandfather put her into a taxi himself, and surprised her by putting a little packet of pound notes into her hand.

"That is to meet any expenses you may have before you come to us—I won't say to buy yourself a frock, for you could not wear a prettier get-up than you are doing at present. God bless you, child; and come to us prepared to be happy. Barbara and I are quiet country folk, but we understand each other and live at peace."

Sudden tears came to Damaris's eyes. From that moment, she felt that she loved her grandfather, and would do her best to please him.

He went back and sat down in his sitting-room with a little sigh.

"It brings the old times back. What do you think of her, Barbara? A pretty little girl, eh? And oh, so like her mother."

"Yes," assented Barbara, "she is very like Lilian as I remember her; but if she has her hot pride and temper, I beseech you, father dear, not to provoke it by too much severity."

"Am I severe? God knows I do not want to be. You're a good girl, Barbara—they say you've the most unruffled temper going; but all young people are not like you—and this child is pretty, and seems to have had a love affair already. I don't want a lot of those city young men—relations of her father's—down in our parts."

"I don't think there will be any fear of that. Let us wait and see. We can deal with things as they come. Now I'm going to leave you to have an afternoon nap—you know what your doctor told you yesterday about overdoing it—and you can meet me at The Langham for tea. Mrs. Bonnycott expects us."

"Yes—yes; we must thank Stuart for that run out to Florence. It was most satisfactory getting at that register. I hope that child will be all right by herself. She's in a respectable place, you say?"

"So Stuart assures me. Of course she will be all right. You must give her breathing time to say good-bye to her friends. She strikes me as having a very capable head upon her shoulders."

Barbara left him. Later in the afternoon, she was sitting with Mrs. Bonnycott and telling her the news. Stuart came in as his aunt was expressing her astonishment and delight. She was quite excited over it.

"I knew there was good blood in her—could see it. I've been making up my mind to ask her to come to me as a companion. I did not like to think of her alone in London. Stuart, what do you mean by keeping me in the dark about it? What a sensation in our part of the world! I wish I could discover some niece or great-niece in the same easy way."

"How did the interview go off?" Stuart asked Barbara.

She smiled.

"We were very quiet and calm; there was no demonstration of feeling—but you could not expect that. Father is the one who was most pleased. She has bargained for a week more of her independence."

"She is not rushing at you," said Stuart. "I wonder how she will shake down? I can't quite see you yet. You have your pursuits, your father has his, and you're both complete in yourselves. Where will she come in?"

"She'll find a niche for herself, and have her own hobbies," said Barbara. "I'm not afraid of the venture."

"You don't chum up with very young girls," said Stuart doubtfully.

"I'll be good to her, I promise you. Do you take a great interest in her, Stuart?" Barbara put the question carelessly, but Stuart wheeled round and looked out of the window. Somehow Barbara felt that she had vexed him. She touched his coat sleeve. "Don't be huffy. You haven't had your proper thanks yet for finding her and for rushing off to Florence; you are a friend in need."

"I don't expect thanks or want them." Then he turned round with his sunniest smile. "Come out with me, Barbara; we'll go and hear some good music. There's a concert on at the Albert Hall this evening. Shall I take tickets?"

"Father will be here directly. We are having tea with your aunt."

"Yes," said Mrs. Bonnycott, "and I'm so knocked flat by your news that I hardly know what to say. I did not know your sister Lilian had a child. I remember her, and now see who this girl is like. She's the living image of her mother."

Nothing would turn Mrs. Bonnycott's thoughts off Damaris, and when Sir Mark appeared, it all began again. He was quite content to sit and talk about his new granddaughter. But after a time, Barbara and Stuart slipped away together, leaving the two old people to entertain each other.

Damaris went back and gave an account of her grandfather and aunt to Miss Hardacre, who was deeply interested in hearing about it all.

"I can't bear leaving you, Miss Hardacre," said Damaris; "you have been such a friend to me that I won't drift away from you. What should I have done in this house without you? I can't make friends with any of the others. They don't like me."

Miss Hardacre smiled.

"You don't like them, do you? But I will confess that the young people are not your sort, and the old ones—well; it is a marvel that you have been happy sitting alone with me day after day! I am glad for your sake that you will be with your own people now. And if ever you do come up to town, it will be a real joy to me if you can spare time to come and see me."

"Oh!" said Damaris. "I still dread the tremendous change it will be in my life! Both my grandfather and aunt are strangers to me. I wonder if we shall get on together?"

"I should think they would be hard to please, if they did not get on with you," said Miss Hardacre fondly.

"Oh, you're an old dear!" Damaris exclaimed. Then she added suddenly, "I have just thought of a lovely plan! Miss Hardacre, you must come down and lodge at the Patch's. You would love it. You would smell hot bread all day! I never got tired of the smell. It always made me feel hungry! And, oh, how you would love the glorious breezy bracing common! And the dear little country church, and sweet old saintly Mrs. Patch, and darling Mrs. Dashwood."

Miss Hardacre began to laugh, but Damaris rebuked her.

"I'm in real sober earnest, and I shall come and see you, and feel I've rescued you from the London fogs and this dingy old house. Oh, do think of it! You always told me you loved the country, and here's a delicious country village and nice rooms all waiting for you."

"It sounds delightful, dear, but it would not be wise to tack myself on to you at this juncture. You must go alone, and make a place for yourself in your grandfather's house. Perhaps next summer, if I am still alive, we might think about those lodgings. It will be a great pleasure to me, and will be something to look forward to."

"Well," said Damaris, with a little sigh, "we will wait, then. But if I can't come and visit my friends, I can bring them to Marley, and that will be lovely for me!"

The week passed too quickly. One of the first things that Damaris did was to recover her mother's escritoire. Stevens had found a house and was moving into it. She was much disappointed that she would not have her young mistress as a lodger, but was partly consoled by the thoughts of her mother's home being open to her, and by the care of the precious escritoire which Damaris insisted upon placing in her charge.

"If I can send for it, I will, Stevens; but for the present, I know it will be safe with you."

"If it wasn't for my cousin, I'd like to throw over the house and come off with you as maid."

"But I shan't have a maid," said Damaris. "My aunt may have one, and perhaps I shall share her, but I don't think I shall have one all to myself. My grandfather and aunt lead a very simple country life, Stevens. They are not smart fashionable people."

"Then if you come up to town, Miss Damaris, you'll come to us instead of going to an hotel?"

"Yes; I'll try to do that," promised Damaris, and Stevens was content.

Nellie came over one Saturday, and, on the strength of her grandfather's present, Damaris took her and Miss Hardacre down to Kew Gardens for the day. They drove down in a motor, which was a piece of extravagance, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves amongst the glories of autumn tints and autumn flowers.

One day, she lunched with Mrs. Bonnycott. She was still very excited over Damaris's connection with the Murrays, and made her tell her every detail of her past life.

"I always took to you from the first minute I set eyes on you. And remember if Barbara is not nice to you, or Sir Mark gets into one of his irritable fits of impatience and depression, come straight off to me, and we'll laugh at life's difficulties together. I find that's much the best way to preserve one's calm and cheerfulness."

"Thank you," Damaris said, smiling; "but I am not going to anticipate any difficulties."

Stuart did not come in till after lunch. He looked tired, but was as cheerful as usual.

"I hope we're fast friends," he said to Damaris, "and that you will never have cause for bearing me a grudge for bringing you and your people together. You see, I take full credit to myself for that. It has turned out well, hasn't it?"

"I don't know yet," said Damaris, looking at him with an amused gleam in her grey eyes. "It is rather early to judge!"

"I haven't bothered you with my presence since—for I have done my part, and knew you would prefer to be left alone."

"Yes, I have had a good deal to do and think of. In a way, I am glad that everybody won't be strange to me in Marley. I have friends there, and it seems like going home."

"And I'm one of the friends, eh?"

"Of course you are, and Mrs. Bonnycott is another; and I just love the common. I have missed it more than I can say."

"I'm glad I come first in the list," said Stuart. "I'm not jealous of my aunt, nor of the common either, for that matter. We all belong to each other."

"My dear Stuart," said Mrs. Bonnycott hastily, "there is no need to mention the word jealousy. It's a vice I abhor. You may be sure I shall never come in the way between any young couple—least of all you, for whom I do entertain some affection, in spite of our constant quarrels."

To this astonishing speech, her nephew made no reply, only looked at Damaris with mischief in his eyes.

She began hastily to talk about her friends whom she was leaving behind, and very soon Mrs. Bonnycott was promising to recommend Stevens's apartments to all her friends.

Stuart was very busy in town, for he was going down to Marley with his aunt the next day, and he had a lot of business to finish before he went.

"I shall say 'au revoir,'" he said to Damaris, when they parted. "I always look upon the Hall as my second home, so you will see me again very soon. It is a pity we can't all travel down together to-morrow. When do you come?"

"Next Wednesday," said Damaris quietly. "I must have till then to myself."

She tried not to dread her departure from town, but when Wednesday came, she said good-bye to Miss Hardacre with tearful eyes.

"I little thought when I came here how sorry I should be to leave. Do write to me, won't you?"

"Indeed I will," said Miss Hardacre. "My days will be very dreary without you. Somehow or other you have brightened my life enormously."

In the train, Damaris tried to fix her mind on her meeting with Mrs. Dashwood and old Mrs. Patch again. She grew more and more nervous as she thought of the new life in front of her.

The Hall brougham was at the station to meet her. In a very short time, she and her luggage were conveyed to the Hall. She arrived there at the close of a sunny autumn afternoon. The old grey house was covered with red virginian creeper and climbing roses. The borders on either side of the drive up to it were bright with golden chrysanthemums and dahlias of every shade and hue.

It was a big comfortably furnished hall into which she walked. A small log fire was burning in the open fireplace, and a beautiful greyhound lay stretched out on a rug in front of it.

A little fox terrier started out from a dark corner barking at her, but Damaris was fond of dogs; she put her hand on his head and quieted him in an instant.

Symon, the old butler, glanced at her as she did so. He was too well trained a servant to speak, but he told the housekeeper afterwards that Miss Hartbrook was one of the right sort—"afeared of nothing!"

If he had only known how Damaris's heart was beating at that moment, he would have qualified his statement.

He was leading her into the drawing-room, when Barbara appeared upon the stairs.

"We'll have tea in my boudoir, Symon, the Squire won't be home till late. Well, Damaris, here you are. Have you had a comfortable journey?"

She was in the Hall shaking hands with Damaris. Barbara was a very undemonstrative person, and shed her kisses on no one—not even her father.

Damaris replied politely, and then they went into the charming little room furnished in dark oak and blue velvet. The walls were panelled, but relieved by some lovely water-colour sketches. Damaris sat down in silence by the fire, and Barbara stood for a moment in silence, too, thoughtfully regarding her.

"This is my sanctum," she said, "but you will be welcome to it. I live here amongst my books, and I write a few necessary letters, and do a few necessary accounts. But for the most part of my days, I live out-of-doors. Do you ride?"

"No," said Damaris. "I have had no chance to learn."

"Father and I hunt two days every week in the season—not more. You'll have to find your own occupations and follow them, independently of me. My motto is 'Live and let live.' I was too ruled up in my young days to be ever desirous of ruling others. So you'll be as free as air here. You look as if you've been well disciplined. Have you?"

Barbara was talking away to put her at ease, and Damaris knew it and was grateful to her.

She looked up at her now with one of her charming smiles.

"Oh, yes, indeed I have. I have been in a comfortable well-ordered kind of prison since I left school, and treated as if my brains were on a par with the animals'." Then she pulled herself up. "I don't want to say a word against my uncles. They were good and kind to me, but they thought a woman ought to be content with so very little—just a needle and a duster and a walk out to see the shops. That would make life quite full enough for her. I am fond of needlework, I confess—I think it has grown to be part of me; but I love the country and out-of-doors. I hope I shan't be a worry to you; I don't mean to be. And oh, Aunt Barbara, just say that you don't hate my coming here."

Damaris had risen from her seat, the quick colour coming and going in her cheeks, and tears springing to her eyes.

Barbara looked at her in surprise. Then she laid a hand on her shoulder, and there was tenderness in her touch.

"I see you have not forgiven me yet. My dear, I'm very glad to see you here. I adored your mother, and would like you for her sake if for no other. Don't let us have any misunderstandings about each other. I don't wear my heart on my sleeve; but if you aren't happy with us, it will be your own fault."

"Oh, I will be! I mean to be! Thank you, Aunt Barbara. I couldn't help feeling frightened at coming here. It is all so strange to me."

Damaris was ashamed at her show of feeling, but Barbara liked her the better for it.

"I was disciplined, too, when I was very young," she said thoughtfully, "but a few years of perfect freedom have helped me to strike the right balance, I hope. You will find your grandfather a little irritable on the surface, and he will sound more severe than he really is; but he has not been at all strong lately, so we have to give in to him."

Tea was brought in at this juncture, so all confidential talk for the time was stopped.

LIFTING THE LATCH

THAT first evening at the Hall seemed to Damaris like a dream. But her nervousness and dread disappeared. She realised that her aunt was neither antagonistic nor indifferent to her, only undemonstrative, and this put her at ease.

When tea was over, she was shown her bed-room. It faced west, and as she stood at the big window which reached down to the ground, she found that she faced the common. Away on the horizon, gilding and glorifying the stretches of sloping turf and brightening the rose-red tints of the dying hawthorns, the sun was slowing sinking to his rest. Damaris gazed out in silence, then she turned with a radiant face to her aunt.

"Oh," she said, in a low voice, "I shall be happy here."

And then she was shown a little room which led out of the big one, and which was fitted up as a boudoir. The fresh chintzes and delicate china ornaments, the books in the bookcase, and the big writing-table in the window, the couch and big easy chair by the fire; all seemed the height of luxury after her experiences in her dingy boarding-house.

"You have given me two beautiful rooms," she said.

"They were your mother's," Barbara said simply; "and many of her treasures are still in them."

For the moment Damaris felt almost overcome. She gazed about her with misty eyes.

"I wish I had known her. I wish she had lived long enough to give me some memory of herself."

Barbara made no reply. After a little, she said—

"Now make yourself comfortable. Evans, my maid, will unpack for you. We dine at eight; and if you don't find me downstairs when you come, I shall most likely be out. I generally take the dogs for a run between tea and dinner. But find your way into the library. We sit there in the evenings, not in the drawing-room."

She left her, and Damaris, pulling a chair to the window, sat down and watched the sunset in dreamy content. It seemed so still and quiet in the big house. So far, far away from the noise and bustle of town. Some lovely Gloire de Dijon roses made a framework to her window outside, and their sweet scent filled her room. She gathered one, and wondered if she might send a few in a box to Miss Hardacre.

"What a lot of pleasure I may be able to give her," she thought. And then one of the old questions in her mind cropped up again. "Why should some people have so much, and others have so little?"

She did not go downstairs till just before eight, and then, in the big handsome library, she found her grandfather talking to two other men. One of them she recognised as having seen in church,—Mr. Gore,—the other was a tall pleasant-faced man who was introduced to her as Lord Ennismore.

Sir Mark looked pleased to see her.

