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The Laurel Walk

by Mrs. Molesworth · English · Gutenberg #43129 · 533,879 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Laurel Walk

Author: Mrs. Molesworth

Illustrator: John Steeple Davis


        
Release date: July 8, 2013 [eBook #43129]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43129

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAUREL WALK ***

The Laurel Walk
By Mrs Molesworth
Illustrations by J. Steeple Davis
Published by Drexel Biddle, Philadelphia.
This edition dated 1899.

The Laurel Walk, by Mrs Molesworth.

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________
THE LAUREL WALK, BY MRS MOLESWORTH.

CHAPTER ONE.

A RAINY EVENING.

There was a chemist's shop at Craig Bay, quite a smart chemist's shop,
with plate-glass windows and the orthodox "purple" and other coloured
jars of Rosamund fame.  It was one of the inconsistencies of the place,
of which there were several.  For Craig Bay was far from being a town;
it was not even a big village, and the two or three shops of its early
days were of the simplest and quaintest description, emporiums of a
little of everything, into which you made your way by descending two or
three steps below the level of the rough pavement outside.  The
chemist's shop was the first established, I think, of the new order of
things, when the place and neighbourhood suddenly rose into repute as
peculiarly bracing and healthy from the mingling of sea and hill air
with which they were favoured.  It was kept in countenance now by
several others, a draper's, a stationer's, a photographer's, of course,
besides the imperative butcher's, fishmonger's, and so on, some of which
subsided into closed shutters and vacancy after the "season" was over
and the visitors had departed.  For endeavours which had been made to
introduce a _winter_ season had not been crowned with success.  The
place was too out-of-the-way, the boasted mildness of climate not
altogether to be depended upon.  But the chemist's shop stood faithfully
open all the year round, doing a little business in wares not, strictly
speaking, belonging to it, such as note-paper and even books, when the
library-and-stationer's in one had gone to sleep for the time.

On a cold raw evening in late November, Betty Morion stood waiting for
her sister Frances on the door-step of the shop.  It would have been
warmer inside, but Betty had her fancies, like many other people, and
one of them was a dislike to the smell of drugs, with which "inside,"
naturally, was impregnated.  And she was thickly clad and fairly well
used to cold and to damp--even to rain--for to-night it was drizzling
depressingly.

"I wish Francie would be quick," thought the girl more than once during
the first few moments of her waiting, though she knew it was certainly
not poor Frances' fault.  Their father's prescriptions had always some
very special and peculiar directions accompanying them, and Betty knew
of old that the waiting for them was apt to be a long affair.

And she was not of an impatient nature.  After a while she forgot about
the tiresomeness, and fell to watching the reflections of the brilliant
colours of the jars in the puddles and on the surface of the wet
pavement just below her, as she had often watched them before.  They
were pretty--in a sense--and yet somehow they made the surrounding
dreariness drearier.

"I wonder if it does rain more here than anywhere else," she said to
herself dreamily.  "What a splashing walk home we shall have!  I wish we
did not live up a hill--at least I think I wish we didn't, though
perhaps if our house was down here I should wish it was higher up!
Perhaps it doesn't really rain more at Craig Bay than at other places,
but we notice it more.  For nearly everything pleasant that ever comes
to us depends on the weather."  And Betty sighed.  "I could fancy," she
went on, "living in a way that would make one scarcely care what it was
like out of doors.  A beautiful big house with ferneries and
conservatories, and lovely rooms to wander about in, and a library full
of delightful books, and lots of people to stay with us and--well, yes,
of course, it would be nice to go drives and rides and walks too, and to
have exquisite gardens.  But still life might be very pleasant even when
it did rain," and again Betty sighed.  "It needn't be anything so _very_
tremendous, after all," she added to herself.  "Craig-Morion might be--"
but a gentle touch on her shoulder made her turn.  It was her sister,
packages in hand, and rather embarrassed by her umbrella.

"Can you open it for me, dear?" she said, and Betty hastened to do so.
"I am so afraid," Frances went on, when Betty's own umbrella was ready
for business too, and they were both under way, "I am so afraid of
dropping any of these things.  Papa is so anxious to have them at once.
Do you remember the day that Eira dropped the bottle of red ink--wasn't
it dreadful?" and Frances laughed a little at the recollection.

Her laugh was very sweet, but scarcely merry.  There are laughs which
tell of sadness more quickly almost than tears.  But it was not that
kind either; it was the laugh of one who is resolutely cheerful, who has
learnt by experience the wisdom of making the best of things--a lesson
not often learnt by the young while young, though by some it is acquired
so gradually and unconsciously that on looking back from the table-land
of later years they do not realise it had ever been a lesson to be
learnt at all.

For its roots lie deeper than philosophy.  They are to be found in
unselfishness, in self-forgetting, and earnest longing to carry the
burdens of others, or at least to share them.

And Frances Morion was still young, though twenty-seven.  She by no
means looked her age.  Her life in many ways had been a healthy one in
its material surroundings, and she herself had made it so in other ways.

Betty scarcely laughed in return.  It is doubtful if she heard what her
sister said.

"Isn't it _horribly_ wet?" she said.  "I was really wondering just now
if it rains more here than anywhere else, or if--" and after a moment's
hesitation--"if we notice it more, Francie, because, you see, there is
so little else to notice."

Miss Morion turned quickly and glanced at her sister, forgetting that it
was far too dark to discern the girl's features.  She always felt
troubled when Betty spoke in that way, when her voice took that
particular tone.  She could be philosophical for herself far more easily
than for her younger sisters.

"Well, on the other hand," she said cheerfully, "doesn't it show that we
have no very great troubles to bear if we have leisure to think so much
about small ones?"

"I don't say we _have_ any very big troubles to bear," said Betty.  "I--
I almost sometimes find myself wishing we had--"

"Oh, Betty, _don't_," said her sister quickly, "don't wish anything like
that!"

"No," said Betty, "I wasn't going to say quite what you thought.  I mean
I wish anything big would come into our lives!  Anything really
interesting, and--well, yes!  I may as well own it--anything exciting!
It is all on such a dull, dead level, and has always been the same, and
always will be, it seems to me.  And when one is no longer very young
the spring and buoyancy seem to go.  When I was seventeen or eighteen
I'd all sorts of happy fancies and expectations, but now--why, Francie,
I'm twenty-four, and _nothing_ has come."

For a moment or two Frances walked on in silence.

"I dare say," she said at last, "if we knew more of other lives, we
should find a good many something like ours.  And after all, Betty,
one's real life is what one is oneself."

Betty laughed slightly.  Her laugh was not bitter, but without any ring
of joyousness.

"I know that," she said.  "But it doesn't do me any good.  It's just
_myself_ that depresses me.  I'm not big enough, nor brave enough, nor
anything enough, to rise above circumstances, as people talk about.  I
want circumstances to help me a little!  And I don't ask anything very
extravagant, I know.

"No, Frances," she added, "you're not--not quite right.  I think I could
bear things better and feel more spirit if you would allow that our
lives _are_ exceptional in some ways."

"Perhaps so," the elder sister agreed.

"You know," continued Betty, "it isn't fallings in love or marriage that
I'm talking about.  I really and truly very seldom think of anything of
that kind, though of course, in the abstract, I can see that a home of
one's own, and the feeling oneself a centre, is the ideal life; but
heaps of girls don't marry, and there are plenty, lots of other
interests and objects to live for, which we _are_ unusually without!"

Frances opened her mouth with an intention of remonstrating, but the
words died away before she gave them utterance.  There was so much truth
in what Betty said, and Frances was too thorough-going to believe in the
efficacy of any consolation without a genuine root, so she said nothing.

"And I'm afraid," pursued Betty, who certainly could not be accused this
evening of having donned rose-coloured spectacles, "I'm afraid," she
repeated, "that it's coming over Eira too, though she has kept her
youngness marvellously, so far."

In her turn Frances gave a little laugh which could scarcely be called
mirthful.

"Betty dear," she said, "you are rather unmerciful to-night, piling on
the agony!  You think me very philosophical, but I must confess I am not
proof against our present depressing circumstances.  I don't think I've
ever come up the hill in such rain and darkness, and so horribly cold
too."  And in spite of herself she shivered a little.

In a moment Betty's mood had changed to penitence.

"Oh, Frances, I'm a brute," she exclaimed, "for I know you were tired
before we came out; reading aloud to papa for so long together is really
exhausting.  I know what I'll do," she went on, with a tone of defiance;
"if I have to carry the coals and wood myself upstairs, you shall have a
fire in your room as soon as we go in, you shall!"

Frances laughed again, this time with real amusement.  She was always
happier about Betty when the younger girl's latent energy asserted
itself.

"I'm all right, dear," she said, "and we're getting near home now.  We
must be near the lodge gates.  I thought I saw a light a moment ago."

In spite of the drenching rain, Betty stood still an instant to
reconnoitre.

"Yes," she said, "I see a light, more than one, two or three, but
they're not from the lodge.  Francie!" with a sudden excitement in her
voice, "they're up at the house.  We'll see them more clearly as we go
on.  Who can be there?  It's not likely Mrs Webb would have chosen an
evening like this to be making the rounds, or lighting fires in the big
house."

"Oh, I don't know," said Frances, half indifferently.  "They may have
been doing some extra cleaning or something of that kind earlier in the
day, and not have finished yet.  There's nobody at the lodge itself,
anyway," as at this moment they approached the gates.  "There's no light
in the windows except from the kitchen fire and--oh dear!  I'm sorely
afraid that the gates are locked, and neither of the Webbs there to let
us through;" and she sighed ruefully, for this meant a quarter of a
mile's further walk--there being an understanding that the Morion family
should have a right of way through the grounds of the deserted home of
their far-away relatives, to their own little house which stood just
beyond the enclosure.  "It is unlucky," she added, "to-night of all
nights, when every step of the way is an aggravation of our miseries!"

Strangely enough, Betty's depression seemed, for the time being, to have
vanished.  For some passing moments, the sisters might almost have
changed characters.  Frances was honestly, physically tired.  She had
had a trying, fatiguing day at home, and the walk to the village, which
had in a sense invigorated Betty (who, to confess the truth, had spent
the day in doing little or nothing), had really been too much for the
elder sister.

"Never mind," said Betty briskly; "we'll soon be there now.  I shall
keep a sharp lookout when we turn the corner to see if there are lights
at the back of the big house too."

Frances, for once, was feeling too tired to rise to her sister's little
fit of excitement, though she smiled to herself in the darkness with
pleasure, as she realised that if Betty's spirits were apt to sink very
much below par, they were ready enough to rise again on very small
provocation.

"She is still so young," thought the elder sister; "so much younger than
most girls of her age.  If only I had a little more in my power for her
and Eira!"  And the smile gave way, all too quickly, to a sigh, which in
its turn was intercepted by an eager exclamation from Betty, for they
had turned the corner of the road by this time.

"Look, Francie!" she said, in an involuntary whisper, as if by some
extraordinary possibility her remarks could have been overheard at the
still distant big house; "look, Francie, it _is_ something out of the
common!  The offices are lighted up--some of them, anyway; and don't you
see lights moving about too, as if there were several people there?
What can be going to happen?"

"Your curiosity will soon be satisfied," returned Frances; "that's one
good thing of living in a little world like this.  By to-morrow at
latest, any news there is will be all over the place."  And then she
relapsed into silence; and Betty, always quick of perception, seeing
that her sister was really tired, said no more, though her little head
kept turning round from under the shelter of her umbrella as long as the
back precincts of Craig-Morion remained visible.

This was not for long, however.  A few moments more, and their path
skirted a thickly-planted belt of Scotch firs, which here bordered the
park.  They had almost to feel their way now, so dark had it become.

"Oh dear," said Betty, when there was no longer anything to distract her
attention from the woes of the present moment.  "Oh dear, Francie, did
the way home ever seem quite so long before?  I do hope the next time
papa wants his medicine in a hurry that he'll choose a fine evening."

"Dear," said Frances regretfully, "I shouldn't have let you come with
me."

"Rubbish! nonsense!" cried Betty, "as if Eira and I would have let you
go alone.  I do believe in my heart that we're both quite as strong as
you, though you won't allow it.  Poor little Eira, she would have come
too, except for her chilblains.  It is unlucky that she has got them so
early this year.  And they spoil her pretty hands so."

"It's only from the unusual cold," said Frances, "and--" she hesitated.
"I am sure I could cure them," she resumed, "if I had my own way, or if
I had _had_ it when you were both growing up.  What makes me really
stronger is, I am sure, that I had so much better a time as a child than
either of you, before papa gave up his appointment and we were better
off."

"I wish you'd leave off repeating that old story," said Betty.  "After
all, I'm not four years younger than you, and whatever Eira and I have
_not_ had, we've had you, darling--a second mother as people say, a
great, great deal better than a second mother _I_ say, and oh joy! here
we are at last; I see the white gate-posts."  And in another moment they
were plodding the short, badly kept gravel path, not to be dignified by
the name of a drive, which led to their own door.

"Take care of the big puddle just in front of the steps; it must be a
perfect lake to-night," Betty was saying, when, before they had quite
reached it, the door was cautiously opened, and a girl's face peered
out, illumined by the light, faint though it was, of the small hall
behind her.  It was Eira, the third and youngest of the Morion sisters.

"It's you at last," she said in a low voice; "come in quickly, and I'll
take the medicine to papa, he's been fussing like a--I don't know what,
and if he gets hold of you he'll keep you waiting in your soaking things
for half-an-hour while he goes on about your having been so long!  Now
go straight upstairs," she continued, when she had got her sisters
inside, and extricated them from their dripping umbrellas and
waterproofs.  "I'll see to these things as soon as I've been to papa.
Go straight up to your room, Frances; there's a surprise for you there.
Go up quickly and keep the door closed till I come."

She took the parcel from her elder sister's hands as she spoke, and,
without wasting time in more words, gave her a gentle little push toward
the staircase.  Frances and Betty went up softly, but as quickly as
their feet, tired and stiffened with cold and wet, would allow.  The
staircase, like everything in the house, was meagre and dingy, the steps
steep and the balusters rickety.  At the top a little landing gave
access to the best rooms, and a long narrow passage at one side led to
the sisters' own quarters.

Betty ran on in front and threw open the door of her elder sister's room
eagerly.  She had hard work to repress an exclamation of delight at what
met her eyes.  It was a fair-sized, bare-looking room, though
scrupulously neat and not without some simple and tasteful attempts at
ornamentation, and to-night it really looked more attractive than was
often the case, for a bright glowing fire sent out its pleasant rays of
welcome, and on a little table beside it stood, neatly arranged,
everything requisite for a good, hot cup of tea.

"How angelic of Eira!" exclaimed Betty.  "How has she managed it?  Just
when I was planning how I could possibly get you a fire, Francie."

The eldest sister sat down with a smile of satisfaction in front of the
warm blaze.

"Run into your own room, Betty, and take off your wet things as quickly
as possible, and then come back here for tea.  We have still over an
hour till dinner-time."

Betty hurried across the room and threw open the door, almost running
into Eira as she did so.

"Oh! this is lovely," she exclaimed, "especially as you've got away too,
Eira.  Do tell us how you managed it."

"No, no," remonstrated Frances, "tell her nothing.  Don't answer her
till she has taken off her wet things.  She will be all the quicker if
you don't begin speaking."

So Betty ran off and Eira joined her elder sister at the fireside.

"Wasn't it a good idea?" she said, smiling at the cheering glow.

"Yes, indeed," said Frances.  "Betty was meditating something of the
kind as we were coming home, but I doubt if she could have managed it.
Anyway it wouldn't have been ready to welcome us in this comfortable
way.  Oh dear! it was wet and dreary coming home, and we were kept
waiting such a long time for papa's medicine!  By-the-by, is it all
right?"

Before Eira could answer, the door reopened to admit Betty.

"Haven't I been quick?" she exclaimed brightly.  "Do pour out the tea,
Frances.  And tell me, Eira, I am dying to hear what good fairy aided
and abetted you in this unheard-of extravagance."

"Nobody," said Eira.  "I simply did it.  After all, I think it's the
best way sometimes to go straight at a thing.  And if papa had met me
carrying up the tea-tray I should have reminded him that it was better
to have some hot tea ready for you, than to risk you both getting
rheumatic fever.  I didn't meet him, as it happened, but just now when I
gave him the medicines I took care, by way of precaution, to dilate on
the drenched state you had arrived in and the long time you had been
kept waiting at the chemist's.  The latter fact I made a shot at."

Frances drew a breath of relief.

"Then we may hope for a fairly comfortable evening," she said.

"Yes," said Betty; "to give the--no, Frances, you needn't look shocked,
I won't finish it.  I must allow that papa is more sympathising about
physical ills than about some other things."

"And so he should be," said Eira, "considering that he says he never
knows what it is to feel well himself.  Mamma is worse than he about
being hardy and all that sort of thing.  I often wonder how children
grew up at all in the old days if they really were so severely treated
as we're told."

"It's the old story," said Frances; "the delicate ones were killed off,
and those who did survive must have been strong enough to be made really
hardy.  How are your chilblains, Eira dear?"

"Pretty bad," the girl replied cheerfully; "at least I feel some
premonitory twinges of another fit coming on!  I mustn't stay so near
the fire.  Talk of something else quick to make me forget them."

"Drink up this tea, in the first place," said Frances.  "That kind of
warmth is good for them."

"And, oh, I have something to tell you," said Betty, "something quite
exciting!  What do you think?  _I_ believe something has happened or is
going to happen at Craig-Morion.  It was all lighted up as we passed.
No, I mustn't exaggerate!  There were lights moving about in several of
the rooms, and the old Webbs were not at the lodge.  It was all dark,
and the gates locked, so they must have been up at the big house.  That
helped to make us late, you see."

"You poor things!" exclaimed Eira, though her pity was quickly drowned
by this exciting news.  "Can they be expecting some one?  After all
these years of nothing ever happening and nobody ever coming!"

"It looks like it," said Betty shortly.  Then she gave herself a little
shake, as if some unexpressed thought was irritating her.  "Anything
about Craig-Morion makes me cross," she went on in explanation, "even
though there's something fascinating about it, too--tantalising rather.
Just to think how different, how utterly different our lives would have
been, if that stupid old woman had done what she meant to do, or at
least what she promised.  It wouldn't have been anything so wildly
wonderful!  We should scarcely have been rich even then, as riches go.
But it would have been enough to make a starting-point, a centre, for
all the interests that make life attractive.  We could make it _so_
pretty!"

"And have lots of people to stay with us, and whom we could stay with in
return," said Eira.  "Just think what it would be to have really nice
friends!"

"Yes," said Frances, in her quiet voice; "and as it is, the people it
belongs to scarcely value it.  It is so little in comparison to what
they have besides.  Yet," and she hesitated, for she was a scrupulously
loyal daughter, "unless papa and mamma had been able to interest
themselves in things as we three would, _perhaps_ it wouldn't have made
much radical difference, after all?"

"Oh, yes, it would," said Betty quickly.  "It would have made all the
difference.  Papa wouldn't have got into these nervous ways, if he had
had things to look after and plenty of interests, and money, of course.
And mamma would have been, oh! quite different."

"Perhaps so," Frances agreed, "but it isn't only circumstances that make
lives.  There are people, far poorer than we, I know, whose lives are
ever so much _fuller_ and wider.  It is that," she went on, speaking
with unusual energy, "it is that that troubles me about you two!  I want
to see my way to helping you to make the best you can--in the very
widest sense of the words--of your lives;" and her sweet eyes rested
with almost maternal anxiety, pathetic to see in one still herself so
young, on her two sisters.

"And you, you poor old darling!" said Eira, "what about your own life?"

"Oh!" said Frances, "I don't feel as if I had any, separate from yours.
All my day-dreams and castles in the air and aspirations are for you;"
and in the firelight it seemed as if tears were glistening in her eyes.

She was, as a rule, so self-contained and calm that this little outburst
impressed her sisters almost painfully, and, with youthful shrinking
from any expression of emotion, Eira answered half-jestingly:

"I'm ashamed to own it, but do you know really sometimes that life would
be quite a different thing to me--twice or three times as interesting--
if I could have--"

"What?" said Betty.

"Heaps and heaps of lovely clothes?" said the girl.  At which they all
three laughed, though half-ruefully, for no doubt their present wardrobe
left room for improvement.

CHAPTER TWO.

A BREAK IN THE CLOUDS.

Things, externally at least, had brightened up by the next morning.  The
rain had ceased during the night, and some rays of sunshine, doubly
welcome after its late absence, though not without the touch of pathos
often associated with it in late autumn, came peeping in at the
dining-room window of Fir Cottage, when the family assembled there for
breakfast.  For Mr Morion, valetudinarian though he was, had not even
the "qualites de ses defauts" in some respects.  That is to say, he was
exasperatingly punctual, and at all seasons and under almost all
circumstances an exemplary early riser.

