Her kingdom
Date: 2025-01-07T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Love stories; Spouses -- Fiction; Stepfamilies -- Fiction; Westmorland (England) -- Fiction

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Title: Her kingdom

A story of the Westmoreland Fells

Author: Amy Le Feuvre

Release date: January 7, 2025 [eBook #75056]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited, 1929

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HER KINGDOM ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

She just listened to what he had to tell her.

Her Kingdom     Book III, Chapter I.    Frontispiece

HER KINGDOM

A STORY OF THE WESTMORELAND FELLS

BY

AMY LE FEUVRE

WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED

LONDON AND MELBOURNE

1929

Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

My Heart's in the Highlands

"The vividly human and moving story of Rowena and her wonderful power of influence in the lives of others will do every one good to read. Charmingly told in Amy Le Feuvre's best manner."—Northants Evening Telegraph.

A Girl and Her Ways

"Miss Le Feuvre writes with much charm and insight of the escapades of a modern girl who is fortunately possessed of the right spirit that enables her to overcome her difficulties."—The Record.

Jock's Inheritance

"Miss Le Feuvre has never written anything more beautiful or more amusing. The tone is as usual, excellent, and the story cannot fail to interest one and all."—Church of England Newspaper.

Noel's Christmas Tree

"Miss Le Feuvre has a classic style, and seems to be able to pierce straight into the heart of human beings. It is a humane book, written by a brilliant novelist."—Cornish Echo.

Adrienne

"The story of a really unselfish girl, touchingly and beautifully told."—Country Life.

"The story of Adrienne is delightful and particularly touching, and the author is to be heartily congratulated on evolving such a magnificent story."—Cornish Echo.

CONTENTS

BOOK I

STRANGERS

CHAP.

I. AN ASTOUNDING PROPOSAL

II. THE STRANGE MARRIAGE

III. MAKING FRIENDS

IV. LEFT TO HERSELF

V. THE FIRST SUNDAY

VI. A RAMBLE IN THE FELLS

VII. SLOWLY GAINING GROUND

VIII. A LONELY GIRL

IX. LOUISE'S DEPARTURE

BOOK II

FRIENDS

I. MISSING

II. THE "BEST OF THE BARGAIN"

III. AWAY FROM HOME

IV. NEIGHBOURS

V. FIRESIDE TALKS

VI. AN ERRAND OF MERCY

VII. OFF ONCE MORE

VIII. AN ENCOUNTER IN THE FELLS

BOOK III

LOVERS

I. "I CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT YOU"

II. RECONCILIATION

III. IN THE SHADOWS

HER KINGDOM

BOOK I

STRANGERS

CHAPTER I

AN ASTOUNDING PROPOSAL

THE family lawyer had left her; she had listened with tightened lips, as through a labyrinth of legal phrases, he had informed her that she could only count upon five-and-twenty pounds per annum to feed, clothe, and provide for herself a roof to shelter her. She found herself smiling at the very absurdity of it. For six-and-twenty years she had lived in ease and comfort, almost in luxury. She had read in books about these reverses, but never had she imagined that they would come to her. She had not been educated for adversity, and she knew that not for a moment could she compete with the hundreds of trained certificated women who were flooding the labour markets throughout the country.

Anstice Barrett had lived for the greater part of her life in a country village in Norfolk. Her father had retired from the Army when he came into his small property, and when he was only a major in rank. He had foolishly commuted his pay, as the old house wanted more repairing than he could afford at the time; and he married late in life. Anstice had been brought up by resident governesses, and when, at sixteen, her mother died, she had quietly assumed the reins of government and become mistress of the sweet old manor house.

Unknown to her, Major Barrett, when difficulties arose, had purchased a life annuity for himself. He never thought of his girl's future. Whilst he lived, he had all the comforts he needed. Even through the War, when his ill-health prevented him from taking any part in it, there was little lack of all simple necessaries of life. He had the old-fashioned idea that women could not understand or handle money, and Anstice was kept in absolute ignorance of her father's exact income. At his death, she was suddenly and overwhelmingly enlightened. The manor house was mortgaged up to the hilt. Major Barrett had been in the hands of moneylenders for the previous five years, and the only thing that was preserved from the wreck was a small sum belonging to Anstice's mother in trust for her.

On this wild wet morning in March, Anstice was facing certain poverty. The loss of her home was a crushing blow, but she did not realize how bad things were, until she was told the exact amount of her future income.

Now she stood at the mullioned window of the old library, watching the lawyer drive off in his car, and wondering if she could and would awake from this horrible dream.

In a few minutes, she shook herself free of the torpor which seemed creeping over her.

She went out into the old hall, got down her waterproof cap and coat, and in a few minutes was walking briskly down the drive and out along the country-road. The wind and rain buffeted her face, and beat her back, but she braced herself to meet it, as mentally she was bracing herself to meet the disaster that had come to her.

She conned over her few relations; some cousins in town, busy in trying to make their very small income provide them a modicum of pleasure, combined with a sphere of usefulness. They had visited her at the manor house from time to time, and had envied her, her peaceful environment.

Then there was her father's brother living at a ranch in Australia, with a large growing family of sons and daughters. Finally there was an old cousin of her mother's, a Lady Lucy Harcourt, who lived about ten miles off with a companion, who had been with her for about twenty years. It was this cousin who came uppermost in her mind now.

"I think I shall go over to her, and get some advice. She's practical and sensible. Of course, I must do something at once. There is no time to be lost."

But she did not retrace her steps, she walked on for a couple of miles through pinewoods, and taking shelter in the depths of them, seated herself on a fallen tree-trunk to review the situation.

It was a good two hours later when she returned to her home; and then found that the very person she was needing had arrived in her car to lunch, and was waiting for her in the drawing-room.

Lady Lucy looked at the girl critically as she entered the room.

Anstice was tall and fair with deep blue eyes and pale gold hair which was coroneted round her head in a very unfashionable manner. She had determination in her chin and lips, sunny good temper in her eyes, and two dimples which came and went in her softly rounded cheeks.

"My dear!" exclaimed Lady Lucy. "You look blooming! What a complexion you have, and all without any artificial aid! It is good to be young."

Anstice laughed as she put up a hand to her blushing cheeks.

"I've been out in the wind and rain, Cousin Lucy. I never expected you over such an afternoon as this, but oh! I am glad to see you—"

Then soberness crept into her eyes and stayed there.

"It is nearly a month," she said, "since father left me, and only to-day did Mr. Stone tell me exactly what I may expect in the way of income. It has staggered me."

"I feared it would," said Lady Lucy gravely. "I knew more than you, poor child, have known. I should think you are left without a penny-piece!"

"That is a fact—twenty-five pounds a year. I must earn something at once. I am not afraid of work, and I am young and strong, but my capabilities for earning are almost nil."

"I have come over to-day for the express purpose of talking matters over with you. But all my ideas have been turned topsy-turvy by a visitor who arrived last night. I have just seen him off by train. Is that your luncheon bell? I may stay, may I not?"

"I shall be delighted. It is so good to have some one to talk to. I have been alone since—since his funeral."

They went into the dining-room together. The elderly house-parlour maid being present the whole time, they only talked about trifles, but when the meal was over, they went back to the drawing-room. Anstice stirred the fire, and then dipping into a low-cushioned chair opposite her cousin she looked expectantly at her.

"Have you any advice to give me?"

"My dear," said Lady Lucy, hesitating a little, "I have not only advice, but a—a post open for you, ready for you to accept, and that is what has brought me over. The last time I saw your poor father, he made full confession to me of the hash he had made over his money affairs. He lost a good deal in a foolish investment he made a few years ago, but he was insistent that you should not be told. And so I knew what a predicament you would be in."

She paused. She was an upright, handsome old lady, with very piercing dark eyes, and with great dignity of manner.

Now she seemed ill at ease.

"I had better tell you about my visitor first. You met him once at my house. He is a nephew of my late husband's, Justin Holme, a very handsome fellow, but of a roving disposition."

"I remember him. He was just married, and I heard afterwards that it was rather an unhappy affair. Didn't she leave him?"

"No. She was going to do so; but she was hurt in a motor accident, and the boy, the only one, was born prematurely, a cripple. She died at his birth, leaving two little daughters as well as this boy. Justin took to yachting. He has always been crazed for the sea. His house is in the wilds of Cumberland, by the lakes."

Anstice's gaze wandered out of the window. She was not interested in Lady Lucy's nephew. Her own future filled her thoughts.

"The poor man," went on Lady Lucy, noticing Anstice's abstraction and hurrying over her words, "has been distracted by his home worries. His girls seem mischievous hoydens, and a succession of governesses passes through the house. He has tried schools, they run away from them, or are expelled; the governesses make love to him, and scandal is busy. He spends or likes to spend most of his time away in his yacht; just now, there is the usual difficulty of servants, and he is at his wits' end. He came to me for help. And when we were talking things over, I thought of your love for children and the wonderful gift you have for managing them. And, my dear, he remembers you quite well. He said yours was not a face which could be forgotten. But he said no more. He seems to have turned into a woman-hater. Perhaps I ought not to say that, for he's anxious about his children; his boy especially, who is too young and delicate to go to school. Well, I won't beat about the bush. It won't be an easy task, but you will have a beautiful home, and you are nothing if not courageous."

"Am I to be governess and housekeeper in one? I couldn't do it, Cousin Lucy. I have not had the education to teach."

"Oh no, you won't have to teach. You can get some one else to do that. And he is nearly always away, so you would be entirely your own mistress."

"A lady housekeeper?"

Anstice felt dubious.

"He has already tried a good many. Why should I succeed more than any of the others?"

"Well, my dear, I won't say any more. He must speak to you himself. He has business in town, but he has promised to come down one day next week, and you must come to lunch and talk over things with him. It seems to have come at the right moment for you. I do hope you will agree to do it."

Lady Lucy seemed extraordinarily nervous. Anstice, who was very perceptive, wondered if there was anything in the background which she was keeping from her.

"He wants me to keep house and superintend the education of his children while he is away from home? I think if there's scandal about all the young women whom he has had there, that I may come in for my share!"

"No, no, my dear. That is just what he is going to prevent. I had better say no more. You must see him and talk to him yourself. Promise me, you will come over to lunch next Tuesday."

"My car is sold, how can I get to you?"

"I will send mine over for you. My dear Anstice, I have always been fond of you, and I foresee that happy days may be in front of you. You are not the girl to go up to London, and join the typewriting class, and starve in dingy lodgings, whilst you're doing it. Now I must be off! Will you order my car?"

Anstice rang the bell. She said little more to her old cousin, but wished her good-bye with rather wistful eyes.

Lady Lucy heaved a long sigh as she drove off, and murmured to herself:

"I don't believe she'll hear of it; but he must break it to her himself. I can't. He's a nice fellow, but is as hard as granite! A really charming character, spoiled by one bad woman."

And Anstice sat in her chair before her drawing-room fire all that afternoon, thinking, thinking, thinking!

Tea roused her, and for the rest of the day she occupied herself with the sad task of sorting out and destroying all her father's private letters and papers.

When Tuesday came, and Lady Lucy's car arrived, Anstice stepped into it, feeling that a great deal hung upon her personal interview with Mr. Justin Holme.

Lady Lucy welcomed her affectionately, but seemed vexed that Mr. Holme had sent a wire to say that he was delayed in town, and would not be down till between three and four in the afternoon.

Anstice told her she was glad to hear it.

"My interview is purely a business one with him. It will not take me long to discover what his actual needs are. But I must stipulate for a good salary."

"My dear, you need not think of money. He can well afford to give you all you need. I think one of his disadvantages through life has been too much money. He spends most of it in travelling all over the globe, but I always think he would have been a happier man, had he been obliged to earn his livelihood."

Anstice sat chatting with her old cousin in her drawing-room for a couple of hours after lunch. Miss Dawe, Lady Lucy's companion, took advantage of the occasion to go into the neighbouring town to do some shopping. And then about four o'clock, Lady Lucy's car returned from the station with the guest.

He came striding into the drawing-room with such vigour that he seemed to bring a fresh atmosphere into the quiet there.

"We do not need to be introduced," he said to Anstice, as he shook hands with her. "May I express sympathy for your loss?"

"Thank you," Anstice said.

He looked at her quickly; but after that first moment, his gaze never met hers again. She was a graceful figure in her black gown, which seemed to enhance the fairness of her hair and skin. He would not sit down, but stood on the hearth-rug and talked to Lady Lucy. Anstice saw a man with a strong resolute face, and a smile that might have been sweet, had it not been for a cynical twist to the lips. His hair was dark, his eyes hard and restless. His voice was a peculiarly pleasant one. Lady Lucy was not herself, she seemed nervous and distrait, and at last she rose from her seat.

"I will leave you now to discuss your business together."

"No," remonstrated Anstice. "Why should we turn you out of your room? Let us go to the library."

So to the library they went. It was a big, rather shabby room, used by Miss Dawe for cleaning bird-cages and arranging flowers. The books lined against the walls were old and fusty, and never used.

Anstice stood looking out of the window upon the lawns outside. Then Justin Holme drew up a chair for her before the fire, and she sat down. He began to pace up and down the room, and she was amused to see that he seemed to be getting nervous.

She spoke first to put him at ease.

"Well, Mr. Holme, my cousin tells me you want some one to look after your house and children in the North. You have heard that I am selling up my home, and looking for a job. Do you think I shall suit you? Of course, I must hear a few more particulars first."

He drew a quick breath.

"Of course, of course. It is a comfortable old house close to the river and lakes; but is well above them, so it's healthy. It is lovely. I don't want to conceal that fact. There are a few nice neighbours. My children adore their home; that's the only point we have in common. They won't stay at school, and I'm tired of trying to force them to do so. The boy is mostly confined to his couch. They're all three chock-full of mischief, and are thorough rebels of the first water! But I hear you have a flair for troublesome children."

"I love any child," said Anstice, with warmth. "They're the freshest, most wholesome things in creation, with all their powers and possibilities awaiting them."

"I rather think my youngsters only want a little more understanding. But as far as education and training go, they're little heathens."

"Do you want me as a governess or a housekeeper, or both?"

"No," said Justin Holme, turning his back upon her and gazing out of the window, "as neither—I want you as a wife."

"A wife!"

Anstice repeated his words, in utter amazement and incredulity.

He turned round, but though he faced her, his eyes were on the glowing coals. He would not meet her indignant gaze.

"Listen to me, please."

He spoke sternly.

"I give you my name to give you the right position in my house. I am sick of the constant changes there. It will be a mere matter of form, but you will have a home, and every comfort, and a chance of creating order out of chaos and of influencing my young barbarians. I am nearly always away. You must look upon me as a negligible quantity. My aunt said you would be the one for the position. I asked her to find some one for me. We are strangers, I know. But I believe in my aunt's judgment, and now I have seen you, I believe in you."

"A very one-sided bargain, isn't it?"

Anstice's tone was cool and aloof.

"I am to be debarred of my freedom, and only gain a roof as a shelter, and a very strenuous life of struggling with unruly children and servants. And I am to be married to you so as to ensure my being a permanency."

"Yes. It sounds diabolical," said Justin, with a short laugh; "but it's the only way out of my difficulties, as far as I can see, and it is all I can offer you. A home, and the possible love of another person's children. That, I believe, might appeal to some women. But you are free to take the offer or refuse it. I shall settle something on you, of course, and you will have your own banking account and cheque book. You will not be stinted in money and will have a free hand in most things. You can think it over and let me know in a week or so. If you agree to my proposal, I want to settle things up before I take a trip out to the South Sea Islands. We could be married at a Registrar's in town. I won't suggest a Church Service, as it is a strictly business arrangement between us and nothing more. And then I would take you down home and introduce you to the youngsters, and leave you with them. I should go off with an easy mind, for by hearsay I have formed a high opinion of your capabilities."

Anstice could only gaze at him in absolute bewilderment of mind. Did he really imagine for a moment that she would assent to such an astounding proposal? She found herself smiling at the very idea of it.

"You are a most extraordinary man," she said after a moment's silence. "Do you go through life entirely one-sided? Do you never think of other people's desires and needs?"

He was pacing up and down the room, and reminded her of a caged animal. Now he half turned towards her, and his tone was hauteur itself:

"I am thinking of a great many people in this venture, myself last of all. It won't affect me or touch my life. It is the need of my children that makes this step essential. I must marry again for their sakes."

"Oh, don't call it marriage. It is a business arrangement." Anstice spoke hotly.

She was furious with her cousin for letting her in for such an interview as this. She was humiliated, and indignant at having such a proposal made to her.

"I had better decline your kind offer at once," she said, and her tone was biting. "We need not prolong the interview, need we?"

"I am sorry if I have offended you by my proposition. I should not have spoken to you, but your cousin gave me to understand that you are one of these modern women who prefer to be independent and live a single life. It's what I prefer myself, and she said you were a passionate child-lover. You would be absolutely free and unfettered. You would have been willing to come to me as a lady housekeeper or governess. Am I not offering you a better position than either of those?"

He spoke very quietly, almost despondently.

Something in his tone made Anstice feel ashamed of her momentary exhibition of temper. She was very sweet tempered as a rule. Now her voice softened.

"I don't wish to be discourteous. It has been a misunderstanding on my part. I dare say you may get other more suitable women than myself, to fall in with your proposal."

She rose from her seat and left the room. Then, when she had found Lady Lucy, she expressed her feelings. Lady Lucy at first looked quite frightened, then set her lips, and began to remonstrate.

"You are a foolish, silly girl! Here are you without a penny-piece to your name, obliged to go out into the world and scrape and save enough to keep body and soul together. It's a life of drudgery and toil, and you are utterly unfit for it. You've always told me you don't care for men. I have known you refuse three of them. Here is an ideal home offered to you, wealth and comfort and an assured position, and no man to worry you. Justin will always roam the world, I am afraid. Because your pride is touched, and he doesn't want you for yourself, only for what you can give his home and children, you consider yourself insulted and injured. I consider Justin is offering you a great deal. You have always posed as one who wants to help her fellow-creatures. Here is a chance to benefit these poor neglected children. I suppose the real fact is that you are hoping for marriage with some one else. Have you anyone in your mind?"

This was turning the tables upon her with a vengeance indeed! The blood rushed to her cheeks, and then she laughed.

"You know, Cousin Lucy, the answer to that question. We are getting angry with each other, so I think I had better go home."

"My dear child, I am not angry, only very sorry that you have judged and decided so hastily. I do beseech you to take time and think things out. I own I have a vision ahead of you and Justin drawing together and settling down as an ideal couple. He is such a nice fellow when you really know him. Circumstances have soured and embittered him, and several women whom I know well by name are pursuing him ruthlessly, with the intent of being mistress of his home. It makes him hard in his outlook towards women. Do, I implore you, weigh matters well, and don't give any definite answer now. If you will go, I won't try to keep you. I will order the car round. Have you said good-bye to Justin?"

"I left him. I don't want to see him again."

But as she said the words Justin himself opened the door and walked into the room.

"Oh, here you are," said Lady Lucy cheerfully, "just in time to see Anstice off in the car. She is going to think over matters. It has been a bombshell to her, and perhaps I ought to have prepared her for your interview. Not a word, Anstice; you are going home to think things over, and I shall try and keep Justin with me for a few days, whilst you have time to make your decision. Young people often spoil their lives by impulsiveness. Good-bye, my dear."

Lady Lucy stopped further remonstrance from Anstice by kisses. Then she gently pushed her towards the door.

Justin went along the big hall with her, and as they stood in the porch waiting for the car which was coming round the drive, he said very quietly:

"May I give you a subject for your thoughts, a miserable harassed man, who thought he was steering into a peaceful harbour, and instead finds himself among the rocks again."

"I suppose," said Anstice slowly, "I am really a selfish woman. I am unwilling to sacrifice my life, and all that it entails, to ease a man who cannot shoulder his burden. If only you realized how little wealth and comfort appeal to me. Perhaps it is because I have never been without a certain amount of it in my life. It is possible that if you had waited to make your proposition till I had failed to procure any work, and was entirely starving and homeless, I might have listened to you more calmly."

"I will wait if you like," said Justin in his dry, matter-of-fact tone.

Anstice laughed again. She laughed very often when she felt near tears.

"Oh," she said impulsively, "what disadvantages we women have, in spite of all our modernity! Men rove over the sea when they have domestic troubles. It is women's part to put their shoulders to the wheel and create order out of chaos! Cousin Lucy is very angry with me, but I am not unreasonable; and I will think matters over, and write to you. Give me till the beginning of next week. This is Thursday. On Monday, I will send you my answer."

She held out her hand, and he took it and gripped it.

"If you have any womanly feeling, you will help me," he said, and then wheeling round, he disappeared into the house; and the car glided down the drive, and Anstice was left alone to her reflections.

She suddenly saw herself in Southampton Docks by the side of a big liner taking troops to France. She was standing with her hands in another's, with a cold set face of misery, meeting the yearning, agonizing glance of the handsome boy by her side. Only a boy and girl affair. Yet that parting, and the subsequent terse telegram announcing the death of a promising young officer, left marks on Anstice's soul that she would bear to her dying day. It had made her indifferent to men, it had made her determined to enjoy a single life for the rest of her days on earth.

And now she was asked to link her life to one who was supremely indifferent to her, who purposed to bind her to him merely for the mitigation of his home difficulties. "Womanly feeling!" She must have womanly feeling and sympathy for him and for his children, but what manly feeling had he for her?

Sitting in the car with her clasped hands in her lap, she was a picture of serene, contented youth, and yet in her heart, a seething passion of bewilderment, wounded pride, and indignation, coupled with uncertainty and doubt, was passing to and fro.

She had not enough religion in her life to help her, but she had a real love for children. Perhaps the thought of the little crippled boy and his mischievous sisters in a lonely house in the country, with no one to comfort or guide or train them except a succession of unsatisfactory governesses, made more impression upon her than she realized.

For when, after tossing about in her bed that night, unable to rest or sleep, she fell off at last into an uneasy slumber, she had a very vivid dream.

She thought she was standing on a stony beach, watching tremendous waves roll in from the ocean and break in a thundering roar at her feet. Suddenly, far away, she spied a small boat being driven towards her. In it were helpless children sending out shrill cries for aid.

She knew they were being driven on the rocks, but she stared at them dully, saying over and over again:

"I cannot help you."

And then distinctly the voice of her boy lover spoke to her:

"I lost my life for such as these; will you not save them? Is it not your turn?"

And then she plunged into the foaming sea, and battled for her life as she swam to meet that boat. She found an end of rope which the children flung out, and with this wound round her body, she swam back to the beach and rocks. All the time that she was struggling with the waves, she had the consciousness that her lover was watching for and waiting for her, and when finally the beach was reached, she opened her arms to embrace him. But to her consternation, the man who stood like a sentinel against the cliffs, and who moved forwards to meet her, was not her lover, but Justin Holme!

With a cry of anguish, she awoke.

There was no more sleep that night.

When the morning came she rose with an aching head and troubled heart.

But she found herself instinctively imagining the relief and comfort a capable woman might bring to that disordered and most unhappy home. And though one part of her stoutly resisted all thoughts of herself being that one, another part of her was mentally arranging and sorting out her personal possessions with the view of going up North.

CHAPTER II

THE STRANGE MARRIAGE

ON Monday morning, Anstice was surprised to get the following letter from Justin Holme:

"DEAR MISS BARRETT,—

"I am writing to you, because I feel that in our interview yesterday I was rude, abrupt, and much too peremptory. I was ill at ease, and did not control my feelings. Now I realize that I prejudiced you against me to start with; I rushed into my needs when I ought to have kept them in the background till I had gained your liking. I desperately want a stepmother for my children, but I frankly own that at present I am not a family man—I am too much of a rover to settle down. It seems a hopeless impasse, unless we determine to wed under the conditions I proposed. I am trading, I am afraid, on your love for children. I would ask you to come as housekeeper or governess, but feel convinced after so many experiences in that line that you might be only another failure. My children are dead set against all species of governesses and housekeepers. The only chance for them is a real second mother.

"I do implore you to give us a chance. Forgive my selfishness. I am entirely thinking of my own happiness and welfare, not of yours. But perhaps one day you may teach me to do so.

"I will subscribe myself—

"A very unhappy man who sees a light before him which he fears he will fail to reach.

"JUSTIN HOLME."

Anstice sat with this upon her knee. When she had left her room that morning, she had felt a reaction set in. She could not give up her life for such a position, to please a perfect stranger—a man who had been so embittered and soured by the treatment which he had received from one woman that he determined never to let any other woman enter his life.

And now this letter had made the pendulum swing the other way again. Her dream became more vivid to her. This was an unhappy, disillusioned, desperate man, who was not content to fling his responsibility as regards his children to the winds. That was the only good trait in his character. He was so anxious about them, that he was willing to tie himself up for life to a woman for whom he had no affection or desire.

What a tangle it all was!

All that day the battle raged in her heart.

But on Tuesday morning, when Justin Holme came to his aunt's breakfast table, he found the following letter awaiting him:

"DEAR MR. HOLME,—

"Thank you for your letter. I have thought a great deal; and time and thought have altered my point of view. In spite of a natural great distaste to the step you wish me to take, I will do my best to be a second mother to your children, if you still wish it. I leave you to make all plans, asking you to let me know your arrangements as soon as you can. But I must have three clear weeks before I can leave my home. After that, it will be in the market for sale.

"Yours sincerely,

"ANSTICE BARRETT."

