"I want to bring you back to a normal woman's life. The pace you have been going would kill a strong man. You have no right to complain of a worn-out body, of shattered nerves, of sleepless nights, for you have reaped that which you have sown."

Doctor and patient faced each other in the handsome consulting room in Harley Street.

Tomina sat back in her chair, looking very fragile and white. She was a slim young creature, clad in irreproachable London garments. Her bright brown eyes seemed the most vivid part of her; they were now twinkling with the irrepressible humour that always bubbled up in her at the most inopportune moments. She had a small oval high-bred face, with clear-cut features and a most determined mouth and chin, but she was too thin to be beautiful. She looked as if a breath of wind would blow her away; and yet when she opened her mouth to speak, she gave every one the instant impression of a hidden force and vitality under a somewhat placid and indifferent surface.

"I don't think I am such a wreck," she said slowly. "I only want to sleep, and sleep won't come. Now, Dr. Carisbrooke, if I follow your prescription, where can I bury myself? You don't advise an ordinary rest cure. I would not go to one if you did; I am dead tired of the Riviera. I have been to India, Cairo, and Spain; I would not find Continental cities a rest."

"Why do you butterflies of fashion think you must leave your own island to have a quiet rest?"

"Because we want to get away from our friends and acquaintances, and—perhaps from our doctors."

She flashed a mischievous glance at him.

The old doctor who had helped her into the world, and who had at different intervals prescribed for her and watched over her for many years, looked at her with grave compassionate eyes.

Tomina went on talking.

"Motors find out every quiet corner in England. I have tried week-ends in country cottages—you know I have. The mice, the owls, the early morning birds, especially the fiendish cock, are worse than dear London's hoots and toots and rumbles."

"I know a few corners unfrequented by motors. If you will really take my advice, I will find—"

"The necessary grave? Thank you. Well, how long must I stay in it?"

"Six months at least. Possibly a year."

"Have mercy!"

But Tomina surrendered, and a quarter of an hour later was driving home in her neat little brougham, having promised her doctor to leave town the end of the ensuing week. He was to find her retreat and arrange everything for her comfort.

Her stepmother's house in Park Lane was very crowded when she returned to it. Lady Gavin's "At Homes" were much appreciated. She was a woman to whom philanthropy and politics appealed very strongly, but she was also one of Society's favourites, and Tomina in her present mood rather shrank from joining the gay throng. But she pressed her lips together and did it, and was the life and spirit of her little circle for the next hour.

Then she went upstairs to her luxurious room, and as it was early March, drew up a chair in front of her blazing fire and began to think. In a flash she reviewed her life.

Up to seven years old, she and her beloved twin brother, Tom, had revelled in a country home. Then came their father's second marriage; the country house was shut up and finally sold. London—a boarding school for Tom, a governess for herself. Occasional visits to Scotland and the sea, then the death of her father. After that, more schoolroom life—a year in Germany, another one in Paris. And then Tomina came home to take part in the tireless nerve-racking life of a "débutante" in Society. She was highly strung, clever, and thorough in all her undertakings.

She pursued the goddess of pleasure with a zest that made her stepmother uneasy. Lady Gavin was kind to her stepdaughter, and no girl had more opportunities of getting the most out of town life than she had for several years. Many wondered that she did not marry, but Tomina kept her own counsel.

She was bright, she was good company, and a general favourite. But her dearest friends always complained that she would not confide in them.

Now, as she looked into the flames of her fire, Tomina's bright eyes shadowed. She remembered too well the passage in her life which had altered her whole outlook, and made her pursue her gaiety with such reckless "abandon" and such a determined indifference to the needs of her physical being.

She was twenty-seven now, and she had pretty well exhausted all her resources for killing time. Motoring, yachting, golfing, travelling—she had had a surfeit of them all. She dragged her weary feet through endless receptions and social crushes, listened with an aching head to operas and concerts, looked out with weary eyes at all the best plays, and acknowledged to herself as she leant back in her cushioned chair that she was bored to death.

"I don't care to live, but I don't want to die," she murmured, and her eyes began to twinkle in spite of herself. "Who or what in the wide world could satisfy me? I feel I am a superfluity. I think if somebody or something wanted me, I could continue to exist. As it is, how delighted some of my acquaintances will be when I disappear from their society for a time! Shall I ever come back, I wonder?"

A knock at the door interrupted her musing. It was her stepmother.

"Well, Tomina, you have been to the doctor's. My dear child, you do look worn! What did he say?"

Lady Gavin settled herself down upon a comfortable couch and looked at her stepdaughter a little critically.

"He has told me to cut and run," Tomina responded in a brisk tone. "You won't miss me, and if you do want a girl in the house, have Madge—she will be in the seventh heaven at the very thought."

"Where does he want you to go? To the Riviera?"

"No, to some ungetatable place in England. I am to vegetate and imbibe unpolluted air, and invoke Nature to be my nurse. You know the jargon. He is a little crazed over country life."

"My dear, how dreadful! He does not expect me to go with you?"

Tomina smiled, and her smile irradiated her face with sunshine.

"No, dear, he is not quite so cruel. I am to be buried for about a year."

"Perhaps," said Lady Gavin, slowly, "it is the best thing you can do. Your nerves seem all gone to pieces, and you will return to us thoroughly refreshed and rejuvenated. But I think he might have sent you to the Continent. Will you take your maid?"

"Not Juliette. She would never stand the dullness. I shall take no one. I am going to try the simple life."

"You have often tried that at our week-end cottages."

"But not alone."

Lady Gavin looked at her in a perplexed fashion.

"You won't be long away, Tomina. I am quite positive that you will never stand the loneliness of it."

"I don't know. Spring is coming, and spring has still a fascination for me."

Then Lady Gavin plunged into another subject which was more to her liking, and Tomina listened with a good-natured indifference to her stepmother's proposition of a fancy fair for a certain charitable society which was in dire need of funds.

Her departure from town did not make much stir amongst her relations and friends. They all knew she was not well, and thought it a wise move.

Dr. Carisbrooke was as good as his word. He came round and told her that he had found the very place for her—a little old-world village tucked away in a corner, two miles off any main high-road, and at the top of such a steep stony lane that no motorist would be able to mount it.

"It is a furnished cottage, and the tenant has suddenly come into a property of her own and wants to let it."

"And what about servants?" asked Tomina.

He looked a little blank.

"Won't you take some of your own?"

"My dear doctor, our maids think the country only fit for the most ignorant and depraved of our fellow-creatures. I suppose there is somebody in the village who will do for me. I hope I am not surrounded by other cottages and children?"

"No, I have been down to inspect it myself. It stands alone at the end of the village, and just touches the rectory gardens."

Tomina made a little grimace.

"I hope I am not to be tucked into the pocket of the Rector?" she said.

"I believe he is a delightful sort of parson—one of the Herberts, a county family. He won't hurt you."

Tomina looked unconvinced.

"You will be nine miles from a station, and no one owns a motor in the village. You see, I am preparing you for the worst."

"It all sounds so awful that you cannot let me down any farther. I am at the very bottom."

But Tomina made her arrangements for her move very quickly, and started from Paddington Station one morning, not altogether certain whether dislike or curiosity preponderated in her mind for this fresh experience.

It was a wild, wet day. Rain lashed against the carriage windows. She was alone in a first-class carriage. She had papers, flowers, a basket of early strawberries, and the affectionate farewell of some of her friends who came to see her off still rang in her ears.

"If I were only a poor woman," she murmured to herself, "I should enjoy my comforts. I shall really practise the simple life for a time—not play at it."

She looked out of the misty windows reflectively, then closed her eyes, and, though sleep was far from her, determinedly refused to meditate upon her past or future.

It was about four o'clock when she reached her destination. The small country station looked deserted and depressing. Rain and wind assailed her as she alighted on the strip of gravel bordered by wall-flowers. A pleasant-looking station-master came up to her.

"Are you the lady for Little Honeycombe? A fly has been ordered for you from Westlebury, and is waiting."

Tomina stepped through the tiny booking-office, and climbed into a very ancient and musty carriage.

The driver was hidden in a big mackintosh. He seemed to take very little interest in his fare or in her luggage. It was the station-master who packed everything in for her, and gave her a cheering nod as she drove off.

"'Tisn't a nice welcome for you, ma'am, but rain is good for us or 'twouldn't be sent."

Tomina's progress was slow. Having been accustomed to motors and taxi-cabs, she thought at first that the horse never went out of a walk. But soon the very slowness of the journey began to have compensations.

"I don't want to hurry," she repeated to herself. "There is nothing to hurry for—nobody waiting at the other end. If I take a week driving to this village, it does not matter."

Arriving at the top of a hill, the fly came to a standstill. Tomina opened the window. The rain was stopping. There was a faint yellow light stealing across the sky, and standing talking to her driver was a tall figure in shooting tweeds. He doffed his cap when he caught sight of her, then strode away whistling to his dogs. Tomina put her head out. There was a peculiar freshness and sweetness in the air. At the bottom of another steep hill she made her driver stop.

"I will get out and walk," she said. "I want some air. What is the matter with your horse? Is he very old?"

"No, 'tis just easy-goin'. He's a bit lazy, but we don't hurry in these parts."

"I see you don't."

Tomina picked up her skirt. The mud and roughness of the road appalled her, but she resolved not to be daunted. She was going to live in the country, and if her town shoes did not suit their atmosphere, the sooner they were discarded in favour of strong country boots the better.

Her bright eyes roved here and there—from a bush of tender green buds all glittering with raindrops to some patches of exquisite moss on a bank. The yellow light grew brighter, birds began to sing, the smell of the fresh moist earth was almost as good as a tonic. Tomina's aching head was soothed.

When the top of the hill was reached, she looked down over a stretch of green valley. Somewhere in a hollow a church clock rang out. She counted the strokes. Five o'clock. In a flash, she saw her stepmother's drawing-room with its heavy perfume of spring flowers, its guests in fashionable garments, their soft voices relating the latest scandal in town, and outside the hum and roar of the city life going by.

Her driver accosted her.

"Be you goin' to ride agen?"

"I suppose so. How long is this going on?"

"Another five mile or so."

"How awful! Who was that man who spoke to you?"

"'Twill be the new squire at Corring. St. Vincent they call him."

"Where is Corring?"

He pointed with his whip to a clump of trees down at the bottom of the hill.

"See them 'chimleys?' That be the house—just done up fine. Charlie Simmonds got the job from Westlebury, but there was a Lunnon chap down who fussed round. We drives through the village."

Tomina did not feel interested. She got into the fly, and when a little later they rumbled through a cobbled street with thatched cottages on either side, she did not even look out.

Her walk uphill had refreshed her, but strangely tired her, and she actually fell into an uneasy doze which lasted until with a big jolt the fly stopped.

"Are we there?" she called out, awaking with a start.

"'Tis a steep pull up."

"You want me to walk?"

She sprang out, and found herself looking up a steep lane. Cottages seemed to rise higher and higher until they clustered round a rugged old grey tower with a steeple.

"Little Honeycombe Church," announced the driver.

Then he started his horse. Tomina slipped behind the fly, and brought up the rear.

"Little Honeycombe," she murmured to herself. "I wonder if I shall get any honey out of you?"

She was conscious as she struggled up the steep street of various heads peeping out at the cottage doors and windows.

Halfway up she met the white-haired Rector. He lifted his hat, then held out his hand.

"We don't need an introduction. Welcome to Honeycombe. I have heard about you, of course, and I have taken the liberty of sending in a few flowers. We are next-door neighbours, you know."

"I shall not be a very neighbourly person, I am afraid," said Tomina. Her face was grave, but her eyes smiled.

"You are coming here to regain health, I hope, and the sun is shining out after a day of storm and wet. It's a good omen."

Tomina felt irritated, why she did not know.

"I'm going to my funeral," she said, humour getting the better of her annoyance, and she passed on up the street with a little smiling nod.

"I want to be alone," she said to herself. "I will not be befriended so quickly."

The top of the lane was reached at last. Then they passed a school-house, the church, the rectory in its grounds with a high stone wall round it, and finally they came to the cottage.

Seen in that March evening's sun, Tomina was forced to own that she could find no fault with its outward appearance.

It stood back in a green garden. A grass lawn stretched across from a yew hedge to an old red brick wall. In the centre was an old-fashioned mulberry tree. There was a wide porch painted green, a border of daffodils under the low broad windows. The cottage itself was white with a thatched roof, and the upstair windows were framed with red japonica in full bloom. Tomina opened the wooden gate and went slowly up the path. The front door stood open.

A very small lobby and rather steep stairs at once confronted her. For a moment she hesitated. And then an oldish woman, upright but very small, came briskly forward.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. I saw your carriage, so I slipped over, and the fire is burning brightly. Our Rector, he thought you'd like me to be here to welcome you. I did for the lady which has left, and not having a family and being a widow and having lived in good service—"

"You thought you would suit me," said Tomina, looking at her kindly. "I'm very glad to see you, for I'm tired, and I want somebody to do everything for me. May I see the rooms?"

She was shown into the biggest sitting-room. A very pleasant, simply-furnished room it was.

Appallingly simple, Tomina told herself. The walls were whitewashed; the carpet was a green felt. There was a straight narrow couch, an oak gate table, two oak armchairs with green cushions, and an oak press in the corner. No pictures on the walls; no curtains. On the opposite side of the lobby was a tiny room with table, a glass cupboard of china, and four rush chairs. But on each table was a big jar daffodils and narcissus.

"It is austere and pure," murmured Tomina to herself, "but can I live up to it?"

Without a word she mounted to her bedroom.

Whitewashed walls again, a broad low bed, and the same severe style of furniture.

"Miss Wadhurst would have no hornyments," said the woman, quickly reading Tomina's silent disapproval. "She were one for air and health and cleanliness, and were that tidy it was a pleasure to clean up for her."

"Yes, it all looks beautifully clean. Will you see to my luggage and pay for the carriage? Here, take my purse. And then could you bring me some hot water?"

Susan Jobson walked down the stairs with uplifted head and heart.

This was a true lady, she assured herself, worthy of her service, for she trusted her on the spot before she really knew her.

The hot water was brought, and then a little later, Tomina descended the steep stairs to find a fire crackling in the biggish sitting-room and Susan bustling about preparing a little meal.

"Shall we say a tea dinner, ma'am, for to-night, being now six o'clock? I've taken the liberty to order a few things from the shop. The Rector thought I might."

"I'm not hungry," asserted Tomina—"anything will do."

Then she sauntered out into the tiny red-tiled kitchen, peeped into the still tinier back kitchen and larder, and then found her way out at the back of the house.

Here was a delightful old garden, originally an apple orchard, with winding paths between herb beds and herbaceous borders. The most delicious scent was in the air. She looked about and found it came from a sweet-briar hedge that ran the whole length of the garden. At the end of it was a small lawn surrounded by old apple trees, and under a bit of old brick wall was a seat. Tomina seated herself upon it, disregarding the dampness of the wood.

She lifted her head. The scent of the wood smoke from the cottage mingled with that of the wet sweet-briar hedge, and she opened her lips to inhale it. A blackbird from behind her suddenly burst into his liquid melody of song. There was a hush and stillness around. She sat with folded hands; the little creases upon her forehead and between her eyes smoothed themselves out, and she murmured to herself—

"I believe I am going to like it here."

She sat on unheeding of time. The yellow light in the sky slowly faded away, the blackbird finished his song, and only the fussy twittering of the birds getting ready for bed remained. And then up the path came Susan.

"Oh, ma'am, you'll really catch your death of cold if you sit there without a wrap on. And your repast is waiting for you."

Tomina laughed outright.

"I feel more ready for my 'repast' than I did when I arrived. Now, tell me, what did your former lady do all day long?"

"Miss Wadhurst, ma'am, was a lady of great talents. She painted beautiful pictures, and could darn a tablecloth so as you couldn't see the darn at all. She was always doing, Miss Wadhurst was. She was out and in all day long, and when it rained she would say to me: 'Now, Susan, for a long day at dressmakin'.' And her dresses were that well cut and finished, and had the style too, that was the envy of the village."

"I suppose she was too busy to read," said Tomina, stifling a yawn. "There are no books in the house, I notice."

"I really don't think," said Susan slowly and meditatively, "that she required to read. She knew such a lot, you see, ma'am. It was all stored in her head."

"Oh, what a paragon!"

Tomina almost danced into the house. The fresh keen air was already bracing her. She sat down to a fried chop and potatoes, a baked apple, and a cup of tea which would have frightened her doctor by its strength. The country bread and butter pleased her.

After her meal was over, she had some further talk with Susan, and engaged her definitely as her one and only factotum. Then she retired to her bedroom, and spent quite half of the ensuing night in sleep—a thing which she had not done for months past.

CHAPTER II

SETTLING DOWN

WHEN the morning came, Tomina crept to her window and looked out. A most wonderful stretch of country met her view. She gazed at it in delight, and then was surprised at herself for enjoying it so much.

"Perhaps, after all, I may have a country soul. I'm certainly thankful to be away from our ceaseless grind in town: 'The treadmill of dissipation,' I heard a preacher say once—and he hit the right nail on the head."

She dressed herself leisurely, then went downstairs to find a simple breakfast waiting for her.

It was a bright sunny morning; the birds were full of song outside; the air again struck Tomina as being peculiarly sweet and fresh. She opened the window and looked across at the little church.

"I suppose you are all very good here, Susan?"

Susan gave a little smile.

"We are much as most folk are," she said.

"And have you no shops near you—no town? Surely the village girls want to buy little fineries sometimes?"

"We're seven miles from Damerton; they walk in and out. I've done it myself scores of times."

"I suppose a carrier comes along."

"Ah, miss, I only wish it would! When I was a girl, we had one. John Thomas his name was, and he died, and we've never had one since. There seems nobody with a spark of gumption to do it, and the roads are bad, and we're off the high-road, and they say it wouldn't pay one: Why, I remember we used to take our eggs and creams and butter to market, and make quite a lot out of 'em. I'm sure it would pay. It would be a downright blessing to many of us if we had a carrier."

"Well, the question is, how am I to get into Damerton? I want to buy a few cushions and an easy-chair or two. I really cannot live like this. I must have some alleviation from my Spartan rule of life. And books—oh, Susan, I shall want a lot of books to keep me going!"

"Maybe the Rector is going in; he drives himself in to a rare lot o' meetings, and 'tis mostly on a Friday, for that be the market day."

"The first step, then, is to get hold of the Rector."

Tomina demolished her breakfast thoughtfully. By the time it was over, she had changed her mind: her moods were variable. She assured herself that she was too tired to make the effort. Then she sauntered out into the sunshine.

"What a blessing to be a stranger in a strange land! I needn't speak a word to a single soul."

She crossed the road and peeped into the church. The door was open, and she saw that it was a very simple unpretentious little building.

She was not much interested in churches, so she did not pursue her investigation. Then she went on up a little narrow road, and suddenly caught sound of her own name.

Two people were talking the other side of the hedge.

"'Gavin,' did you say, John? I wonder if she is one of the Gavins of Cheshire? I shall call this afternoon. An elderly woman, I suppose? She could not come to a better place for quiet. I wonder if she would like to come to my working party? I must ask her."

Tomina quickened her pace.

"I shan't be in. Now for a horse. Where shall I find one? I won't be drawn into parish working-parties. That must be the Rectoress."

She caught sight of a snug red-gabled house between some budding lilac trees, and concluded it was the Rectory. She walked along an empty road for some distance without meeting a soul, and then she suddenly came upon a green wooden gate leading up to a very pretty old thatched farmhouse.

Leaning over the gate, smoking his pipe, was a stalwart-looking man dressed in rough tweeds and leggings.

"The farmer," Tomina assured herself.

Encountering rather a keen glance from a pair of very blue eyes under some fiercely shaggy eyebrows, Tomina lifted her head and with sweet hauteur spoke—

"Good morning. Can you tell me if I can hire a trap in this neighbourhood?"

The pipe and cap were removed at once.

"Were you wanting to drive yourself?"

"I should prefer to do so."

"Perhaps Crake at the 'Red Bull' would oblige you. It's a little way farther on, half a mile or so, just on the turnpike road."

"Thank you."

Tomina hesitated for a moment, and glanced over the gate.

"What a sweet old house!" she said, and a note of enthusiasm crept into her tone.

The farmer smiled.

"It's my own," he said almost boyishly, "and it's good to hear it admired."

"And you are married, I suppose?"

His face turned scarlet.

"Two months ago, and I'm waiting for the postman. My wife is expecting to hear from her mother."

His voice was that of a gentleman. Tomina began to feel interested.

"Is this your wife coming down the path? Please forgive a stranger's inquisitiveness, but I have come to live in this village, and I am bound to know you sooner or later."

He turned, and seeing the light flash from his eyes Tomina knew the answer to her question and walked on.

"A bride and bridegroom," she murmured to herself. "How I have disliked the species amongst my own kind! But here it seems fitting, and it's spring and the time for youth and love. Now, here is the postman. I hope he has not anything for me."

He had not, but he looked Tomina up and down with a kindly critical eye, and she asked him in that sweet calm tone of hers—

"What do you think of me?"

"You 'em woll sott up," was his brief reply.

Tomina shook her head comically.

"I do hope I shall learn to speak like you soon," she said. "Now, listen to me, postman. Don't you dare to bring me any letters for a week at least. I am supposed to be buried, and a buried person receives no communications from her friends."

"But you be a long way from churchyard," said the postman, with a twinkle in his eye. "We did hear tell you weer in a gallopin' disease of the nerves, akin to consoomption, Mary Anne said. But you look fair well and saucy."

"Thank you. We mustn't stop gossipping, for there's somebody waiting for his letters."

The postman had put down his bag upon the ground, and was now leaning against the hedge lighting up his pipe.

As Tomina pointed to the farm, he hastily shouldered his burden again.

"Eh, day! That be John Merryweather; he be a terrible one for lickin' the toime. But he be high stock: his feyther was Parson Merryweather to Crottesley, an' he be wedded fresh. Makes 'im testy and short in his temper."

He strode away.

Tomina pursued her road, and eventually found the "Red Bull" and hired a rather shabby trap. It was to call for her at two o'clock that afternoon. She returned home very pleased with her morning's work.

Susan shook her head when she noted her white cheeks and her scanty appetite for her midday meal.

"You be going too fast, ma'am. You haven't got over your journey yesterday. You 'ad best go upstairs and have a lie down; 'tis a long drive to Damerton."

Tomina laughed wilfully.

"I have been stagnating all this morning," she said. "My good Susan, you have no idea of my strenuous life in town. We fill every minute of every day. I can't drop into my grave with too big a flop. I shall bury myself gradually."

Susan said no more.

The trap came round. It was indeed a shabby one, and the horse was huge and bony. Tomina was a good whip, and had more than once driven a four-in-hand through Hyde Park: but as she started, and the springless trap bumped and jolted and swung her from side to side and the old horse ambled and cantered in the most unexpected and ungainly fashion, she began to wish she had not been so impatient over her shopping.

It was past six o'clock before she returned. And she staggered up the garden path, to fall into Susan's arms in a dead faint.

The trap was loaded with packages, and a man had been picked up at the "Red Bull" to deposit them inside the house and take the trap back.

Susan was too concerned with Tomina to think of taking in the parcels.

She got her upon the little couch in the sitting-room, and by trying different restoratives brought her round to consciousness again. Then she helped her up the narrow stairs and put her to bed like a baby.

"It's my stupid heart," Tomina explained. "That brute of a horse pulls your arms out, and I did a lot of shopping. I shall be all right to-morrow."

But she was not, and another faint occurred when she tried to dress herself the next morning.

Susan began to get alarmed, for Tomina's face was a grey-blue.

"You must have the doctor, ma'am. We have such a nice one—a real gentleman he is—and he only lives three miles off. I'll send Jack Gigg; he'll pass the house on his way to the farm where he works."

"I don't want doctors," murmured Tomina. "I will go to bed again."

"If only you hadn't tried to do so much! And Mrs. Herbert were round to see you yesterday. She were fair disappointed not to find you in."

Susan was determined to have her way. And before noon, Tomina heard from her bed a horse canter up to her gate, and a very cheery voice say—

"Well, Susan, and who is your patient now? I thought your good lady had left us?"

Tomina did not hear Susan's reply. But in a moment or two, her door opened, and in walked a tall broad-shouldered man with dark eyes that invariably twinkled and a short square-cut brown beard.

"A country bumpkin," was Tomina's first impression. But when he spoke, his soft mellow voice had the ring of a gentleman, and his hands were a true doctor's—slender and strong and delicately made.

Tomina was now sitting up in a pink silk tea-jacket, resting back on her pillows, with a faint flush on her face.

"I did not send for you," she said; "Susan is responsible."

"Well, she has forestalled my visit. Only I did not put two and two together, and had no notion I was coming to see Carisbrooke's patient. He has written to me about you. He and I are both Guy's men, and did our terms together. But he gave me no address, and I did not expect to see you in such simple quarters."

"Dr. Carisbrooke might have given me a fair start. He never told me he had written."

A little wrinkle came between Tomina's eyes, then she laughed.

"You know all my iniquities. I simply overdid it yesterday. This is an experiment, my coming down here. If you knew what my life has been, you would feel sorry for me; for I assure you I have some brain left, and to stagnate like a vegetable will need some determination."

"Oh, we don't stagnate here!" said the doctor, cheerfully, putting his hand out and feeling her pulse. "Life goes on as strongly and fully and unexpectedly with us as with you in town. It is not stagnation to change from one world to another. It's rather interesting. You are the second patient sent down here to rest; you have both been burning the two ends of your candles, and yet you are as far asunder in circumstances as the poles."

"Who is my fellow-sufferer?"

"She is a Miss Merryweather—a very clever and cultured woman, who has treated her body disgracefully and is now paying for it. She has been working in London, and has dipped into countless philanthropic business ventures, has been poor law guardian and a matron of an institution for convalescent gentle-people, and a board school mistress, and heaven knows what else! And then the crash came, and she's at present lodging in a farmhouse. Her brother lives close by, but she's too exhausted to have speech with him. She's doing a rest cure, and like you, she is resenting the fate which has overtaken her."

"Oh, I don't know," said Tomina, perversely. "I think I welcome this as a change. I am a traveller leaving the busy high-road and turning down a green bye-lane. I don't know what is going to turn up, but am ready for anything. Why don't you stagnate down here?"

"Too many human beings," said the doctor looking at her with his twinkling eyes. "I'm very interested in humanity. People are always surprising and edifying me."

"Have I done either?" asked Tomina.

The doctor looked at her in silence. Then he got up and paced the room.

"Oh, you young creatures!" he said. "Why won't you be temperate and moderate in all things? Health is the best gift ever given us, and you murder it and throw it away for mere soap-bubbles."

"Please, go on. You're very like Dr. Carisbrooke. We all have our worlds. Your clever Miss Merryweather has hers, and considers that working the brains that have been given to her comes before everything else. I—well, you consider me a fool, I know. I'll own that I have blown many bubbles and seen them burst and disperse. But I've had a full life, and been much too engrossed and busy to let my health stop me in anything that I wished to do. Now you are a slave to health; you think of it, you work for it, you worship it—it is your profession. Perhaps one day you may find that other treasures outweigh it in the scales."

Tomina was nothing if she was not audacious.

The country doctor only smiled at her.

"You are feeling better," he said. "I'll send you a tonic I should like you to take. Is it any use telling you to take a week's quiet—very quiet—living before you attempt another drive to Damerton?"

"I might try it," said Tomina, very meekly.

She felt snubbed, and was too surprised to resent it.

He stayed a short time longer, then got up to go.

"When you are more sociably inclined," he said, "I should like you to know Miss Merryweather."

"Must I know everybody round?" Tomina protested. "My old doctor has banished me from people."

The doctor gave a little nod.

"There is plenty of time," he remarked, "What you have to do now is to sleep and eat and cultivate a serene disposition."

"I have always been considered most even-tempered," Tomina remarked.

He shook hands with her.

"And when I am out of hearing, you will say, 'What rude bears these country practitioners can be'!"

She gave a little laugh.

When he had gone, she did not know whether she liked him or disliked him.

But she was tired and exhausted, and slipped down amongst her pillows and went fast asleep.

It took Tomina four days to pull up after that drive to Damerton. But when she came downstairs, her usual energy began to assert itself. She made Susan undo the unwieldy packages which were blocking up the narrow hall. Two very comfortable easy-chairs, some soft, rich rugs, half a dozen cushions of different shapes and sizes, a couple of footstools, and over a dozen books, were all distributed and arranged in the sitting-rooms.

Then Tomina went out into the spring garden and brought in great bowls of budding sweet-briar, golden daffodils, and red japonica.

When she rested that afternoon in the most comfortable chair, with two novels by her side, and inhaled the perfume of the sweet-briar and listened to the far-away call of the cuckoo, she owned to herself that life here would be bearable.

When Susan brought her tea, she was in a mood for gossip.

"Susan, who is this gifted Miss Merryweather? Do you know her?"

"Indeed I do, ma'am. The Merryweathers lived in the next parish to this, four mile by the road, and he was the vicar there. There were a long family, but four died young of a dreadful outbreak of diphtheria, and the poor mother wore herself out and was buried with twins within a twelvemonth. I was brought up in their parish, so I knew them all. Mr. George went into the Navy, and Mr. Harry went to India as a judge, I believe. And then there were Miss Alice and Mr. Philip left, and when the vicar died, she went up to London. But Mr. Phil he has always lived here; he just dotes on farming. And before the vicar died, he took the Glebe Farm, and then there was a bit of money, and he bought the Brook Farm just outside the village."

"Oh yes; I know. I thought the name seemed familiar, I saw him the other day. Hasn't he just married?"

Susan nodded a little mysteriously.

"'Twas a trial to Miss Alice. She always came back and forwards to the farm when she got a holiday from her work, and she were powerful fond of her brother. I went up to take their cook's place when she were home one Christmas; and my dear life, she talked as clever as a parson. She were always reading and spouting to Mr. Phil. Her favourite words were:

"'Let us cultivate our intellect, Phil.'

"But he—well, he used to smoke and say nothing. She were learning him all she could to take to her books, and she is a rare scholar. She had a room all got up for herself at the farm, and 'twas nothing but books on every side.

"Well, men are men, ma'am, and Mr. Phil it was his way to live at peace and say nothing. But he rather wearied, I used to think of his sister's clever talk. And then, when she went back to London, he used to ride over Damerton and courted pretty Miss May, a parson's daughter who lived with her widowed mother who taught a small private school. And when Miss Alice come home next, 'twas all fixed up, and the weddin' was talked of. I always said 'twere a heavy blow to her, but she went right away again, and when the weddin' came off two months ago, she were too broken in health to come to it.

"Just six weeks ago, Mr. Phil he went up to London and fetched her back, and said his home were hers, but I haven't heard the full rights of it. I know she and Miss May only had two weeks together, and then Dr. Merton he stepped in, and took her over to the Glebe Farm where Mrs. Tubbs has been nursing her back to health.

"I always do say a bride and bridegroom must be left clear of outsiders for a full year, and 'tis only two months now since they were wed. Miss Alice be a dear by herself, but she and Miss May—I ought to say Mrs. Merryweather—are just the very opposite of dispositions, and with one man atween them—well, there was a bit of friction, and our dear doctor just settled it. We all love Dr. Merton; he puts puzzles together and cures other ills besides that of the body."

"Is he married?"

"He was, ma'am; and the sweetest lady you ever set eyes on to look at, but a nasty stinging tongue and a jealous temper. God forgive me for speaking so, and she in her grave. But she did bring bitterness into his life, only it seemed to make him the sweeter! Then she left him after givin' birth to a boy which died with her. And he have lived on quiet and happy with his housekeeper. Only I've seen him look wistful like at small boys. He be very fond of children."

Susan paused for breath. Tomina gave a little yawn. She was tired of her neighbours histories, and Susan wisely slipped away.

CHAPTER III

TOMINA'S SCHEME

TOMINA soon became acquainted with her Rector and his wife. She liked him. He was a simple straightforward courteous gentleman who lived entirely in his village, and for the good of his parishioners. Out of the pulpit he was beloved, by sick-beds he was an ideal parson, but he had no gift for preaching, and his sermons were dry and dull, and delivered in a monotonous sing-song tone.

Tomina went to church, but did not enjoy it. Mrs. Herbert tried to take her under her wing and manage her, but her efforts failed. Tomina was sweetly and determinedly rebellious. She looked at Mrs. Herbert with humorous eyes when that lady called for the third time, and told her that if she would not join her working party, she could not object to working at home for the Mission in India, to which all their work was sent.

"I never work, Mrs. Herbert. I never put a stitch in my own clothes, and would not presume to attempt those of others."

"But surely with all your leisure you could give a little of it towards the needs of our Mission?"

"I want all my leisure for myself," said Tomina, calmly.

"But, my dear Miss Gavin, we do not live for ourselves alone, do we?"

"I do."

Tomina was sweet and smiling, but a naughty twinkle was in her eyes; and Mrs. Herbert saw and resented it.

"Then no wonder you are a bundle of tired nerves. I pity you from the bottom of my heart."

Mrs. Herbert left her.

And when she had gone, Tomina heaved a heavy sigh.

"I let her have the last word, but how tiring these good people are!"

Nevertheless, Mrs. Herbert's last word stung her and recurred to her often.

"A bundle of tired nerves! Yes, I am that, but I'm too tired to mind it, and if I'm worried by people here, I shall creep back to town and die there. And yet there are days when life here seems worth living. If it was always fine, I should feel happy. The country air is better than all the doctor's tonics."

The wet spring days were certainly a trial to Tomina. But soon the weather improved, and restless energy began to assert itself.

She altered her furniture; she tried her hand at gardening. She walked round the village, and visited every single cottage in it on one afternoon. And when she came back and was too exhausted to eat her evening meal, Susan remonstrated severely with her—

"It's too foolish of you, ma'am. You never do nothing by halves. Why, our Rector himself don't make all his visits in one day. It takes him a month to do the round, leastways unless there's sickness. Each of us don't expect him more than once to the month!"

"I think I've always been accustomed to go on till I drop," said Tomina, languidly. "We do in London, you know. We have no time to rest our bodies, as you country people do. And I wanted to see what everybody was like."

"Did they all take it well?" asked Susan, with a shade of anxiety in her tone.

Tomina laughed.

"They were civil; perhaps not quite as sweetly civil as I was. Some of them pitied me, and seemed to think me a very poor thing! When I get a little stronger, I shall surprise them and you, Susan. I have a plan in my head which I am longing to carry out, but I shan't tell you yet."

Susan looked at her and said no more. She could not understand this London young lady, who had so many moods, and was so unlike her quiet and conventional Miss Wadhurst. Yet, in spite of her contrary moods, and her inability to help at all in the work of her small cottage, Susan confessed to herself that there was a strange charm about her.

"It seems to me," she confided to her great friend Mary Ann Grubb, "that there be a sort of gentry in the world that no storm or bout of misfortune can beat down. They hold their heads high through it all. This young lady of mine is plainly alone in the world, and now her health be given way, her fine friends have deserted her, and she be forced to seek for health and quiet in one of our country villages.

"Yet, though she have let out to me the many servants she have had, she daily goes her way, and expects me to wait on her hand and foot and count it a favour and honour to do it. My Miss Wadhurst would sooner do anything than ring the bell for me, and the 'pologies she made if she made an extra mess of her room or did anything to put me out. Now, this lady she litters her rooms, and won't so much as keep the fire in, or make her own tea, or dust her bedroom, or even fasten her own dresses, she quietly waits for me to do it all. And she has a way with her—well—there! 'Tis no good talking; I'd lie down and lick her boots if she asked me to do it! She just charms the will out of one!"

The warm weather came very soon. One afternoon, Tomina was on the top of a ladder which was placed against the wall of her cottage. Under the thatch of her roof some swallows had built their nests, and curiosity had prompted her to pay them a visit.

Suddenly she heard voices below her, and looking down, saw Dr. Merton and a lady at her gate.

She descended quickly, and though feeling annoyed, welcomed them with her sweetest smile.

"This is Miss Merryweather," said Dr. Merton. "I want you to become acquainted. She and you are both town birds. I expect you will have many interests in common."

Tomina's bright eyes encountered Miss Merryweather's grave soft ones.

Alice Merryweather was tall and dark. She was more interesting-looking than handsome. She was dressed in grey with a simple shady straw hat upon her head. When she spoke and smiled, she was a very attractive woman.

She smiled upon Tomina now.

"I meant to call upon you," she said, "but I have felt unfit for much walking, and to-day, meeting Dr. Merton, he beguiled me here almost before I knew it. May we come in? Are we disturbing you?"

Dr. Merton hastily explained that he had visits to make in the village, and disappeared. Tomina took her visitor indoors.

"When somebody tells me that I must be friendly with a certain person, I generally feel the reverse," began Tomina, with her gay laugh. "Do you think we have many tastes in common?"

"Shall we probe each other to see?" said Alice, smiling.

"No, we'll just chatter about our neighbours," said Tomina; "that seems the only subject of conversation in the country."

A slight frown came over Alice's face.

Tomina rattled on—

"I have heard all about you, but though we both come from town our poles are asunder. My world is not yours, nor is yours mine."

"How do you know? We are both women, both interested in our fellow-creatures."

"Oh no, I am not! I am bored to death with them; I have come down here to get away from them. My world is what the preachers call 'the giddy round of pleasure.' Your round is one of duty and work, I am sure."

"I suppose I look like a working woman, but may not work be a pleasure?"

"To a bee—not to a butterfly. That is what my doctor calls me—a 'butterfly of fashion.'"

"Well, we are both living in the same environments at present. Are you fond of the country?"

Tomina looked at her with grave thoughtful eyes.

"I was not. But I really do believe I am getting fond of it. I still feel a stranger and an outsider to its ways and customs. I have been investigating a swallow's nest for the first time in my life. You found me at it."

"I have been brought up in the country," said Alice, "but I do not think I love it. Life is so full, so strenuous in town; one's mind starves in the country."

"Does it?" asked Tomina, with interest. "Tell me how."

"Oh, you get so small, so petty-minded, so narrow. Books may be available, but they are not the same as rubbing up against and conversing with thoughtful cultured men and women. Country people are self-centred; town people take broader and bigger views of life."

"I suppose my friends have not been intellectual," said Tomina, thoughtfully, "at least not many of them. I did not find we were so broad-minded. We were entirely occupied with our own set. Don't you think that in town and country every individual can live any life they like?"

"Perhaps so. I feel a great pity for those who don't cultivate their brains. They lose so much."

"Do they?"

"Necessarily they must. How can they enjoy pictures if they know nothing of history or art or mythology or the classics? How can they enjoy beautiful buildings, unless they have some knowledge of architecture? Or politics and the progress of our Empire unless they know something of political economy and constitutional history?"

"Oh!" gasped Tomina. "Please stop! You must be an encyclopædia of knowledge. I maintain that every one enjoys life differently. There are circles for us all. I am in the gay frivolous one; you are in the serious, contemplative one. You educate your mind. I educate my senses and my body. And we've both overdone it, have we not? And now we're vegetating together."

She would not be grave. She discussed the village and its people; she talked of her garden and her novels. And then when Alice rose to go, Tomina said gaily—

"And now you're going off disgusted with my levity, and you'll tell our friend the doctor that really you cannot stand such shallow frivolous gossip as comes from my lips. There can be no point of interest in common between us."

"No," said Alice, smiling, "I think our brains may be equal in quality, but you are refusing to use yours at present, and I—well, lately my brains feel used up and asleep, so I cannot preach. I expect you will think me prosy and pedantic—."

"At all events, you haven't tried to make me work, as Mrs. Herbert has. Are you piously inclined, Miss Merryweather?"

Alice hesitated.

"I am a clergyman's daughter, but—but I do not—I have not the faith my parents had, I am afraid."

"I don't and I won't like good people," said Tomina, rebelliously.

"Then don't have too much to do with Dr. Merton, or with a Mrs. Francis who lives near."

"Who is she? I have never heard of her."

Alice slightly shrugged her shoulders.

"I prefer to leave others to tell you about her."

She said good-bye and went.

Tomina watched her down the village street; then she made a slight grimace.

"My dear, I don't think I want to see much of you. You are rather dull."

The very next day, Tomina hired the trap and drove into Damerton.

She came back radiant and in the best of spirits.

"Susan, I am beginning to live! Now, will you guess what I am going to do? Something that will bring joy to the village; something that will make my living here worth while after all. Something that will show what an idler is driven to do when she is being harassed on all sides for contributing nothing towards the world's good."

Susan shook her head helplessly.

"I know, whatever it is, it will be what nobody else would be likely to do," she said sagely.

"To-day is Friday. In a fortnight from to-day, a carrier's cart is going to run from Little Honeycombe to Damerton every Friday, and on every Tuesday, it is going to run from Little Honeycombe to St. Martha's Cross. Have you ever been there, Susan? There is a fine market there and a station on the main line!"

Susan gasped.

"You do beat all, ma'am. However have you managed it, and who's going to do it?"

"Me myself, Susan. I am going to be the driver. It is my cart and horse, and I'll sit on the shafts and jog along like a gipsy."

"You are joking?"

"I'm in sober earnest. I happened to see an old carrier's cart lying idle in a wheelwright's shed. I had a long talk with the wheelwright, and he promises he will get it rigged up in a fortnight. It's going to have a brand-new tarpaulin top and will be painted and renovated till you won't know it from a new one. And my horse is got. A good stout eight-year-old bay, who won't shy if a cannon is let off in his ear, and who will make nothing of his two journeys a week."

"And may I ask, ma'am, if you feel indisposed one Friday or Tuesday, who's to run round to all the villages, and tell 'em as there will be no carrier that day?"

"I shall never feel indisposed on Tuesday or Friday, if I lie in bed every other day of the week," said Tomina, valiantly. "I shall never fail, and if—if—I did, I should get you to be my substitute. You told me you could drive a cart anywhere!"

Susan retreated from the room with such a face of horror that Tomina laughed aloud.

The news spread like wildfire over the village; the excitement was intense.

The very next morning, Mrs. Herbert appeared upon the scene.

"I really must remonstrate with you, my dear girl. It is an impossible 'rôle' for you to play. No woman could do it; you might have tipsy farmers returning late with you, you don't know who your passengers would be. All sorts and conditions."

"Yes, I know," said Tomina; "I have thought it all out, but there is safety in numbers, and I keep to the main roads, and it's going to be perfectly delightful. I've only to sit still and drive and listen to the country gossip going on inside; the fresh air and motion will make me as strong as Hercules! You shall come the first trip with me, if you like. It will be something like a caravan. I'm tired of motors. I want to move at a still slow pace and enjoy details."

"And what about the rough weather?"

"I shall sit inside the cart then, instead of outside, and wrap myself in oilskin, and still enjoy myself."

"It's a mad freak!"

Mrs. Herbert departed with her final shot.

"You are an invalid and under doctor's orders. The strongest woman in the world ought not to make herself into a carrier!"

Tomina for a moment felt damped, then she pressed her lips firmly together.

"I am my own mistress, and not 'all the king's horses and all the king's men' can prevent my doing what I like."

The day after, came Dr. Merton.

"Is this a professional visit?" asked Tomina, with twinkling eyes.

She was looking and feeling remarkably well. Opposition always drew out all her latent energy.

"Of course, you have come to scold," she went on; "and Mrs. Herbert has sent you."

"My dear young lady," said Dr. Merton, with much emphasis, "you have my entire and most hearty approval for this step."

Tomina's eyebrows slightly raised themselves.

"Are you in earnest?"

"Emphatically so! An open-air life is the only cure for you; and two days a week—it is to be two days, is it not?—will not hurt you in the very least. If you are fatigued, it will be wholesome fatigue, and you will sleep the sounder after it; the long day in the air will give you an appetite, I'll be bound! And the benefit you will bestow upon the villages round will be your reward."

"Oh, you are a sensible man! I could hug you!"

Then Tomina quieted down.

"It came to me as I was jogging to Damerton in a hired trap, how fascinating and soothing a country drive is. And then I overtook two old dames trudging along with baskets of eggs, and I gave them a lift, and they were such old dears, and called down such blessings on my head that I began to think if I could not call for them another market day, and save them their weary four miles in and out. And I had thought of starting a carrier a short time ago. But now I have determined to be the carrier myself. And when I undertake a job of any sort, I see it through, Dr. Merton. You have helped me a good deal by your approval."