Naughty Eira groaned over this sometimes.  "If he would but stay in bed,
and enjoy his ill-health comfortably, and let us breakfast in peace, I
could face the rest of the day ever so much more philosophically," she
used to say.  "Or at least if he wouldn't expect us to praise him for
coming down in time when he hasn't closed an eye all night!"

"I always think that rather an absurd expression," said Frances,
"begging poor papa's pardon; for when one can't sleep, one both opens
and shuts one's eyes a great deal oftener than when you go straight off
the moment your head touches the pillow."  At which her sisters laughed.
The spirit of mischief latent in both the younger ones enjoyed decoying
their sister into the tiniest approach to criticism of their elders.
But this morning the rise in the barometer seemed to have affected Mr
Morion's nerves favourably; he even went the unusual length of
congratulating himself openly on the promptitude with which the
impending attack had been warded off, thanks to Frances.

"Yes, indeed," Lady Emma agreed, "it was a very good thing that the
girls went themselves.  If we had sent the boy he would have come back
with some ridiculous nonsense about its being too late to make up the
prescriptions last night.  What are you fidgeting about so, Eira?" she
went on; "you make me quite nervous."

"It's only my chilblains, mamma," the girl replied, holding up a pair of
small and naturally pretty, but for the moment sadly disfigured hands,
while a gleam, half of amusement, half of reproach, came into her bright
blue eyes.

"Really," said her mother, "it is very provoking!  I don't know how you
manage to get them, and you so strong.  If it were Betty now, I
shouldn't be so surprised."

And certainly her youngest daughter, little hands excepted, looked the
picture of health.  She had the thoroughly satisfactory and charming
complexion, a tinge of brown underlying its clearness, which is found
with that beautiful shade of hair which some people would describe as
red, though in reality it is but a rich nut-brown.  Betty, on the
contrary, was pale, and looked paler than she actually was from the
contrast with darker eyes and dusky hair.  The family legend had it that
she "took after" her mother, whose still remaining good looks told of
Irish ancestry.  And for this reason, possibly, it was taken for granted
that the second girl was her mother's favourite, though, even if so, the
favouritism was not of a nature or an amount to rouse violent jealousy
on the part of her sisters, had they been capable of it, for Lady Emma
Morion had certainly never erred on the side of over-indulgence of her
children.  She was a good woman, and meant to be and believed herself to
be an excellent mother, but under no circumstances in life could she
have fulfilled more than one _role_, and the _role_ which she had
adopted since early womanhood had been that of wife.  It simply never
occurred to her that her daughters could have any possible cause of
complaint, beyond that of the very restricted condition in which the
family were placed by the prosaic fact of limited means.

That she or her husband could have done aught to soften or improve these
for their children would have been a suggestion utterly impossible for
her to digest.  The privations, such as they were, she looked upon as
falling far more hardly on herself and their father than on the
daughters, who, when all was said and done, had youth and health and
absence of cares.

That their youth was passing; that absence of cares may on the other
side mean absence of interest; that the due supply of mere physical
necessities can or does ensure health in the fullest sense of the word
to eager, capable natures longing for work and "object" as well as
enjoyment, never struck her.  Nor, had such considerations been put
before her in the plainest language, could she have understood them, for
she was not a woman of much intellect or, what matters more in a mother,
of any width of sympathy.

Greater blame, had he realised the position, would have lain at her
husband's door.  He was a cultivated, almost a scholarly man, but the
disappointments of life had narrowed as well as soured him.  His was a
sad instance of the dwarfing and stunting effects of self-pity, yielded
to and indulged in till it comes to pervade the whole atmosphere of a
life.

The brighter morning had cheered the sisters half-unconsciously, and
Frances felt sorry at any friction beginning again between her mother
and Eira.  For though Lady Emma was not sympathising by temperament, she
was not indifferent to annoyances, and that chilblains should be
described by any stronger term she would have thought an exaggeration.
Yet the fact of them worried her, and Frances felt about in her usual
way for something to smooth the lines of irritation on her mother's
face.

"I have often heard, mamma," she said, "that strong people suffer quite
as much from chilblains as delicate ones, and they sometimes are worse
the first cold weather than afterwards."

"I believe they come from want of exercise," said Lady Emma, in a
somewhat softened tone.  "If this bright dry weather lasts, you must go
some good long walks, Eira."

Eira made a wry face.

"I am sure I've no objection, mamma," she said; "there's nothing I like
better than walking, but it's a vicious circle, don't you see?  I dare
say my not walking makes my circulation worse, but then again the
chilblains make walking, for the time being, simply impossible."
Perhaps it was lucky that at this juncture Betty's voice made a sudden
interruption.  Betty, though the quietest of the three, was rather given
to sudden remarks.

"Papa," she said, "have you possibly heard any sort of news about
Craig-Morion?"

Her father glanced at her sharply over his eyeglasses.

"What do you mean, child?" he said.  "News about Craig-Morion!  What
sort of news?"

"Oh, that it's going to be sold or let, or something of that kind,"
replied Betty calmly.

"Going to be _sold_, Craig-Morion!" exclaimed her father, his voice
rising to a thin, high pitch.  "What on earth has put such a thing in
your head?  Of course not."  But the very excitement of his tones
testified to a certain unacknowledged uneasiness.

"Oh, well," said Betty, "I didn't really suppose it was going to be
_sold_.  But none of its present owners ever care to come there, so I
thought perhaps there was to be a change of some kind."

"And why should you suppose there was to be a change of any kind?"
repeated Mr Morion, with a sort of grim repetition of her words,
decidedly irritating, if his daughters had not been inured to it.

Betty flushed slightly.

"It was only something we noticed last night," she replied, going on to
relate the incidents that had attracted their attention.  Her father
would not condescend to comment on her information, but Lady Emma did
not conceal her interest, and cross-questioned both her daughters.  And
from behind his newspaper her husband listened, attentively enough.

"It is curious," she said.  "If you pass that way to-day, girls, try to
see old Webb and find out if anything has happened.  Can any of the
Morions possibly be coming down, Charles, do you suppose?"

Mr Morion grunted.

"Any of the Morions!  How many of them do you think there are?" he said
ironically.  "You know very well that the present man was an only son,
and his father before him the same."

"Yes," replied Lady Emma meekly, "but there were sisters in both cases.
When I spoke of the Morions I meant any members of the family.  Though I
suppose it is very unlikely that any of them would suddenly come down
here, when they care nothing about the place, and have got homes of
their own."

"That to me," said Betty, speaking again abruptly, "is the aggravating
part of the whole affair.  If people lived at the big house who enjoyed
it and appreciated it, it would be quite different.  One couldn't grudge
it to them, but to see it empty and deserted year in and year out,
when--" she stopped short, a touch on her foot from Frances', under the
table, warning her that it would scarcely be wise to dwell further on
what was a sore subject.

Mr Morion rose, pushing back his chair with a rasping sound on the
thin, hard carpet, and left the room.

"I hope the fire in his study is all right," said Lady Emma anxiously.

"Yes," said Frances; "I glanced in on my way.  Is there anything you
want us to do this morning, mamma?" she added.

"I cannot possibly say till I have seen the cook," her mother replied.
"There is pretty sure to be something forgotten--servants are so
stupid--if you are going to the village."

"It's my morning for reading to old Gillybrand," said Frances rather
drearily, "so while I am there Betty can do any messages there are--
that's to say if you care to come with me, Betty."

"Tell me before you start, then," said their mother, as she, in her
turn, left the room for her kitchen interview.  Poor woman!
Housekeeping at the Firs was no sinecure, for Mr Morion was, like all
hypochondriacs, difficult to please in the matter of food, firmly
believing that his life depended on a special dietary.  And such a state
of things, when there is no financial margin, taxes invention and
ingenuity sorely enough.

"What are you going to do to-day, Eira?" asked Frances.  "You can't
possibly go out, I'm afraid."

For all reply Eira extended first one foot and then the other, both
encased in woolly slippers, each of which was large enough to have held
two inmates at once, under ordinary circumstances.

"You poor child," said her elder sister.  "But those slippers are a
comfort to you, I hope."

"My dearest Frances," Eira replied, "but for them I really don't think I
should be alive at the present moment.  But I _must_ pay you for them
with the first money I can lay hands on.  You don't suppose I didn't
notice your shabby gloves last Sunday?"

"Oh, what does it matter in winter?" said Frances indifferently.  "One
can always use a muff."

"When you've got one to use," said Eira.  "Mine looks more fit to be a
mouse's nest than anything else."

Betty had been standing at the window, gazing out at the oval grass
plot, not imposing enough to be dignified by the name of lawn, and at
the shrubberies enclosing it.

"Do you see those berries?" she said, wheeling round as she spoke.  "If
only all the bushes were not so dreadfully wet still, I could make up
some lovely bunches and trails for the drawing-room vases, if mamma
would let me."

"It will be dry enough by the afternoon," said Frances, "or we may find
some treasures on our way through the grounds, without having to paddle
over wet grass to reach them."

"The best plan," said Eira, "is to arrange the vases first, and then let
mamma see the effect.  It doesn't do to ask leave beforehand, for if we
do we are sure to be told not to fill the house with rubbish and weeds.
Bring in the prettiest things you can find, Betty, and we'll do them
after luncheon.  It will help to pass the afternoon for poor me.  Oh
dear! things are never so bad but they might be worse.  I'm beginning to
feel now as if life would be worth having if only I could go a good long
walk!  And before my chilblains got bad, I didn't think anything could
be duller or drearier than the way we were going on."

"We'll try to bring you in some lovely berries and tinted leaves to
cheer you," said Frances, but Betty's next remark did not follow up her
elder sister's determined effort to make the best of things.

"What's the good?" she said lugubriously, "what's the good of trying to
make the drawing-room look better?  It's hopelessly ugly, and even if we
could make it pretty, who would care?  There's nobody to see it."

"Come now, Betty," said Frances, "don't be untrue to your own belief.
Beauty of any kind is always worth having.  Let us be thankful that,
living in the country, we never can be without the possibility of some,
even in our indoor life.  What would you do, Betty, if we lived in a
grey--no, drab-coloured--street in some terrible town?"

"Do?  I should die!" replied Betty.

"I shouldn't," said Eira.  "I'd get to know some people, and that, after
all, is more interesting than still life.  But the present question is
what shall I do with myself all this long morning?"

"You must stay in a warm room, whatever you do, if you want to cure
those poor hands and feet.  The only thing you can do is to read, and
oh! by-the-by, I was forgetting--I got one or two books at the lending
library yesterday that I want to look through before I read them aloud.
I think they seem rather interesting.  So if you can glance at one of
them for me this morning it would really be a help."

Eira brightened up a little at this, and before her sisters left her,
they had the satisfaction of seeing her comfortably established on the
old sofa.

"Yes," she said, as they nodded good-bye from the doorway, "I repeat,
things never are so bad but that they might be worse.  We might have a
dining-room without a sofa."

Frances and Betty, despite their curiosity to spy the state of the
land--that is to say, of the big house--at close quarters, had to make
their way to the village this morning by the road, as one of their
mother's messages took them to the laundress' cottage which stood at
some little distance from the Craig-Morion grounds.  Further on,
however, they passed the lodge, and there for a moment they halted, on
the chance of a word with the old gate-keeper.  But she was evidently
not there and the gates were still locked.

"What a good thing we didn't come through the grounds," said Betty.
"But what can have become of old Webb and his wife?  There must be
something agog, Francie."

"We shall see on our way back," her sister replied; "they're sure to
come home for their dinner."

"If they don't," said Betty, "I shall try to climb the gates, and invent
some excuse for going up to the house to see what they are about."

But fate was not so cruel; for assuredly, with all the good-will in the
world and disregard of appearances, Miss Elizabeth Morion could never
have succeeded in scaling the entrance.

An hour or two later, when Frances had dutifully accomplished her
self-imposed task of reading to Gillybrand, a pitifully uncomplaining,
almost entirely blind old man, and had picked up Betty at the village
reading-room, which the sisters often found a convenient _rendezvous_,
the two made their way back to the lodge, where their misgivings were
agreeably dispersed.

For not only were the gates unlocked--they stood hospitably open, while
traces of the wheels of some tradesman's cart were clearly to be seen on
the still damp gravel; and standing at the door of her little abode was
old Mrs Webb, her wrinkled face aglow with excitement, and lighting up
with increased satisfaction as she caught sight of the young ladies--
newcomers on whom she might bestow some of the news which was evidently
too important to be suppressed.

But it was Betty who began the colloquy.

"What have you been about, Mrs Webb," she said, teasingly, "locking the
gates so early last night, and opening them so late this morning?  You
must have been asleep half the day as well as the night!"

"Bless you, no, miss," said the old woman, eagerly.  "Quite the
contrary, I do assure you.  We was working hard up at the big house last
night, and this morning too, was me and Webb, for never a girl, let
alone a woman, could he get to help us.  And no wonder neither, with
such short notice to get two or three rooms ready by to-night, and the
rest of the house dusted up for the gentlemen as is coming down to stay
for a day or two."

"Gentleman?" exclaimed the sisters.  "Who?  Not Mr Morion?"

"No, miss, not the master himself, but friends of his.  First there was
a telegraph, and this morning a letter.  I'd show them to you, but
Webb's got them in his pocket," and she jerked her head in the direction
of the house.  "I've just run down to open the gates for the butcher and
the other carts from the village, for I've got to have dinner for eight
o'clock to-night, so you may fancy we've had to bustle about."

"Do you know the gentlemen's names?" asked Betty, eagerly.

"Mr Milner for one," said Mrs Webb, at which the sisters' faces fell.
"But the other's a Mr--no, to be sure, I've forgotten it; but it's some
gentleman as is thinking of taking the place for a while!"

CHAPTER THREE.

MR MILNE AND ANOTHER.

Luncheon at Fir Cottage was not an attractive meal.  Perhaps the least
so of the three principal repasts of the day.  There was a certain
flavour of early dinner about it, recalling the days of the sisters'
childhood, when roast mutton and rice pudding formed, with but little
variety, the _piece de resistance_ of the daily menu, though for Mr
Morion himself there was usually some special and more attractive little
dish.

But to-day the walk in the fresh invigorating air had given the two
elder sisters a satisfactory appetite, in which, chilblains
notwithstanding, Eira was seldom deficient.

Frances and Betty had returned only just in time enough to make their
appearance punctually in the dining-room, and in the first interest of
hearing how her commissions had been executed, Lady Emma forgot to
question them as to the result of their intended inquiries at the
Craig-Morion Lodge.  Not so Eira.  She was fuming with impatience all
the time that Frances was repeating the laundress' excuses for the
faulty condition in which Mr Morion's shirt-fronts had been sent home,
or Betty explaining, for her part, the reason why she had brought a
packet of oblong instead of square postcards.  Eira's opportunity came
at last.

"And what about the big house?" she exclaimed.

"Oh, yes," said her mother, eagerly enough; for which her youngest
daughter mentally blessed her, saying to herself that, after all, "mamma
was not without some points of sympathy."

"I have been wondering all the morning if there was going to be anything
to hear.  Did you see the Webbs?"

"We saw Mrs Webb," said Frances, "on our way home.  She really is in a
flutter of excitement," and here Frances became conscious of a
half-suppressed movement on her father's part, showing that he, too, was
listening with interest.  "It appears," she went on, "that Mr Milne is
expected here this evening--"

"About time," interrupted Mr Morion.  "There are several things waiting
for him to decide.  Tomlinson shelters himself behind Milne in an absurd
way, whenever he's asked to do anything.  There's that gate--coming this
evening, do you say?" he broke off.  "Why should any one be excited
about that?"

"You didn't let me finish, papa," said Frances, for in her quiet way she
could sometimes hold her own very effectually with her father.  "Mr
Milne is coming for a special reason; he is accompanied by, or
accompanying, a Mr--somebody else--Mrs Webb couldn't remember his
name--who is thinking of taking Craig-Morion for a time."

Her father started.

"They are going to let it?" he exclaimed, for he had all the old-world
prejudice against the modern fashion of everybody living in somebody
else's house.  "They're actually going to let it?  More shame to them--
the real birthplace of the family as it is--and just because it's small
they care nothing about it in comparison with their other houses."

"But it isn't like selling it," said Betty.  "For my part, I shall be
only too delighted if they do let it.  Anything for a change, and at
worst a _chance_ of nice neighbours."

"Yes," said Lady Emma, agreeing for once, not uncordially, with her
daughter's point of view.  "I don't see why you need feel sore about it,
Charles.  Far better for the house to be lived in and aired, than to be
shut up in that damp dreariness."

"We do very well without neighbours," said Mr Morion hastily.  "Far
better have none than objectionable ones."

"Why should they be objectionable?" said Eira.  "There must be plenty of
nice people in the world as well as disagreeable ones."

"Yes," said Betty, "why should we take for granted that, if new people
come to Craig-Morion, they shouldn't be nice and pleasant?"

"Nice and pleasant they might be," replied her father, "in their own
world of wealth and luxury and among themselves.  But in such a case
your common-sense might tell you that it is most unlikely that they
would give a thought to your existence, or even know of it, living in
poverty as we do.  And one thing I shall never allow," he went on,
working himself up into assuredly very premature irritation, "I give you
fair warning, and that is I will allow no sort of patronising."

Not only his three daughters but even poor Lady Emma looked aghast at
this unexpected fulmination.

"It is too bad," thought the younger girls to themselves, "that we
should be scolded beforehand for a state of things which will probably
never come to pass."

"And it is no good," said Betty afterwards, when she found herself alone
with Eira, "no good trying to get up the tiniest little bit of
excitement or variety in our lives.  Papa is too bad!  I'm going to give
up trying for anything, except a sort of stupid lethargic contentment.
Perhaps that's what people mean by the discipline of life."

"I can't quite think that," Eira replied.  "Look at Francie, now.  You
can't say she's in a state of lethargic resignation.  She looks out for
any little pleasure as eagerly as for the first primroses in the
spring."  For Eira was on the whole less impressionable than Betty, or
perhaps constitutionally stronger, and therefore more able to repel the
insidious attacks of not-to-be-wondered-at depression, before which
Betty felt frequently all but powerless.

But this conversation took place later in the afternoon.  At the
luncheon table her father's bitter and hurting words incited Frances as
usual to exert her calming influence.

"It would be such a terrible pity," she thought to herself, "for papa to
begin nursing up prejudices against these possible neighbours."

"I scarcely think," she said aloud, gently, "that any people coming to
Craig-Morion _could_ altogether ignore us, or rather," with a bright
inspiration, "that it would be possible for us altogether to ignore
_them_.  Our very name would forbid it; and surely, papa, you, who know
far more of the world than any of us, would hesitate to say that even in
this material age money is everything."

Mr Morion fell unsuspectingly into the innocent little trap laid for
him by his eldest daughter.

"I have never said such a thing, or thought such a thing," he replied,
turning upon her sharply.  "Money by itself everything?  Faugh!
Nonsense!  All I say is, what every person with any common-sense must
say, that without money very few other things are worth having from a
worldly point of view.  It is certainly the oil without which no machine
can be worked, let it be the most perfect of its kind," and having
emitted these sentiments, he looked round for his family's approval,
having talked himself almost into a good humour.

"There is a great deal in what you say," murmured his wife, while
Frances remarked that she scarcely saw how it could be otherwise from a
worldly standpoint, and she did not add the second part of her
reflection, namely, Was the worldly standpoint the truest or best from
which to look out on the problems of life?  The younger girls had given
but scant attention to their father's dictum, or the comments it had
drawn forth.

As the day went on, the look of the outside world grew gloomier again.

"I really agree with you, Betty," said Eira, "that there's not much use
or satisfaction in our trying to do anything with this terrible old
room.  It _is_ so ugly!" and she gazed round her in a sort of despair.

"No," said Betty, "I don't quite think so.  It is more dull than
offensively ugly.  A few things would make a great difference--more than
you realise.  Pretty fresh muslin curtains to begin with--I think it's
the greatest mistake not to have them in winter as well as in
summer--_besides_ the thick ones, of course--and two or three big
rich-coloured rugs, and a few nice squashy sofa cushions, and--"

"My dearest child, start by providing yourself with Aladdin's lamp in
the first place," said Eira; but Betty had worked herself up into a
small fit of enthusiasm, as was her "way," and would not be snubbed.

"Yes," she went on, "I could do wonders with the room without any very
important changes; you see, its present monotony would do well enough as
a background, and--oh, Francie, do come in, and listen to my ideas about
this room."

Frances, who had been employing herself since luncheon, if not really
usefully, at least with the honest intention of being so, by writing
various letters to her father's dictation--for a new source of personal
uneasiness had lately suggested itself to Mr Morion in the shape of
fears that his eyesight was failing--Frances came forward into the room
and looked about her.

"Those trails and bunches of leaves are lovely," she said heartily,
"they make all the difference in the world, and it will all look still
prettier when the fire has burnt up a little," for one of the changeless
rules at Fir Cottage was that the drawing-room fire should only be
lighted at four o'clock.