"A little granddaughter who is going to make her home with us," he said to Mr. Gore, who promptly replied—

"Yes—yes; we have heard all about her. Mrs. Bonnycott was having tea with my sisters yesterday, and told us the news."

Barbara joined them then. She was in a soft green velvet gown, with a string of old pearls round her neck, and some priceless lace about her shoulders.

Damaris, in a simple white lace gown, felt shabby beside her. She was taken in to dinner by Mr. Gore, who discoursed to her in a learned way about the habits of caterpillars. One taste they found they had in common, and that was a love for the country and open spaces. Presently the talk began to be general, and Stuart's name was mentioned. Lord Ennismore seemed to know him well. Damaris heard afterwards that they had been at school together, and had fought side by side in the trenches out in France.

"He's wasting his life," said Lord Ennismore. "I always tell him so. Anyone could look after Mrs. Bonnycott's small property."

"You're so strenuous," said Barbara. "You take life so heavily and seriously. I tell Stuart that he lives to make people happy. That isn't waste of life if you accomplish it."

"Oh, happiness!" said Mr. Gore a little impatiently. "I get sick of the talk of happiness. It is only one of the many moods that come and go like the shadows on the wall. We weren't sent into the world to be happy."

"I don't believe in the contrary," said Barbara decidedly.

"Stuart ought to take up politics. He would have been very good in the Diplomatic Service," said Lord Ennismore.

"There isn't much pleasure in that now," said Sir Mark. "In this time of chaos, politics certainly have lost all glamour."

"Well, he ought to do something towards bolstering up his country now," said Lord Ennismore again. "I have several schemes on hand, and if only he would throw up his present job, he could help me enormously. You know I'm selling my Nottinghamshire estate, Squire?"

"Yes, I heard it. Hard times, I suppose."

"Not exactly; I'm looking ahead, and I'm coming to the conclusion that we land owners don't want more than one property, and that must be the one on which we live. And the sale will help me to carry out one of my schemes."

Barbara looked at him and laughed.

"Is this the ninety-ninth scheme?" she asked. "I've seen a good few of yours die almost at their birth."

"Oh, yes, I'll allow I've a bigger brain for conceiving than for carrying out; but that's where I want a practical man like Maitland."

The talk drifted away to other subjects; but when Damaris was alone with Barbara after dinner she said—

"I did not know Mr. Maitland had been to the war. He never mentions it."

"No," said Barbara, "I think he went through too much out there. Some men are strung harder than others. Stuart feels too deeply; artistic natures do, they say. He was wounded badly in the first year, and he's never been very robust since. That was why he settled down at Fallerton."

"Has he no relations except Mrs. Bonnycott?"

"No; his parents died when he was small; and he was the only child. He's hardly the lazy man that Lord Ennismore considers him. But he's one of those people who pose as a loafer and in reality do more work in one day than others do in a week."

"I like Lord Ennismore's face," said Damaris quietly. "He seems as if he is looking ahead at something great, and is meaning to go for it."

Barbara looked at her with a short laugh.

"Are you like Mrs. Patch, a 'student of human natur''?"

Damaris coloured a little.

"I can't help getting interested in people I meet," she said; "I always wonder what they're like inside."

"Lord Ennismore has had a very sad life," said Barbara; "he was devoted to his wife, and she was killed out hunting. And then his only son and heir was drowned when he was a boy of sixteen at school. He has two girls who are rather a handful. They have a succession of governesses, and he is worried to death with their complaints. He is making up his mind to try another school for the girls. They ran away from one."

"How old are they?"

"Fifteen, I think."

"It's a pity he doesn't marry again."

Barbara did not reply.

When the men joined them, both Lord Ennismore and Mr. Gore attached themselves to her, and Damaris turned her attention to her grandfather. She was accustomed to old men, and was at ease with him at once. He told Barbara afterwards that she was a singularly intelligent girl. And when, eventually, Damaris laid her head on her pillow in her luxurious bed-room, she settled herself to sleep in perfect content with her surroundings.

The event which she had so much dreaded had passed with great simplicity. She had slipped into her mother's family as a matter of course, and if no demonstration of excessive affection had been shown her, she had been welcomed with sincere pleasure.

The next morning was wet. Damaris sat in her own little boudoir and wrote long letters to Miss Hardacre and Nellie.

In the afternoon, when it had cleared, she walked over to a farm about two miles off with her grandfather. Both he and Barbara were very fond of out-door exercise, and walked as well as rode. Damaris enjoyed every bit of the walk. Sir Mark told her a good deal about the property, and talked about his sons to her.

"Herbert will be in my shoes before very long. I shan't make old bones, my doctor tells me. But he'll run the place all right. He's on a small property of his wife's up North at present. She's north country by birth—a good-looking woman, but not my sort—nor Barbara's either. They're coming down to spend Christmas with us this year, so you'll see them. Ella is a good mother, but she's an affected little puss, with many fads. They've two nice boys and a tiny girl. It doesn't do to look on ahead; and now I've two of you to think about instead of one. But you'll marry—and so will Barbara; she won't leave me—I think that's half the trouble. If you do want a home, either of you, when I'm gone, there's Park Corner, the Dower House—quite a decent little house. But I hope I may see you with future homes of your own. Ennismore wants Barbara badly, but she seems hanging back; I don't know why. They've always been good friends—" He paused.

"There, child, my tongue has run away with me. Don't tell Barbara I've been gossiping about her affairs. But it's always a hard time when the women of the house have to turn out to make room for the son's wife. I can remember how my mother felt it—even to this day!"

"You mustn't talk of those times," said Damaris cheerfully; "you will be with us for many years yet, I hope."

She began asking him questions about the farm they were going to, and Sir Mark, with a little relief in his tone, answered them. They returned home mutually pleased with each other, and it was the beginning of many talks and walks together.

Upon the following morning, Damaris went to see old Mrs. Patch. She chose the day on which she knew the younger Mrs. Patch would be away at the market in the town, for she did not feel inclined to hear her comments on her connection with the Hall.

The old woman received her with tears.

"Miss Barbara has been in and told me all. You're Miss Lilian's child, eh, dear? I never thought it could be, and yet I kept seein' her again as you looked and talked to me."

Damaris took her hand in hers.

"You must tell me all you can about my mother. I love to hear about her. And talk to me for my good, Mrs. Patch. I have missed you so much. I have a great friend in London; she is little and weak and old, and has no hope at all in life. I long that you and she could meet, for I know you would do her a lot of good. How would you cheer her? What would you tell her?"

"Weak and old and hopeless," said the old woman thoughtfully. "I would mind her of the promise. 'My strength is made perfect in weakness,' and 'Even to your old age I am He, and even to hoar hairs will I carry you,' and 'Happy is he whose hope is in the Lord his God.'"

"You always go to the Bible for comfort, I notice," said Damaris.

"Not always," said Mrs. Patch, with a slow smile. "I go straight to my Lord Himself—which is surely best." Then she looked over her spectacles at Damaris's bright face. "How about your burden, miss?"

Damaris looked grave.

"I'm beginning to feel I'm a failure, Mrs. Patch—in God's eyes I must be. I've done nothing for Him all my life. That's a bad record, isn't it?"

"Do you want to love and serve Him?"

"If it's not too difficult, I should like to," said Damaris softly.

"Eh, dearie, we don't mind difficulties in our daily life. It's difficult to blacklead a stove, or make a pudding, or knit a stocking the first time one puts one's hand to it; but we don't give up the trying because of the difficulty. It ought not to be difficult to run right into the arms of love held out to us. Nor yet to hand our burden over to the Burden-Bearer of the world."

"You make religion such a real personal matter, Mrs. Patch, and so does Mrs. Dashwood. I suppose it is because you live so near to God?"

"No, dear miss, He lives so close to us. That's the comfort of it."

Damaris looked thoughtfully away through the small casement window by the old woman's bed. It was such a tiny room, and yet the poor soul confined in it had such a tremendously big outlook on life and beyond it.

"Don't spend your years waiting," the old woman said wistfully. "So many of us mean to turn to God one day; but we won't make up our minds when, and drift on and on. It won't get easier if you wait."

Damaris turned and looked at her.

"You ought to have been a man, and a preacher, Mrs. Patch."

"No; I lie here and think, and it fair makes me long to take hold of you young people and press you into the Kingdom. 'Tis like looking in at a fair garden over the wall, and keeping outside because you don't choose to lift the latch and walk in."

"Oh, I wish I could lift the latch, Mrs. Patch. Tell me how to do it."

Damaris's soul was stirred within her. She had thought a great deal lately about these matters. The patient hopelessness of Miss Hardacre's outlook had shocked and appalled her. Yet she felt that she had no certain hope and assurance herself, and increasingly she had begun to long for it.

The old woman raised herself up in bed; taking off her spectacles, she said solemnly—

"'I am the door: by Me, if any man enter in, he shall be saved.' Can't you just kneel down on the quiet, miss, and lift the latch, and walk in? He says, 'Come unto me,'—and we're just to say, 'I come.'"

There was silence. Damaris almost heard her heart beat. The old sweet familiar words had a new meaning.

Then old Mrs. Patch spoke again, but she seemed to be speaking to herself.

"We are so proud and stubborn, we won't bend the knee, and the latch can only be lifted on our knees. 'Tis too low for the high and mighty; that's why the little children find it so easy. And our burden rolls off at that door."

It seemed to Damaris that she was already at that Door, and her hand was upon the latch.

It was a long time before she broke the silence that followed, and when she did, it was to talk about her mother. She told Mrs. Patch of the letters in her mother's desk, and then she told her of what she had told no one else—that in a corner of the desk she had found half a leaf of what evidently had been her mother's diary.

"It broke off in the middle, as if she had been going to write more and had been interrupted, and I know the words by heart. They seem so pathetic. Perhaps they were the last words she ever wrote:

   "'I feel depressed to-day; now that my time has almost come, I am wondering—wondering—I wish I had been as good a daughter to my father, as I feel I have been a wife to my dear husband. As motherhood draws near, it makes me think seriously of life and death. I have prayed as I have never prayed before for my little one—for myself. May God forgive me for many heedless years. I shall try to make my baby better than its mother—'

"It breaks off there."

"Dear Miss Lilian," said Mrs. Patch tenderly. "She always found it hard as a child to own herself in the wrong. Many's the time she's bent her knees at my lap when she was saying her prayers: 'I'm not "quite" sorry enough to speak to God yet, Nannie,' she would say to me, lifting her big grey eyes up to my face."

She lapsed into reminiscences of the children she had mothered in the old nurseries at the Hall, and Damaris listened entranced, till it was time to leave the cottage and go home.

But that night, in the quiet and stillness of her own room, Damaris bent her knees and lifted the latch. The whispered words were not many; they meant a surrendered heart and life:

   "O Lord Jesus Christ, I come to confess my sins, to ask Thee to take them from me, to make me Thine altogether for ever and ever.—Amen."

And a wonderful rest and peace crept into her soul, as she believed she had been heard and accepted.

She had always been a thoughtful girl; but, owing to unfortunate circumstances, her confirmation had not been the help to her that it should. She had been prepared for it by a very old clergyman whom the girls at her school had all disliked. He had little sympathy or understanding with the young, and the bishop who confirmed them was on the verge of a breakdown, and was obliged in consequence to shorten his sermon on that occasion. It had not been a happy service.

Looking back at it, Damaris was only conscious of great nervousness and distraction of mind. Her long quiet times with her needlework in that upper room of her uncles' house had made her ponder over many things; but she had never come in contact with anyone except old Mrs. Patch and the rector's wife who seemed to live out their religion in real joyousness of spirit. Perhaps her fondness from a child for the "Pilgrim's Progress" had helped her more than she thought in apprehending spiritual things; and the hopelessness of Miss Hardacre's faith had clenched her determination to seek for herself, and find out whether there was any real comfort and joy to be obtained in true religion.

It was a new day that dawned upon her when she woke the next morning. She went about with shining eyes, and a smile upon her lips which even attracted the notice of unobservant Barbara.

She thought it was content with her new position. But Damaris's thoughts were away from her new home altogether. She spent the first part of her morning in writing another long letter to Miss Hardacre, in which she poured out her experiences of the previous day.

Miss Hardacre read the letter through with pleasure, but with a little bewilderment. It did not then bring light to her. She considered it a burst of girlish impulse and enthusiasm. Her weary soul and dim eyes could neither see nor understand the wonderful simplicity of God's revelation to Damaris. But she wrote back a loving little letter of appreciation for the confidence given to her, and with that Damaris for the time was forced to be content.

Mrs. Dashwood was away from home with her little boy, who was only just recovering from a severe attack of measles. Damaris missed her very much. The village of Marley seemed empty without her. But there was always a good deal of coming and going at the Hall. Sir Mark was hospitably inclined. His son Walter in town often brought a couple of his friends for a weekend; and when the hunting began, there were always visitors staying in the house.

Most of Barbara's friends were men; women guests were few and far between. But Damaris was accustomed to men's society, and pleased her aunt by her frank simple manner in speaking to them. She did not court their admiration or homage. If anything, she kept too much in the background, and apparently preferred the older men to the younger ones.

Stuart was, perhaps, an exception, but he was very busy at this time, and had only come over once since Damaris's arrival.

"You've dropped into it all most wonderfully," he said to her upon that occasion.

Damaris smiled.

"You talk as if I should be out of my element," she said. "I assure you, I do not find anything unusual in my surroundings; a little more luxurious—that is all. The people I meet are very friendly, and do not seem different to those I met at my uncles'."

"That is putting a nasty construction on my words. You and your aunt get on so easily together. I did not think you would."

"Why not? I admire her very much. We each go our own way. I don't think I should ever be a companion to her; but I didn't expect to be that. She has told me that she does not care for young girls. But she is very good to me."

He nodded.

"Barbara is very sincere and true—she has no petty failings."

"No," Damaris rejoined quickly; "she is very broad-minded and tolerant. I see that in the way she looks after the servants and the tenants. If she's sometimes hard, she's always just. In a way, I would rather be judged by her than by my grandfather." Then she gave a little laugh. "I don't know why I am discussing them with you like this."

"Oh, I'm one of the family," said Stuart lightly. "I always consider they belong to me, and I to them. I adopted Barbara as a sister when I was five."

Then he looked at her with his whimsical smile. "I can't adopt you as a niece, somehow. I think it is that at present you are too remote and elusive. When I get a little bit close to you, I am warned off as a trespasser. You don't quite trust me yet."

Damaris looked at him thoughtfully with her steadfast grey eyes. Then she turned away without a word.

A BIG SCHEME

IT was a gusty October afternoon. The wind was whirling yellow-brown leaves along the roads, shrieking through the half-clad trees, and howling down the old chimneys at the Hall. Sir Mark had gone up to town for a few days. Damaris had been taking a walk over the common in company with Rolf the greyhound and David the terrier. David had obtained his name by his fondness, from a puppy, of attacking dogs six times his size, and Damaris had many anxious moments when strange big dogs encountered them in their walks. She had staved off one fight upon this afternoon, and it had brought her into the house in a dishevelled breathless state.

Stuart and Barbara were standing over the hall fire as she entered. Barbara looked grave and did not notice Damaris's entrance, but Stuart exclaimed at once—

"Who has been chasing you?"