"Of course," Dr. Merton said, "there may be difficulties, but if you're cautious and wise you'll surmount them. And you must have a dog, and take him with you as your bodyguard. I have two mastiffs, and one is quite young and as gentle as a lamb, unless you want him to go for any one. But he guards in splendid fashion. Would you like him? He wants exercise, and you would grow very fond of him."

"Thank you very much. I don't know whether I should not be frightened of a big dog. I've been very fond of my stepmother's prize Pekinese. May I come and see him? Or will you bring him to see me?"

"He is outside the gate now waiting for me," said Dr. Merton, with alacrity. "I'll bring him in. I don't want two dogs, but I've brought them up since they were puppies and can vouch for their good behaviour."

The mastiff appeared. He was a huge brown dog with a white patch on his head and breast.

For one moment Tomina and he eyed each other uncertainly. Then he stepped up gingerly and sniffed at her feet. Tomina was in a tremor, but when he sat down in front of her and thumped his tail up and down upon the ground in approval of her, she took her courage in both hands and patted his head. Then she took hold of his right paw and stooped, looking straight into his brown eyes.

"You're a beauty! I won't be afraid of you, but shall I ever have the courage to give you a licking, I wonder? Perhaps you will never need it. Are you going to be faithful to me?"

The mastiff blinked and looked a little bored.

Dr. Merton spoke.

"Say 'Yes,' Thor."

The mastiff raised his head and lowered with a nod.

Tomina was enchanted.

"You're a darling! I'll have you. We shall be chums. Ever so many thanks, Dr. Merton. Is he really a gift? And is Thor his name?"

"If you will accept him, I shall be glad. We called him Thor because his bark is always heralded by a tremendous growl, and he was born on a Thursday—Thor's day, you know."

Tomina did not know, but her heart warmed to the mastiff.

"Are you going to leave him here for good?"

"Hardly to-day, I think. You will want a kennel for him, won't you?"

"And you think he'll settle down with me? He won't want to run back to you?"

"Feed him yourself and be kind to him; and he'll settle down."

Thor had already lain down at Tomina's feet, his nose between his paws. But beneath his lowered eyelids, his eyes were fixed on his master's face. And then Dr. Merton went on talking about the carrier's cart.

"I shouldn't have given you my benediction if it had been a motor, for they're not entirely a health-giving product. But a quiet drive along the country roads, with your fellow-beings close by, to instruct and amuse, will be thoroughly beneficial."

"Oh, bother my health!" said Tomina. "I am doing it because I like it, because I want diversion, and because it is badly needed."

"And what are you going to charge our poor people?"

"Oh, nothing! How could I take any?"

Dr. Merton looked grave.

"It will be a case of mistaken charity, and your cart will be the abode of any tramp who comes along. You daren't refuse them if you give free lifts to any one."

It was Tomina's turn to look sober.

"What a tiresome man you are, making such difficulties! I shall have to charge and put it into the collecting plate on Sunday."

"That you can please yourself about. It is seven miles to Damerton. If you want to charge them cheaply, make it fourpence single, sixpence return journey—"

"Can they afford it?"

"Quite well."

Tomina looked dubious.

"I'll consult Susan. She lives in the village and is a discreet woman. Now, Dr. Merton, who is Mrs. Francis? Where does she live?"

"She's the widow of a naval officer, and she keeps house for her brother our Squire, Sir Alfred Digby."

"It's strange I have not come across her."

"She and Sir Alfred are both away in town. They will be returning before long, and then you will meet them."

Tomina looked at him thoughtfully.

"Miss Merryweather coupled her name with yours in a very undesirable fashion."

Dr. Merton looked rather taken aback.

Tomina began to laugh.

"Oh, don't be frightened! I am rather stupid in the way I put things sometimes. She said that if I didn't like good people, I mustn't have anything to do with you or Mrs. Francis—"

"Poor Alice!"

Dr. Merton looked relieved and a little amused.

"Have I proved a bogey?"

"No, and beyond your province, you have not preached to me objectionably. But I suppose you are feeling your way with me?"

"Perhaps I am," said the doctor, laughing. "Please don't take us at Miss Merryweather's valuation. Mrs. Francis is sure to call upon you when she returns, and then you can judge for yourself whether she is a person to be avoided. I must be off. I'll send Thor over to you in a couple of days. Keep him fastened up, take him out with a lead, feed him yourself, and he will be your devoted slave in a week's time."

Dr. Merton shook hands with her and departed.

Tomina was so grateful to him for his unqualified approval of her step that she bestowed one of her sweetest smiles upon him.

Thor marched away after him with much dignity. When he was at the gate, he looked back. Was he appraising his future home? Tomina waved her hand airily to him.

"'Au revoir,' you beauty! When next you come, you come to stay."

Susan heard of Thor with a dismayed face.

"I know them dogs well. They are not vicious, but they are blood-curdling when they bark, and this cottage is really too small to hold him, and he'll eat more than both of us together!"

Tomina reassured her.

Before another week was over, Thor had become an inmate of the cottage. He was a little restless at first, and had a way of shaking himself in his kennel at night that sounded truly alarming, and was not conducive to sleep. But Tomina took great pains to conciliate and beguile him, and in a fortnight, he followed her everywhere.

Thor was sociably inclined; he liked to lie in the sitting-room with his mistress. He was given a big mat, and was made to understand that when that was spread inside the door, he could come in and occupy it. In three days' time, however, he appeared at the door with the mat in his mouth, and after that, he would bring it in whenever he liked.

Tomina was enchanted with his intelligence, and was always glad of his companionship.

The carrier's cart was not ready to start in a fortnight. Country workmen could not hurry; and Tomina had her first lesson in patience. She spent her time in having some pamphlets printed to say that the cart would start running in the month of May, and these she distributed in the villages round.

She found she had a good many arrangements to make as to the horsing and stabling of her horse and van. At length, she persuaded a small farmer close by to promise to put them up. He was to be allowed to use the horse on the intermediate days for light farm work, and he only charged her for forage.

CHAPTER IV

THE CARRIER'S VAN

AT last, the Friday came when at eight o'clock in the morning, a brand-new shining covered cart drew up outside Tomina's door, and she took her seat as driver. It was a lovely spring morning. The crowd of villagers who assembled to see the start acknowledged that Tomina was suitably equipped for her position. Her long covert coat and shady straw hat were simple and unassuming. Town people might have recognised the Bond Street cut to the coat, and would have known that the Leghorn hat cost at least three guineas. The tarpaulin of the cart was snowy white, and the black letters across it showed very plainly its destination. The brass harness glittered in the sun. Bran, the horse, reared his head and tossed his great mane, impatient to be off.

At first, Tomina had been afraid that her passengers would be too many. Every housewife in the village wanted to be in the first trip, but she craftily held out the advantages of the following Tuesday, when the rail could be reached, and for sixpence they could visit the county town.

"I must keep some seats for people on the road," she said.

Susan had quite approved of the charge which the doctor had suggested, and it was she who made Tomina take plenty of small change with her, and a big purse from which she could transact her business. She longed to make the first trip herself, but though Tomina begged her to do so, she decided to stay at home.

"You be best by yourself and on your own, without me to look on. I shall hear all about it from Mary Anne!"

Mary Anne was Susan's married sister who lived in the village.

Thor took up his station behind the cart in the orthodox fashion. He had been well trained from a puppy to follow behind a trap.

There was a great deal of chatter and laughter when the women climbed in and took their places. Many Anne was first and foremost. An old woman, Mrs. Crabbe, was going to see her married daughter in Damerton. Mrs. Tabbs and Mrs. Goss were going to the market. They were neighbours, and both mothers of "long" families. A little maid-servant from John Merryweather's farm was spending her "day out." Two young girls, one from the village shop and the other the blacksmith's daughter, and a lanky boy of fifteen with a basket of eggs and four dead fowls in a basket, completed her number.

Tomina cracked her new whip with a flourish. The Rector came out to see her pass, and some children on their way to school raised a cheer.

Through the village they solemnly went, down rather a steep hill, when Tomina had to put on her heavy drag, and then along a pleasant sunny high-road arched by budding trees. Soon the first stop was made. At the corner of another road, the two women with their egg baskets were waiting to be taken up. The chatter inside the van waxed fast and furious.

Tomina sat outside in silence. At times, she studied a pencil list which Susan had thrust into her hands at starting. There were things for her own cottage which she had to get, but also there were commissions from the villagers who had been prevented from coming. The list of these ran as follows:—

   2 hand half of unblitched corse.
Mrs. White.

   One boiler from Clarks and he ows fourpence to Tom's Bill
   larst Wed weeke for cissor ground.
Mary Tubbs.

   Plese Miss sorsages and a peece of beef buttock from Andrews Market.
Martha Gadd.

   Seven yard of pretty lace for Flories best police.
Jane Hutton.

   Pudding bason, butter jar, pennorth yeste and four pennorth
   Reckitts blue.
Fanny Spoke.

There were several other household utensils Tomina could not decipher. She puckered her brows in perplexity.

"A carrier's tasks are heavier than I thought. I wish I had brought Susan. But I'll hand over some of these purchases to one of the women inside."

She pocketed the list, threw up her head, and inhaled with delight the cool fresh spring air.

When there was a level bit of road, she put Bran at a trot. When there was a steep hill, she got out and walked, but dared not ask any villager to copy her example, for they were determined to have the full value for their money. Presently, she overtook a man with a heavy pack on his back. He looked like a pedlar.

And as Tomina passed him, he called out a cheery "Good morning."

She stopped.

"Want a lift? We're going to Damerton."

"Ay, and that's my goal. Shall be thankful, but isn't this a new thing? Never saw a carrier on this road before."

He was clambering in as he spoke and took his seat beside Tomina.

"I like the air," he said.

He was a little dark wiry man about middle age, but his eyes reminded Tomina of a robin's; they were so round and bead-like and sparkling.

If he was surprised at the unusual kind of carrier by his side, he did not show it.

"I have had a small stall in the market for my wares," he continued, "and I shan't know myself, to be spared these five miles! Though this may be my last day in these parts. I am moving on to other towns."

"I suppose you're a pedlar?"

"A pedlar of sorts, though they call me a colporteur."

"I don't think I've ever heard of a colporteur," said Tomina, slowly.

He gave her a quick look.

"You're not of these parts, miss. Is it owner of this van you are?"

Tomina smiled at him.

"Yes—my first day. What are your wares?"

"Books, nothing but books; food for the soul and spirit."

"I'm fond of books. Any new novels?"

"There's a book I have which is so interesting, so magnetic, that the more people read it, the more they want to. And though it was written a few thousands of years ago, it's as fresh as spring, and keeps its hold on people's hearts."

"Some of the old classics, I suppose?"

The little man dived into his pack and put a book quietly upon Tomina's knees.

"Have you ever read that book through, from cover to cover?" he asked.

Tomina looked at it, then handed it to him back, with a little grimace.

"The Bible. Well, we hear it in church, don't we? I had one of my own once."

"Have you ever read it through, miss?"

"Not that I know of. I used to learn chapters and psalms at school. I believe I was rather good at Scripture history when I was small."

"Will you take this copy?"

"No, thank you. I'm not at all a good sort of person, and don't want to be one. I never could see anything in religion myself, and hate people who are what I call weekday parsons."

"It's funny—" began the colporteur, and then he stopped.

"Well?"

Tomina glanced curiously at him.

He was getting restive. Suddenly, he blazed out—

"People talk of there being no devil! It's sheer proof of his presence and handiwork, when young gentle things like you scoff at the One Who made them, and sacrificed Himself for them and loves them now with a deep undying love!"

Tomina looked startled. She chirruped to her horse and with her whip flipped some of the early green of the hedges.

"Good people want the young to give up all their pleasures. The God I have heard about is not a God of love, unless you give yourself up to good works and say good-bye to all gaiety and fun."

There was silence. Then the colporteur pointed to a meadow full already of golden shining buttercups.

"That's gay enough," he said, "and good to look at. They've grown up in the sunshine and are reflections of the sun himself. Not much gloom about them, eh?"

Tomina followed his gaze.

"I've no patience with the gloomy mood," he said quickly. "God made a good world and a gay one, and the happy folk are the ones who reflect His face."

"You look happy."

"I am—I have so much to make me. And you?"

Tomina laughed lightly.

"I have been happy on and off, but I'm tired of trying to be when I'm not. I've lost the taste for so many things, and feel as old as the hills. I have been sent into the country to bury myself, but with the purpose of making me pop out of my grave again quite fresh and new."

"A new birth," said the colporteur, gravely.

"That's very interesting!"

"Something of that sort," said Tomina, lightly.

She could not explain to herself why she talked to this man. But she felt he was not an aggressive individual, and his round smiling face amused her.

"'Very' interesting," repeated the colporteur, softly. Then he pointed upwards to some young green limes arching overhead. "There's new birth for you! They had their gay time last summer. Then they died; now the resurrection of spring has got hold of them. Do you know why they're bursting into bud and blossom?"

"Why?"

"The sap is rising inside them. It begins from below, and rises and flows into every bare dry branch and twig, till the barest of them is bound to break and blossom. And you're needing to get the sap, the source of life, into your empty soul and let the Water of Life flow through you. You won't be scoffing at the good if you get it, you'll be bursting with joy and happiness, and blossoming with fruit to come. 'The water that I shall give him, shall be in him a well of water, springing up into everlasting life.'"

The sun shone through the young limes as Tomina looked up through their flickering leaves. Then a diversion occurred. Midway across a field to the right of them stood a low-thatched cottage in the midst of a garden gay with spring bulbs. There was a little wooden gate in the hedge, and at it stood two little ladies, one stout, one thin. They waved a packet of books in the air as Tomina approached them. She pulled up. One of them rather shyly approached her.

"Is the carrier here? We heard the van would pass us about this time for Damerton, and we wondered if he would kindly change these books for us at the library. Saunders the name is."

"I am the carrier," said Tomina, with dignity. "I'll do it with pleasure, unless you'd like to have a lift into Damerton yourselves."

The ladies looked at each other. There was a longing in their eyes, but dignity and conventionalism got the better of it.

"Thank you, no. We have never used the carrier's cart as a personal conveyance. It has not been running for some years. When last it was, we lived in the Rectory and had our own trap and horse. We have put a list of books we should like to have. Mrs. Saunders knows us. And what time will you be coming past here this evening?"

Tomina considered.

"About six o'clock," she said.

Then she drove on. Curiosity compelled her to glance at the books delivered into her keeping. She was surprised to see that there was a modern novel amongst them by a popular writer. A book on the late excavations in Egypt was another, and Maeterlinck's "The Bee" the third.

"They don't rust then," she thought to herself.

There was no more serious conversation between herself and the colporteur. She kept him at bay. When they eventually reached Damerton, he jumped down at the entrance of the market and paid his fare.

"Good day to you, miss. I'm leaving this part of the country this week, but I won't forget you."

He lifted his hat and departed.

Tomina was too busy to give him a thought again. She drove to the "Golden Bell" and put up her van. Her passengers scattered. She told them she was going to start home punctually at five o'clock. Then she got hold of one of the capable women, who good-naturedly offered to get some of the most difficult things on her list.

All the morning she was busy shopping, then she had a comfortable lunch at the "Golden Bell," and afterwards sauntered about the market and town, enjoying herself in a leisurely fashion. She went to the library and got some new books for herself, as well as for the Miss Seatons. And as she was coming out of the shop, she met Miss Merryweather, who shook hands warmly with her.

"May I congratulate you on your venture? It is the talk of the countryside. Are you taking root here, otherwise, isn't it a pity to start something that will have to be dropped?"

"Why should it be dropped? I live in the present, and I never look beyond it. Did you drive in?"

"Yes, with my brother. He comes into Damerton every week, you know."

"I suppose he does. I see you're looking at my books. You won't approve of them, but I've got to let my mind laze down here, so can read nothing solid. And I hope you're doing the same."

Alice Merryweather smiled.

"I feel as if I can read nothing at all at present. But I'm going to order some books for my brother."

"Is he a reader?"

"He used to be."

A shadow fell upon her face; she turned quickly away, and Tomina went out wondering what her choice of books would be.

At five o'clock she was in the yard. She found her van crammed with parcels of all sorts and sizes. Two of the women were sitting inside chattering gaily.

Four extra passengers were waiting to be taken up and dropped on the way. One old man was loquacious with drink. Tomina eyed him severely and insisted upon him sitting at the further end of the van.

"'Tis Jack amongst the maidens I'll be!" he laughed, as he took his seat. "Crowd in, me dears, an' the last maiden, if so be the van is full up, shall sit on Jack's knee. Don't 'ee all try to be the las' one now!"

Tomina ignored his pleasantries, but the women tittered and laughed and thoroughly enjoyed them.

Eleven passengers inside was a tight fit. The lad, Bill Short, sat on the outside seat with Tomina. She began to talk to him and was quite interested in what he told her about himself.

His father had died four months ago. He was only fifteen, but he was running a small poultry farm with his mother.

"I mean to be a farmer, and shan't stop at the bottom of the ladder. I'm saving and putting by every year, and I look to rent one of our Squire's farms in another two years."

"Is he a good landlord?"

"Oh yes—not bad! Sir Alfred's a fair man if he be a bit sharp at times. He's a rare good hand at business. Knows a good deal more than his agent."

When they reached the Miss Seatons' cottage, he volunteered to jump out and take their books up to their door, as there was no sign of them.

"We are a little early," Tomina remarked. "It is difficult to tell the first day how long we take from point to point."

"You ought to have a little chap with you, miss, who can carry parcels in and out. I reckon your custom will increase, and there'll be a good bit of parcel-carrying."

"Yes," said Tomina, thoughtfully, "I think I must."

Bill Short got out halfway to Little Honeycombe. He was going to spend the evening with an uncle of his.

And Tomina found that several of her parcels which had to be delivered on the way necessitated her getting out of the cart herself and delivering them at the doors.

"I shall have a whistle next time," she told the people. "I can't leave my horse to knock at your doors. You must be on the look-out for me."

The last parcel she personally delivered was left at a farm at the top of a steep hill. It was a hamper with live fowls in, and she had to call the man out to take it in. He took his time over it, and as Tomina was giving him some change, she heard a shout and commotion. Looking round, she saw that the old man had clambered from his back seat in the van to the front one, and was belabouring the horse with the whip.

Bran started downhill at a clumsy gallop. Tomina held her breath as she saw the van swaying to and fro, and realised that no brake was on. Then she raced downhill after it, furiously angry at being treated in such a manner and greatly alarmed about the safety of all concerned. Suddenly from a bend in the road, a rider on a big grey horse confronted her.

She stopped with raised hand. Then, as she looked up into his face, the rich colour left her cheeks and lip.

"Tomina! I-er-mean-Miss Gavin!"

"Colonel Norman!"

Then she recovered herself, and said with reckless haste—

"I believe I would welcome the devil himself at this juncture! Ride back and stop that runaway van! Did you not meet it? Stop it, and keep it waiting till I overtake it."

The rider looked at her sternly.

He was a tall broad-shouldered man with clean-cut features, a square and determined mouth and chin, and very thick and bushy eyebrows which almost hid his eyes and gave a fierce expression to his face.

"Do you want a ride in a carrier's cart?"

"I do. The cart belongs to me. Don't waste another moment—that drunken wretch will upset the whole concern."

He wheeled round on his horse with a muttered exclamation and cantered down the hill.

Tomina heaved a sigh of relief and walked after him.

"I shall not hurry. They will have to wait for me. My cup of humiliation is full to have to ask a favour from him! But it was unavoidable. How can he be in this part of the world?"

When she eventually overtook the cart, it was standing still at the bottom of the long hill. Women's heads were crowded together looking out, and two figures were standing in the road. One was Colonel Norman. His left hand was holding his horse by his bridle, the other was clutching the offender by the coat collar, who was nervously crying—

"Only my joke—a little joke, sir. Us be so dull cooped up like pigs in a pen! No harm done. Letsh me go, sir!"

"Now, then, what do you want done with this fellow?" the Colonel demanded, turning to Tomina with a wrathful eye.

Tomina jumped lightly up to her seat and took the reins in her hands.

She ignored the women's gasps and cries, knowing that they were thoroughly enjoying the situation. Then she spoke shortly and severely.

"Leave him where he is. Thank you for your help."

And she drove off without turning her head.

"Ah, my dear soul!" ejaculated old Mrs. Crabbe. "We have been in a terrible fright. But poor old man! It do seem a cruel shame to strand him four miles from home. He lives close to our village."

Tomina said nothing. The women went on talking amongst themselves. One of them asked her if she was feeling all right.

"'Twas a great shame to treat a young lady so! And Will Carpenter do deserve to be put down. But he were mischievously inclined. And I do hope he b'ant offerin' violence to that stranger gent. What a good job you had him to help you, miss! Whatever should us have done if us had a galloped home without you!"

"I think six or seven women ought to have been able to restrain a feeble old man the worse for drink," said Tomina, regally. "But it will be a lesson to me in the future. I shall deliver no more parcels unless the owners come to the cart for them."

The rest of the journey home was uneventful. But when Tomina walked into her small sitting-room, Susan exclaimed at her looks—

"You never can stand such days, ma'am. You look proper fagged out."

"I'll go to bed," said Tomina. "I have nothing else to do but rest when I'm home, thank goodness!"

Later on, when she was in bed and had had a comfortable little meal brought up to her, she told Susan about her misadventure.

Susan was horrified.

"And was Thor no good, ma'am?"

"What could Thor do? He was with me when I left the cart. I only tell you because I know how they talk in the village. It was a mercy they weren't all upset."

Susan looked much concerned, but she wisely offered no consolation. Tomina was too proud to accept such from any one.

She went to sleep that night slightly discomfited, and very determined that she would be stricter with her passengers and parcels in future.

CHAPTER V

A STRAY CHILD

TOMINA rested all the following day. In the afternoon, she was sitting in her easy-chair in the back garden, when Susan came flying towards her.

"A gentlemen has called, ma'am, and would like to see you. Here is his card."

Tomina hardly glanced at it.

"I am not at home, Susan."

Susan looked astonished.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I asked him in and told him you were in the garden."

"You had no business to do either. I am not going to see him."

Susan stood irresolute.

"Please, ma'am, what can I say?"

"I have told you what to say."

Tomina's tone was calmness itself. She took up her book and went on reading, but the words danced before her eyes. Susan went back to the house with slow unwilling steps.

And when she was out of sight, Tomina let her feelings get the better of her.

"How dare he!"

Thor looked up and began to growl. He had been lying at her feet, but it seemed as if he scented an unwelcome intruder.

"Quiet, Thor! He will see that I mean what I say. What has possessed him, of all people, to come into this part of the country?"

Tomina was much perturbed, but nobody but Thor had the clue to her thoughts.

Susan went about with an offended face. She was angry that she had "been made a fool of," so she told Mary Anne when talking it over with her.

"And such a handsome set-up gentleman, quite a stranger, and when I went back to him with her message, I felt like a dog with my tail between my legs.

"'Won't she see me?' he says.

"And I says, 'She's not well enough for company this afternoon, sir.'

"'Did you give her my card?' he says.

"And I says, 'Yes.'

"With that, he walks off like a haughty duke, and I do call it a shame of her!"

Tomina was conscious of Susan's disapproval, but was only amused at it.

The next morning, she had another visitor, and this time it was Mrs. Judd, who kept the general shop in the village.

"What does she want to see me for?" Tomina asked Susan.

She was having rather a late breakfast, it being ten o'clock, but she had slept badly, and so did not hurry to get up.

"I think she'll prefer to tell you that herself, ma'am," said Susan, a little grandly.

"Let her come in; perhaps she wants to be paid. We do owe her for some sugar, don't we?"

Mrs. Judd was announced. She was a stout woman with very small features, her eyes were almost hidden by her cheeks, and she now appeared red and uncomfortable.

"Good morning, Mrs. Judd," said Tomina, graciously.

"Morning, ma'am. You'll excuse me; I'm a person who always acts prompt. My dear departed father always brought me up so.

"'M'ria, if you knows a step to be right, take it, and take it quick. If you dilly-dallies you be lost!'

"He used to say that times without number, and if 'tis a bit disagreeable for you, ma'am, you'll face it and see the right is on my side."

She paused.

Tomina looked up expectantly.

"Yes, what is the matter?"

"'Tisn't to be expected you gentry knows how the working folk toils from morn to night, and gathers their pennies with the sweat of their brow! I've built up my business with a load of care and trouble, and just when I'm ridin' on the crest of the wave, so to speak, you comes along and with thoughtlessness and carelessness, and with smiles to everybody, you knocks it all down in the dust!"

"My dear woman, what do you mean? For goodness' sake don't beat about so, but say out plainly what your grievance is. How can I knock down your business?"

Mrs. Judd's portly bosom heaved; she put her apron up to her eyes and began to cry.

"I see it a-coming. I've sugared Mrs. Tabbs and Mrs. Goss for these eight years, and I hear tell they've bought seven pound each in Damerton because they could get it cheaper. And I've teaed Mrs. Crabbe for longer than they, and she hasn't come near me all yesterday, which is her day for droppin' in for sixpennorth of tea and chat. And my niece have told me all the groceries hidden under the seat so as she shouldn't report it to me, and I do think it's most un-Christian and unkind to drive my custom away from me in your van to Damerton every week!"

Tomina looked blankly at her. At first, she nearly laughed, but Mrs. Judd's tears and tragic face warned her that this was no laughing matter.

"My dear soul, I'm most awfully sorry. I wouldn't hurt your custom for the world! Now dry your tears, and sit down and let's talk it over. Have a cup of coffee? It will pull you together!"

Mrs. Judd accepted the coffee. Tomina knew how to win hearts, and before long, she had Mrs. Judd in a smiling mood again. She suggested to her that she or her niece should get supplies from Damerton themselves, instead of trusting to a traveller to buy for them.

"You will get everything far cheaper, and will see all kinds of novelties that you may feel inclined to invest in. Then, if you can do some things a little cheaper, your customers won't leave you. And I promise to get all my supplies from you. We won't let you suffer. Why, what would the village do without you! I think your shop is a marvel! And it does one good to go in and see your smiling happy face. Oh, you can be quite sure my van will help your trade, not hinder it."

So Tomina talked, and Mrs. Judd finally departed with the conviction that the carrier's van was going to make her fortune.

Tomina was thoroughly discussed in the shop that same afternoon.

"She has manners," said Mrs. Goss. "'Twas quite parlour manners when us got in.

"'Will you sit here, Mrs. Goss,' she says to me, 'so as to rest your back here?'

"And she had a pretty word for every one. But where she lacks is in strength. Us do want a man to heave of us up and our parcels. And when all's said and done, 'tis more racy-like to have a man a-drivin,' and not a bit of a girl!"

"But if us can't get a man, us must be thankful for her!" said Mrs. Tabbs. "And when she gets hold of a horse, she knows right well how to manage 'im!"

Then her family history was surmised, and her health and appearance criticised, and the final verdict was that she "were makin' things a bit livelier in the village, and liked to spend her money."

When Friday came round, Tomina started out again. This time she had fewer passengers. Only five from Little Honeycombe. But she took up four on the way, and Bill Short was amongst them. Tomina suddenly evolved the idea of engaging him to come with her every time, for she saw that she ought to have some one to lift the different baskets and bundles in and out.

Bill responded gladly to her suggestion. She told him she would give him two-and-sixpence a day and his food, and he said he would be delighted to come with her for that.

When St. Martha's Cross was reached, Tomina was as interested as her passengers in seeing the quaint little old-fashioned town. She called at the railway station late in the afternoon and there found a small boy sitting on a bundle waiting for her. A woman by his side was voluble in her explanation.

"'Tis little 'Arry Chuggs. An orphan he be, no father or mother, and I used to be nex' door neighbour to his granny. He lives with his granny. She were taken ill and sent him to me, but I be called over to London to see my darter. Her boy be two days old, and there be complications; and she be very bad, so back to his granny he must go. And you pass her house. 'Tis halfway to Little Honeycombe back from the road—Mrs. Chuggs her be. I'm hopin' she be up and about agen by this time."

Tomina promised to deliver the small boy safely. Something in his tiny face and mass of dark brown curls appealed to her. And when he insisted on sitting up by her side and chatted to her in a most quaint and friendly fashion, Tomina ended by losing her heart to him.

"Have you ever seed God?" he asked her, as they slowly drove up a long hill. He was gazing up into the blue evening sky with a seraphic innocence as he spoke.

"No," said Tomina.

"I have," he said, with a pleased nod. "He's always on top of us, you know, and Satan is under. I seed God las' night when I was in bed and 'twas black with the dark. He was jus' hangin' over me, and He smiled."

"But how could you see Him in the dark?" questioned Tomina.

"Oh, some people see quite well in the dark," replied Harry, quickly. "God and me sees quite as well as in the day. We look at each other quite easy."

There was a pause. Tomina was unused to children. She did not know whether she ought to reprove him or not. He gave her a side look through his long black eyelashes, and continued—

"Satan is very angry when I see God. He tries to get in the way, and then I stamp on him hard, and he crackles up like coal does!"

"What will granny say when she sees you? Does she know that you're coming?" asked Tomina, thinking it best to change the conversation.

Harry snuggled closer to her, and laid his head against her arm.

"I do love you!" he said. "I wis' granny lived with you."

Then his small hand stretched out for the reins, and Tomina weakly gave them into his hand.

In an instant he was sitting upright, his big eyes blazing with pride and joy.

"I could drive you to Lunnon," he asserted. "He's my horse, and this is my cart, and I'm going to sell you all to the market."

"Who would buy us?" asked Tomina, enjoying this child as she hadn't enjoyed anything for a long time.

"I'll sell you for a shilling each to a farmer to fatten for Chris'mas; he'll keep you in a sty, but not you. I'll whisper in your ear. Bend down."

So Tomina bent.

"I'll buy you back and take you home with me, and to-morrow we'll go and look over the edge of the world."

His talk so fascinated Tomina that she was quite sorry when his grandmother's was reached.

She got down herself when they arrived at the cottage, and took him up to the door. A woman opened it immediately, and exclaimed when she saw Harry—

"Why, his granny died this morning! Poor little chap! 'Tis no use for him to come here. Me and my darter have been seeing to the poor soul. She were took sudden at the end. Was quite herself yesterday, and then when the doctor left yesternight, went unconscious like and died at five o'clock this morn. Would you like to come in and look at her, miss? She's beautiful to see!"

But Tomina shrank back in horror.

"I wouldn't come in for worlds!" she said frankly. "But now, what's to be done with this poor child?"

"He'd best go back where he came from," said the woman, shortly.

She was hurt and offended at Tomina's refusal to see the dead, and said within herself that she was not going to be bothered with other people's children.

For an instant, Tomina stood still considering. Then she seized Harry by the hand, and took him back to the van.

"You shall come home with me, Harry, to-night. I'll find you a bed. You amuse me."

When the inmates of the van heard of what had happened, they were loud in talk and lamentation. One of them claimed an acquaintance with Harry's grandmother.

"She was a good woman, and a favourite with Mrs. Francis, and I've heard tell that the little lad were often up at Hall. Mrs. Francis took a likin' to him. Pity she be still away!"

"Well," said Tomina, "if you hear of any one who can offer him a home, let me know. Till then, he stays with me."

When Tomina finally reached home, and placed Harry in Susan's arms, that good woman was almost stunned.

"A child, ma'am! Well, you do really beat all! I always did feel you were never cut out for a carrier!"

"He'll have to stay till we get him a home," said Tomina. "Give him some supper and make him up a bed somewhere, Susan. He's getting sleepy now, but he's the most entertaining little creature I've ever met."

Later on, when Tomina was enjoying her own dinner, Susan came to her.

"I foresee, ma'am, we shall have a handful. He's sitting on the floor crying for you. He's ready for bed, but won't get in."

Tomina went into Susan's room where Harry was to sleep. He looked a disconsolate little figure in his scanty shirt as he sat cross-legged on the floor. Seeing Tomina, he held out his arms. And Tomina gathered him to herself with almost a mother's tenderness.

"What is it, lambkin?"

He pointed his small finger at Susan accusingly, whilst his under lip still quivered, and big teardrops hung on his eyelashes.

"Her says 'tis no use to say 'God bless granny,' 'cause granny is dead. I can't go to sleep till I've said my prayers, and my prayers is 'God bless granny.' Where is granny? Is she where God can't bless her?"

Tomina was ignorant of religious doctrines and orthodoxy.

"Of course you can say 'God bless granny.' Come and say it now."

So Harry dropped on his knees with a smile through his tears.

"O God, bless granny and make Harry a good boy, and—and love him when he's naughty, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."

Then he got up and stared solemnly at Tomina with his big eyes.

"Aunt Jane said God didn't love naughty boys, but He will if I ask Him, won't he?"

"I expect there would be very few in the world left to love if He did not," said Tomina gravely.

Then she lifted him into the little bed made up for him and kissed him.

And when she was in her sitting-room alone, the colporteur's words suddenly came back to her.

"People talk of there being no devil! It's sheer proof of his presence and handiwork when young gentle things like you scoff at the One Who made them, and sacrificed Himself for them, and loves them now with a deep undying love!"

"I suppose God loves us all," she mused. "I've never thought much about it. I should like to meet that Bible pedlar again, he seemed so happy and certain. And I liked that about the sap rising. I suppose if one could be religious as he was, it mightn't be such a gloomy affair after all."

She thought about it when she went to bed, and when she at last slept, she had a strange dream. She dreamed that Harry and she were walking hand-in-hand through a strange country, and they came to a deep blue lake. On the other side were lights and people, but darkness seemed gathering round them, and Tomina heard herself saying anxiously—

"We must get home, Harry! We must get home!"

And then Harry pulled her down to the water.

"Let's come through it quick, and then we'll get home."

But when her feet touched the cold water, she shrank back and shivered.

"I can't, Harry, I can't. We shall be drowned. We must wait for a boat."

But Harry pulled her forwards.

"It isn't cold water, it's full of God's love."

And when she hesitated, he went into the lake, and she watched his laughing face and curly head bobbing up above the water and calling to her to follow him.

"It's quite easy—come!" he called.

She looked round for a boat, but there was none, the darkness of a coming storm was behind her and around her. She tried to move after the child, but her feet stuck to the ground, and then she called out in terror, and awoke.

Beads of perspiration were on her brow. It was early morning. Birds were singing outside her window.

"Oh!" she gasped. "What a comfort it is to wake from a frightful dream!"

Then she turned again on her pillow, and slept till Susan called her.

At breakfast, when Harry sat opposite to her, her dream recurred to her.

"Do you ever have dreams, Harry?" she asked.

Harry was in a very matter of fact mood this morning.

"Some more sugar in my tea, please," he asked, "and may I go in the garden with the big dog?"

"If you aren't interesting, I shan't keep you," said Tomina, rather severely.

Harry opened his eyes.

"What's intellessing?"

"I want you to amuse me."

Harry shook his head.

"I want 'you' to 'muse 'me,'" he said.

Tomina gave him up for the time with an impatient sigh.

But after breakfast, when he had had a scamper in the garden with Thor, he came back to her with a most coaxing face.

"Tell me a story like Mrs. Francis does."

"What kind of stories does she tell you?"

Harry gazed up into the sky with rapturous eyes.

"'Bout the Home for little children in the blue sky."

"I'm afraid I don't know much about it," said Tomina. "You tell me what you know."

"It's where granny has gone, isn't it? Jesus stands at the door to shake hands, you know—"

Harry's eyes grew dreamy.

"When I take His hand, I shall cry because of the hole in it. It's a pity He let them be so cruel to Him, wasn't it? But Mrs. Francis said it had to be. Can you sing that hymn about a green hill?"

"I think I used to once, but I've forgotten the words."

"The story I like best is David and Goliar. Do you know that? Tell it to me."

He had twined his small fingers round hers and was leaning against her knee. Tomina felt almost mesmerised. She began at once, in rather halting words, to tell the old Bible story, but Harry knew it better than she did, and prompted her every minute.

She was sitting by the open window, when suddenly a voice interrupted them.

"Good morning. May I come in?"

It was Dr. Merton.

CHAPTER VI

AN UNWELCOME PASSENGER

TOMINA looked rather relieved than otherwise at the interruption. Harry dashed to the door with a shout of welcome.

"I'm living with her now. Isn't she a pretty lady?"

"You're in luck's way, young man. Do you think you could make yourself scarce for a little?"

"Harry, run out into the kitchen and stay with Susan till I call you," Tomina said.

The child obeyed her.

Then Dr. Merton took a seat.

"Well, this isn't a professional visit to-day. I heard last night of your kind deed, and have come to ask what you mean to do?"

Tomina sat back in her chair and looked at him with laughing eyes.

"I really haven't the faintest idea what I mean to do. I live in the present, as you know. Please don't credit me with being a philanthropist, for it was just an impulse. He is an adorably pretty boy! And he began to talk so confidentially and quaintly to me that I thought he would amuse me for a day or two. What queer things children are! He seems so deeply, powerfully religious, if you know what I mean. I hear he is Mrs. Francis's 'protégé.' I suppose that accounts for it."

"I think it does. Eleanor Francis has a wonderful gift of influence, and a little child is so susceptible."

"He hardly seems like a villager's child. Has he any special history?"

"Yes. His grandmother, Mrs. Chugg, was once Mrs. Francis's nurse. She married the butler—a most superior man, and for some time kept one of the lodges on the Digbys' property. Her daughter was a very pretty, refined girl, and was very often at the Hall playing with the children there. She married very well, a rising young architect who did a good bit of business for the old squire. They went to London, and in three years' time, both died of scarlet fever, a virulent type—he took it first and she contracted it nursing him. Their little boy came back to live with his grandmother. That's his history.

"I don't think we shall let him go to the workhouse. If you are tired of him already, you had better hand him over to me. I am quite ready to give him a home for the present. Harry and I are old friends."

"I haven't said that I am tired of him. You are too fond of jumping to conclusions."

"Children want an infinite amount of patience and care," said Dr. Merton, looking at Tomina gravely; "are you very fond of them?"

"Not as a class, but if they are very pretty and amusing, I lose my heart to them. And Harry has a way with him. Oh, I dare say I had better hand him over to you. I fancy I might not be able to satisfy his requirements. I certainly am behind him in Biblical knowledge. I don't even possess a Bible of my own. I have one in town, I believe, but I never used it."

Tomina always had a perverse longing to shock Dr. Merton, but he never rose to her bait.

"You're improving in looks," he said. "Our country life suits you. How does the van work?"

Tomina's eyes sparkled. She spoke naturally now.

"I am getting to love it. The slow leisurely motion suits me. I think I have adapted myself very quickly to my—my banishment! I never thought that country people of the lower orders, could be so interesting. They're pathetic, and comic and tragic by turns. I listen to their talk and am learning a lot."

"I hear the carrier's van is a great success," said Dr. Merton, heartily.

"Well, we have only had two days of it as yet. I've had some funny experiences. The first day I took up a book pedlar, who preached me a sermon. He was rather a dear. I fancy I have tumbled into a nest of good people down here. When are you going to have your turn with me, Dr. Merton? I am sure you are longing to begin!"

"I want you to be healthy both in body and soul," responded Dr. Merton, gravely. "You will tell me your soul is none of my business, but I say that the soul affects the body, and as you have been trying to kill both, these few years, I am naturally anxious that you should learn the laws of health for both."

Tomina's eyes twinkled with mischief. She folded her hands in her lap.

"Please go on," she said.

"Oh, I am not going to preach. But I do think that every civilised Christian should own and read the Book that contains those laws."

"I suppose you mean the Bible, but I don't think that says much about our bodies, does it?"

"Doesn't it? You look and see. We have wandered from our point. How long do you want to keep Harry?"

Tomina did not reply. She was gazing out of the window somewhat wistfully.

The doctor longed to know her thoughts, but he waited in silence.

At last, she said—

"Do you really want him so much? I believe you are like me, though, of course, you wouldn't allow it for worlds! You have your lonely moments, when you get bored to death with yourself and your thoughts, and you seek distraction!"

Dr. Merton smiled.

"I hope the quiet simple life is not going to fail you."

"If it keeps quiet and simple it won't," said Tomina, emphatically. "But if fragments of the other world keep flying across my path, I shall, as the Americans would say, 'quit'!"

Then she smiled, and Tomina's smile made every one feel at once what a joyous thing life was.

"I came across rather a big fragment the other day," she continued, "but it went as quickly as it came, and as I'm determined to live in the present, I oughtn't to give it a thought."

Dr. Merton opened his mouth as if about to speak, then shut his lips determinedly.

"And Harry?"

"Oh, Harry. Leave him with me a little longer. Are you going to adopt him?"

"I have not thought of doing so; only I thought I would keep him till Mrs. Francis returns, and then we can talk over his future together."

"Poor little waif! Has he no relations on his father's side?"

"I am afraid not. But that will require investigation. Mrs. Francis knows about his belongings better than I do. I must be off. I am thankful to leave him in such good hands as yours, and if he proves too much for you, let me know at once."

Just as the doctor was going out at the door, he turned.

"By the way, somebody was asking after you the other day. A Colonel Norman, whose father has recently died. His mother lives about five miles off. I believe he is retiring from the service and going to look after the property."

"I used to know a Major Norman," said Tomina, indifferently, "but he is not a friend of mine."

The doctor went.

Tomina sat very still. An impertinent robin perched upon the window-sill and lifting up his head, looked at her saucily. Then there was a rush of small feet along the passage and he flew away.

"Susan is cooking me a fruit tart. She says I can pick up the snails in the ivy, and Thor could be made to draw your wheelbarrow, couldn't he? Oh! There's such lots to do! Do come on and help me."

Harry had got hold of her, and had dragged her out into the garden before she had time to protest.

For the rest of that day, Tomina gave herself over to childhood and to childhood's games.

When she was tired, she handed Harry over to Susan, who soon became his willing slave. He certainly kept them both lively, and however mischievous and restless by day, he was a little angel when bed-time came. Tomina was obliged to be always present during his prayers. She said to Susan one evening, when she came away from him—

"Do all children consider that the Almighty's sole occupation consists in watching over them and listening to every word that comes from their lips? Harry thinks that his concerns come first and foremost in the world to his Creator!"

"Ah well," said Susan, "'tis said, ma'am, 'of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.' They were very dear to our Lord, and 'twould be better for all of us if we were more like them!"

"I suppose it would," was Tomina's grave reply.

Carrier's day came round again. But it dawned in lashing showers of rain, which set in for a steady downpour when the time to start came.

Tomina had thought of taking Harry with her, but that was impossible now. She arrayed herself in her oilskins, and as she surveyed herself in her glass, she laughed aloud.

"I'm looking a genuine carrier now," she said to Susan.

"Well, ma'am, you're really very like a man in them things. But 'tis rough weather for you, all said and done!"

She had only four passengers to start with. Bill Short was, of course, in attendance, and she made up for the lack of passengers in the hampers and parcels which were packed in.

Rain and wind beat in their faces as they started. The whole country was obliterated by a grey driving mist. Tomina sat well back under the awning and drove. The four women snuggled together in the back of the van, and talked in low voices over the shortcomings of their families and the depression of trade. Everybody seemed out of spirits, including Bran, who plodded doggedly along, occasionally shaking his great mane when it became water-logged, and Thor, who tucked himself under the shelter of the van and held his tail well between his legs.

Presently, as they began to ascend a long steep hill, they overtook a pedestrian in mackintosh and slouch hat, well pulled down over his eyes. He hailed them as soon as he saw them, and climbed up into the front seat by the side of Tomina.

"A bad day for you," he said pleasantly.

Tomina turned in her seat and stared at him. There was no mistaking that voice. It was Colonel Norman again.

For an instant, Tomina wondered if she were recognised, but only for an instant. Then a swift furious colour rose in her cheeks, as she encountered his keen steady gaze.

"Why wouldn't you see me the other day? You might have known we should be bound to meet before long."

"I call this an impertinent intrusion," said Tomina, in icy tones.

"Surely not? Surely a carrier's van is open to any and all who can pay his fare? I am going to Damerton on business."

"Then you could have driven yourself."

"But I wanted to see you and have a talk with you, and this was my opportunity."

His tone was very determined.

Tomina was so dumfounded by the blow fate had dealt her that she was absolutely silent.

He continued after a pause.

"I heard of your disappearance from town, but I little thought I should find you in my own county. Is there any special reason for this masquerade? When I remember you in the old days, I can hardly reconcile—"

Then Tomina turned her head.

"The old days, as you call them, are dead and buried, and so is every one and everything associated with them."

"Do you really mean that?"

"I do."