Justin read this slowly. He read it more than once, then folded it between his fingers, and gazed thoughtfully out of the window.

Lady Lucy, from her post behind the silver tea service, looked at him with eager, anxious eyes.

"Well, Justin, what does she say? I know you have heard from her."

"The answer is in the affirmative," was the brief reply.

Lady Lucy heaved a sigh.

"Sensible girl. I felt that she needed to be saved from her impulsiveness! I can tell you again, Justin, that you have a woman in a thousand! Anstice is old for her age, as capable and efficient as—as a man, and she's just sweetness itself when you come to know her. She couldn't do a dishonourable thing. Courageous, unselfish, and loving. What could you want more for your children, to say nothing for yourself?"

"Leave me out of it," said Justin sharply. "She is quick to recognize that it is the children who need her and not I. But—she makes me wait three weeks!"

"You impatient man! What are three weeks out of a lifetime? I must go to her at once. She must have some kind of a trousseau."

Justin frowned heavily.

"Are you picturing us having a fashionable wedding? Don't you realize that we shall do the Registrar's business on our way up North!"

"I know that I mean to be with her when the rite is performed," said Lady Lucy. "The Registrar's Office is the only part of the business that I disapprove of."

Justin was silent. It had been rather a shock to him when Anstice had so curtly refused to entertain his proposition. Women had pursued him since his wife's death. It was quite unusual for any woman to dislike him. He had been at first amused, then angry, when Anstice had spoken so frankly and straightly upon the subject. Now he weighed her few words carefully. It was certainly a whole-hearted surrender. What had influenced her, he wondered, to alter her views? He would rather like to have had an inkling of her thoughts. And then he summarily dismissed her from his mind. He had got what he wanted, and very soon now he would be scudding through the ocean waves, leaving all his responsibilities behind him.

An hour later, and he was in the express train for town; and Lady Lucy was driving over in her car to see her young cousin, and to give her advice concerning this strange marriage.

*      *      *      *      *

Sitting in a first-class carriage being whirled along to the North, Anstice looked out of the window with a dazed expression in her clear blue eyes. Opposite to her was a man almost a stranger to her, and yet the uncomfortable, unnatural feel of the gold band on her finger under her glove reminded her that he was her husband.

She looked back to the events of the last two days. She had come up to town with her cousin who had taken rooms at the Grosvenor Hotel. Lady Lucy had wanted to ask Justin round to dinner on the eve of their arrival, but Anstice had begged for a quiet evening alone with her.

Anstice had retired early to bed, and Justin came round to find her gone. She did not see him till she stood with her cousin at the Registrar's Office. Lady Lucy had insisted that they should come back to the Grosvenor to have an early lunch, and then they wished her good-bye, and went off in a taxi to Euston Station.

It was an awkward moment when Lady Lucy said to Justin:

"You must take care of her and make her happy. And don't forget she has given up her own life to become your wife."

Justin contracted his brows, but said not a word.

Then Lady Lucy turned to Anstice:

"God bless you, child, and if those children are too much for you, when Justin is the other side of the world, and you get lonely or ill, send for me, and I will come to you."

"Thank you, Cousin Lucy. That is good of you."

Anstice had kissed her cousin warmly. For one moment, as she stood in the hotel lounge drawing her gloves on, and watching her luggage being taken to the taxi, panic had seized hold of her.

What was she doing? What had she done? Taken an irrevocable step which might lead to disaster, but which certainly seemed devoid of any brightness or real happiness for herself. Why had she sacrificed herself for a man's whim and gratification? He was demanding all her powers and personality in his service, and giving her nothing of himself in return.

This moment of panic passed, and quietly and serenely she accompanied Justin to the station, accepted the magazines and a box of chocolates he gave her, and now as the train started and he immersed himself in his papers, she gazed out of the window and reviewed the situation.

Suddenly he put down his paper and spoke:

"We have not had much time for any quiet conversation. If there is anything you want to ask me connected with house or children, now is the opportunity. I shall be very busy when I reach home, for I shall have a lot of things to arrange with my farm bailiff."

"I should certainly like to know a few things," said Anstice quietly. "To begin with, I should like to know the ages of your children."

"The boy is eight, the girls a year or two older. I'm afraid I don't know their exact ages."

"And how many servants have you?"

He gave a short laugh.

"I cannot answer that. Sometimes I arrive to find that there are none, barring Brenda—she's the boy's personal attendant—nurse, I suppose, you'd consider her. Eliza Falkland, my farmer's wife, comes in to cook whenever we want her. Personally I want no better cook than she is. I give you carte blanche to have as many servants as you need. The little girls are looked after by their governesses. But they have been without one for the last six weeks—Brenda sees to them. I won't advise you what to do. Running a house is a woman's work, not a man's."

Anstice was silent.

"You'll have a good roomy trap and stout cob for the children's use. I did have a car, but the governesses were always out in it with their friends, so I gave it up. I'm home so seldom that I hire when I want one. I ride a good deal. My mare is kept at the farm."

"Am I to be allowed to invite a friend to stay with me occasionally?"

"You are hardly in the same category as the governesses," he said dryly; "and I suppose you had better have a car. I'll see about it."

"No," said Anstice decidedly. "I prefer the trap. How long do you intend to be away?"

"About five or six months."

"Then let the car wait till you come home again. I am fond of the country and am never dull in it. You generally use cars to get away from your surroundings. I shall settle down like a cat, and be quite content with the cob. Do you wish me to have anything to do with the farm?"

He looked at her reflectively.

"Bob Falkland isn't good at writing. He runs the farm pretty well on his own, but if any difficulties arise I will tell him to come to you, and if you can't cope with them, you can write to me."

"What is your nearest town?"

"Penrith. You have no difficulties in the way of supplies. For Penrith contains all that we need. Any more questions?"

"No, thank you. Not at present."

He returned to his paper, and Anstice to her magazines. They had the carriage to themselves until they came to Crewe. Then he took her to the restaurant car to have tea. They were talking pleasantly together about the country in general, when suddenly a stout, handsome-looking woman came across from her seat opposite them, and accosted Justin.

"Well, you gad-about," she said playfully. "Where do you come from? Going home for twenty-four hours, I suppose, as usual."

"Let me introduce you to my wife," said Justin gravely. Then turning to Anstice, he said: "This is our nearest neighbour, Mrs. Wykeham."

Anstice could see that Justin's announcement was a distinct shock to the lady, though she concealed it as best she could.

"Yes, I live about eight miles away, but that is nothing in these days. Well, Justin, I must congratulate you. All your troubles will be over now. Are the children expecting you? They were not two days ago. I met them in the lanes having a riotous time with Hal Cross, who was driving them."

"No," said Justin; "we're taking them by surprise."

"I hope," said Mrs. Wykeham, addressing Anstice with a merry twinkle in her eyes, "that he has prepared you as to the propensities of his small folk. They are exceedingly formidable as foes, but quite engaging as friends."

"I hope I shall find them my friends," said Anstice with her pleasant smile. She was astonished at her own composure, but the fact that her husband was uneasy and uncomfortable, gave her the assurance she needed.

"Have you ever been up in these parts before?" asked Mrs. Wykeham.

"Never," replied Anstice. "It is all new country to me. I am looking forward to seeing the Lake District. I have always heard that it is so lovely!"

"Well, well, I am more glad than I can say, Justin, that you are settling down at last. I shall hope to make my call on Mrs. Holme very soon."

She stepped back to her table, and Justin drew a breath of relief. As he sat down to his tea, he looked across at Anstice, with a queer little smile.

"I hope you know how to hold your own. You will need all your discretion in an interview with Mrs. Wykeham. She is our local gossip, and tells me all the iniquities of my household whenever I set eyes on her. She's good-natured, and a meddler, and she's always upsetting other people's apple-carts. But she's a real friend if you're in trouble—so people say—for myself, I've had no use for her."

"I shall get on very well with her," said Anstice, "and eight miles away is better than at our gates."

He shook his head.

"Eight miles is nothing to her. She'll be perpetually running in and out, you will find. She's one of those poor souls who lives on people, their sayings and doings. I've choked her off when I'm at home; you had better do the same if you want any peace."

"I'll wait and see," said Anstice, smiling; "I am not going to quarrel with my neighbours if I can help it."

They were soon back in their own carriage.

Mrs. Wykeham had nodded and smiled to them as they passed her.

"We shall see each other at Penrith. Have you a car meeting you, Justin, or may I take you with me?"

"I have a car, thank you."

He spoke a little curtly. He was vexed at meeting Mrs. Wykeham and knew the news of his marriage would be all over the neighbourhood, and he had wanted to get away before the fact was known.

They had little more conversation together. Anstice grew very tired, and, leaning her head back in the corner, went fast asleep. And then it was that for the first time Justin took a very long and critical inspection of her features.

He was absolutely indifferent to her personality. It was expediency that had made him marry her, and his heart was steeled against all women. Yet there was something in the tender softness of Anstice's smile, and in the vivid sparkling of her blue eyes, that made him feel glad he had chosen her to be the custodian of his children.

"She'll be good to them, and give me no trouble," was his summing up; "and she will give Mrs. Wykeham no cause for writing me one of her catty letters."

It was very late when they at length reached Penrith. The freshness and sweetness of the air struck Anstice as she got out of the heated train.

A car was waiting for them. Mrs. Wykeham came up and said a few words to them as they were getting into it. She was intensely curious about Anstice, but saw that she was beyond criticism as to birth and breeding; and though she noted her deep mourning, she did not attempt to ask any of her usual inquisitive questions.

"I shall come and call very soon," she said cheerfully. "You don't know how glad we shall be that a mistress is coming to Butterdale Manor."

"Is she expecting social festivities, I wonder," said Anstice lightly, when Mrs. Wykeham had left them. "I fancy my position will be rather a difficult one."

"Not at all. Why should it be? You can entertain the neighbourhood as much as you like. I have laid down no restrictions, have I?"

"No," said Anstice, with a little amused curl to her lips; "I see that, as your wife, I cannot be hedged about in too marked a way. But I think, for my own peace of mind, the less I see of the outside world the better."

"May I ask why?"

Anstice looked at him. They were driving along in the gathering dusk. His profile by her side was set and determined.

"Well," she said in her sweetest tone, "the chatterers will naturally wonder why the wife has been deserted so soon. I shall not feel inclined to give them the solution, and I shall certainly not pose as an injured, aggrieved wife, so absolute indifference will be my rôle. It is, after all, the true state of things on both sides, is it not?"

"You have a sharp tongue," said Justin.

"I hope not. A true one."

Silence fell between them, then she drew in a long breath of delight as they passed along in full view of the beautiful lake with the Fells on the other side. Turning to him again, she said:

"Forgive me, if I have seemed discourteous. You have given me a great deal besides your name, and I should be ungrateful to forget it. All this will be real joy to me. To live in one of the most beautiful spots in England will be delightful."

Justin's brow cleared. He began pointing out several places of interest. To Anstice, this drive through wooded heights with the blue Fells behind against the sunset sky was one of pure pleasure. And then as the dusk deepened, they came along buttercup meadows and pastureland, passing various small hamlets where lights were already twinkling through the cottage windows.

It was dark when they turned in at some big gates on the high road and up an avenue of chestnuts now opening into flower.

"The gardens are not as tidily kept as they should be. Cross, my gardener, is getting old, and his son Hal, who works under him, and minds the pony and poultry yard, is better at vegetables than flowers. I dare say, if you were to take an interest in the place, they would do better. Here we are!"

He handed her out of the car, and led her up the steps. The door was opened to them by a pleasant-looking young woman.

"This is Brenda," said Justin, turning to Anstice. "She's our only stand-by."

Anstice held out her hand.

"I have heard about you," she said, with her winning smile. "I am afraid we are very late in arriving."

"The children are in bed, I suppose?" Justin asked, as they entered a big, dimly-lit hall, and made their way into a room which was dubbed the library, but which seemed used for general purposes, and was littered with children's toys and games. There was a fire, and a round table drawn up to it on which was laid the supper for the travellers.

"Yes, sir, they are all asleep. They tried hard to keep awake. Happily for all of us, they could not manage it. Will you like to come upstairs to your room, ma'am?"

"Thank you, I should."

So Anstice was led up bare black oak stairs to a very big, old-fashioned bedroom.

"The late Mrs. Holme slept here," murmured Brenda. "I hope it will be comfortable for you."

Anstice said nothing. She walked to the window and drew aside the thick curtains to look out, but a dense mist and the darkness prevented any sort of view.

Her luggage was soon brought up. It was not long before she was down in the old library again. And Justin joined her, apologizing for not having changed into evening clothes.

A couple of ducks, and a fruit tart with cheese and biscuits, were set before them. Brenda brought in everything and then left them. It all seemed primitive to Anstice, and as she looked about the dreary, untidy room, she wondered if she would ever be able to improve it.

Justin caught her wandering gaze.

"I told Brenda we ought to have meals in the dining-room, but if you can believe it, she was afraid of making the change because of the children. I told her to tell them nothing. They think you are a fresh governess. I must explain to-morrow. I've always had meals in this room. I dare say you will be able to make the drawing-room comfortable for yourself, and there is another sitting-room shut up—the morning-room. It has been a question of servants; but if you can get some in, you will be able to run the house as it used to be."

"I will look over the house to-morrow," said Anstice cheerfully.

"I have been thinking," went on Justin, "that now you will be here looking after things, I believe you could get a very good daily governess for the girls. There's a Mrs. Fergusson, an elderly lady, who was a governess to some Russian Count's family for many years. She's a very clever woman, and offered at one time to give up her mornings to my small folk; but it would not have answered then, as I wanted a resident governess for them, and she could not give her whole time. She lives about two miles from here. Mrs. Wykeham could tell you about her."

"That sounds feasible. Do the children know her?"

Justin gave a short laugh. "They heard about her and told me they would stand no old woman about them! They're first-class little rebels, but you may be able to tame them."

He said little more during the rest of the meal. Immediately it was over, Brenda appeared, saying that Bob Falkland was waiting to speak to Justin. Justin went out at once, and for nearly an hour was shut in the smoking-room with his bailiff.

When he came out, he went into the library expecting to see Anstice sitting over the fire, but she had gone, and Brenda informed him that the mistress was tired, and had gone to bed.

At that moment, Anstice was leaning out of her open window inhaling the fragrant scent of a sweetbriar bush, and watching the moon struggling through the mist which surrounded it.

She had had a strange experience when first coming into her room. Her bed was one of the large, old-fashioned, four-posted testers, and looking at it with a little distaste, and wondering if she might be compelled to sleep on a feather bed, she saw a movement in the middle of it under the blankets. Thinking it might be a cat or dog which had crept in there, she hastily turned back the bedclothes, and there she found a hedgehog wriggling about. She seized hold of her bath towel and enfolding the intruder in it, opened her door to take it downstairs, but Brenda happened to be passing along the passage, so she called her.

Brenda threw up her hands in horror.

"Those wicked children! They've done it, ma'am. It's a mistake the master keeping it from them who you are. They think you're a fresh governess. I may tell you now that I prepared the dining-room with all the best china and silver, and Miss Georgie went in and seized hold of the cloth and pulled the whole of it off upon the ground. Such a smash of the beautiful dishes and plates. It properly upset me. I didn't like to tell the master to-night. They're furious, because the master's message to them was that he was bringing a lady to stay this time, and they're determined to drive you away quicker than they've driven the other ones."

Anstice laughed, though she did not feel like laughing.

"I must share in their fun," she said. "Don't look so troubled, Brenda. I must try and come to an understanding with them as soon as possible. Is this a pet beastie?"

"Yes, his name is Joshua, but they have been forbidden to bring him into the house. I'll take him back to his shed where he sleeps."

Anstice went back to her room. She did not anticipate an easy time, and yet longed to make acquaintance with these young rebels. It was rather a forlorn beginning of her new life, and she was at her window still wrapt in meditation when she heard Justin come up to his room next hers, and move about. Then she crept quietly into bed and fell asleep, not to wake till the sun was shining in a clear blue sky, and the birds singing in the garden beneath her window.

CHAPTER III

MAKING FRIENDS

BEFORE she dressed, Anstice went again to her window, and this time she could not help giving a cry of delight.

Such an exquisite view was before her. First a sloping green park with magnificent old spreading trees grouped here and there, under which cattle were browsing, then the blue lake like a sheet of glass lying between the purple Fells, which ranged themselves around it, in various heights and shapes, and with beautiful shadows passing to and fro. Directly underneath her window was a wide terrace walk; then, on a lower level, a well-kept lawn, on one side of which was a long herbaceous border already bright with flowers. At the bottom of the lawn was an old wall covered with fruit trees and flowering shrubs and creepers, and a gate in the middle of it which led into the park.

An hour later she left her room; for a big bell was ringing, and that was a summons to breakfast.

She had heard childish voices about the house, and once, from her window, had a flying glimpse of two short-frocked, long-legged girls, chasing each other across the lawn.

As she was crossing the corridor outside her room to go downstairs, she passed a room which had the door open, and heard her husband's voice: he evidently had caught sight of her, and called her in.

"I want to introduce my son to you."

It was the old nursery. Anstice saw at once that it was a large and sunny room, and was far more comfortable in every way than the room downstairs. Justin sat upon a chintz-covered couch under one of the big windows, and in his arms was his boy.

For a moment Anstice surprised a look upon his face, that she had never thought possible for him to wear. It was of passionate tenderness and love; and then, as he looked up from the little face nestling against his shoulder, the hard light was in his eyes again, and the easy, indifferent tone upon his lips.

"This is Rufus, commonly known as Ruffie, and this, Ruffie, is your stepmother. Shake hands with her and wish her well."

Anstice impulsively went down on her knees before the child. She almost started, as she saw a face of exquisite beauty. Red gold curls clustered about a broad white brow with large brown eyes, which looked up at her with a mixture of pathos and mischief in their depths. A little delicate oval face, with small pointed chin and a most beautiful mouth, belonged to Ruffie. His complexion was like a blush rose, his tiny white hands were those of an artist, the rest of his poor little body was crippled and deformed. He wore a tussore silk shirt with a pale blue tie, but a shawl was wrapped round his legs. One small hand shot out in response to his father's words.

Anstice took it, and held it for a moment in both hers. But she met a look of horror and incredulity from the child.

"We are going to be friends," she said, smiling at him.

"A stepmother!"

Ruffie's voice rose shrilly.

"Does that mean she's going to live here always, or are you going to take her away with you, Dad?"

"She has promised me she will stay here with you," said Justin.

His voice sounded helpless, and his eyes met Anstice's with a hint of appeal in them. She came to his rescue, and said cheerfully:

"Yes, we're going to have good times together, I hope, Ruffie. I am not a governess, you mustn't think of me as one, for I'm not half clever enough to teach your sisters."

"You're a new mother," said Ruffie, scowling heavily at her. "We've got our own mother. She's dead, and we don't want another. If Dad doesn't want you to go with him, we don't want you to stay with us, so you can go home where you came from."

Anstice shook her head and smiled, whilst her dimples came in play.

"When I got up this morning, Ruffie," she said, "I looked out of my window, and I saw such a beautiful corner of the world, that I knelt down and said my prayers before it. And I said to myself when I got up: 'Every one who lives in such beauty must be happy and kind.' That's what I mean to be; will you join me?"

The scowl faded away. Ruffie was now regarding her curiously.

"Are you frightened of things?" he asked. "But all women are, we know them. First they try to frighten us, then they get frightened themselves, and then they go."

"If I don't go till I am frightened," said Anstice, "you will have to wait a long time, Ruffie. But this is my home now as well as yours. I shall soon fit into my corner, you see if I don't! And one person determined last night to be friends with me and give me a welcome. I mean to see more of him. Do you know his name? Joshua."

Ruffie's face was a picture. Interest, curiosity and ripples of mischief showed themselves in his eyes.

"Did he prick you?" he asked impishly.

"I should think not. He thought he was in a prison with hot, heavy clouds suffocating him. First he thought he was under the earth, but he couldn't burrow a way out. Then he turned head over heels, and was preparing to give a squeal, when suddenly the clouds lifted, and then he was lifted. In a few minutes, he was back again in his usual bedroom, and if you asked him about it this morning, he would tell you it was a bad dream."

"We must come to breakfast."

Justin spoke abruptly. He very gently put Ruffie back upon his couch amongst his cushions, and Anstice left the room saying to Ruffie:

"We will see each other later on."

Justin and she had hardly taken their places at the breakfast table in the library, when the door was flung open, and the two little girls, arm in arm, came in most defiantly.

"Good morning," said their father gravely, "come and speak to this lady. She is going to be a second mother to you."

They stood perfectly still, astonishment and disgust plainly discernible on their faces.

"She's only another governess. You're pretending, Dad."

The taller of the two, Josephine by name, was spokeswoman.

"Aren't you glad I am not another governess?" said Anstice, pouring out a cup of coffee and handing it to her husband as she spoke. Her tone was easy, and a little indifferent.

"We don't want any sort of mother fussing round here," said Josie, tapping the carpet impatiently with her foot. "We manage ourselves. You know we do, Dad."

Justin looked at them for a moment in silence, then he said:

"I don't think your manners do you credit. You make a poor sort of show beside other children of your age."

"Oh, come on, Josie," cried Georgie, the smaller girl, "if she's come to manage us she won't stay long."

And like a whirlwind they both swept out of the room, banging the door behind them.

Justin gave his short, indifferent laugh.

"Now you've seen them at their worst," he said. "I'm sorry they've given you such a poor welcome, but my aunt seemed to think troublesome children interested you more than good ones."

"Much more," said Anstice. "They interest me very much. You have very nice-looking children, and if their high spirits can be turned in the right direction, they will grow up delightful girls."

"Well, they will be a test of your powers. I must tell you I have a good bit of business to do before I leave, which I hope will be to-morrow afternoon. But I shall be in this evening. I have to go round and look up my tenants; I have about half a dozen tenant farmers, and they always expect a call from me when I'm home, and they live far apart. You wouldn't think it perhaps, but though I can't manage my house, they say my estate is one of the best run of its kind in these parts."

"I can't think why you aren't content to live here," said Anstice, gazing out of the window with a dreamy look in her eyes.

Justin made no reply. He made short work of his breakfast, and then Anstice saw a beautiful bay mare being brought round to the door. As he was mounting, he called out to her:

"Don't wait dinner for me, but I think I shall be in by eight o'clock. Brenda will take you over the house, and give you all the information you need."

He was gone; and Anstice drew a long breath of relief. She felt at last that she was free and independent.

As she stood outside on the terrace, drinking in the fresh sweet air, the little girls suddenly appeared holding between them by the collar a huge mastiff.

"It's Hercules and he wants to see what you're like," announced Josie. "You'd better make friends with him quick—while we hold him; he's awful to strangers, he's a kind of bloodhound, and seizes you with his teeth if he doesn't like you."

"He looks good tempered," said Anstice happily. "I'm very fond of big dogs."

She advanced towards him as she spoke, but as she was about to lay her hand on his head, a blood-curdling deep growl emitted from his great throat.

"There! He hates you, he won't be friends!" cried Georgie triumphantly.

"If you stop pinching his tail and let him loose, I'll see whether he likes me or not."

Anstice spoke quietly, but she had quick eyes, and the children looked slightly abashed.

"He'll knock you down, if I let him go," Josie said.

"I'll risk that."

Very reluctantly they loosed their grip of his collar.

Hercules made a bound towards her. Anstice stood her ground, and smiled at him. He sniffed at her shoes, wagged his tail, and then as she patted his head, he turned up his beautiful brown eyes, and regarded her with favour, even going so far as to lick her hand.

Then Anstice turned to the little girls.

"Won't you show me the animals? I expect you have a good many pets and I want to know them."

But they took to their heels, whistling for Hercules, who bounded after them, and a wave of depression passed over Anstice's soul. Then she turned with brisk steps to search for Brenda.

"Can you leave your little charge?" she asked her when she met her on the stairs.

"Indeed, yes, ma'am. He's accustomed to loneliness, poor little soul! But I've carried him down to the library and his sisters will be in and out concocting mischief with him. For the matter o' that 'tis his brain that hatches most of their plots, and they carry them out."

"Is he able to read?"

"Yes, indeed he is, but his doctor doesn't like him to do too much of it. It gives him headaches. He's great at drawing, and has books and books full of his funny figures."

"Oh, that's good to hear! Now, will you take me over the house?"

For an hour Anstice talked and planned with Brenda, making arrangements for the comfort of them all. There evidently seemed no lack of money, but utter lack of organization. Brenda said that no good servants would come, where there was no proper mistress.

"I haven't the authority, ma'am—nor am I good at getting others to work. I'd rather do it all myself. There's an aunt of mine—she's lately been left a widow. She's a good cook and was living with some gentry about eight mile from here. I asked her wouldn't she come to us; but she knew the master was always away, and didn't like the idea of doing for the governesses who've been driven away one after the other owing to the children's wicked ways."

"Where does your aunt live? Could she come and see me? Or I could go to her?"

They discussed the matter together. Anstice longed to get help in and have the empty rooms all prepared and got ready for use.

The house was of grey substantial stone, with several quaint buttresses and corners. The windows on the ground floor all opened to the ground. There was a very large conservatory on one side of the drawing-room, but beyond one creeping rose that covered the outside wall there was not a plant in it. Old boxes and lumber of all sorts were stacked up inside it. As Anstice walked about, and noted the possibilities of the house, she felt glad that she had come to it.