She moved towards it as she spoke, and gave it an audacious touch with
the poker.

"Dear me, how chilly it is!" she went on.  "Aren't you both half-frozen,
or is it the change from papa's study, where I've been sitting?  He does
keep it so hot.  And oh! by-the-by, you will be interested to hear that
I've just been writing a note to his dictation making an appointment for
to-morrow with Mr Milne, for a letter came by the afternoon post saying
he was to be down here this evening for a couple of days, and would see
papa about those repairs that the bailiff couldn't order without his
authority, and--now wouldn't you like to know the name of the man who's
coming down with him?--all that old Webb told us was quite correct."

"_How_ interesting," exclaimed Eira, "how extraordinarily interesting!
Yes, of course, do tell us his name at once."

"He is a Mr Littlewood," Frances replied.  "I don't know his first
name, nor whether he is young or old, or indeed anything about him,
except that--"

"What?" said Eira quickly.

"Oh, it is only the tone of Mr Milne's letter which papa showed me.  He
seems to take for granted that we know something about this man, and
when I asked papa he said he had some vague remembrance of one of Mr
Morion's sisters having married some one of the name several years ago.
One of the elder sisters he thinks it was, so in this case Mr
Littlewood must be a middle-aged man," Frances added.

"I'm sure I don't mind in the least whether he's old or young," said
Eira, "if only they bring a little life about the place.  I only hope
they're not going to turn out invalids coming down here for perfect
quiet and rest, and all that kind of thing."

"It's sure to be something of that sort," said Betty, speaking for the
first time, rather drearily.  "What else, in the name of everything
that's sensible, would any one come to Craig Bay for?"

"Craig-Morion isn't quite the same as Craig Bay," said Eira.  "A country
house makes its own _entourage_.  There are lots of places--delightful
to stay at--which must look more isolated and out of the world than this
place does, when they are shut up.  But do tell us, does he actually say
that Mr Littlewood's going to take it?"

Frances considered.

"If you want his very words," she replied, "I think they are that Mr
Littlewood is coming to see the house with `a view to a possible
tenancy.'  Dear me! what a long day this has seemed!  Isn't it tea-time
yet?"

"It's," said Betty, peering up at the timepiece, for the room was
already growing dusky, "it's a quarter or twenty minutes past four.
There's one thing I do thank papa for," she added, speaking more briskly
at the prospect of afternoon-tea in ten minutes, "that he keeps the
clocks going correctly.  It would be too horrible if they were all
standing still and out of repair.  Frances," she went on, "it's a
worn-out subject, I'm afraid, but can you think of _any_ way in which we
three, or any one of us, could make a little money?  It has come into my
head so this afternoon how delightful it would be to brighten up this
room a little.  Even the thought of old Milne looking in makes me long
for it to be rather more like other people's."

Before this, Frances, who rarely allowed her hands to be idle, had
ensconced herself in a corner as near a window as she could manage,
anxious to benefit by the last remains of daylight for a beautiful bit
of embroidery, which represented her special fancy work, and this for
practical reasons.  Her materials were of the simplest, being merely
white lawn and embroidery cotton, with which, nevertheless, thanks to
her quickness at transferring designs, she was often able to add beauty
to her younger sisters' otherwise undecorated attire.

Before replying, she glanced at her handiwork.

"Personally, I can think of nothing but my work," she said.  "But there
are such beautiful imitations of hand embroidery nowadays that I don't
believe I should get much for it, so that really it's better to use it
ourselves; and I must say that the first thing _I_ want money for is to
help _us_ to be better dressed, rather than our drawing-room."

She looked at her sisters regretfully.  Nature had not done badly by
either of them, and each had a distinct style of her own, which,
however, even their sister's partial eyes could not but own was shown to
the very smallest advantage by the _chefs d'oeuvre_ of Miss Tobias, the
village seamstress, who spent a few days at Fir Cottage two or three
times a year for the purpose of manipulating new material, or
transmogrifying old, into clothes for the sisters' wear.

"Yes," said Betty, agreeing with the expression she saw in her sister's
eyes, "we are _atrociously_ dressed: there's no other word for it I
know; and what makes it doubly hard to bear is the old story.  If mamma
would allow us even fifteen pounds a year each, in our own hands, there
would be some hope of better things.  I am _sure_ we could manage
better, but as things are it is quite hopeless.  That was what made me
speak of this room instead of ourselves."

Frances sighed and folded up her work for the time, for there came the
welcome sound of the tea-tray and its contents.

"They both might look _so_ pretty," she thought to herself.  She watched
Betty's slight figure as she helped to arrange the cups and saucers with
her little white hands, and Eira's lovely hair as it glimmered and
glowed in the firelight.  "How is it that people will see things with
such different eyes?  If mamma _could_ but see them as I do! and how,
comparatively speaking, small effort might make them and their lives so
different."

For Frances thought a great deal more than she expressed.  She had an
almost morbid terror of adding or exaggerating any new grounds of
discontent to the two, who often seemed to her more her children than
her sisters, slight as was in reality the difference of age which
separated her from them.

An approaching rustle--somehow or other their father always announced
his advent by a rustle; this time it was that of the afternoon paper he
had just opened--made her look up in expectation of some request or
complaint.  This time, by good luck, it was the former.

"Sorry to disturb you, young ladies," he said in an unwontedly amiable
tone, "but if you'll allow me a _little_ bit of the fire, I should be
grateful.  Where is your mother?" and as at that moment Lady Emma made
her appearance, "I have a letter from Milne at last, you will be glad to
hear," he said, addressing her, "so I hope these wretched repairs will
now be seen to."

Lady Emma replied with unusual animation.  "You mean that he is really
coming down?" she said; "and what about the second arrival expected?  Is
it true that we are to have neighbours at Craig-Morion, as the girls
heard?"

"Dear, dear!" said her husband; "what incorrigible gossips women are!"
But his tone was still agreeable.  "It is true that a Mr Littlewood is
thinking of the place.  And, by-the-by, Emma, your memory may be better
than mine.  Is there not some connection between the Littlewoods and--
the Morions?"

"To be sure," said Lady Emma, a spot of colour appearing on her cheeks
with gratification at his flattering appeal.  "To be sure: the present
man's eldest sister married one of the Littlewoods of Daleshire.  No
doubt it's one of them--perhaps the very one."  But on Eira's following
up this promising beginning by further inquiries, her mother declared
herself unable to give any more particulars, and the conversation lapsed
into its usual monotonous and scarcely more than monosyllabic character.

Still, throughout the rest of the evening the sisters were conscious of
a slight stir in the moral atmosphere; very little, it must be
confessed, was enough to give them this sensation; and when the next
morning at breakfast their father announced his intention of shortening
his usual--when the weather was fine enough--afternoon constitutional,
by reason of the probability "of Milne looking in about tea-time," they
felt justified in harbouring a definite expectation of some break in the
regular routine.

The weather was somewhat milder, thanks to which and to Frances'
nursing, Eira's chilblains were decidedly on the mend, in itself enough
to raise her spirits to an extent which would appear disproportionate to
the happy beings who know not the woe and misery occasioned by these
unwelcome visitors.

Lady Emma was heard to give certain injunctions as to afternoon-tea,
which encouraged Frances to follow suit.

"You would like us to be in by four o'clock or thereabouts, I suppose?"
she said, "in case of Mr Milne's coming," for the old lawyer was
sufficiently man of the world for a little gossip with him to be a by no
means disagreeable variety.

Lady Emma looked up vaguely.

"He may only have time for a talk with your father," she replied.
"But--well, yes, you may as well be at hand.  For one thing, your father
may want you, and there's no reason why you all shouldn't be here at
tea-time as usual."

"Or not as usual," said Betty, as they ran upstairs to put on their
outdoor things.  "I warn you both that whatever _you_ do, _I_ am going
to try to make myself fit to be seen, for once, and I advise you to do
the same.  It stands to reason that if these Littlewoods are coming down
here, they'll be asking Mr Milne about possible and impossible
neighbours, and as they are connections of the other Morions, our name
must catch their attention."

"And we certainly don't want to be described as dowdy--no, I won't say
old maids--but getting on in that direction sort of people," said Eira.
"Yes, Betty, I back you up.  Let's, at any rate, do the best we can.
Our best serge skirts aren't _so_ bad, as country clothes go, and we may
as well wear our black silk blouses--the ones mamma gave us when Uncle
Avone died--they're such a much better cut than poor Tobias can
achieve."

"But we're not supposed to wear them till some other old relation dies,"
said Frances.  "There are ever so many still, a generation or so older
than mamma!  It's wonderful how Irish people cling to life!  And I don't
suppose we'd get such nice blouses again in a hurry."

"Well, you needn't wear yours," said Eira; "somehow you always manage to
look better than we do!"  In which there was a certain truth, for
Frances had the advantage of superior height, and her undeniable good
looks more nearly approached beauty, though of a somewhat severe type,
than Betty's delicate sweetness or Eira's brilliant colouring.

"My old velveteen looks wonderful still by candle-light, I must allow,"
said Frances, not ill-pleased by her sister's innocent flattery, "and I
dare say mamma won't notice your blouses."

"Any way she can't scold us before old Milne," said Eira, "and I don't
care the least bit if she does after he's gone.  All I do care for is
that he should be able to speak of us with a certain amount of--not
exactly deference, nor admiration, nor even appreciation, but simply as
not being completely `out of the running,' we may say, so far as
appearance goes."

The result of this confabulation was not altogether unsatisfactory.  The
two younger girls, at least, had a certain childlike pleasure in the
sensation of being better dressed than usual, which was not without a
touch of real pathos, being as far removed from any shadow of vanity or
even self-satisfaction as could be the case in feminine nature.

They were sitting in the drawing-room in the half-light of the quickly
waning day, brightened by the ruddy reflections from a much better fire
than usual, when their mother came in hastily, glancing round with her
short-sighted eyes.

"Frances," she said, "are you there?  I told you to be ready.  Your
father has just looked out of his study calling for you, and I said I
would send you."

Frances started up, not hastily--her movements were never hasty, but had
a knack of inspiring the onlooker with a pleasant sense of readiness, of
completed preparation for whatever she was wanted for.

"I am here, mamma," she said.  "I will go to the study at once.  Is papa
alone?"

"Of course not," said her mother, "Mr Milne has been with him for quite
half-an-hour.  I was just wondering if we should ring for tea."

"I will go to the pantry, if you like," said Betty, "and see that it's
quite ready, so that the moment you ring it can come in."

Frances by this time had already left the room, but she returned again
almost immediately.

"It was only some papers that papa couldn't find," she said, "but he's
got them now.  They're just coming in to tea; shall I ring for it,
mamma?"

Betty and the tea-tray made their appearance simultaneously, as did the
lamps, and a moment or two later Mr Morion and his visitor crossed the
little hall to the drawing-room.

Lady Emma greeted Mr Milne with what, for her, was unusual affability;
the truth being that she was by no means devoid of curiosity as to the
talked-of changes at the big house, though she would have scorned direct
inquiry on the subject.  The old lawyer glanced kindly at the two
younger girls, saying to himself as he did so that their appearance had
decidedly altered for the better.

"Not that they were ever plain-looking," he reflected, "but they seem
better turned out somehow--a touch less countrified."

And he felt honestly pleased, for he had known the young people at Fir
Cottage the greater part of their lives, and it had often struck him
that their lines could scarcely be said to have fallen in pleasant
places.

"You have brought us rather better weather," said Frances, when her
mother's first remarks had subsided into silence.  It seemed to her that
Mr Milne's manner was a trifle preoccupied, and neither Mr Morion nor
his wife could be said to possess much of the art of conversation.

"Yes, really?" replied the lawyer.  "I'm glad we put off a day or two in
that case, for much depends on first impressions of a place."

"You are not alone, then?" said Lady Emma; and three pairs of ears, at
least, listened eagerly for his reply.

"Why, don't you remember, my dear?" said Mr Morion, intercepting it.
"I told you that Milne was coming down with a Mr Littlewood, who is
thinking of renting Craig-Morion for a time.  By-the-by," he went on,
"what does he think of the place?"

"He's taken by it, decidedly," said the lawyer, "and though my clients
have no very special reason for letting it, still they will not be sorry
to do so.  A house always deteriorates more or less if left too long
uninhabited, and--"

At that moment came the unusual sound of the front door bell ringing--an
energetic ring too, as if touched by a hand whose owner neither liked
nor was accustomed to being kept waiting.

CHAPTER FOUR.

BETTY IN ARMS.

Mr Milne started to his feet half involuntarily.

And--"He has been expecting this summons," thought Frances.

"I am afraid," he said, turning to his hostess apologetically, "I am
afraid I must not allow myself to enjoy a cup of your excellent tea, for
that must be Mr Littlewood.  He's been looking round the place with the
bailiff this afternoon, and we arranged that he should call for me here,
as we have a good deal of business before us this evening; so may I ask
you to excuse--"

"By no means," said Mr Morion in a tone of unwonted heartiness.  "We
can't think of excusing you, Milne.  On the contrary, can you not ask
Mr Littlewood to join us?  A few moments' delay in tackling your
business cannot possibly signify."

The three pairs of ears could scarcely credit what they heard, the three
pairs of eyes exchanged furtive glances, while Lady Emma murmured
something vaguely civil by way of endorsement of her husband's proposal.

It was the lawyer who hesitated.  To tell the truth, knowing the
peculiarities of his present host as he did, he had been feeling during
the last quarter of an hour somewhat nervous, and he now devoutly wished
that he had not suggested Mr Littlewood's calling for him at Fir
Cottage, seeing that his talk with Mr Morion had been so much longer
than he had anticipated.

"I should not have let myself be persuaded to come in to tea," he
thought, "and then I could have met Littlewood just outside."

And now his misgivings, thanks to Mr Morion's unusual amiability,
turned in the other direction.

"Ten to one," so his inner reflections ran on, "Littlewood will be
annoyed at being asked to come in."  For by way of precautionary excuse
for any possible surliness on the part of the representative Morion of
the neighbourhood, should he and the stranger come across each other,
poor Mr Milne had thought it politic to describe Fir Cottage and its
inmates in no very attractive terms.

"I think, perhaps," he began aloud, addressing his hostess, and rising
as he spoke, "I think perhaps I had better not suggest Mr Littlewood's
joining us, though I shall take care to convey to him your kind wish
that he should do so.  I have been decoyed," with a smile in his host's
direction, "into staying an unwarrantable time already, and as I must
positively return to town to-morrow morning, I have really a good deal
of work to get through to-night."

Lady Emma would have yielded the point, and was beginning to say
something to that effect, when her husband interrupted her.  Mr Morion
was nothing if not obstinate, and now that the fiat had gone forth that
the stranger was to be admitted, enter he must at all costs.

"Nonsense, my good sir," he said, in what for him was a tone of light
jocularity.  "There now!  I hear them answering the door and your friend
inquiring for you.  Just ask him to come in," and he opened the
drawing-room door as he spoke.  "I'll step out with you myself."

There was no longer any getting out of it for Mr Milne.  He hurried
forward with the intention of an explanatory word or two with Mr
Littlewood, but in this he literally reckoned without his host, for Mr
Morion was at his heels, and there was nothing for it but a formal
introduction on the spot.

"Pray, come in," said Mr Morion; "we are just having tea.  My wife and
daughters are in the drawing-room," he said, with a wave of his hand in
that direction, "and Mr Milne always pays us a visit when he comes
down."

The newcomer glanced at the lawyer in some surprise.  This was scarcely
the boorish hermit who had been described to him.  All the same, he was
not desirous of embarrassing himself with the acquaintanceship of this
family, whose very existence he had almost ignored, or at least
forgotten, till Mr Milne took occasion to refer to them.

But the afternoon was drawing in to evening; it was raw and chilly
outside, and disagreeably draughty in the doorway where he stood, and
the prospect of a hot cup of tea was not without its attraction.

"Thanks, many thanks," he said.  "We haven't long to spare, but I should
be sorry to hurry Milne," and so saying he entered the little hall.

In the drawing-room, meantime, the suppressed excitement of the two
younger of its four inmates was increasing momentarily, Eira, indeed,
being so far carried away by it as to approach the half-open door, or
doorway, so as to lose no word of the colloquy taking place outside.

"Betty!  Frances!" she exclaimed, though in a whisper, her cheeks
growing momentarily pinker, "he's coming in!  I do believe he's coming
in, and his voice doesn't sound as if he were old at all.  He's tall,
too, and"--with another furtive jerk of her head--"as far as I can see,
I do believe he's _very_ good-looking."

Frances was springing forward with uplifted finger, in dismay at Eira's
behaviour, when for once, to her relief, her mother took the matter out
of her hands.

"Eira," she said quickly, so that, even if her voice had been overheard
by those outside, no chiding tone could have been suspected, "Eira, I am
really ashamed of you.  Sit down quietly and take your tea."

Eira obeyed without a word, feeling, in point of fact, rather small; so
no signs of agitation were discernible in the little group as the door
was thrown open more widely to admit of Mr Morion ushering in his
guests, the stranger naturally first.

"I have persuaded Mr Littlewood to join us for a few moments," said the
master of the house, as he introduced him to his wife.  "Frances,
another cup of tea, if you please."  And Betty quietly rang the bell as
he spoke, returning immediately to her seat near the large table, on
which was placed a lamp.

Mr Littlewood glanced at her, and then at her sisters, without
appearing to do so.

"Milne has not much power of description," he thought to himself; "if
they were decently dressed they would not be bad-looking girls;
indeed,"--and for a moment his glance reverted to Betty.

He would have been quite ready to open a conversation with her or with
any of them, but, humiliating as it is to confess it, both the younger
girls were by this time consumed by an agony of shyness.  It was to
Frances as she handed him some tea that he addressed his first
observation--some triviality about the weather, to which she replied
with perfect self-possession, taking the first opportunity of drawing
her mother into the conversation, for such a thing as independent action
on the part of even the eldest daughter would certainly have been
treated by her parents as a most heinous offence.

By degrees Betty and Eira gained courage enough to glance at the
stranger, now that his attention was taken up by their mother and
sister.

He was young and--yes--he was decidedly good-looking.  Rather fair than
dark, with something winning and ingratiating about his whole manner and
bearing, in spite of the decided tone and air of complete
self-possession, if not self-confidence--almost amounting to lordly
indifference to the effect he might produce on others.

As in duty bound, Mr Littlewood responded at once to Lady Emma's first
remark--some commonplace inquiry as to whether this was his first visit
to that part of the country.

"Yes," he replied, "practically so, though my mother informs me that as
children we spent some months in this neighbourhood, but I don't
remember it.  That's to say, I remember nothing of the country, though I
do recollect the house and garden, which seemed to me all that was
charming and beautiful--and mysterious too.  The garden was skirted by a
wood, fascinating yet alarming.  Children's memories are queer things."

"Do you think it was near here?" said Frances, "anywhere about Craig
Bay?  If so, it would be interesting to revisit it."

Betty and Eira glanced at her in mute admiration.  How could she have
the courage to address this exceedingly smart personage with such ease
and self-possession?  Nor did the manner of his reply diminish their
wonder.  He seemed to look at Frances as if he had not seen her before,
though at the same time no one could possibly have accused him of the
slightest touch of discourtesy.

"I haven't the vaguest idea," he said, "and there would be small chance
of my recognising the place if I did see it."

"How does Craig-Morion strike you?" asked Lady Emma, and the well-bred
indifference of her tone was greatly appreciated by Betty and Eira, who
by this time had labelled the newcomer as "horridly stuck-up and
affected."

"Craig-Morion?" he repeated.  "Oh, I think it may serve our purpose very
well for the time.  Of course it _should_ have a complete overhauling,
but Morion doesn't think it worth while to do much to it, and,
substantially speaking, it's not in bad repair.  I think, however, I
shall be able to report sufficiently well of it to make my sisters--or
sister more probably--come down to see it for themselves."

Even Lady Emma was slightly nettled at his tone of half-contemptuous
approval of the place which to the family at Fir Cottage represented so
much.

"It is a pity," she said, speaking more stiffly than before, "that the
head of the family should never live at what was--is--really their
original home."

Mr Littlewood raised his eyebrows.

"Why should he?" he said carelessly; "he's got everything in the world
he wants at Witham-Meldon and at his Scotch place.  He'd feel this
awfully out-of-the-world."

This last speech was too much for the feelings of one person in the
company.  Shyness disappeared in indignation, and, to the utter
amazement of her audience, Betty's voice, pitched in a higher key than
usual, broke the silence.

"I think," she said, while a red spot glowed on each cheek, "I think
it's a perfect shame and utterly unfair that any one should own a place
which they never care to see; and of course it is _actually_ unfair, as
everybody knows it should be ours!"

"Betty?" murmured Eira, as if she thought her sister had taken leave of
her senses.

"Betty!" repeated Lady Emma and Frances in varying tones of amazement
and reproof, while Mr Morion and the lawyer abruptly stopped talking,
as they turned round to see what in the world was happening.