"Thank Heaven! That leaves me a fair fresh field! Tomina, I am going to begin to court you again. I won't even attempt to explain away or apologise for the past. There is no past. You and I are in a new fresh world, the only man and woman in it so far as I am concerned. I felt an hour ago that the very heavens were weeping for our spoiled lives, and irrevocable mistakes, our pitiful failures of life with its glorious possibilities.

"Now what is the rain? It is washing and purging and beautifying all that has become besmirched with the dust of time. You and I are new creatures. We have evolved a fresh era, our future lies before us, to be made or marred according to our likings. We are at the beginning of our friendship."

Tomina received this burst of eloquence with a very slight and indifferent shrug of her pretty shoulders. Her back was almost turned upon him. Only Bran was conscious of an unusual and spasmodic tightening of his reins.

After a moment's silence, she spoke.

"You have twisted my words to suit yourself. If neither of us has a past, we are absolute strangers one to the other, and I intend that we remain as such. I never wish to know you, and no amount of effort on your part will make me do it. As a gentleman, and I believe you are one, you cannot force your presence upon me!"

"I can and will do anything to break down the barrier between us!"

There was a tense silence, then the Colonel spoke again.

"No, I am not going to play your game any more. Neither of us can forget the past; you think that you cannot forgive it. How long ago is it? It is eight years to-day since your head was lying on my shoulder, and we sealed our compact with our lips. I have never had but one woman in my life, and I never shall. I was hot-headed and jealous, I own. I was arbitrary where I ought to have been persuasive. You overheard something that you misconstrued, and I was too proud to exonerate myself. We both determined to put each other out of our lives.

"I've worked hard and allowed myself no time for thinking. Now I have retired, and isn't it a remarkable thing that every day since I have been home, your personality has haunted me? I never knew until I met you the other day that we were neighbours. Tomina, my heart still beats true for you; it has never wandered from you. Why should we pretend to be strangers? You know that we are not."

Tomina's face was stern and set. It was the woman who showed hardness and determination; the man's face was softened, and into his eyes had crept a pitying tenderness.

The top of the hill was reached. Without a word, she whipped up Bran more severely than was her wont. He broke into a sharp trot. The van swayed and creaked and groaned, and one could hardly hear oneself speak. The rain still lashed into their faces. Tomina began to wish for some fresh passengers. How could she endure six or seven miles more of Colonel Norman's company?

When they were once more forced to go slowly, she spoke—

"I came down to this part by doctor's orders. I have been very unwell, and I thought I had found peace and rest, and freedom from all that I have learnt to dislike. I do not intend that you shall spoil my life again. You did it once, and a 'burnt child dreads the fire.' I never will speak to you willingly again. Nothing that you can say or do will make me change my mind."

Then scorn and anger crept into her voice.

"You acknowledge that all these years you have never given me a thought! Why should you do so now? Your world always came first with you. It is only in your idle moments that you consider women to be useful to you. You forget that women now are not mere playthings for men."

"You were never a plaything in my eyes."

"No, perhaps I used the wrong word. It was on the subject of play that we differed so. You considered you had the right to withhold from me any pleasure that you deemed fit to condemn. Your will was always to come paramount. I was to be your obedient servant. And your straight-laced Pharisaical views of life were to be mine, you reminded me, when I became your wife. Thank Heaven, I escaped from such bondage. Did you think that my grudge against you was because you told your chum that the only chance for an undisciplined girl was for her to marry a man who could always master her?"

"That speech of mine was not in reference to you. I never had a chance to explain. Davis was working as a curate in the slums; we were talking about factory girls and their ways."

Tomina laughed scornfully.

"What does it matter now? I say that that was only an indication of your habit of thought. I was a young joyous-hearted girl in those days. I felt kindly disposed towards all my fellow-creatures. I could have been led, but never, never driven! You turned my gladness into bitterness. You made me hate all goodness and good people and religion in every shape and form. If I had cared enough, you would have driven me to the devil. You took my love, but you only wanted it to minister to your needs. I was to be your bird in a cage to sing to you, but my wings were to be clipped, and you would have gone on clipping and clipping till no feather was left!"

Tomina paused for breath. Her voice was low pitched; not one of the women in the van could hear what she said, but passion vibrated through every word.

Colonel Norman looked straight in front of him, and again there was a tense silence between them. Then he drew a long deep breath.

"I never knew a woman's love could turn into such hate!" he said. And clapping down a shilling on the wooden seat, he said curtly, "My fare," and swung himself down upon the muddy road. He raised his hat, and fell behind the van.

Tomina never looked out or noticed whether he trudged behind them for long. She only felt when she reached Damerton that she would give all she possessed to be able to creep into her bed at home and cry herself to sleep, so tired and weary, so utterly miserable was she!

But business had to be done, and her day had only just commenced. She had always had plenty of self-control, and it did not fail her now.

In the afternoon, the weather cleared. The return journey was made in sunshine, and every bush and tree seemed to lift up their heads to greet it.

"Jus' like our days," said old Mrs. Crabbe, who was somewhat of a philosopher; "we gets a reg'lar downpour o' trouble and set-backs, and then it all goes, and the sun comes out beter'n ever."

"Will the sun ever come out for me?" thought Tomina. "I am sure it will not."

Susan was not surprised when the next day came and found Tomina in bed with a racking head and high temperature. Even Harry's prattle had to be hushed.

"I always said she wouldn't be fit to stand rough weather," said Susan to herself. "She's got a chill and is going to be really ill. I shall send for the doctor, and he'll have to take away the child."

CHAPTER VII

TWO VISITORS

BUT in a day or two, Tomina was quite herself again, and Harry stayed on. Everything that was softest and best in her came to the surface when she had him by her side. Miss Merryweather called one afternoon, and found her seated on the floor with a pack of cards. Harry and she were erecting towers, to be demolished with a pop-gun as soon as they were erected.

Tomina rose from the floor with reluctance.

"I have always enjoyed a game of cards, but I think this is the most engrossing one I have ever played," she said. "Now, Harry, I am going to rest for a little. Will you run out into the garden and tell Thor, with my love, that he must take his turn at amusing you now?"

"And he'll shake his head and say, 'No.' Susan says he likes an afternoon nap. But I'll tell him what you say, and if he doesn't do it, I'll—I'll make him!"

He trotted away with flying curls; and Miss Merryweather looked her astonishment.

"I have heard about your 'protégé.' You are rather a marvel to me!"

"Am I? I think you would have acted in the same way had you been in my shoes."

Alice Merryweather shook her head.

"No, I should know I could not make him happy. You told me you had come down here to get away from your fellow-creatures, but on all sides I hear of the friends you are making. Allow me to congratulate you upon your enterprise. You are turning into a successful philanthropist."

"You mean my van? My dear Miss Merryweather, that is pure amusement and delight to me, and so is Harry. I have never done anything yet that I dislike doing."

"But did I not tell you when you talked about my work that I found work a pleasure. All people do who throw their hearts into it. You have turned into the busy bee down here, I into the drone."

Tomina looked at her keenly.

"You are really ill," she said.

"I'm never without a headache," confessed Alice; "and my very limbs seem powerless. You don't know what a helpless wretched creature I have become. The only solace to me is my books, and those are a forbidden indulgence."

"Forbidden by our tyrant the doctor, I suppose? Oh, I would snap my fingers at him! Doesn't he interfere in everybody's concerns? Even Harry here may be at any moment snatched away by him. He wants him now, but I want him too, so our wills are in conflict."

Alice laughed.

"I think your will will come uppermost," she said. "Dr. Merton is very kind at heart. Tell me about your carrier's cart. I feel inclined to come with you one day."

"Do; it is most entertaining! Do you know two old ladies called Seaton? I had such a quaint old-fashioned note from one of them this morning.

"'The Misses Seaton will be much obliged if Miss Gavin will kindly reserve two seats together for them in her van next Friday when she goes to Damerton. They are obliged to go into Damerton on business, otherwise they would not trouble her, and will she kindly see that the two seats are under cover, and out of the draught. If very wet, they will not attempt the journey; but if fine, D.V., * they would like her to stop at their gate as she passes.'

"They are such old dears! But they told me, with heads in the air, that they had never used a carrier's cart for their personal convenience."

* D.V.—Deo Volente ["God willing."]

"Oh, I know them well," said Alice, smiling; "they are awfully afraid of letting themselves slip down from the station in life to which they were called, and most of their conversations are sandwiched with, 'Our late father, the Rector of Twistham,' or, 'When we lived in Twistham Rectory.' You cannot get them off it.

"I asked them once if they would like the post of librarians in a country town not far from London. They are fond of books, and are well-read women. I could have got it for them, and as they're so very badly off, I thought they would have jumped at it, but they were quite shocked at the idea. They are very early Victorian, and think women ought never to work out of their homes."

"I don't like the type of working women I have met in town," said Tomina, "they're so sure of themselves, and so argumentative and dictatorial!"

"What class of woman have you met?"

"A lady doctor or two, and some Poor Law Guardians, and an American barrister; she was the best of the lot, she knew how to dress herself!"

Alice laughed.

And Tomina joined her, adding—

"I don't care; women have no business to make themselves into seedy caricatures of men. They generally despise them; why should they ape their dress and manners?"

"You are talking of the aggressive style of woman. The hardest workers are not that sort."

"Don't let us talk of women," said Tomina. "I'm not very fond of my own sex. Men are, as a rule, bigger-minded and more interesting. I see rather a scornful glint in your eye? The person I like best in the world is a man who is now in Australia."

"I suppose you are engaged to him?"

"Indeed I am not, nor shall I ever be. He is my twin brother, and his name is Tom. I have to thank him for my ridiculous name. He is the elder by an hour, and he had to be a Thomas. His godfather insisted on it. And then they named me Tomina. We grew up together, and I don't think I could have had a nicer brother. If I could, I would follow him round the world; but he is in the Navy, and they won't have women on men-of-war."

"I should think not, indeed," said Alice, laughing. "I am afraid you won't have much men's society here. You will soon be wanting to go back to town."

"No, I feel as if I never wish to see it again. You forget that I have entered another life—or world is it? And I am getting keenly interested in the villagers. They are quite a new experience to me. You should hear the conversations in my van! They're as good, and better than a play. Five women were made to thrill last Friday by the description of a neighbour who went to church in her weekday clothes! And they're so good and generous to each other, much more so than we are! Oh, I'm in love with my burial place. I shall never want to leave it."

"I came to ask you if you would do a commission for me when next you go to Damerton. Will you bring me back a parcel of books, and let me call for them here the next day?"

"With pleasure. Oh! Who is this? Not a visitor?"

A carriage was stopping at the gate. Alice Merryweather looked out.

"Why, it is Mrs. Norman! It is not often she comes this way."

"Oh dear! I don't want visitors. I'm not at home! That wretch Susan is already at the door. Do go out and say I can't see her!"

Alice laughed.

"My dear Miss Gavin, you had better go through it with a good grace. Mrs. Norman would have forced her way in, for she saw us at the window. Nothing escapes her eyes. I am sorry for that nice son of hers who has come home to look after her. She leads him a dreadful life. She is one of those people who can never keep still; her energy is almost superhuman."

The next moment, Susan ushered in a very animated little lady dressed in the height of fashion.

She greeted Tomina almost affectionately.

"We cannot be strangers, though I have not been in town for years. We were abroad for five years before my husband died, but your stepmother and I are old friends. I am so pleased that you have come to live in this part of the world. Why did you not let me know before? You are down here for health, are you not? Leading the simple life, and so on.

"Well, we have all had our turn at that. Before we went abroad, I got my husband to rent a small cottage for week-ends, and I tried my best to adapt myself to it. But mice and earwigs conquered me, and I fled. As I say, our life at Yockley Court is a simple one, and for the present I am tied there. Between ourselves, our agent was a gentlemanly loafer, and has let the whole place go to ruin, and through mismanagement—I won't hint at any possible want of honesty—a few thousands of ours have disappeared, and we have to economise. This is what brought Gerald home. He has come to look after his mother, and bring order out of chaos. You know my son, Miss Gavin, do you not?"

Tomina's face during this long speech was a study. Alice sat still, and quite enjoyed it.

Then Tomina spoke, with her head thrown back, her eyes partly closed, and her voice very sweet, but very remote in tone.

"It is kind of you to come to see me, but I am not to have visitors, my doctor says. I am to enjoy absolute quiet. You see I am doing a rest cure. I have shed my fashionable friends with my fashionable clothes, and hours, like a skin! You will understand that as an invalid, I cannot return this kind visit. I want to regain my health, and so I am determined to follow my doctor's orders."

"My dear girl, I am indeed sorry for you! I did not know you were in such delicate health, but I see Miss Merryweather has discovered you."

"Yes," said Alice, "our doctor introduced us. We are supposed to be two invalids, and he thought we might like to discuss our respective symptoms."

"I am so thankful for my superb health," said Mrs. Norman, with pride. "I never have had a day's illness for years. I am up every morning at half-past five, and in my garden at seven. I have just started a water garden at the end of my rock garden, and it is most fascinating. Do you know any rare water plants, Miss Merryweather? I know you are a very encyclopædia for knowledge of all kinds."

Alice began telling her of a few plants by name, and it was Tomina's turn to sit silent and listen. She could not reconcile this youthful energetic mother with her stern determined son. She wondered how they got on together, whether the son or mother ruled the house.

And in a very few minutes, Mrs. Norman rose to go.

"Well, I am glad to have found you at home, my dear, and I will send the carriage over to bring you to lunch with us one day. You must not mope here. I am glad I have seen you. I heard a most ridiculous story afloat, about a young lady running a carrier's cart, and somebody said it was you. Now I have seen you, I can contradict the story. You do not look as if that 'rôle' would suit you. Do you know of any girl about here who is doing such a thing? Some farmer's daughter, I suppose. Girls will do anything nowadays! And the more unfeminine a pursuit may be, the more it appeals to them."

Tomina, lying back in her chair in a daintily embroidered muslin frock and looking a picture of fragile porcelain femininity, gazed at Mrs. Norman languidly through her long eyelashes.

"Is driving not a feminine pursuit? My carrier's cart is the only thing I really enjoy."

Mrs. Norman gazed at her with horrified eyes.

"Then the report is true? My dear girl, does your stepmother know about it? You must have far more energy than your appearance credits you with. Well, good-bye; you have astonished me! I wish I had time to ask for details, but I am due at the rectory for a committee meeting. Dear me! What a tangled medley is the composition of a modern girl!"

She bustled out of the room. Alice Merryweather accompanied her to the gate, then returned to Tomina.

"You are a tangled medley," she said. "Mrs. Norman spoke truly there."

"And I seem to myself so simple!" said Tomina. "Life must be so here. I am not at all tangled in my mind. I only do the things I want to do, and leave the rest."

"You have no high ideals," said Alice, musingly. "Those are what require effort and produce restlessness and discontent."

"What are your ideals?"

"To cultivate to the fullest extent every fraction of my brain. I would not have an ounce of me lying fallow. To do work in the world that will last. Not to stagnate, and be a source of danger to others by stagnation!"

Alice spoke in a low voice, but her tone vibrated with earnest passion.

Tomina looked at her and smiled, then she sighed.

"I don't know whether I am so simple after all," she said. "I am playing a game, trying to match my environment, but simplicity means goodness, and I am not good. And I never wished to be good till—Shall I make you my father confessor? Why am I talking like this, I wonder!"

She stopped abruptly.

But Alice looked interested and sympathetic, so Tomina went on—

"Till I met an absurd little book pedlar, and he gave me a lesson on limes coming into leaf, and every time I pass those limes, they repeat his words to me. I sometimes think that unseen forces are surrounding me, making me think of religion, and compelling me to be religious. I bought a Bible the other day. Harry forced me to. He wanted some of his Bible stories. I think if I have an ideal at all, it is to have the faith of a little child. I told the quaint pedlar that I came down here to bury myself, and that eventually I meant to emerge a new creature. He at once began to talk about a new Birth, and the sap rising in the dead trees of winter. He told me I wanted the sap to rise in me.

"I laughed at his little parable, but this morning I was hunting about for a fresh Bible story and I came across this verse. Do you know it? I never remember having heard it before—

"'If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.'

"You see, a part of that is my experience. Old things are passed away. I did away with them when I came down here. I don't want them back again. I'm sick of my town friends and gaieties. And I'm wondering, if I want to resurrect myself properly, whether I had not better take my soul into account, and get made a new kind of person altogether!"

Tomina paused. A wistful look was in her eyes.

For a moment Alice was speechless, then she said gently—

"Well, have a try. I'm busy cultivating my intellect; you cultivate your spiritual part. We are all of us a medley of parts, you know."

"How can I set about it?" asked Tomina.

Alice's early training saved her from making a flippant reply. After all, she argued to herself, Tomina was not a clever individual, so why should she not get the comfort of religion if she chose? She would not be the one to prevent her.

"I suppose," she said slowly, "the Bible will show you. I believe the study of it feeds the spiritual part of you. I used to be told so, I remember."

Then she got up to go. And as she shook hands, a smile flashed over her face.

"You are a tangled medley. Mrs. Norman was quite right."

"I hope something or somebody will untangle me before long," retorted Tomina. "But one thing I know, and that is that Mrs. Norman is not going to trot me out to luncheon parties, and I don't mean to return her call."

"You cannot avoid doing that."

"Oh yes; an invalid can avoid anything."

"But not an invalid who drives a carrier's cart."

Tomina laughed gaily.

"I am the queen of my van. I can sit for hours in silence if I choose. Conversation at lunch or dinner bores me to distraction. It must necessarily be so forced and artificial."

"Oh, I don't agree. Think of Dr. Johnson's breakfast table, and—"

Tomina waved her hand.

"Good-bye. Of all things, I hate a literary meal. I believe half the speeches are made up beforehand. Each one vies with the other in making the most brilliant sallies. I have been to one or two of those edifying repasts, so I know what I am talking about."

When Alice had gone, she went out into the garden.

"And now I shall refresh myself with Harry."

CHAPTER VIII

UP A TREE

AND now came a spell of hot weather. Tomina spent most of her time in a hammock in her garden. Harry was still her chief joy. One morning she promised to take him fishing.

"We will take our dinner with us, and spend a day on the river. We'll drive out to it, for I've heard there's good trout-fishing four miles out."

Harry was enchanted. Susan said rather grimly that she thought a bent pin and a worm at the end of a piece of string in the nearest brook would be enough for him. But Tomina said—

"You forget that I'm a fisherwoman, Susan. I've landed small salmon by myself in Scotland and I'm going to teach him proper fly-fishing. You won't see us till dusk. Pack a good big basket. I've got leave to fish where I'm going. Dr. Merton owns that bit of the river."

The hired trap took the two of them, accompanied by Thor, along the lanes in the early morning. It was an ideal day for fishing. Still and grey, with not much sun. But it was oppressively warm.

Tomina had meant to put up her trap at a little farm near the river, but when they came to it, they found the people away for the day. So she drove on, and tied the horse to some stout oak fencing. Then she and Harry began their sport; but they had no luck. Harry was a restless little soul, and he soon got tired of holding his line at a stiff angle and waiting for a bite which would not come.

"I expect the poor fis' don't want to be killed to-day, Tommie," he said. "Tommie" had told him he might call her what he liked, and he had responded at once. "Let's take off our shoes and stockings and get into the water," he said.

"Tommie" declined, but she let him play about in a shallow part of the stream, and rather gladly reeled up her line and lay down under the shadow of an old oak tree. She was an adept at doing nothing in the open-air.

The coolness of the fresh-running stream refreshed and soothed her. Presently, she fell asleep, and a little later awoke with a start.

Where was Harry? There was no sound or sight of him. Her old horse was still munching in the hedge. But Thor had disappeared. She called, but there was no reply.

"Oh dear!" she said to herself. "Why do I bother myself with a child? They're always an anxiety."

She walked for some way along the banks of the river. Could he possibly have fallen in, or been carried down by the current? She wondered, and a little shudder came over her at the thought. Then she thought of Thor, and was reassured. Surely he would have returned to her. There was a slight clearing in the woods which stretched along one side of the river, and in the distance she suddenly espied Harry's straw hat.

That brought relief to her mind.

"The little imp has run off into the wood."

She walked on, calling him by name as she went. And at last in the distance she heard his voice and the quick, short bark of Thor.

"Tommie, oh, Tommie, come quick!"

She hastened her step. There was a group of old trees in front of her. As she came up to them, a small voice cried to her from the topmost boughs of one—

"Oh, Tommie, I can't come down! I've climbed up too high. I'm frightened. Fetch me down!"

Looking up through the thick leaves of an oak, she saw a white-faced child clinging desperately round a bough. Thor was standing below, looking up in a perplexed fashion.

Tomina's heart sank within her. Then she pulled herself together.

"Harry, you mustn't be a coward! You climbed up—you can climb down. I can't come up to fetch you. Be a brave boy and come down."

Harry began to sob, and kick feebly with one leg.

"There's nothing to step on, there troofully isn't! I've tried all I can. I'm going to fall. Do ask God to help me. I've asked Him till I'm tired. I'm so 'fraid He wants me to be killed this afternoon, and I don't want to be!"

A vision came back to Tomina of her childhood, when a kitten had climbed a tree and had been rescued by a fat butler on the top of a tall ladder. She looked wildly round for help. Harry must be rescued, but she could not be his rescuer.

"Do come up!" cried the child. "I'm sure you could climb easy, and then you'd help me down."

"I haven't climbed a tree since I was a child," said Tomina, helplessly. "Oh, Harry dear, I can't! Do try to come down. There's a branch below you. Can't you reach it?"

"My legs won't stretch," sobbed Harry, "and I can't hold much longer!"

Then, after another wild and fruitless glance around, Tomina nerved herself for the effort. She tucked up her skirt and began the ascent. It was not a difficult tree to climb, otherwise Harry would not have attempted it. She was surprised at herself for the ease with which she did it, but happening to glance down when she was fairly high up, terror seized her.

With great self-control she looked up at Harry, and went on climbing. She reached a strong bough beneath him, and sitting astride on it caught hold of him, and the next minute, he was by her side. He clung hold of her and smiled through a mist of tears.

"I do love you, Tommie! I'm quite safe now. I thought I was going to fall."

"You are a little wretch, and as to being safe, I don't know about that. Why is it so much easier to climb up than down, I wonder?"

Tomina looked down through the leafy branches with fearful eyes.

"I broke one branch on my climb up, and I don't believe I shall be any cleverer than you. There is no foothold for either of us, Harry, unless you can find the way. Can you climb down now?"

"I can get on your back while you do it," suggested Harry, cheerfully.

And Tomina laughed in spite of herself.

"You've inveigled me up into a tree, and here we shall have to stay. It's ridiculous! Look here, I'll hold your hand, and you must start away down."

Harry valiantly did his best, but the branches beneath swayed in an alarming way with a sudden gust of wind. And in terror, he climbed back to the safe, strong bough on which Tomina was sitting.

"I can't! I can't!" he said. "You go first, Tommie dear."

Tomina made the attempt, but found it impossible. And the sudden rushing wind that now was sweeping through the wood filled her with fresh alarm.

"A storm is coming up," she said. "I knew that sultry feeling in the air was a sign of it."

Then she looked down at Thor, who was whining uneasily at the foot of the tree.

"Go home, sir! Fetch help! Fetch it! Fetch any one!"

Thor bounded to his feet, looked round wildly and dashed away.

"He's gone!" cried Harry, in delight. "He'll fetch Susan!"

"Susan!" gasped Tomina. "A lot of good Susan would do! I hope he'll have sense enough to bring a man. Oh, Harry, you have brought disaster on us!"

As she spoke, there was a low rumble of thunder in the distance, and heavy drops of rain fell with a thud upon them.

She took Harry into her arms, got into a more comfortable position, and then awaited, with all the calmness she could muster, the coming storm.

"In a tree in a thunderstorm," she murmured. "It is sheer madness, but things are so bad that they can't be worse."

"Do you think God will take care of us? I don't like thunder," whimpered Harry. "Do ask God to keep us safe."

It was not the first time that Harry had forced Tomina to pray.

She murmured in a low tone—

"O God, protect us and send some one to our help. For Christ's sake. Amen."

"It's such a pity," said Harry, after a moment's silence, "that God 'dosn't' want us to see Him before we go to Heaven, else He could just step down out of a cloud quite easy and lift us down."

Tomina did not know how to reply to this assertion.

Louder and nearer rolled the thunder clouds, then came a vivid flash of lightning, and then a crash of thunder overhead. Harry clutched hold of Tomina in trembling fright.

"It's awful to be up so close," he said. "Don't you wish we could get into a nest like the birds and hide our heads?"

Tomina's courage was oozing fast. She could but hold the child and keep silence. Then her sense of humour came uppermost, and she began to laugh.

When Harry looked up with a shocked face, she excused herself—

"I was only wishing some of my friends in London could see me," she said.

For some moments after that, the storm was too violent for them to speak. It seemed as if it were raging on the top of them. Then it rolled on and away from them, but the rain came on faster than ever. It shot down upon them in such sheets of water that, in spite of the thick foliage above them, they were drenched through.

In about a quarter of an hour, it stopped as suddenly as it came. Tomina lifted her face with a long sigh of relief.

"It's over, Harry sweet! Where do you think Thor can be? He has never come back. What shall we do? I am getting the cramp, I believe. Let us give a co-ee!"

So they co-eed, and the birds flew away in fright, and the rabbits scuttled to their holes, and still there was no sign of any one coming.

"I'm so hungry!" said Harry, plaintively.

Tomina rose desperately from her perilous perch, determined to make one more effort to descend.

"If only I had not broken that branch, I could do it," she said. "It seems as if we shall never be discovered here. I wonder if I could let myself drop, but it looks such an awful height from the ground!"

She had hardly finished speaking before Harry gave a joyful cry.

There was a crashing in the thicket a little way off, and in another moment Thor came bounding to the foot of the tree, followed by a man in a mackintosh. Harry gave a delighted yell, but Tomina's face changed as she recognised the man.

It was Colonel Norman.

Some words she had heard read in church came into her mind—

"'And hast thou found me, O mine enemy?'"

He looked up and their eyes met.

Tomina felt that her position did not warrant any show of dignity on her part, so she said slowly—

"I suppose Thor fetched you. I am very sorry you troubled to come. You see our predicament. Owing to a broken branch our descent has been impossible. We want a ladder badly."

"Oh, I think we can dispense with a ladder!" said Colonel Norman, briskly.

There was a little twinkle in his eyes, which happily Tomina did not see.

He threw off his mackintosh, and said—

"I'm afraid you've been out in all this storm. I was caught in it, and was swinging along home when Thor bounced up. It was fortunate I was in this direction. Your dog has all his wit—he brought me straight here. Now then!"

With a light spring, he commenced to climb, and in a very few minutes had Harry in his arms and brought him down to the ground.

Tomina began to feel distinctly nervous.

"We aren't very far from the farm where I hoped to put up my horse and trap. They are out for the day, but I should think you could find a ladder about."

"That would be a very roundabout way of proceeding. I will have you down in a minute."

"I will wait for a ladder," Tomina said.

He made no answer, but climbed up beside her.

"Now give me your hand. That is it. Now put your foot there. Don't be afraid; I have hold of you. That's splendid! Now then, it is fairly easy."

He had taken possession of her so quickly and thoroughly that she had no choice but to follow his guidance. But she was angry when, on nearly completing the descent, he had sprung down in front of her, and had lifted her bodily down, and held her in his arms for a moment quite unnecessarily.

"What a little bit of a thing you are!" he said. "You are lighter than ever. There is nothing substantial about you!"

Tomina released herself very indignantly.

"You are far too officious. But I thank you. Harry and I will find our way home all right now."

She turned from him, but Colonel Norman could not be so easily dismissed. He placed his hand on her arm.

"You are wet to the skin," he said. "Now, look here, Tomina, treat me like a stranger if you like. But a stranger would not go off and leave you in this plight. I am coming with you to find your trap."

Then Harry spoke—

"I call her 'Tommie,'" he said. "Do you know her? I'm so glad you got us down. We haven't had our dinner yet. And my socks is sticking with the rain."

"Run along and see if our trap is where we left it," said Tomina.

Then as he obeyed her, she said to her companion: "It seems to be my luckless fate to run up against you when I least desire it. I have thanked you for your help, but if our trap is here, I beg that you will leave us. I am quite capable of driving home myself. This sounds ungrateful—"

"Oh, I didn't expect you to feel pleasantly towards me!" said Colonel Norman, cheerfully. "Only I knew from your dog that you were in a fix, and so I came along. And I am not going to let you drive home in that thin, wet dress. You must at least put on my mackintosh."

Tomina made no reply. She quickened her steps towards the spot where she had left her trap. Harry was scampering about, and now ran back to her.

"The horse isn't there. He's runned away, and the trap too!"

Tomina gave a little gasp.

It was too true. Frightened by the storm, the horse had broken loose from the fence, and had evidently found the road and bolted along it; for the whip was lying on the ground some distance away.

"We must just walk home," said Tomina, bravely. "After all, it is only five miles. I expect old Jim has made for home. They will think we have been upset. What a comfort it is to think that it is only Susan who will be concerned! We have nobody else belonging to us."

But she did not relish a five mile walk back with Colonel Norman. He said very little, but shouldered their fishing rods and again offered his coat to Tomina, who refused.

"How could I walk in a thing like that, trailing yards of it on the ground, and being smothered in it? I wish you would leave us, Colonel Norman; we have our lunch to eat, and it is fine now. I don't feel inclined to hurry home."

"Then sit on this fence and eat it, and I will go over to the farm and see if any one is stirring there yet. Perhaps we might borrow a trap."

He strode away. Tomina felt angry at her own ungraciousness, and still angrier with the one who caused it.

"How could I ever have been in love with him?" she muttered to herself. "But I must say he always took good care of me. Nobody has ever done it since. I hated it then, but—"

She stopped, and resolutely turned her thoughts and attention to Harry, who was gleefully and eagerly unpacking their basket of food. She and he had a merry meal together, in spite of all their misfortunes.

Colonel Norman, returning, caught the sound of her happy ringing laugh, which was checked directly he came in sight.

"Can't get a trap. The house is still locked up, and a young blockhead in the stable told me the master had gone to town with the only horse in. We must walk, and trust to meeting some one."

A little later, the three of them tramped along the road. Tomina was very silent and very cross. Harry and the Colonel carried on most of the conversation. Once Tomina was asked—

"You saw my mother the other day. Do you think you will be able to come over and lunch with her one day—when I am out?"

"I don't go out to lunch," said Tomina, shortly. "I have given up society. I am doing a rest cure. I wrote to your mother and explained."

"I don't believe in these rest cures," Colonel Norman said. "I suppose they're a necessity of the age, and serve to distract and amuse a few of our tired-out pleasure-seekers. It only has the effect of making them fly round the faster when they leave them."

"You ought to have been in the Church," Tomina said.

A little colour deepened the Colonel's suntanned cheek.

"I don't want to gas," he said apologetically.

And then Harry claimed his attention, and however prosily he might talk to her, Tomina acknowledged in her heart that he talked charmingly to children.

Presently, as they came to four cross-roads, a trap appeared.

"Shall we hail it?" asked Colonel Norman, a little reluctantly. "It looks as if it is going our way."

"Of course," said Tomina, eagerly. "I would get up into a tinker's cart if it would take me home. You can't imagine that I enjoy this walk?"

So the trap was hailed, and it proved to be young Merryweather driving home. He was delighted to take up Tomina and Harry. She was sweetness itself to him, and Colonel Norman could not but note the marked contrast in her manner. He insisted, however, upon her wearing his mackintosh.

"You are still in your damp clothes, and you may get another heavy shower. Clouds are blowing up again."

"Yes, we shall have rain before we get home," said Philip Merryweather.

And Tomina very ungraciously allowed herself to be enveloped in it. She hardly thanked the Colonel for the loan.

"Good-bye," he said cheerily. "I do hope you will be none the worse for your experience; and I hope your trap and horse will be found at home."

"I will send back your coat to-morrow," said Tomina.

"Oh, don't trouble! I will call round for it."

"I will send it by the postman. He goes by your place."

Tomina spoke quite firmly. She gave him a curt little nod as they drove off. Harry waved his hand.

"Good-bye! And do come and see us soon. Tommie and me has such lovely games in the garden, and you could help us to build our bridge over the stream!"

Tomina talked away with feverish haste to young Merryweather, but in her heart she was saying to herself—

"I've been simply beastly to him—outrageously rude, but he makes me so."

The rain came on again, fast and furiously, and she thought of Colonel Norman plodding along the road without his coat. He had come to her rescue, done all he could to help her, had stripped himself of his mackintosh for her benefit, and had received from her nothing but rudeness. She gave herself a little shake as she thought of it.

As they passed the inn from which she had borrowed the trap, Tomina found that the horse had arrived safely home.

"I suppose you were rather alarmed about it?" she asked the landlord.

"Oh no, mem," was the reply; "we seed the halter round his head, and knewed he'd broken from where he'd been tied to. We guessed you were takin' shelter somewhere, and would find your way 'ome."

Tomina drove on indignantly.

"I shall never like that man again!" she declared. "He is callously selfish. He would never have sent any one to look for me if I had been pitched out on the road in a dying condition."

"Oh, Crake is rather a character! He says he never troubles about anything, and I don't think he does. He's a fatalist, and says that 'what happens is bound to happen, and nobody can prevent it.'"

"Is it a comforting creed?" Tomina questioned.

"It seems to comfort him."

Tomina was silent.

Philip Merryweather insisted on driving her home, and Susan wisely put both her and Harry to bed and gave them hot drinks.

It was surprising that the next day they seemed none the worse for their misadventure.

Colonel Norman received his mackintosh back by the postman the next morning.

It was done up neatly in a parcel.

He put it on almost affectionately when he walked out next in it. And then it was that he found a tiny twist of note-paper tucked away in the corner of one of the big pockets. He opened it with quickened heart-beats, but it contained only two words—

"Forgive me."

Colonel Norman kept that little peace offering locked up in his writing-desk with other mementoes of wayward Tomina.

CHAPTER IX

THE FLOWER-SHOW

THE next thing that happened was a visit from a school attendance officer to know why Harry was not at school.

Tomina received him with open-eyed amazement.

"You need not trouble about the little boy at all. He is under my care now."

"But he must receive an education," insisted the attendance officer.

"There is plenty of time for that later on. He is only seven. I think children learn too much at these Council schools."

"Then are you going to teach him yourself, miss?"

"I teach Harry! Why, he teaches me. I have learnt a lot from him."

"He must go to school," persisted the official.

"Well, I'll see about it. Good morning."

When Tomina had got rid of her visitor, she turned to Susan indignantly.

"I shall not be 'at home' to that man if he calls again, Susan."

"But, ma'am, you must. An attendance officer is like the police—you can't shut him out."

Tomina laughed, but she did not feel quite easy in her mind, so she wrote a note to the Doctor saying she wished to see him. And Dr. Merton came, and was told of the incident. He laughed at Tomina's dilemma.

"Of course, Master Harry will have to go to school. You must talk it over with Mrs. Francis. She and the Squire have just returned. I expect she will come round and call upon you."

"Oh, I don't want any more visitors!" said Tomina, hastily. "She will only come to see Harry."

"You and she will have to settle his future together."

"I never think about the future," said Tomina with half-shut eyes. "I hate preparation of any kind."

The first time she met Mrs. Francis was after church on Sunday.

She was a tall, graceful young woman with a sweet sad face. In her black shady hat, Tomina at first put her down to be a young girl. But when she saw her closer, she knew that she was in the prime of womanhood.

She had stayed behind to talk to the Doctor, but Harry had left Tomina's side and dashed up to her.

"My Mrs. Francis!" he cried.

She stooped and took him in her arms. Then she turned to Tomina, and the Rector introduced them.

"Miss Gavin is a thorough stay-at-home; we can't move her out of her pretty cottage," the Rector said genially.

Mrs. Francis looked across at Tomina and smiled, and her smile softened Tomina at once. She had been feeling a little aggressive towards Harry's benefactor.

"It is very pleasant and unusual to find any one fond of staying still nowadays," she said.

"Oh, I'm made to do it by doctor's orders!" said Tomina. "They've buried me down here for a purpose."

"May I come and see you? Please say if you would rather not."

"When you put it like that, what can I say?" said Tomina, laughing. "And Dr. Merton says you must interview me about Harry. So please come any day but Tuesday or Friday. Would Wednesday suit you?"

"Perfectly. I will come then."

Harry interrupted here. Pointing his finger at Tomina, he said—

"And she reads to me every night, but she didn't know about the baby king, and we haven't been able to find where his chapter is."

"Are you going to desert me now, Harry?" Tomina asked.

He sprang back to her.

"I lives with Tommie," he said, nodding gravely at Mrs. Francis by way of explanation, "but I'll be very glad to come to tea with you soon."

"That's a very clever way of dividing your favours," said Tomina, and then she shook hands with Mrs. Francis and walked away.

Susan was full of interest when she heard of the meeting.

"And don't you think her a beautiful lady, ma'am? If only she didn't dress in such plain black always! I should dearly like to see her in colours. I can fancy her in crimson silk with a white ostrich feather curling round her dark head. She would look a reg'lar queen."

"Oh, Susan!" gasped Tomina. "I've never seen a queen dressed like that! I think she is very sweet-looking, but she's a perfect stranger at present."

On the following Tuesday, as Tomina was driving her van, she met three riders coming along the road.

Sir Alfred Digby and Mrs. Francis were two of the riders. Colonel Norman made the third. Mrs. Francis was a good rider, and she was just now talking and laughing with much animation to Colonel Norman.

He was the only one who recognised Tomina, and lifted his hat to her. Mrs. Francis never even glanced at the van.

And when they had passed, Tomina took herself to task for the wave of annoyance that came over her.

"It's ridiculous of me to object to her making herself so pleasant to him. Why should she not? He is not my property, and never will be now. No—we should only disagree again. He has become prosy, and is just as masterful and obstinate as ever. He would expect me to go his way, and he would never come mine. But I don't like being left outside. I have always been accustomed to be almost the centre of everything going on. And now—I am a carrier, and my world is amongst the poor."

Then she added stoutly to herself—

"And I am very glad of it. The poor are much more interesting than the rich. I'm sick and bored with people of my own class, and I shall take good care to keep away from them here."

She drove on wrapped in thought, and then came an interruption in the shape of a sweet-faced old woman waiting to be taken up.

Tomina's van was full this morning, but she got the old woman in the corner beside her, and soon they began to talk.

"I'm on a sad errand, miss. My dear son, Peter, be taken mortal bad, they say. New money, or some sich name as that, they call it. And I'm going to see him afore he dies, if I can get there in time. He have bin such a good son to me!"

"Is he married?"

"Yes; and he be quite well-to-do—keeps a small sadler's shop in St. Martha's Cross. Would you b'lieve it, miss, ever since his father died, eight year gone now, he have sent me ten shillin' weekly to help me keep my little home together!"

"Splendid!" said Tomina. "But I suppose you get a pension?"

"No, for he supports me, they say, and he won't give of it up. But now if he goes, the ten shillin' will go too, and if I get the pension, 'twon't keep me in the old home, and nothin' will indooce me to live with his wife. She be a hard screw, and a scold by day and night. I'd rather go to the House, that I would!"

She wiped away a tear, and then a smile came over her sweet old face. She placed a trembling knotty hand on Tomina's arm.

"But I'm not frettin'. 'Tis human nature to wonder a bit, and the loss of Peter will be far bigger than his money. He's my only boy, miss, and such a dear good boy he have bin! But if 'tis God's will, I'll say,—

"'Thy will be done.'

"And when us comes to think of it, what does it matter, when a body gets to my age, where one lives? Every day lands me nearer the Home of Joy above. That be something like a Home, now!"

Her eyes glistened as she spoke.

"Oh," said Tomina, "if you trust in God like that, He won't let anything bad happen to you!"

"Ah, you know Him, miss? 'Tis good to have a talk together, isn't it?"

Tomina shook her head.

"No, I'm very ignorant. I only go by what Harry tells me. He told me the other day that God counted our hairs, He was so interested in us."

"Yes," murmured the old woman, "that comes from the Book.

"'The very hairs of your head are all numbered.'

"I will, I do trust Him. What else did the gentleman say, miss?"

"Who? Harry? Why, he's a baby of seven, but he and you talk alike."

Tomina laughed aloud at the old woman's puzzled face.

"He's at the beginning of life, you near the end. I wish I had the faith of either of you! The only thing is to begin life over again like a little child, isn't it? I am going to have a try at it. I wasn't brought up like Harry. I got off the lines in my babyhood. I was never taught that we were to walk through the world with our Creator."

"Ah, that's it, miss. We walk with the Almighty, and He'll settle where I'm to live. Thank the Lord, no house can shut Him out. He's bound by His promises to abide with His children."

Tomina looked at her thoughtfully.

"You are all very religious about here—I never heard people talk like this in London."

"I've always heard tell that the Devil be very busy in Lunnon."

Tomina laughed again, and then they relapsed into silence.

When the old woman got out, Tomina shook her by the hand.

"I hope we shall meet again. How long are you going to stay at St. Martha's Cross?"

"Just as long as my boy needs me, miss. I don't know what I should ha' done if your van hadn't come along to-day. Thank you kindly for talk and sympathy."

"I shall keep my eye on her," said Tomina to herself. "I should like her to live with me. I wonder if she would?"

She wondered sometimes at the interest she felt in her passengers to and from the market towns. And her gay spirits and simple friendliness made her a very popular person amongst them.

On Wednesday, Mrs. Francis came to see her. Tomina had tea in her garden by the sweet-briar hedge and under an apple-tree.

Harry was scampering about, but he sobered down when he saw Mrs. Francis.

"Tommie says you'll make me go to school," he said. "Will you?"

"We're going to talk about it," said Mrs. Francis, smiling at him.

Tomina and she fought shy of the subject till tea was over, and then Harry was sent away.

"Now," said Mrs. Francis, "what do you want to do with him, Miss Gavin?"

"I don't know," said Tomina, leaning back in her chair and looking at her questioner with laughing eyes. "I want to keep him with me till I get tired of him."

"Will you tire of him quickly?"

"I don't think so. Susan has all the bother of him, and he amuses and interests me."

Tomina was showing her flippant side to Mrs. Francis this afternoon.

"The question is whether he is to be brought up as a labourer's child or a gentleman. You might get him a governess. Won't you tell me if you mean to adopt him?"

"Mean to adopt him!" exclaimed Tomina, almost to vehemence. "I adopt a child! I shouldn't dream of such a thing! He is only staying with me for a time. Do you want to adopt him?"

A shadow came into Mrs. Francis's soft brown eyes.

"No, I do not feel it would be wise. But his father was a clever man, and I think he ought to be educated as his father would have wished. There is a good Grammar School at Damerton, and I know a doctor's daughter who has a small boarding-house for the younger boys who attend the school. Why should he not be sent there? I will defray the cost of it."

"He is too young yet," said Tomina.

"She has small boys of his age. She looks after them well. I suppose you feel you cannot part with him?"

"There is no hurry. If he goes to school next autumn, it will be time enough."

"Perhaps it will. And meanwhile, if you do not care for teaching him, how would it be if he came up to me for an hour every morning? I love teaching boys to read."

"I suppose we could do that," said Tomina, with a sigh of relief. "He will be delighted to go. And Susan will be glad to get rid of him for a part of the morning."

"Now I am going to beg a favour. Will you come to us this day fortnight? We are having a village gathering in the afternoon, and a cottage flower-show. You can be as quiet as you like. There will be enough people to leave you entirely independent of them. I should like to have you there, and I am sure the villagers would. And may Susan and Harry come too?"

"Of course they shall come, but I think I should like to leave it open. I may not be inclined to appear when the time comes."

Mrs. Francis looked at her and smiled.

Tomina was quick to interpret that smile.

"Oh, I mean it! I am essentially selfish, and never do anything that I do not want to do. I have cast all duties and social obligations to the winds. Invalids are not to be coerced, and I am not out of the doctor's hands yet, you know."

"There is no need to tell me that; you remind me of a thistledown when I look at you."

And Tomina was looking very frail that afternoon. She had had a sleepless night and a nervous headache. But the colour ebbed and flowed in her cheeks as she talked, and it needed a woman's sharp eyes to see that she was really feeling far from well.

"I suppose you will have all the county at this gathering?" Tomina went on. "If I come, you must promise not to introduce me to any one, but just let me wander about your grounds in my own fashion."

"You shall be as free as air, I assure you."

Conversation languished between them. Tomina was afraid of being "preached" to, and Mrs. Francis knew it and wisely held her peace.