"The wind," said Damaris rosy with her exertions. "But David is furious with me because I've hooked my stick into his collar and dragged him home by force. He tried to fight Farmer Sampson's dog."

David crawled slowly towards the fire, his tail between his legs, but he rolled one eye round at Damaris in such a sulky disgusted fashion that even Barbara smiled.

"I always let them fight," she said. "It's no good postponing the day." Then she added, "We're having tea in my sanctum, Damaris."

Damaris ran upstairs to make herself tidy. When she came down, she found Stuart and Barbara still talking earnestly together. They were discussing Gregory Lancaster, the son of the family doctor.

"Why did you interfere?" Barbara was saying. "The father won't thank you."

"No; and perhaps the son won't either; but the poor beggar wants a chance. How long is it? Eight years, isn't it, that he has been trying to pass his exams, and not managed to pass out yet. He hates the profession, and will never do any good at it. And he's going down-hill fast. He as good as told me so. He's like some of these country-born fellows—hates town, and instead of working to get out of it, sinks without an effort."

"How do you know your aunt will have him?"

Stuart laughed lightly.

"She always comes round; answers like a thoroughbred to the rein after she's plunged a bit. She's plunging now, and that's why I've asked myself to dinner."

"I would like her to hear you talk."

"I assure you she does."

Barbara changed the subject.

But Stuart was restive till tea was over; then, when it was taken away and they were alone, he said—

"I have come over chock-full of news; you must let me tell you it all. Ennismore and I sat up till the small hours last night threshing it out."

Damaris was going to slip away.

"I want you to hear too," he said; "don't go."

She hesitated, and looked at Barbara.

"My dear Damaris, I have no desire for a tête-à-tête conversation. Now then, for your wonderful scheme, Stuart!"

"It's Ennismore's—but it gives me the chance of doing good work as well as Gregory. You know he's sold his other estate. Well, he's going to put the price of it into a model village for disabled soldiers. And I'm to be architect, head foreman, general manager, and perhaps practical builder."

"Jack-of-all-trades, as usual."

"Don't chaff, because it's a big thing. He's going to pitch it on the top of that rising hill by the Long Burrow coverts—just two miles from Darleywater."

"He told me he had such an idea; but I did not think he would put it into action so soon."

"Oh, when Ennismore and I get together, we're pretty rapid. I'm going to plan it out. You see, we can run the water out of the town to it, so there'll be no boring for wells. And the idea is to give the chaps a chance of living outside a town, and working in it."

"How will disabled soldiers—say legless ones—be able to do the four miles a day?"

"Oh, they'll have their automatic tricycles, and the others their cycles, and some will prefer the walk. And they're all going to have a small plot of ground sufficient for poultry or fruit growing, and Ennismore is going to start them each with fruit trees, a dozen poultry, or a pig, just as they prefer. But one of our plans is that they should all help to build their own houses, so that employment will begin at once for them."

"But if they don't understand the trade?"

"They can learn. Of course, we shall have a few skilled workmen to help. You know, the Tommies have had a bit of experience out in the trenches—I've seen first-class dug-outs built by amateurs; and those who haven't an aptitude for bricks and mortar can carpenter, and those who can't carpenter can be getting the ground ready for cultivation. They'll work with such zest if they know it's for themselves."

"And how many houses are to be built?"

"We thought from twenty-five to thirty. Of course, the idea is that they should either be natives of Darleywater or have some connection with it. A town with fifty thousand odd inhabitants must have a good many of its men disabled."

"And supposing you find they prefer to live in the town."

"Oh, well, then we shall make up our numbers from elsewhere."

"It sounds easy," said Barbara shaking her head.

"It bristles with difficulties," Stuart exclaimed, "but I'm going to tackle them. Now, look here, what do you think of this for a cottage?"

He produced a roll out of his pocket and opened it. It was an exquisite little water-colour sketch of a small thatched cottage in the midst of a bower of shrubs and flowers.

Damaris looked at it and caught her breath.

"How lovely!"

Then she looked up at some of the watercolours on the walls.

And Stuart, following her gaze, laughed.

"You recognise the same hand."

"Did you paint these pictures?" asked Damaris.

"He did," said Barbara; "he gives me one every birthday, and I'm beginning to feel that this row of them dates my age. Really, Stuart, this cottage is ridiculous. It's just a picture. You'll never be able to carry it out."

"Why not? We've decided to use thatch, and revive the trade of thatchers. There's plenty of straw on the estate. In some cases, we shall build a couple together, in others, single. We've all kinds of ideas—one a communal laundry-house and drying-ground."

"I don't believe the women will like that."

"Why not?" Stuart would not be damped; he was quite excited over his subject. "I want to start it next week," he said.

And then Barbara laughed.

"Isn't that just like you! How much are they going to cost? Have you worked that out yet? And how much rent are you going to ask?"

"Ennismore is going to do it on the hire system. After so many years' rent, when they've paid for the building, it's to be their own."

"It's a good thing that Lord Ennismore is a rich man."

"I think it's splendid of him," said Damaris enthusiastically. "Why should not all landlords try and do the same?"

"They're most of them too out-of-pocket themselves," said Barbara. "I know what the yearly repairs of our cottages amount to."

"Yes; but you'd save that if you gave it over to them," said Stuart.

"Then what will happen? The unthrifty and careless will let their houses deteriorate year by year until they become unsanitary pig-styes."

"Oh, there'll be a signed agreement that, they'll vacate, if they can't keep up repairs."

"You'll never be able to enforce that, when once the place is theirs. That is half the trouble with these country people who buy property. They cannot or will not keep them in good repair. It's a Utopian scheme, but not a practical one."

"We'll make it practical. You can't damp me; I've taken over the job, and am going to work it for all I'm worth!"

Stuart pinned his sketch up to one of the window curtains, then stood and looked at it with his eyes half shut and his head on one side.

"Yes—not much amiss with that! Ten years hence, our model village will be the ornament of the county!" Then he wheeled round upon Damaris. "Barbara is a wet blanket; encourage me, will you?"

"You don't need to be encouraged," said Damaris, laughing; "you are determined to succeed."

"Of course I am. But I like a bit of applause."

"My dear Stuart," said Barbara, in her abrupt fashion, "wait till the time comes for applause. Plans and schemes are easy to formulate.

"'The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
     Gang aft agley.'

"But I'll give you my good wishes, and we all shall be intensely interested in looking on."

"Don't you talk to Ennismore like that. I've got ahead of him on purpose to warn you that he wants pushing, not holding back."

"Oh, I'll cheer him on!" said Barbara. "The only person I feel really sorry for is your aunt. She'll be a lost dog without you!"

Later that evening, after Stuart had left them, Barbara began to talk about him.

"Of course he's an optimist of the first water; and there's no doubt about his industry and capability. He has hated this small agency of his aunt's which has tied him down."

"How can he leave her?" asked Damaris. "And is he thinking of handing his work over to the doctor's son?"

"To Gregory? Yes—Stuart has always been good to that boy. But I question the wisdom of bringing him here. It's true he has always hated surgery and medicine; but his father never let him alone till he persuaded him to take it up. And he has done no good at Bart's Hospital. He won't pass his examinations, and is leading a very go-ahead life in town. Drink is his snare. I question whether Mrs. Bonnycott will ever keep him. But it's like Stuart to try and do him a good turn; and, of course, it may be his salvation."

The very next afternoon, Mrs. Bonnycott arrived over, and complained, with tears, of her nephew's "hard-heartedness and officiousness."

"I've always been so good to him, and we understand each other perfectly. Why has he this sudden craze for more work? And what business has he to produce Gregory Lancaster to fill his place without asking me first whether I would like him?"

"He meant well," said Barbara, trying to soothe her; "and Gregory is a nice boy, and loves the country. He has been miserable in town."

"Stuart ought to get married," Mrs. Bonnycott said suddenly; "his wife would steady him down. His brain is teeming with plans and schemes and impossible theories which he tries to carry out as fast as they come to him. I don't know why he doesn't marry?"

"I think I can tell you," said Barbara slowly; "he is so busy thinking about other people and doing things to help them, that he has no time to think about himself or his needs. I consider Stuart one of the most purely unselfish men that I have ever met!"

"Well, this model village is ridiculous! Lord Ennismore will lose thousands over it. The people don't want to live in the country when they can have the chance of living in the town. Do you think a woman wouldn't rather have an oil and grocery store round the corner, and the baker, and butcher, and milkman all close to her hand, instead of having to trudge two miles into the town to get what she wants? It isn't sufficiently in the country to be independent of the town."

"Oh, I don't see that," said Barbara; "bakers and butchers would call with their carts, of course!"

"And it's to be a village of crocked-up men—not a sound one in the community! It's to be hoped the women will make up their deficiencies. We won't talk about it any more. I really don't care what he does with himself once he has left me."

"But is he going to leave you?"

Mrs. Bonnycott looked a little ashamed of herself as she said—

"I told him he shouldn't stay in my house when he gave up the agency. He has thrown me over with a month's notice—so I have done the same."

"I hope you'll think better of that," said Barbara.

The old lady turned to Damaris.

"And how are you getting on, my dear? It is quite delightful to see you sit quietly there with your needlework. No young people will sit still nowadays. You haven't this craze for doing men's work, have you?"

Damaris smiled.

"I don't know, Mrs. Bonnycott: I have hardly settled in yet. But I think it's quite right of Mr. Maitland to do all the work he can. Perhaps I haven't a right to give my opinion. I have been listening to you all, but it seems to me that Mr. Maitland is the man for Lord Ennismore. He is a good architect, and he is artistic as well, and practical, and has a way of getting everyone to do what he wants—"

"Not his aunt," interrupted Mrs. Bonnycott.

"Don't you think yourself that he will have full scope for all his energies and abilities?"

"I want his energies and abilities spent upon 'my' property," said Mrs. Bonnycott stubbornly.

She went away declaring that she would strike him out of her will, and have nothing more to do with him.

Yet in a few days' time, Barbara told Damaris that there was no question of his leaving his aunt's, and that she was as good friends with him as ever.

"He will be within easy reach of Lord Ennismore, and can ride over every day. Mrs. Bonnycott is like that. She raises a rumpus, and subsides as soon as she recovers her breath."

Stuart did not come over to the Hall so often now, and both Barbara and Damaris missed him.

He and Lord Ennismore meant business; and plans and prospectuses for the model village were promptly drawn up. Both men thought and acted quickly.

One day, Lord Ennismore arrived over and showed Barbara the completed plans. Every detail had been worked out, and Barbara gasped at the rapidity with which it had all been done.

"You'll run up the village like the Americans," she said laughingly; "and yet I think the English labourer will keep you back. You won't move him quickly, and both you and Stuart must reserve a good stock of patience for when you come to deal with them."

"Do you know that people have got ear of it, and I have already fifty applications for my cottages."

"Not fifty disabled soldiers?"

"No; a few others have thought fit to apply, being relatives of disabled soldiers. Two or three widows want to come. But my village is for married couples—and I make no exceptions."

Damaris took a great interest in the scheme. Sir Mark laughed at it, as did many of the neighbouring gentry. Barbara approved of it, and her advice and sympathy were very welcome to both Lord Ennismore and Stuart.

Then Mrs. Dashwood returned to the village with her little boy, and Damaris was not long in renewing her acquaintance with her.

She spent a long day at the Rectory soon after her return, and told her of the talk she had had with Mrs. Patch.

"It has made a big change in my life," Damaris said. "I have been longing to talk to some one about it. Aunt Barbara would not understand. I am always shy of speaking to her about serious things, but it seems the most natural thing in the world when am I with you."

"That's as it should be," said Mrs. Dashwood, with her charming smile, "for it is what matters most to us."

"And I'm longing to talk to you about my life," went on Damaris earnestly. "You know, in London, I felt almost in prison—I could do nothing, go nowhere. Here it is different, my grandfather is so good to me. He is always saying he wants me to enjoy myself; but I feel I am leading a very idle lazy life at present. I don't want to circle round myself. I want to do something really useful—something for God. What can I do?"

"Are you looking about for a big thing, or would you be content to do the little things close at hand?"

"I think I should like a big thing best," said Damaris frankly.

"Why not begin with small things? Take a Sunday class and talk to the children about the love of our Lord for them? Take one or two of our sick people in your charge and visit them and talk to them, and don't be afraid to pray with them. I can give you lots of work. My husband is not strong, as you know, and I love to imagine myself his curate."

Damaris did not look satisfied.

"You don't know what a longing I have to go out into the world and work?" she said. "All through the war, I had to sit still and see and read about all the splendid work that other girls were doing. And I am not really wanted at the Hall—Aunt Barbara does the housekeeping and helps grandfather with some of his accounts. They are very good to me—but they don't really want me."

"And what work would you like to do?"

"I don't know. I want you to tell me. I don't think I could be a missionary, for I am so stupid at languages."

"We must think about it. You young things always want to start out at once and attack giants! Meanwhile, till this big bit of work is developed, will you take a Sunday class and help me a little in the village?"

"Yes; I will do my best. You will help me, I know."

Damaris found that with Mrs. Dashwood at home there was always plenty going on. She started her class and helped as much as she could in village matters.

Barbara made no comment. As she had truly said to Damaris, her motto was, "Live and let live." She and her father were hunting now; and Damaris saw little of them on their hunting days.

Sir Mark had wanted to give her a horse, but at present Damaris was shy of learning to ride. She had never been accustomed to horses and was nervous of them. Her grandfather told her when the hunting season was over, he would take her in hand himself and teach her how to ride.

And Damaris was very happy in her quiet way. She rather enjoyed the days when she had the Hall to herself. Sometimes Eddie Dashwood came up and spent the day with her. More often she went to the Rectory. And when she was not busy, she would take the dog out for a run over the common, and thoroughly enjoy herself.

BARBARA'S ENGAGEMENT

AUTUMN gave place to winter. November was a wet cold month, then December came in with a long spell of frost, and all hunting was stopped. Barbara was more at home, and there were many days when she and Damaris sat in deep armchairs over cheery wood fires occupied with their books and needlework.

Upon one of these afternoons, Damaris suddenly looked up and said—

"Aunt Barbara, I want to talk to you. I am very happy here—don't think I am not—but it really is too idle a life for me. Would you and grandfather think it dreadful of me if I went away and did some work? I want to do something. Of course, I should like to feel that this was my home, and that I could come and go as I liked. But, you see, I am not needed, am I? I just eat and sleep and have a comfortable time, and I want to do more with my life than that!"

Barbara looked at her in silence for a moment, then she said—

"Is this some sudden thought? I expect Mrs. Dashwood has been trying to convert you."

Damaris coloured up at once.

"Mrs. Dashwood advises me to stay where I am for the present."

"That is good advice." There was another silence, then Barbara said, "What kind of work do you want to take up? Nursing? Slumming? Religious work, or merely philanthropical?"

Damaris hesitated. Then, with an effort, she said—

"I see things differently to what I did, Aunt Barbara. I want to do religious work if I can. I have wanted to be one of the world's workers for a long time. I have never done anything all these years but live for myself; now I want to do something better."