Only Mr Littlewood smiled, as he might have done with amusement at a
sudden outburst from a silly child, which stung her still more; and
without vouchsafing another word, she rose quickly and left the room,
followed by the stranger's eyes, while an expression half of perplexity,
half of concern, overspread his face.

"I am afraid," he began, somewhat ruefully, though the smile still
lingered, "I am afraid I have unwittingly annoyed the--the young lady--
your sister, I suppose?" he added to Frances, who had half started up
with the instinctive wish to put things somehow to rights.

"Oh, no," she said, half nervously, far more afraid of the parental
displeasure than caring for what the stranger might think.  After all,
his face was pleasant and kindly, and how could he know what the very
name of Craig-Morion meant to _them_?  "Oh, no, it won't matter at all.
We are terribly stay-at-home people, you see, and Craig-Morion seems a
sort of earthly Paradise to us!"

"Nonsense, Frances!" said her father harshly.  "Betty is a foolish,
spoilt child, and must be treated accordingly.  Don't give another
thought to it, Mr Littlewood."

The young man murmured something intended to be gracious, indeed
apologetic, though his words were not clearly heard, and then with a
feeling of relief he turned to Frances with an instinct that here was
the peace-maker.

"You will tell her how sorry I am," he said in a low voice, for the
vision of Betty's troubled little face as she passed him in her swift
transit across the room was not to be quickly banished from his mind's
eye.

Frances nodded slightly with a smile, Lady Emma's attention being by
this time happily distracted by some tactful observation from Mr Milne,
who, to confess the truth, was not a little amused by what had just
passed.  And a few moments later the two visitors took their leave, the
old lawyer shaking hands punctiliously with the four members of the
family present; Mr Littlewood contenting himself with a touch of his
hostess' cold fingers, a more cordial clasp of Frances' hand, and a
vague bow in the direction of Eira, still in the sheltered corner so
abruptly deserted by Betty.

Mr Morion accompanied his guests to the hall door, leaving, by his
studied urbanity, the impression in Mr Littlewood's mind that the
master of Fir Cottage was far less of a bear than the lawyer had
depicted him.

This opinion would probably have been modified had he been present at
the scene which ensued in the drawing-room when the head of the house
rejoined his wife and daughters, who listened in silence to his not
altogether unjustifiable irritation against Betty, for as he went on he
worked himself up, as was his way, to exaggerated anger, concluding with
a comprehensive command that, till she could learn to behave properly to
her father's guests, he must insist on Lady Emma's banishing the culprit
to her own quarters when any visitors were present.  Not that this
command was in reality as severe as it sounded, judging at least by past
experiences at Fir Cottage, where visitors were scarcely if ever to be
found, and the deprivation of seeing such as on rare occasions were
admitted was certainly not what Betty would have considered a
punishment.

Poor Betty! punishment indeed was little needed by her at the present
time.  Up in the room which she shared with Eira, she was lying
prostrate on her little bed, sobbing as if her heart would break, with a
rush of mingled feelings such as she had never before experienced to the
same extent.

There was reaction from the pleasurable excitement of a break in their
monotonous life, indignation at the manner and bearing of "that
detestable man;" worst of all, mortification, deep and stinging, at
having behaved, so she phrased it to herself, like "an underbred fool."
Altogether more than the poor child's nerves could stand.  And added to
everything else was the fear of what lay before her in the shape of
reproof, cutting and satirical, from her father.  She would have given
worlds to undress and go to bed, and thus avoid facing her family with
swollen eyes, from which she felt as if she could never again drive back
the tears.

"How I wish I could leave home for good!" she said to herself.  "I don't
believe Frances and Eira would miss me much, and papa would have one
less to scold.  At least I wish I could go away just now rather than
risk meeting that man again, and if his people do come here it will be
unendurable.  Even if they condescend to be civil to us, there would be
the terrible feeling of being patronised and probably made fun of behind
our backs.  It is too late for us to improve now, we are not fit for
decent society; at least Eira and I are not, and poor Frances would
suffer tortures if--"

A knock at the door interrupted the depressing soliloquy.

"Come in," said Betty, hoping that in the gloom her disfigured face
might escape notice, and jumping up as she spoke, she hurried across to
the dressing-table, where she pretended to be busying herself in
rearranging her hair.

It was Frances who came in.  For the first moment Betty felt
disappointed that it was not Eira, but when the kind elder sister came
forward and threw her arms round her, saying tenderly and yet with a
little smile:

"My poor, silly little Betty, this is what I was afraid of.  You really
_mustn't_ take it to heart in this way.  You poor little things making
yourselves look so nice, and for it to end like this, though after all
it is more to be laughed at than cried over."

"No, no, it isn't, Francie," sobbed Betty, hiding her face on her
sister's shoulder.  "I've disgraced myself and all of us, and it's no
good your trying to say I haven't.  I don't know what came over me to
say what I did."

"I think it was not unnatural," said Frances; "even mamma was slightly
ruffled by Mr Littlewood's tone, and yet--I'm _quite_ sure he didn't in
the least mean to hurt us.  How could he?  We are complete strangers to
him, and we were doing our best to be hospitable and--and nice.  And--he
has a good sort of face, and kind, straightforward eyes, in spite of
his--I scarcely know what to call it--ultra-fashionableness, which seems
to us like affectation."

Betty was interested, in spite of herself, by her sister's comments.

"All _I_ feel," she said, "is the most earnest hope that we may never
see him again, and that his people will not take Craig-Morion."

"Come now, Betty, don't be exaggerated," said Frances.  "By the way, he
left a message with me for you: it was to say that he was _very_ sorry
if he had annoyed you, and he said it so simply that it made me like him
better than I had done before; and he took care that no one else should
hear it, which was thoughtful too."

"I don't see that it much matters," answered Betty, too proud to show
that she was a little mollified, in spite of herself.  "Heaven knows
_what_ I'm not going to have to bear from papa."

"Well, dear," said Frances, "you must just bear it as philosophically as
you can.  It may be a good lesson in self-restraint.  And after all
there is _no_ lesson of more importance.  I don't agree with you in
hoping that we may never see this Mr Littlewood again; on the contrary,
far the best thing would be to get to know him a little better, so that
any sore feeling you have--"

"Any sore feeling indeed!" interrupted Betty, with a groan, "I'm sore
feeling from top to toe.  It seems as if I should scarcely mind what
papa says in comparison with this wretched hateful disgust at having
lowered myself so."

Frances smiled.

"That _will_ all soften down," she said, "see if it doesn't; and perhaps
papa won't be so down upon you as you expect."

Nor was this encouragement without grounds, for in the interval between
his first burst of irritation and Frances' seeking her sister, Lady Emma
had exerted herself with some success to smoothing down Mr Morion's
displeasure, reminding him that Betty's family feeling could scarcely be
called ill-bred, and that it had evidently had no ill effect upon their
guest, whose tone had struck herself at first as deficient in deference.
For Betty, as has been said, was her mother's favourite.

On the whole, Frances' words had a soothing effect on her sister.

"Oh well, I must just bear it, I suppose, even if he is very down upon
me, for this time I can't say that I was blameless, and, compared to the
terrible feeling as to what that man must think of me, it doesn't seem
to matter.  Oh, Frances, how I do hope and pray those people won't come
down here!  And only a few hours ago I should have been so disappointed
at the idea of the whole thing falling through.  Frances," she went on
again after a moment or two's silence, "do you know I don't believe they
_would_ come if they knew everything."

Frances looked slightly annoyed.

"I wish, dear," she said, "that you and Eira wouldn't let your minds run
so constantly on that old grievance.  We are not in Italy, where
vendettas go on from generation to generation; and what _would_ the
Littlewoods care as to whom the place should rightly belong?"

"I don't mean that," said Betty.  "Of course, how could that matter to
them?  I was thinking of," and here involuntarily she dropped her voice
and gave a half-timorous glance over her shoulder, "what they say about
here of the big house--about, you know, Frances, great-grand-aunt
Elizabeth's `walking,' as the country people call it."

The cloud on her sister's brow deepened.  "Betty, you promised me, you
know you did," she said, "both you and Eira promised me, that you would
leave off thinking of that silly nonsense."

"I know we did," said Betty meekly.  "I'm sure I don't want to talk
about it; the very mention of her name frightens me.  I do so wish it
wasn't mine!  For it gives me a feeling as if she had something special
to do with me.  All the same, I shouldn't be a bit sorry if that Mr
Littlewood got a good fright," and her eyes twinkled, in spite of their
swollen lids.  "If it's true that she repents of her negligence, if
negligence it was, she certainly can't feel pleased at being disturbed
by any one connected with the elder branch of the family!"

"I had no idea you were so vindictive, Betty," said Frances; "but I'm
afraid it's not likely that our poor old great-grand-aunt would have
power to oust either him or his people from her old home."

CHAPTER FIVE.

AUTUMN LEAVES.

The next day passed so uneventfully that Betty began to think that for
once the Fates had taken her at her word, and that the episode of Mr
Littlewood's visit might be forgotten without fear of their meeting him
again, to revive its annoying associations.

"He must have left with Mr Milne after all, I hope," she said on the
following afternoon, alluding to something he had said to Frances about
staying a day or two longer to see if the head-keeper's roseate account
of shooting was to be depended upon.  "Oh, I do hope he has!"

"_I_ hope he hasn't," said Eira.  "I dare say we should like him very
much if we knew him better.  I think you were absurdly exaggerated about
what he said.  And even if we didn't like him, I'd be glad of anything
for a change."

"You don't mean to say," said Betty, reproachfully, "that you still hope
these people will come here?"

"Yes, of course I do," said Eira.  "But there's Frances waiting for us,
as usual.  Oh! how glad I am that my chilblains are better."

For once the three sisters were setting off for a walk unburdened by
commissions of any kind, but as the route through the park was the
starting-point for rambles in almost every direction, they, by common
accord, turned that way and were soon at the end of the side-path which
led to the main entrance.

Somewhat to their surprise, the lodge gates were open, though neither
Mrs Webb nor her husband was to be seen, as usual, peering out like
spiders in hopes of alluring some human fly to provide them with a dish
of gossip.  Eira stood still and looked about her.

"Betty," she said, after some little scrutiny, "I don't believe your
arch-enemy _has_ left, after all."

"If so," said Frances, "I wish we hadn't come through the park.  I
certainly don't want the Morions or their friends to think we claim
right of way across it."  And she hastened her steps to regain the road
as quickly as possible.

Once on it she turned in the opposite direction from Craig Bay.

"Where are you steering for, Frances?" asked Betty.

"I don't think I quite know," her sister replied, "except that I do not
want to go to the village."

"No wonder," said Eira, "I am _so_ tired of the sight of those dreary
little shops.  In the spring there's a certain interest in them--the
looking out for the `novelties' they try to attract the visitors with."

"Yes," said Betty, "and even at Christmas they get up a little show--
good enough to tempt _me_," she went on, in her plaintive way.  "I see
lots of things I'd like to buy if only I had some money.  I know I could
trim hats lovelily for us all, if only I'd some decent materials.  Oh,
Frances, if you don't mind, do let us go through the copse: it'll be
quite nice and dry to-day, and we might get some more of those beautiful
leaves.  They're even prettier there than in the park, and as `silence
means consent,' I suppose we may take for granted that mamma has given
us negative permission to `litter the drawing-room with withered
branches!'"

"I believe," said Eira, "that at the bottom of their hearts both papa
and mamma were very glad that we had made it look so nice the day before
yesterday when those men called."

Betty groaned.

"Oh, Eira!" she ejaculated, "for mercy's sake let that wretched subject
drop.  Let's get over this stile," she added: "I've a sort of
remembrance of some lovely berries a little farther on.  There they
are!" with a joyous exclamation; "_could_ anything be prettier?  I
wonder if there is any possible way of drying them and pressing some of
the leaves without their losing colour?  I feel as if I could make our
hats look quite nice with them."

"They would last a few days, anyway, as they are," said Frances.  "But,
Betty, if you begin loading yourself already, I don't see how we can go
much of a walk."

"I know what I'm about," said Betty, as she drew out of her pocket a
sturdy pair of unpointed scissors.  "I shall cut a lot of things now and
put them ready to pick up on our way back.  One must have clear light to
choose the prettiest shades."

Some minutes passed in this occupation.  Then when her spoils were
carefully tied together, Betty having also provided herself with string,
they set off at a good pace, soon leaving the little copse behind them,
and crossing the high-road in the direction of a long hilly path ending
in a stretch of table-land which was a favourite resort of the sisters.
The grass was so short and thymy that it was rarely even damp, and on
one side the view was certainly attractive.

"I have always liked this place," said Betty, "ever since I was quite
tiny.  Do you remember, Eira, the dreams we had of catching a lamb and
taking it home for a pet?  We were to hide it somewhere or other."

"Yes," replied Eira, "in the china closet out of the nursery, and get up
in the night to play with it, and then put it to sleep in each of our
beds in turn.  It was never to grow any bigger, it was always to be a
lambkin."

"And so it has remained," said Frances, smiling, "and always will!  That
is one of the comforts of dream-life: nobody gets older, or uglier, or
anything they shouldn't.  And real life would be very dull without it."

"It's dull enough _with_ it," said Betty, "or perhaps the truth is that
we're growing incapable of it for want of material to build with."

"No," said Frances; "I don't agree with that.  `Necessity is the mother
of invention,' and when one has a real fit of castle-building one
creates the stones."

"I wish one of us were poetical," said Eira.  "I've a vague feeling that
something might be made of those ideas of yours and Betty's, Frances, if
either of you had the least knack of versification.  And then perhaps we
might send your poem to some magazine and get a guinea or half a guinea
for it.  Fancy how nice that would be!"

Betty gave a deep sigh.

"What is the matter?" said Frances.

"Oh, it's only a bit of the whole," said Betty.  "Why wasn't one of us a
genius, to give some point to life?  Just because it is so monotonous,
we are monotonous too--not the least tiny atom of a bit of anything
uncommon about us."  Frances laughed.

"I don't know about being uncommon," she said; "but assuredly, Betty,
nobody could accuse you of being monotonous!  Why, you are never in the
same mood for three minutes together!"

"But her moods are monotonous," said Eira.  "She's either up in the
skies about nothing at all, or down in the depths about--no, I can't say
that there's often nothing at all as an excuse for descending in that
direction."

Thus chattering, with the pleasant certainty of mutual understanding,
they had walked on for some distance, when a glance at the red autumn
sun already nearing the horizon made Frances decide that it was time to
turn.

"It's always extra dull to go back the way we came," said Betty, "and
to-day it's my fault, for I do want to pick up my beautiful leaves and
berries."

"We must walk quickly, then," said Frances; "or you'll scarcely be able
to distinguish your nosegay.  Dear me! the days are getting depressingly
short already."

"And then they will begin to get long again, and you will be saying how
cheering it is," said Betty.  "You are so terribly good, Francie.  I
quite enjoy when I catch you in the least little ghost of a grumble.  It
really exhilarates me."  A few minutes' rapid walking brought them to
the steep path again.  Then they crossed the road and were soon over a
stile and in the copse.  None too soon--here under the shade of the
trees it was almost dark already, and Betty's soft plaintive voice was
heard in lamentation.

"I don't believe we shall ever find the bundle," she said.  "Francie,
Eira, do help me--can you remember if it was as far on as this, or--"

"Oh, farther, some way farther," interrupted Eira.  "Much nearer the
other stile.  Don't you see--"

She started and did not finish her sentence, for at that moment a figure
suddenly made its appearance on a side-path joining the rather wider one
where the sisters were.  And, though it was almost too dark to
distinguish the action, a hand was instinctively raised to remove the
wearer's cap, and a voice, recognisable though not familiar, was heard
in greeting.

"Good-evening," it said.  "Can I be of any use?" for its owner had heard
enough to guess that the sisters had met with some small mishap.

"Oh," replied Betty, who was the first to identify the newcomer, "no,
thank you.  It's only Frances," with a significant change of tone, "it's
Mr Littlewood."

Frances, self-possessed as usual, came forward quietly and held out her
hand.

"We are hunting for some lost treasures," she said, "which it is too
dark to distinguish."

"Anything of value?" he said quickly, glancing about him.

His tone of concern was too much for Eira's gravity.  A smothered laugh
added to Mr Littlewood's perplexity, for Eira's person had till now
been hidden behind some bushes where she was groping to help her sister
in her search.  Frances turned upon her rather sharply, for, despite her
comforting tone to Betty two evenings before, she had no wish for any
further gaucherie on the part of her sisters.

"What are you laughing at, Eira?" she said, and then, without waiting
for an answer, she went on in explanation to Mr Littlewood: "Oh, no,
thank you; nothing of value in one sense.  It's only a large bunch of
shaded leaves and berries that we gathered on our way out: they were too
heavy to carry, so we hid them somewhere about here, and now we can't
find them--it has got so dark."

Mr Littlewood smiled.

Perhaps it was fortunate that only Frances was near enough to him to
perceive it.  He was turning towards the hedges where the two younger
girls were still poking about, when a joyful cry from Betty broke the
momentary silence.

"Here they are!" she exclaimed.  "Help me to get them out, Eira;" which
Eira did so effectually that there was no occasion for the young man's
offered help.

And once laden with her booty, a share of which she bestowed on her
sister, Betty hurried onward, Eira accompanying her, leaving Frances to
dispose of Mr Littlewood as she thought well.

He did not intend to be disposed of just at once.  As Frances walked on
slowly towards home in her sisters' rear, he suited his step to hers
with an evident intention of beguiling the way with a little
conversation.

"I'm afraid," he began, with a touch of hesitation which scarcely seemed
consistent with his ordinary tone and bearing, "I am afraid that your--
your sister--I do not know if she is the youngest?--has not quite
forgiven me for my stupid speech the other day."

Frances tried to answer lightly, but in her heart she felt annoyed with
Betty.

"I hope she is not so silly," she replied.  "More probably she is still
vexed with herself for having taken offence at--at really nothing."

"Nothing in intention, most assuredly," he replied, with a touch of
relief in his tone.  "But still, she _was_ annoyed.  And--if I am not
making bad worse--would you mind giving me some idea, Miss Morion, what
it was that she referred to?  In case, you see, of my people coming down
here, as seems very probable, it would be just as well--it might avoid
friction if I understood just a little how the land lies."  Frances
hesitated.

"It is such an old story," she said, "and rather an involved one, and
really not of any interest except to ourselves!"

"I don't know that," he replied quickly.  "To tell you the truth--_you_
mustn't be vexed with me--I asked Milne about it, but he was rather
muddled, I think.  Possibly he scarcely felt free to explain it, so he
ended up by saying he was too busy to go into it then, all of which, of
course, whetted my curiosity."

There was something _naif_, almost boyish, in his manner, which Frances
had not before been conscious of, and it gave her a feeling of greater
sympathy with him.

"There is really no secret or mystery of any kind," she said.  "I mean
nothing that I could have the least hesitation in telling you, or any
one who cared to hear.  Though a mystery there is, a commonplace enough
one too, I suppose: a lost or hidden will!  It was long ago--" but by
this time they were at the stile, over which the two younger girls had
already clambered, and now stood waiting on the road, evidently
expecting that at this juncture their companion would take himself off.

"It's getting so chilly, Frances," said Betty, "I think we had better
walk quicker."  With which faint approach to apology for her abruptness,
she was starting off, when Mr Littlewood interposed.

"Why don't you go through the park?" he said.  "I thought you always
did.  It must make quite half a mile's difference."

"Yes," said Frances, "it does.  Come back to the lodge, Betty and Eira!"
for she felt it would look too ridiculous to depart from their usual
habit merely because this young man happened to be staying a night or
two at the big house.  Furthermore, she was conscious that her companion
was really anxious to hear what she had to tell, and if she and the
others went home by the road, he would scarcely have a pretext for
accompanying them.

"Oh, Frances," said Betty, "I think at this time of day the road is much
the best.  It's so gloomy in the park."

"Only the last little bit," replied her sister, with a certain
intonation which the younger ones understood, "and it is considerably
shorter."

"And," interposed Mr Littlewood, so quickly as to seem almost eager,
"you will of course allow me to see you through the gloomy part."

"Thank you," said Frances courteously, "it is not that we are the least
afraid.  We are far too well accustomed to looking after ourselves, and
this is not a part of the country much frequented by tramps, I am glad
to say."

She had turned already, however, in the direction of the big gates, so
there was no occasion for further discussion, and the old programme was
soon resumed, Betty and Eira hurrying on well in front, though not so
far in advance but that a faint sound of laughter--laughter with a touch
of mischief or mockery in it which made their elder sister's cheeks burn
with annoyance--from time to time was carried back by the breeze to the
ears of the two following more slowly.  This made Frances the more
anxious to divert her companion's attention from her sisters.

"I really must pull them up when we get home," she thought to herself.
"They will have no one but themselves to thank for it if Mr Littlewood
puts them down as a couple of silly school-girls."