When she had gone, Tomina said to herself—

"If I was quite, quite sure that he would not be there, I would go. But if there are crowds, I can lose myself amongst them. I know what these country flower-shows are like."

Then she dismissed the matter from her thoughts.

Harry started his lessons at the Hall the very next day. He trotted off by himself quite contentedly. His extreme independence was a continual surprise to Tomina. She spoke to Susan about it.

"If he were in our class of life, he would be in the nursery with nurses looking after him all day long. He would never be allowed to cross the road by himself."

"But he's never had a nurse," said Susan. "He is quite accustomed to run errands and go about by himself. You make too much of a baby of him, ma'am."

"Oh no!" said Tomina, shaking her head. "It is his mixture of babyishness and independence that I love. He tries to be so manly, and his baby soul almost bursts in the trying. I hope Mrs. Francis won't turn him into a little prig."

"Mrs. Francis never does naught but good to any human being," said Susan, a little huffily.

Tomina laughed.

"Oh, I know she is a saint! But I am a sinner, Susan, and sinners don't care for saints."

Susan backed out of the room. Tomina shocked her continually, and yet she was her devoted slave.

When the flower-show day arrived, Tomina found that the whole village was in a state of festivity. The flag was on the church tower, the children in the village had a half-holiday, and the householders were busy getting their daily routine over early, so as to dress themselves in good time for the occasion.

Tomina first announced that she should not go, then she said she would. When the afternoon came, she was irresolute, but finally sallied forth in the blazing sun about four o'clock. She had on a white "crêpe de chine" gown and a very ethereal-looking hat, and Susan thought her a picture of dainty grace and beauty.

Susan held Harry by the hand, for Tomina had delivered him into her charge.

"He will embarrass me," Tomina explained. "He will persist in being friends with people whom I want to avoid. Keep him with you as much as possible."

So Susan and Harry followed Tomina at a respectful distance.

A regimental band was already playing outside the big marquee when they arrived. Tomina was greeted very warmly by Mrs. Francis, and to her dismay was at once seized hold of by several town friends who were staying in the neighbourhood and had been invited to the show.

There was a Captain and Mrs. Norton-Dynevor—the latter was an old school friend of Tomina's—and a Lady Houghton and her daughters.

They all exclaimed at meeting her.

"So we've run you to earth! And this is your rest cure!" cried May Houghton, a very outspoken young woman. "Why, you're a perfect fraud! I'll tell Charlie of you directly I get home. He'll pelt down and make it lively for you."

Charlie was their brother, and a very devoted admirer of Tomina's.

Tomina inwardly shuddered, and was much annoyed that her friends should have come here and discovered her. But she responded to them with cool sweetness, took their bantering in the same calm aloofness, and looked about for escape.

She seemed hemmed in on all sides by people who wanted to talk to her. The Rector and his wife, Alice Merryweather, her brother and his wife, and Mrs. Norman severally claimed her attention. Then, Dr. Merton and Sir Alfred Digby.

Colonel Norman was the only one who did not approach her. She was introduced to a Mr. Tracy St. Vincent, the young Squire of Corring, whom she had met when she was first driving up from the station to Little Honeycombe, and he interested her, for he told her he had been born and bred in London and had toiled in a City office for fifteen years before he came into his property.

"And now I never intend to go near London again. I always did hanker after the country. My mother died, I believe, of longing for it. She never could cotton to London, and I take after her: but, oh, what a lot one has to learn! I couldn't sit a horse when I first came down. I didn't know the difference between a field of barley and one of oats. I have been taken in right and left by these country louts. But I'm learning their ways and customs fast. If you've got the liking for the country life embedded in you, you'll soon graft yourself into it."

He stopped abruptly. Tomina's sympathetic eyes had drawn him out of his usual reticence.

"I love the country people," said Tomina—"they are dears! I wouldn't have come here to-day if I thought I was not going to mix with them."

"Oh, I have heard of your carrier's van!" said young St. Vincent. "I thought it was the finest thing I've heard for ages! Shall we go over to the tent and see some of your friends? They're most of them in there looking at their piles of vegetables."

Before Tomina could reply, an imposing-looking lady swept down upon them.

"Tracy, I am so sorry, but can you find my car? I must go on to Lady Phillipa's. She is expecting me. Miss Gavin, surely you remember me?"

"It is Mrs. De Bullon," said Tomina, slowly.

She remembered her well. She was the wife of a Member of Parliament, and was more admired for her powers as a successful philanthropist and organiser than as a friend.

"Tracy is my nephew," she explained. "We've taken a house for the summer to be near him. Poor boy, he was quite unprepared and unfitted for this property! Three deaths in one year brought it to him. I help him with his household. He wants it badly."

Tracy St. Vincent had walked off reluctantly. Mrs. De Bullon seated herself on his vacant chair and commenced to question Tomina about her health.

"I shall be seeing Lady Gavin next week, have to run up to town about a children's 'fête' that we are organising together. What report shall I take to her of you? A reassuring one, I suppose, for she told me most emphatically you were unable for any social functions. A little bird told me that you were in this neighbourhood, though I believe you have tried to keep it dark. You must not play havoc with young men's hearts down here. I must warn my poor Tracy. He is unused to the ways of young women, and I should not like him to get bitten, especially as he is virtually engaged to his cousin. It is our great wish that that match should come off. Do you remember Connie Laurence? Such a charming girl! And an uncle has lately died and left her a most handsome legacy."

Tomina mentally squirmed under Mrs. De Bullon's conversation. She glanced eagerly round for a way of escape, and almost smiled when she saw Colonel Norman approaching their corner.

"I'm 'so' sorry," she said sweetly to Mrs. De Bullon. "But I'm getting quite faint. I expect it's the heat. I shall have some tea, and see whether it will revive me. Colonel Norman, will you take me to the tea tent?"

She rose as she spoke and greeted Colonel Norman with a bewildering sweet smile.

He was so astounded that a little flush crept up into his tanned cheeks, but he responded at once.

Then, as they walked across the lawn together, Tomina's tone was petulant.

"Take me away anywhere—anywhere except into the society of those men and women who are looking on and talking each other threadbare. I'm a villager now and am happiest amongst my own set."

"I'll get you some tea under the trees here," said Colonel Norman, quietly, but he wondered if his heart-beats could be heard. Here was Tomina at last ready and willing to be alone with him. He added, "We'll go and see the prizes given afterwards. You'll find most of your friends at that."

Something in his cool possessive tone made Tomina say hastily—

"I can't conceive why Fate should continually send you across my path when I am needing help. But I would make use of any one to save myself annoyance. You know that, I suppose?"

"I think I do remember it."

"You need remember nothing," said Tomina, angrily, and as she spoke, she encountered his gaze of tender amusement. It took her back in a flash to the time when she had sought to draw that expression out of his stern grey steel eyes.

He placed a chair in the shade for her, and whilst she was meditating making a second escape from him, he was back with refreshments for her.

She leant back in her chair, and decided that it was cool and restful and away from the buzz of people's voices. He left her a second time, and then returned bringing a cup of coffee for himself. He seated himself near her, but for a moment or two both of them were silent, and Tomina determined that she would not be the one to break the silence.

"Your small satellite is not with you to-day?"

"He is with my maid," Tomina answered abruptly.

Another silence.

Then Colonel Norman leant forward and began to speak in a very persuasive voice. When he abandoned his masterful tactics and condescended to diplomatic measures, he generally won his way.

"Don't you think we might patch up a truce? You don't want me to remember the past. As I told you the other day, I shall be more than willing to start afresh. We'll bury our past and work for a new future. Let us be friends. I won't worry you; I am so busy now that I have little time for visiting my neighbours. But if we do come across each other, as we have done to-day, let us be pleasant to one another, as mere acquaintances are."

Then Tomina looked at him.

"As a 'mere acquaintance,' then, I'll be civil, and occasionally—'perhaps' pleasant."

Here a smile stole across her face in spite of herself.

"May we shake hands on this agreement?"

He held her hand in his longer than was necessary. Tomina frowned as she withdrew it, but she said nothing for a moment. Then she rose from her seat.

"And now we'll go and look at the flowers and vegetables."

If Colonel Norman was disappointed, he did not show it. He was too pleased at the success of his move to be downhearted.

CHAPTER X

A STRICKEN WOMAN

"HERE'S our carrier!"

This joyful cry came from a little group of women standing at the door of the big marquee.

Tomina beamed upon them, and they pressed round her eagerly.

"Miss, my George has got second prize for his 'taties.' Them were what you brought back last market day!"

"And Mrs. Grabbs be carryin' on disgraceful inside, because her husband who have took first prize for veg'tables four years runnin' has only got a second this year!"

"Me dear, this is my darter to law—married my Ben last Thursday—him that you took up on the road when his horse had cast a shoe!"

Colonel Norman saw at once that he was not wanted, so he raised his hat and strode away and Tomina heaved a sigh of relief when he did so.

She went into the tent and amused herself with her humble friends for quite a long while. Then Harry found her out.

"Oh, Tommie, let me stay with you, and do come and see some darling little ducks that are going to be sold. Do you think we had better buy just a little one? I think Susan would like it."

"I'm going home, dear; will you come with me or stay with Susan a little longer?"

Harry looked wistfully round, and Tomina shook her head and laughed at him—

"You know you want to stay, and I think you had better. I don't think we'll try any ducks at present."

"I wish you'd stay a little longer," the child said.

"I couldn't. I've had enough. I'm longing to get away. Will you take a message to Mrs. Francis from me?"

Harry was only too delighted.

"Tell her that Miss Gavin did not feel very well, so has gone home. Don't forget! Run up to the Terrace and tell her now."

Tomina sent him off, then slipped across the lawn, and was making her way down the drive when she heard rapid steps behind her, and Dr. Merton overtook her.

She coloured up a little when she saw him.

"I heard you were ill," he said, "so felt it my duty to pursue you."

"'Not very well' was my message," said Tomina; "I suppose Harry gave it in exaggerated form."

"Are you tired out?"

Tomina looked at him and laughed.

"Your face is convicting me of fraud, but you yourself taught me that we are made up of parts, and my spirit part is sick and tired of the chatter and inquisitive inquiries of old acquaintances. I could not face them again, so I left without wishing my hostess good-bye."

"I'll walk a bit of the way with you. I have to see a patient in Honeycombe."

"Who? Is any one ill?"

"Old Martha Tubbs. It's a heart case."

"I know her. She came in my van only last Friday, and beguiled a very warm journey with delightful reminiscences of her youth."

"She's subject to heart attacks. You might go and see her. She would like a visit from you."

Tomina made a slight grimace.

"I don't like sick people. I'm not a parson or even a parson's wife."

"No, but you have been given the wonderful and yet dangerous gift of winning hearts. I hear a good deal as I go round of yourself, and your van. Don't disappoint any poor soul who trusts in your friendship."

"But I assure you it isn't my fault if they place their trust in an untrustworthy person! Every one who knows me will tell you that I am absolutely unreliable. My old women amuse me, and I try to amuse them. I consider them my guests as long as they are in my van, but when they leave it, I forget all about them!"

"Are you sleeping better?" Dr. Merton asked irrelevantly.

"Is this a professional walk?" Tomina asked, laughing. Then she added: "Yes, I am. The rest cure is doing me good. My body performs all its functions as it should do—I sleep, I eat, I walk as any other healthy person does, but the rest cure hasn't touched my mind—my spirit, shall I say? And if I treat you as my father confessor, Dr. Merton, I must admit that I am restless, and discontented, and dissatisfied. I'm beginning to wonder what my part is in life; why I was born, if the world wants me. I told you I was self-centred. I go round and round myself and turn myself inside out, until I get perfectly giddy. But as yet, I can find no solution to the problem.

"I may be supposed to be living in a grave, to be buried in the country, but I've never done so much thinking in all my life as I have done lately. I thought I was ready to stagnate, to live as a vegetable, to take each day as it came, but my brain gives me no rest. It's at it morning, noon, and night! Do you think now, truthfully, that I've any right to go on living? Harry has been making me read the Bible. What an awful Book it is for making you see what an infinitesimal atom you are in the Universe!"

"I know quite well what is your vocation," said Dr. Merton, briskly; "and strangely enough, you have discovered it yourself. Do you know what you are called about here?"

"Do tell me."

"Tomina the Carrier."

"Well? You don't think a carrier's van fills my horizon in the Universe?"

"I think to be a carrier fulfils the very highest purpose in life. Think it out for yourself. And remember Who was our great Example in that way."

"You are a very extraordinary man!" Tomina exclaimed. "I really don't see at present what you are driving at!"

She knitted her brows, and walked on in silence for some minutes, then she said with emphasis: "I believe that I am the object of a deep and wide-laid conspiracy down in this part of the world. Every one with whom I come in contact determines to reform me. I've had a Bible pedlar, and Harry, and an old saint of a woman, and you, and even Alice Merryweather. And you each have a dig at me in turn. I suppose I am too unused to such tactics to be prepared beforehand to avoid and resist them."

"Well," said Dr. Merton, smiling, "did you not come down here to be made a new creature? I'm sure you were a wreck when I saw you. All eyes and bones! You are putting on weight, and losing your wrinkles, but body and soul are so closely united that I want you to be a thorough cure. You do need reforming. I could wish you no better fate than to be reformed and transformed, inside and out. Good-bye. I am going in here."

He turned in at a cottage gate, leaving her very abruptly.

Tomina walked on, slowly and thoughtfully, home.

Life went on very quietly with her after this. She had a visit from Mrs. De Bullon and from Mrs. Norton-Dynevor. But she told them frankly that she acknowledged no social claims at present, and would not be able to return their calls.

One call she did make, and that was to see old Mrs. Cayley in her own home. Her son had died, and had left no money to her. She was in great trouble at having to leave her cottage, but would not be able to afford to keep it up. She confided all her trouble to Tomina. And as she sat in her sweet old kitchen, she made a pathetic picture of patient resignation. Looking round at all her quaint old bits of crockery and furniture, she said—

"I've had these for fifty years or so, miss. It do seem sad to say good-bye to 'em, but my time is gettin' short, and I shan't have no frettin' about makin' a will, or such like, if I have nothin' to leave. My daughter-in-law be wild to have my bits in her house, but I'd rather see them sold right out than see 'em lose all their gloss and shine in her dusty rooms. She be one who never was taught to use elbow grease, and a wipe with a greasy cloth be quite enough in her eyes. She be too grand to work, and her young girl that cleans be just one like herself, or would be if she could!"

"But, Mrs. Cayley, you mustn't go away from your dear old cottage," said Tomina. "I shall see you don't. Just leave it to me. Don't you give another anxious thought. I can give you ten shillings a week just as easily as your son did!"

Mrs. Cayley stiffened in her chair, and her old head held itself very erect.

"My dear miss, I've never taken charity from any gentlefolk yet. My son was different. It's more than kind of you, and I give you my grateful thanks for thinking of such a thing. But I couldn't think of taking all that money from you!"

Tomina looked quite taken aback.

"Oh, well, I'm sorry; I've made a blunder, but nowadays there are always funds for elderly people. I know heaps of societies—public money you know; there are lots for poor gentle-people. I have a governess who thankfully receives enough to pay her rent. You wouldn't mind money through a fund, would you? I'll work it somehow, and if the neighbours are curious, don't satisfy their curiosity. Ask them to ask me, and I'll deal with them."

Tears came into Mrs. Cayley's eyes.

"I've no business to be proud, miss. You'll lift a heavy burden off me, if you can manage it. 'Tis just an answer from my Heavenly Father!"

"There, that's right. I'll let you know in a day or two about it. I shan't forget. And perhaps one day you'll ask me to tea. I feel, when I'm sitting in this sweet old room, that we've gone back a hundred years. I wish my cottage was like it!"

As Tomina walked home, her heart was aglow.

"I'm so thankful I knew of her difficulty. Why, it will only mean £26 a year. It's a trifle to keep her and her treasures together. I can easily work it through a society if it will be a sop to her pride. She's an old dear! I begin to wish I had been born in her class of life!"

And before a week was over, it was all arranged, and old Mrs. Cayley was ensured peace and comfort for the remainder of her years.

One afternoon, Tomina was standing at her gate, looking dreamily across at the rookery opposite. There was a disturbance of some sort going on. She fancied some jackdaws who built in the old church tower had come across to pilfer, and had been caught and punished.

She quite started when Mrs. Herbert's voice broke in upon her.

"May I come in?"

Tomina unwillingly moved aside, and held out her hand, but she smiled a welcome. Tomina would smile at her greatest enemy, she could not help it, and when once accused by one of her friends of insincerity, she responded—

"Oh, what is a smile? Just a movement of the lips. It doesn't express my feelings. I take good care of that."

She took Mrs. Herbert into her sitting-room.

"I have really come to ask you if you would stop at the Rectory gate on your way to Damerton to-morrow. My parlourmaid is in agonies with toothache. She wants to go to the dentist's, and our horse is lame, so I cannot drive her."

"I'll take her with pleasure," said Tomina. She could not resist adding: "You have become reconciled to my van, have you not?"

"Well, yes, I have," said Mrs. Herbert with a little hesitation. "I see the boon it is to the village. The idea shocked me, but I suppose it is all right; my husband thinks so."

"I don't see that it has worked any harm," said Tomina.

Mrs. Herbert began to talk then about the flower-show at the Hall.

"You disappeared so suddenly that we feared you were not well. But your maid told me the next day when I called that you had gone out for a walk, so I was relieved. I suppose you have not heard the sad news about Mrs. Norman. I think you just know her, do you not?"

"I hope nothing has happened to her?"

"Mrs. Francis came in to tell me about it yesterday. She is an old friend of hers, and we always think between ourselves that she and Colonel Norman will come together. They have been seeing a good deal of each other lately. Poor Mrs. Norman has been doing too much, rushing about from one place to another. She was dining at the Hall with her son two nights ago, and just after dinner insisted on going home to water her garden, she said. Mrs. Francis said the Colonel seemed anxious about her, as she had been complaining of severe headache that day, and tried to dissuade her from leaving. She insisted on gaining her point, as she always does. And yesterday, she had a seizure of some sort. She lies helpless and speechless now; and Dr. Merton is doubtful whether she will ever properly recover speech."

Tomina was shocked.

"How dreadful! It's a living death. But people always get better after a time, don't they?"

"Not always. And her extreme restlessness and excitability has worn out her constitution, I should say."

"Her poor son!" murmured Tomina.

"Yes, we pity him. He has never left her bedside. She knows him, but can't speak. They have sent for two nurses and are going to have a London opinion down, but Dr. Merton is clever enough to undertake the case single-handed. Well, I must be going. I have my club accounts to do."

Mrs. Herbert bustled off.

Tomina sat still in her chair and thought of the gay vivacious little mother and the stern sombre son. Her heart ached for them both. She wondered why such a blow had been dealt them, and wished she had been to return Mrs. Norman's call.

"I haven't been nice to her. Suppose that it had been me stretched out helpless and speechless on a bed? What should I do? Oh, it's awful, awful to think of!"

In almost a panic, Tomina got up from her seat and paced the room.

"Poor old Gerald! I should like to send him my sympathy—I will write him a note!"

So she sat down to her writing-table, and dashed off the following:—

"DEAR COLONEL NORMAN,

"It's horrible for you! And of course, worse for her. I am so sorry for you. But she'll get over it, I'm sure she will. I should like to know how she is. Why do such things happen?

"Your very sympathetic

"TOMINA."

Then she called Susan.

"How can I get this note to Yockley Court?"

"I really don't know, ma'am. 'Tis a long way. Shall I run out in the village and see if I can get a boy to take it? The milkman told me that the poor lady was taken ill there."

"See if you can get some one to take it. I will give them half a crown."

The half-crown won its way, and a lad started off with Tomina's note.

She spent a restless and preoccupied day. Harry was spending the day at the Hall. When he returned, she welcomed him with extra warmth.

"I am feeling so dull, Harry; come and talk to me. What have you been doing?"

"Finding snails in the ivy with Mr. Drake," Harry answered quickly. "Mrs. Francis went away to see a poor sick lady, and then the Squire he came into the garding and scolded me for turning the hose on a tabby cat. I just had to, when she got on a branch of a tree and looked at me so proudly. You would have done it, Tommie, I know you would. And I had tea in the housekeeper's room, and Pratt said to Mrs. Wood that 'twas a pity the Squire didn't marry, for he'd be left alone soon, and Mrs. Francis would be at Yockley Court. Where is Yockley Court, Tommie, and who lives there? They wouldn't tell me—"

"You shouldn't listen to servants' talk, Harry, and if you do, never repeat it to me," said Tommie, severely.

And then she said to herself—

"I wish I hadn't sent that note. He will have quite enough sympathy from her. Perhaps he had reason for talking as he did when I last saw him. He wanted me to see that he was quite indifferent to me now. I am very glad."

But in a few days, she received a little note from Colonel Norman.

"MY DEAR TOMINA,

"Forgive me, but I cannot address you so formally as you do me. Thank you for your dear little note. My mother is going on well, they say, but she has not quite recovered her speech yet, and will be helpless for a long time, I fear. Is it too much to ask you if you would come and see her one day? She loves visitors even now, and the days are long and weary to her.

"Always yours,

"GERALD."

"I cannot face a sick-room," was her instantaneous thought.

But in a fortnight's time, she went.

She drove over one bright afternoon in the hired trap. She had never seen Yockley Court, and was surprised to find it such a beautiful old place. It was a grey-stone manor-house with a stone roof of the Tudor period. There were stone-flagged walks and terraces, and the cold grey-stone was brightened by the brilliant display of summer flowers.

The entrance-hall was very handsome with its carved oak panelling, and tubs of bright begonias stood grouped round a fountain at the farther end under a glass cupola. She was led upstairs by an old butler, who told her with a shake of his head, that the mistress was very ill.

CHAPTER XI

IN A SICK-ROOM

WHEN she reached Mrs. Norman's room, the Colonel himself opened the door. He looked very grave and sad, but his eyes brightened a little at the sight of Tomina.

"Come in," he said. "It is good of you to come. She will like to see you. And remember, if she can't answer you, she can hear you."

"Oh dear!" gasped Tomina. "I'm frightened. I shall not be able to talk!"

But she followed him into the big room, which was bright with flowers. The windows opened down to the ground, and near one of them was a large and comfortable couch, upon which the sick woman lay.

Tomina had seen her last flitting about at the flower-show. Now she looked upon her lying flat and helpless, and she gave an involuntary shiver as she stepped up to the side of the couch.

"Mother dear, this is Miss Gavin; she has come to see you."

He pulled forward an easy-chair, which Tomina took.

Mrs. Norman's bright, restless eyes fixed themselves on Tomina's face.

Tomina began to talk recklessly—

"I meant to come before, Mrs. Norman, but you know I'm never good at visiting, and the less one has to do, the less one does. I'm so lazy by nature, and the days seem to fly. You wouldn't believe how busy that carrier's van keeps me. And I am seriously considering what I shall do when the cold weather comes. Do you think I could have it heated with hot water pipes? Or would that be too stuffy?"

Colonel Norman stood leaning against the side of the window.

"How would you heat it?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know—by gas or electricity."

"Then you would have to have a stove or boiler. It would be rather an expensive idea. You might in that case just as well turn your van into a motor. I wonder you don't do that!"

"Perish the thought! I've come down here to get away from motors. It would spoil everything. I should get to Damerton in ten minutes instead of two hours, and all my road adventures would disappear. Fancy, Mrs. Norman, on my last journey to market, I took a bride and bridegroom to church! My whole van was convulsed with excitement. The bridegroom was sixty, the bride fifty. They were old sweethearts, had outlived all their near relations, and had been waiting for forty years for 'better times' to be married. And at last, the bridegroom was lucky enough to be offered the post of lodge-keeper by Mr. St. Vincent at Corring. I had a finger in the pie, for the bride had made several trips in my van, and somebody told me her story, and I thought the long waiting was so pathetic that I happened to mention it to Mr. St. Vincent when I met him out one day, and he found a niche for them at once. I'm invited to tea at the Lodge to-morrow. You should have seen their dear old faces in my van! They sat hand-in-hand like children. But, oh, it seemed such a waste of years, all their youth and strength gone!"

"Yes," said Colonel Norman slowly, "waiting is weary work. But a man feels it is worth it, if he knows that he will obtain his desire in the end."

The pink colour rose in Tomina's cheeks; she moved in her chair and addressed herself pointedly to Mrs. Norman.

"And so, you see, my van gets very interesting with such things happening in it. But last Tuesday a dreadful thing happened. A lad came in with a sack over his shoulders, and the sack was heaving and squealing to such a degree that I told him he must put it in the rack outside. He was trying to do this when it toppled over, came undone, and three small pigs fled squealing down the road. My dog Thor gave chase, a motor came by, and in the confusion, two pigs were run over and killed. The lad got two pounds from the motorist, and he came back delightedly swinging the dead pigs by the legs, and saying he only gave fifteen shillings each for them, and now his mother would have bacon enough to last for a month!"

Tomina laughed as she ended this story.

But Mrs. Norman's eyes never changed their eager, intent expression.

She went on talking about the villagers and her van. Colonel Norman helped her by his responses. But at last, Mrs. Norman's eyes wandered to her son's face, her lips moved. Tomina only heard an incoherent murmur, but her son, bending his head, nodded and smiled and seemed to understand.

Then she rose to go.

Mrs. Norman's eyes turned pleadingly to her face.

"Miss Gavin will come again, mother, I hope. Perhaps next time you will be able to talk to her. You're getting on splendidly, you know."

A nurse who had been in the inner room came forward, and Colonel Norman accompanied Tomina along the broad corridor. He was surprised and distressed when suddenly Tomina burst into a violent fit of tears.

"Oh, it's awful! I can't help it! She's like an animal fixed in a trap. I saw a rabbit once. And her eyes! Oh, it's dreadful! Why do such things happen? I was—beginning—to feel—that God did care for us, and now how can one feel it?"

Nobody, to hear her chattering away, would have realised the strain it was to her to do so; now the reaction had come, and she seemed to lose all self-control. In her abandonment of fright and grief, she caught hold of the Colonel, and the next moment his arm was round her, and her head was resting on his shoulder.

It seemed the natural refuge to her. Years ago she had found the comfort of his quiet strength.

"Poor little girl! It was too much to ask of you! But you have entertained my mother so well. She said to me that she wanted you to talk on. I did not realise you were feeling it so. It is hard to see her so helpless, but the doctors say that she is not in pain, and I am very hopeful that she will recover her speech."

Then Tomina remembered herself, and drew away from him. Her effort to regain her lofty dignity was almost comical.

"I don't know what I am doing! I am so upset. I never have been accustomed to sick people, and she looks as if she is dead except for her eyes. They haunt me!"

She shuddered and sobbed.

Colonel Norman drew her into his mother's boudoir, placed her in an easy-chair, and left her.

That moment when she rested in his arms had been precious to him, but he knew that he must not take advantage of her helplessness now. He soon returned.

Tomina by this time had become her normal self again, though she looked white and shaken.

"I am a nice person to visit an invalid!" she said as she stood up, and declared she was quite well and must be going.

"Are you driving yourself?"

"Oh yes, of course I am. I hate being driven by any one else."

"Then I am afraid you will hate my doing it, but I am not going to let you drive yourself back. I will speak to the nurse for a moment."

He went back to his mother's room.

"Now he's getting masterful!" said Tomina. "What a poor fool I am, to behave like this!"

She looked round the pretty dainty room. There was Mrs. Norman's writing-desk still open and her notes and letters still scattered as she had left them. A piece of needlework was hanging out of her work-basket. A novel was lying open where she had left it. Tomina wondered that maids had not tidied the room; she did not know that Colonel Norman had given orders that this room was to be untouched till he had time to put things away.

"It's so awfully, so frightfully sudden," she murmured. "Her whole life has been shattered and altered in a moment! And yet her son takes it quite calmly. Can he really feel? I suppose men don't feel like women. And it's a good thing that they do keep their heads. What must he have thought of me losing mine so completely!"

She did not look at him as he re-entered the room. She had pulled down her veil and felt quite composed, though her hands still slightly trembled, and the Colonel was quick to note it.

"I will drive you back," he said. "You must let me do it, please."

Tomina said not a word. She meekly followed him downstairs. And when they were driving off, he with the reins in his hand, she said slowly—

"I own I have brought this upon myself; if my nerves weren't all to pieces, I should never have given way so ridiculously. But I really ought not to have come."

"Oh, please don't say that! Don't rob my poor mother of the hope that you will come again. She did enjoy your visit so."

"I can't come again," said Tomina, shortly. "I wonder that you can expect it after the exhibition I have made of myself!"

"I am afraid we are all selfish," said Colonel Norman. "You are looking at it from your side. I am looking at it from ours—and—" here a fit of recklessness took possession of him—"I only wish you would make 'an exhibition' of yourself, as you call it, a little oftener. I had a happy five minutes, I can tell you!"

Tomina's eyes glowed.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" she said passionately.

There was a tense silence between them.

Then he said very quietly—

"If tears have to be shed, Tomina, my only wish is that I could have the drying of them. But we won't quarrel. You have been your sweet little self to-day, and the memory of you in my mother's room will be a pleasant one. If it pleases God for her to make a good recovery, I think we may possibly go abroad. The doctor advises change of air and atmosphere as soon as she is able to move. It will not fret her so much if she is away from her surroundings at home. She has always been so active—my poor little mother!"

"And who will look after your place?"

"I may let it and put an agent in; I have pulled things together a bit, but it seems hopeless."

Tomina was a strangely contradictory person. After having carefully kept out of Colonel Norman's way all this time, and refused to have anything to do with him, the knowledge that she would soon see him no more brought a forlorn, miserable feeling into her heart.

"I suppose," she mused, by way of explanation to herself, "that in a quiet monotonous life like mine at present, even disagreeables have a certain amount of excitement and zest!"

Colonel Norman went on talking.

"Mrs. Francis was telling me yesterday that she has some nieces who are looking out for a house in this part. Their father has just died and left them a good deal of money, and they want to take a furnished house till they can find a place that suits them. She is going to write to them about it."

"Oh," said Tomina, indifferently, "I dare say she'll be glad to have them settled near her. I really think that if your mother has Mrs. Francis to go and see her that will be quite sufficient company for her. You mustn't expect me again."

"But I do," said Colonel Norman. "My mother and I will both count the days till you come again."

"That is nonsense. Oh, here we are! Well, I'm much obliged to you. I won't ask you in, because I know you will want to get back quickly."

Tomina sprang lightly out of the trap before the Colonel could get a chance of helping her; then a blank look swept over her face.

"How are you going to get back? You'd better take the trap and get the man at the inn to send for it."

"Oh no. I shall walk. I shall enjoy it. I haven't taken a walk for three weeks or more. I'll leave the trap at the inn on my way."

Then he held out his hand.

"I can't thank you enough. I'm so sorry it distressed you, but it's your warm heart that makes you feel it so. If you could come one day next week, I should be grateful to you."

Tomina's objection died away on her lips.

"I'll try to come," she said, a little unsteadily.

And then she went indoors.

"He has to bear seeing her lying like that all day long, and she is his mother. It won't hurt me to see her for half an hour; and I shan't have a chance of going much longer."

"Why, ma'am, whatever have you been doing with yourself?" exclaimed Susan.

Tomina dropped herself upon her comfortable chintz couch.

"I've been visiting the sick, Susan. It's the most awful thing that I've ever done in my life. And if I had my way, I'd never do it again!"

"Oh, ma'am!" gasped Susan. "Why, some ladies just adore doin' it! My Miss Wadhurst, she would be near as good as Mrs. Herbert herself in goin' to the sick. You'll be meanin' Mrs. Norman, I reckon. Is she so bad, ma'am?"

"I don't think she could be worse. Don't let us talk of it, Susan. She haunts me. Has Harry come back yet?"

"Yes, and I've taken the liberty of locking him in his bedroom. He put out his tongue at me and grabbed hold of two fresh buns I'd taken straight out of the oven, and he ate them before my eyes when I told him not to!"

"Very naughty!" said Tomina.

But she felt a longing for the child's merry talk and laughter, and released him.

A little later, she and he were playing ball in the garden, and when Susan begged her not to tire herself, she said—

"Anything to keep me from thinking, Susan! I do too much thinking for my own comfort. Harry is my salvation."

So far Tomina had not been troubled with many visitors; if they came once they did not come again, but young Tracy St. Vincent took to calling very often now. He generally had some excuse, and because he was different from the majority of the country squires, and because he so humorously described and bewailed his various difficulties, Tomina did not snub him, and he began to hope that his visits were more than welcome. He came up to her one afternoon in tearing haste.

"Miss Gavin, take pity on me! My keeper wants me to preserve my pheasants. My predecessor never did. The villagers have been making a way through my woods to the church. It's a short cut, and my keeper says I must close it. Do you know anything about the rights of way? My gardener says I'll earn the ill-will of all my tenants if I do it. He and the keeper are at daggers drawn—I don't know whom to please. My life is becoming one big struggle to please everybody, and I end by pleasing no one."

"Oh," said Tomina, carelessly, "I shouldn't worry! Please yourself first; that is what I do. It answers best."

"I begin to find that you are a fraud," said Tracy, taking a seat on the grass beside her chair.

She was sitting in the garden as usual. An open book was in her lap, but she had not been reading. She found it even difficult now to bring back her thoughts to her present company.

"You remind me," went on Tracy, "of a naughty child bent on shocking her elders. Have you been brought up in a very strict and priggish atmosphere? And don't you know that your character in this neighbourhood is that of a very generous and self-denying philanthropist?"

"It's a pity you believe all you hear," said Tomina. "My atmosphere from childhood has been that of pleasure seeking and pleasure finding. Do you mind steering clear of personal subjects? I'm rather sick of myself to-day, and would like to be taken miles away."

Tracy felt snubbed.

"I want your help."

"But I'm afraid I can't give you it. You will never have any peace until you decide upon your own course of action, without any reference to outsiders."

"I believe you're right!" Tracy sat up. "It's hard lines on me! I'm not at home in my surroundings. There's no getting away from that fact, and that makes me diffident. Are you going to stay the winter here?"

"Oh yes, I think so," said Tomina. "I'm making an experiment, you know. I must try a year at least."

"I want you to come over to lunch with me one day."

Tomina looked at him with twinkling eyes.

"A luncheon party?"

"No, of course not. I don't want anybody else."

"But there are conventions to be considered," said Tomina, "and I find that if Mrs. Grundy has died in London, she's very much alive in the country. I have learnt that in listening to my passengers' conversation in the van."

"Oh, dash conventions! I'll ask Mrs. Francis to come, too. I wonder if she would? I fight shy of her brother. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, as if I'm a counter-jumper."

"Do ask Mrs. Francis," said Tomina, sweetly; "she will be able to advise you about everything. She knows this part. It is her county, but it is not mine."

"All right, I will. Now, when can you come? Next Wednesday?"

"But I am not coming at all. I don't go out to luncheon parties."

Tracy stared at her. Then he stood up.

"You're annoyed to-day. I wonder who has been vexing you?"

Tomina laughed.

"I am dull, I own. I am not in a talking mood, but I am not annoyed with any one. I never find it worth while."

"Oh, I wish I had an even temper!" said Tracy, a little viciously. "But I haven't. I lose my temper fifty times a day. And I shall soon wish for my town life again. Possessions and property bring a horrible lot of worry. I'm not cut out for this job, as I've told you before. I envy you your nest of a place here. I think a man can't run a big house properly. It needs a woman."

"But you have a housekeeper."

"Yes, she's just arrived, and is a terror. She means to take me in hand and reduce me to a state of pulp. I was very cross with her this morning. I think it did her good. She altered my arrangements in my study, the only room in which I feel at home, and said no gentleman would live in such a pig-sty. I lost my temper and let her have it. I do think you might come over one day. I want to alter the gardens. I'd give anything for your advice."

"I'm not a gardener. Don't be huffy with me. I'm a regular stay-at-home. Doctor's orders. If you get Mrs. Francis, she will be a real help, for she's up in all that sort of thing and I'm not. I have no hobbies. I sometimes wish I had."

"I don't want Mrs. Francis. I want you. I met her, by the way, as I came along just now. She was walking with that stiff-starched Norman. You know him, don't you? I somehow can't cotton to the men down here, they're all such stick-in-the-muds!"

"Colonel Norman used to be a very keen soldier," said Tomina, with rising colour, "and he is quite a town man. He was always up there a few years ago."

"Yes, but this country makes us all go to sleep, doesn't it? All my suggestions as regards innovations are squashed at once. If you live in the country, you must be a sporting man; anything but sport is ejected at once—"

Tomina stifled a yawn, and young Tracy saw it. He got up reluctantly.

"You are going to snub me now, like the rest of them," he said, trying to look pathetic, "you won't come to my place, and you don't want me at yours."

Tomina laughed.

"I own I am miserable to-day, but I assure you that you are a favoured visitor. I generally say that I'm not 'at home' to any one, and you've been to see me twice within the last week."

Tracy took his leave partially comforted by this view.

And when he had gone, Tomina heaved a sigh of relief.

"The only point of interest in his conversation was a disagreeable one," she murmured to herself. "Why is every one bent on acquainting me with the fact that 'she' is with 'him?' They are always together!"

CHAPTER XII

DAWN

TOMINA paid Mrs. Norman another visit. Colonel Norman was out, but she got on better with the invalid when she was quite alone with her. Mrs. Norman was decidedly better, she could nod or shake her head, and say "Yes" and "No." It was not quite such a trying experience to Tomina as her last visit.

And then, as Tomina was getting up to go, Colonel Norman came in, and begged her to stay a few minutes longer.

"A storm is brewing," he said. "I conclude you have driven over."

"If a storm is coming, I mustn't wait a moment. I hate driving in the rain."

As she spoke, a low rumbling roll of thunder in the distance was heard. And then down came the rain. It reminded Tomina of the time when she and Harry had climbed the old oak tree, and could not get down.

"Now you will have to stay," said Colonel Norman, firmly. "I see you have had tea; is there a cup for me, I wonder?"

Tomina was still seated at the small tea-table which had been brought her. She at once peeped into the teapot, and proceeded to give the Colonel what he needed.

His eyes followed her every moment.

"I suppose," he said, "my mother has not been able to tell you about our arrangements. We leave this next Tuesday. We shall have an invalid carriage to town, and then will go straight through to Bordighera by the 'Train de Luxe.'"

"Isn't it very soon for the Riviera? Surely you will find it very warm there?"

"We may, but the great thing is to get to a place where we shall not be obliged to move again. And it will be September next week."

"Yes," said Tomina, "the time has flown. I had no idea that a quiet, monotonous life went so much quicker than a full one."

"Do you mean to stay the winter here?" asked Colonel Norman. "I can't fancy you doing it."

"Yes, I am going to try a year of this country life."

"And then?"

Tomina looked at him and laughed.

"By that time, I am to be made into a new creature altogether. That is my doctor's theory. If he is right, how can I tell you what the new Tomina will do? Something quite different from what she has ever done before, I assure you! And if my doctor proves wrong, and I continue to be my old self, I shall pronounce all doctors and all country to be frauds, and go back to my old life again."

Colonel Norman's eyes took the tender protective look in them that Tomina could not bear to see. She turned her head away towards the invalid.

"I hope you will continue to be your old self," he said.

"Now, aren't men contrary, Mrs. Norman. He couldn't bear me when I was in town. Everything I did and said rubbed him up the wrong way. I could never do right in his eyes, and we were both frantically anxious to remove our paths in life as far from each other as we possibly could. Fate has shaken us near each other again, and he pretends he likes it. But Mother Fate knows him better than he knows himself, and is going to be truly kind to us. Before you come home again, Colonel Norman, the new or old Tomina will have vanished from this part, I promise you!"

"Don't make rash promises," said Colonel Norman, apparently quite unperturbed. "'Fate' as you call her, is going to be on my side, I fancy. Time flies fast, as you say, and the winter will come and go. It cannot last for ever."

The storm increased in violence. Presently Colonel Norman took Tomina down to the library. The drawing-room was an unused room since his mother's illness.

Tomina sat in a big lounge chair, and he in another. She kept reminding herself that as this would be the last time she would see her old friend, she must be kind and civil to him now. And there was no lack of conversation between them.

But when an hour passed, and the storm still raged, Tomina began to get restive.

"I really must go home. Susan will wonder what has become of me."

"She will know that we have kept you. She knew, I suppose, where you were coming?"

"I should rather think so. Susan considers that her first duty is to look after me, and to be aware of all my plans and purposes and correspondence. I never can be secretive, you know; I am too careless and forgetful. She did not approve of my coming here at all, for she knows that I am not a good visitor to sick people."

"Have you minded it? My mother does so enjoy your visits."

"Oh, I haven't minded it at all. I like it when I'm alone with her. I can talk any nonsense I like, and there is nobody listening with a critical ear to my poor little jokes and stories!"

"Don't mind me, Tomina, to-day. Let us do nothing—either of us—to spoil the memory of this time."

Tomina was silent: she walked to the window and looked out. The rain was coming down in a ceaseless pour.

"You will have to stay to dinner, and if it doesn't clear, we shall keep you for the night."

Colonel Norman could hardly keep the glad exultancy out of his tone. Fate was indeed treating him mercifully on this last day. His words proved partly true.

Tomina did stay to dinner, and she sat opposite Colonel Norman at the big table in the dining-room, with a queer feeling that it was her rightful place.

He, poor man, was in the seventh heaven of delight. Tomina with her hat off, and the little soft curls that he remembered so well half shading her mischievous eyes, with her slim, graceful young figure in the old carved oak chair, and her pretty gestures with her delicate little hands, her gay laugh, her proud poise of head, and bewitching smiles, it was enough to turn any man's head. What a fool he had been, he assured himself. How bitterly he had repented of his rash injustice and masterful intolerance!

But when dinner was over, Fate favoured him no more. The storm had passed, and it was a still quiet evening. Tomina insisted upon having the trap round. Colonel Norman eagerly said he must drive her back, then remembered that this was the hour he always spent with his mother before she retired for the night. For a moment, his mother and Tomina were weighed in the balance. But Tomina decided the point herself.

"Your mother's nurse told me you always sat with her now. Do you think for a moment that I would let you leave her in the lurch?"

Colonel Norman yielded.

"I will get my groom to go back with you, I shouldn't think of letting you drive alone at this time of night."

They were standing together in the library. Tomina had already put coat and hat on.

"This is our good-bye for some months, perhaps," said Colonel Norman, very gravely, "but I shall not be always outside your life, Tomina, shall I?"

His masterfulness was gone, and such wistfulness was in his voice and eyes, that Tomina's eyes drooped.

When she raised them to his a moment later, they were misty with tears. Both her hands were in his; she felt like a prisoner, but her pulses throbbed and trembled, and Colonel Norman felt them do so.

"I don't know," she wavered. Then her flash of mischief came uppermost. "You really are a little nicer than you used to be, but I'm in a metamorphosis stage, as I told you, and I do not know what in the world I shall be or what I shall be doing this time next year."

"Will you write to me?"

"Oh, how dreadful! I hate letters. You know what a bad correspondent I always was!"

"Sometimes—once a month—let me hear."

"I couldn't. You are asking too much. Perhaps at Christmas I may send you a letter. That is all I can promise."

"Thank you."

Colonel Norman raised her hands in an old-fashioned way to his lips. Then he released her, and with swift, silent steps followed her out into the hall and saw her comfortably wrapped up for her drive home.

"Good night," Tomina cried, as she started of down the drive; "and I hope you'll have a pleasant and safe journey."

"I'll send you a line to tell of our arrival," called out the Colonel.

And Tomina's soft voice was carried through the evening air—

"Do!"

The next day, Tomina felt very depressed and irritable. But the day after that was Friday, and she started to Damerton in her van, feeling that there was something still left to live for.

When Tuesday came, and she knew that the objectionable Colonel was for the time removed out of her sphere, she tried to make herself believe that she was relieved and thankful. But after a time, she gave up the struggle.

"Why should I keep up pretending lies to myself? I feel awfully sorry for him. He will be such a devoted son, but it isn't natural for a man to turn into a sick-nurse. He might just as well have stayed on here. I think I should have become quite clever in talking to sick people. It would have done me a lot of good. He was almost pathetic that stormy evening, but it's just as well he went away. He might have persuaded me against my will. And I should have lived to rue it. Once bitten, twice shy! I am not going to place myself in abject subjection to any man on earth, and that is the only 'rôle' that Gerald's wife would and could play."