"I am afraid father won't approve. He is old-fashioned in his ideas. I wanted to do something for the Red Cross during the war, but he set his face against it, and I could not well leave him. You had better speak to him about it after dinner. Of course I know most girls have got this craze for work away from their homes. I wonder you did not start it after your uncles' deaths."

"I did not understand things as I do now," said Damaris.

"Oh, well, if it's religious conviction, I've nothing to say," said Barbara bluntly. "As far as I'm concerned, you could go to-morrow. But having gone through all this fuss of finding your relations, and settling down with them, it seems funny that you should want to be up and off again."

Tears crowded into Damaris's eyes.

"I suppose grandfather would think it ungrateful of me."

"Oh, I don't know. Talk to him about it. I have nothing to say in the matter."

Barbara would say no more.

But before dinner, Damaris told her that she did not think she would speak to her grandfather that night.

"It is cowardly of me, but I would not like to hurt his feelings. And as I have formulated no ideas yet, I will wait until I hear of something."

"All right," said Barbara. "I shall say nothing. You may be certain of that."

But, about ten days afterwards, Lord Ennismore came to lunch. And in the afternoon, he and Barbara went for a walk together.

When she came in, she shut herself up in her boudoir for an hour, then sent for Damaris.

"I want to speak to you. Are you still panting for a busier life?"

Damaris smiled.

"I am trying not to pant for it, but to wait for it," she said.

"Well, you know I'm not a person who beats about the bush," Barbara said, "so I may as well tell you that I have been worried for some years now by Lord Ennismore to marry him. I have refused him again and again. First and foremost, because I do not want to become a stepmother. I hated mine so much that I fear old scores will be paid off on me by his daughters. Secondly, because I could not leave my father. Perhaps I should put that as my first reason. Now it has struck me that if you will take my place and look after him and the house, I am free to go. You will not feel then that you are leading a useless existence, for I can tell you it takes a bit of doing. I'm perfectly certain there'll be ructions between you and father if you want to go slumming or anything of that sort. If you'll content yourself with doing my job, I'll be off. I'm not only thinking of myself, but Horace has been wasting all his years waiting for me; and now he has this village scheme on, I know I could help him to run it smoothly. Take your time to think it over."

Damaris felt bewildered. Her aunt's matter of fact way of talking generally amused her; now it almost stunned her.

"Oh!" she said. "It will be a heavy responsibility. How grandfather will miss you! I can never, never take your place! But of course I have no right to make any objections. I will do my best. I don't want time to think it over. How can I say no? I'm not afraid of the housekeeping part of it—I had plenty of experience in that way at my uncles'—but I am afraid of grandfather. You do so much estate business with him. Will he be patient with me till I get into the way of it?"

"I can soon give you the hang of that," said Barbara. "You must spend an hour every morning with me when I'm interviewing Blake our agent."

"I'll do my very best. Oh, Aunt Barbara, may I say how glad I am for you."

Barbara laughed.

"The romance has gone, Damaris. I am too old to enjoy the thought of the change. But Horace and I know each other through and through, and we shall get along very comfortably."

"Poor Mr. Gore!" murmured Damaris.

"Now, who has been stuffing you with that nonsense?" said Barbara, a little shortly.

"Mrs. Bonnycott told me he was fond of you."

"Ridiculous! Mr. Gore is only fond of his insects and birds. We are good friends—but my love of hunting and his dislike of it would bar any close intercourse together. Well, we've settled everything up, and now I'll write to Horace and have a talk with father."

Barbara went away whistling softly to herself, and Damaris slipped up to her own room, where she sat down before her fire, and surveyed with dismay the destruction of her hopes.

"It must be right. Aunt Barbara has spent all her youth in doing what she asks me to do now. But it isn't a high ideal of service. I wonder what Mrs. Dashwood will say. I am afraid she will not pity me. She always puts home ties and duties first, and says God's will and work are foremost there."

Her impulse was to go straight off to the Rectory then and there and tell Mrs. Dashwood everything, but she knew she could not do that, till she had her aunt's leave to do so. So she did what was a much better thing—she took the whole matter to God upon her knees, and asked to be made willing to do His will—even if she were to be debarred a life of active service in the mission field at home or abroad.

Sir Mark took the news with great equanimity of soul.

"I'm glad you're going to make Ennismore happy at last," he said. "You've been long enough making up your mind! And what the dickens I shall do without you I don't know! But Damaris and I will pull along somehow."

"Oh, yes," cried Damaris eagerly; "I mean to do all I can to fill Aunt Barbara's place. And she won't be living very far away from us, will she? If I do get into difficulties, I shall just go over to her."

"Of course—of course. You must learn how to housekeep before she leaves us."

"I am not afraid of that. I kept house for my uncles for so many years—"

"Tut!" exclaimed Sir Mark hastily. "Don't compare that city life of yours to ours here!"

Damaris flushed hotly.

"We had a big house, and a good many maids," she said, with a little resentment in her tone.

"I don't wish to hear anything about that time," said Sir Mark, still irritable.

"There is nothing to be ashamed of in it!" Damaris said, and she quitted the room as she spoke.

"Dash the girl!" exclaimed Sir Mark. "She's strutting away with her head up like a little turkey-cock."

"Father, you must try and not abuse those uncles of hers," said Barbara. "Remember they gave her a home from the time she was a baby."

"City people! City people!" muttered Sir Mark. "And hadn't the grace to leave the child a penny."

When next he saw Damaris, she came up to him in a pretty contrite fashion.

"Forgive me, grandfather, for getting so hot, but I must be loyal towards my uncles. They did a great deal for me."

"Yes, yes; we'll say no more about it, my dear."

The little cloud passed, but Barbara, in her straightforward fashion, spoke to Damaris about it.

"Don't vex your grandfather by mentioning your father's relations. It only upsets him and does no good."

"But he seems to think them beneath his notice. And they were not. They were courteous and kind and thorough gentlemen. Do I show traces of vulgarity? They brought me up. I don't feel inferior to you; and I shall never, never look down upon my own father."

Barbara smiled at the heat of her tones. "You're so young," she said. "Nobody wants you to look down upon your father's people; but we simply don't care to hear about them—at least father does not. You are quite right to be loyal to your uncles' memories, but don't discuss them with us. You will find, as you go through life, that it's best to make for peace, and avoid anything that raises dust. And I don't want you to forget that father has a weak heart, and that his doctor has warned us against letting him excite himself."

"I did not know that," said Damaris, penitently. "But why do you let him hunt?"

"He would break his heart if he did not. He hunts quietly, and a certain amount of exercise is good for him."

Barbara's engagement made a great stir in the neighbourhood.

Stuart arrived over at once, and made his advent known by sitting down at the piano and playing the Wedding March in a very spirited fashion.

When he saw Damaris, he shook his head at her.

"Ah! You're the cause of Barbara's resolve to leave us. I shall lose my lifelong friend now, for I'm not very fond of married women, especially in the first years of married life. I consider she is forsaking me as well as her father. Do you feel equal to taking on Barbara's friends as well as her household duties?"

"I don't feel equal to any of it," said Damaris in a forlorn tone. "I mean to do my best, but it will be a poor best, I'm afraid. I wish you would play something to comfort me. That Wedding March makes me feel miserable."

She and he were alone in the library. She and Barbara had been upstairs together, doing some accounts in Damaris's boudoir, and Barbara had sent her down when she heard the sound of the piano.

"Keep him quiet till I come. I must write a note before I see him."

So Stuart began one of his soothing melodies, and Damaris sat in a low chair by the fire, with her hands loosely clasped in her lap, and her eyes heavy with thought. His keen quick eye passed over her dainty little figure, and then he spoke.

"I don't know that I want you for a friend. I have too many."

Damaris started; then, realising what he had said, she laughed.

"It takes two to make a compact of friendship," she said, "so your statement is premature."

"Oh, I know it sounds uncivil, and if you only saw into my mind, you would know it was anything but that. Friendship is very hollow and uncertain, and most unsatisfactory."

"Very well, we'll have nothing to do with it," said Damaris derisively.

"You sound rather nasty. I want something better than friendship with you."

He drowned his last words in some passionate chords, then broke into some weird Russian fugues, and Damaris listened with a fascination which took her entirely away from herself and surroundings. Then Barbara came in and the spell was broken.

Stuart left the piano, and he and Barbara pulled two deep lounge chairs before the fire and commenced discussing the model village. Damaris left them. She had a good many heart sinkings about the future, but bravely kept them to herself.

Christmas came, and with it a great deal of entertaining at the Hall. Sir Mark's eldest son and family all came to stay. Maurice, the naval son, was home on leave, and Walter came down from town.

Damaris felt almost bewildered at first amongst all her new relations. But their frank kindly acceptance of her soon put her at ease. The only one who held a little aloof from her was Mrs. Herbert Murray. She was a very pretty young woman and accustomed to much attention and homage; but she was not as a rule friendly with young girls, and she rather resented Damaris's presence there. When she heard of Barbara's engagement, she said rather sharply—

"I think Herbert and I had better come down for a bit when you leave your father. He must have somebody responsible here."

"Oh, Damaris is going to look after him," said Barbara placidly.

"That child! She looks like a schoolgirl! And from what I hear has had little opportunity for mixing in decent society."

"She has a clever head-piece of her own," said Barbara; "so spare yourself anxiety on that score, Ella."

"And you are going to make her mistress of the house?"

"Naturally, she will be, when I leave."

Ella said no more. She was an ambitious woman, and longed for the time when she herself would reign at the Hall.

Now she keenly criticised Damaris's every word and action, and the girl was conscious of it at once, and kept out of the elder woman's way as much as possible.

But she loved her little girl and boys, and was the greatest friends with them, taking them out upon the common for walks, and playing games with them in the old nursery at the top of the house.

It was the last evening of their stay. The big drawing-room was lighted up and full of guests, as Barbara had had a big dinner party, and Stuart had just been entertaining them with his music. Damaris was standing by his side, putting some music by, when Mrs. Herbert's clear voice came to them very distinctly. She was talking to a Lady Maria Leslie, one of the greatest gossips of the county.

"It's a mercy she takes after her mother—that was the item which appealed to Sir Mark—her father was a mere nobody; and she has been brought up by her father's people in the city. I tell Barbara it's a risky experiment bringing her forward in the way she does; one never feels sure of her. And I did hear she had had a very unsatisfactory love entanglement before she came here."

Damaris's cheeks flushed hotly, and such a fire shot into her eyes that for one instant Stuart thought she was going to lose control of herself. She met his glance, and her lips compressed in straight tense lines.

"Idle words never hurt," he said.

"They hurt more than a blow," retorted Damaris.

Then the fire died down in her eyes.

"I must live it down," she said; "my grandfather talks in that way sometimes—at least, he seems to think he has rescued me from a very low-class life and position. And as it is not a fact, it makes me very angry."

Stuart looked sympathetic. Then he said lightly—

"We've all something to bear, haven't we? It's good for us—otherwise we shouldn't be disciplined in self-control and endurance. Now my cross is that people will not take me seriously. I had a battle-royal to-day with a self-complacent builder, who kept saying, 'You will have your little joke, sir!' I could thankfully have throttled him, for I was bursting with savage earnestness."

Damaris smiled. Her moment of passion was over. When, a few minutes after, Mrs. Herbert spoke to her, she answered her serenely and sweetly.

But Stuart's quick understanding and sympathy brought a warmth to her heart. And then he said good-night to her, and added sotto voce—

"Cheer up! We all know Mrs. Herbert, and she goes to-morrow."

She responded instantly—

"I shall forget all about it. What a nice understanding kind of person you are!"

And when he had gone she said to herself—

"I wonder why he said he didn't want to be my friend. No others have shown themselves as friendly as he."

The Christmas party broke up, and then, a couple of months later, Barbara's marriage took place. It was very quiet, but Damaris had her hands full. And when it was all over, she went up to her room and had a quiet cry. She knew every one would miss her aunt, she most of all. Barbara's quiet cheeriness, and strong firm decision of character made her a very efficient ruler. And when Damaris found herself left alone, it needed all her pluck and courage to take up the reins of government, and try to be the companion of her grandfather that her aunt had been.

Mrs. Dashwood helped her very much at this juncture. She was so cheerfully confident that Damaris's duty was at home, and that her work for God lay there, that the girl herself came to believe it, and was content.

It was not always easy sailing. Sir Mark was irritable and impatient when things went wrong.

"If Barbara were here, it would not have happened," he would say. And there was often injustice in the complaint.

On the whole, he and Damaris got on very well together. She learned to be patient with him when he was unreasonable and hot-tempered. He learnt to be patient with her when she was slow in comprehending his business matters.

The old servants loved Damaris. She had no difficulty in managing her housekeeping. And when Barbara came over for a short visit after her honeymoon, she was satisfied that Damaris was supplying her place very competently.

THE SQUIRE'S ACCIDENT

"GRANDFATHER, I want to ask you a favour."

Damaris and Sir Mark were breakfasting together. It was a lovely morning, the beginning of April. It was hardly an opportune moment, for Sir Mark was always short-tempered when the hunting ceased, and he had taken his last run the day before.

"What is it? More money?" he asked shortly.

"Oh dear no! It is only to ask you if you will mind my having a friend to stay with me. I have heard from her, and she has been ill of the flu and has been ordered to the country to have a thorough rest."

"We don't want the flu brought here."

"Oh, she is well from that. I say a friend, but she's really a cousin; I have not known her for very long."

"Now, look here, Damaris! What did I tell you about your father's relations? I'll have nothing to do with them. Most certainly I shall not have them here as our guests. I am surprised that you should ask such a thing!"

"But why should you condemn her when you haven't seen her? I know you would like her. She is clever, and nice in every way."

Sir Mark uttered an expletive which sounded like an oath; he thumped his fist down on the table, and grew almost purple in the face. Damaris, remembering her aunt's warnings that she was not to let him become excited, was filled with contrition.

"I'm sorry, grandfather. I hoped you would let me have her. You will not mind, of course, if I get her lodgings in the village?"

"She shall not enter this house; you quite understand? I'm master here, and I shall see that I'm obeyed."

"I always mean to obey you," Damaris said gently.

Sudden silence fell between them. Sir Mark's anger faded away as quickly as it came, but Damaris did not like to see the pinched grey shadows that stole over his face. He occupied himself with his newspaper and letters for the rest of the meal. When it was over, Damaris went swiftly round to him.

"Please forgive me," she said sweetly.

"All right; all right; but remember you are a Murray now, not a Hartbrook. I would you did not bear the name. It is loathsome to me."

Damaris checked the sigh that rose within her. She could never get accustomed to hear her father's name slighted, and was keenly disappointed that she might not ask Nellie to the house. Miss Hardacre had written to her and told her how unwell Nellie was, and how she could not be persuaded to go away from town.

Later in the day, she met Stuart when she was out with the dogs on the common. She did not often see him in the week. He and Barbara and Lord Ennismore were all working at the model village, and pushing the building on with all their might and main. But every Sunday Stuart came over to lunch. The Squire looked for him. He sat with him after lunch in the smoking-room till tea-time, then he attached himself to Damaris. They went to evening church together, and sometimes took a stroll before it.

And Damaris began to look for his coming. He might say he did not want to be her friend, but he proved a very sympathetic listener, and a good comrade in the best sense of the word.