She was turning over in her mind how best to revert to the subject of
their conversation before Betty's interruption, when, to her relief, her
companion himself led the way to it.

"Won't you go on with what you were telling me?" he said, with a slight
touch of diffidence, "that is to say, if you are sure you don't in the
least mind doing so.  Perhaps you wouldn't think so of me," he went on,
"but there's something of the antiquary about me.  Old bits of family
history always have a fascination for me."

"_This_ bit," said Frances, "is, as I was saying, rather commonplace.
It is simply that an ancestress of ours--no, scarcely an ancestress--a
certain Elizabeth Morion, a grand-aunt of my father's, in whom the whole
of the family possessions at that time centred, played _his_ father
false by promising what she never did.  That is, by leaving a will which
gave everything to the elder of her two nephews, the--yes, the
great-grandfather of your--" here she hesitated and looked up
inquiringly.  "What is the present Mr Morion to you, by-the-by?" she
asked.

"Nothing, nothing whatever," said Mr Littlewood.  "A brother's
brother-in-law is no relation."

"N-no," Frances half agreed, "but it's a connection.  Let me see, your
brother married his sister?"

"Yes, that's it," he answered.  "Ryder Morion's sister is my
sister-in-law.  There, now, that puts it neatly.  Then, this capricious
spinster broke her word to your grandfather, did she?"

"Well, yes, we must suppose so, unless--there has always been the
alternative possibility that she _did_ make the right will, and that it
got lost or mislaid."

"H-m-m!" murmured Mr Littlewood thoughtfully.  "I suppose that does
happen sometimes, but rarely, I should think.  I don't know if I have
peculiarly little faith in human nature, but in a general way there's
been something worse than accident at work in such cases.  Was the old
lady on good terms with both nephews?"

"I believe so," Frances replied.  "Though she was much more in awe of
the elder.  He had made an extremely good marriage, and, besides coming
into the more important Morion place, his wife had heaps of money.  I
have always thought," she went on, "that great-grand-aunt Elizabeth was
a little afraid of telling him that she had left this property, small as
it is, away from him.  For, you see, it has the family name; yet, elder
branch though they are, its owners have never cared for it.  So," with a
slightly rising colour which it was too dark for him to see, and a
half-deprecating tone in her voice which he was quick to hear, "there is
some excuse for the way we feel about it, though certainly Betty need
not have blurted it out as she did the other day for your benefit!"

"On the contrary," exclaimed her companion, "I enter most thoroughly
into her feelings.  And it is delightful to come across some one that
isn't afraid to speak out her mind.  But--now, do scold me if I am
indiscreet--considering these very natural feelings, which your father
must realise to the full, is it not rather a pity to have settled down
here, in constant, hourly view of what should have been your home?"

"Well, yes," said Frances, "on the face of it I can understand it
striking you so, but circumstances often lead up to the very things one
would originally have avoided.  So it has been with us.  My grandfather
bought our present little house, which did not belong to the Morions
though surrounded by the property, for a very small sum: he kept a sort
of foothold in the place I fancy, in case--just _in case_--of the will,
in whose existence he never lost faith, turning up; and also perhaps out
of a sort of not unnatural self-assertion.  And when papa retired--he
was many years in India, you know, and married rather late--it seemed
the best place for us to come to.  We three were tiny children, and
Anglo-Indians of all people believe in country air for their children,
and here we have been ever since, our income, unfortunately, having
creased as time went on, instead of improving."

For a moment or two Mr Littlewood walked on in silence.  He was really
of an impressionable nature, despite appearances, and the girl's simple
words told him even more than she was conscious of.

"Dull little lives," he thought to himself.  "Poor children!  If my
people come down here they must try to do something for them, though I
see it must be done with tact.  Dear me! what a clumsy fool I must have
seemed to that sweet little Betty."

Then turning to Frances:

"Thank you," he said gently, "thank you so much for telling me about it.
I quite see the whole thing.  I wonder," he went on, with a slight
laugh, "I wonder if anything will turn up some day?"

"Oh, no," said Frances, "it's far too long ago now.  We amuse ourselves
sometimes by building castles in the air about it, but I am not sure
that it is a very wholesome occupation."

"It would be very good fun," said the young man, "if our living in the
house somehow led to any discovery!  By-the-by," he added suddenly, "it
would make a splendid groundwork for a ghost story.  If the old lady is
repentant for breaking her word, she shouldn't be having a peaceful time
of it; or even if she were not to blame, and the will were in existence,
that's the sort of thing ghosts should come back to set right, isn't
it?"

"Well, yes," said Frances, "I suppose so, but the queer thing about
ghosts is that they so much more often appear for no reason than for a
sensible one."  But there was a certain repression in her tone which
returned to his mind afterwards.

They had crossed the park by this time, and were close to the door into
the road, where a little way farther on stood Fir Cottage.  The voices
of the two girls in front sounded softly now, and here in this more
sheltered spot the evening breeze had grown gentle and caressing in its
dainty touch.  The moon, too, had come out, and the whole feeling of the
evening breathed peace and restfulness.

"It scarcely seems like late autumn now, does it?" said Frances.  "And,
oh!" she went on, "isn't the glimpse of the old church pretty, Mr
Littlewood?"

From where they stood, the windows at one side and the ivy-covered tower
of the venerable building, more picturesque than beautiful in the full
daylight, had caught the silvery gleam.

"Yes," he agreed, "it looks at its best, doesn't it?  If Ryder was more
here, he'd have gone in for restoring it by now; and, inside, I must
say, it would be an improvement, though it would almost seem a pity to
tear down that ivy.  I looked over it this morning."

"Oh, did you?" said Frances.  "It is getting to be almost a survival.
The day must come, I suppose, for overhauling it, if it is to hold its
own much longer.  Papa says the masonry is becoming very bad.  I should
like to see it really well done, though I am heathen enough to have a
queer affection for it as it stands."

"Do the visitors from Craig Bay come up here?"  Mr Littlewood inquired.

"Not regularly," Frances replied.  "There is a very modern, tidy little
church near the station.  Were you thinking of funds for restoring this
one when you spoke of the visitors?  Our old vicar is too old, I
suppose, to take any interest in doing it up, otherwise something might
be done."

"Oh, _funds_ can't be the difficulty," said Mr Littlewood quickly.
"Ryder Morion has far more money than he knows what to do with.  I dare
say he has restored other people's churches more than once; that sort of
thing is rather in his line."

"Then, why doesn't he begin at home?" asked a clear voice, startling
them a little.  It was Eira's.  Frances and Mr Littlewood, gazing at
the church, which stood just outside the park wall in the opposite
direction from Fir Cottage, had not observed that the two younger girls
had retraced their steps some little way, and now were standing close
behind them.

Again Frances felt annoyed, though she could not help being glad that
this time the offender was not Betty.  But her companion was on his
guard: he answered gently, in a matter-of-fact tone, of itself
conciliatory, "You may well ask.  I shall tell Ryder what I think about
it when I see him," he said.  "Why, he has never been here that any of
you can remember, has he?"  There was no immediate reply.  It was,
naturally enough, a trifle mortifying that on the few occasions--rare
enough, it must be allowed--on which the owner of Craig-Morion had
visited the place, he had taken no notice, direct or indirect, of his
kindred at Fir Cottage.  But the three sisters were nothing if not
candid--candid and ingenuous in a very unconventional degree--and the
silence was almost immediately broken by Frances' clear, quiet voice.

"Oh, yes," she said, "he has been here several times for a few days
together, but we don't know him at all, not even by sight."  Again Mr
Littlewood anathematised his bad luck.

"Really?" he said, with apparent carelessness.

"I can't call him exactly a genial person," he went on, "and you know, I
suppose, that his wife died a few years ago, which has not made him less
of a recluse.  All the same,"--for the young man was on common ground
with his new friends so far as a constitutional love of candour
goes--"all the same, I'm very much attached to him.  He's been a good
friend to me in more ways than one."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Frances.  "One can never be without interest
in the head of one's family, it seems to me."

They had been strolling on during the last few moments towards their own
gate, and, there arrived, Frances held out her hand.

"Good-night, Mr Littlewood," she said simply, adding no invitation to
come in with them.

"Good-night," he repeated, shaking hands with each in turn, "but--it
need not be `Good-bye,' as I don't leave till the day after to-morrow.
Do you think Lady Emma would allow me to look in some time in the
afternoon?"

"Y-yes, I will tell her," was Frances' rather ambiguous reply; and as
the young man re-entered the park, his thoughts busied themselves with
the glimpse, the almost pathetic glimpse, he had had into these young
lives.

CHAPTER SIX.

"NOT AT HOME."

"What in the world," said Betty, "what in the whole world, Frances, did
you get to talk about to him, all that long way across the park?"

"Really, Betty," said Frances, for _her_, almost crossly, "you are too
bad!  Did I elect to have a _tete-a-tete_ with Mr Littlewood?  If it
were worth while I might blame you and Eira seriously for the way you
behaved--like two--"

Betty was on the point of interrupting with some vehement repetition of
the dislike she had taken, and that not causelessly, to their uninvited
visitor, when a significative tug at her sleeve from Eira startled her
into silence, though thereby Frances' intended lecture made no further
way, as the interruption came from Eira instead.

"You are not to say `silly school-girls,'" she exclaimed.  "I know
that's what you were going to say.  We simply walked on because three
women and one man seem--are--so stupid.  Why does it always seem as if
there were too many women?"

"In a family where there are no brothers it couldn't very well seem
anything else," replied Frances, rather shortly; but she did not resume
her remonstrances, for by this time they were by the front door, and she
hurried into the drawing-room, where, as she expected, tea, and a
somewhat ruffled Lady Emma, were awaiting them.

"You are very late, why--" were the words that greeted her; but before
hearing more, Eira softly closed the door, holding back Betty for a
moment's confabulation in the hall.

"What is it, Eira?" said Betty impatiently.  "You tug my sleeve, and
then you pull me back when I'm tired and want some tea.  What is it you
want to say?"

"We had better leave our cloaks outside," said Eira, rapidly unbuttoning
her own garment as she spoke.  "What I want to say can't be said in a
moment, it is something too tremendous!  I only felt that I must give
you a hint to be more careful in your way of speaking about Mr
Littlewood."

"Why?" asked Betty, opening her dark eyes to their widest.

"Because," said Eira, "I am not at all sure but what a most wonderful
thing is going to happen, or, for that matter, has happened.  Betty,
suppose--just suppose--that _he_ has fallen in love with Frances."

Betty gasped, unable for a moment to articulate.

"That man!" she at last ejaculated.

"Well, why not?" returned Eira.  "_You've_ taken a dislike to him of
some kind, or you fancy you have, and of course I don't mean to say that
I think he's good enough, but still--but I can't speak about it just
now, only take care!"

She had certainly succeeded in taking Betty's breath away.  The girl
would scarcely have been capable of a coherent reply, but she was not
called upon for one.  The drawing-room door opened, and their elder
sister's voice was heard.

"Do come in to tea," she said, "and, Eira, you run and tell papa it is
ready.  I had no idea it was so late," she went on.  "Poor mamma has
been wondering what was keeping us," she added, in a deprecatory tone,
as Betty followed her into the room.

"We can't blame Mr Littlewood for it," said Betty eagerly; "we were
walking almost all the time we were talking to him, so _he_ can't have
delayed us!"

"Mr Littlewood?" repeated Lady Emma, in the high-pitched tone which
with her was one of the signs of disturbed equanimity.  "Mr Littlewood?
What is she talking about?  You don't intend to say that you have been
a walk with a--perfect stranger!  Frances, what does this mean?  I
insist on your telling me."

"I have not the very _least_ objection to telling you, mamma," said
Frances.  "In fact, I have a message for you from Mr Littlewood, which
I was just going to deliver."

Her tone was absolutely respectful, but there was a touch of coldness in
it, not without its effect on her mother.  In her heart Lady Emma not
only trusted her eldest daughter entirely, but looked up to her in a way
which showed her own involuntary consciousness of the superiority in
many ways of the girl's character to her own.  But any approach to
acknowledgment of this real underlying admiration and respect would have
seemed to her so strange and paradoxical, considering their mutual
relations, as to be almost equivalent to a reversal of the fifth
commandment.

She contented herself with replying in a calmer tone, "Did you meet Mr
Littlewood, then?  Naturally I can't understand things till you explain
them."

"Yes," Frances replied, "we met him on our way home, not in the park,
but in the little copse on the Massingham road."

"I am glad you were not in the park," said Lady Emma.

"But we did come through it after meeting him," said Frances.  "It would
have been affected to do otherwise just because he is staying at the
house, and I suppose, as he was walking our way, he could scarcely have
avoided walking on beside us.  He asked me if he might call to say
good-bye to you, mamma, to-morrow afternoon?"

The last words, unfortunately as it turned out, were overheard by Mr
Morion as he entered the room.  His wife, taught by long experience,
made no reply, so the message remained uncommented upon, unless a
doubtful grunt from the depths of the arm-chair where the master of the
house had settled himself could have been taken as referring to it.

Silence, not an unusual state of things at Fir Cottage, ensued, and as
soon as the two younger girls could escape from the room they hastened
to their own quarters, a small and in wintertime decidedly dreary little
chamber, which in old days had been used as their schoolroom.  It looked
out to the side of the house and was ill lighted.  But its propinquity
to the kitchen was, practically speaking, in cold weather no small boon,
preventing its ever becoming very chilly, for, though it boasted a
fireplace, the restrictions as to fuel formed one of the most
disagreeable economies in practice at Fir Cottage.  In summer, on the
other hand, the schoolroom was apt to become unbearably hot; but in
summer, if it is anything like a normal season, and in the country, life
usually presents itself under a very different aspect.  Such things as
fires and chilblains do not enter into one's calculations; one's own
room, in nine cases out of ten, is a pleasant resort, and even if not
so, are there not out-of-doors boudoirs by the dozen?

Dreary enough, though, the little room looked this evening, when by the
light of one candle Betty and Eira established themselves as comfortably
as circumstances allowed of, that is to say, on two little low
basket-chairs, dismissed from the drawing-room long ago as too shabby,
which had been one of their few luxuries in lessons days.  Just now,
also, the extraordinary possibilities which they were about to discuss
so filled their imaginations that the uninviting surroundings over which
they often groaned would have passed unnoticed had they been ten times
worse.  And worse they might have been most assuredly!  For one fairy
gift was shared alike by the three sisters--the gift of dainty
orderliness; and where this reigns one may defy poverty to do its worst,
for with such a background the tiniest attempt at prettiness or grace is
trebled in pleasing effect.

"Eira," said Betty in an almost awe-struck whisper, "do you really,
really mean what you said?  Do you think it _possible_?  And--" with a
touch of hesitation, quaint and almost touching in its contrast to the
outspoken treatment of such subjects by the typical maiden of to-day,
"if--if he had--fallen in love with Frances, _could_ she ever care for
him, I wonder?"

A dreamy questioning came into her eyes as she spoke.

"I don't see why she shouldn't," said Eira.  "Of course neither you nor
I can picture to ourselves _any_ man being good enough for Frances, so
we need not expect the impossible.  But taking that for granted, I don't
see why she mightn't get to care for this man.  Indeed, she has liked
him from the beginning, and stuck up for him against you.  And as men
go--of course we really don't know any, but I suppose _some_ books are
more or less true to life?--as men go, I suppose any one would consider
him very attractive."

"Perhaps," said Betty gently, for she was already beginning to see her
_bete noire_ through very different spectacles, "perhaps.  And then,"
she added, with an amusing little air of profound worldly wisdom, "he
must be rich, and made a good deal of, and all that sort of thing, and
for a man of that kind to find out what a girl really _is_, in spite of
her plain simple life, and way of dressing, and all that--though, of
course, nobody can say that Francie is not good-looking, far more than
merely pretty--don't you think, Eira, that that of itself shows that he
must have a great deal of good in him?"

"Yes," Eira agreed, "I do.  Though it doesn't do to be too humble,
Betty, even about external things.  Remember, however poor we are, that
as far as family and ancestry go we could scarcely be better.  No one
need think it a condescension to marry a Morion."

"Of course," said Betty, speaking half absently.  "Oh, Eira, how
interesting it will be when he comes to-morrow!  Do let us think what we
can do to--to show everything to advantage.  If we _could_ persuade
Francie to sing, for her voice is so lovely!"

"She never would," said Eira, "not to any one like that, who is pretty
sure to be a good judge, for she knows her voice is untrained.  Why, she
has never had a lesson in her life!  Can't we do anything about her
_dress_, however?  She always looks nice, perfectly nice, but almost too
plain, too severe, as if she had retired from the world and was above
such things as dress and looks."

"Perhaps it's just that that attracts him in her," said Betty--"the
difference, I mean, between her and the fashionable girls he is
accustomed to."

"Yes," replied Eira, "up to a certain point that's all very well, but no
man would like to have a wife, however beautiful she was, who did not to
some extent look like other people.  Betty, how could we contrive to
make her wear her own black silk blouse to-morrow?  It is even more
becoming to her than ours are, and a little handsomer.  Don't you
remember her saying when we got them that hers mustn't look too young?
She is rather absurd about her age, for certainly she doesn't look older
than twenty-four at most."

"I wonder how old Mr Littlewood is?" said Betty, thoughtfully: "I'm
_afraid_ not more than twenty-seven; and Frances is one of those people
who would think it almost a crime to marry a man younger than herself."

"We can easily keep off the subject," said Eira.  "Indeed, after he has
left, I think we had better say very little about him, though we may go
on planning all the time by ourselves, you know, how to help it on in
every possible way, once he comes back again.

"Oh, Betty!" and she clasped her hands in excitement, "isn't it nice to
have something to make plans about?"

Somewhat to their surprise and still more to their satisfaction, the two
girls found their sister, the next morning, much more amenable to their
tactfully administered suggestions than they had anticipated.

"Yes," she said simply, "I should like to make the room nice, and
ourselves too, so that he may take as favourable an impression as
possible back with him to his people and the other Morions, and you will
be careful, Betty dear, won't you, not to hoist your flag of war again?"

"Don't be afraid," said Betty, kissing her sister as she spoke.  "I see
now that I behaved idiotically, and I see too how kind he was to take it
as he did."

In their uncertainty as to the time at which their acquaintance might
call, the sisters decided on taking their usual walk in the morning, and
remaining about the premises after luncheon.  There was not much fear of
their mother's not being at home, in the literal as well as conventional
sense of the words, for Lady Emma was not given to constitutionals, or,
except on the rarest occasions, to returning the formal calls of the few
neighbours with whom she was on visiting terms, and in her heart she was
rather gratified than otherwise at the stranger's overtures, due, as she
imagined, to some extent at least, to the impression made upon him by
her own cold dignity of manner, seconded, however childishly, by Betty's
outburst of self or family assertion.

All, therefore, promised propitiously for the expected visit of
farewell, though at luncheon a not unfamiliar gloom was to be discerned
on the paternal countenance which sent a thrill through the hearts of
the two younger girls, Betty's especially, the most sensitive to such
misgivings.

"Let us keep out of his way," she whispered to Eira as they left the
dining-room: "if he had the least, the very least, idea that we wanted
to stay at home he would be sending us off on some message to that
wretched chemist's, as sure as fate!"

"But how about Frances?" said Eira, in alarm.

"I think it's all right," Betty replied.  "Both she and mamma, though
they don't perhaps say so, want it all to be nice, I feel sure.  I saw
Frances giving some finishing touches to the drawing-room, which really
looks its best, and I heard mamma saying something about tea cakes, and
you know how in reality mamma depends on Frances: _she_ won't let her go
out, even for papa."

Mr Morion's "den," as in jocund moments he condescended to call it,
opened unfortunately on to the hall, almost opposite the drawing-room.
In some moods he had a curious and inconvenient habit of sitting with
the door open, and though he sometimes complained of advancing years
bringing loss of hearing, there were times at which his ears seemed
really preternaturally acute, and this afternoon, thanks to this
peculiarity, aided possibly by some occult intuition of anticipation in
the air, he was somewhat on the _qui-vive_ for--he knew not what.
Suffice to say he was in a raw state of nervous irritability, ready to
quarrel with his own shadow, could that meek and trodden-upon phantom
have responded to his need.

Four o'clock struck, the light was rapidly waning, when he issued an
order to whatever daughter was within hearing to have tea hastened, as
he wanted it earlier than usual.

It was Frances who heard him, and she at once rang the bell, though not
without a silent regret as to this unusual precipitancy.

"For Mr Littlewood is pretty certain not to call before half-past," she
reflected, "and afternoon-tea looks so untidy when it has been up some
time."

Some little delay, however, ensued.  It was between a quarter and twenty
minutes past the hour when she summoned her sisters, hidden till then in
their little sitting-room.

"Has he come?" whispered Betty.

Frances shook her head.

"No," she replied, in the same voice, "but papa would have tea extra
early.  Help me to keep the table tidy."