"I can make it into a pretty and comfortable home, I know I can; but I wonder whether I can make it into a happy one."

A little sigh left her lips. Later on she unpacked her trunks and arranged her room according to her liking.

At luncheon the little girls appeared, expecting to meet their father at it. Anstice told them that he was away for the day. They sat together, whispering and giggling. Then suddenly Josie addressed Anstice:

"Are you afraid of ghosts? There's one in your room. We think it's mother."

"I shouldn't be afraid of her, or of any other spirit," said Anstice very gently.

"You wait and see. Our mother will be furious to find you in her room. You'd better get out."

"My dear Josie," said Anstice, "no one could drive me out of my room. And as to your mother, I am sure she would only be too thankful to me for coming here to give you a more comfortable and, I hope, a happier home."

"We don't want you," said Georgie sullenly.

"Look here," said Anstice impulsively, "I tell you what we will do. We will have a 'pow-wow' to-morrow evening in the nursery. Do you know what a 'pow-wow' is?"

"Some old rubbishy thing!" muttered Josie scornfully.

"It's what the Red Indians have. They sit round a fire, all the heads and chiefs are invited, and then they talk and talk and talk. Every one can have a say."

"What do they talk about?" inquired Georgie, a gleam of interest in her deep blue eyes.

"Whether they're going to have peace or war. It is settled once for all. Ruffie must take part in it. Shall we all dress up as Red Indians to make it real? And the evenings are chilly, we'll have a delicious drink that I know how to make. I used to make it for the school children in my old home where we had treats. And I call it 'Honeybunny'!"

"You're trying to make us like you," said Josie deliberately; "and we don't want to like you."

"Don't tell me that now. Tell me to-morrow evening. You will have the chance of saying anything you like then. I shall want you to listen to me, and then I will listen to you. Do you agree?"

"We'll talk to Ruffie about it, and see what he says."

But there was a little sparkle in Josie's eyes as she spoke.

Anstice felt that she had already scored a point.

When lunch was over, the little girls tore up to the nursery, and Anstice went out of doors. She crossed the lawn and had a few words with the old gardener, Stephen Cross, who seemed delighted to see her.

"Ay," he responded to some pleasant words of hers, "th' 'ouse ha' wanted a mistress these mony years, an' a mistress who'll bide in it, an' ha' an interest in it."

Then she went out through the little gate into the park, rejoicing in the fresh green underfoot and around her. A wide beaten path led her across the sward down to the edge of the lake. Here she found a boathouse and small landing stage, and in an enclosure fenced off from the cattle was a very pretty little chalet evidently used for making afternoon tea. The door was unlocked, and inside she found remains of a meal. Unwashed cups and saucers were on the table. An open cupboard showed more crockery and a small oil stove.

Then she went outside, and sitting on the short grass under the shade of an acacia tree, she looked out upon the blue lake before her. It was very still, only a little ripple washed up at her feet. Opposite were the blue Fells and mountains, some in the background crested with wreaths of cloud. She watched the wonderful lights and shadows playing across them, and her thoughts were lifted for the time away from rebellious children and a disordered house.

Suddenly a voice beside her broke in upon her musings.

"Good afternoon."

She turned quickly. A tall, broad-shouldered man in clerical attire stood before her. She encountered a pair of keen, kindly eyes looking at her between shaggy brows.

"I must introduce myself. I am the new parson. I was only inducted a few weeks ago and I heard Mr. Holme was here for a day or two, so came to pay my respects to him. He is my nearest neighbour."

The hearty, pleasant voice brought relief to Anstice's heart. Here was some one who would be friendly, possibly a real help-giver.

She shook hands with him.

"My husband is out visiting his tenants. I am so glad to see you. I am enjoying this most exquisite view."

"May I do the same, and sit down beside you? I have come from a busy life in Liverpool, so you can imagine what all this means to me."

"It must be a great contrast," said Anstice.

"Yes, I feel I am too young to be relegated into such a retreat, but heart trouble has enforced rest, and I'm only a crock at present."

"I expect you have been overdoing it."

"I have been told so. It is difficult to prevent it. I have a scattered parish here, a good many farm-houses amongst the Fells. I hear that Mr. Holme is seldom here. But his tenants seem devoted to him. I am sorry to miss him."

"He leaves to-morrow for a sea voyage."

"And do you go with him?"

"No, I shall stay here. There are his children to be mothered, and I am going to try to do it." Then she added impulsively: "I am a stranger here, and I am wondering whether I am going to prove a success or failure. Can you give me a receipt for winning love?"

He looked at her with a smile.

"You will not find that difficult. Love as you are loved."

"Ah, but I have come into a hostile atmosphere, as far as the children are concerned."

"Love as you are loved," he repeated. "The Hand that fashioned all this fair beauty before us is holding your life in its loving keeping."

Anstice looked grave.

"I had a good mother, and heard about good things from her till I was sixteen, yet somehow they have never taken a vital hold of my heart. I was thinking just now, as I looked over to those beautiful hills, how remote and serene they are, so near heaven that earth's little worries cannot touch them. I believe some people's lives are like that. My own mother's life was, but I could never attain to it."

"I don't believe in straining and climbing overmuch," said Anstice's new friend. "Thank God that He reaches down just where we are and as we are. A child has only to raise its arms to its mother. She does the lifting."

Anstice drew in a quick breath, and looked at him with glowing eyes.

"I dare say it is because I have always felt so capable, that I have never wanted to be raised," she said. "Now to-day I am feeling my own helplessness."

"It's a good attitude in our soul's affairs."

Silence fell between them. Then he began to talk about village interests. He told her his wife was an invalid, and that he was in need of an organist, for the last rector's wife had always played for the services.

"Are you musical?" he asked her. "I wonder if you could help me?"

"I can play. I always used to in our little village church at home, but I cannot promise to undertake outside work just yet. I must feel my way. May I let you know later on what I can do?"

After a little more talk, they walked back to the house together.

"May I see the children?" he asked, as walking along the terrace they heard their voices through the open library window.

Anstice took him into the room at once. Here they found the little girls on the carpet sorting over a bag of feathers, Ruffie looking on with the keenest interest. They looked up surprised at the grown-ups' intrusion, but the Rector quickly put them at ease.

"I'm not going to stay, I only want to shake hands, and say that I hope we're going to be friends."

Hands were shaken in grave silence.

"Now, did I see any of you at church?"

Josie shook her head vigorously.

"We don't hardly ever go. It's so dull. And Mr. Penfold looked so cross and old."

"I'd like to go one day," announced Ruffie. "I'd like to hear the music."

"You shall," promised Anstice.

Then the Rector took his leave. But he placed his hand on Ruffie's head before he went, and said softly, "May the Good Shepherd gather His lamb with His Arm and carry him in His Bosom."

And Ruffie stared at him with open eyes and mouth, as if he were an unknown wonder.

CHAPTER IV

LEFT TO HERSELF

WHEN Justin reached home that evening, he found dinner in the dining-room. A bowl of pink tulips adorned the table. Anstice in a black lace gown with some early white roses at her breast sat opposite to him, and talked in her soft, happy voice of all that she had done and seen during the day.

"I had better warn you," said Justin in his hard, matter-of-fact tone, "that the lake is not safe sailing for you. I keep the boathouse locked. The children are absolutely forbidden to go on the water by themselves. You might take out the rowing boat on a very fine settled day with old Stephen. He knows the lake better than I do, but keep the boat away from the children."

"I don't want to curtail their pleasures. Do you let them drive about the roads by themselves? They went off in the trap after tea to-day."

"Josie is a good whip and is allowed to drive about the lanes, but the high road is tabooed. There is too much traffic with all these char-à-bancs and cars."

Then he gave a short laugh.

"The less restrictions you lay down, the better for you and them," he said. "As Josie once said to me: 'If you don't make rules we shan't break them!' And there's sound reason in that."

After dinner, he went off to his smoking-room.

Anstice sat on the terrace until dark. It was a still, warm evening. Just before ten o'clock he came out and joined her.

"Are you regretting our hasty step?" he asked her abruptly.

"Why should you think so?" Anstice inquired.

"I don't think about it. I asked out of mere curiosity."

"Well, if I did, and if I ever do, I shall never tell you," said Anstice quietly.

There was silence, then Justin said:

"I find I shall have to leave early to-morrow morning, for I have business to do in Carlisle before I sail; so this is our last opportunity for any conversation. You will find your cheque book in the writing-table drawer in my smoking-room. I have placed two thousand to the credit of your account at the Bank in Penrith. Make any improvements in the house and garden that you feel desirable—I give you carte blanche to do as you like in my absence. You can send me a letter every month if you like, and of course cable out if anything alarming occurs."

"To the high seas?" asked Anstice, smiling.

"Oh, well, I will give you the address of my first, landing-place. Is there anything you want to know?"

"I think not, thank you."

How entirely indifferent he was to her welfare! He did not seem to realize what a difficult time she might have. And yet, she reminded herself, that he might consider that matters were evenly balanced. She was being given a home, and enough money to make it thoroughly comfortable; also a certain position as mistress of the Manor. Would not that compensate for loneliness, and constant contentions with unmanageable children?

She shook her head with a smile, and then encountered a look from Justin; rather a searching look, as if he were trying to probe her thoughts.

"You are very capable," he said briefly, and she made no reply.

Presently she got up from her seat. "Good night," she said. "I suppose I shall see you in the morning before you go? What time do you start?"

"Nine o'clock. Good night."

He held open the door for her, and watched her graceful figure pass up the stairs, then he went back to his smoking-room.

At half-past eight the next morning, he was in the nursery holding his boy in his arms. And once again Anstice was called in to take part in a discussion.

"Ruffie wants to know whether he can have any boating this summer. Last year I was home, and we were on the water a good bit. I have told him he must ask you."

"Of course we'll go on the lake," said Anstice promptly; "I can row, and with Stephen, we'll have some lovely picnics."

Ruffie looked up at her with what she mentally dubbed his "Pucks" expression.

"Can you swim?" he asked.

"Yes."

He gave a little wriggle of disgust and muttered:

"I s'pect you're a kind of witch that can't be got rid of!"

She caught the words, but his father did not.

Then Ruffie glanced up at Justin.

"We're going to have a big talk with her to-night, all of us—dressed in feathers like Indians. Josie is making Hal kill two cocks, so that we can get their tail feathers."

"What are you going to talk about?" said his father idly.

"We're going to discuss the situation," explained Anstice.

"What situation?"

"That of a strange woman coming to take possession of a strange house, and make friends with its belongings. We're going thoroughly to thrash out the subject, and hear all sides of the question."

Then Justin smiled.

"I wish you good luck. Now, my boy, I must go."

"Oh, Dad!"

The little arms were flung round his neck tightly, and the golden head buried against his shoulder.

"Why do you leave us so much? Why can't you take me with you? Why do you bring this new person here and leave her? If she won't leave us, what shall we do? Oh, Dad, will you never come and live with us prop'ly?"

Anstice slipped away, leaving father and son together. There was no question of their affection for each other, but the little girls seemed supremely indifferent to their father's presence or absence. She heard them as she went into the dining-room to breakfast, calling to Hercules; and there were sounds of great disturbance in the poultry yard.

Yet Anstice felt thankful that her proposition had found favour in their eyes.

Justin made a hurried breakfast. Then the car arrived, and his luggage was taken out. He turned to his wife.

"Well, this is good-bye for about six months. I hope you won't regret the step you've taken."

He held her hand in his for a moment, and Anstice faced him with sweet, resolute eyes.

"I don't think I shall regret it," she said, "for I shall have plenty to do, and I am always happy when I am busy."

Then he surprised her by stooping, and giving her a swift kiss on her cheek.

"A husband's privilege," he said with a queer little smile about his lips.

Anstice's colour had risen.

"But not necessary," she said, "and I would rather say a partner—hardly a husband."

"Good-bye, Dad. Bring us some presents when you come back," sang out Georgie.

"And if you find the new person gone when you come back, don't be surprised," added Josie.

Their father stooped to kiss them, but tapped Josie sharply on the shoulder. "That is not the way to speak of your stepmother."

He was gone. Anstice waved a farewell to him, and his children imitated her example. Then they rushed away and Anstice saw them no more till luncheon time.

She was very busy herself looking over store and linen cupboards, and making lists of what was necessary for the comfort of the household.

In the afternoon she started out across the Fells at the back of the house to see Brenda's aunt. She lived with a sister, a farmer's wife, and the farm was a good three miles off. Anstice was a good walker, and she had decided to see her as soon as possible, and ask her if she would like to come to the Manor as cook.

She turned up a steep lane for about a mile between buttercup meadows and rich pasture land. Then she came to a gate which led directly on to the Fells. Meeting an old man, she asked him the way to Hockerdale Farm.

He rubbed the side of his head and looked at her doubtfully.

"Noo, wat be 'ee wantin' ower yon?" he demanded.

"I want a Mrs. Parkin," Anstice said.

"Then ye may taak her an' be kindly welcome to ha' 'er!" he said, rubbing his hands, and giving a little satisfied chuckle. "My Ja-ane an' she be sisters, an' M'ria be too maanagin'. She be wantin' to rule the hoose, an' we all togither—Ye be a straanger in these paarts, I reckon? Noo, list to me, an' keep yer weather eye open. Foller this shaap track, an' doan't 'ee turn aside, fur strangers have a way o' missin' the track, an' bleachin' their bones on the crags below. This 'ere path leadeth to Hockerdale. My missus wull giv' 'ee a dish o' tay, an' more beside, if ye win M'ria awae fra our fireside."

He went on his way with sturdy independence.

Anstice was amused by his speech and manner. And then she lightly sped along the little winding path in front of her. The young bracken was just beginning to uncurl. In some sheltered spots there were sheets of bluebells; then, as she mounted higher, the air grew keen and sharp. Rabbits scudded in and out of their holes, mountain sheep with lambs gave room to her as she passed. She seemed alone in Nature's wilds, and her passionate love for the country filled her heart now with complete satisfaction. Occasionally she would turn and look down at the blue lake beneath her. Then gaze over to the opposite Fells, and in the distance the long range of Helvellyn would stand out, as if guarding the green valleys from the storms that would sweep over his crest.

It was not all stiff climbing. The path led between steep crags at times, and round every turn fresh views would delight her eyes. Cottages and farmsteads were scattered here and there over the Fells, and before very long she came to her destination.

She knew it by Brenda's description: "'Tis facing down a dale, and has a fir wood of shelter behind it, and a couple of tilled fields on the fiat beside it."

It was a grey stone building with slated roof, and a deep square porch before the door.

A woman stood just outside the porch, shading her eyes with her hand, but watching Anstice approach with some interest.

"I am Mrs. Holme," said Anstice pleasantly. "I have only just come here to live, but Brenda has sent me up here to speak to her aunt, Mrs. Parkin. Is she at home?"

"I am herself," said the woman. "Come ye in an' I'll fetch my sister who's the rightfu' mistress of this house."

She led her into a most delightful kitchen, with a blazing fire. Shining copper and brass pans stood on shelves on either side of the wide hearth. Hams were suspended from the beams across the ceiling. Hot bread was just coming out of the oven, and Mrs. James, the farmer's wife, very deliberately set her loaves out on the old oak dresser, before she turned to speak to Anstice.

"Please take a seat, ma'am. 'Tis a pleasure to make acquaintance with you so soon. The Squire were up here yesterday, and did tell us the news. It be a gran' thing for those poor little lasses of his."

Anstice sat down on a cushioned seat near a window, where musks and early geraniums stood on its wide sill. She smiled.

"I have come to ask Mrs. Parkin whether she will come and help me to make a comfortable home at the Manor."

Then she unfolded her errand. Mrs. Parkin, a stout, pleasant-faced woman, listened to her in silence and appeared to be pondering over the matter. Then after a long pause she said:

"I'll come to you and give it a trial, ma'am. Brenda has been at me times without number, but I'm a lover of order and method, and could not face the loneliness and shiftless muddle there."

"I will give you help in the kitchen as soon as I can. I am going to get several maids. But it will take time. When can you come to us?"

"Right off if you like, ma'am. I seem to be out of place here, and my room wanted more'n my company."

"Now, M'ria, don't get in such havers! You'll stay an' have a cup of tea with us, ma'am? I have some fresh-baked scones and a currant loaf."

Mrs. James was bustling about, laying a spotless cloth on a spotless table, so Anstice, seeing she would be hurt if she hurried away, stayed and chatted on with them both, learning much about the neighbourhood and its ways. Her husband's continued long absences from home were deplored.

"There be a certain set of the landlords hereabouts that only come down to enjoy themselves in the summer, but there be those which doan't, and our Squire's feyther were the mon who bided at hoame an' tended to his land hisself. Squire Justin 'ave all the qualities o' his feyther, but he be terrible fearful of living a lone life up there, wi' his children. Noo that he be wedded, we'll look fur better times. He telled us, he be bound by praaperty to go out this voyage, but we'll hope 'twill be the laast. I told him 'twere a shockin' way to traate a bride."

Anstice laughed happily.

"When his home is made comfortable for him, you think it will be a different story, Mrs. James? With Mrs. Parkin coming to me, I am not afraid to face the future."

The women struck her as not inquisitive and gossipy, but profoundly interested in the life of their Squire and his children.

"My niece Brenda be just wrapped up in the poor little lad," Mrs. James asserted, "but the little lasses be limbs of mischief, and I'll dare say that ye'll have a terrible time wi' them."

"I hope we shall be great friends," said Anstice.

"Ah well, ye'll not be a guv'ness. They've had a feckless set down there, wi' no authority nor grit o' purpose, an' the lasses have driven them away wi' their tricks."

Anstice left the farm a little later, feeling light-hearted. She was convinced that Mrs. Parkin would be the first step towards bringing order and comfort to her new home. Brenda, however willing, was not equal to the demands made upon her. Her path back across the Fells was a sheer enjoyment to her. She faced the lake the whole way. The woods and trees overhanging it were in their freshest green. One or two boats were out upon the water; on the opposite side the distant Fells were a deep purple against the sky.

"Oh, it is a lovely country," she exclaimed. "I am glad I came."

When she reached home, Brenda came forward eagerly to hear the result of her visit. She drew a long breath of relief when she heard that her aunt was coming.

"You'll find her all you need, ma'am. 'Tis what the maaster has needed for these many year. A body who'll be head o' the kitchen, and not only cook but keep an eye on his interests."

Then she added:

"I've laid your tea in the library, ma'am, but the children are having theirs in the nursery, and I am to ask you not to go near them. They have locked themselves in and are making great preparations for this evening. Some game with you, they say 'tis."

"Something more than a game, I hope, Brenda. You tell them that six o'clock is the time for our meeting."

At six o'clock punctually Anstice walked into the nursery robed in a red and white silk rug she had taken off an ottoman in her room. She had tied her hair up in a coloured handkerchief, and considered herself sufficiently dressed for the occasion.

Anstice had arranged them . . . in a circle round the fire.

Her Kingdom      Book I, Chapter IV.

But when she came into the nursery, she found some startling little apparitions awaiting her. Josie and Georgie were a mass of feathers and paint. They had liberally spotted their faces and arms with red and blue paint, and had decorated Ruffie in the same way. Some of the feathers had been coloured, and hung in strings round their necks. Their heads were in caps with cock's feathers sticking up in all directions.

In a few minutes Anstice had arranged them according to their satisfaction, sitting cross-legged on the carpet in a circle round the fire. Ruffie was made comfortable in a nest of cushions. He refused to stay on his couch.

"My name is Chief Baggwanda," he said, "and I've come through black forests to talk in this pow-wow."

"And I am Chief Rattleskunk," said Josie, lifting a stick and brandishing it aloft as if it were a sword. "I am for war."

"And so is Chief Wallajinks," cried Georgie, "which is me. I am for the scalp of our bitter enemy!"

"My brothers," said Anstice, falling into the game at once, "I, the oldest Chief in our country, must speak first. I, Hiamona-stagabrokkin, know not whether we are for peace or for war. That cannot be settled by one or two, it must be settled by us all. And now let us start. Give me your ears."

She paused, then she fell into her natural tones.

"I have come up here at your father's wish to make this house a happy home for us. I am not going to teach you, or give you lessons. I am not clever enough to be a governess. Brenda has tried her utmost to provide you with clothes and food; your father has provided the money, but it is too big a house for Brenda to run by herself. I am here to help her."

Josie had listened so far with impatience. Here she broke in:

"We don't mean to be managed; Georgie and I manage ourselves. We won't have anybody ordering us about, and if you're going to start telling us what to do, we shall get rid of you. We've got rid of six governesses already. We know how to do it."

"You see," said Georgie, putting in her word eagerly, "we're the new race, that's what Mrs. Penfold, the clergyman's wife who went away, was always saying. She said modern girls were awful, and couldn't be managed anyhow. That's Josie and me. We're awful, and we'll show you how awful we can be!"

"I don't doubt that," said Anstice, nodding her head gravely. "But the trouble is that you won't be able to turn me out. I have come to stay. I am not a governess, and this is my home, and everything in this house belongs to your father and me, and of course you go shares! You can treat me like your governesses, but you will find I can't be frightened or threatened or driven away. The only thing you could do would be to poison me or drown me or kill me in some way; but if you did that, it would of course, be found out, and you would be taken away by the police."

"Would they be hung?" asked Ruffie excitedly.

"I think most likely they'd be sent to a children's prison, a reformatory, where instead of managing themselves, they would be ruled up all day long and kept continuously at work. They would never be able to come home. Ruffie would be so lonely that he would die of a broken heart. Your father would feel the disgrace and shame of it so much that he would sell the house and the grounds and everything that was in it, and go away to foreign lands and live and die there and never come home again. DO you think that would be a happy thing for all of us?"

The little girls were much impressed, though it was difficult to tell beneath their paint and powder how they were taking it.

Anstice turned to Josie politely.

"Brother Rattleskunk, will you speak now?"

For a moment Josie hesitated.

"If you let us alone, and let us do what we like, and just do things in the house without interfering, we might be friends."

"We might be, but we'll promise nothing," said Georgie.

"Well, now we're going into the matter thoroughly. What do you mean to do with yourselves? No lessons, of course. You know how to read and write, but you don't want anything more. You have been born into the world with brains which you don't intend to use. You will grow up, not troubling to open the wonderful treasure chests of knowledge."

"Let me tell you of a spoilt child I knew some years ago. She would do no lessons, and her mother gave way to her. I met her at a dinner-party once. She was a pretty girl, but we had some clever people round the table. She was taken in by a French Count, and she couldn't speak a word of French to him. She could take no part in the conversation lest she should show how ignorant she was. When they talked of England as it was in olden times, she knew nothing about it. She asked if the Coliseum at Rome was a play, and whether Whigs and Tories were savages over the seas. Before the evening was over, she was left in a corner by herself. Nobody cared to talk to her, for they thought she must be an idiot, some one who hadn't sense or understanding. I suppose, Brothers Rattleskunk and Wallajinks, you will decide to grow up like that poor girl?"

There was a pause, and Anstice, wishing her words to have weight, now turned to Ruffie.

"And what does Brother Baggwanda say?"

Ruffie's eyes twinkled; he looked from his sisters to Anstice, and from Anstice to his sisters.

"Brother Baggwanda is opening his ears, but not his tongue. He will speak when all have spoken."

"But he's with us, he's with us, and not with you!" cried the little girls almost simultaneously.

Anstice laughed her rippling merry laugh. Then she became grave again.

"Now I'll give you my idea of this beautiful home of yours as it ought to be. And then you'll give me your idea of it. It must have a beautiful drawing-room with flowers and pretty things about, but not too grand for everyday use. In the evening, Brother Baggwanda may rest amongst the soft cushions on the big couch by the window. He can look out upon the still blue lake, and the rosy sunset sky. And from his couch, he will be singing joyously some lovely little songs which his brother chiefs are joining in. Brother Hiamona-stagabrokkin will be playing on the grand piano, and Brothers Rattleskunk and Wallajinks will be dancing as they sing."

"Shall we describe a happy day? In the morning every one very busy. It is the time for work of all sorts, and every one has their own particular business to do. But in the afternoon there will be picnics on the lake, and drives and tea with gipsy fires on the Fells, and as the winter comes on, there will be games and stories told in the firelight, and sometimes some of us will have shopping at Penrith or Carlisle, and then there will be surprise packets for the ones at home. Every one will go singing about the house, for every one will be happy."

"And then when Dad comes home, he will look round with wonder. He will see new curtains and carpets and there will be no dusty unused rooms, except perhaps some unwanted bedrooms. I fancy in the distance, I can see a charming little sitting-room made for Brothers Rattleskunk and Wallajinks, with perhaps a small cooking stove in it, on which they will cook some delicious scones and cakes when they ask Brother Baggwanda to tea with them. And no one but themselves will have a right to enter that room unless they receive an invitation to do so. Dad will see new things—many of them—when he comes home. He will think he has new children, but though different, they will be the same, and joy and happiness and peace will be in Dad's home, and that is what Brother Hiamona-stagabrokkin sees, as he looks out into the future."

Again a long pause.

Anstice produced some long clay pipes out of the folds of her gown.

"Brothers, shall we smoke the pipe of peace together?"

But the little girls shook their heads.

"Not yet, we haven't talked half as much as you have. What about governesses and lessons? That is what we want to know. You've made it sound nice, but will it be true?"

"If we all work together to make it true, it will. The morning will be the time for lessons, but we won't have them dragging on all day. The afternoons will be free."

"And who's the governess going to be?"