Now, as he rode across the common, he pulled up at the sight of her.

"Anything wrong?" he inquired, with a quick glance at her face.

Damaris smiled, but her misty eyes betrayed her.

"Nothing that matters," she said. "I only wanted something, and made grandfather angry by asking for it. Oh, I can tell you in a moment. A cousin of mine is ill and has nowhere to rest. She is not well off, and I thought of the empty rooms at the Hall, so comfortable and sunny, and longed to have her. Of course, as she is a Hartbrook, it is impossible. I shall try to get her lodgings in the village—only she is very proud—and she will persist in paying, and I did not want her to have any expenses."

"If I see a way out of your difficulty, I'll drop you a line," said Stuart cheerfully.

Damaris laughed. His bright face always did her good.

"I don't think even you can help me in this case," she said.

"Well, now, will you do something for me? Get the Squire to ask young Lancaster over to dine one night. He finds his evenings dull, and the Squire always likes young chaps about him."

"I'll ask him, of course," said Damaris promptly. "I haven't met him yet. What is he like? And is he getting on at Fallerton? Does he like it there?"

"He would if my dear aunt left him more alone. She bullies him a bit, and throws me at his head till he hates the sight of me."

"Oh, I know. That is how I feel when grandfather quotes Aunt Barbara. And yet I really love her."

They parted, and Damaris pursued her way.

The next day came a note from Mrs. Bonnycott asking Damaris for Nellie's address.

"I want help badly for a bazaar that I'm responsible for, and, from what I hear, your cousin would just suit me. I am going to ask her on a visit. I know I shall end my days by being in bondage to a tyrannical companion. I feel I want somebody to talk to when things go wrong. I really meant to have you, only you disappeared so quickly and then turned up in another guise."

Damaris was astonished at Stuart's promptness in befriending her, but was very doubtful whether Nellie would accept such an invitation.

However, in a few days' time, Nellie wrote to her saying that Mrs. Bonnycott had written her such an exceedingly kind letter that she could not refuse.

"Of course, she does it for your sake," wrote Nellie. "Does she expect to see another Damaris walk in? I fear she will be grievously disappointed if she does. But I have accepted. I gather that I shall be on one side of a big common, and you the other. Shall we meet in the middle of it one day?"

Damaris felt intensely relieved when she read this letter. Then she cheerfully tackled her grandfather about Geoffrey Lancaster.

Sir Mark acquiesced at once.

"Yes; ask him over any evening. I have a great respect for his father, and the lad is all right—only kicked against making up drugs and sawing bones and all the rest of it. Small blame to him!"

So young Geoffrey Lancaster came to the Hall, and, as was only natural, fell violently in love with Damaris. She was amused with his open admiration at first, then she got uneasy and annoyed. Whenever he had leisure, he would appear at the Hall. Damaris took him to task one day.

"Do you know this is the third time you have been over this week? Do you find you can leave your work so often?"

"But I had to come over here to have my horse shod."

"You have a smithy at Fallerton."

"Old Luke is dotty, and his son is laid up. Don't you want to see me?"

"I don't want you to fail Mrs. Bonnycott."

"I am sure Maitland used to be over here pretty often. He and Lady Ennismore were always together. I used to think they would make a match of it."

"It's getting such a busy time on the farms," said Damaris.

"Yes; I'm up and out at five every morning. And I can tell you I do all the work and enjoy it. After London, it's heaven to be able to breathe again. Will you come for a ride? Sir Mark wants you to be at home in the saddle, doesn't he? I've ridden over. Let me tell them to bring your horse round, and we'll go over the common."

Damaris yielded. She had been out with her grandfather several times, and he had been very pleased with her progress. She found she was not nervous, and as her horse was quiet and steady she felt confidence in him.

Now, when she was mounted and going easily down the drive with Geoffrey, she realised how much she enjoyed it.

"I never saw any beginner sit a horse so easily as you do," Geoffrey exclaimed.

"Ah, wait till he breaks into trot!" she said, laughing. "But I want to learn to ride. I shall never hunt, but I want to ride out with my grandfather."

They chatted together about various things, and Stuart's name was mentioned.

Geoffrey's eyes glowed when he spoke of him.

"I owe him a debt I can never pay. There isn't a man in a thousand who would have taken hold of me as he did. He never talks or jaws at a fellow. He just acts. I can tell you I was pretty well at the end of everything, in town. I loathed my work, I loathed myself, and then he came along, bucked me up, put life and hope into me again, and never rested till he had handed his own job over to me—the very billet that I'm fitted for, I consider. Certainly the one I liked above all else!"

"He's always doing those kind of things Aunt Barbara says," said Damaris. "I know he has befriended me many a time."

"Who wouldn't?" exclaimed Geoffrey. "That is no feather in his cap, but with me it was different."

They were riding past a clump of blackthorns all in full blossom, and Damaris reined up her horse.

"Oh!" she cried. "I must have a branch of this lovely stuff."

"Look after your reins," Geoffrey called out.

In reaching up, she had dropped her reins. Her horse swerved; then, before she could reach them, he had broken away in a canter, and the next moment Damaris was thrown. Happily she fell on soft turf, but Geoffrey had an awful moment before he was able to reach her.

"Damaris! Damaris!" he cried. "Are you hurt? Oh, speak!"

For a moment, Damaris seemed stunned. Then she recovered herself and sat up. She smiled up into his anxious face.

"I have hurt my arm—but no bones broken. I assure you I am all right. Can you catch Firefly? He is munching the grass over there."

"Oh, blow Firefly! It is you I am thinking about."

He had dismounted, and was helping her to rise as he spoke.

"There, you see, I'm all right. I've only twisted or sprained my right wrist. Do catch Firefly. And I'll mount him again at once and go home. It was all my own fault. I'm not accustomed to riding, you know."

Geoffrey soon captured Firefly, and assisted Damaris to mount him. Then they rode home very slowly, and Geoffrey astounded Damaris by proposing to her on the way.

"I know you haven't seen much of me, but a day was long enough to show me where my heart was. And your accident has precipitated matters. I feel I must have the right to take care of you. It was horrible when I saw you pitch over your horse's head. I know my prospects are not much; but there are good agencies going and I daresay the Squire will help me, unless he kicks me out of the house for daring to speak to you. If I haven't money to offer you—I have a heart, and I'll work to get a home, if only you give me the least bit of hope."

"I am afraid I can't do that, Mr. Lancaster," said Damaris gravely but sweetly. "I am so sorry you have broken our friendship by speaking so. I could never be to you anything more than a friend. I am quite sure of this, and hope you'll understand. And I thank you very much. I'm sorry if my answer will disappoint you."

"Disappoint me!" cried poor Geoffrey. "It has cast me from heaven into hell. I've been too rash—I had better have waited."

"I'm afraid if you had waited twenty years, my answer would have been the same."

Geoffrey gave a groan.

"Is somebody else in the way? Maitland? Oh, forgive me—I don't know what I'm saying!"

Damaris's cheeks burned. Her arm was paining her, and she longed to be alone.

They rode back to the Hall in silence. Geoffrey was too dejected to say a word. He left her at the door. Damaris tried to say something, but could not. She had only known him such a short time that he had not only surprised her, but annoyed her by his sudden proposal.

"He's a mere boy; and how dare he insinuate—" she murmured to herself. "When I think of the two of them, and the difference in age and character and personality, it makes me furious!"

She wondered if she had inadvertently encouraged him by her friendly intercourse with him. She had liked him and felt sorry for him. He had no mother and rather a dreary home; his father was bitterly disappointed over his failure to pass his medical exams., and hardly took any notice of him.

Geoffrey almost lived at Fallerton Manor. Mrs. Bonnycott insisted upon a good deal of supervision of her property, and did not yet believe in his capability to act alone. Stuart was the only one who believed in him; but Stuart was much engrossed with the model village, and was away the greater part of the week.

In two days' time, Damaris met her cousin, and they were genuinely pleased to see each other again. Nellie looked white and very thin, but she told Damaris that she found the Fallerton air life-giving. She had made a good impression upon Mrs. Bonnycott, who said to Damaris directly she saw her—

"She'll do, my dear! A real sensible girl! Wears low heels and looks you in the face when she speaks to you!"

When the girls were alone, Nellie said—

"She's an old dear. I always do like old ladies, as you know. And, of course, I'm in the lap of luxury, which is foreign to my Spartan nature, but is pleasing, all the same."

"And what do you think of Mr. Maitland—'The idle rich young man who plays at farming'? Do you remember how you talked in London about men and their purposeless lives?"

"He plays divinely!" said Nellie with a little smile. "He came in late last night and played in the dark. Mrs. Bonnycott let me prop the library door open to listen. We were sitting there together, and he went into the music-room. I quite enjoyed it. Well, he isn't asleep! and is awfully keen on his village. The other young man puzzles me. The first day I came, he was a jolly happy boy. Two days ago, he returned from a ride, and has been in the depths of melancholy ever since."

Damaris said nothing, but Nellie's sharp eyes detected a slight confusion in her manner.

"He told me he often sees you," Nellie went on. "I hope you don't keep him away from his work. Is his melancholy due to the hurt you received in your arm the other day?"

"Oh, that's nothing. I've only strained the muscles. No, if you must know, Nellie, he wants me to be more than friends with him, and I cannot. He is taking it hardly, but I really gave him no encouragement."

"The ridiculous youth! How angry your grandfather would be! Is he ambitious for you, Damaris? This boy hasn't a penny to bless himself with. I'm glad to know the reason of his sulkiness. I'll try to brighten him up. How do you get on with your grandfather?"

"Very well, on the whole." A little flush came into her cheeks. "I had better tell you, Nellie. He still hates my father's family. He wouldn't let me ask you to the house. He won't even let anyone call me Miss Hartbrook, he hates the name so! I am 'Miss Damaris' to the servants. It is quite a mania with him. This is one of my trials."

Nellie looked grave.

"Does he know I have come to stay here?"

"Oh, yes; I mentioned it. But you will understand if I can't ask you to the house."

"Oh, that's all right. I'm glad you told me. How antiquated and foolish these old country squires are. Well—we can meet on the common, can't we? And I mean to be busy; Mrs. Bonnycott will keep me at it, I know."

They spent a couple of happy hours together, and agreed to meet again before long.

A week later, Sir Mark met with an accident out riding. Unlike Damaris, he did not escape so easily. He was trying a new horse, and insisted on taking it out himself. Damaris stood on the terrace, and felt a little uneasy as she watched it kicking and plunging.

"I don't believe Aunt Barbara would let you go off alone," she said, trying to speak lightly. "Won't you take Dawkins with you?"

"I am not in my dotage yet," was the testy reply; "when I can't manage a horse, I'll take to my bed. Run indoors, child, and don't worry me. He's a hard-mouthed brute, I'm afraid."

He applied his spurs lightly, and his horse plunged down the drive at a reckless pace.

Damaris felt uneasy, and Dawkins, the old groom, said doubtfully—

"The master has got a handful there; but if any one will tame him, he will."

Damaris went indoors, but she could settle to nothing.

"It's so bad for his heart," she said to herself. "I wish he would come back."

But the afternoon wore away, and he did not return.

At tea-time she became so anxious, that she sent off Dawkins in search of him.

When seven o'clock arrived and he did not return, she was convinced that some accident had happened. And then she heard the sound of hoofs outside on the gravel, and, running to the door, found Dawkins holding a note out to the old butler.

"Have you found the Squire?" she asked Dawkins sharply.

"Yes, miss. He's had a spill—but nothing very serious. He's laid up at Fallerton Manor, and the doctor has been and says he must stay there for the night. The horse is there too."

"I must go to him at once!"

But when she opened Mrs. Bonnycott's note, she found she was not wanted.

   "MY DEAR DAMARIS,—I have your grandfather safe and sound in bed in my best spare room. No bones broken; but he had a tumble and a heart attack. Your cousin found him and brought him here. Dr. Lancaster has been, and says he can return home to-morrow, so don't be anxious. He sends you his love, and tells you there is no need to worry or come over. He will be home, if all is well, to-morrow morning. No time for more. We will take good care of him.

"Yours affectionately,

"KITTY BONNYCOTT."

Damaris had dinner alone, and spent a miserable evening. She wondered if her aunt would have been content to stay at home, or whether she would not have gone to her father at once.

She had a sleepless night, and was disappointed to hear nothing by the postman.

But at ten o'clock, just as she had finished her breakfast, Stuart walked in.

A DIFFICULT TIME

DAMARIS welcomed him eagerly.

"Oh, how good of you! How pleased I am to see you! You always seem to turn up when I am in the depths. How is grandfather? I am so anxious."

"Your face tells me that. Cheer up! He's as well as can be expected. What a rash old chap he is! I've advised him to send the horse straight back to the dealers. He is not fit for an elderly man with a weak heart."

"Yes, it's his heart that troubles me. Is he really bad?"

"Better this morning; he didn't have a very good night. What a trump your cousin is; she sat up all night with him. Lancaster won't let him move from bed till to-morrow."

"Then he isn't coming home to-day?" Damaris said in a forlorn voice.

Stuart looked at her. She stood at the open window, looking very fresh and sweet in a cream serge skirt and silk shirt. Her lips quivered a little as she spoke, and Stuart felt a sudden longing to take her into his arms and comfort her. But he answered in his usual light-hearted fashion—

"Oh, that's nothing! What would you feel if I told you he was laid up for a couple of months? And if you put on your hat, we'll walk right across the common together, and you can see the Squire with your own eyes."

Damaris's face brightened.

"I'll come at once. If I can see him, I shall feel better. And ought not Barbara to know?"

"I'll tell her when I get over. She's coming out to the village this morning. I'm meeting Ennismore there at twelve. As a matter of fact, Aunt Kitty sent the groom over last night to give her the news. And if she is the least anxious, she'll be over there by this time."

In a few moments, they were walking down the drive.

To distract her mind, Stuart began to talk about his work and his model village. Damaris listened with real interest. Just before they reached Fallerton, he said—

"Have you and Geoffrey quarrelled? I thought you were such good friends. I suggested that he should ride over this morning and reassure your mind about the Squire, but he did not seem to see it."

Damaris's little head was raised at once.

"I think he was over here too much—neglecting his work."

Stuart laughed.

"Youth will gravitate towards youth."

"You might be my grandfather," said Damaris a little mischievously.

"Do I speak like him?"

"Sometimes. You are apt to treat me like a child."

"You are not very old yet. I only speak as a friend."

"But," said Damaris quickly, "you told me you never wanted to be my friend."

Stuart threw up his hands and laughed. "So I did! What a memory you have."

"It rather hurt my feelings."

He stopped still and looked at her.

For an instant Damaris's heart beat rapidly. What was he going to say? Then she continued, talking hurriedly—

"How do you like my cousin? I'm very fond of her. I wish grandfather would know her."

"He does. She practically saved his life. You will hear all about it from her."

They had crossed the common, and Nellie met them at the door of the Manor.

She took Damaris straight to the morning-room, in which she helped Mrs. Bonnycott with her correspondence and did all sorts of odd jobs.

"You can't go up just yet to Sir Mark, for he has fallen asleep, and it is so important for him to sleep that we must not disturb him. Mrs. Bonnycott has gone out into the village with her dog."