Time slipped quietly by. Summer went, and autumn came.

When the short dark days set in, Tomina decided that Harry would be best at school. The house was small, and his restless activity began to get upon her nerves. She and he parted with some tears, and his last Sunday was quite a memorable day. He would not leave her side, and in the afternoon cuddled up beside her on her roomy old couch, and talked, as Susan said, more like an "angel child than a roguish scamp of a boy."

"If I never come back to you, Tommie," he said solemnly, "will you promise faithfully you'll keep the next-door seat to you in heaven? Because I can't never forget you, you know."

"But, you silly boy, you're coming to me in the holidays, or for a part of them, I expect."

"Susan said you'd had enough of me."

"Susan didn't mean it. You've helped me a lot, Harry. If I ever get to heaven, I'll tell you how much you did towards getting me there."

Harry opened his eyes wide.

"There's only One Person gets us there, as my 'Green Hill' says. Don't you love the 'Green Hill,' Tommie? I learnt the last verse yesterday and said it to Mrs. Francis. Shall I sing it to you? It sounds lovely when it's sung."

Harry had a sweet little voice, and he lifted it up now, and the old simple words of the child's hymn came home with a new power to Tomina's heart, and stayed there.

When he came to the verse—

"There was no other good enough
To pay the price of sin;
He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven, and let us in,"

he paused and shook his curly head reflectively.

"You see," he said, "only Jesus keeps the key of heaven. I suppose, Tommie, He could never lose it, could He? Wouldn't it be awful if it couldn't be found when you and me wanted to get in?"

His eyes grew round with fright, as he imagined the terrible tragedy. Then his brow cleared.

"Of course, Jesus could never lose anything, and if He does, He knows just where to find it. He's much cleverer than the devil, isn't He, Tommie? Granny used to say, I re'mber, that the devil himself must hide her spectacles, for no mortal person could find them. But when I lose my knife, I go straight to Jesus and ask Him to tell Satan to put it back at once where he found it. And it always comes, always—"

"That's very wonderful!" said Tomina, smiling into Harry's earnest face.

"Yes, isn't it? But didn't Jesus lose a sheep once, Tommie? I think I re'mber you reading me about Him finding a lost sheep?"

"Yes, we did read about it. It was a little parable of how people get lost."

"Yes, but we simply can't get lost from God, for He's always close to us."

Tomina did not answer; she was conning over in her mind the lines of the child's hymn.

A dim and far-away light was beginning to dawn into her soul.

She sat still and watched its beams coming nearer. At last she roused herself.

"I never learnt that hymn when I was a little girl, Harry. I was brought up like a little heathen. I wonder if I could learn it now?"

"I'll fetch you the book," said Harry, with alacrity. "It's very easy if you give your mind to it."

Tomina laughed at his old-fashioned air. But she took the hymn-book from him.

And that night, when Harry was fast asleep, she scanned the verses over to herself.

Harry left her early the next morning. Mrs. Francis came in her motor for him, and drove him into Damerton.

And when he had gone, Tomina felt desolate indeed. She hardly touched her lunch, and when Susan came in and remonstrated with her, she said—

"Eating is such a bore, Susan, and I'm feeling so low and flat that nothing seems worth while to do."

"You're missing Harry, miss, but in a day or two, you'll get over that. And if I may suggest it, a walk in the air would do you a power of good. It's not often now we'll be getting such sun as there is this afternoon."

Tomina looked out of her window. The sky was a bright blue with flecks of white cloud chasing each other across it. The elms and beeches round the church wore their warmest coats of red and yellow. A flock of starlings was flying past.

"I'll go and see somebody, Susan. I'll go to dear old Mrs. Cayley. She's the only good person that doesn't scare me."

She ran up the stairs. For a moment, the oppression of her spirit seemed to lighten. Then, in a very short time, she came down in hat and coat, and, whistling for Thor, she started off.

It was a mile's walk, but there was a touch of frost in the air and it braced her. Twice on the way she stopped to speak to some country people. There were very few of the poor who were strangers now to Tomina; and she generally had a little joke and a laugh with them all.

She found Mrs. Cayley sweeping up the autumn leaves from the flagged path outside her cottage.

"Mrs. Cayley, I'm in the blues. Do you think you can get me out of them?" Tomina asked, as she leant her arms on the little wooden gate and watched the old woman's quick, deft movements.

Mrs. Cayley had not noticed her approach. She started, then dropped the old-fashioned curtsey that Tomina so loved to watch.

"Why, ma'am, 'tis nice to see your bright face. Come ye in. Ye be more than welcome."

Tomina followed her into the bright little kitchen. It was as usual a picture of neatness and cosiness.

Tomina took an old-fashioned rocking-chair by the fire, with a wonderful cushion of patchwork upon it, and Mrs. Cayley went to her oak dresser and began to lay the cloth for tea.

"I'm just going to have a cup, ma'am, and you must join me."

"I shall be delighted."

Tomina leant back in her chair, and watched the old woman with thoughtful, wistful gaze.

"Oh, Mrs. Cayley, I wish—I wish I were you, with my life nearly finished and all my troubles over, and my—my faith so untroubled and sure!"

Mrs. Cayley was taking the kettle off the fire and pouring some water into her brown teapot. She did not answer for a moment, then she said—

"Are things not going well, ma'am, with you?"

Tomina clasped her hands round her knees.

"I'm tired of everything and everybody, and of myself most of all, and I'm 'bitterly' disappointed!"

"With what, ma'am?"

"Oh, with this doctor's experiment. I was sick and tired of life in town, and had come to the end of it all. Then I was brought down here to be buried for a time in view of beginning afresh—having a new start. And the peace and the novelty and the quaintness of the country satisfied me. My body has certainly benefited, but lately my mind has been tormented with religious misgivings. They wear me out. And now they're looming so big and so black that the peace of the country is gone. Instead of feeling fresher, and beginning life anew, I'm feeling a blot in creation. And I'm alone. I have nobody to help me. Harry has gone, and—and others, and I've come to the end of everything. I just felt this afternoon that I must come off to you and get help."

Mrs. Cayley looked at her in a puzzled way: but she never stopped her occupation. She was now cutting thin slices of bread and butter from a home-made loaf. And her next words were a request that Tomina should have some tea before any further talk.

Tomina drew up her chair to the table, some golden honey in the comb was produced, and she thoroughly enjoyed the repast.

At first, Mrs. Cayley was going to wait upon her, but Tomina insisted upon her joining her at the table.

Presently, Mrs. Cayley said—

"Didn't you like the Rector's sermon yesterday morning, ma'am?"

"I don't think I did. I don't care much for sermons. In London, I always used to leave when the sermon began, and yesterday my mind wandered. I can't even remember the text!"

"I always think the sermon be the best part of church," said Mrs. Cayley. "'Tis the best half, surely. The first half I always think is we speakin' to God, and the last half be God speakin' to us."

Tomina paused in conveying her cup to her lips to consider this.

"You think that God speaks through the preacher? It never struck me so."

"He spoke to me. I come home yesterday and sat here thinking it out. 'Twas beautiful, so clear and simple. The text was, 'Ask, and ye shall receive.' It do seem to take in all we need. And I think you would find it so, ma'am. I don't rightly understand your feelin's; young ladies like you have a bigger life and more wants than we. But your askin' can't be too big for the Almighty."

Tomina faced her old friend with earnest eyes.

"It's like this, Mrs. Cayley. Every one has been hammering away at me since I came here, and I see that there is quite a different life to be lived in this world from that which I have been living. So the long and short is, I'm going to live it, if I can. Harry has been making me read the New Testament a good deal; I suppose it has a fascination of its own. I know I've learnt to love the—Chief Character in it. I want to follow Him as they did in those times. But I don't seem to get at the way to do it. And I've a wasted good-for-nothing life behind me. Not worth much, am I?"

"Worth nothing at all," said Mrs. Cayley, sitting with clasped hands in her lap and with almost an inspired glow in her eyes. "That's why we come to the dear Lord, and ask Him to take us and make something of us. 'Tis just 'Ask, and ye shall receive,' after all."

Tomina drew in a long breath.

"That sounds simple. Harry's 'Green Hill' hymn explains it all beautifully. I know that 'He died to save us all,' and that 'He died that we might be forgiven.' 'That we might go at last to heaven, saved by His precious blood.' It's all there convincing to one's head, but I've got no further."

"'Ask, and ye shall receive,'" repeated Mrs. Cayley again, with a smile. "You've never come near enough to Him, ma'am, perhaps. I minds years ago, time of my confirmation, when I come to see that I must come myself to the Throne o' Grace, and ask for all my needs. Just try, ma'am, ask for what you want, and you'll get it without any waiting. If 'tis anything concernin' our souls, don't you think the Loving Father be more in a hurry to give it to us than we are to get? Ask and take, that be our part. He does all the rest."

Tomina sat very silent, drinking in from this poor hard-working old woman the truths that no clever divine could put more forcibly and clearly. She did not say much more about her difficulties, but began to talk of other subjects.

When she wished Mrs. Cayley good-bye, she said—

"You've helped me tremendously this afternoon."

"'Twas only the text our Rector spoke on, ma'am."

"Yes, I missed a lot by not listening. It's a very practical command, Mrs. Cayley. I see light now."

She walked home, and every step of the way she was repeating to herself with increasing emphasis—

"'Ask, and ye shall receive.'"

CHAPTER XIII

THE FIRST EFFORT

"IF you please, ma'am, are you at home?"

Tomina was writing a letter to her beloved brother.

"Who is it, Susan?" she asked.

"'Tis Miss Merryweather."

"Oh yes, let her come in."

And Tomina greeted her visitor with unusual warmth.

"I haven't seen you for ages."

"No, I respect your wish for solitude, and I'm that way myself. But as I'm going back to town next week, I thought I would like to wish you good-bye."

"Then you're a perfect cure?"

Alice Merryweather laughed.

"Yes, I can say I am. An idle summer ought to have cured me. I sleep better, and feel able to tackle all my work again."

"And do you like going back?"

"I love it. Sweet stagnation does not suit me. I chafe and get restive. I am tingling to be up and doing. How are you? You are looking very well."

"Yes, but I am not ready to go back to town. You see, I have no work awaiting me there, only pleasure. It makes a difference."

"So you are going on with your carrier work? Won't you find it very cold in the winter?"

"I dare say. I'm going to begin to court difficulties now, having evaded them all my life."

There was something so radiant and alert in Tomina's tones, that Alice looked at her in a puzzled sort of way.

"Do you remember advising me to cultivate my spiritual part?" asked Tomina, suddenly. "You told me how to do it."

"Oh, surely not!"

Alice looked quite astonished.

"Yes, you told me to read the Bible, and I did—and I have been slowly learning ever since. I don't seem able to talk about these things yet, but I'd like you to know that I've never been so happy in my life as I am now. It seems as if God has reached right down from heaven and taken me by the hand. I've been in a great worry about myself for a long time, but dear old Mrs. Cayley gave me a very simple solution to my worries. I was worrying over my worthlessness and inability to be unselfish, and she told me just to ask for what I wanted, so I asked for a few big things—forgiveness for the past, and for my soul to be given fresh life, and to be helped to be, as the children put it, 'good.' It has all been given me, I do believe. Isn't it wonderful?"

Alice sat silent. Tomina's glowing enthusiasm touched her.

"I'm so glad," she said slowly.

"I knew you would be. I never thought I would ever be enthusiastic about religion. But it's a new life, and I love, I love our Master."

Tomina's eyes were shining softly through a mist of tears as she spoke. Then she said more lightly—

"I've confided in you, because you are one of those who have helped me, and I'm sorry you are going."

"You won't stay here very long," said Alice. "I am sure the winter in the country will prove too much for you."

"Perhaps it may," said Tomina, quietly; "I don't feel so sure of myself as I used to do. And I shall want to make up for a good deal of lost time. But I'm not going to give up my vocation. Dr. Merton told me I could have no better one. I hope I shall always be 'Tomina the Carrier.'"

Alice knew there was meaning underlying her words, but she did not remark upon them, and her visit was very short. She and Tomina parted with regret, for though they seldom met, they mutually liked each other.

When she had gone, Tomina sat by her bright little fire with rather a sober face. One by one her friends seemed leaving her—Colonel Norman, Harry, and now Alice Merryweather.

She was thinking of her 'rôle' as carrier, and wondering in what way she could widen and deepen that vocation, when her eye fell upon a picture that hung upon the wall and which belonged to Harry. It had been given to him by Mrs. Francis, and represented the Christ Child upon the shoulders of St. Christopher as he waded through the river.

A sudden light flashed into her face.

"Delicious! St. Christoforos, the Carrier, for that is what he was! Giving up his great strength to the humble service of carrying the feeble over the stream of life. And in doing it, he found he was carrying his Master. And I can copy his example, and try to carry some burdens for the weak and heavy-laden ones, and the children; I haven't to go away from here to do that. My passengers in my van alone will give me plenty of scope."

She still sat on by the fire, but there was a happy glow in her heart, and she longed at once to put her thoughts into practice.

The very next Friday, as she went into Damerton, something occurred which made her wonder if it possibly might mean an opportunity for her. About three miles out of Damerton, they overtook a girl plodding along wearily in front of them.

Tomina called out brightly to her—

"Would you like a lift?"

And then she saw as she turned round that she was not an ordinary country girl. She had the appearance of a lady, and her voice was as soft and refined as Tomina's own.

"I should very much," she said.

Tomina made room for her on the front seat by her, and asked her if she had been walking long.

"Only from Dutterton. We have lately come there, but it is nearly four miles from Damerton, and I was wondering how I could walk both ways. My cycle is broken, and I am obliged to come."

She was a nice-looking girl, but was evidently in trouble; her eyes were red with crying, and she was very unhappy.

"Is your home near here?" Tomina asked idly.

"Oh, I wish it were! I live in the north of Yorkshire. My father was a clergyman, and he died last year. I am the eldest, and I was engaged to be a companion to a Mrs. Cuthbert. She has lately taken a house near here. I have been with her over a year, and I was looking forward to going home for a month's holiday. Two of my brothers are going out to New Zealand. I shall not be able to say good-bye to them now."

"Why?"

"Mrs. Cuthbert's maid has gone home ill; and she can't spare me, she says."

Then Tomina's sympathetic face drew out more of the girl's story. She had a large family of brothers and sisters, and they had been much looking forward to being all together before the brothers left home. Mrs. Cuthbert was a hard and exacting employer, but she paid her a good salary, and in the absence of her maid expected her to do all her duties as well as her own.

"I am now going into Damerton to get a library book. I went in yesterday, but Mrs. Cuthbert did not like my choice and I have to change it. I sometimes feel that I cannot go on. I never seem able to please her. Please forgive my grumbling, but I am so bitterly disappointed that I cannot get home. I am just homesick!"

"I wish I could help you," said Tomina. "Can't you get somebody to take your place for a month?"

"Oh, I wish I could! But who would do it? And Mrs. Cuthbert might not allow it."

"I'll see if I can hear of any one," said Tomina, cheerfully. "You don't know how many people I meet, or know through this van. Let me have your address, and I'll write if I hear of any one. I don't know your name yet. Christabel Avenel? What a pretty name!"

When they reached Damerton, Tomina asked her if she could wait till the return journey. But she could not do that, and they parted the best of friends.

"Susan," said Tomina that evening just before she went to bed, "if I went away for a month, could you carry on here, and take care of Thor?"

Susan looked very surprised.

"But what about the van?"

"Ah!" said Tomina. "That's a difficulty, isn't it? But I could trust Joe to take my place for a few weeks, and you could go in the van occasionally just to see that everybody was comfortable."

Susan smiled.

"You do be an uncommon carrier, ma'am. I'm sorry you're going back to London."

"I'm not going near it. I'm—I'm just going to pay a visit in the neighbourhood—if I'm allowed."

Susan asked no more questions. Tomina continually astonished her by her rapid movements. But when she carried two letters to the post that evening in time for the local morning delivery, she could not forbear glancing at the envelopes. One was addressed to—

"Mrs. Cuthbert,
White Gables, Dutterton."

The other to—

"Miss Christabel Avenel,
White Gables, Dutterton."

Susan shook her head, for she was none the wiser. And the post-office woman could not enlighten her.

"New town people, I reckon. There be so many of them taking up houses nowadays in this part of the country."

In two days' time, Tomina received answers to her letters. Mrs. Cuthbert was willing to accept her services, provided she gave her a personal interview, and it proved satisfactory. Christabel wrote in the seventh heaven of delight.

Then Tomina took Susan into her confidence and told her what she meant to do, and Susan did not know whether to laugh or to be horrified.

"My dear ma'am, you can't even lace your own boots, or mend your own stockings. You've always been waited on, hand and foot. How on, you wait on a lady? It would be so demeaning."

"But I am not going as her servant; I am going as a companion and friend."

Susan gave a little sniff.

"Those poor young ladies are worked harder than any servant. I've seen ladies' companions, and I know how they're worked."

"Well," said Tomina, "if work has been strange to me all my life, the sooner I make acquaintance with it the better. So you must wait upon me no more, Susan. I must get into training. I shall not be able to take you with me, so I must learn to do without you now."

"But I love waiting on you, ma'am, and you really can't do things like my Miss Wadhurst could."

"I can try."

And "try" Tomina did. She laughed at her own clumsiness, and more than once Susan had to come to her aid. But day by day she grew more apt in waiting upon herself and in tidying and mending. Then she went off to Dutterton to interview the old lady. She dressed in her plainest, neatest attire, and began to enjoy the novel prospect before her.

She was shown into a library by a very important old butler, and presently Mrs. Cuthbert sailed into the room. At the first glance, Tomina's spirits quailed, for here was no aristocratic old lady, but one who had evidently acquired her wealth late in life.

Mrs. Cuthbert was the widow of a City man who had once been Lord Mayor of London. And she lived still on the past glories of that wonderful year.

"I understand you're a friend of my young companion. Have you brought any references?" was her opening inquiry.

"Do you mean a character?" asked Tomina, with a blank look of dismay.

"I mean I can 'ardly take a young person into my household without the assurance that she is honest and respectable."

"Oh yes—yes, certainly. I have several friends—people who will write to you to that effect."

"I want a good-tempered, obliging girl, who will do 'everything' she is told."

"Yes," murmured Tomina, not liking the small black eyes that were fixed so unwaveringly upon her.

"My maid has left me, so I shall want extra assistance with my toilet. Do you understand dressing the coiffure?"

Tomina glanced at the coils of black plaits that mounted in pyramid form upon her head surmounted with a handsome tortoiseshell comb and a pink ribbon bow.

"I should try my best to suit you," she said meekly.

A few more questions were put to her, and then the old lady rose.

"I 'ope your references will be satisfactory, and then you can commence your duties with me next Tuesday. It is a great kindness, I consider, in allowing the young person who is with me to leave at this juncture; but I always was soft-'earted to my own detriment."

Tomina bowed and withdrew, but she was seized hold of by Christabel on the way down the drive.

"Oh, how can I thank you! I do hope you will be able to bear with her. I never, never thought you would be willing to take my place."

"It will do me all the good in the world," said Tomina, brightly. "I shall be on my mettle to supply your place satisfactorily. But I am rather frightened of your old lady."

"As long as you never object to anything she says to you, you will get on," said Christabel, earnestly.

Tomina looked, and felt more than doubtful about her capability in that way, but she said nothing to damp Christabel's delight.

The next step was to get a reference. Tomina wrote to Dr. Merton that same night.

"MY DEAR DOCTOR,

"Will you just sit down and write me a testimonial for honesty, sobriety, and respectability? I assure you that you can safely do it, but I should be glad of it by return of post.

"Yours sincerely,

"TOMINA GAVIN."

And the next morning, before she had finished breakfast, brought the doctor in person to her gate.

"I really must have a few more details," said Dr. Merton. "Will you kindly tell me what you propose doing? For I still consider you as under my charge."

"I think I'm a cure by this time," said Tomina; "I feel a new creature at last—through and through."

There was meaning in her last words. Dr. Merton looked keenly at her.

"I congratulate you," he said.

Then she told him quite simply of her plan.

"It's folly!" he exclaimed. "You are the last person in the world to carry through a thing of that sort satisfactorily. It will be a dead failure."

"You are very unkind. Did you not advise me to become a carrier and stick to that vocation through life? I'm only going to try to carry a burden of another girl's for a month!"

"But it is too big a one for you," said Dr. Merton.

"She is no stronger than I am; she bears it all the year round. Don't dishearten me. In my heart of hearts I'm so afraid I may prove a failure, and I do want to be a success."

She spoke so sweetly and wistfully that Dr. Merton surrendered at once.

"Let me have a sheet of paper," he said. And sitting down, he scribbled off the desired reference.

Then he looked at her with a smile.

"You have found your feet," he said, "but don't try to run before you can walk."

She laughed, then grew grave.

"I do feel in some ways just born. If it were spring, I should say my sap was rising. Oh, Dr. Merton, what a lot I have to unlearn, and to learn! Do you remember your wish for me a short time ago—to be reformed and transformed inside and out? Rather a big wish, wasn't it? But not too big for God Who made us. So I asked Him to make a new creature of me altogether, and—and I really believe He has begun to do it."

Dr. Merton stood up; then he took her hand in his.

"No wonder you look so happy!" he said. "If you've got a new centre in your life, you'll be all right where you're going, and don't forget to pass your good things on."

His grip of her hand left it aching, but Tomina's heart glowed afresh at his words.

She sent off her reference, and heard from Mrs. Cuthbert that she would be expected in two days' time.

Then Tomina completed her arrangements for leaving her cottage. Joe was proud to under take the carrier business without her; and then Tomina tackled Susan.

"Now, Susan, you must please keep your mouth closely shut about my absence. Just say I have gone away for a visit, for that is strictly true. I won't have Mrs. Herbert or any one else know the reasons of my going."

"You may come back at the end of a week, I'm hopin'," said Susan, cheerfully. "I'm quite certain, ma'am, 'tis an impossible place for you."

It was a bright cold afternoon when Tomina had herself and her luggage driven over to the White Gables. She arrived there as it was getting dusk. The portly butler looked at her a little disapprovingly, but showed her into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Cuthbert was sitting dozing over a huge fire. She put out a fat and limp hand.

"Glad to see you. Miss Avenel left me this morning, and I almost wished I had detained her. She knows where all my things are. I want some more wool for my knitting now. You must go up to my room and find it somewhere. In my boudoir it is, I think. Ask the housemaid to tell you where it is. She'll show you your room, but I'm wanting that wool, so as soon as you 'ave removed your walking things, come down with it to me."

Tomina obediently made her way up the soft-carpeted stairs. Everything on all sides betokened money and luxury, but everything was too new to obtain favour in her sight. Her bedroom was, thoroughly comfortable, but its glaring paper and gaudy cheap coloured prints on the walls offended her eyes, and the furniture was showy and pretentious. The housemaid who showed her upstairs was rather pert.

"I wish you joy of your job," she said. "I wouldn't be Mrs. Cuthbert's companion for a hundred pounds. This door behind the curtain here leads into her room. It's never locked, so as she may come in and catch you out if she can."

"Where do you think I can find some wool for her?" Tomina asked quietly, turning round upon the girl with one of her smiles.

Gertrude from that moment became her staunch ally.

"I can make a good guess. Didn't she give you her keys? Then there's only one drawer unlocked in her room."

She led the way into Mrs. Cuthbert's handsome room. A roaring fire was in the grate. Half the room was taken up with a massive carved mahogany four-post bed, draped in crimson satin; a couch upholstered in blue cretonne covered with large pink roses stood at the foot of it. The amber-coloured lace curtains to the three windows were tied back with crimson satin bows. There were two big wardrobes, and in the bottom drawer of one of these the wool was found.

"Thank you very much," Tomina said to Gertrude, as she pulled open the drawer. "You have saved me a search."

"All right, and you just give me a call down the back stairs if you want anything. 'Tis rather awkward for you at first. You have a dreadful time in front of you, I warn you!"

"Oh, I mean to be very happy and comfortable here, I assure you," said Tomina, and she laughed gaily as she spoke.

Gertrude stared at her, then muttered as she left the room—

"You'll sing a different song by this time to-morrow."

Tomina ran lightly downstairs to the drawing-room with the wool. Her bright smiling face, as she came into the room, struck Mrs. Cuthbert as unusual. She looked at her suspiciously, ready to discover, if she could, the reason for her smile.

"Sit down in that chair, and wind me off two skeins as quick as you can. And I'll tell you some of your duties. We have tea at five o'clock, after which you read aloud to me till the first dressing-gong sounds. Then you go up and put out my dinner dress. To-night I 'ave the rector and his wife dining here. I like to give them a good dinner now and then, poor souls! Not that I feed myself down in the country as I used to do in town."

She gave a fat sigh.

"If you give me satisfaction, I'll let you look at some of our 'menoos' the year I was Lady Mayoress in London. I've kept them all. We 'ad the highest in the land to our dinners, I can tell you, and the gold plate and the powdered footmen, and all the ceremonial pomp was beyond description! What was I telling you?—Oh, you go up and get ready for my toilet. When I have visitors, you have your dinner in the library, that is where I allow you to sit, and there's generally some mending or making to be done. Miss Avenel began to embroider my initials on some sheets, but she is a slow worker. I 'ope you will be quicker."

Tomina was both interested and amused. At present, this was but a game of play to her. She was awkward at the wool winding, but was quite ready to talk.

"I'll do my very best to supply Miss Avenel's place satisfactorily," she said, "but I am not a very clever needlewoman. And I shall be very glad to dine alone when you have visitors. I'm not very sociably inclined. I—"

"Perhaps you'll kindly listen to the list of your duties, instead of talking."

Mrs. Cuthbert's tone was crushing. Tomina was mute.

"I retire to bed at ten o'clock. I take a cup of Benger's food the last thing, and my back is rubbed with liniment. I am a great sufferer from rheumatism."

"Do I rub your back?"

Tomina's dismayed tone brought an extra touch of sternness in her employer's voice.

"Most certainly you do, and anything and everything that I tell you to do whilst you are in my service."

There was a moment's silence, then the butler appeared with the tea. Tomina poured it out and waited upon Mrs. Cuthbert with pretty deference, but all the time she was saying to herself—

"I draw the line at the liniment. How can I stay here?"

CHAPTER XIV

TOM'S NEWS

TOMINA found, before many days were over, that she had to do many things that were most distasteful to her. It was a startlingly new experience to her to have to stand when she was tired, and to have her night's rest disturbed by having to keep in Mrs. Cuthbert's fire.

To go to the village on an errand when it was pouring with rain, to wash and get up lace, to mend stockings, to wash hair brushes, to be on her feet up and down stairs for sometimes an hour at a time, looking for something that reposed safely in Mrs. Cuthbert's pockets. And through it all, to meet with real rudeness and despotic tyranny. She took it at first lightly, treating it all as a huge joke; then she accepted it as wholesome discipline; and finally found herself praying hourly for grace to control her tongue.

Mrs. Cuthbert was an adept at keeping her young companion busy. And it was doubly unfortunate for Tomina that the maid should be away, as she was obliged to perform the latter's duties as well as her own. She confessed to herself that she was an awkward substitute to Christabel Avenel, and often felt that Mrs. Cuthbert was justified in her anger. But she had never before come in contact with any one who was so openly rude and abusive as Mrs. Cuthbert, and sometimes even her serene temper was ruffled.

One wet afternoon, Mrs. Cuthbert called her into the drawing-room.

"You can bring your needlework with you. I sometimes feel I shall get an imbecile if I live 'ere much longer. I never thought the country could be so deadly dull, or I would never have listened to my doctor when he advised me to try the country for my 'ealth. I always fancied country neighbours dropped in upon each other in a friendly 'omely way, but leaving out our Rectory folk, and the doctor, I 'aven't had a single caller this month. When I think of the 'undreds who I entertained at the Mansion 'Ouse, and 'ow pleased they were to make my acquaintance, I could have a good cry over myself 'ere. 'Tis only an experiment; I shall move back to town. I'm at 'ome there."

"It's funny how many people have come down here for their health," said Tomina. "Miss Merryweather and I were both supposed to be invalids."

Mrs. Cuthbert ignored this remark. She was in a conversational mood, and went on grumbling at the quiet and dullness of the country.

"Well," said Tomina at last, "I know there's one thing that could make you happy. And then it wouldn't matter where you lived. If you were on a desert island, you would be quite cheerful and contented."

"Don't beat round the bush so," said Mrs. Cuthbert. "Say right out what you mean."

"It's just to take God at His Word," said Tomina, letting her work drop in her lap and looking at Mrs. Cuthbert with soft dreamy eyes. "I've done it, and it's like opening dark shutters and letting the sun flood you with its warmth and brightness. What does it matter where we live, when we are surrounded by His love!"

Mrs. Cuthbert gazed at her with astonished eyes.

"I consider it's very bad taste to talk religion in a drawing-room, so don't you do it, Miss Gavin. And most impertinent of a young girl like you to be setting yourself above those twice your years and experience. When I was Lady Mayoress, I used to go to numbers of religious meetings, and some of the 'ighest preachers in the land have dined with me. Bishops I've 'ad, and they never presumed as you have done."

"I wanted you to be happy," said Tomina, earnestly. "I have been so discontented and restless myself that I want everybody to know the cure for it."

"Are you meaning to insinuate that I am discontented and restless?" said Mrs. Cuthbert, rearing her head haughtily. "I never heard such insolence in my life! And this is what I get by being a bit sociable with you! You'll please to hold your tongue in future, Miss Gavin, and give me no more of your impertinent allusions and opinions!"

Tomina sighed.

"What a hardened old piece of pomposity!" she murmured to herself. "And what a bully she is!"

Mrs. Cuthbert's rude speeches never touched Tomina, she felt above and beyond them. But a wave of sympathy and pity for Christabel Avenel came over her.

"How I wish I could get her some other post! But if she did not come back, I suppose some other girl would take her place, and I dare say Christabel wants the money."

Tomina had been with Mrs. Cuthbert three weeks, when one evening a telegram came to her. It was from her brother Tom, saying he had just arrived home for three weeks' leave, and asking her if she could meet him in town. She was beside herself with joy and excitement. Her first impulse was to rush to Mrs. Cuthbert and say that she must leave her that very day. Then she thought of Christabel, who would be so bitterly disappointed if she would have to return and be robbed of her last week's holiday.

For the first time in her life a battle waged in Tomina's soul between duty and inclination.

"I must see Tom. I wouldn't waste a day of his leave. We haven't seen each other for four years. But I mustn't fail Christabel. It's the first effort I have made to do something unpleasant for the good of my neighbour. It's my first burden that I am carrying. St. Christoforos would not have dropped his first passenger in the river because he wanted to do something else. But oh, my darling Tom, I cannot give up one of our precious weeks together! What am I to do?"

She sat with the telegram in her hand, and then determined to appeal to Mrs. Cuthbert. She found her in her conservatory, walking round it and talking to the gardener there.

"May I speak to you?" Tomina said meekly. "I have had a wire from my brother."

Mrs. Cuthbert stepped back into the drawing-room.

"What is it?" she asked curtly.

"He has come home from Australia and has three weeks' leave. He wants me to join him at once in London. Do you think you could manage without me for just this week? Isn't your maid coming back soon?"

"I cannot possibly let you leave me. I wonder at your asking such a question. My maid is not returning at all. She has written to tell me so. I should think your brother can do without you for a week."

"He is my only brother, we haven't seen each other for four years. Oh, do let me go! Of course, I wouldn't be the cause of bringing Miss Avenel back for worlds, but I really think you could manage without either of us for just this week."

It was absolutely useless trying to make Mrs. Cuthbert give way. She broke into a torrent of angry declamations, and almost drove Tomina out of her presence.

And so with a few tears, Tomina wrote as following to her brother:—

"MY OWN DEAREST BOY,

"When I had your wire I nearly stood on my head for joy, and now I am in the deepest depths of woe, for I can't come to you, Tom dear, for a week, and I can't ask you to come to me. I am staying with an irascible old lady, taking the place of her companion, a friend of mine, and she won't let me go. My time is up to-morrow week. Till then I must curb my impatient spirits. I have told you all about my retreat, and I really think it would be more fun for both of us if you came down to my cot. I've promised the doctors to stay in the country a year—and you and I would be very snug together. How I wish I could leave my body with my old lady, and betake my soul to you, but a week will pass, won't it? Till then. Your own

"TOMINA."

She got another wire after the receipt of this letter:—

"All serene. Will come down next Wednesday.

"Tom."

Tom was never good at letters. That week was the hardest and longest that Tomina had ever passed. She performed her duties in a dreamy mechanical way. Even Mrs. Cuthbert wished she would be more talkative. Tomina's bright serene temper was valued more than she thought, and when at last the day for her departure came, Mrs. Cuthbert was almost gracious. Then, like a bolt from the blue, came Tomina's parting words—

"I've done my best, but I know I have been very awkward in many ways. You will be glad to have Miss Avenel back again. Now, will you, dear Mrs. Cuthbert, try to be kinder to her? Remember she is flesh and blood like yourself, and has feelings. It is not a happy post to be always trying to please somebody who won't be pleased. You will be happier yourself if you make her happy. Treat her as a daughter. Why should you not? Good-bye!"

She was gone before Mrs. Cuthbert could recover her breath from the shock her audacity had given her.

"Free! Free! Free!"

Tomina almost sang the words to herself as the trap drove her home. It was a dull, grey afternoon in December, but she cared little for her outlook. Tom was coming to her that evening and she must be home in time to welcome him. Susan was waiting at the gate when she arrived, and though it was already dusk, several doors opened in the village street, and women's heads nodded cheerfully at one another as the trap drove past.

"She's back. Our young lady is back!"

Tomina almost danced into the house.

"Oh, what a cosy fire; how delicious to be home! Oh, Susan, what a lot I have to tell you! And what a useful member of society I have become! Do you know I can make Benger's Food, and trim caps, and wash handkerchiefs, and rub rheumatic shoulders, and light fires when they go out, and darn stockings! Oh, there is no end to my accomplishments. And now have you got my brother's room ready? Let me see it. He will be here directly, and, Susan, you will lose your heart to him! There never was his equal in the world and there never will be!"

So Tomina chatted and laughed. And then she sat down suddenly and turned so white that Susan thought that she was going to faint.

"I'm only rather tired. I was up at five o'clock this morning trying to get my packing done. I was given no time to do it, you see, and you know how stupid I am over packing."

"You look a perfect shadow, ma'am. I knew you'd be just wore out. Sit down and let me take off your boots."

"Just to-day, then, but I'm going to turn over a new leaf and do everything for myself. Oh, Susan, I could hug you, for your dear, kind face! Do you know I haven't had one kind word from anybody for a whole month? Yes, I have—the little housemaid befriended me."

Susan waited on her hand and foot, and then, when Tomina was comfortably established in her cheerful sitting-room, she brought her in tea and insisted upon her having a cup at once.

Tomina felt better after that, and began to tell Susan of some of her experiences, which, now that they were over, seemed very amusing.

Then the sound of a trap was heard. Tomina rushed to the door, and the next moment was in the arms of her beloved twin brother. He was not much like her, except in his eyes, which twinkled as irrepressibly and mischievously as Tomina's.

"Oh!" she said. "How good you smell! It's your serge! It holds the salt sea in it! It does seem delicious to have a man in the house again. Now sit down. Do you still condescend to tea?"

"Tea! Yes. They never know how to make good tea at sea. Well, Tomina, how goes it? You're rather a fraud. What are you doing in this ungetatable place? I expected to find you in some kind of rest cure. The 'mater' said you refused to see her or any one, but she did hear from somebody that you weren't so bad as you made out. So to-morrow prepare to see a party descend upon you. They're coming in their car."

"Oh, Tom, how horrible! I want you to myself. I've such oceans to tell you! Who is it that will be coming?"

"Some one I want you to like. I've got news for you, but it will keep. I've got a heavy thirst on, so be prepared to give me five cups at least!"

Tomina poured out his tea with a perturbed look. Then her brother laughed at her.

"My news will keep. Tell me how your van is going! That was very sporting of you! I hope I shall be introduced to it."

"Oh, Tom, I have such shoals to tell you! But I must hear your news first. I must! You have shaken my very foundations. Don't tell me you're going to marry!"

Tom nodded at her, and his eyes glowed as he said—

"To the most charming girl in the world, and she's coming down to-morrow to make your acquaintance."

The blow had fallen. Tomina shivered; then she braced herself to bear it, and smiled one of her sweetest smiles.

"And who is she, Tom? I must know that first before I congratulate you."

"You have never met her. She has been out in Australia for the last five years. Her brother has a Government billet in Queensland. They entertained a lot, and were awfully good to me. She's much too good for me, but that's her look-out, I tell her. And she came home a month ago, and she's getting a married sister to motor her down here to-morrow."

"They'll never be able to get up here, if they come by the London Road," said Tomina, slowly.

"I say, Tomina, don't be a squelcher! You've often advised me for my good."

"Yes—yes," said Tomina, with feverish haste. "I'm so glad for you, but I always think a naval man's married life must be so disappointing; and I thought you had the makings of a bachelor!"

"You hoped I had," laughed Tom. Then he stood up, his hands in his pockets. "Wait till you see her. I was clean bowled over, and you'll not be surprised. Now prepare for shock number two. We're going to be spliced next week; and I've applied for a week's further leave."

"Oh, Tom, you wretch! And I've lost one week of you, and I suppose you'll only give me a few days."

Tears were crowding into Tomina's eyes. She felt as if she were losing the one she loved best on earth; she knew that nothing would ever be quite the same again.

Tom looked at her uncomfortably; then he turned and gazed out of the window.

"You've an awfully pretty view here," he said.

Tomina got up from her seat, and put her arms round her brother's neck.

"Give me time, Tom dear, you know I want you to be happy, but you have sprung a mine upon me! I shan't say a word till after I have seen her. I'm sure she must be nice, or you wouldn't have chosen her. I used to laugh at your fastidiousness as far as girls were concerned, didn't I? Come and sit down and yarn to me as you always do. And then I'll yarn back. It is good to have you here."

So brother and sister began to talk. There was much to tell on both sides, and they talked hard till past twelve o'clock that night.

When Tomina at length got to bed, she was too tired to sleep. And Tom's news was a greater trouble to her than she would allow even to herself.

"It was bound to come. I only pray she may be good enough for him. I won't be selfish. I would not have him live and die a bachelor."

But though she comforted herself with this view, she spent a restless night, and came to the breakfast table the next morning with dark blue lines under her eyes, and cheeks so colourless that Tom exclaimed—

"What a washed-out rag you are! No wonder you were sent down here to get a bit of colour!"

"I'm all right!"

"You aren't worrying your little self over my news, are you?"

Tomina forced a laugh.

"There seems nothing to worry about. What time do they hope to get here?"

"Some time early in the afternoon. I heard from her this morning. She—they want me to go on with them to Dilchester Burrow. They're going to put up there for the night."

Tomina said nothing.

Tom looked sharply at her.

"I'll come back to you to-morrow if I do, Tommie. They're going back to town. If you'll have me till the end of the week, I'll stay. And then won't you come back to town with me?"

"In time for your wedding? Of course I will," and Tommie's tone was gay.

Tom turned rather earnestly to her whilst they were breakfasting.

"I'm building great things on the meeting to-day. I want you to have Doreen to stay with you when I'm gone. Just at first—she hates town so—later she'll pay visits to her own people, but if—if you like each other, I'm wondering whether you wouldn't like to live with her. She has had a small house left her. It wants a lot of doing up, but in a few months' time will be fit for occupation. We're going to spend our honeymoon at the old Hall near it. It's the dower house; and her old aunt died and left it to her. Her cousin is a bachelor and is abroad, so the Hall is virtually shut up. What do you say?"

Tomina gasped.

"Oh, Tom, don't go quite so fast! You're turning my quiet life topsy-turvy. My dear boy, you can't shake two women together in a moment of time, and make them into a couple of lovebirds in a cage!"

Tom laughed merrily.

"I'll be mum till you've met. Now, are you going to walk me round to a few of your favourite haunts?"

"You must give me a little time for my housekeeping. I talk every morning, and Susan acts. But she won't act unless I talk. I shan't keep you waiting long."

They had a pleasant walk through the village a little later. Thor was very suspicious of the new-comer at first. But after inspecting his boots, and walking round him with a critical eye, he decided that he must be one of the family, and followed close to heel behind him.

And as they walked along, Tomina began very quietly to tell her brother of the change in her life. She finished by saying—

"It's all so new to me that I'm very, very full of it. And, of course, you can't tell what a tremendous difference it has made in my outlook. I hope it will affect my outside life; it ought to, but it has revolutionised my inner life, I can tell you."

Tom did not scoff. His twin sister had always been very dear to him, but he was puzzled.

"You're not the kind to be religious," he said, with a shake of the head, "and I don't know where you get it from. There's no one else of that breed in our family."

"But there will be soon," said Tomina eagerly. "Oh yes, I can assure you that you will be the next. I know you will, for I'm praying hard for you. And when you begin to feel uncomfortable, you'll know what it is. I'm quite positive that I shall be answered, for the promise says so. And the promise has been the means of my salvation!"

"I do hope you will leave poor me alone!" said Tom, with his merry twinkle. "I don't want to be shaken out of one skin into another, as you seem to have been."

"And then Doreen must be the next!" said Tomina, looking away with a dreamy smile. "Perhaps she may be the first!"

Tom's eyebrows worked rather nervously.

"I say, Tommie, don't be—a—fanatic. I shall be hearing of you in a Salvation Army garb next, beating a drum in a poke bonnet!"

"Don't be a foolish boy! There's nothing fanatical about the real thing, Tom; and it really is so simple and so easy, and so awfully restful and inspiring, that I'll never rest till you have it."

"Have what?" said Tom, desperately. "I do hate that 'it'! People who talk religion always say so much about 'it'!"

"Then I won't mention it again," said Tomina. "There's really no 'it' about it."

There was silence for a few minutes. Then Tomina burst forth.

"I'm like the pedlar, the one who first spoke to me, you know. I can't conceive why it's the fashion for us all to scoff and despise the One Who made us, and Who sacrificed Himself for us, and Who loves us through thick and thin, and through all our scoffing and despising! I was awfully afraid of good people. I hated them, and as for wanting to be good myself—well, I was just like you, I thought it belonged to the Salvation Army kind of person. It's a funny state of things. We're all just alike!"

Tom was speechless.

And Tomina wisely said no more just then. She suddenly changed the subject.

CHAPTER XV

A SAILOR'S BRIDE

THE visitors were late in arriving, and the car did not mount the steep hill. Tom grew restless and went off down to meet them.

Tomina stayed where she was. Her heart was in a tumult. She dreaded, yet longed, to see Tom's future wife. She heard voices coming up the village street, but she sat still by her fire and waited. She was looking very charming this afternoon. She wore a grey cloth skirt, with rather an ethereal filmy lace and chiffon blouse to tone with it, and she had tucked some violets into her belt. Her hair, as usual, curled round her broad, white brow. If her face looked a trifle white, and her eyes soft and grave, she had only to speak to bring out all the sparkle and charm that was her chief characteristic.

In a very few minutes, the door opened and Tom ushered his visitors in. Mrs. Letterby was first introduced, a smart, plump little woman with plenty to say for herself, the type of woman that Tomina knew well in town—good-natured, self-indulgent, and with very moderate brains. It was the tall stately figure behind her that made Tomina instantly alert and interested. When she threw up her veil, Tomina saw a very proud, small head with a wealth of soft dusky hair, deep inscrutable unsmiling eyes, a pale oval face, delicate nose, rather a prominent chin, and a sensitively curved mouth, as grave and unsmiling as the eyes. Just a little glimmer of a smile came to the lips when Tomina stretched out both her hands, and raised her face to hers with her own fascinating smile.

"For Tom's sake, you must let me love you!" she said impulsively.

"Or try to," said Doreen Forrester.

There was no doubt about it she was very beautiful, but there was something strangely aloof and distant in her bearing and tone.

Tom did not seem to perceive it. Worshipful adoration was in his eyes. As he stood by her, Tomina felt an unreasonable vexation rise within her that Doreen should make Tom appear a short man. He in reality topped her by a good inch, but he was broadly made, and she was thin and willowy. She sat down and handed her long motor veil to Tom, then she looked into his face and smiled, and Tom's honest face grew crimson.

Tomina watched them both as she talked to Mrs. Letterby. She was rather relieved than otherwise when Tom took Doreen out into the garden. Then she felt she could speak freely.