Mr Morion, by this time, had taken possession of an arm-chair by the
drawing-room fire, which he pulled forward out of its place, as he was
feeling chilly.  As Frances was handing him his cup of tea the front
door bell rang.  A thrill of expectancy passed through Betty and Eira.

"Who can that be?" said their father, in a tone of annoyance.

"It is probably Mr Littlewood," said Lady Emma quietly, "calling to say
good-bye.  I was expecting him."

"Very strange, then, that you didn't mention it to me," replied her
husband acridly.  "Am I in a fit state of health to be troubled with
visitors to-day?  Not that it signifies: he need not be admitted."

"Papa," said Frances, in a tone of remonstrance, "it will seem very
rude--he asked if he might call--we met him yesterday, and--"

But the parlour-maid's approaching footsteps were already to be heard in
the hall, and, without taking the slightest notice of his daughters
words, Mr Morion rose from his seat, and, opening the door, gave his
orders in a decided voice.

"Parker," he said, "if that is a visitor, say at once that her ladyship
is not at home, and that I am not at home either."

No one spoke.  In the perfect silence the short colloquy which ensued at
the front door was distinctly heard.  Then came the sound of its
shutting, and Parker appeared in the drawing-room with a card on a
salver, which bore the name of Mr Horace Littlewood, an address, and
added, in pencil in one corner, the letters, "_p.p.c_."

Mr Morion threw it on to the table without comment; then turned sharply
on Frances with a demand for a second cup of tea.

Frances handed it to him.  Her face had grown scarlet--a most unusual
occurrence with her.  Lady Emma leaned back in her chair with an
expressionless face.  The younger girls, sitting together, clasped each
other's hand secretly in mute, inexpressible disappointment and
indignation.  Frances, crossing the room on the pretext of handing them
their tea, glanced at them with such sympathy in her eyes as all but
upset their outward composure.  It is, indeed, to be questioned if in
Eira's case at least her tea was not mingled with unperceived tears; and
as soon as they dared to do so all three sisters left the room.

Two or three days later came the climax to the episode which had broken
the monotony of life at Fir Cottage, in anticipation even more than in
actuality.  For Frances, returning from one of the endless expeditions
to the village from which as often as possible she saved the younger
ones, came into their little sitting-room with a half-rueful,
half-comical expression on her face.

"My dear pets," she said, "I feel half-inclined to laugh at myself for
minding what I have just heard, but for once I must own to absurd
disappointment.  Mr Webb has just told me that the Littlewoods have
given up thoughts of taking Craig-Morion."

Betty and Eira gazed at her speechless.

"I had hoped," she went on, "that it would have brought some brightness,
change, at least, and variety into your lives, you poor dears."  They
glanced at each other.

"Dear Frances," said Betty at last.

"But how little--oh! how little," she said to Eira, when they were alone
again, "Frances suspects why we mind so much!"

Eira was by this time quietly wiping her eyes.

"Betty," she replied, "from this moment I give up castle-building for
ever.  Let us settle down to be three old maids--they always go in
threes--the sooner the better."

"Yes," Betty agreed, "and _some_ day, I suppose, Eira, we shall find out
how to make some use of our lives."

"I don't know," said Eira.  "I'm not as good as you and Frances.  Just
now I don't feel as if I cared!"

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE CURTAINED PEW.

There is a commonplace saying that old people love best the springtime
of the year, as it brings back the brighter memories of their youth, and
to a certain extent the sense of buoyancy which fades with increasing
age; while the young, on the other hand, love the autumn with its tender
sadness in contrast to their own joyous anticipations.  But generalities
are, after all, but generalities; there was little in the lives of the
three Morion daughters this autumn to induce them to turn with any
sentimentality or even sentiment to outside nature in its fall; there
was too much real greyness, too much real endurance of daily, hourly
depressing circumstances for them to long for anything but change.

"It wouldn't be so bad, it really wouldn't," said Eira, "if it were the
spring, but another long, long winter, when we can be so much less out
of doors; and to have had the glimpse of a chance of a break in it all
only seems to have made it worse.  Surely, Frances, without wrong
complaining and grumbling, isn't it the case that we are peculiarly
unlucky in some ways--that our lives are, I mean?  Now, supposing we had
had to work for our living, we should probably have been far happier,
don't you think?"

Frances hesitated in her reply, and a shadow clouded her face.
Unwittingly enough, Eira had touched on perplexing ground, all too
familiar to the eldest sister's thoughtful mind.  Had she done wrong or
unwisely in regard to her younger sisters?  Not very much, perhaps, had
been practically in her power, but, still, had she given too much
consideration to the right of their all too quickly passing youth, the
right of happiness, of enjoyment, of the many things that only during
youth can normally exist, and too little to the actual formation of
character, to the development of their individual capacities?  Had she
been too sorry for them, or shown it too much?  Strange reflections,
more maternal than sisterly, when the actual small amount of difference
in their ages was remembered.  But since little girlhood Frances Morion
had felt herself more mother than sister to the two younger ones.

"That's a big question, Eira," she said, trying to speak lightly.  "We
must believe that the circumstances of every life are, to a certain
point at least, meant--intended."  And her voice changed as she went on,
more slowly and seriously: "The puzzle is to find out the point at which
we should resist them, and not carry resignation or submission too far."

"There's not much puzzle about it for us," said Betty.  "We are pretty
clearly hedged in!  Papa and mamma would _never_ allow us to take any
sort of line of our own."

"Then, for the present at least," said Frances, "the line is drawn, and
I suppose if by the end of life one had learnt perfect patience one
would have learnt a good deal; but still--"

"Still what?" said Eira.

"I am not quite ready to say what is in my mind," replied her sister.
"Perhaps it will come when I have thought more about it.  Roughly
speaking, I was considering if there is nothing that we can do--nothing
that I can help you two to do, in the way of extending your interest a
little, even as things are.  And, of course, the best way to do that is
to look out for what we can reach of helping others."

"We _do_ do what we can, I think, Francie," said Eira, in a tone of some
disappointment.  "We have our Sunday-school classes, and Betty's blind
old man and my bedridden old woman that we go to read to; but beyond
that there are always the old difficulties: papa's opposition and--want
of money.  I'm sure now we could do a lot at Scaling Harbour, among the
fisher-children--such a terribly rough set--_if_ we had money and a
little more freedom."

"I know," said Frances quietly; but, though for the moment the subject
dropped, she thought the more.

And the next few weeks gave her both leisure and cause for
ever-deepening reflection.

The weather was unusually and monotonously disagreeable.  Raw, grey, and
as cold as weather can be when it just falls short of the stimulus and
exhilaration which, to the young and strong at least, usually accompany
frost.  Letters, rare at all times, dwindled down to almost none.  Even
a family chronicle from their ex-governess, now a settler's wife in the
Far West, was hailed almost enthusiastically as a welcome distraction.

"There is only one thing in the world that I have to be thankful for,"
said Eira one day, when, defiant of wind and threatening rain, they
started for their afternoon walk, "and that is, that, thanks to you,
Francie, and all the wonderful things you've done for me and made me do,
my chilblains haven't got bad again--not since--oh, yes! do you
remember?--not since the time Mr Littlewood was here."

"That's _one_ good thing," said Frances, "one very good thing.  I
sometimes think I wouldn't have made a bad woman-doctor."

"What a horrible idea!" said Betty, with a shudder.  "I hope it doesn't
mean that you ever think of becoming a hospital nurse.  If you did, I
should just simply drown myself, and make Eira do the same!"

"Hush!" said Frances.  "Don't say such things, even in fun.  No, I've no
ambition of the kind--not while I've got my own place at home, any way.
But it's rather curious you should have said that, Betty, for an idea
has come into my head of something we could do for the people at Scaling
Harbour, which really would cost us nothing, or next to nothing.  It
struck me when Mrs Ramsay"--(the ex-governess)--"sent me that
commission for a few simple surgical books, to teach her to know what to
do out there in case of accidents, which she says are always happening."

"And certainly, by all accounts," said Eira, with interest, "they are
always happening at Scaling Harbour.  But what is your idea?"

"It is not very definite yet," said Frances.  "Only the first steps
towards it.  What I am thinking of is, if we could use part of this
winter, when we have so much time on our hands, for teaching ourselves
the elements of surgical aid, and then when we have, to some extent,
mastered it, to give simple little lectures--lessons, rather--to the
fisher-women down there once a week or once a fortnight."

Eira's eyes brightened.

"Yes," she said, "I would like that!  There is something, I think, very
attractive about those people; something a trifle wild, almost foreign.
They do say, you know," she went on, "that there's a strain of Spanish
descent among them; and, in any case, they are quite unlike the inland
people about here, who are peculiarly dull and phlegmatic."

"_I_ should be frightened to go much among them," said Betty.

"Possibly," went on Frances, "we might persuade mamma to let two or
three of them come up to us a few times.  We could teach them a little
of the practical part in the first place, and get to know them, and then
they might talk about it to their neighbours.  To begin with, all we
want is one or two sensible books, or possibly, a set of ambulance
lessons by correspondence.  I think I have heard of such things."

"They would be sure to cost a lot of money," said Betty, who was
evidently not inclined to take an optimistic view of the scheme.

"Don't be such a wet blanket, Betty," said Eira.  "We can but try."

"And even if we couldn't manage it just now," said Frances, "something
might make it feasible after a time.  It might prove the getting in the
thin end of the wedge; you know papa and mamma sometimes come round to
things if we wait long enough for--for them to get accustomed to the
idea, as it were."

"And when that time comes," said Betty dolorously, "all the interest of
the thing we wanted has gone."

"O Betty, do not croak so," said Eira; "it'll depend on ourselves to
keep up the interest by talking about it."

"Yes," said Frances, "you are quite right, though I _have_ noticed that
pleasant things seldom come quickly, and troubles and disappointments
do.  It isn't often that one has some quite delightful surprise!  Nice
things either come in bits, so that you scarcely realise the niceness,
or else they are pulled back when you feel sure of them, so that, even
if they come after all, the bloom seems taken off."

"Dear me, Frances," said Eira, glancing up at her with a smile, "you are
quite a pessimist for once."

"No--no," returned Frances.  "I don't mean to be.  I was really thinking
about it to myself and wondering why it is so.  When there appears to be
a sort of rule about anything, you can't help beginning to hunt for the
reason of it."

"The rule with us," said Betty, still in the same plaintive tone,
"according to the old saying, is no rule, for the exceptions never
appear."

Both Frances and Eira laughed.

"Why, Betty, you are becoming quite paradoxical, inspired by
melancholy," exclaimed the latter; but not the ghost of a smile was to
be raised this afternoon on Betty's pretty little face.

"I suppose it's very wrong of me," she said, "but I do feel cross and
dull.  Even these horrid, dirty roads, and this detestable wind, add to
it all.  It's scarcely worth while coming out, except that there's
nothing to do indoors."

"I really think it's no use attempting a long walk," said Frances.  "Let
us turn here, and get home by the other road, past the church; it will
be a little more sheltered."

"If the church were open and decently warm," said Eira, "like the little
new one in the village, it would be rather nice to go in there
sometimes.  I'm not imaginative, but I can fancy things in there.  Even
the mustiness, the very _old_ smell, carries one back in a fascinating
way.  I always begin thinking of great-grand-aunt Elizabeth, though I've
no love for her!  But she must have been young once upon a time, and
pretty and lovable perhaps."

"Perhaps she was," agreed Frances, "though her position--put in her
brother's place--makes one feel as if she may have been unsisterly and
designing.  But then, no one knows the rights of the story, or what her
brother had done for his father to disinherit him."

They were nearing the church by this time; as the old porch came within
view, Eira gave a little cry of satisfaction.

"It is open, I declare," she said.  "Do let us go in, Francie.  I hate
going home before there is a prospect of tea, and it's too early for
that yet."

Her sisters made no objection, and they entered.  Inside it felt
comparatively warm, and, though at first almost dark, as their eyes got
accustomed to the gloom they caught sight of the old vicar, standing in
a pew near the chancel, apparently looking for something.

He turned as he heard their steps, and greeted them kindly:

"Good-day, young ladies," he said.  "If I may venture to trouble you,
Miss Eira--your young eyes are keener than mine.  Mrs Ferraby has lost
a little brooch, not a thing of much value except to herself, and it
struck her that it may have dropped off her in church, as that was the
last time she remembered wearing it.  Of course it would be better to
look for it by a clearer light."

As he spoke he drew still further aside the red moreen curtain which
separated the vicarage pew from the larger square one belonging to the
big house, permission to occupy which was one of the very few advantages
enjoyed by the Fir Cottage family, as representatives of the Morions.
Betty and Eira came forward eagerly.

"Do let us look," they said, both together; Eira, who was the old
vicar's favourite, adding, playfully, "But you must come out yourself,
Mr Ferraby, please.  If it is anywhere, it is pretty sure to be on the
floor."

"I don't know that," said Betty, who had no special wish to grope on her
hands and knees.  "You may feel on the floor if you like, Eira; I shall
look on the seats and the book-rail."  And, strange to say, she had
scarcely begun to do so when she gave a little cry of pleasure.  "Here
it is," she exclaimed, "wedged into a crack in the woodwork between the
pews, ever so neatly; but no doubt it would have dropped down the first
time the pew was dusted," and with deft fingers she withdrew the little
trinket from its temporary resting-place.  "It is queer," she added;
"there must be a hollow space between this and the panel on our side.
Perhaps it's the place with a little door where we leave our
prayer-books," and, standing on a hassock, she peered over into their
own pew, adding, "No, our book-cupboard is farther along."

No one paid any attention, however, to her researches.  Mr Ferraby was
too delighted to have recovered the brooch to care much about where it
had been concealed.  He thanked Betty with effusion.

"My good wife will not have come home yet; she is in the village," he
said.  "So I am not in a hurry, and quite at your service, young ladies.
Were you looking for me?"

For, in his mild, unenergetic, though kindly way, the old vicar was
always ready to be consulted as to the few poor people under his wing,
or indeed on any other subject as to which the Morion sisters could
apply for his advice or sympathy.

For half an instant an impulse came over Frances to confide in him her
little scheme for benefiting the fisher-folk at Scaling Harbour, but a
glance at the bent and fragile figure of their old friend made her
dismiss the idea.

"He wouldn't understand it," she thought; "it would seem to him
new-fangled and unnecessary; and then he is so poor and so generous,"--
for it was well known that out of his tiny stipend Mr Ferraby was far
too ready to give more than he could really afford--"he would be writing
for books for us, even if he thought it would only be an amusement.  No,
I had better not speak of it."

And--"Thank you," Frances went on aloud, "no, we had no idea you were in
the church; seeing it open, we just strolled in, with no better motive
than to kill a little time, I'm afraid.  It is not tempting weather for
walking."

"No, indeed," the vicar agreed.  "The season is peculiarly dull and
depressing this year, even to one who should be well accustomed to this
climate and to everything about the place.  I have been here over fifty
years, half a century," and he gave a little sigh.

"And we have been here," said Eira, "nearly all of our lives that we can
remember; so _we_ should be accustomed to it, too, shouldn't we, Mr
Ferraby?"

He shook his head.

"Scarcely so," he replied, "at least not necessarily.  The sort of
`getting accustomed' to things--in reality I was thinking of more than
the climate--that I had in my mind--is not of a piece with youth and its
natural distaste for monotony.  My wife and I often think it must be
dreary for you three, and we wish we had it in our power to help you to
a little variety.  If things had been different with us--if that poor
boy of ours had been spared--we should not now be the dull old couple I
fear we are."

His hearers were touched by his simple self-depreciation.

"Dear Mr Ferraby," said Frances, "you mustn't speak like that.  It is
very nice for us to feel that we are always sure of two such kind
friends at hand."

There was more pathos in his allusion than a stranger would have
understood, for this same "boy," of whom he spoke, would by this time
have been not far off fifty himself, though to his parents he ever
remained the bright, promising young fellow suddenly cut off in his
early manhood.

"Who was here before you came, Mr Ferraby?"  Eira inquired abruptly.

The little group was seated by this time in the large, square pew, which
almost looked like a cosy little room, and even to-day it felt fairly
warm.

"Who was here before me?" the old man repeated.  "Broadhurst was the
last vicar, and before him there was a private chaplain resident at
Craig-Morion.  That was in its palmy days, when the family spent most of
the year here--quite early in this century, that is to say--for I
remember Broadhurst telling me that things had been quiet enough during
his time, and he was here for nearly twenty years."

"And you never saw our great-grand-aunt Elizabeth, did you?"  Betty
inquired.  "I think we've asked you before."

"No," the vicar replied.  "Strangely enough, her funeral was one of the
first ceremonies at which I officiated--that was in the year forty.  She
was very ill when I came, and refused to see me, and indeed, for several
years before that, she had led a life of utter seclusion.  I remember
hoping for brighter days coming, for I was young then, and no
misanthrope, but they never did, as the elder of her two nephews took a
dislike to the place, which his son--a grandson now--seems to have
inherited!"

"I wonder how it would have been if our grandfather--her younger
nephew--had come in for it, as she led him to expect," said Frances.
"Of course, you know all about that, Mr Ferraby?"

"Very different, I expect," said the vicar.  "I often wish there was a
law against pluralists of estates, as well as of livings.  When a man
has only one place, you see, it is his home, and that insures his
interest in it.  Putting aside my natural wish that the big house here
were _your_ home, I really do feel it a terrible loss that its owner
should be such a complete absentee."

"It is very wrong," said Frances, "wrong of Mr Morion, I mean, never to
come here, even though there are not many tenants.  I should be glad to
have an opportunity of saying so to him.  You heard of the talk there
was a little while ago of some of his connections coming here for a
time, I suppose, Mr Ferraby?"

"Yes," the vicar replied, "and I began to build some hopes on it, and
was disappointed to hear it had ended in nothing."

He glanced round the whole building as he spoke.

"I should like to see this church in better condition," he went on.
"Not that I go in for new-fangled ways, but a good deal could be done
without trenching on such ground.  I can't say that it is substantially
out of repair, but Mr Milne only advises what is absolutely necessary,
and unless Mr Morion came down here enough to get to care for the
place, I can hope for nothing more."

"Is it any prejudice against the place?" said Betty, in her abrupt way.
Then a curious gleam came into her eyes.  "You know what the people
about here say, Mr Ferraby?" she asked; "that great-grand-aunt
Elizabeth `walks.'  I wonder if possibly, when Mr Littlewood was here,
anything--of that kind, like seeing her--happened to him.  For he told
us his people's coming was all but decided upon."

The old vicar looked at her as if he scarcely understood, and Frances
turned rather sharply.

"Don't talk nonsense, Betty," she said.  "Somehow things of that kind--
about a place being haunted and so on--ooze out, if one isn't very
careful, and I can't see but what they may do mischief."

Mr Ferraby looked at her approvingly.

"I quite agree with you, Frances," he said: "though certainly nobody
would accuse the good folk about here of too much imagination or nerves.
Hard work have I to impress them in any way, yet it is an undoubted
fact that stolid souls of this kind are often absurdly superstitious.
They are too conservative, perhaps, or too stupid, to invent new ideas.
If they would hark back a little further still, one would have better
ground to work upon."

"Mr Ferraby," said Betty, "you're becoming quite a Radical."

"No, no, my dear," he replied, "have I not just said that I wish they
would retain some of the belief in the supernatural, even if mingled
with some superstition, which the last century did so much to destroy?
That is what I _meant_ to imply, though I did not express it clearly.
Yes," he went on, replying to her former remark, "I have of course heard
the talk about old Miss Morion's unrestful condition.  But,"--and, had
it been light enough to see his faded blue eyes more clearly, a gleam of
mischief, akin somewhat to the recent sparkle in Betty's own orbs, might
have been discovered--"you are not quite on the right tack.  It is not
the house, but this _church_ which the poor lady is said to frequent.
Indeed, the very spot where we are seated is said to be her favourite
resort."

Betty almost screamed, and even Frances and Eira involuntarily drew
closer together, for there was no denying the creepiness of their old
friend's information under present circumstances.

"No," said Eira eagerly, "I never heard that.  Have you any theory to
account for her coming here?  Can it be that she wants to be shriven for
her misdeeds, and that she chooses the spot where, Sunday after Sunday,
she accused herself of being a miserable sinner?"

"Come now, my dear," said the old man, "don't be too severe upon your
dead kinswoman."

"No," said Frances, "it isn't kind, for, after all, we don't know that
she did break her word.  The will may have been stolen or suppressed."

"I beg her pardon, then," said Eira.  "I wonder if she can hear me!
Can't you tell us something more, Mr Ferraby?  Does she suddenly appear
here, or is she seen coming from the house?"

"I believe," the vicar replied, "she is supposed to come along the path
they call the Laurel Walk, that leads from the side-entrance.  A safe
place to choose, as it is always dark and shadowy there; and her visits
are not restricted to the night, though I forget what is supposed to be
her favourite time."

"Late on a winter's afternoon, I should say," remarked Eira.  "Just such
a time as this, don't you think?"