"Then we can have a good talk. Do tell me all about it, Nellie. I hear you helped him after his accident. Tell me everything."

"There isn't much to tell. I was going across the common not very far from here, but in rather an unfrequented part, when a rider suddenly passed me. Of course, it was your grandfather. It struck me that he was trying to pull in his horse very ineffectually; and then suddenly the horse plunged and reared, and Sir Mark fell. He recovered himself instantly, and was upon his feet again, gripping the bridle. I came up, and noticed that he looked awfully ill. His face was blue-grey and drawn with pain. Directly he saw me, he cried out—

"'Here, young woman, catch hold of this brute. He won't hurt you. I've given him a good gallop, and he ought to be tired out.'

"I caught hold of the reins at once. I've always been fond of horses, and I suppose they know it. Anyhow, directly I began stroking his nose, he stopped dancing round.

"'You are ill, sir,' I said.

"And your grandfather gasped—

"'It's my confounded heart! I shall be all right in a minute; but I can't mount till this attack is over.'

"'You mustn't mount at all,' I said decidedly. 'We're not very far from Mrs. Bonnycott's. I will lead the horse, if you think you can follow slowly on foot; or will you sit down and wait here, and I'll take the horse on and come back for you?'

"'I'll rest a bit, and come on. I know my way,' he said.

"He's a plucky old gentleman, isn't he? I saw he was in agony, but I could do nothing. I longed to be able to ride, for I should have galloped away for assistance at once. But I hurried as much as I could. I made him comfortable at the foot of a tree, left him my golf cape to sit upon, as I know the old have to be wary of getting rheumatism. I was never more thankful in my life than when I got my fiery steed safe into the stable and left him in charge of the groom. Then I made them turn out the low pony-trap with lightning speed, and the groom came with me.

"We found your grandfather rather bad. I'd brought some brandy in a flask, and we gave him some, and then we lifted him into the trap and drove him gently here. Mrs. Bonnycott was a trump—didn't fuss—sent for the doctor, and we got him to bed, where he has been ever since. Dr. Lancaster says he might have collapsed altogether. He had been straining his heart a good bit, trying to manage his steed, and then this attack followed. He had another attack last night, and I'm afraid he won't be right for some time. But he's wild to get home, and the doctor says he must be humoured as much as possible. It's rather funny I should be the one to find him, eh? I don't think he knows who I am; but he and I are quite pals—I sat up with him—and he turns to me as if I'm a nurse."

"Poor grandfather! Oh, I hope it's nothing serious. I know his heart has been weak for a long time."

"Dr. Lancaster says he ought to have given up hunting long ago. He warned him against it. He said he was trying to kill himself. But he told me—and I think you ought to know—that your grandfather will never be able to ride or hunt again. 'He's done for himself at last,' he said."

"Oh, Nellie, how awful!" Damaris's cheeks blanched. "If he knows it, the news is enough to kill him."

"But he doesn't know it, and we needn't tell him at present."

Damaris was almost stunned by the bad news. She knew better than Nellie how large a part of her grandfather's life was devoted to his horses. And she hardly dared think about his feelings when he knew his fate.

She talked on to Nellie in a desultory sort of fashion. Her heart and thoughts were with her grandfather upon his sick bed.

At last, Nellie left her, saying—

"Brown, Mrs. Bonnycott's maid, is sitting with him—she's very useful in illness. I will see if he is still sleeping."

She returned almost immediately.

"Come along. He is awake and would like to see you. Be quite cheerful, won't you?"

Damaris did not feel very cheerful, but she managed to give Sir Mark one of her sweet smiles as she stooped to kiss him.

"It is bad luck," she said, "but you look very comfortable."

Sir Mark tried to raise his head, then dropped it on the pillow again.

"This fool of a doctor is drugging me—I know he is—and it keeps me drowsy. Listen, Damaris. I'm coming back to-morrow, but I want you to see Blake to-morrow morning as usual, and tell him that I've considered Benton's offer to take over the six-acre field at Long Corner, and I'll let him have it."

"Yes, grandfather; and don't worry about anything. I'll carry on till you come home."

"And tell Dawkins to exercise Mercury daily. I broke him in a bit, but he needs a lot of riding." Then, after a pause, he said, "Are you alone in the room?"

Nellie had been standing just inside the door. She now promptly disappeared.

"Yes, we're alone," Damaris replied.

"A wonderful sensible girl is staying here—who is she? For clear common sense she beats any woman I've known. She tackled Mercury as if she'd been used to horses all her life, and yet she can't ride. And she's nursed and looked after me like a professional. A nice voice too—low and clear and to the point in everything she says."

"She's my cousin," said Damaris quietly. "Nellie Hartbrook."

Sir Mark gazed at her in silence for a moment, then he smiled.

"You've scored a point!" he said.

"I'm glad she was the one to help you, grandfather. I wanted you to know her."

"Yes—yes—well—character tells—sometimes more than name."

He lay still after this. Then there was a little stir outside, and Barbara appeared.

Damaris slipped away, for she knew he ought to be kept as quiet as possible. She told Nellie that her identity was now known, and they laughed over the little incident together.

Later on, Damaris returned home. Barbara looked at her with grave thoughtfulness as she wished her good-bye.

"If Dr. Lancaster is right, you will have a trying time before you, Damaris," she said; "I know what father is like when he is laid up. He is a very bad patient. If you get into difficulties, wire for me, and I'll come over. In any case, I'll come and see how he is getting on in a few days' time. Symon understands him and loves nursing. Let him do it, father hates trained nurses."

She gave her a few more directions.

Damaris listened quietly.

"I will do my best," she said, trying to speak cheerfully.

And then she went back to the Hall feeling that the sunshine across the common, the blue sky, the larks soaring up and trilling out their ecstatic songs were all a mockery when the old man who loved it all had received his death knell, and would never ride across the common any more.

The Squire was driven home the next day in his own comfortable brougham; but he had to be carried to his bed, and for some weeks he was seriously ill. Then he slowly began to recover, and it was during his convalescence that Damaris felt the strain most.

Barbara had been over continually, and Mrs. Dashwood had helped a good deal. The Squire was always glad to see her, and she had a most soothing effect upon him when he was impatient and irritable. But neither of them had the continual strain of keeping things going to his satisfaction, and it was on Damaris's shoulders that most of the burden rested.

Nothing would satisfy Sir Mark. Sometimes he would send for his granddaughter to scold and complain and bemoan his useless existence. Nothing that she could do or say would be right; and if crossed in the slightest thing, he would give way to a fit of temper which agitated and increased his sufferings.

One lovely afternoon, after a long morning in the sick-room, Damaris crept out into the garden feeling utterly spent and depressed. She turned into a shady walk, and reaching a secluded corner where a seat was placed under an old beech tree, she seated herself upon it, and indulged in a fit of tears.

"I'm a failure," she assured herself; "I pray every day for patience, and every day I lose it. Grandfather does not like me. It is Aunt Barbara he needs, and she cannot always be here. And I make mistakes, and then, of course, he is angry. And if I show my feelings, and he thinks I am sorry for him, he gets angrier still. I don't know what to do, and how to talk to him!"

She started. Steps were coming along the path, and then a certain whistle made her spring to her feet and dry her tears hastily. It was Stuart. It was not often he came over in the week, and she expressed surprise as she greeted him.

"Well," he said, "I've taken half a day off, and I wondered if you would like to come out for a ride."

"I haven't ridden since grandfather's accident," said Damaris, a little colour stealing into her cheeks. "I shouldn't like to tell him that I had been doing it."

"Oh, but that's morbid. You are getting hipped. Don't turn your head away. I see there have been tears. Are things going wrong?"

Damaris held her head up bravely.

"I am tired and a little over-done. I don't think I could go out. Grandfather might want me."

"But Symon tells me you have been with him all the morning, and that he is resting now."

"Yes; but if he should wake and want me?"

"Then he could be told that you are out. My dear child, this is all wrong; you must have some time off. Now get into your habit, and I'll have your horse round. I insist! It's for the good of your health."

He would take no denial.

In a short time, Damaris was riding down the drive with him, and when they reached the common and met the fresh cool breezes across, she lifted up her face with a little gesture of delight.

Stuart exerted himself to entertain her. He was always amusing and interesting, and he took her right away from herself and the atmosphere of the sick-room.

Presently, she laughed outright.

"Oh, Mr. Maitland, you're doing me a lot of good! I shall believe that there is some enjoyment left in the world, after all. You don't know how down I was to-day. Everything seemed grey and impossible."

"And now you find that a ride in the open with a little fooling, has brought the sunshine back. You see how wise I was to drag you out!"

"It is when I am alone I get in the dumps. I wish I had Mrs. Dashwood's joyousness, and—and yours. You are two of the happiest people I have ever seen. I don't think I was born happy. It isn't my natural temperament."

"You're too much alone," said Stuart, looking at her sweet sensitive face, and realising how her present circumstances were telling upon her.

"I have always been that—always," Damaris said.

He was silent. Words that were burning on his tongue were kept back. This was neither the time nor season. He must wait. He rode back with her to the Hall.

"We'll have another ride next week," he said. "Meanwhile keep your spirits up, and in bucking yourself up, you'll buck up the Squire, too!"

Damaris nodded brightly as she left him, and went into the house.

The next afternoon, Barbara arrived over. She went in and sat with her father for nearly an hour. Then she came downstairs, and Damaris and she had their tea together out on the terrace. Damaris was conscious that her aunt was criticising her appearance rather closely.

"You're having a bad time, aren't you?" she said in her blunt downright fashion. "I think you must have somebody to stay with you. Have you no young friend who would come and keep you company?"

Damaris flushed and her eyes shone.

"There is Nellie," she said; "but Mrs. Bonnycott could not spare her. And I'm afraid that Nellie feels obliged to go back to her work as soon as possible; she won't give it up. Her whole soul is in it, and, now she is rested, she says she must go. I am so glad grandfather likes her. Perhaps at some future time, he might let me have her here on a visit. But, Aunt Barbara, I know whom I would really like to have. It's a Miss Hardacre; she's a little deformed old lady, but I love her and she loves me, and she was so good to me in London that I would do anything I could for her."

"Ask her down, by all means. She will do as chaperon, any way. If father says anything, tell him I think you ought to have one, though the race is nearly extinct nowadays. But now father is upstairs altogether, it is better you should have somebody with you. Is that young Lancaster over here much?"

"No—never now. I don't see anyone except Mr. Maitland sometimes."

"Oh, he is one of ourselves. I must be going, for the girls are home from school and they need a little supervision." Then, in a little burst of confidence, she added, "I'm not having a very good time myself. The girls have met Geoffrey Lancaster and want to see a lot of him, and their father objects; so I am acting the heavy stepmother and am encountering the same scowls that I used to treat my stepmother to. I see myself again in them so often. I was a brave woman to marry a widower."

"You are very happy," said Damaris smiling. "I wish I had your calm and cheerful serenity, Aunt Barbara. I worry so, when things go wrong."

"I see you do," said Barbara, looking at her gravely. "You are worrying yourself to fiddlestrings. And yet you gave me to understand some time ago that you had had some wonderful religious experience. Doesn't your religion help you?"

Sudden tears filled Damaris's eyes. Then she said in a low tone—

"I think if I had no religion, I should have run away long ago."

"It's your habit to run away from difficulties, isn't it?" Barbara said, smiling. "I remember you ran away from your uncle's house when you first came here; and then you ran away from me just at the critical moment. Well, I'm glad you haven't deserted your post now. And I can tell you for your comfort that father told me just now that you do his business as well as ever I did, and that Blake told him that you'd a 'wonderful head for figures.'"

Damaris laughed, but could not speak.

"Write to that old body this evening," Barbara added, "and get her to come to you at once."

It was only when Barbara was leaving that she enlightened Damaris as to why she had come over this particular afternoon.

"Stuart gave me such a bad account of you that I came off at once. He will be relieved, as well as myself, when you get your friend to come to you."

"I don't think it is Mr. Maitland's concern," said Damaris, a little stiffly.

"Stuff, child! Don't you know Stuart yet? He interferes with every man and woman he comes across. But I will say he generally leaves them the better for his interference!"

And Damaris thought so too, when she went back to the house and wrote her letter to Miss Hardacre.

THE LAST RIDE

"OH, I can't believe I've got you here! It's perfectly lovely to have you!"

A radiant Damaris was hugging Miss Hardacre at the station. It was five o'clock, and a hot August afternoon. The sun blazed down upon the platform, and, to Damaris's eyes, Miss Hardacre looked white and weary and smaller than ever. She had come herself to meet her in the brougham.

"I'm not quite sure whether I'm dreaming or not," said Miss Hardacre, with her whimsical smile.

And then when she was settled in the carriage and a soft cushion stuffed behind her back, she put her hand caressingly on Damaris's arm.

"Dear child, how sweet of you to have me! I can hardly believe it even now. And you're looking just the same. I have never lost sight of your small dark head and tiny oval face and your great starry eyes. I have sometimes shut my eyes and fancied you sitting beside me—but, oh, I was so thankful that you were not. I don't think you would have thrived in London this hot summer."

"I am sure you have not. A rim seems taken off you everywhere."

Damaris talked away gaily. Her heart ached for this old friend of hers—so small and frail and feeble—and she resolved to do all she could to make her happy and comfortable.

Miss Hardacre continued to feel in a dream—the cool shady drawing-room with its lovely flowers, the delicious tea awaiting them; and then the going up the old oak stairs, along a soft-carpeted corridor, to a lovely bed-room with a couch drawn near to the open window, and outside a view of the common with its purple heather stretching away to the horizon.

When Damaris insisted upon tucking her up on the couch, and leaving her there to rest from her journey, tears of joy stole down the withered cheeks, and she murmured to herself—

"It almost makes me believe in a loving God again to be blessed like this."

When Sir Mark saw his granddaughter's friend, he smiled grimly to himself. But before many days had passed, he grew to look for the old lady's visits to him.

"She has a mind," he told Damaris; "and she's a highly-respectable chaperon for you."

Damaris's cares set lightly on her now. The very fact that she had somebody to talk over all the worrying little details of her busy life made them seem insignificant.

She drove Miss Hardacre out in the low pony-cart across the common and along the lovely country lanes. She settled her in a cushioned arm-chair under the old beech trees upon the velvet lawn with her books and work, and left her there when she was occupied with her grandfather or with the bailiff in the study.

And after dinner, they would sit out on the terrace watching the moon rise, and talk of many things.

One evening, soon after Miss Hardacre came, Damaris touched on her new-born happiness of soul.

"You told me you had lost all your faith," she said softly; "I do want you to get it back again. It is all true, all real. Christ is living to-day with us all, and He makes His power felt. I suppose troubles are like big clouds hiding the sun, but the sun is there all the time. And God is watching us all, and holds the world in the hollow of His hand, and loves us through all our disbelief and want of faith, and indifference and rebellion. Oh, Miss Hardacre dear—I shall never rest till you get God's peace and love filling your heart."

Miss Hardacre listened with interest.

"I have loved your letters," she said; "but I am old and it seems too late. Enthusiasm and fire come so easily to the young—I am weary and care-worn."