"This is all very sudden, isn't it? Why are they in such a hurry to get married?"

"My dear Miss Gavin, if you ask me, I should say because your brother has no patience, and Doreen is tired of being a single woman. She wasn't very happy out in Queensland, got bored with the perpetual entertaining. I hope your brother will understand her. I never could. She is older than he, you know."

"Only a year," said Tomina, quickly.

"A year in age, but quite ten years in experience. She was always very grave and intense even as a child. I was the pickle, always tumbling into scrapes, and then out of them. You are not much like your brother. He told us you were his twin."

"No, I am not much like him," said Tomina, "but tell me more about your sister. She does not look happy."

"Don't you think so? You really mustn't get out of me all her love affairs. She has had a good many. Men say she is elusive, and their curiosity is roused. She is more a man's woman than a woman's. Your brother is very favoured, for she means to stick to him this time."

"You are rather implying that she has been engaged before."

"I am not going to say. Doreen is old enough to know her own mind now; and she is not a girl to take the advice of others. What a tiny cottage you have here! Do you like it?"

"Very much."

"You don't fit it."

Tomina laughed.

"That is rather an unkind speech. I didn't fit it when I first came down, but I flatter myself that I do now. Is—is Doreen living with you?"

"Till she marries. She doesn't want a crush. It will be quite a simple affair. I am keeping a spare room for you."

"Oh, thank you, but if I am in town, I must go home. My stepmother would feel hurt if I did not."

"I forgot you lived in town. I believe I have met Lady Gavin; we don't stay much in London. We have a house there this winter, but we live in Hampshire. My husband is a Member, and the House is sitting now, so of course we must be in town."

Conversation rather languished between them. Mrs. Letterby would not give Tomina much more information about her sister. She learnt that their parents had died whilst they were still in the schoolroom, and they had more or less looked after themselves till Mrs. Letterby married. Then Doreen had made her home with her until her brother asked her to go out and keep house for him in Australia.

"I want to see a little of Doreen," said Tomina, presently. "Do you think they would be vexed if we joined them in the garden?"

Mrs. Letterby rose with alacrity. They found them pacing the little path by the sweet-briar hedge, she still with that grave brooding expression of countenance; and Tom with his face aglow, and eyes sparkling with animation.

Tomina cleverly detached Doreen from him, and took her out of the side gate under pretence of seeing the old church.

"I want to see something of you," she said. "I suppose we are the two women that Tom loves most in the world. But it is always a trying experience when a sister has to take the second place."

"Is it?" questioned Doreen, slowly. "I used to wish my brother married when I lived with him. But he was a different stamp of man from yours."

"Tom is a dear," said Tomina, warmly. "His only fault is that he is too unselfish as a man. He always was that. I used to be the selfish one as children; he generally gave way to me. I do hope you and he will have a happy time together. I wish he had not to leave you so soon."

"We shall have two weeks together," said Doreen, very quickly. "It is the life that appeals to me. We shall not be likely to get tired of each other, and the time he is away will soon pass. As one gets older, time seems nothing. Everything passes, bad times as well as good."

Tomina looked at her a little inquiringly, but Doreen's face was so cold and impassive that she dared say no more.

"Tell me about the little old house that has been left you. Tom mentioned it to me. Do you like it?"

Tomina had kindled the spark at last.

Light and warmth leapt into Doreen's grey eyes.

"Oh, it is exquisite," she said. "It is a dream of a place. It came so unexpectedly that even now I can hardly believe it is true. I am longing to go down and take possession. It has a thatched roof with many gables and irregular corners to it. The windows are genuine leaded casements. All the rooms are odd and uneven. I mean that you step down into one and up into another, and you never know where the doors are, as they and the cupboard doors are often in the wall, and are papered over so that you do not notice them. The drawing-room runs from east to west and is upstairs with a balcony outside it, and you look out upon a deer park with a lake in the distance, and hills beyond."

"Oh, go on!" cried Tomina. "I love the sound of it."

"The downstair hall ends in a conservatory and has a wide old-fashioned hearth. The dining-room and morning room have quaint glass cupboards in the wall, and deep window-seats. And then the garden, it's just a garden out of a book—winding paths and old red brick walls covered with fruit, and little lawns between lavender hedges and herbaceous borders of old-fashioned flowers, and a sundial surrounded with roses, and a terrace walk bordered with roses. My aunt spent all her time in her garden, and all her money. I never dreamt it would come to me. It is enough to content a woman without any husband at all!"

"I am glad you say that," said Tomina, inwardly wondering at the transformation in her, "because it shows that you have no other reason for becoming engaged to Tom, but because you really love him!"

Doreen's long lashes drooped over her eyes, and the colour faded again from her cheeks.

"You are quick at deductions," she said.

"Am I? I only see that you could quite well have gone off to this house and taken possession without burdening yourself with a husband!"

"I don't think I could."

The words left her lips very slowly. Her animation had gone, she was again the quiet inscrutable girl, and Tomina could not win another smile from her. Presently Doreen said—

"Why do you live in such a very out-of-the-way place? You do not look like a country person."

"Ah! You wait till you see me in my oilskins on a wet day driving my van! You like the country, don't you? Will you come and stay with me for a little when Tom leaves you?"

"Would you like to have me?"

"Very much. I want to know you. Will it take me a long time?"

Doreen's eyes met Tomina's mischievous ones, but she made no reply. Then she suddenly laid her hand on her arm.

"Are you sweet all through?" she asked. "If so, I would like to be with you. But if you question in your heart continually whether I am good enough for your brother, I would rather have the ocean between us."

It was Tomina's turn to look serious now.

"I shan't be critical, Doreen. I honestly would like you to come. Somehow or other I feel that we shall be friends."

"Then I will. I do love the country. I am tired of people, I am tired of talk. When I take possession of my house, the sense of silence and peace there will be the greatest attraction to me."

Their little talk was over, for the others now overtook them, and they returned to the cottage for tea. Tomina had no chance for a talk with her brother. Only as she insisted upon helping him into his overcoat in her little hall, did he turn to her and say—

"Isn't she adorable?"

And Tomina answered promptly—

"She is charming."

Then he went off with them, and Tomina had to possess her soul in patience till he returned to her the next day. She felt very mystified and uneasy over Doreen, and longed to talk to Tom about her.

He came back in the best of spirits and quite ready to talk only of the one who was at present absorbing his life.

Then Tomina asked him this question—"Is she happy, Tom?"

"Happy! Well, I should think so! Why should you doubt it?"

"She has such a sad face."

"Until she smiles. And I keep her smiling when I am with her," said Tom, stoutly.

"She must be fond of you," said Tomina, slowly and thoughtfully, more to convince herself than him of that fact, "for she is not obliged to marry. A girl who is a possessor of a beautiful old home could have a very nice life in it without a husband. She is quite independent, isn't she?"

"Trust a sister to take the shine out of a fellow's self-esteem!" laughed Tom. "Why should you doubt her affection for me? And as to her house, in honesty, I must say that apart from me, it would be a white elephant, for her aunt never left her a penny of money."

"How dreadful for her! Has she no money of her own?"

"Nothing to speak of. A paltry twenty-five pounds a year, or something of that sort. But I've always said that a man is in a queer corner when he lives on his wife's money! I wouldn't do it!"

Tomina felt a sudden sinking of heart. Was this possibly a reason for her accepting Tom? She had a strange feeling that Doreen did not care for him as he cared for her.

"You got on all right with her, didn't you?" pursued Tom. "I knew you would—once you saw each other. She isn't very keen after people as a rule, not after her own sex. I think she likes men better. She's so different from the ordinary run of girls, not all that chitter-chatter and rot. She likes sensible talk, she's awfully clever, you know, reads no end. Says she's never lonely if she has books. But she told me she was coming to stay with you, and then later on you'll fix it up with her, and when I come home, I shall find the two of you waiting for me!"

"Oh, Tom, not so fast!"

Tomina laughed as she spoke.

"I really cannot promise to live with Doreen, I don't suppose that she would care about it, neither should I. But I mean to be her friend if she will let me. You mustn't ask more than that."

"Doreen will like what I like," said Tom, cheerfully. "If she knows that I want you to live with her while I am away, she'll have you."

"But please leave us free, dear Tom, to settle that between ourselves."

Then Tom burst into a rhapsody of all Doreen's perfections.

And Tomina listened, and wondered if all men were so simple in their trust and adoration as this sailor brother of hers. The time flew whilst he was with her, and then rather reluctantly, she accompanied him to town.

She was received by her stepmother and friends as if she had been away in a foreign country. They all congratulated her on her improved looks, and took it for granted that her rest cure was complete, and that she had left the country for good. Tomina did not at first undeceive them. Indeed, she hardly had time, for Tom's wedding was upon them, and Tomina passed through it as if in a dream. There was a great rush, in spite of Mrs. Letterby's announcement that it would be very quiet, and Doreen seemed absorbed and overwhelmed by her own friends and relatives.

But Tomina got one moment with her when she was dressed in her bridal garments. She had shut every one out of her room saying she wanted to be alone, and then she had drawn Tomina inside for a second.

"I have hardly seen you; tell me—you know your brother as no one else does—will he be satisfied—is he satisfied with me?"

It was such a strange question for her to ask that for one moment Tomina was dumb. Then she took both her hands in hers, and she noted how cold and trembling they were.

"My dear Doreen, Tom's one idea is that you are perfection. You have got the whole of his affectionate, honest heart. I pray you may never fail or disappoint him."

Other words were trembling on her tongue, but she did not say them.

She longed to cry.

"Oh, don't marry him even now if you do not love him!" But she dare not be the cause of agitating her at this last moment.

Doreen leant forward and kissed her.

"I am glad to have you as a sister," she said.

And then Tomina was obliged to leave her.

She was rather a sad spectator in the fashionable church. A weight seemed to fall upon her spirits. As bride and bridegroom came down the aisle, she brightened up. Tom, in his uniform, was handsome and radiant; and Doreen, though very pale, was smiling and looking her happiest.

Their eyes met Tomina's and both nodded to her in such a bright, reassuring way that she took herself to task for her silly fears and fancies.

And the rest of the ceremony passed off without a hitch.

When Doreen wished Tomina good-bye, she said—

"May I come down to you in a fortnight's time?"

"Oh yes—yes! I shall be waiting for you!"

But Tomina's eyes were misty as she spoke.

Doreen was looking very beautiful. She held herself proudly and her eyes were bright, and there was a pink colour in her lips. She and her bridegroom were whirled away in their motor amidst a shower of confetti, and a little of the old-fashioned rice. And though many of their friends were saying what a successful wedding it had been, Tomina knew in her heart that somewhere there was a rift within the lute.

She did not stay in town very long, though pressed to do so.

Lady Gavin was a little uneasy, and had a serious talk with her the day before she left her.

"You know, my dear girl, that I have never interfered with your pleasures or plans, but I hardly think you can continue to live alone in this country cottage of yours. It is so—so peculiar. People will talk. It was very well as long as you were in delicate health, but you are stronger now, are you not? You musn't slip out of everything and get unsociable and cranky. You are too young for that kind of thing. I hope to see you happily married. Then I shall consider I have done my duty toward you, and begin to think of settling down to a peaceful old age."

Tomina's gay laughter rang out. Lady Gavin was the last person on earth to own to increasing years, nor would she ever be likely to settle down to a quiet old age.

"You must give me my year. I haven't had it yet. And town life does not agree with me. You know it never did."

"You look very well. I found out quite by accident that you are near Colonel Norman's place. Did you see anything of him?"

"A little," said Tomina, carelessly.

"It is dreadfully sad about his mother. I suppose you know they are at Cannes now. A friend of mine is in the same hotel with them. She says it is pitiful to see the son tied to his mother's couch; she won't let him out of her sight. He is just like a nurse attendant. I can't fancy him in that 'rôle.' He used to be such a smart, keen soldier, and was always so autocratic and masterful. That was the cause of your quarrel with him, was it not?"

Tomina winced as if a nerve had been touched.

"You musn't mind my going back," she said. "I am developing a new part of me in the country—the part that has been lying dormant. And I am not sufficiently strong in that part to come back to the rush of town gaiety yet."

Lady Gavin looked at her with a perplexed face, but after a little further effort to dissuade Tomina from returning, she gave it up, and they parted the best of friends. She added to her stepdaughter's uneasiness by saying to her in parting—

"I hope this marriage of Tom's will turn out a success. If you are going to have his wife to stay with you, you may make something of her. But she's marrying him for some convenience, and her heart isn't in it. I dare say it will turn out all right, as Tom will be away so much. Unless another man appears, and then I wouldn't trust her."

Tomina looked horrified, but her stepmother only laughed.

"I don't want to shock you, but you're old enough to be able to read a woman's face. Something in her past has spoiled her life; that is very plain if you watch her."

And as Tomina was in the train whirling through the town into the great country beyond, her thoughts were centred on Doreen.

CHAPTER XVI

A QUIET CHRISTMAS

THE weather turned very cold when Tomina arrived home. The first day that she drove out in her van again, she had a surprise for her women passengers. Susan had worked hard with her kettles, and in the van were some hot water foot-warmers.

"No cold feet in my van," said Tomina, gaily, as she got upon her seat. "If our feet are warm, the rest of us will be, our hearts included, in spite of the old saw."

"Eh, dear soul, 'tis comfort sure enough," said an old woman with a happy sigh. "It do warm the cockles of yer 'art, as you say, mem."

They were a very happy jovial party to-day. They loved to have Tomina back, and said one to her—

"Me dear, the van wi'out our carrier is a dumpsey place. You mustn't never leave off a-drivin' us."

"She'll be carried off herself, I reckon, one day," said another, "but we'll hope your man will live in these parts, miss, and then you shall still be our carrier."

"Oh, don't wish me such a fate as yours!" said Tomina. "To be tied up to a man is such bondage—now, isn't it?"

There was a cackle of laughter at this.

"'Tis Bible orders," said one old woman, solemnly—"that the woman serve the man; an' as I tell the young folks, if the maids want to turn that topsy-turvey, the Lord will have it agenst 'em in the judgment."

Tomina got sober at once.

"I wish we all lived our lives according to the Bible, Mrs. Sapper. What a happy world it would be, wouldn't it?"

"It would be a world of Sundays," said another.

"Oh no—I don't believe that the Bible and religion only belong to Sunday. We are meant to have our busy weekdays, but every bit of work is gilded with sunshine if we feel we belong to God."

There was sudden silence in the van. Tomina surprised her audience. They thought her very good company, but rather a careless, giddy sort of individual.

"Be you proper religious, miss?" asked a chapel-goer, gravely. "Have you got your soul saved?"

There was some indignation at this, and the speaker was hushed.

"'Tisn't preachin' and such like we has in this van," said a Mrs. Hutton. "Look at 'ome, Mrs. Coke; we heard a proper wrangling night afore last, when your Bill came home a half-hour behind his time!"

"Oh, hush!" said Tomina, looking back over her shoulder at the woman. "We won't say any more now. But Mrs. Coke is quite right—our religion is not right unless we can say our souls are safe in God's keeping, and—and I dare to hope that mine is."

The talkers were silenced.

Their carrier was continually surprising them, and for her to "talk religion" was the most surprising event of all.

It was a busy day in Damerton, for it was the Christmas market. The shops were gay with bright evergreens and all kinds of Christmas novelties. Tomina had a good deal of shopping to do for herself to-day. She was looking into a toy-shop window wondering what she could buy for Harry, when he himself rushed into her arms.

"Oh, Tommie darling, is it you? I thought I was never going to see you again. And you are going to have me for Christmas, aren't you? We break up the day after to-morrow, and Miss Dale has brought us out to see the Christmas market."

"Of course, I'm expecting you," said Tomina, putting her arm round the boy. "I'm getting a dull old woman, now I've nobody to play with."

"Oh, you should play with Thor, he's ripping! Tommie, you aren't going away to London and leave us altogether? Miss Dale heard you were. I think if you did, I should turn into a little old man with wrinkles!"

He was dancing round her as he spoke, and then Miss Dale came up with two other small boys. Instantly Harry's manner altered, and Tomina laughed at his consequential gravity.

"It's a friend of mine," he said, in a lofty aside to his two schoolfellows. "I'm going to spend Christmas with her."

Miss Dale and Tomina exchanged a few remarks, and then the former called Harry to follow her.

For a moment he lingered, and put his mouth up close to Tomina's ear.

"Tommie, if you had to give a present to a—a kind of lady—not a very old one, what would you get for her?"

"I'd go to the penny stall in the market," said Tomina, promptly, "and buy her a bundle of tape—a nice, useful thing to have—or a pen, Harry. They have lovely pens there for a penny."

"But she mustn't know how much it costs," said Harry, with a frown.

"You needn't tell her."

Harry was called again; he was obliged to go.

"If I don't get it at the penny stall, she won't know," he said. "Good-bye, Tommie!"

He dashed away.

And Tomina went on shopping with a catch in her throat.

"Oh, I wish I was a mother of a family!" she said. "One wants to have children belonging to one at Christmas-time."

She came home that night very tired. And Susan was aghast at all the parcels brought into the house.

"Something for each of my old women," said Tomina, laughing, "and for the young ones too, of course. And I saw Harry, Susan. We shall have him here in two days' time."

"Mrs. Francis called, ma'am, and seemed to want to see you badly. She said she'd come again to-morrow morning."

"It's about Harry, I suppose."

Tomina relapsed into silence. Mrs. Francis brought thoughts of Colonel Norman and his mother. She remembered that she had promised to write to him at Christmas-time. She had only heard from him once, and that was a terse few lines telling her of their safe arrival abroad. Tired as she was, after her evening meal was over, she got out her blotter, and sitting in her low chair by the fire, sat gazing into the hot coals, pen in hand.

"I must get it over," she said at last, rousing herself from a reverie into which she had sunk. And then she wrote as follows:—

   "MY DEAR COLONEL NORMAN,

   "My best wishes for you and your mother at this time! You see I have remembered my promise to write, but letter-writing is always an effort, and my pen seems to paralyse my brain. We are having hard frost now, and I spend most of my time dreaming over the fire. Do you remember my brother Tom? He has just married. I am selfishly sorry, for the bits of time he spent with me on leave were always very precious to me, and they are gone for ever now. I went up to town, but I like it less than ever, so I am back here jogging away on market days with my van, and learning a good deal in my studies of nature and humanity.

   "How is your mother? My heart sinks down as I think of the enormous amount of resignation and patience it must take to bear such a lot as hers, and yours, cheerfully. Do you ever smile, I wonder? Does she? Does the Riviera sunshine reach your heart?

   "Well. I must close. We do Christmas in the old style in this village, and if you think of me at all, you must imagine me wreathing church pillars with ivy and holly berries and moss, or going round the village with a big basket of goodies under my arm, and pulling aside my curtains to listen to the waits and carol singers outside.

   "As a matter of fact, I expect I shall do none of these things because of my unregulated mind, but I mean to enjoy everything if I can.

"Your old friend,

"TOMINA."

   "P.S.—Do you remember I told you I was in a metamorphosis stage? I have got through into a new life altogether—at least, my inside man has—and my outlook upon the world is quite, quite different.

   "For the better I hope, but I cannot write about it.

   "I suppose some need no change. Yet one of my old dears said in the van last market day—

   "'If I think as I thoughted when I were a maid, why, life has taughted me nothing!'

   "Can you divide the human race into these two classes?—'What can I give?' and 'What can I get?'

   "Isn't this all very egotistical? Adieu."

This letter went its way, and brought a prompt reply—

   "MY DEAR TOMINA,

   "You 'Colonel' me, but I will not 'Miss' you. We are too old friends for that. Your letter arrived on Christmas morning, and if the sunshine had not reached my heart before, it has done so since. My only fault is that you might have been more egotistical and given me some further and clearer account of your dear little self and surroundings. You may be quite sure that I shall imagine you in many Christmas pictures of my own composition. If you sit dreaming over your fire, I sit on the sunny verandah outside my mother's room and dream my dreams as I look away at the distant mountain with peeps, between mimosa bushes, of the blue Mediterranean.

   "My mother is better in many ways. She can talk, but she will always be a helpless invalid. She now has a longing for home, and when the warmer weather comes, I think we shall return to England. But the Court is going to be sold, so I do not know where we shall settle. We may go down to Devon. Will you write again and cheer our spirits? Even a letter is an event to my mother now. She loves all news in any shape or form. It is her only entertainment. Will you give us this pleasure from time to time? I do not understand your metamorphosis. You did not need any change in my eyes.

   "But then I am only an old fogey, and a very dull one now at the best of times. I saw your brother's marriage in the 'Times.' It surprised me. I knew her years ago. She was a brilliant beauty, and I quite thought she had married an old chum of mine, but I suppose they altered their minds. Adieu, Tomina! May Christmas blessing be yours!

"Always your devoted

"GERALD."

Tomina heard about Yockley Court being for sale before she received this letter. Mrs. Francis told her when she came to see her. She wanted to know if she should have Harry at the Hall, or whether Tomina meant to keep him with her for the whole of his holidays. When this matter was settled, she began to talk about the Normans.

"It is so sad that they should have to give up the Court, but I think Colonel Norman has known for some time that it must go. He could not pull things together, though he tried hard. And, of course, this stay in the Riviera is a great expense. I think it just wonderful, don't you, that a man of Gerald Norman's sort should be such a patient, devoted son? I have known him many years, and some of his friends used to call him 'the Despot.' But we are given many lessons to learn, are we not? And I am sure his character will be mellowed and softened under this trial."

Tomina would never discuss Colonel Norman with any one, least of all with Mrs. Francis.

But she no longer disliked the young widow. She felt that now she had a great bond in common with her.

"You think that we all have to go through discipline?"

"We are told so, are we not?"

And Mrs. Francis looked at Tomina very sympathetically.

"I know some people who have never had a trouble in their life," said Tomina. "And I used to think that if you were good, you courted trouble at once."

"Not necessarily. But we are reminded that a father chastens his sons—not strangers."

Tomina's face grew very grave and sweet.

"I hope I am not going to be chastened yet. I am only two months old—a mere baby."

Then Mrs. Francis's face lighted up, and her eyes glowed. Putting her hand on Tomina's arm, she said caressingly—

"How very sweet of you to tell me what I have been longing to know!"

"Did you guess, then? Why haven't you spoken to me?"

"I have learned to be patient. I have prayed for you every day since we first met."

"But why?" asked Tomina, touched and a little mystified. "What made you think of me at all?"

"I fancy most people who have met you think about you. You came down here a perfect stranger to us all, and now I think I may say that you live in every one's heart."

"Thank you," said Tomina; "I don't believe you pay empty compliments. I suppose you have thought me very scatter-brained and frivolous?"

"It seemed to me that you were in a transition stage, like an empty house waiting for an owner."

"Then why didn't you tell me so?"

"Would you have liked it?"

"No," and Tomina laughed as she spoke; "I don't think I should have ever spoken to you again."

"That was what I felt. I was ready if any opportunity had come, but I prayed much."

"Well," said Tomina, softly, "I hope the empty house is tenanted. But I still require a good deal of sweeping and garnishing. Harry was a little angel in disguise. You taught Harry, and Harry taught me, so I do owe you something after all."

Quite simply she told Mrs. Francis of how one thing had led on to another, until the centre of her life was disturbed and changed.

"It was reading the Bible so much to Harry that showed me my need. And then, when I was in despair about myself and didn't know what to do, Mrs. Cayley solved my difficulties with the simple words, 'Ask, and ye shall receive.' It just flashed through me what a fool I was not to ask for everything at once. So I did it."

They sat on talking like close friends, and when Mrs. Francis at last rose to go, she kissed Tomina.

"I do hope that you will break through your unsociable rule, and come and see me some time."

"I will. I should like to do it."

So they parted, and Susan could not keep the glint of satisfaction out of her eyes when Tomina said to her—

"I like Mrs. Francis at last, Susan, you will be glad to hear."

"'Tis time indeed, ma'am! I do think for two of our nicest ladies not to be on close visitin' terms is very strange! And 'tis only for want of knowin', as I have told you often."

When Harry came home, Tomina found she had her hands full. They had a very happy Christmas. On Christmas Day they dined at the Hall. On Boxing Day, the Rector gave a village tea and Christmas tree. And that same week, Tomina gave a tea to all of her regular passengers in her van. She heard from her brother and his wife on Christmas Day. They both seemed happy.

Doreen wrote as follows:—

   "MY DEAR TOMINA,

   "Isn't it strange that we have come into each other's lives in such a short time? I hope you're having a good Christmas. We are. Tom and I spend most of our days in choosing papers and chintzes and bits of antique furniture for my house. We do it from catalogues, and it is great fun. Our present quarters are very luxurious, but hardly snug. And I am so glad that my home is not a great rambling place like this. Tom goes next Friday. Will you have me on Saturday? I am quite looking forward to it. And then we shall renew and cement our friendship, I hope. May I send you my love?

   "Your affectionate sister-in-law,

"DOREEN GAVIN."

Tomina gave a little sigh.

"I am glad she likes me, but she has taken Tom too quietly. Her letter is more full of that house of hers than of him."

It was arranged that Harry should go to the Hall the day before Doreen arrived.

"You are sure, Tommie," he said, "that you don't send me there because you're tired of me?"

"Quite sure, sweetheart! But we haven't much room, you know, and Susan couldn't wait upon all of us."

"Susan says," announced Harry, solemnly, "that the way you wait on yourself now is a marvel! She says those that ain't born to it rarely take to it late in life."

"Oh, Harry, you and Susan will be the death of me!"

And Tomina laughed so infectiously that Harry joined her, though he did not know at what she was laughing.

When Saturday came, Tomina awaited Doreen's arrival with a strange mixture of feelings. She was very low at Tom's departure, and felt that she had been defrauded of his society. Doreen would always in the future stand between her and her twin brother. She had had a great struggle in her heart to think kindly of Doreen, and yet she had a curious and intense interest in her, and was glad that she would have the opportunity of getting to know her.

Doreen arrived late on Saturday afternoon after dark. Tomina sent a close fly for her. And when she came into her little room, her shoulders were powdered with snow.

They kissed each other warmly. Doreen's cheeks were pink, and she declared she was warm with the exertion of walking up the steep hill.

"It's an awful place to get to in winter!" she said. "You could never ask an elderly person here or a delicate one, for the cabman insists upon turning you out at the bottom of the hill. He said that it would do me good to walk. And he was right. I was freezing slowly inside his carriage."

"I sent a foot-warmer and a rug."

"Yes," and Doreen smiled as she spoke. "He said to me, 'Our young lady be wonderful thoughtful for the feet. Her van be fitted up with these here hot tins.' By which he meant that you gave your passengers foot-warmers, I suppose?"

"Of course," said Tomina; "it's the least I can do for them."

"How snug and cosy you are here! It is like a bird's nest."

"I have never suffered from the cold in my life," said Tomina, "and as this cottage is not so warm as the London houses, I have piled comforts in every room, and keep fires going in them all. Susan was quite aghast at first, but I found a small girl in the village who comes in every morning to help her, so we're all right. Now tell me how Tom is."

"Quite well. He went off at six this morning, before I was up."

"Didn't you go to see him off?"

"To Southampton? Dear no! Why should I? How could I have come down to you to-day if I had?"

"I pictured you both going down to Southampton yesterday, and dining and sleeping there," said Tomina.

There was a little reproach in her tone.

"Men don't like to be fussed over by their belongings," said Doreen, indifferently.

Tomina made no reply. There was a little restraint in their conversation after that.

Later on in the evening, after they had had a dainty little dinner, and were sitting in two big easy-chairs before a blazing fire, Doreen began to talk about her house, and then she grew enthusiastic at once.

Tomina listened and was interested. But at last she said—

"I believe you're one of those women whose home is the dearest thing in the world—dearer than a husband."

"Perhaps you are right."

Doreen's face grew grave at once, and a sad look came into her eyes.

"I suppose I may be romantic," went on Tomina, "but I feel that I shouldn't care a bit about my circumstances as long as I were with the one I liked."

"You are younger than I. As you get on in life, you learn to be content with the second best."

Tomina's bright brown eyes dwelt reflectively upon Doreen's proud, clear-cut face.

"I feel as if it is an insult to Tom to call him second best."

Tomina's tone was fiery.

"I did not necessarily allude to your brother. A home has its attractions to me, and from what I hear of you, I should have thought you sympathised with me. You became tired of your stepmother's gay house in town; I became tired of the same thing out in Queensland. When I went out there, I thought I should get away from society, but I discovered my mistake."

"Why did you want to get away from society?" Tomina could not refrain from asking.

"Why did you?" Doreen asked, looking at her steadily.

Tomina laughed in an embarrassed fashion.

"I was sent away by doctor's orders."

"Yes, but why did you wilfully let your health go? Why did you rack your body and nerves to pieces? There is no need to do it. We both know that."

Then Tomina smiled her sweet smile.

"My dear Doreen, our lives are our own; we need not pry inquisitively into each other's motives and way of spending our existence."

Doreen looked sombrely into the fire in front of her. They fought shy of personal topics after that. Doreen described the place in which she was going to live, and talk flowed smoothly till bed-time.

When they said good night, Tomina looked up into Doreen's face with a little of her old gay audacity.

"Sisters-in-law rarely like each other. Do you think we shall be exceptions to the rule?"

"I don't see why we should not be," answered Doreen, promptly, "if you will be reasonable, and not expect me to be for ever extolling your brother's virtues and bemoaning his absence."

"My dear Doreen, I would rather you were sincere than anything else in the world."

"And," pursued Doreen, gravely, "just as you can be happy when your brother is at sea in spite of your great love for him, so can I, and I mean to be. It takes a good deal to make me content and happy, but when I have once reached that stage, it will take a good deal more to disenchant me. So do not try to do it."

"I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing. You ought to be a blissfully happy woman."

They did not kiss each other as they separated for the night.

"We shall go slowly," said Tomina to herself. "I wonder if she will be dull company?"

But she was not. She was full of information and interest. Gardening was her hobby, but she was also a great reader, and could talk well. She had had many strange experiences in Australia, and Tomina listened to her stories with a fascination which surprised herself. Doreen was quite content to saunter about the village and take an occasional walk with Tomina; the rest of the time she spent over the fire with a book.

On one of the carrier's days, she accompanied Tomina in the van, but she was not a success in it. The passengers were afraid of her, and the usual jokes and stories were not forthcoming.

Tomina taxed her with stiffness.

"You don't like my dear country people. You are too sensible; we are all silly together when we go to market. Everything amuses us, unless a tragedy has happened, and then you should see our round eyes and open mouths. Sometimes the tragedies are more amusing than painful. I wish I could tell you some of them. They are inimitable in their slow country dialect."

"I don't care for the lower classes," said Doreen, a little indifferently.

"But if you're going to live in the country, you must. You will be surrounded by them."

"I shall live my life to myself. I am looking forward to it. I have been entertaining people that have never appealed to me for years. Now I shall have a rest."

"That was how I first felt when I came down here. And then I had a surfeit of myself; and the villagers don't want entertaining—they entertain me. I wonder—I wonder if you will be led along the same road as I was?"

Doreen looked questioningly at her and Tomina's eyes glowed as she said—

"When we know each other a little better, I'll tell you what has happened to me down here."

She said no more, and Doreen asked no questions.

CHAPTER XVII

AN ENGAGEMENT

TOMINA and Doreen lunched at the Hall and dined at the Rectory. But neither of them cared for visiting. One afternoon, young Tracy St. Vincent came over to call. In the course of conversation, he asked Tomina if she could ride.

"I have a spare mount. I wondered if you would like to exercise her. She is a black mare and a very easy goer."

"I do ride occasionally, but I really have no time at present to indulge in it."

"Would Mrs. Gavin like to try her? Oh, I say, you might be friendly with me! I'm awfully down in my luck! The country isn't my style at all. I haven't a single friend."

"You are a very foolish young man," said Tomina, sitting up very straight and speaking in a grandmotherly fashion. "Take the people as they are round here, and don't keep abusing the country. That is what they dislike in you."

"Do they now? Who told you that? That stiff old Johnny at the Hall here? Norman is still away, isn't he? Why is he selling his place? I met the fellow who has bought it yesterday. He came over to my place to ask me about one of my keepers who is leaving me."

"Who is buying it?" asked Tomina, with interest. She was always glad when Tracy got off himself.

"He's an old chum of Norman's—Maurice Holme, he calls himself. A major in the same regiment as Norman used to be in, he told me. He and his wife are staying at the 'Red Deer' in Damerton. He's rather a decent chap—not so stiff and starchy as most of our neighbours. He took me for an old inhabitant; it was quite a change from the way most treat me."

Just by chance, Tomina happened to glance at Doreen. She was struck by the ashen pallor of her face.

"Aren't you well?" she asked.

"I think your room is very warm," Doreen said, rising as she spoke and walking towards the door. "I'm all right; don't trouble to follow me."

She closed the door after her. Tracy St. Vincent went on talking, but Tomina only half heard him.

At last, she asked—

"How long is this Major Holme staying in Damerton? Is he going to take possession of Yockley Court at once?"

"I believe so. The arrangement is that he should walk straight in and have the use of the contents of it till Norman can come back to see to his personal effects."

"Oh, I am sorry—I can't bear old places to lose their owners! Has he a family?"

"Didn't ask him. His wife is with him."

Tomina was very distrait for the rest of Tracy's visit. She was relieved when he went. He did not stay to tea, as he was going on to the Hall.

Doreen sent word by Susan that she had such a bad headache that she was going to bed, and would rather not be disturbed.

Tomina sent her up a cup of tea, but did not attempt to go near her. She sat over her fire thinking deeply. Before she went to bed, she tapped at Doreen's door. It was locked. So she called out good night and went to bed.

The next morning, Doreen appeared at breakfast with much her usual manner, and apologised for her abrupt departure the previous afternoon.

"I do get very sudden headaches, and it's no good inflicting other people with one's misery. Silence and bed generally cure me."

"That is fortunate," said Tomina, quietly.

Doreen looked quickly at her, opened her lips as if about to say something, and then closed them.

They walked out together after breakfast, and Doreen said suddenly—

"I think I shall have to leave you at the end of this week, Tomina. I must be up in town to see the decorators about my house."

"But you have only been with me a week."

"Ten days, have I not?"

"And yesterday morning you said you need not be back in town for another fortnight."

Tomina's tone was quiet dignity itself.

Doreen was dumb.

Then Tomina turned to her, and she linked her arm in hers as she spoke as if to take away the sting of her words.

"Yockley Court is a long way from here, Doreen, and you need not go near Damerton."

Not a tremor nor an extra pulse beat from Doreen, but she looked steadfastly in front of her as she said—

"I did not intend to conceal it from you. Of course, it was palpable from my want of self-control. I do not wish to run the risk of meeting Major Holme. It is extraordinary that in a place like this I should hear of him."

"Not so extraordinary as my meeting Colonel Norman down here, for they are evidently friends, and it is quite natural that one should take the property from the other. How strangely we are connected, Doreen, you and I! Can't we talk freely with each other?"

Doreen drew a deep breath.

"You never told me that you knew Colonel Norman."

"You never asked me."

"I don't know why you should expect me to confide in you when you are so reticent about yourself. You reminded me the first night that I came here that our lives were our own, that we need not be inquisitive about each other's way of living."

"Perhaps I was wrong," said Tomina, in a low voice. "I haven't much to tell, Doreen. I had a bitter quarrel with Colonel Norman years ago; we parted, and the savour of my life seemed gone. That made me reckless. And then I met him down here, and now we're friends—nothing more, and he is away with his invalid mother, nursing her and keeping her happy."

"But he is not married?"

"No," said Tomina, a startled look coming into her eyes. "Did you ever meet him?"

"Yes, more than once."

There was a little silence between them.

Then Tomina spoke, and there was almost a touch of tenderness in her tone.

"You need not tell me anything, Doreen. I guess. Major Holme has been in your past life, and though you are married to another man who holds your heart, you don't feel ready yet to meet your old admirer."

"Ah," said Doreen, with a quick-caught breath, "you have only yourself to thank for your separation, but I did nothing but love too wholeheartedly. We were within a day of our marriage when—I can't tell you the sordid story—another woman turned up and threatened him, and I happily heard of it just in time. He married her two months afterwards, and to use his own words to a friend of his, he has been in 'hell ever since.'"

"Do you write to him?"

"Don't insult me."

"Forgive me, and thank you for your confidence. How crooked life is sometimes!"

"It's not very exhilarating as one lives on."

"I don't know. It depends upon the part of ourselves which we cultivate. That is what I have been taught since I have been here. And I have got a new lease of life altogether. I feel as if I could be ready for all the blows that fate could deal me. I dare say I should crumple up when they came, but I don't know. All I do know is that I have a breadth and height of vision that I was in absolute ignorance of before."

"How do you mean?"

"I have got into touch with the Unseen."

Doreen looked at her with interest.

"Are you a spiritualist?"

"Not as you mean it. But we all belong to the Unseen, you know, and numbers of us are going into it every day."

"How strangely you talk!"

"Perhaps I'm beating round the bush," said Tomina; "it is a way we English have when we don't want to open our hearts to each other. But in simple language I have been brought into touch with God, and am beginning life again with my hand in His. You've no idea of the difference it makes in everything. I walked alone for twenty-six years of my life, and it wasn't a success, though I tried my utmost to make it so."

Doreen gazed at her gravely and thoughtfully.

"I have walked alone all my life," she said, "and shall continue to do so till the end."

"That will be a pity," said Tomina, "because I see now what a lot of happiness and sunshine we miss if we do so. And we do make a mess of things, don't we?"

"Or rather other people do it for us," said Doreen, bitterly.

They said no more. Doreen abruptly changed the conversation, and Tomina felt a great pity for her, as she saw that poor Tom had not yet taken the place of her former lover in her heart, and that the past was casting a blight over her life.

In two days' time, she left Little Honeycombe, and Tomina did not seek to detain her.

They drove together to the station, and fate did indeed seem against them when, pacing up and down the quiet little country platform, they saw Major Holme with his wife. When he saw Doreen, he lifted his hat apparently with the greatest composure. But Tomina's quick eyes noted that his hand trembled like a woman's as he held it out.

"How are you?" he said. "Who would have thought of seeing you in this part? May I introduce my wife to you?"

Doreen held herself proudly; she shook hands with him, and bowed to his wife, who was a very smart woman of fashion, but who did not bear the stamp of a gentlewoman. Then Tomina was introduced, and a few commonplace remarks were made till the train came in.

Mrs. Holme had evidently no idea who Doreen was; she suggested that they should travel together. But Doreen promptly said she was going third class, and Major Holme did not endorse his wife's request.

As he wished Doreen good-bye, a miserable, pleading look shot into his eyes. Her face was as cold and hard as steel. And when Tomina kissed her in parting, it did not relax or soften.

Tomina came home in low spirits. Doreen had told her she must come to her for a visit after she had settled in her new house, and she had promised to do so. But she still felt vexed with her for not appreciating her husband more, and she did not look forward to the visit.

A week or two later, she met Major Holme at the Hall. His wife was not with him, and he seemed a different man without her. He turned to Tomina at once.

"You and I must be friends," he said in his cheerful, hearty voice; "for I believe you know Norman, and he and I have always been pals!"

"You are coming to live at Yockley Court," said Tomina.

"Yes, we are—at least, I'm going to settle my wife in. But I am still in the Service, and have just been ordered up to Edinburgh."

"Won't your wife be lonely?"

"She says she won't. She has always been wild to possess a country house—the only thing Norman can't give us with his is a ghost. And that's a sad lack."

Tomina laughed.

"You can soon conjure up one. Have you heard from Colonel Norman lately? Do you know how his mother is?"

"About the same, he says. I heard yesterday. Funny chap, isn't he? He can alter his mode of life so extraordinarily quickly! He was just the man I should have said who would always stay in the Service and never be happy anywhere else. But he chucked it, and then came off down here and settled into a country gentleman. I came down for his shooting about a year ago, and you'd never have guessed he'd been a soldier. Never mentioned it. Now he's had to chuck the gentleman 'rôle,' and he's a sick-nurse and attendant to his mother, and I hear can't be dragged into anything out there—plays a game of golf occasionally and drops in at the club, but otherwise leads a woman's life. He and I write to each other on and off."

"I think he has been having some buffets of fate," said Tomina. "I expect his heart is still in the Service."

"Do you think so? I say, do tell me—has Miss Forrester married a relation of yours?"

"My twin brother."

"Really! Do they live in this part?"

"My brother is in the Navy. She was only staying with me; she is settling into a house somewhere in the Midlands."

Major Holme stroked his moustache thoughtfully. Tomina wondered what were his thoughts. But Sir Alfred Digby came up at that minute, and they had no more opportunity for private conversation.

She did not meet him again for some time.

The winter slowly passed. Tomina came out of her shell, joined the Rectory working party, and undertook to help Mrs. Herbert with the village clothing club every Saturday.

"I have a lot of lost time to redeem," she said to Mrs. Francis, "and if there is anything that I am capable of doing, I mean to have a try at it."

One afternoon, Mrs. Francis came to see Tomina in the dusk after tea. They were very friendly by this time, but Tomina saw from her manner that she had called for some special purpose, and she wondered what it was.

Mrs. Francis seemed a little nervous and restless. Presently she asked rather abruptly—

"Have you heard from Colonel Norman lately?"

"No," said Tomina, slightly surprised at the question. "We do not correspond."

"You are old friends, are you not? He told me so."

Tomina did not reply.

Then Mrs. Francis laid her hand softly on her arm.

"I want to tell you something. I wonder if you will give me your congratulations? We have cared for each other for some little time now, and we are going to make our engagement known."

Tomina turned to her quickly; a pink flush rose into her cheeks.

"Of course I congratulate you! I hope you will be very happy. I guessed it a short time ago."

She spoke quickly and feverishly.

Mrs. Francis gazed into the fire with dreamy eyes and a happy smile about her lips.

"You have always liked him, have you not? I was sure of your sympathy."

Wild rebellion and misery were seething in Tomina's heart. She hardly knew what she said.

Mrs. Francis's voice seemed to come to her from a great distance off, and after a few commonplace remarks, the young widow rose to go.

When Tomina had wished her good-bye, she came into her sitting-room and threw herself impulsively on her couch. Thor, seeing her face buried in the cushions, crept up to her and licked her hand. When Tomina was alone, he generally kept her company. Tomina took no notice of him at first, until he gave a low whine of perplexity and uneasiness. Then she sat up and clasped her arms round his shaggy head.

"Oh, Thor, dear Thor, you're a safe confidant! My punishment has come to me at last for my pride and indifference! I might have known my own heart before it was too late, but, oh, how fickle men are! And Major Holme was quite right; he knows him well. He has, after all his earnest protestations to me, suddenly transferred his affections. I suppose he thought, and quite rightly too, that I ought to know my own mind, and as I seemed so decided, he took me at my word. And, Thor, there hasn't been a day when I have not been thinking of him. The future seemed to hold only him in it! Aren't you sorry for me? Oh, I am sorry for myself! It is a bitter and sudden blow."

Tears dropped on the dog's head. Thor looked up with tender, speaking eyes. He knew his mistress was in trouble, and he wagged his tail to and fro and watched her intently to see if there was anything he could do to comfort or please her.

And then Susan came into the room, and Tomina sprang up with a gay laugh on her lips.

"I have heard such interesting news, Susan, but perhaps I had better not tell you yet."

"Indeed, I can guess, ma'am. 'Tis all over the village, and we're just delighted. Mrs. Francis is too good to remain a widow all her life. Now, if only you and Sir Alfred could come together, it would fit in so well, wouldn't it? And then we shouldn't lose you from amongst us."

"My dear Susan, Sir Alfred is a confirmed bachelor. You mustn't take to matchmaking. And I am cut out for a spinster's life; you won't lose me just yet, I can assure you!"

Then with a smile still on her lips and an agonising weight on her heart, Tomina went out of the room.

She found it beyond her powers to discuss Mrs. Francis's engagement with Susan.

She went early to bed that evening, but not to sleep.

Tomina had been half conscious for a long time that her feelings were undergoing a change as regards Gerald Norman. She would never have suffered so much all those years had her love for him entirely died.

As she had said to Doreen, life had lost its savour since their quarrel. And yet she had resolutely and determinedly put him, or sought to put him, out of her life. When he had insisted upon renewing their acquaintance, she had at first passionately resisted it. When later she gradually drifted into friendship, she still crushed the inclination in her heart to forgive him. Now she knew she had nothing to forgive; the pride and the wilfulness had all been on her side, and no self-respecting man could have acted otherwise than he had done. Her heart was still in his keeping. She was counting the days, too, when she might see him again. She had already pictured him in imagination once again pressing his claim upon her. This time she would yield, she assured herself; she must do so—she could not hold out any longer.