"Ah, that we must leave for the present. She must be as different from your young governesses as chalk is from cheese. If a governess and pupils do not like each other, no good will be done. There is going to be no dislike in this new home of ours."

"We'd like the sitting-room of our own, if we can furnish it as we like, and we shall like the picnics and fire in the afternoons, but it's the lessons in the mornings that we don't want."

"That will have to be thought about. The best thing will be to call a truce between us, and have pax for a month. Give the new system a trial. Then we'll have another pow-wow and see if it is to be stopped, or go on."

"How will it be stopped?"

"I suppose school must be tried again."

The little girls' faces wrinkled up in disgust.

Then Anstice leant forward with a flash in her eyes, and great earnestness in her voice.

"Oh, don't be weak inefficients! Have grit and purpose and determination in your lives. Does anyone get to the top of the Fells here and enjoy the lovely views without the trouble or toil of climbing? Can't you endure anything that may be a little hard and dull at first? Do you mean to go through life wrapped in rose-leaves and letting others carry you over the stony places? Won't you prove yourselves men, my brothers, men of courage, of heroic patience and determination? Won't you brace your shoulders and prove yourselves men of mettle? And scorn to be afraid of the necessary difficulties that come before you? You are no longer infants in the nursery, to play with toys all day and be lulled to sleep after you are fed. You are no animals to eat, and drink, and go your own way like the cows and the sheep feeding and wandering to and fro in the Park with no one to hinder their movements."

Three pairs of eyes were staring hard now at Anstice.

Then she smiled.

"I forget. I think of you as older, more reasonable than perhaps you are. I have been talking over your heads."

But she had not. Never in their lives had the children been talked to like this, but they liked it. And being intelligent, perhaps precocious for their age, they understood, and their hearts had responded quickly, as an instrument might respond to the skilled hand which with a touch knows how to draw out its beauty.

Another pause followed Anstice's words.

"Shall we have a month's trial of my plan?" she said.

The little girls were silent. They looked at Ruffie, and then very quietly, he pointed his two thumbs upwards.

"Yes, we'll try. It's a truce remember, only a truce."

"But it will be pax for a month," said Anstice quietly, "and I give you notice that I'm going to try hard for 'Pax' altogether. Now let us smoke the pipe of peace, my brothers, and we'll have a drink of 'Honeybunny.'"

She rang the bell. Her delicious concoction had been made, and Brenda brought it in on a tray. Four glasses were handed round and filled with some golden fizzy drink. The children sipped and pretended to smoke.

"It's like honey and wine and sherbet and lemon," said Ruffie appreciatively.

"If Ruffie had held his thumbs down, you'd have been done for," said Josie, turning to Anstice confidentially.

"Then I have only just escaped by the skin of my teeth," said Anstice. "I must be thankful."

The "pow-wow" was over. Anstice felt in her heart that she had made a good beginning.

CHAPTER V

THE FIRST SUNDAY

WITHIN the next few days, Anstice made some discoveries.

One was that Ruffie possessed real talent in drawing, was fond of music, and had a most beautiful little voice in singing. The other was that Josie shared Ruffie's love for music, and that Georgie was a rapacious reader.

After tea in the afternoon, she gave herself up to the children for an hour. She took them into the drawing-room, and taught them songs, played dance music; and lastly told them thrilling stories of adventure and travel.

The weather turned stormy and wet, but the children seemed never at a loss for amusement; and though the little girls kept away from her at first during the day, they invariably turned up in the drawing-room at six o'clock. Anstice was a born story-teller; they hung upon her words with breathless delight; and her gift in this direction did much to win them.

She was given no peace till the room was set apart for the little girls' private use. A small bedroom on one side of the nursery was chosen, and the children were induced to get it ready themselves. Then one afternoon they went off to Penrith in the trap to choose carpet, and curtains, and chair-coverings for it. There was a slight contention at the outset when Josie insisted that she should drive. Anstice quietly took the reins out of her hands.

"Not along the high roads, Josie. You know your father's command."

"Then I shan't come at all."

She flung herself out of the trap in a passion.

"I am afraid I shall have to help Georgie, then, in choosing the carpet and curtains. You will have to be content with our choice."

Back into the trap dashed Josie.

"It has nothing to do with you."

Anstice looked at her.

And somehow or other a quiet look or word from Anstice was enough to bring Josie to her senses. She coloured up and subsided, being specially quiet and amenable for the rest of the day.

Mrs. Wykeham very soon arrived to call upon the bride. Anstice had to bear a good many interrogatories about herself and her marriage.

"I can't understand your husband leaving you."

"I suppose," said Anstice slowly, "that it would have been better in the world's eyes to have put off our marriage till he returned. He has gone out partly on business, you know. He has some land out there. But a mistress was badly wanted here; and I consented for the sake of the children to marry him at once. Don't you think I have done rightly? This house has missed a woman's hand over it. I shall improve many things, I hope, by being here myself."

"Oh, you've done wonders already. I see it in the arrangement of this room, in the look of the hall when you enter it. And in the appearance of the children whom I encountered out on the terrace."

"With them a question of new frocks!" laughed Anstice.

"Partly. What do they call you? 'Steppie,' isn't it?"

"Yes. Ruffie has christened me that, short for stepmother. He and I have become great pals already, over his drawing. That child is a born artist."

"You may be glad to know that when I asked how everybody was, Josie answered, 'We're all right. Have got some one at last with a little sense!' 'I hope you're very polite and nice to her,' I said. 'Oh, we shall treat her as she treats us.' 'And how is that?' I asked. 'Scrumptious!' was the short reply."

Anstice laughed.

"We shall get along," she said. "I shall have things my own way in time; but I have to go slowly."

"Well, now; we must keep you from feeling lonely," said good-natured Mrs. Wykeham. "Will you lunch with me next Tuesday, and I'll get some of our neighbours to come and meet you?"

"Do you know that I would much rather come to you alone. I want to be quiet here for the present. There is a great deal to see to, and to arrange. I don't intend to be a hermit, but I don't want to plunge into social life just yet. I would rather have no callers till the house is more shipshape."

"I understand; then I won't ask a soul. There will be my husband and myself only. I will send my car for you."

Then she asked about servants, and was able to recommend a good strong girl who had been with her as kitchen-maid, and wanted to do housework as she did not care for cooking.

"You shall see her when you come over."

Though she was thoroughly kind, Anstice was relieved when the visit was over. Anstice was not fond of being managed; and Mrs. Wykeman always gave her friends the impression that they were poor inefficients, and that she was the only one in the neighbourhood who had sound common sense and capability.

Anstice never forgot her first Sunday in her new home. It was a lovely day in early June. At breakfast the little girls came in, and told her they wanted to go on the lake.

"You have the boathouse key, Brenda says."

"Yes, but you and I are going to church this morning."

"Georgie and I hate church," said Josie hastily; "we haven't been for months."

"Yes, I know that; but you are coming with me to please me this morning. You have a big family seat, I hear. How can I fill it by myself? You will come to church with me to-day, and then I will come on the lake with you to-morrow. Isn't that just and fair? You know you are not allowed to boat alone."

"We weren't going to. We were going to sit in the boat when it was tied up, and make it rock a bit."

They stood there with mutinous eyes. Anstice smiled at them.

"Have a piece of toast and honey," she suggested; "it will make things easier. I always think honey acts as oil on troubled waters."

She handed them each a slice of toast. For a moment there was doubt as to which side would win, but the honey did it.

"We hate wearing best frocks," said Josie, munching away contentedly.

"You look very nice in those you are wearing now."

Georgie gazed at her light brown jumper suit rather scornfully.

"Everybody comes to church in their best; as if God cares what we wear! But we don't want to be different to the others."

"I don't mind what you wear as long as you are neat and tidy. How long will it take us to walk to church?"

"Ever so long; it's right away from the lake. It will tire us out."

"Oh, we aren't made of china. I'll be ready at half-past ten."

The little girls slipped out of the room with down-fallen faces, and Anstice drew a sigh of relief. At present, her authority was a very uncertain fact. She wondered, even now, if the children would come with her.

But at half-past ten, they were in the hall waiting for her. They had changed into their new white crêpe-de-chine frocks, and wore their best straw hats with wreaths of small roses round them. It was the first time of wearing, and they were a little self-conscious of the fact.

"I hope I look as nice as you do," said Anstice with her bright laugh. "Now come along. You will have to show me that way."

"It's just as if we're going to a party," muttered Josie.

"Well, I suppose we are," said Anstice. "It is a gathering together to meet a King in His Palace."

They walked for a mile along the high road, then turned up a lane between buttercup meadows and arched over with lime trees, which were sending their sweet flowering scent over the fields.

"I'm making a plan for this afternoon," Anstice said. "I wonder if you will fall in with it. I thought we would take Ruffie down to the lake side by the little chalet, and then we can all sit out there, and have our tea in the chalet, and I will read you a lovely story that I used to read when I was a little girl. It is about some adventures of some pilgrim children."

"Then we can have the boat anchored and sit in it," said Josie.

"Yes, perhaps you can. It is such a lovely day that it is a pity to stay in the house."

By and by they came to the church, which was on the road with the Fells rising up steeply behind it. The bell was tolling; and a few country people were making their way into it.

Very curious gazes were sent in the direction of the Squire's seat that morning. It was one of the side seats in the north apse of the church.

There was a good congregation for a country church. Anstice was aware that there was a fair sprinkling of the upper classes. Mrs. Wykeham and her husband occupied the first seat under the pulpit. Behind them were an old couple with their two daughters, who showed, from their bored, indifferent faces, how little interested they were in the service. Farther back in the church was a strikingly handsome, grey-haired woman. Anstice wondered who she was, and thought that she would like to know her.

Then she took herself to task for wandering eyes and thoughts, and for the rest of the service was unconscious of those around her.

The little girls behaved wonderfully well until the sermon commenced. Then they began to whisper and giggle.

In front of them were seated a stalwart farmer, his wife and two small boys. Suddenly there was a yell from the smallest of these two, and he clasped his head with his hands. His mother promptly cuffed him, and tried to hush his sobs. Finally she took him out of the church.

Anstice's quick eyes had seen the cause of his outcry. Georgie, sitting behind him, had pricked his head sharply with a pin. Without a word, Anstice made her move to the other side of her. When separated, the little girls had looked as black as thunder, and wriggling into the corner as far away from Anstice as she could, Georgie had muttered audibly: "I hate you!"

This rather distracted Anstice from the sermon. The Rector, Mr. Bolland, was very earnest and forcible in what he said. His sermon was short, but straight and simple enough for even the children to understand.

When they came outside the church, Anstice saw that Georgie was prepared to make a bolt of it, so she turned to her quite pleasantly, and said:

"I am afraid I made you very angry in church, Georgie, but I had set my heart upon being proud of my small stepdaughters. You both looked such darlings that I was horrified when I realized that you would disgrace us all. It was only fun to you, but it wasn't fun to the poor little boy. Would you like to have been in his shoes?"

Georgie didn't reply.

"Are you going to punish her?" inquired Josie eagerly.

"I hate punishing," said Anstice. "I am sure Georgie won't do such a thing again. We will say no more about it. I expect you know every one in church. Who was that tall, grey-haired lady who sat by herself in the middle aisle?"

"That's Mrs. Fergusson," said Josie. "She's got a boy who's got a sailing boat; he's at school now. But when he's home, we go out on the lake with him. Georgie and me mean to sail a boat of our own as soon as we can save up money to buy one."

"I wouldn't like to sail on this lake by myself," said Anstice.

They were just in view of the lake now, and she pointed out a small sailing boat that was staggering under a strong wind.

"Can you swim?" she asked.

"No."

"I can. I must teach you. Could we bathe in our tiny cove?"

"Dad does, but do let us, do!"

"We'll see. If I'm with you, I don't think you would come to harm."

Georgie had quite recovered her temper. And when they came towards the house, and Josie had run on to the stables to call the dogs out, she pulled hold of Anstice's sleeve.

"I'm sorry I said I hated you," she said in a bashful voice with downcast eyes. "I don't really."

"I'm so glad," Anstice said cheerfully, "because I'm getting to like you very much, Georgie, and I'm anxious that every one else about here should like you too."

"Everybody hates us," said Georgie carelessly; and then she ran on to join her sister.

Two hours later, a happy little party was established on the borders of the lake. Ruffie lay in a nest of cushions under the shade of the acacia tree. Josie and Georgie had pulled the boat out, and as it was tightly moored to its post, Anstice allowed them to get into it, but she had prohibited them from having the oars in the boat, and there had been at first a great commotion over that. Anstice looked at them with a twinkle in her eye.

"I know how you would be tempted," she said, "and I'm going to save you from temptation, if I can. When I would be deep in my story, one pair of hands might softly steal up and unfasten the painter, the other pair of hands would slip the oars over into the water, and away you would go, laughing at my helplessness. I should have helped you to disobey your father."

This was so exactly in accordance with the children's intention, that they stared at her in angry dismay.

"You're a kind of witch," muttered Josie, giving up the argument.

"No, but I'm not a fool," said Anstice, "and when I was a little girl, I was rather like you, a bit of a tomboy. I had a boy chum and we were up to every kind of mischief. That's why I shan't be hard upon you. Because I understand and remember."

"And I can't do nothing, never at all!" exclaimed Ruffie plaintively.

"Well now, we'll settle down, and read about some children who did a good deal."

The story-book proved enchanting. It was an old-fashioned book, an allegory of children who started on a pilgrimage somewhat after the style of "Pilgrim's Progress." As the children had never seen or read the latter book, the idea was quite a fresh one to them.

Josie's comment on it, as Anstice closed the book, and said it was time for tea, was:

"There, you see! How well those children managed for themselves without any grown-up person to interfere with them! And we could do alone, I know we could. We don't want governesses to bother our lives out."

"Or me," put in Anstice, laughing. "But, Josie, see how much trouble these children got into, until they got hold of and held on to the golden thread. And you know who held the other end of that thread? It was the King Himself, the King of the Golden City. We ought to be all travelling with our fingers on that thread. Heaven is the city, and prayer is the golden thread which keeps us in touch with our Saviour and King. We cannot and ought not, any of us, to travel through life entirely on our own."

There was silence; Josie was rocking the boat to and fro, but she was thinking, and Ruffie's beautiful eyes were dreamily gazing over the lake to the opposite hills, which were tinged with gold from the sun behind them.

"I'd like to have a message to me to set out there," he said very softly.

Anstice could not reply. A lump came in her throat. Could she, had she the knowledge and the power to place his tiny fingers on that golden thread? Was she reading and talking of what she herself had not experienced?

She sprang to her feet.

"And now we'll have tea; but first we must put the boat back till to-morrow."

"Can't we leave it where it is?" questioned Josie. "We shall want it early to-morrow morning."

Anstice stood and looked at them.

"I don't properly know you yet," she said. "Do you keep promises? Can I trust to your honour, not to touch the boat, if we leave it out?"

"Of course we're to be trusted," said Josie, tossing her head in the air. "We won't touch it."

So the boat was left where it was, and the little girls helped Anstice get the tea. Brenda had gone up to the farm to tea. It was not often that she got away, but Anstice had promised to be with the children till six o'clock.

Nothing marred the happiness of the little party. And when Brenda returned, she informed Anstice that she had never known a Sunday pass so peacefully. Anstice wisely left the children, when Brenda took charge again. She knew that her presence with them from morning to night was not desirable; and she determined to go off to evening church.

As she walked along the quiet country lane, a great desire sprang up within her heart. The reading of the childish story had fostered it; the sermon in the morning had begun it. Mr. Bolland's text had been:

"Have I been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not known Me?"

And Anstice knew that though brought up on her Bible and Prayer Book, they had never been inspired books to her. She had had a religious training, but it had only taken possession of her head, and not of her heart. She had never gained a real knowledge of her Lord as a personal Friend. And she felt now that she had children to teach and train and influence, that she must have something worth passing on.

The service in the little church soothed and rested her. The evening light stole in through the coloured windows. There was a great hush and peace in the atmosphere. Only the country people formed the congregation. She knew that few of the upper classes now attended church twice a day, and when the sermon commenced, she settled herself back in her seat to listen almost hungrily to it. She could not forget her first talk with the Rector. Mr. Bolland had impressed her as few clergymen had of late years. He had life, and force, and reality of conviction, which made his words go home to the hearts of his hearers. And his text was:

"Ye who sometimes were far off are made nigh."

He began by saying: "Is the world getting nearer to its Creator and to God, or farther off?"

Then he touched on the characteristics of the present generation, comparing them with those laid down in the Bible which were certain to come, even when Christianity was spread throughout the nations. He finally made a personal appeal to his congregation.

"We will leave generalities and other people, and come straight away to ourselves. As the years roll by, are we getting to know our Master with a deeper love, and a greater reality, or with less affection and conviction than when we were young?"

Anstice listened spellbound. She said to herself: "I have never really known Him at all. I have always been far off from Him." And she came out of church with an ache in her heart. She was standing a little way from the church, on a rising hillock overlooking the lake, when a voice behind her made her turn.

"Good evening, Mrs. Holme."

It was the Rector. She did not know in her present frame of mind whether she was glad or sorry to see him.

"I am coming your way," he said. "I want to see a sick parishioner in Butterdale—"

They talked of various things, and then Anstice said impulsively:

"You have made me very unhappy this evening."

"How? My mission is to make people happy, if I do my work rightly."

"You have shown me what I have suspected, that I am far away. I don't think I have ever been really near."

"No? But that can very soon be remedied."

"It is my turn to ask 'How?'" said Anstice wistfully.

"Did I not make it clear?"

"Yes, in a way you did. But belief and faith have been with me from a child. I believe everything."

"Men can believe in a general, a leader; but they never get near him until they come to him and give themselves up to him as his fighters and followers. Perhaps you may never have enlisted—dedicated yourself, shall I say, to His Service? In Baptism and Confirmation you have had the opportunity, but I have known many pass through those times, and still be very far away."

A flash of enlightenment came to Anstice.

"I don't believe I have ever done that," she said.

"It was what the young ruler lacked," said Mr. Bolland. "His life was outwardly blameless, but he could not bring himself to cast in his lot with the Master and follow Him to the death."

Mr. Bolland said little more. He was a man of few words out of the pulpit, and Anstice wanted no more from him.

When their ways parted, she walked on by herself, and when she came to her gate she turned down across the park towards the lake. Here she sat down on a low seat by the boathouse and looked out across the shining water. With hands clasped loosely round her knees, her thoughts and resolves were wafted beyond the earth.

Quite quietly, quite unemotionally, she gave herself then and there to the One whom she wanted to know. And when, about half an hour later, she walked back to the house, there was a peace and joy in her heart that she had never experienced before. The stillness and sweetness of that Sunday evening were to remain with her for many a long day to come.

CHAPTER VI

A RAMBLE IN THE FELLS

MONDAY dawned bright and fair. The picnic on the lake was a great success. Ruffie was made comfortable with cushions in the boat, and the little girls were allowed to take an oar together, whilst the old gardener Stephen took the other. They rowed across to a small island, and landed there for lunch.

At six o'clock they came home; a rather tired but a very happy little party. Anstice had the art of making and keeping children so.

She overheard a conversation about herself between Ruffie and his sisters which rather amused her. She was planting a small bed with seedlings outside the library, and their voices came to her through the open window.

"I love Steppie."

This emphatically and a little defiantly from Ruffie.

"You've gone over pretty soon! I'm going to wait a month to see what she's like."

This was Josie speaking.

"Yes," said Georgie. "She may be just pretending to get us under her thumb, like the wicked witches do in the fairy stories."

"No," said Ruffie in his decided little voice, "her face couldn't be a witch's. She looks at me as if she—well, you know—liked me ever so."

"That's only the spell in her eye! I'm going to wait. If I find her out, it will be war at the end of the month."

"She wants to do nice things for us," went on Ruffie; "she's going to have flowers in the conservatory, and one end of it she's going to have doves and birds in a big room with trees and nests in it. She calls it an 'aviary.'"

"That's another spell," said Josie, but there was hesitation in her tone.

"Well, we've got a month to find out what she's like," said Georgie. "Anyhow, she doesn't worry us with lessons."

"But," said Anstice to herself, with a shake of her head, "that is exactly what I am going to do, my poor dears."

The very next day she set out on her errand to Mrs. Fergusson's.

The fine weather had suddenly departed. Rain and mist set in from over the Fells. But Anstice was indifferent to weather. She started out for her two-mile walk in waterproof coat and skirt, and revelled in the moist sweet air, and the scent of wet pines and earth as she passed along the wooded road. She turned up from the high road before long, and then winding up and down she reached a little cottage in front of a cluster of pines, with a magnificent view of the lake below, and the Fells beyond it.

The door was opened to her by the tall, handsome woman she had noticed in church.

"I must introduce myself to you," said Anstice with her happy smile; "but my husband, Mr. Holme, wished me to call upon you about a certain matter which is troubling us."

Mrs. Fergusson led her into a very cosy little sitting-room. A cheerful wood fire was burning in the grate. As she took her seat again after settling Anstice upon a comfortable couch, she took up some very pretty fancywork she was doing, and continued to sew, saying:

"I feel sure you will excuse my working. This is a cushion cover, an order which I must execute in time for a wedding the end of this month. I am very fond of needlework; I used to do a great deal when I was in Russia, and a certain firm in London gives me orders which helps with my son's education. He is at Harrow, and that costs money."

She spoke so simply, and yet with such dignity, that Anstice felt at ease at once.

"May I tell you of our trouble? It is the education of my husband's two little girls. He is away now, but before he went, we talked it over together. You see, now I am with them, they do not need a resident governess. And we were wondering if you could possibly help us in the matter?"

Mrs. Fergusson put down her work in her lap, and looked across at Anstice with smiling amusement in her dark eyes.

"You don't know, Mrs. Holme, how I have longed to take those young pickles in hand! I have always loved teaching. It is a most delicious thing to impart to others what one has acquired for oneself. I have of course seen the relays of young governesses that have come and gone at the Manor. One or two confided in me, but those were the ones who could not stand the solitude and isolation of their position. Once, owing to Mrs. Wykeham, I was very nearly offering my services; but I could not manage to give up my whole time to them. They needed a resident governess, and I have to keep up my house for my boy, and my needlework is my occupation."

"But could you come to them or let them come to you for the morning hours only?"

They plunged at once into a discussion of the subject. Anstice felt the charm of Mrs. Fergusson's personality. She did not wonder that her services had been requisitioned and valued by one of the royal families in Russia. When she asked her how it was she had settled in these isolated wilds, Mrs. Fergusson had made reply:

"I am close to my childhood's home, and in the Lake District which I love. I used to live at Helvellyn Towers, not so many miles from here. My father lost his money when I was just grown-up. I had been extremely well educated, and through interest, I went to Russia and stayed in the Grand Duke's family, the Serge V—'s, for just twelve years. I taught their three girls, and then met my husband who was an attaché in St. Petersburg."

"I came home to be married, had three happy years, then he went to the War, and was killed after four years' hard fighting. My boy was born in the first year of the War. I have had some hard and lonely years since, but settled down here three years ago, and am quite contented now with my lot. The awful tragedies in Russia and my own sorrow have whitened my hair. But I am not an old woman even now, and I long to rub up my teaching faculties sometimes. I know I have a gift in that direction. Will you tell me a little about your small stepdaughters? My boy and they have scraped up acquaintance, but they fight shy of me. I think they heard that I had been a governess once, and that was enough for them!"

So Anstice told her a good deal about the children, and felt what a boon her experience and insight of character would be to the little girls, and also to herself. She returned home having settled that Mrs. Fergusson should come regularly every morning to give the children lessons from nine to one. She preferred to come to them rather than that they should come to her, and Anstice was relieved, for she had feared that the temptation to play truant sometimes would prove too much for them.

When she came home, she broke the news at once to the little girls.

They were astounded and at first most indignant.

"We aren't going to have governesses, and we hate old women!"

"Mrs. Fergusson is not old. Do you know what turned her hair so white? Do you know that the little girls whom she taught in Russia and loved were all horribly murdered? One of them only escaped, and the horrors that she had seen and experienced sent her mad. She has never recovered her senses."

Interest was aroused at once.

"Ivan never told us that."

"No, and I don't think his mother has told him. You had better say nothing about it, I only tell you to make you feel for Mrs. Fergusson. She loved those little girls, and they loved her. They were little princesses. Don't you think if they liked Mrs. Fergusson so much that you might do the same?"

"It isn't fair to spring lessons on us."

"But didn't we agree that for a month we should try work in the morning and play in the afternoon? We are going to give it a trial."

There was silence.

Then Josie shrugged her shoulders.

"It's no good going to Ruffie to make him decide. You've got him quite over on your side. It isn't fair."

"You come over too," said Anstice, laughing; "then we shall be a very happy family."

"Did Mrs. Fergusson see the Czar being murdered? Did she see the little girls being killed?" asked Georgie breathlessly.

"No, but she heard about it, and she has seen the one poor child who is left alive."

Anstice walked away. She had announced her intentions, and thought the less discussion about it the better.

The very next morning Mrs. Fergusson appeared. She rode on a tricycle which was well known to the little girls, as they had had rides on it themselves when playing with Ivan.

Anstice had made a very comfortable room of the library. Curtains and chair-covers had been renovated, a fresh carpet put down, and the whole room cleaned and polished till everything in it looked spotless and shining. This was to be the schoolroom and only used for lessons.