Damaris turned upon her with shining eyes.

"And didn't our Lord speak to the old and weary when He said,—

   "'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"

The old familiar words seemed to strike Miss Hardacre in a new fresh sense. She murmured them over to herself, and, when she went to bed that night, got out her little Bible, which was so seldom used by her, and turned up the verse, reading it again and again.

The next day was Sunday. Was it by chance that Stuart, sitting down at the piano after tea, began playing, "Oh, Rest in the Lord."

Miss Hardacre leant back in her chair. As a girl, she had sung the refrain, and every word hammered itself against her brain as he played.

Stuart took to her at once, as he did to most old people. In her presence, he teased Damaris in a happy light-hearted fashion.

"Miss Hartbrook is very atmospheric, isn't she?" he said. "I call her 'Miss Barometer' sometimes, but she doesn't like it."

"She 'is' susceptible to atmosphere," said Miss Hardacre.

"I wish you wouldn't discuss me before my face," said Damaris a little petulantly. "I should like to have Aunt Barbara's unmoved calm, and your light-heartedness, Mr. Maitland, and Miss Hardacre's philosophical endurance. But I don't seem able to arrive at any of those virtues."

"You're too thin-skinned," said Stuart, looking at her with an amused gleam in his eyes. "I've been with your grandfather this afternoon, and he's been railing at everything in creation, but I don't come out of his room with my forehead a network of wrinkles and my eyes misty with tears. My tough skin protects me from that. I only feel sorry for the old chap, and try to buck him up all I can!"

"Men are different from women," said Miss Hardacre cheerily. "But you must remember that you only make occasional visits to the Squire, whilst Damaris spends the greater part of each day with him."

"Besides," said Damaris, "grandfather may growl a little with you, but he doesn't make you feel that everything in the house and stables and village and all the estate is going to rack and ruin through your ignorant mistakes."

"Never mind," Miss Hardacre said; "since I have been here, you have certainly been neither wrinkled nor misty with tears."

Damaris laughed.

"How could I, when I have you to come to? You always understand."

Stuart looked from one to the other of them and marvelled at the friendship that existed between them.

When he had gone, Miss Hardacre said—

"Mr. Maitland is a great friend of yours."

"No, he says he won't be. He doesn't like being friends with me. He told me so."

"Perhaps he wants to be something more."

A pink flush came into Damaris's cheeks.

"Indeed, no! He treats me as he does everyone else: He said once that he was interested in every human being on this earth. I think he is. He befriends them all, if he won't call himself their friend."

But Miss Hardacre had eyes in her head, and arrived at her own conclusions.

Nellie came over to lunch with them one day; but she was really leaving Fallerton. She had not seen very much of Damaris since her grandfather's accident. Mrs. Bonnycott kept her always busy, and did not like her to be away much from her.

"I'm awfully fond of the old lady," Nellie said; "but I tell her that she must get someone more fitted for an easy billet than I am. I love grappling with difficulties, and honestly I like coming in contact with men best, and with men's brains—I'm accustomed to them."

"But you see Mr. Maitland and Mr. Lancaster nearly every day."

"They have their work and I have mine. Well, Damaris, I'm glad to have seen you in your proper setting. You're no town lover, nor would you ever make a good town worker. All your people and friends are worth knowing. Did I tell you I had made acquaintance with Mr. Gore and his sisters? How the women in that house tyrannise over the man! He and I have got quite chummy over beetle lore. I'm interested in all insect life, and I've recommended him a book in the British Museum. Told him to leave his sisters and come up to town for a bit; I believe he means to do it."

"Are you really leaving in a few days?"

"Yes; this is my farewell. I bear you no malice for stealing my friend and placing her down here, but I shall miss her most awfully in town."

"Oh," said Miss Hardacre, "I shall soon be back again; I am only here for a visit."

"No," said Damaris; "I don't mean to lose you in a hurry. Nellie will have to come and stay with us next Christmas, when she gets a holiday. Grandfather will like to see her again, I know."

So Nellie left, and the summer slowly passed. Sir Mark, after a time, improved in health and spirits. He was able to come downstairs again, and take short walks, and often allowed Damaris to drive him out in the low pony-trap; but riding was strictly forbidden by his doctors. Sir Mark often talked of buying a motor, but he had always been so devoted to his horses that he still postponed their substitute.

As the hunting season drew near, he grew more and more depressed.

One day he sent for Dawkins, the head groom, and told him that he would have his favourite hunter, "Rajah" by name, shot.

"I won't have him sold. He isn't fit for a lady, and I don't want anyone else to ride him."

Dawkins remonstrated in vain. Damaris pleaded that he might be turned out on grass, but the Squire was obdurate.

Upon the morning when the deed was to be done, Sir Mark gave his orders that Rajah was to be saddled and brought round to the front door.

"I want to bid him good-bye," he said shortly.

He was sitting out on the terrace when groom and horse appeared. Damaris had been reading the newspaper to him, but she had seen that he was in an over-wrought state of mind, and knew that his thoughts were with his beloved hunter. She longed that the farewell between them was over. Rajah was a beautiful black horse, and sincerely attached to his master. Now, as he came prancing up the drive, he turned his head quickly from side to side as if looking for him.

Sir Mark got up from his seat when he saw him, and slowly descended the broad stone steps. A little impatient whinny came from Rajah when he caught sight of the Squire. He advanced a step and thrust out his nose. The Squire stroked it affectionately.

"We'll never go hunting again, old boy," he said, under his breath.

Dawkins turned away his head. Damaris wondered if his eyes, like her own, were misty with tears.

Then a sudden quick movement on the part of the Squire, and the next moment his foot was in the stirrup, and he was in the saddle.

Damaris gave a little gasp.

"Get me my hat, there's a good girl. I'm going to walk him down the drive for the last time."

"Oh, please don't. Remember what Dr. Lancaster said."

The Squire frowned, but then nodded smilingly to his granddaughter, and, afraid of exciting him, Damaris obediently fetched his hat.

"You will go slowly, won't you? He seems too fresh for you."

"Rajah and I understand each other," was the quick reply.

Then she signed to Dawkins to follow close behind. The old groom had a mixture of fright and admiration in his eyes as he gave Damaris a reassuring nod. She watched Rajah curvetting a little at first, then quieting down under the well-known hand of his master. A sudden presentiment of evil seemed to fall upon her. She stood upon the terrace gazing at the pathetic sight of the old man taking his last ride. She knew now that when he gave orders for Rajah to be saddled that he had planned this farewell ride. But the slow pace which he was going and the close proximity of Dawkins behind reassured her.

And then there was the sudden sound of a horn. Damaris remembered that the beagles were having a run, but it affected Rajah like a spark dropped in gunpowder. He raised his head, and was off down the long drive at a canter. Whether her grandfather spurred him on, or failed to pull him in, Damaris never knew. She saw Dawkins break into a run, and then they disappeared from her sight. She dashed into the hall, calling to Miss Hardacre and to Symons.

The old butler wrung his hands.

"He isn't up to it! The master isn't up to it! He had one of his attacks last night, when I was helping him to bed. May God bring him back safely!"

And Damaris re-echoed that prayer with heart-felt earnestness. It hardly seemed a few minutes before the tramping of hoofs was heard, and Rajah cantered up the drive carrying the Squire on his back. Damaris drew a long breath of relief, but her face changed when she saw the blue-grey face of her grandfather. He seemed struggling for breath, and had one hand pressed against his side. Symons lifted him gently off.

Damaris went to the other side of him to help him up the steps, but it seemed to her that he was a dead weight in Symon's arms. They got him into the hall, and other servants came forward at once, and together carried him upstairs and laid him on his bed. Once he looked up, and Damaris caught some husky muttered words. They were—

"May God have mercy on me."

The doctor was sent for at once, but before he arrived, Sir Mark had quietly passed away.

Damaris heard from Dawkins afterwards the details of that ill-fated ride. He had followed on foot as fast as he could. The Squire did not seem to have the strength to check Rajah's pace. They passed out by the gates on the high road. Rajah, with head up, was making for the fields where the beagles were hunting, but Sir Mark realised that he could go no further, and with determined effort brought Rajah to a standstill, and turned him back towards home. It was that effort that cost him his life.

At first, Damaris could not realise it, then she, with a self-possession at which Miss Hardacre marvelled, began to do all that was necessary, sending wires to the different members of the family. Stuart Maitland, as usual, reached her first. Bad news travels fast, and the whole of Marley knew of the Squire's death half-an-hour after it had occurred.

He came into the library where Damaris was sitting at the writing-table, and she turned round to greet him with a white strained face, yet with a gleam of relief in her eyes at the sight of him. Holding out both hands to him she exclaimed—

"Oh, how good of you to come! You're always at hand when help is needed."

"How did it happen?" he asked, holding her hands very tenderly.

Damaris told him briefly.

"His family will blame me, but I could not prevent it. It was natural that he should wish to say good-bye to his hunter; and how could I imagine what he had determined to do?" Tears began to drop, but she resolutely wiped them away. "There is much to do," she said.

"Yes, but not for you," said Stuart in his friendly way. "I will do what I can till his sons arrive; and if you have wired to Barbara, she will be here at once."

Barbara came in her husband's car an hour later. She felt her father's death acutely; but it was not her way to show her feelings. She reassured Damaris.

"If I had been here, it would have been the same. No one could have prevented him. And it was so characteristic of him, to determine on his action, and carry it out so promptly. He has always said to me that riding a horse would strain his heart no more than sitting in a chair—in fact, that he was more accustomed to a seat in the saddle than anywhere else. He would not believe in the danger."

The rest of that day seemed like a dream to Damaris. Later on, she stood out on the terrace alone, trying to realise that her grandfather had really left her. And it was there that Stuart found her when he came to wish her good-bye.

"I am off," he said. "I've promised Barbara to come over whenever she wants me. She is sleeping here, she tells me, and you have Miss Hardacre, so you will not be alone."

Then Damaris turned to him, and her grey eyes were very wistful and sad.

"Oh, Mr. Maitland, where is he? I have been thinking of that other country. But it seems so sudden, so awfully tragic. Last Sunday, he asked me to read him the Psalms and lessons—he said he missed church so; but somehow or other I found it so difficult to talk. But I did tell him about myself, and he did not laugh at me. I suppose he knew when his ride was over that he was done for. He said, 'May God have mercy upon me.' He has always been so reserved on religious subjects."

Stuart smiled his usual cheery smile.

"We must leave him with his Creator, Who knew him better than either you or I. And don't fret, you poor little thing! It has been a heavy blow, hasn't it?"

"Don't pity me, or I shall cry, and I want to keep up so as to be able to help Aunt Barbara all I can."

Damaris held her head up bravely, and Stuart shook hands with her and went.

All Sir Mark's sons came to his funeral, and Ella accompanied her husband. Damaris felt from the moment that she entered the house that she intended to show all that she was mistress there.

Damaris herself kept upstairs as much as possible. She and Miss Hardacre sat in her little boudoir most of the day. After the funeral was over and the will had been read and discussed, the house resumed its normal state. Sir Herbert and his wife went back to their home in the North, but before they went, Ella had a talk with Damaris.

"We shall return as soon as possible, of course," she said. "But I shall be glad if you will remain here and keep things going till we do come back. We shall sell our present house; but I have some furniture that I want to bring, and we have many arrangements to make up North which may delay us. What are your plans? I was wondering if you would like to stay on with us? Bobbie and Lucia are so fond of you, that if you would make yourself useful, and take them to a couple of hours' lessons every morning, we should be very glad for you to still live here. They are too small for a proper governess, and are just getting beyond their nurse, who spoils them."

Damaris did not speak for a moment, then she said, with that quiet dignity of hers—

"I shall be very glad to stay here till you are ready to take possession; but I do not think I can do so afterwards. I have hardly formulated my plans yet. May I write and let you know?"

"Oh, please yourself. I should have thought you would have only been too glad to have a home with us. A girl like you is at a great disadvantage if you try to live alone. I know the Squire has left you that tiny Dower House at Park Corner and five hundred pounds a year of your own, hasn't he? But you can't live there alone; and even if you take your little old hunchback friend there, you would never have such social advantages as you would in living with us."

Damaris could hardly forbear smiling. She pictured herself turned into a nursery governess, and at the beck and call of her aunt all day long. She knew how she worked her long-suffering nurse. Young Lady Murray was a woman who invariably made demands on all around her; and even in her short stay at the Hall the previous Christmas had used Damaris as much as she dared in contributing towards her comfort and ease.

"I will let you know when I have talked over things with Aunt Barbara," Damaris replied quietly; "meanwhile, thank you very much for your offer."

Barbara laughed when Damaris repeated the conversation to her.

"You would be miserable with Ella. I am sorry for you, Damaris, to have lost your home so soon; but I wonder sometimes if you have appreciated it as much as I did. You talked so lightly of leaving it and getting work elsewhere."

"Oh, I didn't feel lightly about it," cried Damaris; "I only felt I didn't want to lead a lazy luxurious life when there is so much to be done in the world. And, of course, the longer one lives here, the more one gets to love it. I little thought, with you, what a short time I should be in it. But I could not stay with Aunt Ella unless I saw it was my duty to do so, and I can't see that. I don't quite know what to do. It seems difficult."

She went off to Mrs. Dashwood to ask for advice, and it was given very gently and lovingly.

"Don't be in a hurry, dear. The way will be opened when it is time, and if your lot is to be cast amongst the stay-at-homes, you will be happy there, I know. Dr. Lancaster was talking to me about you the other day. He does not think you over-strong, and I know would not pass you for mission work abroad, or for any strenuous work at home."

"I shall be so idle at the Dower House," murmured Damaris disconsolately. "Aunt Barbara has suggested my staying with her, but I don't quite like to do so. I'm not wanted anywhere now."

"Wait and see," said Mrs. Dashwood brightly. "I don't think you will be kept waiting long. We can all do God's Will wherever we are. And that is our chief duty, is it not?"

Damaris returned home with comfort in her heart. It was not her way to fret over the inevitable, and perhaps it was fortunate for her that she was kept very busy with household arrangements.

The arrival of her uncle and aunt with a young family caused a good deal of alteration in the house, and she had promised to prepare for them.

Miss Hardacre suggested that she should move at once into Mrs. Patch's lodgings, but Damaris would not hear of it.

"We will go to the Dower House together. Grandfather has left me so comfortably off that I shall be in no anxiety about money. Everybody tells me I want a rest, so I can have it there."

So, for the time, Miss Hardacre stayed on with her. She, as well as others, had noted how white and fragile the girl was looking. Her grandfather's illness had been a long and severe strain, and she had never been very strong.

THE RIGHT HOME APPEARS

ONE autumn afternoon, Damaris took the dogs out for a run over the common. The heather was dying, but the golden bracken and the late gorse seemed to gild the scene, and the trees in their deep red and russet brown foliage were a real joy to Damaris. She was standing by a group of hawthorns, when she was startled by a voice close to her.

"Good afternoon."

It was Stuart. He was striding over the ground at a rapid rate.

"So glad to see you out," he said. "Weather conditions better, eh? Rising fair, I should say."

Damaris laughed, as she always did when he alluded to her barometrical tendencies, as he called them.