At this Betty started to her feet.

"Eira," she said, "you are very, very unkind, and--Mr Ferraby, you
don't know how she tries to frighten me sometimes, though I dare say I'm
very silly."

The others could scarcely help laughing at her pitiful tone, though
Frances' ears detected that very little more would bring tears.

"Let us go," she said; "it is getting chilly, and mamma will be
expecting us."

Betty caught hold of her arm.

"I _dare_ not walk down the aisle alone," she whispered, "especially
with Eira behind us."

"Eira," said Frances, "are you coming, or will you follow with Mr
Ferraby?"

"I must be off too," said the vicar.  "I am eager to tell my wife of
Miss Betty's successful search."

So the quartette, Eira bringing up the rear, made their way to the door.

"I wish," thought she, "I could do some little thing to frighten Betty.
I know what--I will stretch out my umbrella and touch her neck with the
cold end," for there was still light enough for this piece of mischief;
and she was leaning forward to put it into execution when a slight sound
in the pew they had just quitted arrested her.  It was that of stiffly
rustling garments, as of a person clad therein rising with difficulty
from a kneeling posture.

The biter was bitten!

"Mr Ferraby," she exclaimed, clutching at his arm, "did you hear that?"

"What?" was the reply.  "No, nothing; but then I am a little deaf."

"What is it?" said Frances quickly.

Eira turned off the question with some laughing remark as to the
difficulty of groping their way without misadventure; but the old vicar
glanced at her curiously in the clearer light outside the porch.

"That child had better not be too confident about her own nerves," he
thought to himself.  "She is looking quite pale."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

WHEN THINGS ARE AT THE WORST.

There was no waiting for tea this afternoon; on the contrary, when the
three girls reached home, tea was waiting for them, and, beside the
table, their mother, with unmistakable annoyance in her face.

"Why have you stayed out so late?" she questioned.  "You know how it
vexes your father; in fact, he has had tea and has gone back to the
study."

"I am very sorry, mamma," said Frances.  "It was thoughtless of me.  We
have been in the church with Mr Ferraby," and she went on to relate the
little incident of the lost brooch, and how cleverly Betty had found it,
thinking that it would distract Lady Emma's attention--in which hope she
was not disappointed; so well did she succeed in gaining her mother's
interest that, under cover of the little narrative, Betty was able to
steal from the room with the teapot and to obtain a fresh supply,
without risk of tannin poisoning, unobserved.

Tea over, Betty and Eira disappeared, as was their habit, leaving
Frances to entertain their mother, during what--in a very small country
house, above all, one in which the family party is but seldom unbroken--
is perhaps the dreariest hour of the twenty-four which make up a
winter's day and night.

Frances' spirits rose on finding that her mother's annoyance had been
but passing.  For half a minute she felt tempted to relate to her their
conversation with the vicar, but on second thought she decided that it
was better to avoid the always sore subject of the Craig-Morion
inheritance.  So she went on talking lightly and pleasantly on ordinary
topics.

"I told you of Mrs Ramsay's letter, did I not, mamma?  She really seems
to have fallen on her feet, and to be quite happy as a colonist's wife."

"Yes," her mother agreed, with a little shudder, "though to me it is
perfectly incomprehensible how any one, any lady--and Miss O'Hara was
essentially a lady--can endure it."

"She was so brave," said Frances.  "I often think, mamma, that I owe a
great deal to her--or rather, to go to the root of it, to you, for
choosing her so well."

Her mother looked gratified.  To do her justice, in spite of her cold
reticence of manner, she was easily gratified, especially by any
expression of appreciation from her eldest daughter.

"Her coming to us," she said, "was really more good luck than good
management on my part, and I do believe she was happier with us than she
could have been in many other families.  She knew that I understood her
position--in a sense," with a little sigh, "not unlike my own.  We poor
Irish always sympathise with each other, whatever our faults are.  I
often wish Miss O'Hara--no, I really must say Mrs Ramsay--could have
stayed longer, for the sake of the two younger ones, except, of course,
that had she not married it would have been too much of a sacrifice to
expect of her--the staying on, I mean, at a still smaller salary."

"Perhaps it was all for the best," said Frances cheerfully, if tritely.
"The teaching Betty and Eira was an immense interest to me; and I can
never be thankful enough that I had it.  Indeed, sometimes, mamma,"--she
stopped, hesitating.  "May I tell you something I have been thinking
about?" she went on, for it seemed just then one of the occasions on
which her mother and herself were drawn together in fuller sympathy than
often happened.

"Of course," replied Lady Emma.  "Why need you hesitate?  I am sure I am
always ready to give attention to anything you want to say."

"It is about Betty and Eira," said Frances.  "Sometimes it does seem to
me that we look upon them still too much as children; that they haven't
enough interest--responsibility--I scarcely know what to call it, for
they are not idle exactly."

Lady Emma sighed.

"Oh, my dear Frances," she said, "I don't think there's any use in your
worrying yourself or me about that sort of thing.  It is simply a bit of
the whole--inevitable, as we are placed.  At their age, of course, girls
of our class are usually absorbed by amusement and society--too much so,
I dare say, in many cases.  But still there it is, and I hope I should
have steered clear of letting them spend their lives in empty frivolity
in other circumstances.  I think my mother did so; for, of course, poor
as we were, it was nothing to be compared with what my married life has
made me acquainted with.  Each of us had one or two seasons in London,
and there was always a good deal going on at Castle Avone in the winter,
and yet we were taught to be good housekeepers and to look after our
poor people, and all that sort of thing."

"Yes," said Frances, "I know."  For in her more effusive moments her
mother had sometimes entertained the three girls with reminiscences of
the happy, careless Irish home-life, in which, to see her now, it was
difficult to believe that poor Lady Emma Morion had ever had the heart
or spirit to join.  "Yes, I know," Frances repeated, "it always sounds
to me delightful.  But it was not so much amusement that I was thinking
about for Betty and Eira.  That kind of thing is literally and
practically out of our power.  But I have been wondering if we couldn't
help them to have some more definite occupation or interest--they are
both, though with such perfectly different temperaments, in danger of
becoming very desultory, I fear--if not, what is even worse,
discontented, and every one knows there is nothing so invigorating as
feeling oneself of use to other people," and with that she proceeded
with great care and tact to unfold to her mother her simple little
scheme in connection with the fisher-people at Scaling Harbour.

Lady Emma listened with attention, and not without interest, but with no
brightening of expression or respondent gleam, such as had sprung out of
Eira's eyes when the plan was first mentioned.  Not that Frances had
expected this--even Betty, unselfish and tender-hearted as she was, had
none of the latent enthusiasm which Frances often found so invigorating
in her youngest sister, and which went far to balance her greater amount
of self-will.  And Betty had not welcomed the suggestion with any
eagerness; so how could she expect anything of the kind from her mother,
tired and in a sense worn out by the incessant small worries of her
restricted home-life?

No, it was not to be wondered at that Lady Emma could not rise to any
very great interest in philanthropic work.

"Poor mamma," thought Frances, always ready to judge the deficiencies of
others in the gentlest and most generous spirit, "she has reason enough
to be absorbed by home things."  But she watched her mother's face
anxiously, nevertheless, hoping for at least conditional consent, and
what furtherance of the scheme should be possible for her to promise.

And the disappointment was extreme when Lady Emma slowly shook her head.

"That's been put into your mind by Mrs Ramsay's writing to you on the
subject," she began, and immediately poor Frances' hopes faded.  "I
can't say that it's the sort of thing I should at all care for you to
do, though what ever I feel about it really does not signify, as your
father would never allow it.  Then there is the expense of it--
everything of that kind costs money."

"Very little, as I tried to explain," said Frances; "some of the books I
got for Mrs Ramsay were most inexpensive."

"I dare say," said her mother, touched a little, in spite of herself, at
the girl's evident disappointment.  "Of course, if I had any money to
spare, I should have no objection to your all acquiring a little good
practical knowledge of the kind.  We, my sisters and I, were by no means
ignorant about household remedies.  The poor people used to come to the
Castle as a matter of course when they were at a loss what to do.  But
it was so different!  The people at Scaling Harbour can send for a
doctor.  There is a parish doctor, I suppose?"

Frances said no more.  She knew by experience that it was a mistake to
enter into an argument which would only end by emphasising opposition.
She had learnt for so long the philosophy of thankfulness for small
mercies that she was even glad of the inferred permission to get the
books, should the chance of so doing ever present itself--but for the
present, yes, the outlook was dreary enough.  Frances could not but own
it to herself.

"It does seem hard," she thought, "very hard, not even to be allowed to
use what little talent one may have in some good, sensible direction."

She was on her way to join her sisters when she made these reflections,
though with no intention of repeating to them the conversation that had
just passed.  She found them in the dining-room, kneeling on the rug
before the fire--at this hour of the day a safe resort, as Mr Morion,
though nothing would have made him acknowledge it, indulged in a
before-dinner nap, apt to be somewhat prolonged, between tea and
dinner-time.  Considerably to her surprise, even more to her relief, the
two girls were talking eagerly, almost indeed excitedly, though their
voices were low.

"Oh, Francie, I'm so glad you've come!" said Betty.  "Do you know what
Eira has been telling me?  She didn't want to frighten me, but I made
her tell.  Do you know she really did hear something in the church?" and
she proceeded to repeat Eira's strange experience of the sound of
rustling garments in the big pew.

Frances was inclined to be sceptical; sensible people usually are when
first confronted with anything of the kind.  It was easily to be
accounted for, she thought, considering that Mr Ferraby had just been
telling that the squire's pew was, by repute, the haunted spot.

"I dare say it was one of the stiff moreen curtains dropping back into
its place again, after you had been pushing them aside," she said.  But
Eira shook her head.

"No," she maintained, with conviction in her voice, "it wasn't the least
like that.  It was a slow, rising sort of sound, and it was the rustle
of silk, of stiff silk--of that I am certain; at least, I mean to say I
am certain that that was the impression produced on my senses."

"You'd better write it out for the Psychical Society, it has made you so
eloquent," said Frances laughingly, though in the depths of her heart
she was not a little impressed.  Then came an exclamation from Betty,
which, accustomed as they were to the startling suggestions she was apt
to burst out with, for once really took their breath away.

"Frances," she said, "I've thought of something.  I'm getting nearly
desperate for a change of some kind, and I feel as if I could be brave
enough to do _anything_, especially if you and Eira will back me up.
Supposing we three manage to get into the church some evening and wait
for the ghost, and try to get something out of her?  Would you have the
nerve for it?"  Her eyes gleamed with excitement, and her whole face was
lighted up in a way that for the moment transformed it.

"Betty!" exclaimed her sisters, together, in amazement.

"You must be joking," Frances added.  "You, of all people, to dream of
such a thing!"

"I am not joking," Betty replied.  "Just fancy, if we _did_ find out
anything.  It would be worth while having one's hair turned grey with
fright to begin with."

"Betty," said Eira solemnly, "you don't know what you're talking about.
If you had said such a thing this time yesterday, I should have felt
quite different about it.  But I can't put into words the impression
left upon me by what I heard--little as it seems.  No, indeed," and she
shook her head, "I should never be able to attempt anything of the
kind."

"If you both work yourselves up about it so," said Frances, "you will
make me sorry that it has ever been alluded to.  Don't talk about it any
more to-night, or neither of you will sleep.  Promise me you won't?"

"Very well," Betty replied reluctantly, though her face fell as she gave
the promise; for, although it only bound her to the avoidance of the
subject for that evening, she felt pretty sure that there would be no
chance of enlisting either of her sisters in her scheme.  "And," she
thought to herself, "I'm _afraid_ I should never have courage to try it
alone, and without courage it would be no use, as everybody knows that
unless you speak first to a ghost, he, or she, or _it_--why does `it'
seem so much more terrible?--will never speak to you!"

If it is true, as is often said, that happy times require no chronicler,
it is certainly also the case in life that one has to traverse dreary,
monotonous stretches of which there is literally nothing to record.
This, certainly, was no new experience to the Morion sisters, but it is
to be questioned if they had ever before been so painfully conscious of
the almost unendurable dreariness of their general circumstances.

Nature, even, seemed maliciously inclined just now to make things worse
for them.  No winter sprightliness came to relieve the autumn gloom
which, in this country, we have come to look upon as more or less
inevitable.  It was the dullest of dull weather; the very thought of
Christmas seemed out of place.

"It is as if the sun had really said `good-bye' to us for ever,"
remarked Betty one day.  "I am growing so stupefied that I think the
only living creatures I now envy are dormice.  Don't you think, Eira,
that Providence, if that isn't irreverent, might have arranged for human
beings to have a good long sleep of several months together, if, or
when, they have absolutely nothing to do which it would in the least
matter to themselves or any one else if they left undone?"

Eira's only answer was a sigh, and even Frances, from the low chair
where, for once in a way, she was sitting idle, said nothing.  For poor
Frances' spirits were, at the present moment, really depressed by
physical causes; she had had a wretched cold, which, though not very
severe, had been sufficiently so to lower her vitality uncomfortably and
disturb her usually well-balanced mental and moral condition.

She glanced at the window.

"Who would think it was Christmas week?" she said.  "Actually, it comes
next Friday, and this is Tuesday."

"I had almost forgotten it," said Eira.  "What about those little
things, Frances, that you said you had still to get in the village?
Cards, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Frances replied, "and one or two trifles; literal trifles they'll
have to be this year, for the servants and our two or three poor people.
Which of you will come with me this afternoon to help me to choose
them?"

Eira looked at her doubtfully.

"Are you _sure_, Francie dear," she said, "that you are fit to go out
to-day?  Your cold has pulled you down so."

"Oh, it's over now," said Frances.  "A walk will do me good.  Are you
coming too, Betty?"

"Would you mind if I didn't?" said Betty; "for once I've got some sewing
that I'm rather in a hurry about, but I will come to meet you--you won't
be very long?"

"As quick as possible, you may be sure," replied Frances.  "But, any
way," she added, with a smile, "if possibly we are later than I mean to
be, we won't expect to see you, Betty, as I know you've no love for
being out alone when it's getting dark."

So they set off, and Betty, exhilarated a little by the work she hoped
to finish in their absence, which had to do with her Christmas presents
for her sisters, spent the first part of the afternoon cheerily enough,
though by herself.

"I do feel brighter to-day somehow," she thought, "and, after all, it's
terribly pagan not to cheer up at Christmas-time.  Then, too, though
it's such a platitude, things are never so bad but they might be worse.
Supposing Francie's cold had turned into bronchitis, or something
dreadful like that, and she had been very, very ill, how miserable we
might have been just now!  What would Eira and I do without her?  Even
if she married, how dreadfully dull it would be--but no, it wouldn't,
she would have a charming home of her own, and we would go and stay with
her and--oh, yes! it would change everything.  But I must remember I had
made up my mind to give up building castles in the air!"

By four o'clock she was ready to go out to meet her sisters, her work
completed and laid safely away.  It was dusk, almost more than dusk,
when she opened the gate and passed out into the road.  But a little
further on it grew lighter again, as here the trees were less thickly
planted.  Betty went into the park through the usual entrance, and,
crossing through the shrubbery quickly, stood for a moment on a little
knoll which commanded a view of the open drive from the lodge, by which
her sisters would make their way.

It was light enough still to have perceived them, had they been within
the park walls; but they were not to be seen.

"I don't care to go all the way to the gates," she said to herself.
"I'm not in the humour for gossiping with the old Webbs.  I'll just walk
up and down about here till I see them, or till I hear the gates clang.
It is so very, very still to-day, and the ground feels harder, as if
frost were coming; I could almost hear their steps before I saw them."

But, though clear and still, it was not a bright evening.  Walking up
and down soon palls, and Betty stood still, half hesitating as to
whether she should change her mind and go farther to meet the others.

Suddenly--most things were sudden with Betty--an idea struck her.

"I have a great mind," she thought, "to run up to the church end of the
Laurel Walk, and peep along it, just to see if possibly--oh! of course
there could be nothing to see, or even to hear; but it would be rather
fun to be able to tell Eira that I had done it.  She couldn't but think
it brave of me, and I can certainly be back in time to meet them, before
they're half across."

But she had reckoned without her host--that is to say, in ignorance of
her own uncertainty as to the nearest way to the aforesaid Laurel Walk,
for it was in a part of the grounds she seldom frequented, as it led
straight from the church to a side-entrance of the big house, nowadays
rarely used.  Betty made two or three wrong _detours_--not to be
wondered at, for, once in among the shrubs again, it was really almost
dark; and when at last she came out at the point she was in search of
she began to repent what now seemed to her foolhardiness, for the
thickly bordered path in question did look from her end of its long,
narrow course extremely eerie and forbidding.

"I can't risk losing my way in those shrubberies again," she thought.
"I remember now that there is a side-path a little farther along, which
will take me by a short cut out into the open again.  I'll run along as
fast as I can till I come to it."

But alas! for poor Betty.  There was more than one side-path, and the
first she tried, after pursuing it for some yards, only landed her more
confusingly than ever in the thickest part of the plantation.

"This isn't the right one," she thought.  "I must go back again, and
rather than risk remaining hereabouts I'll go straight to the church."

Running just here was not an easy matter.  The nervous fears which were
beginning, in spite of herself, to overcome her, were once or twice
dispersed for a moment by a bang against some obtruding tree or branch.

"Oh, how silly I have been!" thought Betty.  "But here's the opening
into the Laurel Walk.  Yes, I'd better make straight for the church."

Something--she could not have said what--made her stop for a moment, as
she turned into the path of uncanny reputation.  She started--what was
that?  A rustle of some kind in the direction of the house, a falling
branch or leaf, no doubt--all was so still!  She turned towards the
churchyard, walking fast, her heart beating quickly enough already,
when--oh, horrors!--she heard all too distinctly the sound of a tread
behind her.  For half an instant she stopped in vain hope that she might
have been mistaken.

It stopped.

"Shall I have strength to get out of this horrible place?" thought
Betty, for she felt her limbs already all but failing her, from her now
excessive trembling.  But desperation gives courage.  She hurried on
again; again, too, the footsteps behind became audible.

"Oh," thought Betty, "if it tries to overtake me, I shall die.  If I can
but keep up for half a minute more, I shall be at the little gate into
the churchyard, if only--oh, if only it's not padlocked!"

CHAPTER NINE.

THEY BEGIN TO MEND.

Alas! for poor Betty, the little gate, her only hope of escape, _was_
padlocked.  At the first moment she scarcely realised this.  She seized
its upper bar by both hands and shook it violently, and for half a
moment she fancied it yielded; all her faculties were confused by
fright, and even the short distance over which she had run so fast had
been enough to add materially to the overwhelming beating of her heart,
the surging of blood into her ears, which all but deafened her.

But as her repeated shaking proved of no avail, and the tumult in her
veins somewhat abated, terror notwithstanding, again, to her horror, she
became conscious of the advancing footsteps behind.  True, they did not
sound like those of any one in pursuit; but what then?--ghosts didn't
run!  The steady tread of the advancing presence was scarcely a source
of consolation, till, frightened as she was, she began to perceive that
the footsteps were firm and unfaltering--there was something commonplace
and matter-of-fact about them, by no means ethereal or feeble, such as
one would picture those of a ghostly visitor, especially the ghost of an
old lady, who, in the many years during which she was supposed to have
perambulated the Laurel Walk, was not likely to derive any increased
energy from her fruitless peregrinations.

A sudden impulse of courage, though perhaps but the courage of
desperation, flashed through Betty.

"I will face it," she said to herself, "and know the worst."

She turned.  The advancing figure was now but a short distance from her,
and--oh! thank Heaven--it was that of a man!  Cold drops slowly gathered
on her forehead in the intensity of her relief.  At another time she
might have been frightened at the very fact for which she was now so
thankful.  But all visions of tramps or other nefarious-minded intruders
had been banished for the moment by the overpowering dread of the
supernatural.

Her heart still beat uncomfortably, but she moved forward a few steps.

"This gate is locked," she called out, trying to master the quaver in
her voice.  "Is that you, Webb?"--though before the name had passed her
lips she could distinguish enough to make sure it was not that of the
newcomer.  "Have you got the key with you?"

There was no immediate reply.  Then came the sound of hastening
footsteps, and an exclamation of surprise.

"Is it--can it be Miss Morion?" were the first words, "or--"

"It is I, Betty Morion," she replied mechanically, for her own
astonishment was far greater than her questioner's could have been, as
regarded herself, when her eyes as well as her ears told her that he was
none other than Mr Littlewood.  "Oh!" she ejaculated, with a strange
sense of weakness and relief, while her arms dropped to her side, "can
it be you?  I have been so terrified!  I thought you were the ghost."

"The ghost?" he repeated; "what ghost?"  But then, seeing how really
startled and upset the poor child was, he continued in a matter-of-fact
tone: "No, no, I am no ghost, though dreadfully sorry to have frightened
you.  If I had had the least idea who it was, I would have called out
before.  But till a moment or two ago I was scarcely sure it was any
one!  Yes, I have the key of the padlock.  I only arrived this
afternoon, and I was going across to the vicarage to consult Mr Ferraby
about a little matter.  I used this short cut two or three times when I
was here before.  Allow me," and he came forward to the gate, and in
another moment it stood open and they passed through.