The first morning of study was an undoubted success. Mrs. Fergusson never doubted for a moment her capacity to interest and teach. Her methods of doing so were entirely new to the children, and they were as clay in her hands. Anstice hardly expected to hear Josie say as she did when she came to luncheon:

"Georgie and me like Mrs. Fergusson. It doesn't seem like lessons when she teaches us."

And she was inexpressibly thankful for the result of her endeavours.

That afternoon she took a ramble over the Fells. The little girls had invited Ruffie to tea in their new sitting-room and had been busy cooking cakes and scones for the occasion.

Fond of children as she was, Anstice was sometimes glad to get away alone. Hercules, the big mastiff, had attached himself to her, and now came bounding after her as she went down the drive. The air, as she mounted higher, exhilarated her. She had a message to leave for Brenda at Hockerdale Farm, and after having a pleasant little chat with Mrs. James, went on her way to call upon an old couple who lived at the extreme end of her husband's property.

It was an isolated bit of country, down at the bottom of a little valley near a very small and picturesque lake. It was a still, warm afternoon, but there was a feeling of thunder in the air, and just before she reached the cottage, rain began to fall.

The woman opened the door to her. She had a slim, upright figure and a very pleasant, smiling face. Anstice soon saw that she and her brother had original personalities. Sister and brother had lived in the little cottage for over thirty years; the man, Tommy Nixon, as he was familiarly called, owned some sheep, a couple of cows, a pony and a sheep-dog; his sister Ellen kept poultry. Their small kitchen with its big stove and oven in the well, the thick oak beams across the low ceiling, and the quantity of treasures in brass and china and lustre on its walls, made quite a picture, and Anstice longed for an artist's pencil and brush to transfer it to paper.

"This will be a noted day for us, Mem," said Ellen, drawing a chair out for Anstice to sit on. "An' will ye be havin' a coop o' tay, fur I'm well able to gie't ye? We ha' mony a visitor t' our wee cottage, frae Americky, an' Scotland an' Ireland. We're not advertisin' nor puttin' 'tays' on a board, but we git weel spoken of frae one to anither. But 'tis not often we see the Squire's leddy nor any belongin' to him."

"I shall be very grateful for some tea," said Anstice. "How lonely you are out here! What do you do with yourselves in the winter?"

"We're never lonely," said Ellen, beaming upon her. "I havna been to a big toon fur ower five year. But there be always a lot to do. An' my hens be raal frens to me. I bake our bread and mak' t' butter, an' Tommy, he be always out aboot wi' the shaap."

"But the long winter evenings: what do you do then?"

"We leet t' lamp, an' I have ma bit sewin', an' Tommy, he has his carvin'; an' we be just very cheery a' the toime."

Then, as she bustled about, putting her kettle on, and cutting bread and butter, the old man showed with pride an old dresser which he had made out of some odd boards given him. It was most wonderfully carved. He told her he had never had a lesson in his life, but "the gift" was in the family. Anstice was shown a bird-cage made in the shape of a Swiss chalet and carved on the surface, also a chair and a box, and then he produced a bundle of walking sticks. The first one he had ever done had a most realistic snake wound round and round it, and was carved entirely with a plain pocketknife. Then he told how a gentleman came along and gave him a few tools. One of the sticks had a fox, a hare, and a rabbit, besides two stags' heads with antlers on one side of it; on the other were the hounds chasing their different quarries. And the handle was a ram's head. He told her, he sold a good many of these sticks to summer visitors crossing the Fells.

Sitting in a window-seat as he talked, Tommy looked a perfect picture of an old Westmorland shepherd, but Anstice was struck with the cheerful philosophy and contentment of the sister.

"I wish every one was as happy and contented as you are."

Her Kingdom      Book I, Chapter VI.

"So long as God be gude enou' to let us bide together, there be nothin' to complain by. Ma brither be turned seventy. If he were taken from me, t'would be a sorro'fu' daay for me, but thaat daay be not coom yet awhile. An' we ha' all we need, an' each ither, which is very pleasant. An' the visitors brighten our summer daays."

Anstice had her tea. A jug full of rich cream, some oat cakes, homemade bread and butter, and homemade jam were put before her.

"You have done me good," she said as she rose to go. "I wish every one was as happy and contented as you are. I must come up to you here, when I feel inclined to grumble."

Then with kindling eyes she added, as she shook hands with them both:

"If we both believe and trust in the Love of God, we ought never to be unhappy or afraid."

And Ellen responded with happy smile:

"Ay, Mem, that be true enow! I ha' found it sae!"

When she left them, she took a meadow path and wandered round the edge of the small lake. It seemed like a sparkling jewel set in a frame of green. On all sides the Fells rose round it, overlapping each other; those against the horizon were now blue and purple against a yellow sky. The rain had ceased, the thunder clouds had rolled away, and the lights and shadows upon the green slopes above kept Anstice gazing at them in sheer delight, till at last she reminded herself that she was a good five miles from home.

By and by she came to an old bridge across a rushing torrent of water. Here she stood for a moment watching some trout leap up, and then suddenly a car came along, and she was accosted by Mrs. Wykeham.

"My dear, what a long way from home! I have been showing my cousin some of our biggest lakes. May I introduce him to you? Colonel Malcolm Dermot. Now we will drive you home. Jump in. Malcolm is allowed to fish in your husband's preserves, so you ought to know each other."

"I can't desert Hercules," said Anstice, laying her hand on the mastiff's head. "And he is not swift enough on his legs to follow."

"He is too big to come in with us," said Mrs. Wykeham. "Let him find his way home."

"I think I must walk, thank you," said Anstice.

Then Colonel Dermot opened the car door and sprang out.

"I want to stretch my legs," he said to Mrs. Wykeham. "I'll accompany Mrs. Holme across the Fells."

"That is very nasty of you, Malcolm, to prefer Mrs. Holme's company to mine, but I'll forgive you. Good-bye, both of you."

She drove off, and Colonel Dermot turned to Anstice with a smile upon his face. He was a handsome, stalwart, grey-haired man, with energy imprinted upon his features.

"I'm not a car lover," he said; "in a country like this, one ought to walk to appreciate its beauties."

"That is how I feel," said Anstice; "I always have loved walking, and can anything be more perfect than the short springy turf on the Fells?"

They had turned off from the road now; Hercules with delight was bounding on in front of them.

"You and I must be friends," said Colonel Dermot presently; "for your husband and I have been pals for a long time. And I'm sincerely glad to find he has come to his senses at last. I've been dinning the advantages of marriage into his ears for ages, but quite ineffectually so I thought. Did you know I am godfather to his boy?"

"No," said Anstice; "then you must come and see him. Ruffie loves visitors."

She felt a little restraint in talking to this new acquaintance, for she did not want him to discover how little she knew of her husband's ways, or of his friends.

"I'll certainly look in. I'm staying about ten days with Mrs. Wykeham. She tells me that you are working wonders with those knibs of mischief—the small girls. My last experience of them was last autumn. We had a water picnic. Mrs. Wykeham invited them, because she had some grandchildren staying with her, and we all went over to have tea on the big island. We stayed there till dusk; and if you'll believe me, those imps stole down to the boats about an hour before we were leaving, and cut them adrift from their moorings. There was a strong current which took them out beyond our reach. We very nearly had to camp out that night, but we made a big bonfire and sent out signals, and young Ivan Fergusson came over to our rescue."

"I can believe anything of them," said Anstice, laughing; "but I am still hopeful that they will grow up into nice, sensible girls. It is only high spirits, and an extra fund of energy, that makes them so mischievous. And I have often noticed that the children who are pickles when they are small, are much the pleasantest men and women when they grow up."

"Why did you not accompany Justin on his voyage overseas?" said Colonel Dermot a little abruptly.

"We—we thought it better not," said Anstice after a moment's hesitation. "The Manor needs a mistress, does it not? And for the children's sake I came here."

Colonel Dermot stole a quick look at her.

"Uncommonly unselfish of you," he said. "I shall have my knife into Justin for not sending me an invite to your wedding. I always told him I would be his best man!"

"Do you know these Fells well?" Anstice asked, steering away from the difficult topic. "I am sometimes afraid of losing my way, for I have a passion for taking short cuts, and sometimes these paths are like those in 'Alice through the Looking-glass.' They give themselves a wriggle, and a shake, and land me back where I came from!"

"I shouldn't wander from the beaten track if I were you. It's easy to lose oneself, especially if a mist settles down upon you. I'm a North-countryman myself. Was brought up at a place about fifteen miles from here, near Windermere. It's sold now, worse luck; but my wife likes town and is never well anywhere else."

His face had assumed rather a bitter expression. Anstice could read between the lines of his words and felt sorry for him.

"I'm a South-country person," she said happily, "but I love the air and the sweet pungent breezes across these hills. I always feel I could go on walking for ever, and never come back. Now, as you are a native, give me the names of some of the heights in front of us."

Colonel Dermot promptly did so. When they finally reached the turning that led to Butterdale Manor, they parted, feeling that a friendship had been formed between them.

Anstice invited him over to tea the next afternoon to see his little godson, and as Colonel Dermot swung down the road away from her, he muttered to himself:

"Now where did Justin pick her up? To my certain knowledge, he did not know her three months ago, when we were in town together. And how dares he leave his bride, and go off on one of these mad voyages of his! Can't understand it. No wonder Myra Wykeham says it's a mystery. But she's a fascinating girl. I must see more of her."

CHAPTER VII

SLOWLY GAINING GROUND

COLONEL DERMOT turned up punctually at tea-time the next afternoon. It was laid in the drawing-room, and the children were invited down for the occasion. Ruffie was much excited, and when his godfather greeted him, he cried:

"We're all new here, Uncle Morky; we've new clothes, and curtains and carpets, and flowers in the 'servatory. And new servants and new governess—and—"

Here he hesitated for a moment, then added boldly: "A new mother."

"I heartily congratulate you," said Colonel Dermot.

Then he sat down by Ruffie's cushioned chair, and Josie and Georgie edged up beside him. It was easy to see that he and the children were on very friendly terms, so Anstice having a letter to write left them together, till tea was brought in by Brenda.

"What do you think of her?" Josie asked in a piercing whisper, directly Anstice had disappeared.

"I'd rather hear your opinion first," said Colonel Dermot shrewdly.

"Josie keeps saying she may be a witch in disguise," said Ruffie eagerly; "but I say she's a princess in disguise. And do you know me and she are going to make a book, and have it printed so that every one will read it? She's writing the story, and I'm doing the pictures, and she bought a little wooden figure from Penrith, which I can copy for my figures; it moves its joints any way you like to put them."

"She writes a chapter every day, and reads it to us every evening," put in Georgie; "it's ripping! We hate it when she gets up suddenly and says: 'To be continued in our next,' for that means bedtime."

"We're just trying her for a month," said Josie grandly; "if she turns out different, and gets nasty or silly like all the rest, we'll just do to her what we did to the others."

"But, you skallywag, she's not a governess but your father's wife! And now I'll tell you what I think of her. I think your Dad has picked out the most beautiful woman and the most lovable in the whole world. And if I hadn't my own dear little wife at home waiting for me, and if she were not already married to your Dad, I would pick her up and run away with her, and marry her myself before you could say Jack Robinson."

The children looked at him with big eyes. "Uncle Morky," as they always called him, was a prime favourite of theirs, and his opinion had weight in their eyes.

"We shouldn't let you take her," said Ruffie in a bristling tone. "We'd fight for her."

"Hum!" said Josie, considering. "Georgie and me aren't sure about that. We'll see when the end of this month comes."

"You don't know when you're well off! Here's Brenda coming in. What a tea! You never had teas like this when I was here last."

"It's Mrs. Parkins," said Georgie, dancing round the heavily laden tray of cakes and bread and butter which Brenda was carrying. "She sends us hot cakes and scones every day, and you're a visitor, so we have an extra lot. I think Dad would like these teas."

"He ought to be here," said Colonel Dermot emphatically. "I'll write and tell him what I think of him."

And when he got back to Mrs. Wykeham's that evening, he wrote the following letter before he retired to bed:

"DEAR JUSTIN,—

"I'm going to give you a thorough drubbing with my pen. What do you mean by keeping your marriage a secret from me? I've just come back from a visit to my small godson. And I can tell you the change in your place makes one sit up. You've flung a young and charming bride into our midst, as you would your line into the lake, and then you've run off and left her! Give me the key to such an enigma! She has such a dignity about her that I daren't ask inquisitive questions, but I've gathered that you met her at your Aunt Lucy's; that you must have fallen suddenly and violently in love with her, and married her on the hop. But why you've deserted her as quickly as you married her is past my comprehension! Enlighten your old pal a bit! I can tell you that she's too good a sort to be served such a shabby trick, and though she carries it off with a high hand, you're placing her in a false position. Come back, you villain, or justify yourself in the sight of—

"Yours,
"J. D."

And by the same post went Anstice's first letter to her husband. She sat for a long time at her open window with her writing pad on her knee. She had a strange shrinking from the effort, and yet she steeled herself to do it, for she felt that it was her duty to cement the band between them, and not loosen it.

She tore up three attempts.

The first was a bald statement of facts, the second an apologetic justification of all the changes which she had seen fit to make in the house, and the third an account solely and wholly of his children.

Then she tried again, and this time let her pen run on easily and pleasantly as was natural and unpremeditated.

"DEAR JUSTIN,—

"I promised to write to you, so I must not forget to do so. I hardly know how to begin. But I will ease your mind first about your small people. I find them quite delightful, naughtiness and all. I am still on probation as far as Josie and Georgie go, but Ruffie has surrendered absolutely, and he and I are real chums. I discovered that he was the instigator of most of his sister's pranks. His the master brain, they his willing tools. He would concoct schemes to annoy and distress the poor governesses, depict them in his wonderful notebook and the girls would carry them out with alacrity. In turning over the pages of his book and admiring his genius, I came upon several premeditated plots against myself. I laughed till I cried at some of them. I have managed to turn his genius in another direction, and he and I are going to produce a book together which will surprise you one day.

"I have secured Mrs. Fergusson as governess. What a charming and interesting woman she is! I feel I should like to do lessons myself with her. She has asked me if she cannot have Ruffie as a third pupil. Have you any objection to this? As you cannot answer quickly, and perhaps may feel rather bored at being asked to do it at all, I think I shall make the experiment. She is too wise a teacher to overwork so fragile and precocious a brain as Ruffie's. He does remind me so much of little Paul Dombey. But as his brain is so active, I think a little schoolroom knowledge and discipline would be good for him. He is wild with delight at the prospect. If any headaches come, I will stop the lessons at once. Josie and Georgie are all the better for hard work. They have been suffering from too many idle hours. I mean to keep them both busy and happy; so busy and interested in useful occupation, that they will have no time for mischief. Their energy or dynamic force has, I hope, been directed into the right channels. I feel this is rather à la governess; but if I'm not their governess, I have come here to give them the training they need, have I not?

"Perhaps this is enough about the children. I am revelling in your wild Fells, and sweet luscious pasture lands, they are so intermingled that one cannot separate them, and it is the combination that I find so fascinating. What has surprised me is the number of people residing round the lake. I pictured your home in the wilds; but it is nothing of the sort. They say our neighbours are mostly summer visitors, and that in the winter they shut up their houses and go South, but I have come across several who do not do this. I have been to lunch with your old friend Mrs. Wykeham; I have made acquaintance with Colonel Dermot, who naturally is very curious over our marriage. I shall become a very good dissembler, for I have to parry and evade many an awkward question.

"At present, I am content to be out of society. The Fells and lake when I want quiet meditation; the children when I want active recreation; and the house and its needs when I want work, are enough for me. And for friends, I have Mrs. Fergusson, whom I think a most charming personality; and lastly, but not least, our Rector, Mr. Bolland. I went to see his wife yesterday. They are new-comers, so you do not know them. She reminds me of a robin. Very small, very cheerful, with bright dark eyes and a small brown head. She is quite an invalid, and is on her back for years, if not for life. She is full of schemes for the good of the parishioners, and has enlisted me as her ally. But to the Rector, I owe a deep debt of gratitude, for without turning myself inside out, I may tell you that the whole pivot of my life has been changed since I came here, and it is through words of his that it has been done. I was beginning to worry over the training of your small people. Now I feel I need never worry again over anything!

"Is this a very egoistical letter? I hope not, for I must realize that my private life is of no moment to you. I have asked Bob Falkland if he has any message to send you, but all is going well. Eliza gives us a couple of hours help every morning. This may not be necessary when I get our full staff of domestics. Ruffie encloses one of his latest pictures. It represents us down by the lakeside on Sunday afternoon. Admire his colouring of water and Fells! He is a born artist, and if spared to grow up, should be able to do something really good. Now have I given you all the news you desire? And how am I to sign myself?

"Just
"ANSTICE HOLME."

*      *      *      *      *

Colonel Dermot was a constant visitor at the Manor during his short stay at the lakes.

One day he took Anstice and the children on the lake in a small motor launch belonging to the Wykehams; another day he went off for a nine-mile walk over the Fells with Anstice; he came to lunch; he came to tea; and when he finally left the neighbourhood, he paid his farewell visit after dinner.

It was a most lovely evening, and he and Anstice strolled down to the lake and sat beside it.

"I can't picture you here in the winter," he said, "but I suppose Justin will be back before then."

"He went for a six months' cruise. That will bring him back in time for Christmas," said Anstice.

"You must cure him of his restlessness."

"Well, I don't know," said Anstice thoughtfully; "it is not much of a life for him here. The farm is too small to give him occupation, the estate is not much bigger. He is not old enough to settle down here for good and all, and the love of the sea is not easily eradicated."

"Up to now he has not had much to keep him here. His house has not been his home."

"Perhaps not."

Anstice was sitting, gazing out dreamily over the lake. And Colonel Dermot, peculiarly susceptible to woman's charm, again wondered at Justin's desertion.

Anstice's grace and beauty, and her strong personality, had made a very deep impression on him.

He suddenly said:

"How much, how well do you know each other, I wonder?"

Anstice laughed.

"Ah! That's our secret," she said. "I am not going to dissect my husband's character. But I agree with you that he has had a miserable home here for years."

"And it has warped and twisted his whole being," said Colonel Dermot. "As a youngster, he was a radiant specimen of youth and high spirits. Marriage in his case was his undoing. I was abroad for three years, and could not believe when I saw him that such a transformation in character could be effected in so short a time."

"Perhaps it was only on the surface," said Anstice.

"No, the bitterness had gone deeper than that. You women have much to answer for. But I knew his wife as a girl, and was not surprised. I'm telling you this for old Justin's sake, as he's not such a bad chap at heart."

"I'm quite aware of that."

The amusement in Anstice's eyes drove Colonel Dermot to an apology.

"I'm so confoundedly glad that you and he came together that I'm letting my tongue run away with me. But you mustn't shut yourself away from people as you do. It's cruel on them. We haven't too many charming acquaintances round. And housekeeping and nursery talk can't satisfy a woman with such gifts as yours."

"Oh, come! What gifts have I? I can talk and laugh, and listen, not much else."

"Do you want the truth from me?"

Something in his tone and look made Anstice say hastily:

"No, I think not. And I know my own limitations. I feel friendly disposed towards every one, but I've a certain amount of home duties which cannot be neglected. I came here to do certain things in my husband's absence. I do not want to be hindered from carrying out my plans."

"Don't be too conscientious," advised Colonel Dermot. "Let your natural impulses have a chance."

They talked on together. He found her elusive directly he tried to get to close quarters, and when he got up to go, he sighed heavily.

"I think I must come down in the autumn and have some more rambles over the Fells with you. Perhaps when you have tasted real loneliness, you will be kinder to me."

"I could not be kinder than I feel at present," replied Anstice with her frank, sweet smile; "as my husband's old friend, and Ruffie's godfather, I look upon you as my friend also, and shall always be glad to see you when you are in our neighbourhood. Good-bye."

She gave him her hand, which he deliberately raised to his lips, and as he strode away, he murmured to himself:

"I wish I had the power to penetrate her outer crust. She is too warm-blooded a creature to be so sweetly indifferent. If Justin does not appreciate her, he will find that others do."

When Anstice met Mrs. Wykeham a few days later, she was chaffed lightly upon her friendship with the Colonel.

"He has spent most of his time with you, and if you were not both suitably married, I should say you were made for one another."

"He is my husband's friend," protested Anstice, "and my husband's friends will always, I hope, be mine."

Her quiet dignity and ease of manner stopped Mrs. Wykeham's banter.

"Well, my dear, I consider myself one of your husband's oldest friends, so I expect to see more of you than I have done already. I am giving a garden-party next Thursday. Don't give me any excuses, but come."

"Thank you. I will."

But when the day came, Anstice felt loath to meet her neighbours. One or two had already called, and each visit had been somewhat of a strain. She was really delighted to see the heavy clouds roll up from the Fells, and come down in a steady downpour at three o'clock and onwards. Loneliness had no terror for her. She was perfectly content with her simple, lonely life. And for the present she much preferred being out of all social festivities.

A little later she agreed to play the organ for the Sunday services. Josie and Georgie were quite willing to sit by her side. Josie especially took the greatest interest in the organ, and even asked to attend the choir practices. She was passionately fond of music, and was getting on splendidly under Mrs. Fergusson's tuition. Their behaviour was blameless for the first two Sundays, and then Josie's love of mischief got the better of her. In the middle of the Venite, she got behind Anstice, put out her hand, and pulled out a very loud stop. The result was an awful blast of sound, and a shocked congregation.

Anstice's face was really stern as she turned to Josie when the service was over.

"Did you think it fine to disgrace yourself and me by such a feat?" she asked her when they were walking home.

Josie grinned.

"She'd better not go to church any more," said Georgie with alacrity, "and I'll keep her company at home."

"I think her disgrace would be then complete," said Anstice gravely. "A girl of ten years old who does not know how to behave in church, and has to stay at home lest she should prove a nuisance to the congregation, is indeed to be pitied."

Not a word more did she say. But for the rest of the day she ignored Josie, never speaking to her at all. And this was such a new procedure that Josie was first indignant and then repentant. At bedtime, it was Anstice's custom to visit them each in turn for a good night kiss. The little girls slept together in two small beds. On this Sunday night Anstice went to Georgie's bed as usual, but having wished her good night, she looked as if she were going to walk straight out of the room without noticing Josie at all. And then she seemed to alter her mind, and came to the foot of the child's bed. For a moment Josie raised a defiant head from her pillow.

"Have you anything to say to me?" Anstice asked.

"You're in a temper with me. I don't care!"

Down went the dark curly head under the clothes.

Anstice turned away, and left the room, but her heart was aching for the rebellious child, and later on she visited the bedroom again. Georgie was fast asleep, and so at first she thought was Josie; but when she gently removed some of the bedclothes, she found a hot, tear-stained face pressed close against the pillow.

Very gently she caressed the dark hair.

"My darling," she said, "do tell me what I want to hear."

And then Josie sprang up and surprised her by clasping her tightly round the neck.

"Don't be against me! I'm sorry. I'll never do it again."

Anstice held her in her arms and her kiss of forgiveness was very tender.

"We will forget all about it. But don't be mischievous in God's House again. You would not play tricks if you were taken inside Buckingham Palace to see the King and Queen. And church is a more important place than any king's palace. It belongs to God, who is the King of Kings."

Then she kissed her, and left her, but there was no fear of Josie behaving badly in church again.

Anstice was slowly but surely winning the children's love, and her displeasure was already more to be feared in their eyes than any punishment.

CHAPTER VIII

A LONELY GIRL

ONE day Anstice took one of her long rambles over the Fells. Rain had kept her in the house for over a week. She felt that mentally and physically she needed a change of environment. Holidays were coming soon, and then she knew that she would be much less free to absent herself for hours from her household.

The clear air and fresh mountain breezes braced and refreshed her. Hercules accompanied her, and with him as companion, she never felt lonely. She wanted to reach a certain remote lake which she had been told was very picturesque, so she started early in the morning and took a packet of sandwiches with her. She had to get across to the other side of the lake before she started up the Fells. Stephen rowed her across in the boat, and promised to come over again to row her back about three o'clock in the afternoon.

It was a grey day, but the glass was high, and Anstice preferred a cool day to a sunny one. Now as she trod the soft, springy turf and mounted higher and higher, she felt as if all her difficulties and household cares had flown away. Curlews wheeled about above her head, but save for the bleating of the sheep across the Fells, no other sounds disturbed her. She crossed a high ridge, then descended into a valley. Her path wound in and out at the bottom, under the shadow of high crags above her, and as she went on and on, it seemed to get wilder and more desolate. Once or twice, pedestrians crossed her path. Two youths with knapsacks on their backs directed her towards the lake of which she was in quest. The Fells on each side of her seemed to be gradually narrowing the valley, and then a sudden turn brought her in sight of her goal.

There the water lay, surrounded by green walls of wooded heights; behind were the purple mountains. A small white farm-house on one side and two cottages on the other were all the signs of human habitation. Then as she went on down a green lane arched over by hanging trees, she came upon a tiny grey rough-stoned house, and about ten minutes farther on, a minute stone church, nestling amid splendid old yews. She had heard of the quaint mediæval church, so went inside. The plain dark oak roof and walls, and the massive oak beams supporting the roof—trunks of large trees rough-hewn into shape, and the cushioned seats circling round the altar rails, all delighted her artist's soul.

She wondered how many of the scattered homesteads on the Fells and in the valley congregated within it on Sundays.