"Oh, yes, I am feeling it is good to be alive this afternoon. What are you doing out here?"

"I was coming over to see you," he said in a very quiet tone. "I made up my mind to do it last night, and the thought of it kept me awake all night."

"Oh, what a pity you thought of it at all," said Damaris laughing. "Have you any very unpleasant business to transact with me?"

He looked at her rather searchingly, but a smile was in his eyes.

"Now what kind of unpleasant business could I want to transact with you?" he asked her. "You are looking better—not such an ethereal phantom as when I saw you last. How is Miss Hardacre?"

"Very fit."

"Are you and she going to set up housekeeping together?"

"I think we are. I don't quite know." Damaris's eyes were dreamy as she spoke. "She thinks I would be more free without her, but I don't like living alone; I have had too much of it. And I'm inclined to wonder why I am turned out of one home after the other. It seems to be my fate, but, of course, it's all right."

"Well now, I am sure you have had a lot of suggestions from everyone. And I want you to listen to mine, will you?"

Damaris looked up at him, and then as suddenly looked away. His eyes revealed too much.

"I want to offer you a home," he said abruptly. "Shall we make one together?"

Damaris caught her breath. Then she said slowly, but with lifted head—

"It is very kind and good of you. But I ought not to have insinuated that I was homeless. Aunt Barbara has asked me to stay with her, and Aunt Ella wants me to live with her."

"But don't you understand me?" said Stuart quickly.

"Yes," said Damaris in the same slow way, "I do. You lay awake last night filled with pity for one of your many friends—you see, I call myself your friend—and you wondered if you could offer me the home you thought I was in need of—and now you have done it. And I am grateful, though I must decline it."

"You are talking nonsense!" Stuart said hotly. Then he added, "I beg your pardon. Mine is not a business proposal. I have started the wrong end. And as for pity—I may have that; but it is love that has kept me awake all night. Didn't I tell you I did not want to be your friend? I want to be your lover, no other role will suit me. You are such a dainty remote little creature, so quick to resent undue familiarity, so sensitive to hasty words, that I have gone slowly, trying to discover your mind. And now I'm in absolute suspense as to how you regard me. As a useful friend and neighbour, eh? I flatter myself that you have some small liking for me, but whether there's something still waiting for me below the surface is the problem. It isn't a home I want to give you—it's my heart and life; and I want to have yours."

He had stopped walking by her side, and had now swung round in front of her, holding her hands as if he never meant to let them go.

Damaris's colour came and went, her lips quivered, she seemed as if she were about to cry, and then she looked up into his face, and a soft little sigh escaped her.

"You can have it," she murmured.

It was just as well that they were in a lonely part of the common, as Stuart took her right in his arms then and there.

"Well, this is bliss!" he said at last.

And then Damaris laughed, she could not help it. There was something so naïve and boyish in his tone.

"I can't understand your wanting me," she said presently. "You have so many women friends, and I always feel very young and ignorant when I'm with you."

"And you are the only person who inspires me with a feeling of doubtful uncertainty and of diffidence," said Stuart with a twinkle in his eyes. "I haven't been able to keep away from you, but I've always pretended to be very self-assured and grandfatherly in my remarks, when in reality I have been trembling in my shoes!"

Then he tucked her hand into his arm. "Oh, let us walk over the hills and far away! I want to be alone with you in the world. Damaris, sweetest, how long has your heart been mine? Let's make our confessions one to the other. Do you remember when we first saw each other? You were sitting by the roadside and Barbara and I passed you; and then I saw you in church on the Sunday, and I said to myself,—

"'If ever I have a wife, she must look just like that.'

"And your proud little face stamped itself then and there on my heart. Then we met you coming across the common, and I saw you once or twice after that; the third or fourth time I was introduced to you at the Rectory; and then the day you were running off—at the station; do you remember? What a state I was in when Barbara told me who you were supposed to be! I went up to town, and felt I would never give up looking for you till I had found you.

"How angry you were with me when we met! I was determined to get you down into these parts again. And all this year, I've been looking forward to the moment which is now with us. But doubts and fears have beset me, and it wasn't till Barbara was talking with me yesterday that I determined to put my fortune to the test. Why didn't you let me see just a tiny bit that you cared for me?"

"How could I?" said Damaris, with a soft glow in her eyes. "How can any girl show her feelings before she knows that a man cares for her? Only some days ago, when you last came over and played so exquisitely before—before our trouble, I thought to myself, as I sat listening to you, 'I would give all the world to be able to have the right to go over to him and put my arms round his neck and thank him.'"

"You shall do it," murmured Stuart ecstatically; "next time I'm at the piano, you shall do it, and I shall demand two very soft kisses then and there."

Damaris paid no attention to this interruption.

"And then," she continued, "I felt it would be quite impossible to expect you to care more for me than for anyone else, and people always said of you that you were friendly with everyone."

"Why did you think I came over so often? It was not to see your grandfather."

"I thought that was just habit. You used to come and see Aunt Barbara; and as you were friendly with her, I thought you meant to be friendly with me."

"I have been a laggard wooer," said Stuart in a contrite tone. "I have always been steeling my heart to wait until I had some inclination from you to encourage me. And you never gave it."

"And you are positively sure that you are not offering me a house out of pity?"

"Now stand still and look into my eyes, and say whether it is pity or love you see there."

In this way they talked, like all lovers do, and eventually came to the Hall together.

"Is Miss Hardacre in?" Damaris asked Symons a little nervously.

She felt self-conscious, being afraid of betraying her happiness to all who saw her.

"Yes, ma'am, and her ladyship is with her."

"Oh, Aunt Barbara has come over. What shall we do?"

She turned a pretty appealing face towards Stuart.

"Do?" he said. "Await their congratulations. I want to proclaim it from the house-top. Come along in; I will do all the talking for you."

And so they went in to tell their news, Damaris feeling very shy but almost dazed by her sudden happiness. To her the whole aspect of the world had changed within the last hour.

Barbara was sitting by the library fire talking to Miss Hardacre. They both looked up as Damaris and Stuart came in, and both knew before they were told what had happened.

"My promised wife," said Stuart proudly.

And then Damaris made a quick step forward, and the next moment was kneeling beside her aunt's chair.

"Oh, Aunt Barbara, I hope you approve! I hope you'll be pleased! It has happened so suddenly that I hardly realise it."

"My dear child, I've hoped that it would come off for some time. I knew where Stuart's heart was, but I could not be quite sure about yours. You are a very reserved little mortal, you know, and most Early Victorian in your sense of decorum and propriety."

"She's everything that is perfect in my eyes," said Stuart; "so please spare your criticism. I don't know whether Miss Hardacre thinks me good enough for her darling."

"Oh," said Miss Hardacre, smiling, "I always felt you would be the man from the first day that I saw you. And I hoped that nothing would come between you."

"There, you see," Damaris said, trying to speak lightly, "everybody seems to have settled it for us beforehand, so I must side with the majority."

But she felt nearer tears than laughter, and when Stuart eventually departed, she slipped up to her room and locked the door. She wanted quiet thought, for the sudden joy had unnerved her. She could acknowledge to herself now, without any feelings of shame, that her love for Stuart had come many months before. It had been a continual struggle to repress it and ignore it. It had been simply happiness to be in the same room with him, to hear him speak, to watch his every movement. And when he had condoled with her over her grandfather's death, she had very nearly shown her feelings.

Stuart's cheeriness, high spirits and his wonderful talents, especially for music, had drawn from her the highest admiration. But it was the little serious touches, the deep feeling that he sometimes betrayed that had appealed to her most. Her girlish heart was attracted by his good looks and charming personality; but her spirit was drawn to his by the love and faith they had together in the Unseen.

And Damaris knelt beside her window, and, gazing up into the fast darkening sky, she whispered her thanks to the One Who held her life and soul in His keeping.

Barbara and Stuart had left the house together, so when Damaris came downstairs, she found Miss Hardacre alone in the fire-lit library. She gave a little sigh of relief as she nestled down by her side.

"Now we can have a chat together," she said. "It will alter my whole life, won't it? And I'm afraid yours too. He will not hear of me going to the Dower House."

"Well," said Miss Hardacre cheerfully, "I am too delighted for you, dear, to care about anything else. But I am seriously thinking of going to Mrs. Patch's lodgings. I shall be so very happy there. Do you remember we talked about it when you were first coming down here to live? I have been several times to see that old Mrs. Patch since you first introduced me to her, and I feel I should love to live under the same roof with her."

"Yes," said Damaris thoughtfully; "I believe you would be comfortable and cosy there—I was. And we'll add some things to the sitting-room—a more comfortable arm-chair and cushions, and a few other little comforts. You won't regret the town in the winter, will you? You won't be dull?"

"Compare it with the Bayswater boarding-house," said Miss Hardacre, laughing.

Damaris looked into the fire dreamily.

"We are going ahead, aren't we?" she said. "Stuart has no home of his own, and we may not be married for ages—though he wants to hurry it on. Aunt Barbara wants me to go and stay with her now; but she would love to have you too. You will come, will you not?"

"Shouldn't think of it," said Miss Hardacre in her decisive little way. "I am not going to drag on to your heels everywhere. No; I shall go round to-morrow and make my arrangements with the Patches. When you leave this, I will go there, and I shall go joyfully."

Then one of her old wrinkled hands touched Damaris's curly head with great tenderness. "I want to tell you, child, that I am like the blind man in the Bible. My sight is slowly coming to me. I see 'men as trees walking.'"

"How?" Damaris asked softly.

"I suppose we none of us have the same experience. You in your youth and innocence, have 'lifted the latch,' as you told me, and walked in. I am like a shut-up darkened house, that doesn't realise its dust and decay till the light creeps in. And it's a very slow process with me. My eyes are old and dim, and unbelieving even of what they're beginning to see; but the light is coming slowly, and old Mrs. Patch is as good as any pulpit preacher. You will think of me as enjoying mental food and comfort there as well as physical."

"Dear Miss Hardacre!" Damaris gave her a little hug.

The entrance of Symons to close the shutters put an end to their conversation. But Damaris felt greatly comforted about her friend, and no longer made objections to her lodging with the Patches.

The next day, Mrs. Bonnycott arrived over with her congratulations.

"Don't say you knew it was coming," said Damaris, smiling as she welcomed her.

"Oh, I don't sit down and make up matches! And Stuart has given me many false alarms. But I shall miss the boy when he leaves me. I'm not satisfied with Geoffrey Lancaster, and he was simply rude to me when I told him the news: said he didn't believe it. My dear, where are you going to live? I wouldn't trust Stuart; he has such extraordinary ideas. He says people in our class are now suffering from our luxurious ideas of what is necessary to comfort. That they don't want half-a-dozen sitting-rooms, and everyone ought to start with a small house and add to it as their families grow. He will be taking one of these model cottages he is building, and planting you in one. He has no sense of proportion.

"I hope he'll make you a good husband. I suppose you know what he is like? Has too big a heart, I tell him, takes in too many people and interests into his life. I wonder how much of his heart and life and time will now be set apart for you? Very little, I fear. But this doesn't sound like congratulations. Well, I'm glad you're going to settle down among us, and he ought—I've told him so—to be really grateful to you for accepting him. You're the prettiest girl in the county, and one of the pleasantest, too!" Mrs. Bonnycott paused for breath.

Damaris was accustomed to her rambling talk, and happy to mind anything she said.

"Why, I would live in a garret with Stuart!" she declared. "And wouldn't we make it snug and cheery! Wherever we are, I could never be unhappy. Stuart always drives away gloom. He carries about with him a spring of joy bubbling up inside. It's like living with the sun shining on one all day long."

"And very unpleasant that is!" said Mrs. Bonnycott with emphasis. "Oh, you young people are all the same. You think life together will be heaven on earth, and then later, you are disillusioned."

Mrs. Bonnycott had never quite forgiven her nephew for giving up his agency. And Damaris knew it and understood.

But when she saw Stuart next, she linked her arm in his and asked him earnestly—

"Do you think we shall both be disappointed and disillusioned a few years later? Your aunt prophesies that we shall."

"Oh, she's in a proper stew over our engagement. I don't think there's the smallest chance of it, because we've seen enough of each other to know what to expect."

"You certainly know how moody I am," said Damaris, "for you have found me in the dumps so often."

"And you know how aggressively cheerful I am," said Stuart. "I have heard it said that a cheerful person at the breakfast table is one of the greatest bores in creation. And you'll have patience with all my plans and projects. You 'will' be the centre of my life, sweetheart—you are that now; but there will be crowds of people and things outside you, that will keep me busy. I'm made that way—I can't help it."

"I hope you'll let me help you with some of it," said Damaris.

They were in the library together. Stuart moved across to the piano.

"I'll play you a serenade," he said, "of my own composition, to show you just a morsel of what is in my heart for you."

In another moment he was making the piano speak, as only he could make it. Damaris listened, entranced. She seemed carried into another world when he played. Passion and love vibrated through her. And when the last throbbing notes had died away, he looked at her.

"Now come and thank me in a proper manner," he said.

Damaris went up, and with her arms about his neck and a soft shy kiss on his brow, Stuart was more than content.

"I believe you could make me do anything you like with your music," she said; "and when I'm cross and sad, I shall always have you at hand to charm me into happiness again."

"And now, when is the happy day to be?" Stuart asked taking out of his pocket a minute box, and producing an exquisite diamond and sapphire ring. "This is a forerunner of the real thing," he added, taking her hand in his and slipping the ring on her finger. "Why it fits as if it had been made for you. It is my mother's ring—her betrothal one. Do you like it? Blue stones suit you. I like you in blue. I should like you to wear nothing else."

"Oh, I love it!" said Damaris, the colour mounting in her cheeks.

"And when is the little plain gold one going on?"

"I don't know. You are going too fast. You make me breathless."

"I don't want to wait, my darling. We have seen each other continually for over a year. There is nothing to wait for. And I have found our home."

"Have you?"

Damaris looked up at him with interest at once.

"Where?"

"I am coming round in a car to take you to it to-morrow, if fine. You must prepare yourself to spend a long day with me. It isn't a caravan or a barge, as my aunt imagines. It is a quaint old farm-house with walled garden. It is small enough to be snug, and big enough to be roomy. And if you approve, we will have it done up at once, and start our life together as quickly as possible. I want this coming Christmas to find us by our own fireside, and then we will enjoy it together."

Damaris said nothing for a moment, then she murmured dreamily—

"Long ago, when I used to sit at my window in town, I used to see in a kind of vision, a farm-house in the country—thatched roof, and diamond-paned casement windows, and an orchard."

"A vision of your home truly. What else did you see. Wasn't I in that dream?"

Damaris shook her head with a little laugh, then she nestled against him.

"I'll do anything you like," she murmured; "for your wishes shall be mine."

And Stuart's head was bent to hers as he made answer playfully—

"We'll be a real old-fashioned couple, of one mind and one heart; but when I give myself airs and turn dictator, you must snub me well, and put me in my proper place."

"If we're going to be old-fashioned," Damaris said, "you must be the head."

"No; we'll be modern, and run in harness together, side by side."

Damaris smiled. She felt she could leave their future in the hands of the One Who loved them.

For the present she was wholly and entirely satisfied.

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