Betty, who was slowly recovering her wits by this time, glanced up half
shyly at her companion.

"If I hadn't been so frightened, I should have been still more
astonished," she said, "at seeing you.  We thought--we were told that
you had given up all idea of coming down here."

"So we had," he replied; "it's rather a long story.  I needn't go into
it all.  My mother heard of another place which she thought would be
better.  I was awfully vexed when I went back to find it so.  But it's
all right now.  You will have us down here soon after Christmas.  This
time I have come with plenipotential powers to settle everything."

Betty could scarcely believe her ears.  What news for Frances and Eira!
A real prospect of change and variety and break in their dull life at
last, not to speak of the fascinating possibilities for the future which
Eira and she had given up with such wistful regret.

"I--I am very glad," she said timidly, and her words evidently pleased
her hearer.

"It's very good of you to say so," he replied heartily.  "On my side I
hope you will find us pleasant neighbours.  My sister--I've one still
unmarried--is looking forward very much to coming here."

"I do hope the weather will be better," said Betty; "it has been--oh! so
horrid since you were here, so dull and depressing."

"It has been pretty bad all over the country, I fancy," he replied.  By
this time they were at the gate of Fir Cottage.  "I hope," he continued,
"that Lady Emma and Mr Morion are well, and that I may have the
pleasure of seeing them in a few days.  I shall probably stay on here
now, as I have a visit to pay in the neighbourhood.  I mean I shall not
go all the way home again before my people come down.  And--though I
mustn't detain you now--you will tell me the story of the ghost some
day, I hope--and how you came to be wandering in search of it?"

"Oh!" cried Betty in alarm, "_please_ don't speak of it!  Please,"
imploringly, "don't ever tell any one that I did.  I should be so
scolded.  I was really going to meet my sisters, and it was very silly
of me to go near the Laurel Walk."

"Oh, well," he said, "I won't betray your confidence, but on your side
you must promise to tell me all about it some day soon.  Perhaps,"--with
a slight touch of hesitation--"I may look in to-morrow afternoon on the
chance of finding some of you at home."

A sudden inspiration seized Betty.

"Is--is there possibly anything that you would like to ask papa about?"
she said abruptly.  "I am sure he would be pleased to--to be of use to
you, if there were:" and to herself she added mentally, "It is the only
chance of propitiating papa, I am sure, for Mr Littlewood to seem to
seek his advice.  He rarely has the pleasure, poor papa, of being
applied to as if he were of any consequence, and he'd be gratified at
it."

Horace Littlewood was by no means devoid of tact and insight into the
peculiarities of those with whom he had to do.  His first blunder, as
regarded the feelings of his new acquaintances, had also sharpened his
perceptions with regard to them--he read between the lines, so to say,
of Betty's innocent appeal; indeed, it was not difficult to put two and
two together in this case, for Mr Milne had descanted at some length on
the idiosyncrasies of the master of Fir Cottage.  And even kindly old
Mr Ferraby had given more than one hint of the same nature, greatly
influenced, no doubt, by his earnest wish that circumstances might arise
to break the monotony of the three young lives in which both he and his
wife felt so natural and sincere an interest.  So Betty's suggestion
fell on prepared ground.

"How very kind of you to think of such a thing!" he said quickly.
"Well, yes, if it were not troubling your father too much--for I know he
is something of an invalid--I should be glad of his opinion on some
little local matters.  There is one of the keepers I don't quite like
the look of, and yet, as you can understand, I don't want to begin by
making myself disagreeable."

"There is one, I know, that papa doesn't like," said Betty eagerly,
"though he has been a long time about the place.  Of course papa never
shoots now, himself, though he used to be a very good shot.  But it will
be far the best for you to ask him yourself."

And delighted with having obtained a definite message for her father,
she held out her hand in farewell, and ran up the little drive to her
own door, brimful of her unlooked-for news.

They were all in the drawing-room when she got in, tea half over, to say
the least, and Betty's heart went down in some apprehension of paternal
or maternal reproof.  But the first words that greeted her came from
Frances, and, simple as they were, something in her tone carried
immediate conviction to Betty that the news she was so eager to tell had
already reached her sister's ears.

"Where have you been?  How did you manage to miss us?"  Frances
inquired.  "We had quite a nice walk; it is really getting to feel more
like Christmas."

"The missing you was my fault," said Betty.  "When I first went out it
was fairly light, and as I couldn't see you in the park I strolled about
a little, and came home another way.  And--oh, papa, I mustn't forget to
give you a message I have for you.  I met Mr Littlewood on my way in,"
and as she named him she took care to avoid looking at her sisters, and
to speak in a studiously matter-of-fact voice; "he has just arrived here
again, and his people _are_ taking the big house, after all.  And he
wants to talk over something, something private about the keepers, as to
which he thought you would be so kind as to advise him if it will not be
a trouble to you--though he said he knew that you are a good deal of an
invalid."

"What does he want?" said Mr Morion, and though his tone was
superficially testy, it was easy for his family to discern his
underlying gratification.  "Is he going to write to me, or does he
expect me to call on him, or what?  Of course he couldn't apply to any
one who knows more about the place, and the idle lot of rascals with no
one to look after them--it will be an uncommonly lucky thing for him to
be forewarned."

"Oh," said Betty, "of course he didn't expect you to go out of your way;
he only seemed afraid of bothering you.  He asked if he might call
to-morrow afternoon on the chance of your being able to see him."

"He must take the chance," said Mr Morion, evidently by no means
displeased.  "If I'm well enough, I will see him; if not, he must wait
till I am."

"Is he to be here for some time?" asked Lady Emma.  "And when do his
people mean to come?"

"He said soon, I think," Betty replied; "but no doubt he'll tell papa
all about it," and then she turned her attention to the tea, which
Frances, with her usual thoughtfulness, had managed to keep hot for her,
though she nearly scalded herself in her eagerness to swallow it
quickly, so as to leave the room on pretext of taking off her outdoor
things, sure that she would at once be followed by Eira at least, if not
by Frances.

And in this expectation she was not disappointed, for before she had had
time to unbutton her boots the bedroom door was burst open, and in
rushed Eira, followed more deliberately by Frances.

"Oh, Betty," exclaimed the former, "what an afternoon!  Just fancy you
having met him, and we having heard it.  The only pity is that neither
of us had the pleasure of telling the other.  But how well you managed
to smooth down papa!"

"Eira, dear," said Frances, "do be a little more careful how you speak.
I don't like the idea of managing or planning, though I _was_ glad that
Betty had a definite message, for of course, as the Littlewoods are
coming, it would be most disagreeable, and a great loss to us all
probably, if we were not on friendly terms with them."

"Who told you?" asked Betty.

"The old Webbs, of course," said Eira.  "But, Betty, there's some other
news!  Only Francie must tell you herself.  You'll _scarcely_ be able to
believe it."

Betty turned to Frances, with intense curiosity in her eyes.

"What is it?  What _can_ it be?" she ejaculated.

For all reply Frances held out a large thin-looking envelope, from which
she proceeded to extract, with great care and deliberation, a sheet or
two of what is called "foreign" writing paper.

"This is," she said at last, "a letter from Mrs Ramsay.  Look, Betty,"
and here she displayed a smaller slip of paper which told its own tale.
"She has done it so thoughtfully," Frances continued; "it is an English
bank-note, you see.  I wonder how she managed to get it out there in New
Zealand?  A bank-note for ten pounds, so there will be no trouble about
cashing it, or anything of that sort!  And, Betty, it is a Christmas
present to be divided between us three!  Isn't it--oh! isn't it good of
her?"

Betty, as yet, had not gotten beyond a gasp.  The full realisation of
this fairy gift of fortune was still to come to her.

"You must read the letter," went on Frances.  "She doesn't want us to
tell papa and mamma; she is so terribly afraid of it vexing them.  And,
of course, it isn't as if we were children now, I especially."

"Of course not," Eira chimed in.

"It _is_ good of her, so good that I can scarcely believe it," said
Betty, who by this time had found her voice; "but, Francie, I don't
think you should divide it equally.  I think you should keep five
pounds, or four, any way, and Eira and I have three each.  Think of how
you gave us what you once made by your lace--and of the lace itself you
have given us, which, after all, you might have sold."

"No, no," Frances replied.  "Don't talk such nonsense!  Of course it
must be in equal shares, though I'll tell you what we might do, if you
two agree to it.  We might spend one pound on books and things for our
`ambulance society,'" and she laughed, "which would leave three pounds
each to do as we like with.  And I certainly think you two should spend
it on your clothes."

"You _too_?" said Eira.

"Well, yes," Frances agreed.  "There are lots of little things, gloves
and shoes, that we can scarcely do without if we are to see anything of
the people at Craig-Morion--things that are matters of course for other
girls."

"Let us settle it that way," said Betty.  "If you _promise_, Francie, to
spend your three pounds on yourself, on your own adornment, I don't mind
using the odd pound for--in a sense--charity: at least, for something
which we hope will be of use to other people some day!  It may bring us
good luck!"

"Better than that, I hope," said Frances softly.  "A tenth is a nice
proportion to spend _not_ on ourselves!"

"Though I warn you," said Betty again, "that _I_ could never be of the
least use in your medical or surgical lessons.  I hate everything to do
with illness or suffering!--unless you like to make a dummy of me for
bandaging me up, and rolling sheets under me without my knowing it, and
so on."

The joke was of the mildest, but the new sensation of happy excitement
made them all laugh.  Then Eira got out paper and pencils, and began a
series of abstruse and most interesting calculations as to how many
pairs of gloves, including a possible pair each for evening wear, shoes,
re-trimmings for hats, and additions to Frances' lace for the one
presentable evening dress possessed by each could, by dint of good
management, be coaxed out of three pounds a head.

The result proved on the whole very satisfactory.  The sisters even went
the length of discussing what shops they should write to for the various
treasures so unexpectedly placed within their reach.

"It is too late for to-night's post," said Eira, "and perhaps, after
all, we had better wait till Christmas is over."

"Yes," said Betty, "let us each make a definite list of what we want,
by--let us see--next Monday; and then, Francie, darling, you will write
for us, won't you?  You would do it so much the best, and then you know
the shops."

For once upon a time, four or five years ago, the eldest sister had
spent a never-to-be-forgotten fortnight in London, every detail of which
was impressed upon her memory with an almost pathetic vividness.

The wonderful subject of Mrs Ramsay's gift discussed and dismissed for
the time being, Eira's curiosity had to be satisfied as to all that had
passed between Betty and Mr Littlewood, for by this time Frances had
left the two younger ones by themselves.

Eira's eyes grew round with excitement and sympathy, as Betty related
the fright she had had.

"It _was_ silly of you," she said, when she had heard the whole, "really
very silly of you to go to the Laurel Walk after dark, when you know how
nervous you are.  I don't know what Frances will say when she hears
about it."

"She will say nothing," said Betty, decidedly, "because she is not going
to hear anything.  You are not to tell her, Eira.  I especially don't
want her to know; and, besides the delight of that money coming, I am
very glad that it prevented her cross-questioning me any more about my
walk."

"But if Mr Littlewood calls to-morrow," said Eira, "is he not pretty
sure to talk about it?  Or did you ask him not to?"

"Yes," said Betty, "I did, and he promised he would not, on condition
that I would tell him all about our great-grand-aunt's ghost some time
or other."

"It's all very queer," said Eira meditatively.  "Till the other day when
Mr Ferraby told us about it, we really knew very little ourselves.  But
why do you specially not want Frances to know of your fright?"

"Because," said Betty slowly, "I've got a curious feeling now that some
day something else will happen, and I don't want to be hedged in by
promises to Frances, promises of not doing anything `foolhardy,' as she
would call it.  Now that I have got over my fright, I feel as if I were
braver than I was before!  I _think_, if need were, I could almost make
up my mind to speak to _her_, to the poor old thing, if I knew she were
there!"

She fixed her dark eyes impressively on her sister as she spoke.  But
Eira shook her head.

"What are you doing that for?" asked Betty.

"Because," replied Eira, "from what you say, from the feeling you have
about it, I am more and more convinced that what _I_ heard in the church
was something real.  You couldn't possibly think of trying it again if
you had felt what I did.  I know I wouldn't for worlds--not for a dozen
Craig-Morions--risk meeting the ghost.  And I am naturally both stronger
and braver than you."

CHAPTER TEN.

THE EYRIE.

A tall girl was standing at the window of a drawing-room in a large
house at the corner of a certain London square.

It was a good house, though with nothing very distinctive about it; one
of the class that now, at the end of the nineteenth-century, people are
beginning to look upon as somewhat old-fashioned.  There was nothing
"Queen Anne" about it, or its furniture; though, to make amends for
this, it gave the impression of dignity and stateliness: perhaps, after
all, the points that it is safest to aim at in a definitely town house,
where light and height and air are the great desiderata.  And there was
nothing grim or gloomy in the colouring of the room, though a perhaps
too studied avoidance of mere prettiness, which would, I fear, have been
designated by its mistress as "tawdry frippery" or something analogous
thereto.

And this was the home--since his father's death, that is to say--of
Horace Littlewood, who at this present moment was successfully
accomplishing the afternoon call which, with Betty's assistance, he had
arranged to pay at Fir Cottage, primarily, of course, on the master of
the house, whose favour he had gained to such an extent that, after a
discussion of local matters in his study, his host had begged him to
join the ladies of the family at tea in the drawing-room.

Madeleine Littlewood, his only unmarried sister, was the tall girl who
stood gazing out into the gloom of the late winter afternoon.  From the
position of the house she could see more ways than one.  In the square
itself the lamps were now in process of being lighted.  One by one she
saw them twinkle out, though the result was but faint and dim in
comparison with the brilliance of the adjoining street--a wide and
important one, where the presence of shops made the contrast with the
silent square the more striking.

The girl gave a little sigh.

"Dear me," she said to herself, "how well I remember watching the
lamplighter when we were children!  We each used to try to catch sight
of him first.  There seemed something mysterious about him.  I think it
began the first winter we were ever in London; it was all so new, and
then for so long we only came up in the summer, and everything was
different.  And now again it will be quite a new experience to be in the
country for so long together in the winter.  I wonder how we shall like
it, and if mamma won't find it dreadfully dull, after all."  She turned
from the window as she spoke, partly because at that moment the front
door bell rang sharply, and, as a rule, at this hour, she and her mother
were supposed to be "at home."

"I wonder who that is," she thought.

She was not long left in doubt, for a minute later the door was thrown
open, the butler announcing--"Mr Morion."

"Bring the lamps," she said, as she moved forward a little to greet the
newcomer, "and let Mrs Littlewood know Mr Morion is here."

"Horace is away, I suppose," were the visitor's first words.

"Yes," she replied, "the day before yesterday; in such spirits too.  He
seems to be greatly taken with that eyrie of yours up in the North.  He
was quite disappointed when mamma gave up thought of it."

"I hope you'll all like it," was the reply, though the tone was
indifferent enough.  "But you mustn't blame me if you don't."

"Well, no!" she replied.  "I can't say that you painted it for us in
very attractive colours; in fact, you have not praised it up at all."

"I could scarcely have done so," he said; "I know it so little.  But
hearing what you, or rather what your mother wanted--bracing northern
air, with a touch of the sea, and to be left at peace, it would have
been rather dog-in-the-manger of me not to suggest it."

"Oh! it was very kind of you to think of us," she replied, more
cordially than she had yet spoken.  "You must come down when we are
there and learn to know your own home, or rather the home of your
forefathers, for Horace tells me it was the cradle of your race.  It is
odd," she went on, reflectively, "that you should never have cared to
know it better."

Something in her words or tone slightly jarred on the owner of
Craig-Morion.

He pushed his chair back a little, and hesitated in his reply.

"A great many things seem odd to outsiders," he said, dryly.

Madeleine smiled.  Somehow, though she scarcely could have said why, for
she had no real antipathy to her sister-in-law's brother, she and Ryder
Morion never "got on," though underneath this surface antagonism each
had for the other a solid foundation of respect and even liking.

"Yes," she replied coolly, "it is not always the case that they see `the
most of the game.'  I am afraid I am a born gossip," she added, with a
little laugh.  "I like to know the ins and outs of my friends' affairs.
And oh, by-the-by, _a propos_ of Craig-Morion, you have relations there
of your own name, I hear!  Do tell me something about them."

"You could not apply in a worse quarter," he said.  "I know literally
nothing of them, except that the father is a peculiar, and, as far as
any personal experience of him goes, a very disagreeable man.  There was
an old--complication.  He believes _his_ grandfather should have
inherited the place, instead of my people, though really, as it all
happened ages before I was born, I don't see why he visits it on me."

"And _does_ he?" inquired Madeleine.

"Well, yes, I fancy so.  He was very rude to me once, at all events, and
naturally that didn't add to the attractions of Craig-Morion, for these
people live almost on my own ground.  But really," he went on frankly,
"there are no reasons for my avoidance of the place, except negative
ones.  I get into grooves, I fear, and feel lazy about things that I
have not always done."

There was silence for a moment or two, then Miss Littlewood spoke again.

"Horace has interested me in those relations of yours," she said, "from
what he has told me of them.  Let me see, cousins, are they not?  But
not at all near?  Or is the father a sort of great-uncle to you?"

"Oh, dear, no," replied Mr Morion, speaking more briskly than he had
yet done.  "The father is actually of my own generation, though old
enough almost to be my father.  I have never counted the cousinship--it
must be of the third or fourth degree by this time--in fact, as I said
before, I have had little or nothing to do with them."

Madeleine did not reply.  A certain occult suspicion of unexpressed
disapproval in her mind made itself felt by her companion.  He glanced
at her rapidly.

"They are very poor, from what Horace says," she remarked.

"Are they?"  Mr Morion answered indifferently.  "I really can't say.  I
don't suppose they are rich, but there is no son, and little girls are
easily educated."

"Little girls!" repeated Madeleine, with a slight laugh.  "Why, you
_are_ ignorant about them.  The eldest certainly, if not the middle one,
is as old as I, four or five and twenty."

"Really?" he said, in the same tone.  "I thought their father married
late in life, and I am getting to an age when youth at any stage seems
some distance from me.  Poor girls! their life must be dull enough up
there with that old bear.  You may be able to show them some kindness,
Madeleine.  I know you are one of those people whose benevolence is
somewhat abnormally developed."

"I should like to be kind to them," she said, simply, and Mr Morion
believed her and admired her, as he often did.  But yet something in her
very downrightness had a slightly irritant effect upon him, and of this
in return Madeleine was not unconscious.

"I _wonder_," she thought to herself, "why Mr Morion and I always rub
each other the wrong way?  I never feel sure if he is talking in good
faith or sarcastically.  I suppose one must put down a good deal to the
change in him caused by his wife's death.  And yet that is long ago now,
and she was so very young, and the marriage only lasted a year or so.
Still--" Her train of thought was interrupted by the door opening to
admit her mother, who came forward with an expression of pleasure as her
eyes fell on their visitor, for Mr Morion was decidedly a favourite of
hers, and on the whole he preferred her society to that of her daughter,
though by no means unaware of the latter's great intellectual
superiority.

Mrs Littlewood was still very pretty, though she by no means obtruded
this fact, for her taste was good, and her tact excellent.  As a rule,
she was a very gentle woman, but a strong will underlay the gentleness,
genuine though it was.  She liked to be liked, and disliked making
herself disagreeable, in consequence of which perhaps, when her
disapproval or opposition was once aroused, it was not easily resisted.

"We have, of course, been talking about Craig-Morion," said Madeleine,
when she had provided her mother with tea.  "But I can't get much
information about it."

"I really know it so little," repeated Mr Morion.  "My chief feeling
about it now is the hope that you will like it, and not be
disappointed."

"That is not likely," said his hostess.  "To begin with, I am one of
those philosophical people who never expect perfection, and what we do
want I think we are sure to find there: fresh, bracing air, quiet, and
some amount of amusement for Horace."

"I hope it won't be too bracing for him," said Mr Morion, "or too cold
rather, though they do say that the first winter home from India one
never feels the cold so much--still, there was his illness."

For Horace Littlewood had but recently returned home from his regiment
in the East, in consequence of an accident at polo, complicated by a
sharp attack of fever, and at present his future career was, to some
extent, in abeyance.  His mother, whose favourite son he was, was most
anxious for him to settle down in England, to which, however, the very
fact of his dependence upon her--for Mrs Littlewood had been more or
less of an heiress--caused him to hesitate in his consent.  He hated the
thought of an idle life, and was not, moreover, without experience of
the love of power, but little suspected by many who imagined that they
knew her well, latent in Mrs Littlewood.

"I think he will be all right," Horace's mother replied, "with us--
Madeleine and me--to

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