Then she returned to the lake, and sitting down on a green bank, determined to have a good rest before she returned home. She ate her sandwiches and gazed about her. The extreme solitude of the place struck her afresh, and then suddenly she was aware of some one in her proximity. A young girl was sitting amongst the bracken a short way from her, with her back against an old gnarled oak. Anstice afterwards wondered what had made her speak to her. But an impulse for which she could not account made her rise and walk over to her.

"Excuse me, but do you know where I could get a glass of milk?"

The girl started and jumped up. She was a slim, dark-haired maiden, with fresh colouring, but with refined and delicate features. Her shabby gown and rather untidy hair made Anstice at first take her for some farmer's daughter, but directly she spoke, Anstice discovered her mistake.

"I think I can give you some milk, if you will follow me. The farm is the other side of the lake, but it is only a quarter of an hour's walk round the head of it."

She led the way to the small stone house near the church.

"This is the vicarage. My uncle is the vicar. Will you come in?"

"It's very good of you, but I did not mean to trouble you like this."

The vicarage inside was dark, and to Anstice seemed depressing. The small sitting-room into which she was ushered was almost monastically furnished. A narrow oaken refectory table was in the centre, and three or four straight-backed chairs were against the wall. A sideboard and two bookshelves in a recess were all the furniture that was in it. The walls were grey, the matting underfoot was a dingy brown. A churchman's almanac was hung against the wall, and one sacred picture depicting the Crucifixion was over the fireplace. The girl had left the room, but soon returned with a glass of milk upon a tray, and a slice of plain currant cake.

"How kind of you! What a beautiful spot you live in!"

The girl gave a short bitter laugh, and her thick dark brows contracted fiercely.

"Beautiful! It's prison to me! I hate it. I was wishing just now I could slip into the lake and get away from it for ever."

Anstice was startled.

"I don't know which I dislike most," the girl went on impetuously, "the lake, or the mountains, or this house. Visitors come and spout poetry, and rave about the beauty of it all. I wish they knew what it was to live here year in and year out, away from civilization, at the back of beyond."

"Tell me about yourself," said Anstice gently. "Shall we come outside again? Have you the time to spare?"

"I have time," the girl responded. "I have nothing to do. I sit outside in the summer-time and watch the visitors come and go. I used to offer to show them the church, but some of them spoke to me so rudely and seemed to think I was dogging their steps to get tipped, that I gave it up. Yes, let us come out, this house is too awful!"

"It seems a dear, quaint little dwelling," said Anstice, hardly knowing what to say; "and as for your church, the age of it alone is entrancing. It is like a nest of tranquillity amongst the trees."

"I believe it's one of the smallest churches in England," said the girl indifferently, "and the vicarage suits it. There isn't room to swing a cat in it! But it's big enough for my uncle. He lives in his study all day."

"And do you live alone with him? It must be dreary for you in the winter."

"I came here when I was seventeen, with my mother. My father was killed in the War just before Armistice Day, and we had very little money, and she was delicate and did not like the London fogs. I was at school at St. Paul's; I meant to teach, but my mother needed me, and I could not leave her. She was all I had, and we loved each other. She liked the quiet and peace of this, but she only lived two years after we came, and then I felt desperate, but I did not like leaving uncle. He is old and not very strong and very absent-minded."

"And now he relies upon me for everything, but it is stagnation! I don't know why I'm telling all this to a stranger. It's your face which encourages me. I never talk to people of my own class. I'm sick of the tourists. And I know no one—only the farmers and a few of the cottagers, and I've used them up long ago. I'm getting desperate, for the summer soon goes, and the rain begins, and the mist and the gales and I'm stifled! Shut into that little hole of a vicarage, without any hope or chance of escape!"

They were walking towards the lake as they talked, and the girl waved her hand towards the mountains that seemed to tower above them.

"Those are my enemies," she said; "I have learnt to hate them. They're grim sentinels between me and the world. They're crushing the life out of me. I rebelled at first, but I am past caring now."

"But this is all wrong," said Anstice; "if you feel like this, surely your uncle won't wish to keep you?"

"I am his housekeeper. We have only a rough girl to do the charing. Mother made me promise not to leave him. I think she did not know how utterly lonely it would be for me without her. He was her only brother. As long as he lives, I must live here with him. It's a gloomy, eerie place, this head of the lake! Only the yews seem to flourish, and they're trees of death, that's what I call them. Let me grumble on, it does me good. You will go your way and forget all about me."

"No, I can't do that," said Anstice firmly; "we have been drawn together for some good purpose. Are you a good walker?"

"Yes, I have to be. We keep no car—no trap, not even a boat. Uncle Edgar is quite content to trot round to his parishioners on his own feet. He is writing some theological book which will never be published, but it keeps him busy and content."

"Then you will have to walk over to me at Butterdale Manor. You must come early to lunch, and have a good rest and talk. Not to-morrow, for I shall have to go out to tea, but the next day. Will that suit you?"

The girl stood still, and regarded her with astonishment.

"But we don't even know each other's names," she said. "And you can't want to continue this scraped up acquaintance."

"My name is Anstice Holme," said Anstice, smiling at her. "My husband is away just now, and I and the children are alone. I do want to know you and be your friend, if you will let me. You are too young to be so unhappy and so bitter."

"I have had cause," the girl answered. "Perhaps I will tell you one day. My name is Louise Repton. I should of course like to come and see you. I would walk twenty miles to have another talk like this. The very pouring out of my troubles has done me good. I expect you will be disgusted at my want of reticence, but you came across me at one of my worst times, and I have just let myself go! It has all been I—I—I! But I have no larger circle than my own to think of!"

Then she added eagerly:

"Could you not come back and have tea with me? Don't leave me just yet."

"But I am afraid I must. It is a long walk back, and my chicks would wonder where I was. We will resume our talk the day after to-morrow, and see if we cannot snatch a few golden gleams out of your monotonous life. Good-bye."

She laid her hand affectionately on the girl's shoulder.

"Cheer up! After all, you have youth and health and strength, and intellect. Those are all precious gifts. But I won't preach. Do you think you will find your way across the Fells to Butterdale?"

"Yes, I have been there once. There was a grand Fête for church schools, and my uncle and I both attended it. It was held at Helvellyn Towers."

"At Mrs. Wykeham's. That is eight miles from us. We are on the lake about five miles this side of Helvellyn Towers. You never walked there surely?"

"No, we went in a char-à-banc. But I shall find my way all right."

They parted, and Anstice, with her faithful attendant Hercules, set off homewards. She felt as if her steps had been directed to that lonely little spot in the Fells where a young life was being crushed by the isolation of her environment.

Anstice was a born helper of all the unhappy and helpless. From a child, she had loved anything that was weak or sick, from animals upwards. Her heart was big, and her sympathy unfailing. She mused upon the difference of characters.

"What I was loving so, she was hating," she murmured to herself. "But even I, fond as I am of the still, tranquil solitudes of these valleys amongst the Fells, would get hipped and depressed, if I had to be shut up in them through the long wet winters here, and youth and age living together do not make for congeniality. I must concoct some plans for her welfare."

She was rather tired when she reached home. Brenda exclaimed when she told her where she had been.

"'Tis too far for you, ma'am, 'deed 'tis. And I always think that Ramdale be a terrible gloomy place. I had a nephew who was courting with a farmer's daughter over yon, and he said most o' the folk seemed asleep, and only concerned wi' their own selves."

"That's not uncommon in busy towns, Brenda; we're all apt to get like that."

She made quite a story of her wanderings to the children that evening. Ruffie insisted upon being taken to the window to see the Fells over which she had climbed. And then gazing ecstatically at the purple mountains, he said softly:

"I should like, oh I should like to be lifted up to the top of one. Perhaps when I'm a man I can go in an aeroplane. Dad said I might. I've never, never been higher than the ground by the lake."

"We've climbed a part of Helvellyn once," said Georgie proudly; "Dad took us in his car, and we were out the whole day."

"I don't see why," said Anstice slowly, "Ruffie should not go up into the Fells one day. I shall try and think of a way."

Ruffie's eyes sparkled.

"You can do anything, Steppie; you're like a magic fairy. You see, I'm too big to be carried a long way now. People get tired."

But his wistful voice remained in Anstice's mind, and the very next morning she was writing to a certain firm in town, asking them to send her down two large wicker panthers suitable for a pony to carry young children in.

Louise turned up in two days' time about half an hour before lunch. Anstice took her into the drawing-room, which was now a most charming spot. The conservatory was full of flowers, and a small aviary at one side of it was the children's constant joy. A pair of doves, two lovebirds, four canaries, and various small foreign birds were at present the happy family in it.

Louise drew a long breath as she stood in the middle of the room.

"This is a perfect Paradise," she said. "If I had such a room to live in, I suppose I should not be so susceptible to the outside scenery."

"I have had a considerable amount of effort and work over this," said Anstice. "I do believe in having a bright atmosphere inside a house wherever you are, especially with children. But you could do a good deal with your vicarage if you chose. Are you fond of flowers?"

"I suppose I am not. I never have any in the house. They are too much bother. I have just let everything go. I am glad you did not see the other room where I sit. It has a piano, a round table and three chairs. There are three pictures on the walls which are colour-washed like those in the dining-room. I have about half a dozen books, and my work-basket. My uncle has never had any money to spend on knick-knacks or comforts. He would be happy in a monk's cell, and I have given up asking for things that I know the house requires."

"I have a lot of suggestions to make to you, but we will wait till after lunch."

Louise felt as if she were in a dream. The dainty lunch, the little girls' chatter at it, and Anstice's happy charm in making all feel pleased with themselves, made her long to stay in such an atmosphere for ever.

When the meal was over, Anstice took her to her private sitting-room. It had been a very dull apartment before Anstice had taken it in hand. Now it was perfectly charming, with its fresh chintzes and soft cream-papered walls. Flowers and potpourri pots and some delicate old china adorned the mantelshelf, and the top of a low book-case in a recess by the fireplace. A work-table and writing-desk showed that the room was for use as well as for rest. A couch was drawn up under one window, two easy chairs were in the other, and Anstice, now gently putting Louise in the most comfortable chair, seated herself opposite her. From the open window in front of them was wafted in the scent of the new-mown hay in the park, whilst the children's happy voices, as they played about in it, brought a smile to Anstice's face.

Louise's lips quivered, then suddenly she lowered her head, and began to sob.

"I wish I was a child again. I wish I had a mother living. I am so utterly alone."

"I suppose your uncle is wrapped up in his books?" asked Anstice gently. "But has he no visitors? My experience of country vicarages is that there are always people coming and going."

"We never have any visitors. Our church and parish seem so far away from any others that we are completely forgotten and ignored."

Then, as she talked on, Anstice soon learnt the real cause of the girl's bitterness. In the sorrow of her soul she poured it into her ears. It was a pitiful little love story. One day, as she had been polishing the brasses in the tiny church, a stranger with a camera had walked in. He had asked questions about the neighbourhood which Louise had been able to answer. They had walked about together, had become very friendly, and then as he was lodging at a farm near, and had fishing rights in the lake, they met again the next day. He was handsome and plausible; he amused himself by flattering her and drawing out her best qualities. She, simple girl as she was, fell headlong in love with him. And after three weeks of love-making, she considered herself engaged to him. He was going back to London; they had a mutual friend there, a school friend of hers, a fellow art student with him. He seemed to be a dabbler in many things. He did a little journalism, a little painting, sent his photos to a Black and White Magazine, and was author of a small book of poems. When he had gone, she felt her life a blank, but looked forward to his letters. She received one, and then no more. After two months of agonized waiting, she heard through her friend that he was engaged to another girl, and had alluded to his time down at the Lake end as an "amusing episode." Then the iron entered into her soul, and Anstice saw that even now, after four years had passed, the blow was still heavy.

She put her arms in a motherly fashion round the girl.

"Oh, Louise," she said, "life is bigger than you think it. The time will come when you too will look back, and treat the past as only an episode. You have done nothing dishonourable; we women often love and trust too much. Put it from you, dear. And now listen! I have a dozen schemes for your good. How would it be to advertise for a paying guest? Londoners would revel in your quiet, tranquil little nook, and many a hard-worked girl would love the seclusion of your life. It would be an interest to you for all the summer months. You might even find some one who would like to stay the winter with you."

"Oh no, that would be impossible. And uncle will not have visitors. Indeed, they would not stay a day. We are very poor, and our food is the very simplest. I have not the means to make them comfortable. I did think of it once, but Uncle Edgar would not hear of it."

"Well, if you are badly off, could you not have 'Teas' for visitors? The hotel farther on is being shut up, I hear. It would be rather fun for you, and teas are quite easy to manage. Let me tell you of an old couple who live in another lonely part of the Fells. The sister told me she was never lonely nor unhappy. That the visitors who came for her teas brightened her life."

Anstice went on, giving an account of old Tommy Nixon and his sister.

Louise listened, but her face did not lighten; she only shook her head.

"Uncle Edgar wouldn't allow it—I know he would not."

"Then I shall try and get you a wireless set, that will amuse and interest you during the winter; and you must come over to me as often as you can. I wish you would take up gardening; that would occupy and interest you all the summer. I am quite certain that a busy life is what you want."

"I might try flowers," said Louise doubtfully; "but the truth is, I don't care about anything enough to take trouble over it."

"No, I suppose you don't. And my suggestions are only surface ones. They don't touch your depths. Will you let me do a little probing? You see, we are comparative strangers. I want to help you, if I can. I know what you really need, at least I think I do. I know what would give you a fresh start and new vision of life. For I have only lately got it myself, and I am longing for every one I know to have it."

Louise looked at her with interest, Anstice put her hand on her shoulder.

"Tell me, dear, is your religion a real joy and comfort to you, or is it only an empty form?"

"An empty, unsatisfying form," said Louise with bitter emphasis. "Church bores me; uncle's sermons bore me. I sometimes wish I had been born a heathen, for I should be free then to do as I like and to live as I like, without any compunction."

Anstice was silent for a moment, then she said:

"I wonder if I can say anything to help you. Every one is helped in a different way. Tell me, does this verse convey anything to you? 'Have I been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not known Me?'"

"I know it as a Bible verse," said Louise slowly.

"I heard a sermon on it the first Sunday I was here," Anstice said; "and it came home to me with great force. So much so that it has altered my whole life. My inside life I mean—though I hope that affects my outward one. I had grown-up with the love of God surrounding me and mine, but I never knew Him; least of all had I any love and real personal knowledge of our Saviour—I think if you were to get real peace and happiness in your soul, you would not find your lonely, monotonous life so irksome."

Louise seemed impressed for a moment, then she shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't think I want real religion to seize hold of me. I am matter-of-fact—not visionary! I don't want to be content with my stagnant life. You can only be young once, and I feel the years are slipping away. I want to live, to enjoy, even if I have to work for enjoyment."

"But does fretting and chafing against your circumstances remedy them? Does it make you happier?"

"No one has such an awful life as I have!"

Anstice laughed, but it was a tender laugh.

"Oh, you dear child!" she said. "If only you knew how many girls spend their youth toiling and slaving for others! Some, nursing invalid parents, taking care of brothers and sisters, never able to have a bit of enjoyment themselves. There are hundreds of brave, unselfish girls in the world, they are heroines, though the world is unconscious of their courage and patience and self-denial."

"Look at poor little Ruffie here! I often marvel at his patience and cheerfulness. Doomed to be crippled and helpless all his life, and if he is spared to manhood, deprived of all the powers that make manhood desirable. How would you like to be stretched on your back, and know that you would have to lie there till you die?"

Louise shuddered, then she put out her hand protestingly.

"Be kind to me! Be a little sorry for me! I suppose I have an entirely selfish outlook, and you are disgusted with my grumbles. I am not one of those unselfish, uncomplaining heroines you talk about. I never could be. But if I was in different circumstances, I should be a much pleasanter person. I know I should. Happiness is like the sun amongst the flowers; it would make me open my heart to others, but I've had so little of it, and I want to be happy! I want to be happy!"

Anstice was silent for a moment, then she said slowly:

"That is the cry of all of us. We are made to be happy. We are meant to be happy even in this world of sorrow and sin. But we don't know what will give us real happiness. Outside prosperity—we'll call it happiness—is so fluctuating and fleeting. I think you'll live to see this come true in your experience, Louise. But I have preached enough to you. Now shall we have a row on the lake?"

"I must be getting back. Uncle will think I have run away. Don't think me a selfish, ungrateful pig; don't give me up as hopeless because I don't want to turn religious! You've done me such a lot of good. It is heaven to sit here with you, and talk!"

"My dear Louise—you see I'm calling you by your Christian name in a very familiar way—I don't intend to let go of you. I can tell you that! If you really must go, I will take you down to the other end of the lake, we will row there together. It will save you a good bit of walking. And I'm going to give you a big bunch of roses, if you can carry them. I want you to put them in your sitting-room. I am sure they will do you good. If you don't find the long walk too fatiguing, come over to me next Thursday, will you? And if you will get a little bit of ground ready in your garden, I can give you ever so many plants. We are weeding out our herbaceous borders. Will you start a little flower garden? You don't know how fond you may get of it!"

For the rest of her visit, they only talked of pleasant things. Anstice lent her a book and she took away a lovely bunch of roses.

They had a delicious row on the lake, and when Anstice returned after seeing her well on her way home, she did not feel altogether dissatisfied with the visit. She knew that fresh interests would be a great boon to the lonely girl. She was content to wait and pray for the deeper change, which she wanted to bring into her life.

CHAPTER IX

LOUISE'S DEPARTURE

"DEAR ANSTICE,—

"Many thanks for your letter and all your news. I don't doubt that you're working wonders in my household. I shall be duly grateful on my next visit home. Out here, my house and estate, and children all seem vague and shadowy. But I like to hear of you all, so keep me posted with details. You seem pretty experienced with children, so I'll leave you to deal with Ruffie's education. I'm sure the little scamp won't be too industrious. I have had the misfortune to damage my boat rather seriously in a storm we came into two days ago, so we're going on shore for repairs. This will delay me. I am glad you have made Malcolm Dermot's acquaintance. He and I have been pals for many a long year. I really don't understand why any awkward question may crop up. You have married a rover—and you knew it when you did it. I have known other married men who are both travellers and big game hunters. It is not unusual. Perhaps our speedy marriage was unusual—I even acknowledge a good bit of selfishness on my side; but you seem to be getting some degree of comfort and enjoyment out of it, and I hope you'll continue to do so.

"And tell the kind friends who ask inquisitive questions, that you have a selfish brute of a husband who is not over-fond of children's racket, and doesn't take to domesticity, but that you are not pining for his society, and prefer to be without him. Isn't this the plain truth? Let them swallow it, and say no more. Tell the youngsters, I'll bring them back a parrot according to Ruffie's request, but as to whether it will talk or not is at present unknown to me.

"Yours,
"JUSTIN H."

Anstice read this first letter from her husband, and drew a little sigh. She had not expected more from him; and yet it left her with the feeling that he was farther away than ever. Then she folded up the letter and put it into her Davenport. Her occupation for the day crowded out all thoughts of an indifferent husband. She had at last got a satisfactory wicker chair made for Ruffie, and this was going to be strapped on to the steady old cob, who was a mountain pony, bred and born amongst the Fells, and consequently surefooted.

Ruffie's delight and astonishment when the cob was brought round to the door for his inspection was very great. Brenda carried him down, and then soft cushions were put into the little chair, and he took his first ride down the drive. He declared it did not shake him at all and wanted to go up the Fells then and there, but Anstice would not allow that.

A week later, when he was found to be no worse for the motion, she and the little girls took him up the lane at the back of the house and up the nearest Fell.

The little boy's joy was unbounded, and when he finally reached the summit of rather a small height, he sat looking out at the views below him with rapturous eyes.

"I've never been above the earth before," he said. "What a lot you can see! I s'pose in Heaven they can see all the world at once. That's why God can see everybody."

"Isn't he ridic'lus!" laughed Georgie.

But Anstice did not think him so, and Ruffie was totally indifferent to his sister's opinion of him.

Two days later, Anstice reminded them that the month was up. She told the little girls this at the luncheon table.

Josie nodded gravely.

"Yes, me and Georgie made a tick in our calendar. Ruffie said we weren't to say anything about it, but we meant to. We aren't going to do what Ruffie says."

"Well, is it necessary to have another pow-wow?"

"Oh yes, that's fun! May we have it to-night?"

"Certainly. At six o'clock."

"I don't mean to paint up so much," Georgie announced. "It hurts scraping it off!"

So that evening the pow-wow was held, and the fire was lighted in the library, and three earnest-faced children sat round it with Anstice.

Josie was the first one to speak.

"We don't want to fight you," she said; "and you've given us a lot of nice things. Ruffie has got his chair, and Georgie and me our sitting-room, and our lessons aren't half bad now. I think we'll go on as we are."

"Yes," nodded Georgie. "You aren't always running after us like the governesses used to do. You let us get away from you sometimes. But we want you to promise us that in the holidays we can do exactly as we like."

"What does Ruffie say?" Anstice asked.

For answer, Ruffie wriggled closer to her and laid his head on her shoulder.

"I love you," he said; "and I don't care if all the world knows it! I don't want you ever to leave us."

Anstice felt tears rising to her eyes.

"My darlings!" she said. "Yes, I call you all darlings, because you are. I don't mean to leave you. I want you to be as happy as children can be. I shan't be hard on you in the holidays, Georgie. If you get into scrapes, you must learn by experience that scrapes mean trouble to you or to others. Tell me if you can what you want to do, and I'll meet you as far as I can. And I'll try and make the holidays a really jolly time."

After the pow-wow was over Josie got Georgie into a corner.

"It's no good," she said, "trying to go against her. And the funny thing is that I don't want to. When did you first begin to like her, Georgie?"

"It was one day when I called out to her, and she said: 'What is it, darling?' Nobody had ever called me 'darling' before. I felt I could hug her when she said it!"

"Yes, I s'pose it's because we feel she really likes us, and loves a bit of fun."

As for Anstice, she was inexpressibly thankful that she had managed to win the liking if not love of these troublesome children. Her Sunday readings and talks she felt was an opportunity for sowing seed in the soft ground of childish hearts, and though she never expected to turn them into perfect children, she did seem to see a softening impression upon their characters.

She found her time fully occupied through these long summer days. Louise was a regular weekly visitor. She had taken a violent, almost schoolgirl adoration for Anstice, and though she was not willing at present to discuss religious matters with her, she was, in other respects, as clay in her hands.

She had started a garden, and it was taking hold of her: she was reading with avidity all the books that Anstice could lend her, and her outlook on life was happier. She had been to see old Tommy Nixon and his sister, and confessed that their cheery content did her good.

"But," she said, "they are old, and I am young. And the woman has outgrown all restlessness."

One day she invited Anstice over to lunch. Her uncle smartened himself up for the occasion, and struck Anstice as being a courteous scholar of the old school. He and she discussed books together, for Anstice had always been a great reader, and Louise said afterwards that her uncle had talked more that day in an hour than he had done for a year when only with her.

Anstice was gradually increasing her circle of acquaintances. Colonel and Mrs. McInnes, who were regular church-goers, were very friendly. Their daughters for a time held aloof; then, when they found Anstice a good tennis player, persuaded her to come over sometimes to play with them. There were a certain amount of summer visitors who were making the neighbourhood quite gay. Anstice went to one or two garden-parties and some local Fêtes and Flower-shows, but she preferred being quiet at home.

When the holidays began, she had a tennis-court marked out on the smooth level lawn, and instituted tennis as a pastime for the little girls. They took to it at once, and it kept them out of mischief. Picnics on the Fells, and on the lake; expeditions with the pony taking Ruffie, ending up with farm-house teas, and occasional children's parties at home—these all filled up the holiday time, and made life enjoyable.

So the summer passed, lessons began again, and then came a wet spell of autumn mists and rain.

Louise did not appear for three weeks, then Anstice heard she was ill, and one day when the rain seemed to have cleared, she tramped over the Fells herself to see how she was.

She found her in bed with bronchitis; she had narrowly escaped pneumonia, and was lying very weak and dispirited. When she saw Anstice come into the room, she looked up with real interest. For days, her uncle said she had lain, saying nothing, and only taking food from the little maid, Mary, who waited upon her.

"Oh," she said in a weak voice; "I have wanted you so much. I thought I was going to die, and I was almost glad, and then I began to get frightened and I prayed that I might be given another chance. But I have been so lonely and miserable, and the rain has beaten against my windows and the wind howled in the chimneys, and I felt as bad as I did before you came!"

"My poor child!"

Anstice laid her hand caressingly against her cheek.

"If you did not live so far off, I would bring our trap over and drive you home with me. I think I must get a car to come over for you. Wrapped up, you would not hurt. That is if your uncle can spare you. But you are not much good to him tucked away up here. I think I must go down and consult with him."

A hot flush came into Louise's pale cheeks. Such a vista opening out before her, as a visit to Butterdale Manor, was enough to fill her with fresh hope and courage. She lay patiently in her small bed, awaiting Anstice's return. She was a good half-hour away, and when she came up, she smiled at the invalid in a very reassuring way.

"You have to be very good now, and take your medicine and food regularly and get up your strength. This is Friday. On Monday, I shall come myself in a car and bring you back to Butterdale with me. I am going to nurse you back to health. And your uncle is quite willing. He and I have had a very nice talk together. I think it is a pity you have not confided in him more. He cares about you much more than you think."

"Will he really let me come to you?"