And now this blow had fallen. She was no longer enshrined in his heart. Another had taken her place. Her opportunity for yielding to his importunity would never come. He did not want her.

The shock of it stunned, bewildered her. She tossed restlessly from side to side. Sleep would not come. And then suddenly her soul found repose in prayer.

"God is my Father," she thought, and a little thrill of hope and light sprang up in her heart. "He loves me. He knows all about it. If I have lost Gerald in this life, it must be for the best reason in the world. I am not guiding my own life any longer. God is. I will trust Him. I will wait and see what comes."

In a very few moments, the tumult in her heart was stilled and she fell asleep.

CHAPTER XVIII

DOREEN'S HOME

"GOOD morning! I am working my round in this part of the world, and I have a message for you from old Martha Tubbs. 'Tell her to come along and hearten me up a bit, for I be terrible lonesome in bed'!"

It was Dr. Merton who stood outside Tomina's window. There was a breath of spring in the air. Tomina had opened the window and was leaning out of it, with somewhat wistful eyes, when the doctor had marched in at her gate, and now was speaking to her.

He glanced at her with his keen professional eye.

"You are not looking well. What have you been doing to yourself?"

"I am not your patient any longer," said Tomina, with a little of her old gay humour, "so don't ask inquisitive questions. And may I in return ask you what you have been doing to yourself? You look as if you had had a fortune left you!"

Dr. Merton certainly was in the best of spirits; there was an alert spring in his bearing, a joyousness in his eyes that was not usually there.

"Well, don't you think a fortune has befallen me?" he asked. "I hear that you have been told, so I await your congratulations."

"I have been told nothing," said Tomina, looking at him in a puzzled way.

"Surely Mrs. Francis came to see you yesterday?"

"Yes, she did."

But still Tomina remained mystified.

Dr. Merton looked at her, and his eyes began to twinkle.

"You think her wasted upon a country doctor?"

"You don't mean to say that you are the man? That she is engaged to you?"

"Didn't she tell you so? We have known each other for a long time."

Tomina had been well trained from childhood in self-control. Her gay life in London had been good discipline in that way. She looked up at the doctor and smiled.

"I have been very stupid. You need not mention it to her, but I quite misunderstood her when she was trying to tell me about it. I am delighted, Dr. Merton. I don't know which of you I feel I ought to congratulate more. You will make an ideal couple. And, oh, what an amount of goodness there will be in one house! It will be almost heaven! Or the courts of it at least."

Dr. Merton laughed.

"I assure you, we are both very human. But I felt you would be glad."

He remained talking some little time.

But when he had left her, Tomina felt almost as stupefied now by the revulsion of feeling that passed through her, as she had before, when she had first received the communication from Mrs. Francis which she had so absurdly misunderstood. She went over in her mind the conversation of the day before, and could only conclude that Mrs. Francis's remark about Colonel Norman was quite irrelevant to the announcement of her engagement.

"She must have thought I knew all about it, and I never had any idea! How extraordinary that Susan should not have undeceived me! I suppose she knows."

In she called Susan, who promptly said—

"I knew the doctor would come and tell you himself, ma'am. I saw him coming up the path. He does deserve her, doesn't he? We've said a long time ago they ought to make a match of it!"

"It is delightful," said Tomina.

She did not let Susan know of her mistake, but after her anguish of the evening before, she felt she could hardly bear the relief and happiness that came to her now.

She put on her hat and coat and, calling Thor, took a long walk. It did her good, both mentally and physically. She came home with a soft fresh colour in her cheeks and such light and sparkle in her eyes, that Susan told a neighbour that Miss Gavin was getting more beautiful every day.

On the following Friday a lively discussion took place in the van upon the merits of masterfulness in married life. Of course, the doctor's engagement was the beginning of the discussion.

"I do say," said Mrs. Capper, "that they be a proper suited couple. Mrs. Francis is just as gentle as the doctor be firm. There'll be no fallin' out atween 'em!"

"Well, now," said Tomina, looking back over her shoulder at her passengers, "do you think that the husband or the wife should rule in the house?"

There was a good deal of laughter.

"Why, miss, the man ought to be master, Bible says."

"But if he drinks like a beast," said one young woman, sharply; "'tis according to the natures of 'em!"

"There be Tom Lorrimer," said old Mrs. Capper, "who be under his wife's thumb and afraid to wink his eye unless she gives 'im leave. The only time he do be able to stand up to her is when he's had a drop too much, and he told me he took it on purpose so as to master her!"

"I'd master him!" said another woman, vindictively.

"I'd like to see my husband a masterin' of me. The woman should be missus of her house. She be in it an' keeps it; the man be only there nights and the evenin's!"

"It's like this, miss," said the oldest woman there; "there be some men born to be masters, but there be others that be best managed for. If a man be born and bred to rule, his wife had best give in for sake of peace, but if he be a poor weak sort o' chap, 'tis for the good of all that his wife rules for 'im!"

"I believe you are right," said Tomina, thoughtfully. "Circumstances alter cases. I used to think a man was a tyrant if he insisted upon having his own way, but if it is a good way, the woman ought to yield."

Then Mrs. Judd, of the general shop spoke. "There be grand talk now of women rulin' in Parlyment and havin' their votes. Miss Merryweather believes in that; she gave us a long talkin' to one day, but I says to 'er—

"'Miss Merryweather,' I says, 'you may be very clever-headed, but when it comes to makin' yourself heard in the Public Halls in that there Parlyment House, why, my John would roar you down easy! If the Almighty,' I says, 'wanted you to up and speak in Parlyment, he'd have given you a voice to do it,' I says.

"Then she says to me, 'Do you know some women's voices carry farther than men's; what about actresses?'

"'I don't know nothin' about actresses,' I says; 'they be not for respectable ladies to copy.'

"And, of course, 'tis not only the voice, if men have always made laws for hundreds of years, doesn't it follow that they be more clever at it than the women? 'Tis just because 'tis a new thing that these here women be wantin' to try their hand at it. They've nothin' else to do. Let 'em get married, and have a dozen children to wash and feed and clothe and a house to keep clean, an' a husband to cook for, they wouldn't have the time or thought to be wantin' to be standin' amongst the men in Parlyment!"

"But all women can't marry, Mrs. Judd," said Tomina, "and some think that they could make better laws for women than the men can do."

There was a chorus of dissent at this.

"We'd rather the gentlemen ruled us than the ladies," said one. "A gentleman—well, be he not so sharp-eyed and inquisitive as a lady?"

Here the van stopped to take up Mrs. Cayley.

Tomina greeted her warmly, and made her comfortable in the corner behind her.

"We've been talking about husbands and wives, Mrs. Cayley, and which of them ought to be the ruler. What do you think? Some of us don't like to be ruled and managed by men, and some of us do. It depends upon the man, don't you think?"

Mrs. Cayley looked round her with her sweet, gentle smile.

"I don't think there'll be any talk of ruling, where there be love for each other. When love rules, you only see the love, and not the rule."

The women were silent.

"Yes," said Tomina, "of course, you are right. It is love and trust that is wanted in married life, and then there will be no talk of rule."

Her thoughts went to Colonel Norman.

"My love was not deep enough or we should never have separated," she said to herself. "I feel now that, if he were to want me, I would never wish to have any other will but his."

The talk went on in the van, but Tomina did not join in. She gazed wistfully and dreamily in front of her, and it was only when she arrived at Damerton that she roused herself to her usual business.

A few days after this, she received a letter from Tom, the first he had sent her since he sailed.

"DEAR OLD TOMMIE,"

"I am not a good fist at yarning with my pen, but I feel I treated you a bit shabbily. My great happiness made me a selfish brute. Isn't she wonderful? Are you two real friends? I want you to be. Have you gone to stay with her yet? Take the first train and go! I want you to tell me about her. She, like myself, is a bad correspondent; she never tells what I want to know, and how can she? I charge you to do it, and you'll earn my everlasting gratitude. Write me twenty pages. Don't stint paper or ink. Tell me all about her, how she looks, where she is when you're writing, what she is doing, what gown she is wearing, whether that rare smile of hers creeps over her face. It comes so slowly and it goes so quickly, but I learnt to watch for it, and whilst it lasted it warmed my heart and made me feel I could go through fire and water to get it again. Oh, Tommie, I can tell you I feel in a desert, stranded and forlorn. My only comfort is living once again that blessed fortnight in imagination. I shall hope for continual letters from you when you get to her. Do go at once. She like's you, and she'll be lonely; she'll miss me, though she is never one to proclaim it. This postbag is being closed.

"Adieu.

"Your devoted Twin,

"Tom."

"Oh dear, oh dear!" sighed Tomina. "How foolish young husbands are! He little knows, poor boy, how indifferent Doreen is to both of us. And how can I force myself upon her before she asks me? Is that all the use I can be to him now, a kind of mirror reflecting for his benefit all she says and does?"

But she was not surprised to get a letter from Doreen in a week's time to ask her for a "short visit."

She once again placed Joe in charge of her van, and went to the Dower House at Walburton.

Doreen met her at the station in a pretty little pony-trap. She told Tomina it was her cousin's wedding gift to her. She was looking brighter and happier, and talked away about her house and garden the whole time. It was a drive of two and a half miles, and they arrived at the house just before dusk. The last rays of the setting sun were gilding all the windows as they entered.

"It's a good omen for your visit," said Doreen, pleasantly. "Now you must not expect perfection, though I have aimed at it, and some of the rooms are still in rather an unfinished state. But don't you think I have a sweet house?"

Tomina could quite satisfy her on that point. Indeed, the quaint, old-fashioned cottage, with its low, long irregular rooms, and beautiful oak beams and panelling would have satisfied any artist's heart. Doreen had good taste; and every room was a picture of dainty freshness and comfort. They had a cosy tea in the drawing-room, and as it was still early spring, a bright wood fire was very acceptable.

Tomina tried to feel that this was Tom's home, but she could not picture it.

When Doreen took her into the third sitting-room, she looked at the rose-covered chintzes, and the fragile Chippendale chairs and tables, and asked—

"Is this Tom's smoking-room?"

Doreen raised her eyebrows.

"This is the morning room. I write and work here, of course. I dare say Tom will be able to bring his pipe in when he likes."

"But have you no man's room?" questioned Tomina, persistently. "When he is home, where is he to sit?"

"With me, I should think," said Doreen, and a cold inflection was in her tone. "Considering how much he will be away, I have not, I confess, furnished a room for his sole and absolute use."

Tomina was silent.

"There is a room—the housekeeper's," went on Doreen, in milder tones, "that I dare say Tom may like to use. My maids will not want it. I only keep two, and they have such a beautiful kitchen that they do not need a servants' hall. But there will be plenty of time to furnish that later."

"Oh yes," said Tomina, quickly, "you will be able to do that, of course. I know Tom's ways when he is at home, and he would be bound to have a den of his own."

After dinner they sat over the fire and talked. But Tomina wisely kept off the subject of her brother as long as she could.

"What will you do with yourself when your house and garden is in perfect order, and you have no more planning and contriving?" she asked Doreen.

Doreen sat back in her chair with clasped hands in her lap. She was always composed and still, her face was a striking contrast to Tomina's sparkling vivacious one. Her eyes were clear and steady, as she answered slowly—

"I shall live in my books when I am not gardening."

"What kind of books do you live in?"

"It depends on my mood," said Doreen. "Poetry when I am feeling flat and dull. Philosophy when I want to think."

"You read to take yourself away from your surroundings?"

"Yes, always."

"I don't. I like to get knowledge for practical purposes. But then it is only lately that I have tried to do useful things, and I am so ignorant! You would laugh to see some of my purchases in the Damerton book shop. Handbooks on cookery, of course, and medicine in the home, and the first course in nursing and ambulance, and dog diseases, and scientific dressmaking, and bee keeping, and gardening."

"But why have you so many hobbies?"

"Oh, they're not hobbies exactly, only I don't feel so lamentably ignorant when I drive my van. My passengers appeal to me on every kind of topic. Two of them had a dispute on the efficacy of onions for poultices the other day. I had never heard of the onion cure. They expect me to be a regular encyclopædia of knowledge. And I don't like disappointing them."

"I wonder how soon you will tire of that van?"

"Not just yet."

"But you will not want to spend the rest of your life in that part of the country?"

"I shall never go back to London."

"You will stagnate there."

"That is what Alice Merryweather always says. But I find I am always making new discoveries and learning new things."

"You ought to marry," Doreen said, looking at her with sombre eyes. "You have taken up a 'rôle' that does not suit you. A woman carrier to my mind ought to be a gaunt, big-limbed, hard-featured person. You don't look as if you could weather a puff of wind!"

"There I am a fraud, for I've weathered many storms, and have never been in better health all my life. And marriage is not necessarily the sole aim and object of a woman's life. I could not undertake it without real love!"

The words slipped out of her lips before she thought. But Doreen looked at her with a calm smile.

"Love is tempestuous, and uncertain, it never lasts. I do not think I know a single couple amongst my married friends who keep their love after ten years of married life. They get accustomed to each other, indifferent I should say. Love is 'not' necessary, Tomina. It is a waste of one's heart's blood often."

Tomina shook her head.

"I can't argue with you. A married life without love must be like—well, like bread without any butter."

"Bread is very wholesome," said Doreen, with the shadow of a smile. Then she rose from her seat and stood with her back to the fire, and her hands clasped behind her. Looking at Tomina almost tenderly, she said: "I feel so many years older than you, Tomina. It is difficult to kindle a fire when it has burnt out and there are only ashes left. It will never be kindled again in my heart. It is of no use us uttering all these platitudes; you are not pleased with my attitude towards your brother, but you need not be afraid. I mean to be serene, and helpful; he will never find that I shall fail him."

"But he does love you so intensely," said Tomina; "it is such waste on his part, is it not?"

"No, I think I like it. It soothes and comforts me."

"But why should he give you so much and you give him so little?"

Tomina's tone vibrated with feeling.

"I am giving him a great deal, and he knows it. As you said just now, marriage is not the sole aim and object of a woman's life. It was not mine, and I told him so. I warned him beforehand what I could give him and what I could not. And if you leave us alone, you will find we shall be as united a couple as the majority are."

"I shall never mention the subject again," said Tomina, quietly.

And she did not.

The following morning she was shown the quaint old garden, and Tomina fell in love with it at once. Crocuses and early daffodils were springing under the old red brick walls, the brown buds on trees and shrubs were swelling visibly, and birds were singing ecstatically as they flew here and there collecting for their nests. Doreen pointed out the wooden seats in sheltered corners, and said she meant to bring her writing and books out of doors as soon as the weather became warm.

"Do you know where I first got my love for a garden?" she said. "It was about six years ago before I went out to Australia. I visited a convent in France, and they took me into the garden, where some of them were gardening, and some of them walking about and reading their books. It was summer-time, and the peace and stillness under the shady trees, and the sweet scent of the lilies and heliotrope and lemon verbena followed me for years. It made me wish to be a nun. And when I came into this legacy, my cup of happiness seemed full. I shall wander round and imbibe all the scents and sounds and sweetness that will be here. You see it in spring now. You have no idea of the wealth of bloom and beauty that will come by-and-by!"

"You are making one envy you," said Tomina, with her gay laugh. "I can see you on a summer's morning. It seems to suit you. You must always wear a white gown rather long in the skirt, so that you can trail properly over the green lawns, with a basket of roses hanging on your arm, and a book in your hand. Then you can pose by a sundial, and follow with your eyes the flight of rooks or doves from a dovecote. Oh, it will be charming! But there must be an observer somewhere, or your dream-garden will never be described in the orthodox fashion."

"You are laughing at me! I shall welcome no intruder. It is the peace and privacy that I shall value. Can't you understand a little? I have been at every one's beck and call since I left school, always making myself agreeable when I did not feel so, always entertaining, always talking small talk, paying empty compliments, making friends with people I thoroughly despised, accepting their hospitality, joining in empty chatter, in gay trivialities, never having a moment to myself, smiling when my heart was aching, pretending and posing and acting day after day, till my soul sickened and withered under it all!"

At last Tomina saw something of the fire beneath Doreen's still serene exterior. She slipped her arm into hers and gave it a little squeeze.

"Of course, I understand, dear," she said. "Haven't I gone through it myself? Aren't hundreds of women doing it still? And yet half of them don't realise the pitiful slavery of it, and how they could break away and call their souls their own if they choose. I broke away, and I am never going back to it again. You and I are fortunate. We have no obligations to make us do so. I know that some are nobly doing their duty towards husbands and parents and children, and could not make a fresh life for themselves. They must stay in it, and endure. But there are others who could do as we have done."

Tomina's eyes were misty as she spoke. She went on—

"I seem to feel so much more for people than I used to do. I think it is my van. I hear and see so much of human life as we go trundling along. Sometimes I wonder, if I went back to my London life, whether I could help any girls to escape from it, and see what a much bigger purpose might be in their lives; and how we were sent into the world for that purpose. But, of course, I might not succeed in making them see it, and might only do more harm than good."

"I don't think the modern girl would stand much preaching," said Doreen.

"Perhaps not. And we are all led differently, are we not? I remember telling my doctor that I felt like a traveller leaving the busy high-road and turning down a green bye-lane. That was when I first arrived in the country. Now, as I look back, what a beautiful country my green lane has led me into, and what vistas and views I have got!"

"Views of what?" Doreen asked, looking down upon her curiously.

"Of the Golden Unseen Land," said Tomina, softly.

And Doreen said no more.

Tomina enjoyed this visit of hers. She and Doreen gardened industriously every morning.

They drove out in the afternoon, and occasionally had to receive callers. Long letters went out to Tom, but Tomina was the one who wrote most, and she described her life in every detail.

Now and then in talking together over the fire in the evening, they would touch the fringe of deep subjects. Tomina was quite ready to talk of what she had lately experienced, but she was also ready to wait, and draw back, if Doreen showed impatience or distaste of such talk.

Time slipped away, and then Tomina said she must return home. As London was on her way, she determined to stay with her stepmother for a few days before returning to Little Honeycombe.

Doreen parted from her with sincere regret. She drove her to the station in her pony-trap.

They had been rather silent for some time, when she suddenly startled Tomina by saying abruptly—"You spoke the other day of every one having a high purpose in their lives. What is yours?"

"To be a carrier," said Tomina, slowly and sweetly. "Wasn't it strange that I tumbled upon my vocation in real carelessness of soul? I mean with God's help to be a carrier to the end of my life. The legend of St. Christoforos has helped me so much."

Doreen looked interested.

"I used to be so fond of that story when I was a child," she said. "I think you would always help people with their burdens, Tomina. You are so sympathetic, and yet so gay. I am a very grave person, as you know, and as such appreciate brightness so very much. Sometimes people crudely imagine that the sober-looking cannot enjoy fun. Why, it is those that feel cold that enjoy the sunshine most!"

"It's a lovely thought, isn't it?" said Tomina, with glowing eyes. "Life does seem so hard to so many, it is like struggling through rushing water; and if one can help each other through, it is glorious. I have been so awfully selfish. I have sat with folded hands, refusing to put my little finger out to help anybody. Our Rector's wife is quite overwhelmed sometimes. I refused to go near her because she was 'good' and tried to do me good. Oh, how I did dislike her at first, and how much I like her now!"

"Do you? I should never like any one who 'tried to do me good.' But I should like some one who shouldered my burden with me and stepped along a bit of my way. And you have done that, Tomina. Life has been better and sweeter since you came."

Tomina could not speak. When she kissed her in parting, she said—

"I shall often think of you in your retreat. We are real friends, are we not? The recluse and the carrier!"

And at Tomina's happy laugh, Doreen gave one of her rare sweet smiles. Tomina carried that away with her, and thought that, after all, Tom was a lucky man.

CHAPTER XIX

TOMINA'S DESPERATION

LADY GAVIN welcomed Tomina very affectionately. Her niece, Madge Dudley, a girl about Tomina's own age, was staying with her. She was genuinely glad to see Tomina again.

"We have heard such absurd stories about you, that I am glad to see you much the same as usual. I pictured you in a smock, or is that male attire in your part of the world? You hardly look like our country cousins. Tell me what you have been doing with yourself."

They were dining alone, a rather unusual event, and so talk became personal.

Tomina tried to tell her.

Then Lady Gavin said—

"As you have quite got over that affair with Gerald Norman, I'll tell you that I have been spending the afternoon with his mother. They came from the Riviera a week ago and are in some nice rooms overlooking Kensington Gardens. It's quite painful to see her, and as for him, I wouldn't know him. He is almost ridiculously devoted to her, and she, poor thing, cries herself silly whenever he leaves her."

"It's rather touching," said Madge. "I saw him the other day, Tomina; he was buying flowers for her, but he looks quite careworn and aged. I couldn't get a laugh out of him. Do you remember the day he marched into this room in a perfect fury because you had not met him at the arranged time? Billy Cassel turned up, and he was so amusing that you forgot the appointment altogether. I can see Gerald now in his immaculate frock-coat and light spats and hear him say to you:

"'I have been waiting three-quarters of an hour! We are punctual in the Service!'

"And then you smiled at him perfectly calm. 'But I am not in—service—yet!' you said.

"And he turned quite white, bowed, and returned you the tickets—for a 'matinée,' wasn't it?—and took his leave promptly. I can remember how frightened and indignant you looked."

"I am sure I never showed that I was frightened of him."

"I always knew you were!"

"How is Mrs. Norman?" said Lady Gavin.

"She will never be better. She can talk, and she can be lifted into a carriage or bath-chair and taken out, but she has to be fed like a child; her limbs are powerless."

"It is like a living death," said Madge. "I don't think people should be seen when they are like that; it makes one feel so miserable."

"Oh, Madge, surely one's own feelings don't matter!" said Tomina.

"Mine do very much. That doesn't sound like you, Tomina; you used to say that you never intended to take other people's troubles on your shoulders, for your own were far too heavy!"

"Did I? I am a selfish creature at the best of times."

Through all the light chatter that ensued, Tomina's thoughts were far-away. It had been a distinct shock to her to hear that Colonel Norman was once again in her near neighbourhood. She felt she longed to see him and yet shrank from doing so. Her last waking thought that night was—

"I must not leave town without seeing him. I may never meet him again."

She heard the next day that they were going down to Torquay very soon. She was making up her mind to call upon Mrs. Norman when Lady Gavin informed her that she had every minute of the day mapped out for her.

"We do not get you up here very often. I am opening a bazaar at Knightsbridge this morning at twelve o'clock—I want you to come with me; and we have an 'at home' this afternoon and a few people to dine. Your friends will want to see you, Tomina."

Tomina sighed, but was very submissive.

Madge laughed at her resigned expression.

"You have been getting lazy in the country."

"Yes, my days there are not so full as yours."

"You have forgotten how we work. I mean to cut the 'at home' to-day. You can take my place, and I shan't be missed."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to my dressmaker at once. Will you come with me and give me your advice? It won't take you long. And then I'm going down to Richmond to lunch with the Fitzpatricks."

Tomina agreed to accompany her to her dressmaker's, promising to meet her stepmother at the bazaar later on. When she and Madge eventually separated, Tomina found that she had nearly an hour on her hands, so she sauntered up Regent Street, and looked in at the shop windows.

Suddenly she met Colonel Norman face to face. As she shook hands with him, her heart beat violently. He had been so much in her thoughts that the unexpected sight of him almost unnerved her.

But outwardly Tomina was calm and smiling.

"I have been hearing from my stepmother that you are in town. I hope your mother is better?"

"I think she is. Lady Gavin very kindly came to see her. They were old friends, you know. It is good to see you again."

The light was in his tired eyes as he spoke. Tomina noticed for the first time that he was getting grey.

"I am only in town for a day or two."

Then Colonel Norman spoke in a hesitating tone—

"I wonder if you would befriend me? I'm somewhat in a dilemma, for I'm very ignorant—but I'm doing a little shopping for my mother. She has begged me to do it myself. Her maid doesn't please her. It's a—a hat or a bonnet for her, and she gave me the name of a milliner somewhere about here."

"I shall be delighted," said Tomina. "What is the name of the milliner? I expect it is 'Le Brun.'"

"That's it. A French place, she said."

They were close to the shop. Tomina accompanied him in, half amused, half touched, by his natural bewilderment in his task.

"It must be something bright and cheerful, but which will be comfortable lying down," said the Colonel, gravely.

"We'll look at some motor bonnets," said Tomina, gaily; "they have perfect dreams here, and I'm sure we can pick out one which she will like."

In a few minutes they were deep in the important choice. Grey, blue, mauve, and rose bonnets of all sorts and shades were shown them. Tomina insisted upon trying some on herself.

"I declare! I shall get one for my van. It's just what I want on a cold and windy day, for spring is very stormy at Little Honeycombe. How do you like this, now? It would do for either your mother or myself?"

She turned to Colonel Norman, looking perfectly bewitching in a black satin bonnet fitting close to her head with a tiny bunch of cherries on either side over her ears, and tied with cherry-coloured ribbon under the chin.

"I think it would suit your lady perfectly, sir," said the milliner.

Tomina blushed and laughed as she turned away.

Colonel Norman's look remained with her, but there seemed to be sadness as well as tender admiration in it, which rather puzzled her at the time.

After a little further consultation, a pretty mauve bonnet trimmed with a tiny wreath of heliotrope, was ordered to be sent on approval for Mrs. Norman, and Tomina ordered the cherry bonnet for herself.

As she left the shop, she said lightly—

"We have done our shopping very satisfactorily. I don't know what my old women will say to me! But they ought to like my choice, for they are exactly like our grandmother's coal-scuttles, are they not? Now I must leave you! I ought to be in Knightsbridge at twelve. Will you call a taxi for me?"

"Can you come to see my mother once before you leave?" Colonel Norman said after he had hailed a taxi. "Could you come to-morrow afternoon—to see if our choice is approved?"

He tried to smile. But Tomina's quick eyes saw that he was weary in body and soul; and her heart ached for him.

"Yes, I will," she said promptly; "I will come between three and four."

He wrung her hand, and they parted. Tomina was singularly grave and sober for the rest of that day. Her friends agreed that her time in the country had improved her health but not her spirits. And she, hearing the flow of chatter and laughter around her, wondered that she could ever have been in it and of it.

The next day, she went round to the house in the quiet terrace overlooking the gardens. She found Mrs. Norman alone, but she was supremely delighted to see her. She was lying back on her couch looking haggard and aged, though her maid had tried to hide the ravages of sickness and years by a liberal coating of enamel and rouge. The fretful discontent in her voice was very noticeable.

"Tomina Gavin, is it not? Well, I am glad to see you. My illness seems to have cut me off entirely from all my friends. You know of the terrible time that I have had? I can't speak of it. And doctors are a fraud. They take your money and do you no good. Look at me, still stretched flat on my back and unable to move a single limb, and I have been like this for over six months. Don't you think they ought to have cured me or found me some remedy by this time? Sit down and talk to me. Gerald is out; he had to go to our lawyer about business, he said. It is most inconsiderate, I told him. There is no reason why the lawyer should not come here, and I should have enjoyed listening to their conversation. But men are so secretive about business matters, and Gerald is very obstinate. I spoiled him as a boy, and I suppose I am reaping the result."

She paused for breath.

"How did you like your bonnet?" Tomina asked.

"Oh, you helped to choose it, did you not? I liked it fairly well. Of course, I have never worn such things, and I do hate novelty in any shape or form. I said to Gerald, if he liked to walk by the side of an old crock—made old before her time—she had better be as respectably clothed as she could be! It's an awful existence; I wonder if you have any conception how awful it is to me! It seems superfine torture to fix on me, above all others, as the one to drag on this living death!"

Her voice broke—she began to cry weakly.

Tomina tried to comfort her.

"No one knows how long my days are," the invalid sobbed, "or how weary the nights. If I had a daughter, it might be easier for me. I suppose Gerald does his best, but men are no nurses, they are so dense, so clumsy, so unsympathetic. Sometimes he goes out for half an hour, he says. I wait and watch the clock till he comes back. It is all I can do. The half-hour stretches into an hour, and then he tells me he met somebody, or my errands took him longer than he thought. And last night I was wakeful, and I wanted to change my position. I won't have the nurse sleep with me—she worries me to death—and so Gerald sleeps in the dressing-room. Well, I called and called—so like a man, he was sound and fast asleep! And when he was roused at last, I was crying from weakness and weariness. I can't tell you how I suffer!"

Tomina listened and sympathised, and Mrs. Norman talked on, about herself and her pitiful lot.

At last, Tomina said—

"I feel a little shy about suffering. I have never had it, but there is special reward and blessing for those who bear it patiently. Doesn't it comfort you to think of the time when there will be no more of it?"

"You mean when I am dead?" Mrs. Norman cried shrilly. "Oh, how cruel of you to remind me of such a thing! Do you mean to say that you think I shall never get back the use of my limbs in this life? I will, I must. I'll try every specialist in the country. What is the good of spending money on anything but health? I say to Gerald, when he speaks of taking a house,—

"'What good does a house and grounds do me? Why six feet square is enough for my wants at present. My couch is my dwelling-place.'

"I told him I would never, never go back near the Court. I am glad he has sold it, for we wanted the money. I mean to try every cure in the world before I rest satisfied that I can't be cured. We are going down to Torquay. I have heard that there is a very clever doctor there. And I am strong enough to have massage now, they say. I have had a little of it, but it worries me, and I generally send away my masseuse after the third day. Gerald is vexed when I do it, but he is often vexed now with his poor old mother. Must you be going? Gerald ought to be in—he knows that I cannot bear to be alone. Men are so thoughtless and self-absorbed. He never seems to realise the long hours that I have to lie here doing nothing."

Tomina took her leave in deep depression of spirit. She was disappointed that she had not seen Colonel Norman again; she had counted upon it, and it looked as if he had purposely avoided her. Then her heart was overwhelmed with pity as she thought of his devotion and selfless life so unappreciated by his mother. She felt, with a shock, that suffering had not refined or beautified Mrs. Norman's character. On the contrary, she seemed more selfish, and more peevish than when she had seen her in the early days of her illness.

"No wonder he looks weary and aged!" she mused. "Why does he not provide her with a lady companion and go right away from her for the time? It is spoiling his life."

The following day she received a letter from him.

   "MY DEAR TOMINA,

   "Forgive me for writing instead of seeing you, and a thousand thanks for your visit of mercy yesterday! My heart sorely wanted to be with you; my head took me right away from your zone. I feel in justice to you, Tomina—because I would not have you regard me as fickle or changeable—I must explain, that after long and earnest thought, I have come to the conclusion that I must remain an unmarried man. My poor little mother is my first consideration now. I shall devote the rest of my life to her. She may live many years, the doctors say, and I would neither remove myself from her reach when she so pathetically depends upon me, nor yet bring a young wife into such a depressing and unwholesome atmosphere.

   "Perhaps you will say I am wasting paper and ink in explaining my position to you, as you have repeated to me again and again that you could not be to me what you once were—and what in my heart I try to imagine that you still are. This may be so. But if I do not throw myself in your way again, it is not because I have ceased to care for you. There is an inner shrine in my soul which you will always occupy. I can never, never change; but I need not and will not ever bring myself before you again. This is in fact a letter of farewell. I want you—God knows how much. I want—you—to be happy. I believe you will be. I like to think of you amongst your devoted villagers in the peaceful country. And if by-and-by, the man of your choice turns up—ah! well—I am not such a stoic as I thought myself—we will not mention him. Only Gerald Norman will always be

"YOUR TRUE FRIEND.

   "If you send me no reply, I shall understand that you have accepted and understood my explanation."

Tomina read this letter in the privacy of her bedroom. She looked dazed at first, and then she burst into a passion of tears. She wept till she could weep no more, and brought on a racking headache. Then promptly she put herself to bed, and stayed there, refusing to see any one at all that day. The next morning, she appeared at breakfast very white, with dark circles round her eyes, but with very resolute lips and shining face.

"What is the matter with you, Tomina?" her stepmother asked. "I have not seen that look upon your face since that time when, as a child, you slipped off by yourself to the dentist to have two teeth out!"

Tomina tried to laugh.

"I remember! I desperately wanted a five-shilling kodak—and you always gave me half a crown for each tooth out. I shall never forget my fury with the dentist who refused to extract sound teeth out of my head!"

"Are you meditating any such idea of self-sacrifice now?"

"Oh no, indeed! I am struggling with a mental problem, that is all."

She wrote a reply to the letter received.

   "MY DEAR GERALD,

   "My pride, my waywardness, my obstinacy, have all melted into one intense desire to make up to you for all I have made you suffer in these past years! I am going, metaphorically, to throw myself into your arms! Of course, I had a miserable sleepless night after that letter received from you. It was not sheer contradictoriness, Gerald, that made me desire what I had previously spurned, when you told me you could offer it no longer. I felt as though, if I accepted your resolution, and passed out of your life, I would be the most miserable and disconsolate creature in the universe. And you gave me no option in the matter. I lay hour after hour trying to see a way out of it, and then a delicious ray of early morning sunshine came stealing into my room and alighted on a small picture which I always carry about with me. It is a picture that reminds me that I am 'Tomina the Carrier.'

   "And the light flashed through me, and I saw that I should not be unmaidenly or forward if I persisted in your reconsidering your hasty decision.

   "You are trying to do what no man ought to do, or is able to do. Your mother told me she ought to have a daughter to relieve you. I want to be that daughter. It will be no depressing or unwholesome atmosphere for me. The two of us together will carry the burden so lightly that it will prove to be no burden at all. I am in training for carrying, remember. It is my vocation, and I have hugged it and am delighting in it, and if I can smooth even a tiny wrinkle out of your careworn brow, or bring the glimmer of a smile to your face and heart it will be sufficient reward. For, perhaps, I ought to tell you that the love I once had for you, and which I thought was crushed out of existence, has been there all the time. And if we love each other, Gerald, surely it can be no hardship to help your poor little mother through some of her weary days? I shall wait in town for your answer.

"Your repentant

"TOMINA."

And when her letter was sent, Tomina possessed her soul in patience, and was sweetness itself to her stepmother, accompanying her everywhere, and making herself pleasant to all her old acquaintances and friends. Colonel Norman's reply was brief.

   "MY DEAR TOMINA,

   "Your sweet pity for me and my circumstances came like balm to the wounded. No, I cannot let you sacrifice yourself. You do not realise the life I lead. It is not fit for any woman save the very strongest and most professional of nurses. Do not let us torture each other any more. I could not and would not allow you to carry the least corner of my burden. No true man would. And I care for you too much to bring you into a life that would sap every bit of brightness and spirit out of you.

   "May God bless you! We leave to-morrow afternoon for Torquay.

"Your affectionate friend,

"GERALD."

Tomina read this in her bedroom and stood looking out of her window with despair in her eyes and heart. She came downstairs and told her stepmother that she must return to little Honeycombe the next afternoon.

"I hate London," she said, with quiet emphasis. "I am always tossed up and down when I am in it, and I am longing for the peace of the country."

"Dr. Carisbrooke would like to see you before you go," said Lady Gavin. "I met him to-day, and he asked after you."

"Oh, I am not in the doctor's hands any more!"

"He is more a friend than a doctor. He is coming to lunch to-morrow."

"I can catch the three-o'clock train then from Paddington."

"Tomina is as restless and excitable as ever," Lady Gavin said to her niece later that day. "She is full of moods. Yesterday she was almost brilliant in her talk and laughter; to-day she is like stone, utterly unresponsive and dull. And she is so thin! I shall tell Dr. Carisbrooke that I think she has been in the country long enough. It is actually making her religious!"

Madge laughed.

"Is that the climax? Why shouldn't she be religious if she likes? We are supposed to be a Christian country and nation. I very often wish I was; it makes people really content, they say. And it has altered her. She used to be one of the most selfish of persons, and she is certainly not that now."

Tomina tried to fill up every moment of her time those last days in town, so that she would not be obliged to think. The next morning she went out shopping, for she wished to take back some presents to some of her old women. She was in Oxford Street, when once again she saw Gerald Norman approaching her.

A panic of fright seized her. She could not and would not meet him again. Hastily, she turned and crossed the street to avoid him. Then, in a moment, she missed her footing and fell immediately in front of a motor. For an instant she thought all was over, then somebody had caught her and swung her clear of the traffic.

The next moment she was standing safe and sound on the pavement with somebody's arm round her. She heard as if in a dream a voice saying: "That was a near shave!"

And then "Tomina!" was breathed into her ear.

She opened her eyes.

"Of course, I might have known it would be you," she said with a quick-caught sobbing breath; "you always come to my rescue! We can't escape each other!"

Colonel Norman made no reply. He only held her tight. Then, calling a taxi, he helped her in.

"Are you hurt, sweetheart? Tell me."

Tomina shook her head. The fall and the fright had unnerved her. She leant her head against the broad shoulder so close to her and began to cry.

And Colonel Norman was shaken out of his cold grave demeanour. For one awful second, he had thought the motor was crushing the life out of his only love. He gave an involuntary shudder even now.

"You ought not to go about alone," he said. "If I had not seen you! You were dashing so recklessly across!"

"I was running away from you," murmured Tomina.

Then she shifted her position and sat up.

"I am better now. It gave me such a fright, for I never expected to be alive. I suppose, if I had been killed, I shouldn't have been frightened at all."

But Colonel Norman did not move his arm. He was still holding her.

"I wanted to see you," he said, "but I did not like to call. I am afraid you must have thought my last letter very hard. It really is for your own sake, dearest."

"You mustn't call me 'dearest.' I am nothing to you now. Yes, I did think it hard. If you thought more of me, you would know that you are breaking my heart."

"You could not live the life that I am doing, Tomina."

"I could, and I should enjoy it. I should try to brighten up your mother and would remove some of your furrows of care. I should manage you both. I am quite capable of it. Where are we going, Gerald? I must get home. I am going down to Little Honeycombe this afternoon." Tomina was rapidly recovering her composure.

"I ordered him to drive on till I told him to stop. I am sure your stepmother and all who care for you would say it was criminal to tie you to my mother's bedside. She is very exacting, poor little thing, and would demand the uttermost from us both."

Then Tomina had an inspiration.

"I believe I have just time to go and see your mother and wish her good-bye. Shall I? Would you tell the driver where to go?"

"That's most kind of you. She will be so pleased."

Directions were given, and then Tomina said—

"Now we'll be very nice to each other for the rest of our time. I do feel that I owe my life to you. How quick you were! Even now, I don't know how you did it. But you always do turn up in the nick of time. Do you remember when you rescued me from the tree?"

Colonel Norman smiled.

"You were very angry, were you not?"

"Ah! I think I have altered since then."

Then silence fell upon them, but Tomina did not feel embarrassed. She was only quite content to sit by his side and think over her inspiration.

A little later, she was greeting Mrs. Norman affectionately.

"It's good to see you again, my dear. Come and sit down and tell me what you have been doing with yourself."

"I have been falling down in the middle of the street and your son has been picking me up."

"How horrible!"

"Yes, wasn't it?"

Tomina went on to describe her accident. Colonel Norman stood at the window listening and occasionally putting in a word.

"We are going to Torquay this afternoon," said Mrs. Norman. "I am really quite sorry to go. I have no friends there, and I do like to see people sometimes. Do you ever come down to Torquay?"

"No, I don't think I have ever been there, but perhaps I may come some day."

"I wish you would."

Then Tomina got up from her seat and knelt down by the side of Mrs. Norman's couch. Putting her hand softly in hers, she said with great ease and quietness—

"Mrs. Norman, you said the other day that you would like to have a daughter. Now, I have come to ask you if you will accept me as one."

For a moment the silence was so intense that you could have heard a pin drop.

Then great tears rose in Mrs. Norman's eyes. She looked across at her son.

"I should like it very much. Gerald, why did you not tell me?"

Before he could speak, Tomina said hurriedly—

"He is not quite sure whether we should all be happy together, but we would, would we not? I could stay at home and take care of you when he went out. We should be glad to get rid of him sometimes. And I'm sure I could shop for you better than he does. I would choose you lovely bonnets!"

"My dear child, I am very, very glad. I sometimes think I shall not be a burden for very long. If I don't get better, I must get worse. There is no doubt of that."

Then Colonel Norman came over to the couch, and Tomina rose to her feet. She had a pink flush on her cheeks, and she dared not look at him. For one moment she wondered if he were too angry to speak.

Then he took her hand in his, and, in a deeply moved voice, he said—

"You will give us your blessing, mother? We mean to make you happy, if we can. I feel as if Tomina has been snatched from death to-day, because you and I need her so badly. She says she will look after us both."

"So that is all settled very comfortably," said Tomina. There was a little tremor in her voice as she bent over Mrs. Norman and kissed her. "And now you will see me down at Torquay before very long, I expect. I must go now. My doctor is coming to lunch with us, and I promised that I should be back."

She smiled and nodded to her and then left the room. Colonel Norman followed her into the hall, and then for an instant they stood and looked into each other's eyes.

"Don't be angry, Gerald. There was no other way. Tell me you are not sorry I did it."

"My darling!"

He could get no further than those two words, but he took her into his arms and kept her there.

CHAPTER XX

HER INSPIRATION

"AND so, you see, Dr. Carisbrooke, I am perfectly cured."

"I really think you are. I am afraid you are not placid enough to grow much flesh."

Lunch was over. Tomina was her old self again, impetuous and gay, and very dignified by turn.

As her stepmother said, "One could rarely guess what she was going to do or say next."

But the old doctor, remembering the nervous, strained expression of her face when he last saw her, was very pleased at the result of the country's quiet.

"And now I suppose your year of exile is over, and you will come back amongst us, and live the same old life until you have another breakdown?"

"Oh dear, no! You are responsible for having changed my whole life. You buried me, and now I have come to life again, but with quite a different outlook, and—if I may say it—with a different soul."

She and the doctor were talking quietly together in the drawing-room. Lady Gavin had gone to her room to rest, and Madge had gone out.

Dr. Carisbrooke nodded gravely.

"I congratulate you—"

"So you will not see me pursuing pleasure, for all I am worth, any more. And I have learnt to love the country and hate the town."

"What else?"

"Much that I cannot talk about. You see and study human beings a good deal, don't you? Do you ever tell them the secret of real peace and content?"

Then Dr. Carisbrooke's eyes glistened.

"Ah!" he said. "You have indeed been learning things in your retreat."

"Well, now, I'll tell you what I've been doing."

Tomina gave a short account of her van.

"I can't tell you what it has done for me! It has made me determine to be a carrier for the rest of my life. Not always in a van, but anywhere, everywhere. For, Dr. Carisbrooke, life is a burden to most people. Not when we are very young, but as we live on, it gets pretty heavy for some shoulders. And I'm going to try and help carry for those who are sinking under the weight of theirs. I can't tell you what I have learnt merely by listening to the everyday sorrows and difficulties of village people. It has made me see that those who only shoulder a light burden like myself are bound to share the heavier ones of others."

"Is this Tomina Gavin?" said Dr. Carisbrooke, smiling. "You have indeed changed. And so you're going back to your country life again? God bless you, child!"

The old doctor was visibly moved.

Then Tomina smiled suddenly and brilliantly upon him.

"I think I must confide in you what I have not told my stepmother yet. I am going to marry Gerald Norman. You know him?"

"Should think I did. Have been attending his mother since she came to town. They're leaving for Torquay this afternoon at my recommendation. I want her to see a friend of mine there. Well, I always felt there was something wrong in the break between you and him, but I'm bound to say he has come out in a marvellous light. His life for some months has been a severe test, physically and mentally."

"I know it, and I mean to go shares."

"Is that why you are marrying him?" asked the old doctor, sharply.

Tomina laughed.

"That's why I am 'insisting' upon marrying him soon. Don't ask any more questions, Dr. Carisbrooke. I'm the happiest woman alive, and Gerald and I understand each other."

When the doctor had gone, Tomina ran lightly up to her stepmother's room. She found her lying on her couch, reading a novel.

"Is your cab here?" she asked, turning to look at her stepdaughter, and wondering at the brightness of her face. "What does Dr. Carisbrooke say to you? Doesn't he think it absolutely unnecessary for you to banish yourself from town any more?"

"He thinks it the best thing I can do. I haven't much time, but I would rather tell you than write it. I am going to meet Gerald Norman and his mother at Paddington, and go down for part of the way with them. I branch off at Bristol. They go on to Torquay. I am really going to marry him, after all."

Lady Gavin put down her book in amazement.