"Of course he will. I mustn't stay, for it is nearly dusk now. We will meet again if all is well on Monday. I shall come over in the morning for you."

And on Monday, Louise came to the Manor, and was put in a sweet little room near Anstice. It was a haven of rest to her. The little girls were delighted to visit her, and their light-hearted chatter brightened her up. When she was quite convalescent, she walked up and down the terrace outside in the sun, and Anstice and she had many a serious talk together. One day, Anstice went over to Ramdale again to see her uncle about her return. She came back to Louise with smiling face.

"I have wonderful news for you. I don't know whether it will be for your true welfare or not, but the desire of your heart has been granted."

"Oh, tell me quick, quick! Has uncle got another living? Is he going to leave Ramdale?"

"No, but he is perfectly willing for you to go up to London and there carve out your own life—and earn your living if you can."

"Back to London?"

Such light and colour came into Louise's pale face that it made her absolutely beautiful. Then she faltered out:

"But how can I be spared? Who will look after him and the parish? I haven't done much, I know, but I've just managed to keep things together."

"Well, it is rather strange, but I happen to know a woman who would be glad to go to your uncle as housekeeper. She used to be a cook at my old home, but she is a most superior woman, and she loves the country. I have not said anything to you, but I have been corresponding with her about the post for some time. When you were ill and I had that talk with your uncle, he said that he had often thought it was much too lonely a life for a girl of your age, but he would not dream of turning you out to earn your own living. I told him that was what you were longing to do, and he said he wished that you had talked to him about it. So then I set to work. Now when you are quite strong, you can go anywhere you like. He will be able to give you a small allowance to keep you from starving. What will you do, I wonder?"

Louise could hardly believe her ears. That very day, she wrote to her old school friend the art student in London, and before very long, she had arranged to share her small flat with her, and seek for congenial work in that neighbourhood.

Anstice listened to the eager girl's hopes and aspirations. She did not like to quench her ardour, but wrote to her cousins in London and asked them to befriend her, and take her to occasional concerts and entertainments. As to what she was going to do, Louise had very little idea.

"I am not stupid. If other girls can learn shorthand and typewriting, I can, and if I can't get office work, I shall go into some shop or business place. I don't care what I do; I wouldn't mind selling flowers, if only I can be in the middle of life again and in London."

But when the time came for her to leave the Manor, Louise was very tearful. She hugged Anstice in quite a childish way.

"You won't give me up, and forget me? You will write to me and let me write to you?"

"My dear, I don't make friends one day, and give them up the next. Of course, we will write to each other. I am in a way responsible for this London move, but I feel, when we are young, 'oughts' go down under 'wants.' It is of no use eating one's heart out thinking of all the brave things we could do and dare, the best thing is to be given the opportunity of attempting them."

"Yes, I shall be grateful to you all my life for getting me this chance. I hope I shall make good! Though I feel you don't in your heart approve of my going. You think it best for me to buy my experience! I know! But you just wait and see! The hardest thing of all is to go away from you!"

She went back to Ramdale for a week, and then departed to London, and Anstice really missed her, for she had been in and out of the Manor so much.

One day Anstice asked Mrs. Fergusson to stay to lunch when the children's lessons were over.

"This incessant rain is getting upon my nerves," she said to her laughingly. "I did not know I had any till lately. I feel as if I want a good talk with some one to take me out of myself."

So Mrs. Fergusson stayed. Anstice always enjoyed her society. She had read much and been about to many different countries, for she travelled with her Russian pupils a great deal.

Anstice told her about Louise.

"I am so afraid she may fail in London. Can you give any advice about work for a girl of her capabilities?"

"It is difficult. There is such a mad rush of these girls to London now. They are overcrowding each other. If I had a daughter, I would endeavour to keep her away from the offices in town. It is not a healthy life in many ways. I wonder if she would like a secretary's post in a large girls' school at Hampstead? I know the principal of it, and could put in a word for her. She looks a capable girl, but of course there will be about fifty or more trying to get the post, and she wants to have some knowledge of book-keeping."

"That she could soon learn. May I write and suggest it to her?"

"Certainly, and let me know if she would like such a job."

Then Mrs. Fergusson smiled.

"When one chick leaves the shelter of your wing, do you look about for another? Your own small people do not seem enough for your energy."

"Oh, they are, more than enough, but Louise was brought to me. I could not help trying to help her. She seemed so solitary and forlorn away there in the wilds. Even I, in this cheerful house, feel a little bit down with this constant and ceaseless rain. Does it rain all the winter here?"

"Oh no, we have lovely spells. Wait till the snow covers the hills, and we get a rosy sunset! And a cold, bright frosty day with low sunshine lying across the Fells, and the beautiful colouring of the lake, is too exquisite for words! I am never lonely in winter. I have my needlework and books, and sit looking out upon the lake till the moon rises, and then sit on watching that till bedtime."

"Yes, I can fancy you doing it. I am inclined to waste a lot of time gazing out of these windows—so I expect I shall enjoy the winters here."

"You will have your husband home soon?"

"Not till Christmas."

Anstice's tone was a little constrained. She changed the topic, and they plunged into a discussion over a book which had been lent to Anstice by Mrs. Fergusson. It was on "The Coming Race." Mrs. Fergusson was an optimist.

"I think things will right themselves later on. It is the age for the emancipation of the young from parents' rule, from old age principles, from everything sweetly effeminate. You can no more stem the tide of on-rushing youth and high spirits than you could dam Niagara's Falls. And force is never as strong as persuasion—or rather suggestion. We mustn't try to baulk or prevent them from leading the lives they do; we can only stand-by in case of catastrophe, and give them a helping hand when they fall."

"It does seem a strange upheaval to us who look on. The days of tyrannical parents are gone, it is not the young who have their spirits broken, it is their poor parents sitting in desolate homes, and in many cases having no descendants to carry on their name and race. But, in spite of all this, homes and parents will be loved and respected again. Reaction will set in. I heard of a young girl the other day, one of four brothers and sisters, all working and living in town. She came into an unexpected legacy. And how do you think she spent it? She wanted to benefit the others beside herself and she spent it all in establishing herself in a country house, so that the London workers should have one haven of rest and comfort to which they could come. She had the home-making instinct, you say. But what she did, others will do by and by. The restless rush will cease."

"I wish, oh I wish I could think so," said Anstice.

They talked on after lunch in Anstice's pretty morning-room over a blazing log fire, Mrs. Fergusson busily sewing at her pretty needlework, and Anstice embroidering some frocks for the little girls.

"There is one point for which you must be thankful," Mrs. Fergusson said, towards the end of their conversation; "your small stepdaughters have got a deep and adoring love for their home. They will never stay long away from it when they get older. I do not think the lure of town gaiety, and bustle, will have any attraction for them."

"Yes, they are devoted to their home. They consider the lake and Fells as all part of their personal possessions. It's strange; for their mother, I hear, never was happy here; neither is their father."

"But I hear he is very tenacious over his property; he will not let an inch of land go out of his possession. If I may say so, I think the discomforts in his home have driven him out of it. Men are generally selfish as regards their own comfort and ease."

"Perhaps so."

Then, as Mrs. Fergusson rose to go, Anstice said impulsively:

"I am going to try to wean him from his wanderings. Wish me success!"

"I feel positively certain you will have it," said Mrs. Fergusson; "and you certainly will deserve it."

BOOK II

FRIENDS

CHAPTER I

MISSING

SNOW-CAPPED Helvellyn's heights. Butterdale Manor looked out upon white-crested Fells across a dark purple lake. The house itself was shuttered up for the night. Justin Holme, in a thick overcoat, stepped out of a car, and made his way up to his front door. He had sent no word of his arrival in England. It was his fancy to take his family unaware.

The respectable maid who opened the door to him was a stranger to him, and he to her. She asked his name.

He gave a short laugh.

"You need not announce me. I'll announce myself."

He slipped out of his coat, gave directions about his luggage, then made his way across the hall to the drawing-room. The door was ajar, and he saw lights within.

Very softly he opened the door and stood silently looking upon the scene before him.

The light came from the big blazing log fire in the grate. Round it was gathered a little group. Anstice was seated in a low chair, clad in a powder-blue velvet gown. The firelight played on her sunny brown head, on her softly flushed cheeks, and dimples, and happy eyes. She was telling a story. Her clear, vibrating voice rang out with happy assurance:

"And so the Prince's troubles were over, his long journeys in search of happiness was a thing of the past. He had found his dear Princess, and never meant to leave her side again."

Ruffie's golden head was resting against her knee; he was sitting amongst his cushions at her feet. Josie and Georgie were sprawling upon the hearth-rug; their tense, eager faces were devouring every word that came from Anstice's mouth. It was a pretty, home-like picture, and Justin's restless eyes softened as he gazed.

Then he swung open the door and strode forward. There were shrieks from the children, and all was babel and confusion. Ruffie was in his arms, and the little girls, hanging on to him, were talking eagerly. No one noticed that there was no greeting between husband and wife. If for a moment Justin's tall head was bent in Anstice's direction, she so quickly moved aside that nothing was possible but a few words of welcome.

"Well, I have taken you all by surprise, have I not? I meant to have been back in time for Christmas, but I dare say you have got on very well without me. We were delayed by storms in the Pacific. Have I brought the parrot? I have, but at present he will only say one word, and that is not a polite one. You will have to teach him to talk properly. He is in the hall by this time; come along and see him."

Carrying Ruffie in his arms, Justin took the little girls into the hall. For the time he was completely absorbed in his children; but when they were summoned to bed by Brenda, he sank down into an easy chair by the drawing-room fire.

"They're rather strenuous, those small people, and I'm dead dog tired! We only got into Liverpool early this afternoon, and we had a rough tossing. All last night I never went to bed at all."

"You'll feel better after dinner," said Anstice cheerfully. She was moving about the room as she spoke, tidying up, and putting cushions into their right places.

"Come and sit down opposite me and let me look at you," said Justin rather abruptly.

Anstice dropped into a chair with her happy easy laugh.

"I think you'll find no change in me. How do you think the children look?"

"Oh, they're all right."

He was regarding her with a slow, direct gaze. Anstice felt her cheek flush, though she was angry with herself for showing any emotion.

"I heard from your Cousin Lucy about a month ago, wanting to know the length of my desertion. She had been up here for a day or two."

"Yes, on her way to some friends in Northumberland. It was just before the first snow came. I made her as comfortable as I could, and quite enjoyed her visit."

"Well, you show no signs of strain; she seemed to think it was all too much for you alone."

"I have been, and am, very happy. Of course difficulties have arisen. Cousin Lucy was here when Bob Falkland was taken ill, and I had to get some one to help about the sheep. Hal Cross has been working over at the farm, for poor Eliza almost collapsed. I knew you must be on your way home, so could not write. Bob has had double pneumonia and nearly died. But he is much better now."

"I could ill spare Bob. He is my right-hand man," said Justin with concern. Then he looked about the room. "I congratulate you on the changes you have made here," he said. "This was an unlovable room when I left it. I suppose I shall find the house much improved?"

"I hope you will."

Then a whimsical sparkle came into his eyes.

"We didn't do so badly for ourselves, did we? Your Cousin Lucy seems to think that I score most. What do you think?"

"I think," said Anstice, rising, "that you had better get ready for dinner. You look as if you need it."

She left the room, and after she had gone, Justin drew a long breath.

"Malcolm is right. She's a beautiful creature. And I have been a selfish brute. She has done wonders for me and mine. I am in my soul grateful. I wonder if I shall have the courage to tell her so?"

Then he too made a move, and went up to his room. Brenda was there unpacking his things.

"It seems like old times to see you here," he said to her; "the house is getting shipshape at last, eh?"

"Oh, sir, it is a happy house now! I never could have believed anybody could have come and put us all to rights in such a lovely way as Mrs. Holme has. The little girls be changed entirely. And there's been no fear or force used—just love and persuasion."

Justin congratulated himself afresh upon the present state of things. He arrived down to dinner in the best of spirits. Anstice faced him from one end of the long table. She had changed her gown and was wearing a soft grey chiffon tea-gown with a bunch of violets on her shoulder. They talked pleasantly together, Anstice giving him all the local news, and he telling of his stormy voyage home.

"I really thought at one time, I should never see the shore," he said. "Would you have cared much, I wonder, if the ocean had claimed me?"

"Ruffie would," responded Anstice lightly; "he never forgets you in his prayers."

"But what would you have felt?" persisted Justin.

"Look here," said Anstice, dimpling, but though smiling, speaking firmly, "I must ask you to keep all personalities out of our talk. You are, as you know, almost a complete stranger to me, and I to you. We can be friendly without bringing in any personal touch. I have faithfully kept to my bargain. I expect you to keep to yours."

Justin's brows contracted, then he smiled.

"I will remember. But I am in my own house, and I don't want to be continually snubbed, and made to feel my place!"

"I have no intention of doing anything of that sort," said Anstice in a shocked voice. "I hope I shall never forget that you are the master of the Manor, and the father of your children."

"And your husband," murmured Justin, but he took care that his words did not reach her.

Justin went into his smoking-room after dinner, and did not join his wife in the drawing-room until she was about to retire for the night. He stood beside her silently for a moment, then suddenly put his hand on her shoulder.

"I have always from a boy found it difficult to express my thanks to anyone, but I would now thank you for all you have done in my absence. It must have cost you a good deal of time and strength and effort—may I say patience?—to have worked such changes amongst my belongings. And I am duly grateful."

His gravity and sincerity of tone touched Anstice.

"It has been happy work," she said. "I want no thanks. In a way I was only carrying out the conditions on which I came here, but I have enjoyed it all, and been far happier than I ever thought possible. Good night."

She held out her hand, and though for a moment Justin made a movement as if he were about to claim more from her, he restrained himself, and went forward to hold open the door for her.

The first few days of Justin's return were rather uncomfortable to Anstice. He seemed to be watching her every movement, regarding her with amused, critical eyes, listening to her talk with the children, to her orders to the servants, and giving her the impression that he was keenly observant of all her actions and words. It made her feel self-conscious at first, and then gradually, as they became more accustomed to be together, they lapsed into easy comradeship, and life seemed difficult no longer.

Justin found that a good deal of superintendence was necessary on his farm. Bob had not yet recovered his strength, and to Anstice's amazement one morning, she saw, from a window, her husband driving the plough across a seven-acre field. He came into breakfast amazingly hungry.

"Yes, it's rather different work to yachting, but I've learnt every branch of farming, and ploughing is interesting," he said to her. "I have had to put my hands to most things. Bob always told me, I would take the prize in any ploughing match. We must take advantage of this mild spell, but our winters aren't severe as a rule up here."

"I want to go over to see the Nixons, if I can," Anstice said, looking out of the window at a very grey lake and dark stormy skies. "Ellen is ill; I must see that she is being looked after properly. I hope some of the Watts at the inn are seeing to her."

"You don't walk over there?"

"Indeed I do. I shall start in an hour's time and take a bit of lunch with me in case I may be delayed. Don't wait lunch for me—I shall be back before dark."

"It's a pity you don't ride."

"But I can ride, only there is no horse, is there? I am too heavy for our poor little pony."

"Would you ride if I got you one? Why haven't you used my mare? I did not know you could ride."

"Do you think now that Bob would have let me lay a finger on your darling Sheba?"

Anstice laughed at the very idea.

"No—I love walking, and enjoy the Fells at any time. I am only too glad of any excuse to get up amongst them. You will be busy with your ploughing. I shall be home for tea, perhaps long before."

Justin came in for a hurried lunch; he would not allow to himself how much he missed Anstice, and what a blank there was in the house when she was out of it. He went out to his ploughing again in the afternoon, but came in before dusk to inquire if Anstice were home. A thick mist and fine drizzling rain was already obscuring the Fells from view. He paced up and down the hall uneasily, then called to Brenda. The children were all making a great deal of noise in the nursery, so she did not come at once. He spoke to her very sharply.

"Why don't you come when you are called? Is your mistress accustomed to the Fells? Can she find her way about? She is not back yet, and there's a thick mist coming on. Is she out as late as this generally?"

"Maybe she's dropped in to Hockerdale. 'Tis on the way to the Nixons. She's always in by dusk. But 'tis a goodish step from Rutherswater."

An anxious look came into Brenda's face. Justin waited for twenty minutes longer, then he went off to the farm, saddled his mare and set off up into the Fells. He carried an electric torch with him and flashed it here and there in the hope of attracting attention. The mist grew thicker, until at last, even he found it difficult to follow the track. But he managed to find Hockerdale; there, the James' were sitting down to tea. The farmer sprang to his feet.

"The missus out on the Fells such an afternoon like this! May God save her! She'll never find her way. I met her this marnin' an' warned her not to kaap out an' about too lang."

"Have you a lantern, man? Come on with me. We must find her. I think I'll put up my mare here and go on foot. She's not good at finding her way in a mist."

Together they pushed on, shouting as they went, and then Frank James brought slight ease of mind to Justin by reminding him that Anstice had Hercules with her. Justin, after that, whistled a peculiar whistle of his, which Hercules would hear and answer if he were anywhere within reach. A fruitless hour passed, and then the two separated, going in different directions. Justin determined to reach Rutherswater, if he could. Anstice, he argued to himself, might still be taking refuge with the old Nixons. So he pushed on, missing his track continually, retracing his steps to find it again, and all the time shouting and whistling to Hercules.

At last, there was a thudding of feet, a big form sprang upon him with a low whimper of recognition. It was the mastiff. He heaved a deep sigh of relief. He was on the right track.

"All right, old fellow. Take me to her! Fetch her!"

Hercules understood; but as he was bounding away Justin gripped him by the collar.

"Not so fast, my man! I don't mean to lose you again if I can help it."

He took off a muffler he had round his throat, and slipped one end of it through the mastiff's collar. Then suffered himself to be led along at breakneck speed. But he believed in Hercules, and did not expect to be dashed over the edge of some crag.

After a quarter of an hour's hard walking, they came right off the path amongst rough blocks of granite. Here Justin stumbled again and again, but Hercules led steadily on, and then—was it fancy? He thought he heard a faint cry in the distance. They were descending now a steep, precipitous path. It was dangerous going. But they rounded a sharp corner and came upon a flat grassy plateau. And here, dimly through the moving mist, he saw, under the shadow of a sharp overhanging crag, a figure.

"Anstice!" he shouted.

And her voice, clear as a bell, answered him:

"I am here. This way!"

"He must have fallen down here from above."

Her Kingdom      Book II, Chapter I.

He had found her! Crouched down over another figure lying on the ground beside her.

"What are you doing? Are you hurt?"

"It is poor old Tommy Nixon."

She rose slowly to her feet.

He gripped her by the arm, but she shrank from his touch.

"Can you lift him up? Poor old man, he is seriously injured. He must have fallen down here from above. I'll tell you all about it afterwards, but how can we get him home? I haven't the least notion where we are. I heard his dog barking. Take care, don't step on him; he resents anyone touching his master. Is anyone with you?"

"James may be round about!" He sent a loud halloa out amongst the Fells. Echoes resounded from the rocky crags, and a faint shout that was not his came to them.

Then Justin flashed his torch to and fro. There was an answering gleam in the mist, and in ten minutes' time, the farmer had joined them. Just before he came up, Justin spoke almost roughly:

"Why the deuce didn't you come home and send some one out to this poor fellow? I've been hunting for you for hours."

"And I have been waiting for hours," was the quiet reply. "I could not leave him; he begged me not to do so. He was in terrible suffering. Now he's unconscious, but I was able to give him some brandy, and he is living still. Listen to his breathing!"

She was bending over him again. Her whole soul was with the poor old man. She seemed indifferent to herself or to Justin. Then James came up. But it was Justin who slipped out of his heavy coat, and lifting the old man into it, used it as a stretcher, James taking one end of it, and he the other.

"How far are we from his house?"

"A goodish way," said James. "We had best carry him to th' house and let my wife tend to him."

"Yes," assented Anstice at once. "His sister is too ill to nurse him. She wants a nurse herself. We will go to Hockerdale."

They started. Victory, the sheep-dog, after a little growling at Hercules, followed the procession. Anstice seemed to have difficulty in keeping up with them. More than once Justin stopped, and then said in softened tone:

"You seem tired. Take hold of my arm."

"Oh no, you want all your strength to carry him over this rough ground. Look! The mist is rolling away, and the moon's coming out! Thank God!"

It was indeed rolling away like great clouds from their feet. It seemed a long time before they reached Hockerdale, but they were there at last, and Mrs. James rose to the occasion. The old man was put in her best bed in the big spare room. A fire was lighted and hot bottles applied to his feet. A farm lad was sent off for the nearest doctor.

Justin stayed up in the bedroom helping, as Mrs. James said afterwards, "in all the world like a sick nurse, turnin' 'im so deft like, and knowin' how to get some hot drink down his throat!"

And when Justin was assured that he was as comfortable as possible, he came down to the farm kitchen. There he found Anstice in a half-fainting condition. She was sitting in the big chair by the fire, her soaked clothes steaming from the heat; round one arm she had a blood-soaked bandage, and to his horror, Justin saw that she had seriously hurt herself.

"Oh, these women!" he ejaculated.

He called sharply to James, who had gone out to his cows in the farm, for Mrs. James was still caring for old Nixon.

"Get me a basin of warm water," he said. "My wife wants seeing to now."

He forced her to swallow a little brandy, and then she slowly opened her eyes. For an instant she looked at him vaguely.

"I am sorry," she murmured. "I had a tumble in finding Tommy, and cut my arm. It bled a good bit, and makes me feel queer. I bandaged it as tight as I could."

She closed her eyes again, whilst Justin set to work, and his touch was as gentle as any woman's. He undid the bandage, bathed the wounded arm, which was badly cut above the elbow, bandaged it up with fresh linen again, and settled her back into the chair, arranging the cushions behind her to his satisfaction and also to hers. She smiled at him; she had winced when he had touched her arm, but otherwise had borne the bandaging silently.

"Who taught you 'first aid'?" she asked.

"I taught myself," he said a little shortly; "have had plenty of experience on my boat. You ought to have your wet clothes off."

"Oh no, I must get home. They have really dried on me. I can't stay here, you know. One disabled person is quite enough."

"You'll stay here till I come back. I'll ride off and get a car. This is a time when I regret not owning one. Ah! Here is Mrs. James. She'll see to you."

He explained matters. Mrs. James soon had Anstice's wet clothes off her and gave her some of her own to wear, whilst she set about drying hers. Justin went off, and the farmer went upstairs to sit by old Nixon.

"I can't think," said Anstice in a quavering voice, "why I feel so shaky. I suppose I must have lost more blood than I thought. I felt my arm dripping as I walked. I nearly collapsed on the way."

"You look awful, ma'am. Don't ye talk; the doctor will be here and he'd best look at your arm."

"I am thinking of poor Ellen Nixon. She is so bad, Mrs. James. One of the Watts girls has promised to sit up with her to-night. How can we get her a nurse? She must have one. It's severe bronchitis, she can hardly breathe. She's so bad that I doubt if she will notice her brother's absence, but of course she'll have to be told. Can you send her a message early in the morning to say where he is?"

"Don't you worry, ma'am; we'll do that the first thing."

"Ellen thought her brother had been detained in Penrith, but Watts at the inn told me he had left Penrith at twelve o'clock in the morning, and ought to have been back before he was. He said he was afraid he was having a business collecting his sheep. That was how—when I heard the insistent barking of his dog, that I knew something was wrong."

"I wouldn't talk if I were you," advised Mrs. James, noting the feverish flush coming into Anstice's cheeks. "Just you try and have a wink or two of sleep, afore the Squire coom back."

Anstice subsided. The doctor arrived before her husband. He was a long time with old Nixon. He had broken two ribs and dislocated his left wrist, otherwise he was sound. Then he examined Anstice, and had to put four stitches into her gashed arm.

"It's a nasty cut," he said, "but I'll give the Squire a certificate for bandaging. I'll look up at the Manor to-morrow and see how you are."

He met Justin as he was going out at the gate.

"Take good care of your wife, Squire; she's very weak from loss of blood. Keep her in bed till I see her again. I expect she has taken a chill; she has a temperature. Have you got a closed car?"

"Yes."

"She'll be better off at home, so I suppose she must be moved. Otherwise, she'd be wise to stay where she is. I've told her I'll look in to-morrow."

Justin went in. Anstice struggled to her feet when she saw him.

"I am ready. In my own clothes again! Mrs. James has been wonderful."

But she staggered as she spoke, and Justin put his arm round her, and when they got outside, he lifted her right up in his arms and deposited her in the car, as he might have done a child.

"Well," she murmured, "I never realized you were so strong."

He smiled. Nothing could have been more protective and tender than his care of her during that drive home. They spoke but little. Once Anstice tried to explain her long absence, but he stopped her.

"You can tell me later. I only regret one thing, that you did not tell me at once how hurt your arm was."

"You could have done nothing. Poor old Nixon was the injured one. He had to be carried." Then she leant her head back and closed her eyes.

When they reached home, she went straight to bed, but her husband came to the door of her room the last thing at night.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

She tried to speak lightly.

"A little top-heavy and giddy, but I shall be all right in the morning."

"Brenda had better sleep in your room."

"Oh no, indeed, I do not want her."

He went down the passage and called to Brenda. "Your mistress ought not to be left to-night. She's very feverish. Take your mattress in and sleep on the floor, or there's a couch there—you can sleep on that, if you take your bedding in. Keep up the fire, and give her some milk in the night if she wants anything. That can't hurt her."