"Well, you astonish me! I did not know you had had anything to do with him for years. And what is going to become of his mother? I suppose he will put her in some nursing home, or get a companion for her."

"Indeed, no—I am going to help Gerald nurse her!"

"It's preposterous, Tomina! You couldn't and wouldn't do it! Why, your life would be slavery! He has no right to ask you to do such a thing."

"He didn't. I asked myself. Good-bye mother—I must really go. I have been in one wild rush ever since I got up this morning. Tell Madge my news. I am so happy that I feel treading on air!"

Then Tomina kissed her stepmother and sped away. The taxi was already at the door.

A little later, she was greeting Colonel Norman on the platform at Paddington station. He had engaged a special carriage for his mother. Tomina looked up at him with a radiant face.

"Isn't this delicious? Yesterday I quite thought I was going to make my journey alone, travelling away from you for ever. To-day—why, Gerald, I do believe you have already one wrinkle less across your forehead!"

He smiled upon her—he could not help it.

"I am sadly wanting a long, sensible talk with you, but how are we to get it? My mother's one desire is to have us both with her."

"We can take one turn along the platform," said Tomina, "before the train starts. And I suppose we shall see each other again soon, shall we not?"

"How is it to be managed? I cannot come to you."

"Then I must come to Torquay. I know a Mrs. Darrell there; I will ask her to invite me for a short visit."

"I hope you will come to us. We shall be in rooms."

"Well, we will see."

"It is all wrong," Colonel Norman said hurriedly. "You must let me speak out. I have no right to drag you into the shadows. I would not have you lose your freshness and gaiety for worlds. It would be impossible for you to keep it, if you were to live with us. I—"

Tomina interrupted him.

"I don't think I want to listen to this long, sensible talk of yours," she said, laughing, "if this is to be a sample of it. Just tell me you are happier than you were yesterday. Don't let me feel I have added to your cares! Why, you foolish man, nursing an invalid is a woman's duty—not a man's! A woman makes nothing of it. Look at hospital nurses; what a cheerful race they are! I am not a young girl. I have something independent of circumstances to make me happy, and I am just longing to show you what good times we will have—your mother, you, and I. Let us thoroughly enjoy our journey to Bristol together. Do remember that my butterfly days are over; I'm going to be a busy brown bee, which is much more comfortable and snug than a fragile thing made of gossamer wings."

Colonel Norman drew in a breath.

"I will save my protestations," he said. "We will enjoy ourselves to-day, dearest."

And enjoy themselves they did. Mrs. Norman lay on her comfortably improvised couch and smiled as she listened to Tomina's bright talk. She was told about the van and all the quaint humours of the passengers, and the amusing incidents that occurred upon the road.

Colonel Norman's eyes never left Tomina. Never in all the years that he had known her did she appear more charming than now. There was a softness and sweetness in her ripple of talk, a sudden touch of pathos and tenderness in her tone that he never remembered in her before. And her delicate beauty seemed to have ripened and strengthened into more of a woman's nature and less of the girl's. She had always bewitched him with her rapid variety of moods; he had known that she was not all frivol and froth, but now he was allowed to see something of the deep, true feeling within her.

And when she turned to him with wistful, gentle appeal in her laughing eyes, he longed with a hungry longing to have her to himself alone.

Yet nothing made him oblivious of his mother's needs. He and Tomina vied with one another in arranging her cushions for her comfort and in beguiling the time away. Tomina gave her an inimitable description of the morning when Gerald had met her running breathlessly after the van, and how he had dealt with the mischievous old man who had driven off without her; then of the day when he had so resolutely climbed up and taken the seat beside her; and lastly, of the terrible thunderstorm when she and Harry were fixed up in their tree, unable to move.

"You see, Mrs. Norman, nothing would keep him out of my life, do what I would. And this morning—surely it was not this morning, it seems years ago—this morning he really saved my life—"

As she spoke, Tomina looked across at Gerald with soft radiant eyes.

"Of course," Mrs. Norman said with interest, "you belong to each other. I am not so selfish as to wish to keep my son entirely to myself. I like to see people and to have them about me, and I am delighted to have you, dear, as a daughter. What a lot we shall have to arrange! There will be the wedding, and then—where shall we settle, Gerald? Is it quite impossible to go back to the Court? With Tomina with us, I do not think I should mind so much."

"I fear we could not do that, mother, it is sold, you know."

"I never could understand why you sold it so hurriedly. I am sure, if you had had patience, things would have come right. I can't help feeling it was your lack of business qualities and want of knowledge that landed us in such money difficulties. If your dear father had lived, how different it would have been! You see, you were trained to be a soldier, and soldiers know nothing of business. It almost seems a waste for you to have left the Service; you did no good. I dare say you did your best, but you must have muddled things terribly to necessitate the place being sold."

"You told me when we were abroad that nothing would induce you to go back there, mother dear; you wanted it taken off our hands."

"But people may change their minds sometimes." Mrs. Norman's tone was irritable. "Now I feel quite differently about it."

"Never mind! We won't talk over money matters now."

Tomina was conscious that Gerald was deeply hurt by his mother's words, though his composure was wonderful. She did not know how much of this kind of reproach he was continually called upon to endure. Knowing how masterful and intolerant he had been in the old days, how intensely he had resented any criticism or blame, she marvelled at his patience and forbearance now with his poor mother. She dashed into the conversation.

"Let us picture our home," she said. "We have the whole world at our disposal, Mrs. Norman. I do love seeing new places, don't you?"

"I am tired of moving about," was the rather peevish reply. "I want to settle down. I want to have my own things about me."

"Gerald and I must go house-hunting, and come back and tell you all about them. It will be delightful."

"I cannot be left alone."

Mrs. Norman's good temper was forsaking her. She was not a good traveller, and her son instinctively felt that she was suffering. He bent over her and shifted her position a little.

"Would you like me to read to you? Perhaps you could get a little sleep. I have a paper here. I will read you the Court news; I know that always interests you."

Tomina sat still, gazing out of the window. A sudden fear seized her that life lived out by Mrs. Norman's bedside might prove too trying for her patience. And if she failed in good humour and perfect serenity of temper, she would add to Gerald's burden instead of lessening it. She remembered her month with Mrs. Cuthbert, and how desperately she had to struggle against impatience at that lady's selfish garrulous talk.

And then Gerald began to read. He had a very pleasant voice, and in a few minutes a soothed, rested look came over his mother's fretful face. In a short time, she slept peacefully, and then very gently Gerald came across to Tomina. He sat down by her side, and then, putting his arm round her, drew her to him.

"My darling, you see how it is with my poor mother. I warn you that on some days nothing pleases her. I am grieved that you should have seen her like this to-day, but you must make allowance for her. Travelling always upsets her."

Tomina nestled against his broad shoulder.

"It only makes me think about you," she said. "I don't know this saint. How did you become one? All at once?"

"She is my mother," he said softly, "and I love her. But trouble has taught me lessons, and it has drawn me to the One Who chastens as well as blesses."

"Ah!" said Tomina, with a happy sigh. "Then you and I will love and serve together. I felt there was something different about you."

They sat silent, quite content that they were with each other. Then he said—

"Tomina dearest, if you marry me, I shall not be able to give you the comforts which are natural to you. My little mother cannot understand it, but for a long time her income has only been half what it was when my father was living. We shall have to be content with a small house and simple living. This is one of the reasons that made me feel I had no right to speak to you now."

"Why, Gerald, what nonsense! Have you seen the size of the cottage I now live in, and in which I am so supremely happy? And I have my own money, you know, which is more than ample for my wants. I never have valued big houses and property as some people do. I would be perfectly happy in a cottage. Don't you see that my greatest pleasure will be to make you happy? I believe, I hope I can. Can't we find some sweet little country house or farm where we could enjoy all the country people, and things which I have learnt to love?"

Gerald hesitated.

"My mother," he said, "wants a great deal of amusement. She likes to lie on her couch, watching a busy thoroughfare. It seems to distract her thoughts."

"Then we must live in town," said Tomina, bravely and cheerfully. "What does it matter where we live? You and I will be together, and we shall never, never be anything but supremely happy."

"I'm afraid I shall never be able to have my sensible talk with you," said Gerald, as he looked down upon her with fond, smiling eyes. "You have bewitched me, Tomina. I shall not be able to live without you."

They talked in soft whispers then, as only lovers can. Mrs. Norman slept on and never woke till they came to Bristol, and Tomina had to leave them.

The rest of her journey seemed like a dream. She arrived at her cottage tired in body, but in very good spirits. Susan welcomed her rapturously, and had plenty of village news to give her.

And then she went early to bed, for she had had a very strenuous and exhausting day.

It was astonishing how easily she slipped into her simple life again. The spring weather was delightful to her. When she took the van out, she wore her motor bonnet with the cherries, and the admiration which it evoked was tremendous.

"'Tis what Miss Kirk in Damerton allays says," announced Mrs. Tibbs, "if you can't afford to foller the fashions up to time, put your old-fashioned gown in a box with camphor and wait a few years, then bring it out, and you'll be as stylish as you like, and no cost to nobody! It stands to reason, fashion comes back agen and agen. Now that there bunnet be just a pattern sure enough made after my great-grandmother's, for I have her picture taken in it."

"Ah, dear Miss Tomina! You're lookin' bonny! We all do say as we shan't have you single much longer?"

"I don't believe you will," said Tomina, looking at them seriously. "You all say a woman ought to marry, so I think I shall take your advice."

"Hark to her now! Have you seen a gentleman to your likin', miss?"

"Yes. Now guess. He did my van a good turn one day!"

"Why, 'tis the Colonel what used to live over to Yockley. He ketched hold of Will Carpenter and shook him upside down!"

"Is it, miss? Surely you wouldn't favour such a grave gentleman?"

"Hush! Don't be so sharp, Mrs. Crabbe. A young lady doesn't always like the free-and-easy sort."

"It is Colonel Norman. Now I'm waiting for your congratulations!"

There was a great buzz and interest in the van. Some groaned, but all, as they expressed it, "wished her well."

"It do seem very soon to lose you. 'Tis what we all feared, that it couldn't last long. Young ladies don't turn into carriers for life. 'Twas bound to come to end some time. Eh, dearie me, 'tis a knock-down blow for us!"

"I'm not going to give up the carrier's business," said Tomina, looking at them with her bright smile. "I shall be a carrier, or try to be, wherever I am. But if I have to leave this part of the world, I shall undertake to see that this van goes on. You have got on very well without me all these weeks."

Old Mrs. Crabbe shook her head sadly.

"No, me dear, we hain't! There be too much wrangle, and we like a carrier with plenty o' fun and sperrit. Now, Joe be very well for a lad, but he have no sperrit!"

Joe happened at this moment to be walking up the hill by the side of the cart, so he did not hear the discussion.

"But," said Tomina, "I think spirit is not necessary in a carrier. Faithfulness, honesty, and a good memory are what is needed, and Joe has all that."

"There be weddings in the air," said Mrs. Tubbs, gloomily. "Mrs. Francis up at the Hall is marrying our doctor, and that be comin' off next week."

"So soon!" exclaimed Tomina. "I did not know it."

The very next day Mrs. Francis came to see her and told her the news.

"I do so want to see you about Harry, for you have done so much for him," she said. "Dr. Merton and I want to adopt him, and have him to live with us altogether. Do you object?"

"Indeed I don't. I think it will be splendid for the child. Dear little Harry! He has helped me so much. I feel I owe him a lot!"

"You will still be able to see him."

"Yes," said Tomina, slowly, "as long as I am here, I shall."

"Are you thinking of leaving us?"

Tomina looked up at Mrs. Francis.

"Only of following your example."

"Oh, my dear, I am so glad. You are not fitted to live alone. I always said so."

For a moment, Tomina was silent; then she said—

"You don't ask me his name."

"Somebody that I know?"

"Yes, and somebody whom you like."

"Not Gerald Norman? Oh, delightful! I always wondered if he—if you cared!"

"I knew him long before we came here," said Tomina. "We had quarrelled very bitterly, or we might have married long ago. And he was ready to forgive before I was. We did not fraternise much, did we, when he was here? I don't think I should have come here at all, had I known that Yockley Court was in the neighbourhood."

"I am so interested," said Mrs. Francis, earnestly, "and so very, very glad for Gerald to be going to have brightness and happiness in his life at last. How is his mother?"

"Just the same—a permanent invalid. Do you know, I find Gerald so altered that my heart aches for him. I long to be able to give him some of his freedom back again. He has been absolutely tied to his mother's sick-room ever since she was first taken ill. Not one son in a thousand would have done what he has done!"

"But, my dear, you cannot take his place. Are you going to nurse her between you? I cannot think that right. You are young, and trained nurses could spare you. Of course, I know that, as long as Mrs. Norman lives, Gerald will have her in his home, but I think, for his sake and yours, you ought to come to some different arrangement about the nursing."

"Oh, we shall see," said Tomina, brightly. "I don't feel that it will be a burden to me. I love Gerald so much that I long to give—give—give—do you understand me? I long to bring the light to his eyes again, to hear his tread get brisker, and his voice have the old masterful ring in it. Both he and his mother want a third person badly who will shake them out of their groove. He is too resigned, it makes him dull! She thinks it quite impossible in her circumstances to laugh or even smile."

"I wish you had a happier commencement to your married life."

"It will be heavenly!" said Tomina, with shining eyes. "Nothing you can say will damp my hopes."

And Mrs. Francis wisely said no more.

Dr. Merton and Mrs. Francis were married very quietly the following week; only Tomina and some near relations were at the wedding. They went to the Lakes for their honeymoon.

CHAPTER XXI

CONGRATULATIONS

TOMINA did not stay very long at home, for Gerald Norman wrote to her on behalf of his mother, begging her to come and pay them a visit.

She went, and brought her own bright atmosphere with her. Gerald and she went out together every afternoon whilst Mrs. Norman rested. That was the only time they had together, besides an odd hour or so in the evening. Mrs. Norman demanded as much time and attention from Tomina as from her son. But Tomina was able to send Gerald out when she stayed in. And though very difficult to persuade at first, he eventually gave way. She was too delighted to see his brisker and brighter ways to be sorry for herself.

She would not allow anybody to pity her.

"It is very good for us that our time together should be so curtailed," she told him when he and she were walking along the sea front together, "because it makes it doubly sweet and precious."

She had been listening to Gerald's "long and sensible" talk, and had successfully contested each objection he brought forward against their speedy marriage.

"I am going to share and share alike with you. Of course I do not wish to force myself upon you, but I know that you are bent on sacrificing yourself for the rest of your life, and that I am going to prevent."

And at last, Gerald put his misgivings and objections in the background and began wholeheartedly to plan out their future.

"One thing I am determined," said he; "that if you marry me, we shall go right away together for our honeymoon. For a fortnight at least, I must leave my mother. But how to do it is a puzzle."

"We must get some nice friend to come and stay with her. Have you no relation who would do it, Gerald?"

"No; we are singularly bereft in that way. I have some girl cousins, but they are all in Canada."

And then Tomina brightened up.

"I believe I know a girl who might come. I happened to hear from her only yesterday. She was companion to an old lady living near Damerton, a Mrs. Cuthbert. I took her place whilst she went home for a holiday. She has just left Mrs. Cuthbert; the old lady never keeps anybody very long. She is a nice girl and a thorough lady. Shall I write and ask her?"

"After we have broken it to my mother. And now let us settle the day. Why should we wait, Tomina? We have known each other for so long; and it is weary waiting."

"You need not wait any longer, Gerald. I am ready."

Tomina spoke very softly.

Gerald and she had stopped and were leaning against a bit of old wall overlooking the blue sea. Nobody was about. He put his hand upon hers caressingly.

"Sweetheart, I am taking your all and giving nothing. But, God helping me, I will make you happy. My love is deep enough and strong enough to do it, I believe, in spite of our sad circumstances."

"I haven't the shadow of a fear for our future," said Tomina, throwing back her head and gazing with bright glowing eyes over the white surly billows that were rolling in on the sandy beach. "If we had married each other a few years ago, Gerald, it would have been different. I think I should have been intolerant of any sickness or difficulties or strain. Then I had nothing but gaiety to live for. But now, if waves do roll over us like the sea is breaking over those rocks, we are part of the Rock itself, we shan't be moved!"

Then she broke into a laugh.

"I expect I sound an awful prig sometimes, don't I? But I almost glory in burden carrying now. It makes me feel like my dear Saint Christoforos, only he was so strong that it would take a good deal to make him feel. I expect—" here her eyes grew dreamy and wistful—"that was the reason the Christ Child appeared—to make him feel his weakness, nobody else in the world could—I want to test my powers of endurance, Gerald!"

Then she looked up at him in dismay.

"What am I saying? I am making out that your dear mother is going to be my heavy burden, and she won't be—she won't be! She and I are very gay and happy together. I let my tongue run away with me."

"I love to hear it," said Gerald, smiling down upon her. "We will have no pretence between us, Tomina dear. An invalid is bound to test our patience. I have proved it, though it is and always will be to me a service of love. And I know there will be many difficult days to get through. But I will not let the burden press heavily on you; that I can prevent."

They talked on, and, before they returned to the house, they had settled their wedding-day. It was to be very quiet, and Tomina said she would ask her stepmother to refrain from telling any one when it would be.

"I think I should like to ask Doreen to it. I am getting fond of her, and I should like you to know her, Gerald."

"But I do know her," said Gerald, rather sternly. "She has spoiled the life of my best chum. Have you not met Maurice Holme?"

"Yes. Tell me his side of the story, will you? I have heard Doreen's."

"It's a case of a woman's impulse getting the better of her. Holme's present wife is a shady sort, as you must know. She made a dead set at him at Gosport, where our regiment was quartered. She and a married sister made up a plot together, and they brought about a situation, perfectly innocent in itself, but compromising in the eyes of convention. The girl thought she would frighten him into marrying her, but he simply applied for leave and cut her entirely. Then he became engaged to your sister-in-law, and this girl turned up the day before the wedding, and wrote a private note to Miss Forrester. She had been quietly biding her time. What she wrote, I'm sure I don't know, but she was believed, and Holme was allowed no chance of explanation. The marriage was broken off."

"But he married his present wife," cried Tomina; "that showed he must have been guilty."

"Not by any means. He married her because he was reckless and desperate. He acted on impulse, as Miss Forrester did; I dare say his present wife threatened him with breach of promise. He had been ass enough to write her letters. If ever a man's life has been ruined, his has, and it need not have been. A woman can be desperately cruel sometimes. There could have been no mercy in her composition."

Tomina looked very grave.

"She is a desperately unhappy woman herself. I pray she may not bring unhappiness to Tom. If only they had never met!"

Gerald shrugged his shoulders.

"I have no pity for her. Poor Holme is another matter. He has established his wife at the Court, as you know, but he is seldom there. She won't follow him in the Service. She loves her comfort too well, and I believe is filling the house with a lot of her London friends."

"Then you don't want Doreen at our wedding?"

"My darling, have her by all means, if you like."

"You must remember she was told the very worst, and she felt as if he had been deceiving her all through!"

"A woman has no right to lose all faith in a man at the first trumped-up story she hears! Would you have done so?"

"If I had heard something unpleasant about you? No, I should not have believed it. But then we have known each other for years. I am sure of you. I know your character. You see, Doreen had no time to investigate. She was going to marry at once. She could not put it off. It either had to be one thing or the other; and she felt it would be too great a risk."

Gerald said no more.

But Tomina received the following letter from Doreen in answer to her news and invitation:—

   "MY DEAREST LITTLE SISTER,

   "I do offer you my heartfelt congratulations. I always felt that you would not remain single for long. I know Colonel Norman slightly, and should say he was worthy of a woman's trust. Dear Tomina, don't be vexed if I do not appear at your wedding. I do hate all marriage ceremonies. They are so irrevocable, links forged for all time, and forged so often in such a light-hearted, irresponsible fashion! I have nothing to say against yours. I do not think you would marry unless your heart and soul were in it, and I am sure, from what I know of him, that he would not! You will bring any one happiness, dear, for you carry about with you such a fund of sunshine. We less fortunate mortals have to depend much on summer days to keep us content. The summer days are mine at present. Gardening engrosses me from early dawn to late at night; but, oh, the exquisiteness of bud and flower, and all the sweet scents that nature gives us so abundantly!

"Your affectionate sister,

"DOREEN.

   "I heard from Tom yesterday. He is very well."

And so a week or two later, Tomina was saying good-bye to all her friends at Honeycombe. She kept up her van to the very last day. She had formally given it over to Joe, who was enchanted to be sole proprietor of it. He gave general satisfaction to the passengers, though the lamentations were loud at Tomina's coming departure. Their great distress when she told them her wedding was to be in town, made Tomina alter all her plans at the last moment.

She wired to her stepmother and to Gerald that she would like to be married in Little Honeycombe church. Could they manage it for her?

Lady Gavin groaned and wrote a letter of five pages, explaining why it must be in town. Then, in a P.S., she added,—

"But, of course, you always get your way, so I will come."

And Gerald wired—

"As in either place I must have special licence, certainly have it at Honeycombe."

And now on a lovely June morning Tomina, starting with a heavy van-load for the last time, was able to tell her passengers the good news. There was great jubilation when they heard it.

"We hardly never has weddin's nowadays! 'Twill cheer us up wonderful."

"Yes, 'twould be heart-breakin' to see you go off just a single maid by yoursel' to marry such a way off from us all."

"'Tisn't as if there be folks in town who would give you so hearty a set-off as we should, as have known you all this time."

"No, if good wishes bring luck, you'll have more luck from Little Honeycombe than from Lunnon, that be quite positive certain."

"Oh, my dears," said Tomina, laughing merrily, though there were tears in her eyes, "how good you all are to your carrier! I meant to have crept quietly into some dim empty church in a quiet old square in London, where nobody would have seen me, but now, I suppose, I shall have all your eyes upon me, and one will say that my veil was crooked, and one that the tip of my nose was red, and one that my voice was shaky, and you'll all be disappointed with my looks and behaviour! But you won't be disappointed in the looks of my bridegroom. I dare you to criticise so much as the heel of his boot!"

There was a regular cackle of laughter at this.

"Hark to her! Isn't that the way with us women? Our men be more than perfec' when they courts us! My dear, you'll live to sing a different song after a year or two. Men do disappoint, like a blue cotton gown, first time in wash!"

"Yes, sure enough; they don't come through wash-tubs satisfactory. Much rubbin' always does for 'em!"

"Best not rub 'em."

This last remark was from a Mrs. Trent, a very silent woman.

Tomina hastened to turn the subject to other safer topics than that of husbands. As old Mrs. Crabbe said: "Some of us married women don't know how to vally our privileges!"

When the return from market came, there was a good deal of mysterious bustle on the part of Mrs. Judd.

Tomina heard a whispered inquiry—

"Have 'ee got it, Mrs. Judd? Plenty o' it? We will all be wantin' to buy a bit. Is that bit of a bag all 'ee can get?"

"Hush, now, there be four bags. Mrs. Tubbs, I'll trouble you not to put your feet on that one. There now!" There was a stifled exclamation: "Oh! You orkward woman, you!"

Tomina looked back into the corner.

"What is happening?"

"'Tis one of Mrs. Judd's parcels. Nothin' partikler; it be burst!"

"A bag of rice, isn't it? What a pity!"

The van had not started, so Tomina helped to gather up some of the scattered grain. She could not understand the whispered nods and mysterious smiles amongst the women.

"We shall go short in rice puddings if we don't save it," said Tomina, gaily.

And then she caught the murmur and understood—

"Bless her 'art, 'tis she what will be goin' short o' luck!"

But Tomina knew when it was tactful to be silent, and she was now.

She was quite sorry when that last market day came to a close. One of the passengers suggested that she should drive to church in the van, but Tomina said that, as it was only across the road, it would be hardly worth while.

There were great discussions as to who would give her away, and for the next few days the topic of Tomina's coming wedding was more than meat and drink to the villagers.

She herself was very busy. She went up to town for the inside of a week to do her necessary shopping. But a big trousseau was out of place for her, she said. She would only need the simplest clothes, and not many of them, as she preferred getting them as she wanted them. Lady Gavin was scandalised at the whole affair, but was as wax in Tomina's hands.

And at last, the eve of the wedding came. Gerald was put up at the Hall; his best man, a Mr. Russell, was put up at the Rectory, and Tomina and her stepmother shared the cottage.

In the afternoon of that day, Tracy St. Vincent rode over. He brought an exquisite old silver wrought jug, as a wedding present, with him. "It's one of the antique things that were in the house when I took it over," he explained. "I've been awfully bowled over by this engagement of yours, but I won't be such a cad as to refuse you my congratulations. And I suppose Norman is more your sort than I am. I don't think I shall ever marry. Shall do the heavy squire to the end of my life. With you and Mrs. Francis both married women, there'll be nobody that I care to talk to. Are you going to settle down here?"

"I am afraid not," Tomina said, after thanking him warmly for his present. "We have decided just to move about as Mrs. Norman likes. She is a great invalid, and rather restless. For the present we shall live at Torquay, and then later we think of going up to Edinburgh. Mrs. Norman has some distant relatives there. Perhaps we may go abroad in the autumn."

"Then you'll be lost to us. It's just like my luck."

He would not be comforted. But Mrs. Merton told Tomina that he was gradually taking his place in the country, and his very honesty and sincerity of purpose would win favour amongst his neighbours.

Harry came to tea that same afternoon. He was enchanted at being chosen as sole attendant to the bride. He was not too big to fling himself into Tomina's lap when Lady Gavin had gone out of the room.

"Tommie, I do love you!" he exclaimed. "You won't go away for ever, will you?"

"I hope not, Harry. But you have a happy home now, haven't you?"

"Yes."

His face assumed a dubious expression.

"I can't never say to the Doctor or Mrs. Merton, 'Let's have some fun!' I could to you, couldn't I?"

"Yes, indeed you could."

Then Tomina bent her head and kissed his rosy face.

"Oh, my Harry, will you always remember through life what you have taught me!"

"To play cricket?" questioned Harry, eagerly.

"No, to love God, and to believe in His close presence."

Harry was instantly sobered. He twisted his restless fingers in and out of a long chain hanging from Tomina's neck.

"Do you know, Tommie, I've been worrying lately—just to myself, you know, when I'm in bed, because I have always loved God, and loved Jesus Christ, but I can't truthfully say I love the Holy Ghost. Do you think it's awfully wicked of me? We've been hearing about the Trinity at school; our master gives us a talk at prayer-time. I don't seem to know Him, and when I was small, I used to think a ghost a frightful thing. It's another name for spirit, our master says. I asked him."

"Dear Harry, don't worry yourself. Ask God in your prayers to show you how to love Him, and if you love God, you must love Him. They are One."

"Yes, I'm so glad. You don't think it's wicked of me. And, Tommie, you're quite sure you like Colonel Norman well enough to be your husband?"

"Quite sure," Tomina responded.

"I only remember when he got us down from the tree you weren't very pleased with him!"

Tomina laughed.

"I was in fault then, Harry. Colonel Norman is much too good for me!"

"Nobody couldn't be that—not the King himself," asserted Harry, with all the eagerness and loyalty of his boy's heart. "I shall feel like a king myself when I carry your nosegay up the church, or is it your dress, or your gloves, or your Prayer-book, or is it all of them?"

Tomina informed him on this point.

When he had left her, she wandered out herself into the back garden. She felt she must be alone.

It was a sweet still evening; her spring flowers and sweet-briar hedge comforted her with their fresh scent. A cloud, slight at first, but rather depressing, seemed to hover over her. And then suddenly a step which she had learned to love sounded behind her, and Gerald took her hands in his, and, stooping, kissed her.

"I felt I must have a moment with you alone to-night. Am I selfish?"

"No. You come when I want you, Gerald. Suppose I am a failure? Suppose I have overrated my good qualities and underrated my bad ones? I am wondering if I may not prove an additional burden to you. I am not perfect. I never shall be. I may get cross and irritable and impatient. Then your mother will suffer and so will you. I am such a groper—such a beginner in some things!"

"My darling, I want you to be your impulsive wayward enchanting little self, not a cold stone statue of virtue and of perfection. I quite expect you to be often cross, and I shall be even more so, but love isn't bowled over by human infirmities."

"No," said Tomina, and she put her arms softly round his neck, "love understands; and we all of us sometimes drop the things we are carrying. I shall not be a perfect carrier, I know."

Then they sat together on the rustic seat.

The peace of that evening remained for ever stamped upon their souls. When they parted, Tomina's cloud had disappeared. She awaited her wedding without a shadow of misgiving for the future.

CHAPTER XXII

WEDDED

"WHY, Mrs. Dodd, why ever didn't 'ee turn up on Wednesday to our young leddy's weddin'?"

"Ah, me dear soul! I were comin' right enough, and fit to cry I was when my 'usband's aunt from Damerton, 'er what has a bit of money, took me by surprise, and come over for the day. And nothin' would do but I must cook 'er a dinner of pork chops which she brought in her bag! I be fair longin' to hear all of it!"

"Well!" said Mrs. Judd, settling herself back in the van, and preparing to be chief spokeswoman. "We've never 'ad such a thorough downright, enjoyable ceremony. To begin with, the peal o' bells began just after ten o'clock. My nevvy Frank was chief ringer, and he made the chaps put their 'arts in it, I can tell you! They was clashin' and boomin' on an 'off for over an hour. The church were as well filled as 'tis at 'Arvest Thanksgivin'. An' the children were let out o' school ten minutes to eleven. I didn't go inside church too soon, for I wanted to ketch sight of the bride a-walkin' from the 'ouse. But the bridegroom, he arrived at church soon after the Rector."

"What did he look like?" demanded Mrs. Dodd, with breathless interest. "I always have feelin' for the man; he do cut such a poor show by the bride."

"Oh, as grave as a judge, and his lips clapped close and his eye like a hawk's, dartin' roun' the corner at everybody!"

"Ah, well," put in another woman, "he was a fine set-up gentleman, an' when he saw 'er comin', he fair ketched his breath like us all did!"

"But I seed her comin' out of her own door," went on Mrs. Judd, in lofty voice. "She were in the most bee-oo-tiful gown of white satin and a veil were hangin' over her, but it 'coulnn't' hide her pretty face, bless her 'art! And the grand leddy from London were walkin' beside her."

"You don't say so! But surely she had a gentleman to walk with her!"

"Not one, this 'ere leddy—a leddyship I heard tell—is her stepmother and she giv' her away. She were dressed in plum satin with a feather boa, and she 'ad a pair o' spectacles fixed on a 'andle which she 'eld up to her eyes, and looked—well, she looked like a duchess! Miss Tomina she stepped along very softly and quietly, and there was that boy she be so taken with—Harry—he comes after her close at 'er 'eels! Well, just as they comes to church door, she lifts her eyes, catches sight of me as were prepared to follow 'em in as fast as I could. And she just give me the sweetest nod, seemin' to say: 'There you are, glad to see you!'"

"But do tell who were in the church of the gentry."

"'Twas all kept very quiet; the Rector he married 'em, an' Mrs. Herbert, an' Dr. and Mrs. Merton, an' Sir Alfred, and Miss Merryweather turned up, she 'as come to see Mrs. Merryweather through her first baby. It come yesterday; did you hear of it?"

"Yes, that I did. The milkman from farm told me so—"

"Well, she were there, and then there were a strange gent, a friend of the Colonel's—he looked as if he were lookin' on at a show. His lips were curled up nasty, and he gave a heave of his shoulders now and agen in an impatient sort o' way. But there, when I was tucked in tight along with some others, I 'ad no thought but for our young lady."

"An'," interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, "there were one that thought a mighty lot of 'erself, and that were Susan! She 'ad her best black silk and 'ad a red rose in her buzzom, and her hat! Well, it must have bin one of Miss Tomina's cast-offs! We all said that, for we 'ad a partikler look at it. It were black, but it 'ad some wonderful cream roses, made almost to smell, they was so perfec'! And a lace veil twined in and out like a regular creeper! She 'eld her head as high as the leddyship, an' I were just in the pew behind, so I whispers over:

"'You do be lookin' up!'

"An' she never so much as turns her 'ead, the hussy!"

"Tell on!" said Mrs. Dodd, who was drinking in every detail with great avidity.

"When they stood together, he were a whole head taller than 'er. Her voice were clear as a bell when she made responses. I were near cryin' the whole time. But when they went in the vestry an' the Weddin' March begun, my 'art began to palpitate. It fair burst the 'ooks and eyes of my bodice! And then they come down the aisle, and Miss Tomina were noddin' and smilin' to everybody all round. An' he 'ad lost his stern face and were quite affable like. Then the chillen awaitin' for them outside dropped roses in their path, and then every one of the gentry went back to the Cottage. The Rectory maids 'ad helped, and we heard tell there was quite a choice meal laid out.

"And 'twasn't long before the fly drove up. Peter Hamblin drove, and then was our time. We closed in and gave 'em a reg'lar good peltin' o' rice, and then Miss Tomina afore she gets into the carriage, she looks at us and laughs. She's always different to other ladies—she calls out in her pretty way, wavin' her hand to us:

"'Good-bye,' she says, 'but I promise when I get tired of my husband, I'll run back to Little Honeycombe and drive the van again!'

"And didn't us laugh? And give such cheerin'. Well, it must have been 'eard a mile off!"

"Oh, I do wish I had been there!"

"An' then we all had a big tea in the schoolroom. 'Twas her wish; but, eh, dearie me, we shall never have a carrier agen like Miss Tomina!"

The sighs that echoed this speech were great. Tomina had gone out of their life for the time. But she had left behind her many legacies of goodwill and friendship amongst the simple village folk.

She and her bridegroom went to a quiet little Cornish fishing-village. They would not be out of reach of Mrs. Norman. Christabel Avenel was with her, and she proved quite a success. And for a fortnight, Tomina and Gerald were rapturously happy. They determined to live only in the present, and enjoy life as they had never enjoyed it before. Then at the end of their time, they returned to Torquay, and gladdened the heart of the poor invalid.

Tomina did indeed prove herself to be the sunshine in the house. She was always gay and sweet-tempered; Mrs. Norman's fretful complaints only brought out the deeper tenderness in her nature. Gerald would look at her and marvel.

Their stolen time together was very sweet. And though sometimes they were met with reproachful tears upon their return to the sick-room, Mrs. Norman did make an effort now and then to be unselfish.

They went to Edinburgh when Torquay became too warm. And when the end of summer came, they began to discuss a winter abroad.

But Mrs. Norman managed to contract Influenza, and was so weakened and pulled down by it, that her doctor advised them not to leave England. They finally went down to Penzance, and took rooms in the most comfortable hotel there.

As time went on, Tomina began to find that what she first treated so lightly was gradually becoming an effort and a struggle. There were days when the fractiousness and unreasonableness of the sick woman told upon her nerves, and she felt she longed to get away from it all. One morning, when by a violent fit of weeping Mrs. Norman had stopped a little expedition planned by husband and wife, Tomina sat in her room work in hand, but with a frown upon her brow. She had been silent for some time, and Mrs. Norman hated silence.

"Where is Gerald?" she asked presently.

"Gone down to the Club, I think, to have a look at the papers."

Tomina's tone was curt. She was still harbouring resentment towards her mother-in-law for having stopped their expedition.

Mrs. Norman heaved a heavy sigh.

"I hardly ever see him! He used to sit with me in the morning and read the papers—I couldn't have believed that he would have become so neglectful."

"But you have me, and he will come in to lunch."

"A daughter-in-law is never the same as a son, and you are irritable to-day, or sulky, I don't know which. I might have known how things would turn out. Since you have married Gerald, you try to keep him away from me. I'm a lonely, unhappy woman. You are both longing for me to die. I wish I could. My life is one long misery; you have stolen my son from me. He no longer cares to be with his poor mother, and you mount guard in my room, and try to keep him away from it."

Mrs. Norman had often spoken in this strain before, but Tomina had had sufficient self-control and patience to answer her gently. Now it seemed the last straw.

"You are most unjust and selfish," she said, rising from her chair; "we are both spoiling our lives for your sake, and this is how you treat us. If you think I am keeping Gerald out of your room, I had better go. I will send your maid to you—"

She walked out of the room, with head erect. But when she reached the sitting-room, she sat down at the table in the window and, resting her head in her hands, burst into tears.

Gerald came in, and found her sobbing her heart out. She tried to tell him what had happened.

"I have lost my temper with your mother, and been very rude to her. I can't go on any longer, Gerald. It's beyond my strength. Nothing pleases her now. The more we give up to her, the more she demands. She is wearing us both out, and she is getting to dislike me. She thinks I turn you against her."

Gerald sat down, with a worried look upon his face.

"Tomina, sweetheart, be brave a little longer. I will not harbour the thought that we were mistaken in marrying. We have had, and will still have, happy times together. If your nerves and health are giving way, would you like to pay a few visits? Then you would come back fresher, and more able to bear with my poor mother."

"Without you? Oh no. I couldn't. Don't ask me! There! I have done—I think tears do one good sometimes. I am not going to give up my 'rôle' as carrier so easily, but I have had a tumble and dropped my load. Now I am up again. Don't look so grave, Gerald. I wish I was as strong and serene as you are. Nothing ever moves you!"

"My wife's distress does, especially when it is I and mine who bring it upon her."

His voice broke for a moment. He drew her to him.

"Sweetheart, if you can bear it a little longer, I think one day you will look back and be glad. I had a long talk with our doctor this morning. I met him out. He says my mother is weaker in every way, and that he does not think she will last through this next winter."

"Oh, Gerald!"

Quick tears sprang into Tomina's eyes.

"I am so ashamed of myself. I told you I would fail you, didn't I? We must, we 'must' let her have all the sunshine we can in the Valley! I won't break down again. Will you go to her? I will come in later. I hope she will have forgotten my rudeness."

She put up her face to his and kissed him, then pushed him from her.

"Go quickly, and I will run out and buy a few flowers as a peace offering."

The little storm blew over for the time. Tomina was daily learning that, though weak in herself, there was a Power that could keep her, and with the sad knowledge in her heart that Mrs. Norman's days were numbered, she kept back hasty words, and only showed a bright smiling face.

The time came when Mrs. Norman grew more placid. As weakness increased, gentleness came with it, and she now listened with interest when Tomina took up her Bible and read to her from it.

When Christmas Day dawned, it found husband and wife sorrowing over their loss. Though for her they could rejoice, they missed intensely the object of their loving ministrations.

Mrs. Norman had not found her Valley shadowed by fears. Like a little child, she had been led to trust in the One Who could carry her through it in perfect peace. Her mind was, fortunately for herself, not strong enough to dwell much in the past. But her last conscious words were to Tomina—

"You have been so good, so patient with me! I wish I had been more patient myself."

And Tomina felt thankful that she had been allowed to ease those last suffering months.

When the spring came, husband and wife began to plan out their future, and then a very warm invitation came from Dr. and Mrs. Merton to go and stay with them.

"Let us go, Gerald. I long to see Little Honeycombe again; will you be sad being so near your old home?"

"I don't think I shall ever be sad, as long as I have my wife with me."

So they went.

The following two letters speak for themselves:—

   "MY DEAREST TOMINA,

   "This is to let you know that I have a baby boy, the image of his father! When I married, I hardly thought of motherhood. This tiny atom has brought quite a fresh range of ideas and thought to me. I thought my life would be spent in nursing and training and watching over plants and flowers. Now they only form a background to my son. I am now nursing and training and watching over a human soul. And I am trembling at the responsibility. I want you to talk to me. I want—I think I want your bright unwavering faith in God. Will you be his godmother and will you come to his christening? Do, if you have a little bit of love for me.

"Your loving sister,

"DOREEN.

   "P.S.—Do tell me your news, and where you are going to settle."

   "MY DEAREST DOREEN,

   "Your news enchants me! Of course I will come, if only for a few days. I cannot leave Gerald for long. You don't know how he has felt the strain of the last year or so. He still looks worn and thin, but his energy is coming back, and our plans are made. We are going to take over an untenanted farm on the Yockley Court estate. Major Holme has gone out on a shooting expedition to the Himalayas, and he asked Gerald if he could look after his property for him. He has only a very young and inexperienced agent. I think with some alterations, we shall make this farmhouse into a very pretty and cosy home, and I shall get the desire of my heart—to live in the country! I know you will sympathise with me.

   "How selfish I am writing about our affairs and leaving your sweet baby out in the cold! My dear Doreen, I shall love to be his godmother! Thank you a thousand times for asking me. How pleased and proud Tom will be! I can't imagine him a father. How well I can understand the difference he will make in your life, and I am glad and thankful you will not be limited to your garden children, but will have the enjoyment of seeing his dear little life unfold and develop. I feel I know something of small boys now after my experience with Harry. They are so delicious in their eagerness and freshness and strong faith! What talks we will have when I come! Meanwhile talk to God about him, dear. He sent him to you, and He loves him and wants him to grow up in His family.

   "Doreen, I do feel so thankful I came down to Little Honeycombe. It will always be the dearest place in the world to me. The place of my resurrection, when all things became new!

   "I am enjoying every moment of every day. Yesterday I went over to see Susan, and from her I wandered round the village. They are all clamouring to have their carrier back, but, do you know, this is just one thing that Gerald will not allow me to do? And by his rather peremptory request that I never drive that van again, I think he must be regaining his health and spirits. We had quite a battle of words this morning about it. But, of course, I gave way and with as good a grace as I could. I feel that the old desire to have my will uppermost has left me. And Gerald is such an adoring husband that when he puts his foot down, I know it is for my sake he does it. I tell him that he fears the van would be a rival, and thinks that if I once began driving it again, it would take possession of me. And so you see, Doreen, here ends 'Tomina the Carrier'!

   "Much love, dear. How I long to see you with a baby in your arms!

"Your loving sister,

"TOMINA."

It was a lovely summer evening.

Tomina was in a blue sunbonnet watering her roses.

The pretty thatched farmhouse behind would have delighted an artist's eye. Inside and out there was nothing to spoil the quaint old-fashioned air about it. The broad oak door stood wide open showing a low wide hall, with the stairs winding up from the centre of it. Two dogs, one a red setter, the other a lively terrier, were lying in the porch. Tomina's faithful Thor was standing by her side, looking on with grave interest as his mistress handled her watering-can with much energy.

Then the garden gate slammed, a quick man's tread made all the dogs spring up with welcoming barks, and Gerald greeted his wife—

"Well, here I am, and my work done for the day."

"You look warm and tired, Gerald dear. Come and sit down. Shall I fetch you a drink?"

"No," said Gerald, smiling as he sank into a garden lounge chair under a shady acacia tree on the lawn. "You are sufficient refreshment for me."

Tomina rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, then pressed one of her swift soft kisses on the top of his head.

"Aren't we happy?" she said, her eyes glowing with radiance. "Do you think we always shall be? I wonder if you will get bored with your wife, and only come home to her when you are obliged?"

"Do I deserve such a speech? Isn't it more likely that my bright little wife will get weary of her prosy old husband?"

"Now, Gerald, you are fishing for compliments. You know you are neither prosy nor old. Do you know that I met Mrs. Judd when I was out this morning?

"'Well,' she said, '"they say, ma'am," that marriage makes a woman old afore her time, but you and your Colonel are both years more juvenile than you was afore matrimony!'"

"I think I feel so!" said Gerald.

"Of course," went on Tomina, perching herself on the arm of his chair, "we continued to discuss husbands, for Mrs. Judd has had two, you know, and now is a widow. She says,—

"''Tis a wonderful freedom to be single again, but 'tisn't exactly comfortable.'"

Gerald's arm went round his wife's slim waist.

"Poor little wife!" he said. "Do you miss your freedom? Am I an ogre?"

"You can be. My carrier days are over, and I did love them so."

"But you told me you meant to be a much more efficient and noble one than a mere van driver, and a carrier of burdens will last till the world ends."

"Do you think so? When I was dressing this morning, I was thinking that I have no scope for such carrying at present. There are no burdens to carry in our life now, and I am getting lazy and self-indulgent! And then I came across such a lovely verse in my morning reading,—

"'How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace!'

"If I can't always carry burdens for people, I can carry them good tidings, cannot I? And there are a good many even in this quiet part of the country who would be glad to get peace. A carrier of good tidings! Doesn't it sound delightful? So cheery, and comforting and sunshiny!"

Gerald Norman looked at his wife with thoughtful tender eyes.

She was still the same sparkling girl, but the undercurrent of earnestness in her nature would occasionally come to the surface.

"Thank God," he murmured softly, "for Tomina the Carrier!"

THE END

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