Brenda meekly obeyed. When Anstice remonstrated, she said it was the master's orders.

It was a week before Anstice left her bed. She had taken a violent chill, and had a good deal of fever with it. She was also weakened by exposure and by the loss of blood, and when sitting up in a cushioned chair, looked the shadow of her former self.

Justin was extraordinarily concerned about her, and the children were miserable.

"Nothing goes right when Steppie is away from us," said Georgie to her father in a miserable voice. She had been having rather a severe fight with Josie out on the terrace, and her father had come upon the scene and scolded them well.

"Josie tries to boss, and I won't be bossed," said Georgie, gulping down a sob.

"She's been opening the door of the aviary and letting out the birds into the drawing-room, Dad. And we can't find 'Cluckatoo,' the love bird! Steppie made us promise we'd never let the birds out!"

"And you're a tell-tale and I hate you!"

Georgie was aiming a kick at her sister, when her father took hold of her by the shoulder and marched her upstairs to a room at the end of the passage which had always been called by the children the "Bogy Hole." It was small and dark with one tiny window rather high up, and had originally been known as the still room. He pushed her in and locked the door upon her, telling Brenda to leave her there for a good hour. And then he went off to the farm, feeling irritated with every one.

CHAPTER II

THE "BEST OF THE BARGAIN"

IT was snowing heavily, the Fells were covered, the roads were blocked. Outside was a grey cold world. But inside the Manor, the log-fires were blazing and sputtering, the thick curtains were drawn to keep off draughts, and in the drawing-room, Anstice was back in her big chair, and the children clustered around her.

It was her first day downstairs. Only three o'clock, and yet it seemed almost dark. Justin was in his study, checking his estate accounts.

The children were eagerly relating to Anstice all the small details of their lives since she had been upstairs. How Hercules had lain down in the passage outside Anstice's door with his nose against the mat, how Dad had tumbled over him and then sworn and then begged his pardon! How Ruffie's white mouse had run away and then appeared one morning climbing up the ivy on to his window ledge, and scratched at the pane till he was let in! How Mrs. Wykeham had come round to call, and burst into the library whilst lessons were going on, to say that she had heard that "Steppie" had smashed her ribs and been lost all night on the Fells! And lastly, what a lovely holiday they were having, for while the snow was so deep Mrs. Fergusson would not be able to come over to them.

"I'm not so sure of that being a blessing," said Anstice, smiling at them; "if there are no lessons there will be mischief brewing, I am afraid, and mischief means trouble for some one."

"When the snow stops, we mean to make a snowman," said Josie, "and we'll try and make him tall enough to peep into the nursery and say good morning to Ruffie."

Ruffie was on Anstice's lap. He was leaning his golden head against her shoulder with a look of deepest content.

"You hold me like Dad," he said to her once; "I never get pains in my legs with either of you."

Now he looked up at her.

"Now tell us about the rain and the mist on the Fells and how you and Hercules got lost."

The door had opened and Justin came in.

"I thought tea might be ready," he said, coming up and slipping into the other big chair close to the fire. "Don't move, any of you. I heard Ruffie asking about a point that wants to be made clear, so now you are well enough to tell us—how was it that you did not send Hercules home for help sooner? If he had not heard my whistle, he would not have come! He ought to have found his way, surely!"

"Let her make it into a story, Dad."

Ruffie was very gently slipping off Anstice's lap. His mute appeal to his father made Justin hold out his arms, and he was transferred to his father's keeping. Here he nestled into those strong arms, with his bright eyes fixed on Anstice.

"She does tell stories so ripping!"

"I'm afraid there is not much of a story about it, but it was a funny jealousy between the two dogs. I heard Victory howling, and he was standing over his master when I arrived. Hercules went forward sniffing, and Victory flew at him. I managed to calm them; but when I had helped poor old Tommy as much as I could, Victory lay down at his feet and glared at Hercules, and then Hercules lay down at my feet and glared at him! I tried to send Hercules off for help, but he wouldn't leave me. He said to Victory—'Think I'm going to leave my missus in your charge! Never! You're so full of your old master that you'd let anything happen to her! Not if I know it.'"

"And then I tried my hand on Victory. 'Home!' I said. 'Fetch help, good fellow. Go on!' But I knew it was hopeless. He just winked his eye at me, and said: 'Think I'm going to leave my master to your charge, to that great blunderbuss of a dog, who doesn't know one sheep from another! Here I stay, and no one shall move me!' We were a funny quartette, weren't we?"

Ruffie laughed out merrily:

"Go on; make the dogs talk to each other. What happened next?"

"Then we heard Dad's whistle, and Hercules went bounding away, but Victory never stirred. And then we were all found, and the mist got tired of misting, and ran away, and the rain stopped, and then the moon came out and smiled upon us, and we all got back to the farm."

She stopped in her recital, for Brenda appeared to say that the nursery tea was ready. She carried Ruffie off, and the little girls followed, but Justin stayed where he was. He stretched out his long legs before the fire, and leant his head back in the cushioned chair with a short sigh.

"Don't you get very tired of always talking down to children?" he asked.

"Sometimes," said Anstice frankly; "but I have not had many other people to talk to. Mrs. Fergusson is charming, but I can get her but seldom—"

"She's improving those imps of girls: they're not half so wild as they were six months ago."

"They're all right. They want plenty of occupation. I believe they'll grow up into delightful young women."

A little silence fell between them. It was not often that Justin settled down to talk. He seemed to elude his opportunities, and somehow or other Anstice felt tongue-tied. She broke the silence by saying:

"As soon as the snow has cleared, I must get over and see poor Ellen Nixon. She does so love to see anyone."

"She will have to go without seeing you," said Justin a little sharply. "You must not think of wandering over the Fells again by yourself."

"But I have Hercules with me."

"He was not much good the other afternoon. In the summer-time, it is different, but in the winter, the mists descend very rapidly. You must confine your walks nearer home."

"I will choose a fine day."

"You will choose no day with my permission—you must postpone your long walks on the Fells till the spring."

Anstice laughed her low laugh of amusement, her dimples coming into play.

"That is the tone you use towards Josie or Georgie. I am unaccustomed to be given orders."

"If you are a reasonable woman, you will respect my wishes. It is for your own sake, though perhaps you'll credit me with the selfish desire of saving myself from anxiety and a long tramp to bring you back again."

"That is altogether unnecessary."

"It was not unnecessary the other afternoon."

"No," said Anstice gently, "I am very grateful to you for all you did for me. Well, if I must forgo visiting the poor old Nixons all the winter, who is going to do it? The Rector is not strong enough. I am more fit to do it than he."

"I may get over myself from time to time."

Tea appeared at this juncture. Justin roused himself. He waited upon his wife assiduously, insisted upon pouring out the tea himself, as her right arm was still in a sling, and left the subject of the Fells in winter time alone. Anstice, wishing to interest him in other people, began telling him about Louise.

He listened with a semblance of interest, but in reality was rather bored.

When she told him that Louise was now happy working as secretary in the school which Mrs. Fergusson had recommended, he said:

"That's what my girls will be wanting to do, I suppose, later on. This craze for work in towns clears the country of all the young. If it wasn't for the boy, I sometimes think I would sell this place. But he loves it, and he will never be fit for anything but a quiet, retiring life."

"And your girls love it too. Don't take away their home from them, if you can help it. I doubt if they're the kind who will thrive in town. I hope they will marry happily, and, till that event, be useful daughters at home."

"Oh, marriage! That's a farce nowadays."

The bitter sneering tone escaped him; then he pulled himself up, changing the conversation hastily.

"I saw our parson this morning; he called to inquire for you, but you were not out of your room. He was rather in a fuss over the Sunday Services. I told him you would not be able to touch the organ for some considerable time, so he's arranging that the schoolmaster should try his hand at it again."

"It's a torture to hear him," said Anstice with a little sigh. "He was playing when I first came."

"Then why go to church to be inflicted with it? Stay at home as I do."

"Have you never been to church?" Anstice's tone was grave and soft.

"On rare occasions. As a boy of course I did. We had a racy old parson then, who was always fox-hunting, and used to use hunt language in his sermons. Then we had a very different sort of man. I had an earnest fit as a young man. I got it at Oxford, and when I came down for vacation, he and I chummed up, and I was going to do wonders with my life. He inspired me for the time being. He was drowned one summer—was going over the lake on a stormy day to visit some sick parishioner, and the boat capsized, and he got a knock in the head which stunned him. I married not long after that."

"I think Mr. Bolland would inspire you afresh, if you were to hear him," Anstice said quietly. "He has altered my life for me since I came here—has made me see and understand as I have never done before."

Justin looked at her, then shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.

Presently he rose to his feet.

"I must go back to my work," he said. "This snow has a very sleepy effect on me. I feel inclined to laze by a fire and do nothing."

Anstice was left alone. She could not work owing to her hurt arm, so she gave herself up to thought. Her husband loomed large in the vision of her mind.

"How could one woman spoil a man's life?" she pondered. "How could she destroy his faith in God, and trust in his fellow-creatures? How could she develop such concentrated bitterness of soul? And yet with it all, how tenderness and courteousness creeps out! He's a strange mixture. I wonder if I shall ever get to know him?"

The very next morning, Anstice received an urgent invitation from Lady Lucy to come and spend a week or ten days in town with her. She said she was not very well herself, and wanted companionship.

"I know your passion for helping those in need," she wrote; "so I expect you to respond at once to my appeal. Tell Justin that he cannot keep you shut up in that outlandish part of the world all the year round, with no change at all. Now he is at home, he can take charge, and you can have a holiday. Don't dare to refuse my invitation!"

Anstice read this through at breakfast time; then handed it to him.

"You know your aunt and her ways. What am I to say?"

He read it through with a frown upon his brow.

"Do you want to go?" he asked curtly.

Anstice considered.

"I think I should like to do so. I should not stay longer than ten days. You would be here. Brenda can look after the children. The other maids all know their work. I should not be missed."

He said nothing.

Anstice gave a little laugh.

"Don't look so funereal; it is nothing to ask you for. Ten days' complete change—I won't say rest—for I know Cousin Lucy, and I am rather sceptical about her ill-health. She wants some one to racket round with her. You must remember that I have not stirred out of this house since the beginning of last June."

"There is no question of asking me about it. You know you are your own mistress, and if you like to stay away a month, you can do so without any reference to me. As you are rather hors de combat, it will be a good opportunity to go."

"Thank you. Then I will. I will resign my kingdom for the time being."

"I don't know that I shan't run up to town too, at the same time," said Justin suddenly.

Anstice looked at him with twinkling eyes.

"My dear man, that isn't playing the game! You are wanted here in my absence: you know you are! And Bob is not well yet, and there's nobody you can trust to superintend the lads over at the farm. You can go off when I come back."

Justin gazed back at her, and a glimmer of a smile came to his lips.

"I funk being snowed up here alone with these imps of children. I remember them of old."

"But you will not have them riotous now. The snow is disappearing. Mrs. Fergusson wrote to me that she hopes to be here to-morrow. They will be at lessons all the morning, and their little den occupies them, and keeps them well away from your vicinity."

"All right. You had better go. I won't make any promises, one way or the other."

So Anstice made preparations to go. The children were rather dismayed.

"You're sure you're not going to run away from us, and leave us altogether?"

Josie asked this question at the luncheon table.

"She dare not do that," said Justin.

"Why? When she gets away, she can do what she likes."

"She's made me a promise. Promises must be kept."

Anstice nodded brightly at Josie.

"Yes, I mean to come back," she said; "I told you long ago, didn't I, that nothing would drive me away."

"We don't want to drive you away, now," said Georgie; "it's much nicer when you're here. It was horrid when you were up in your bedroom."

"Thank you, Georgie."

Before she went, Anstice had a long and confidential talk with Josie.

"I'm going to make you responsible for good behaviour," she said; "but I don't want you to boss Georgie too much. Coax her; don't scold her when she wants to do anything she ought not. I want you to act as the eldest daughter of the house should. You must come down to the dining-room for breakfast whilst I am away, and pour out your father's coffee, and sit at one end of the table. Look after him, and do little things for him."

Josie giggled, but she adopted an important air.

"Oh, I'll look after things," she said airily.

Anstice gave her one or two special small duties to do in her absence, such as feeding the birds in the aviary and watering the plants, and arranging flowers for the dining-room table.

She had a good many last words to say. To Mrs. Parkin, to Brenda, to Georgie and Ruffie.

The evening before she went away, Ruffie was sitting on his father's knee in the smoking-room. She went in to tell him it was bedtime.

"Come here, Steppie," Ruffie said; "Dad is going to teach me chess. I'll be able to play when you come back."

"That will be splendid. I haven't played chess for many years, but I remember I used to be fond of it."

Ruffie held out his hand to her, and she went down on her knees at his side.

"What is it, darling?" she asked.

He had one small arm tightly round his father's neck; with an impish look in his eyes, he suddenly shot out his other arm and encircled her neck with it. Then with a swift jerk, he brought their heads close together.

"Now kiss each other," he said with his mischievous chuckle. "Why don't grown-up people kiss each other? You must. I shan't let you go till you've done it."

Justin promptly took advantage of the occasion. But Anstice, with burning cheeks, broke away from Ruffie's clutch.

The child sank back, and leaning his head on his father's shoulder said:

"Rather as'hausting that was! When I bring Josie's and Georgie's heads together, I give them a crack!"

"You're a veritable Puck," said his father, laughing.

And Anstice joined in the laugh, she could not help it.

She departed the next morning; and Justin insisted upon accompanying her in the car to Penrith Station. He got her papers, wrapped a travelling rug round her knees in a first-class compartment, and stood leaning his elbow on the window as if he were loath to let her go.

"We shall miss you," he said gravely. "You have a way with you that makes for every one's comfort. You can tell my aunt that we're very good friends, eh?"

"Yes, I think we are," said Anstice, with one of her frank sweet glances; "and if anything goes wrong, and you want me back, wire to me."

He got into the carriage for a moment before the guard came along to shut the door. And, taking both her hands in his, he bent and gave her a kiss.

"Some time I shall claim the same from you," he said; "we must show Ruffie that grown-up people do kiss sometimes."

"Dear little Ruffie," said Anstice tenderly, steering away from the topic of herself, "don't spoil him, Justin. Now, just a last word! Will you, for the sake of your little girls, go to church with them next Sunday morning? They will play truant, if you don't, and I want them to attend church regularly, to get into the habit of it whilst they are young."

"I'll see."

"I hope you will. Good-bye."

The train was off, and Justin strode away, got into the car and as he drove home was conscious of a strangely desolate feeling. Was it possible, he asked himself angrily, that this woman, whom he had only married for the good of his children and household, was stealing her way into his heart? He could honestly assure himself that he had given her no encouragement, but neither had she put forth any effort to attract him. She was always her happy natural self, and seemed as happy—perhaps happier—without him as with him.

"I've got the best of our bargain," he muttered to himself. "And I believe I have found a woman who is truly sincere."

CHAPTER III

AWAY FROM HOME

ANSTICE found her cousin, as she expected, much in her usual health. She had had a bad cold, but was getting over it, and had come up to London for the purpose of shopping combined with amusement. Anstice was taken everywhere; she found opportunity of seeing her cousins in town, who had been much astonished by the secrecy and suddenness of her marriage, and very much hurt that they had not been asked to it. She shopped a little for herself, and a great deal for Lady Lucy, and it was not till a week had passed that she got any time for a quiet talk with her old cousin.

Then one wet afternoon they sat over a blazing fire together in Lady Lucy's comfortable Early Victorian drawing-room.

"I am afraid," Lady Lucy began, "that you have been having a lonely time of it shut away with those naughty children all the lovely summer months, but now in the winter it must be worse. I do not like the country in winter. I always leave Norfolk, as you know, every October, and don't go back to it till May or June. Of course now Justin is home, it will be better. My dear, you and he must entertain a little. Have you not done so? He has some rough shooting and there's good hunting, and you could have quite a nice little house-party."

"I don't think he cares for society any more than I do."

"You are greatly mistaken. Justin has a good many friends, especially men friends, and now he is married, they will expect to be offered hospitality."

"I don't know him," admitted Anstice. Then she added impulsively: "I wish you would tell me a little more about him. We are almost strangers, remember! He has only been home for a few weeks, and we each live our own lives independently of each other."

"But that will not last. It must not, my dear."

Anstice smiled, but there was a wistful look in her blue eyes.

"There is a very hard and bitter strain in him, Cousin Lucy, which cannot be touched or broken. I feel every now and then, as if I am up against a stone wall. I agree with you that he has a heart, and has nice feelings, but they are encrusted over with this bitterness."

"He is North-country. You must remember that. They're hard and dour, something like their Scotch neighbours, very slow at showing affection or liking, but staunch and true and deep when they once let themselves go. And when they meet with disillusion or injury, unforgiving and unforgetting. That is the character of the Fell people. His father—my husband's brother—was a North-country man to the core; he was a hard, stern father, with little show of affection, and yet he idolized his son. Justin fell head over ears in love with a pretty, heartless minx, and disillusionment after marriage was his portion. He always had high ideals of womanhood and of marriage. His wife smashed these ideals to bits, and he has not yet recovered from his crash."

"Tell me more about him," said Anstice as she came to a pause.

"He has had a lonely life. Since he quarrelled with his only sister, he has had no woman to give him any help or sympathy."

"His sister? You don't mean to say he had a sister living? This is the first word I have heard of it."

"I wonder you have not come across her. Mrs. Wykeham knows her. She lives up there not so very far away. In the neighbourhood of Windermere. It's another instance of the North-country pride and rankling resentment. She was mistress of the Manor till he married. Brother and sister lived together, and she stupidly tried to stay on after the wife came. You can imagine the result. And before long, she was so rude and insulting to the bride that Justin literally turned her out of the house. She has never spoken to him since. I believe in justice. I must say that he has tried to make it up, but she is adamant. I fancy the bride was more to blame than Justin thought at the time. These family quarrels are very sad. It all accounts for the bitterness you complain of in Justin."

"I don't believe the children know that they have an aunt," said Anstice slowly. "This is all astonishing news to me."

"I rather think they have heard her name, but imagine she is dead. Of course their father would never mention her to them."

"No, I suppose not. It seems dreadful to me. I almost wish you had not told me."

"You are bound to know sooner or later. You might even come across her at some friend's house. I am not a Holme, I am glad to say. I can't understand bearing anyone a lifelong grudge. I only saw her once, a very handsome woman, pride and power in every line of her face."

"I have seen a portrait of her with him as a little girl. I always thought she must have died in infancy."

"Well, that's that, and now to talk of yourselves. You must soften him, Anstice, win him! He must be made of stone to withstand you!"

"We are very good friends," said Anstice with dignity; "he told me I could tell you that. I want nothing more at present. And when the weather gets warmer and finer, he will be off again yachting."

"I wish his yacht was at the bottom of the ocean," said Lady Lucy with warmth, "and I hope your absence now will make him see what a treasure he is despising."

"I am sure he does not despise me," said Anstice, laughing, and then she switched the conversation off to other topics.

But she thought a great deal of Justin, now that she was away from him, and wondered if she would ever be able to make him a really happy man.

One day she asked if she might have Louise over from Hampstead to tea. Lady Lucy suggested Sunday afternoon.

"I have nobody coming and you can have your protégée to yourself. I am old enough now to like to retire to my room, and have a thorough good sleep between lunch and tea."

So Louise came over. She was bright and animated, and overjoyed to see Anstice again.

"I never can thank you enough for getting me out of that hole. I think I should have gone melancholy mad had I stayed there much longer."

"I thought you might have come back to your uncle at Christmas time," said Anstice; "did you get holidays?"

"Oh yes, but winter in the Fells—at Ramdale! It is so awful! I went down to Bournemouth with my friend and thoroughly enjoyed it. How is my uncle? Do you know?"

"I wondered if you ever thought about him," said Anstice. "He is one of the pleasant surprises in the Fells. An unselfish old man who gives up his young niece for her good, and exchanges her bright society for a sad, weary, elderly person not his equal in birth, and therefore hardly a companion for him."

"I was never bright," said Louise with a shamed face; "I grumbled and glowered all the time. But I will go back at Easter, and in the summer, if he will have me; and I will try to be nice to him. Then I shall see you again, I hope."

She chatted on then about her work, and Anstice listened and sympathized. Lady Lucy appeared for tea, and then Anstice carried off Louise to evening church, to hear a noted preacher near there.

She had rather a nice little talk with her on the way home; Louise told her that she went to a very nice church at Hampstead.

"The Vicar there really makes me think, as you say your parson at Butterdale does you. I have never forgotten what you said to me and the verse you quoted, about not knowing Christ though He had been with us all our lives. And the principal of the school, Miss Jarrett, is what would be called a real earnest Christian, so you see I am being pulled towards heaven in several different ways."

Anstice talked to her in her happy natural way, and felt really thankful to find her not swallowed up in her work, or in the amusement of town life, to the exclusion of better things.

When the ten days were over, Anstice received a letter from Justin.

"MY DEAR ANSTICE,—

"Let us know if you arrive by the five o'clock train or the later one, and the day you come. We are all well. The small people are very fairly good—Josie had a lapse yesterday, but I must not tell tales. You will be glad to hear that we spent our Sunday in the orthodox fashion. Three of us went to church in the morning. In the afternoon, Ruffie took command, and ordered me in your chair with the Sunday Book. I was not to read it, but to tell the story as it came. I was a hopeless failure, so after struggling through a chapter of Christian's misadventures, I shut it up and told them some of my own adventures in the South Seas. I had so much domesticity on Sunday, that on Monday, I took my mare out in the morning and never came home till dusk.

"Hunting is beginning, for the frost has gone, and I shall go out to-morrow. Old Tommy Nixon is making good, he will soon be on his feet again, and Ellen is sitting up and thanking her God for leaving her on the earth a little longer. I was over there yesterday. Now, is there anything else you want to know? Don't you let my aunt make you discontented with the Fells. They suit you down to the ground. You might bring the youngsters a table game from Gamages. Isn't there parlour croquet or some such game, which requires hands and no feet? I don't want anything in which the boy cannot join. He has now sent down the enclosed for your perusal. I am sure it will interest you more than this, so no more.

"Yours,
"JUSTIN."

This was Ruffie's letter:

"MY DEAR STEPPIE,—

"Come back this week. You have gone for two long, and Dad goes out and forgets us at six, so we pray you come the very day the posman givs you this letter. Josie is a beest so is Georgie, they would not dare be onceevil if I had legs to katsh them. I made them look under my chare for the new kiten wich never went ther, and then I priked ther legs with my sharpest pensil wich serve them wright, and this is telling tales wich is not a gentilman's duty, but we have all been wicket and loanley till you come back. I draw your face all over my new book, but I can not remember your exack smile. I want it badly, and I luv you next to Dad who does not tell stories like you, and the ake in my head is becorse you are not here.

"Your loving,
"RUFFIE."

Anstice replied to both these by return of post.

"DEAR JUSTIN,—

"I have been having a hectic time, but will keep my promise and return on the tenth day, which will be next Tuesday. Cousin Lucy is well, and we have long talks now just as we are thinking of going to bed, which is a fashion with most women, I believe.

"I shall turn my face homewards with gladness. I have always known that I own a country soul, a soul that would soon get parched and wearied in the bustle and crush of London life. And sometimes now with the distant sound of traffic—for I'm thankful we're in a quiet square—I shut my eyes for a moment and see purple Fells against a lemon sky, and that delicious stretch of calm, cool water below them. So you see, I shall return with no laggard steps—I hope to arrive by that five o'clock train—and am bringing parcels of joy for the chicks. I am so thankful you have been over to the old Nixons. I hope you told them that, directly the weather improves, I shall be coming to see them. You will be interested to hear that I ran across Colonel Malcolm Dermot the other day, and I lunched with him and his wife at Claridges'. Now I must close—au revoir.

"Yours,
"ANSTICE."

"MY LITTLE DARLING,—

"What a long letter, and how tired the poor fingers must have been with holding the pen, and what a business it must have been to think of the spelling, and choose the right words, and guide the tiresome pen to put them down in proper order and without any blots!

"I'm coming back, Ruffie, as fast as the train will take me, on Tuesday next, and I hope to arrive before bedtime. I will try to have my 'exack' smile to greet you. I am sorry there have been ructions of sorts between you young people, and that you have been both wicked and lonely, but I'll tell you a secret! I have felt lonely here, without any little head leaning against my shoulder, and eager voices shouting in my ear, 'Tell us more.' And as for wickedness, our hearts are much alike, and I'm afraid I know what it is to be wicked sometimes! We must all pray hard, and fight hard, mustn't we? How sorry I am that the little head still aches. But you have Dad with you; ask him to stroke the pain away as I try to do.

"And now good-bye, my sweet. And give Josie and Georgie my love. I shall soon be with my dear little people again.

"Your loving,
"STEPPIE."

When Tuesday came, Anstice said good-bye to her old cousin with a light heart. Lady Lucy was not satisfied with her short visit.

"It is no time at all. Justin ought to be made to feel your absence. I hope he has been thoroughly miserable without you, but I'm afraid you left him too comfortable for that."

Anstice could not help laughing.

"Justin and I are very happy together," she said.

"I will write and tell you if he has missed me much, but I expect he has been too busy to give me a thought."

As she journeyed up North, her thoughts naturally went back to her marriage day, and to the mingled feelings of doubt and dread with which she travelled then to an unknown country and an unknown life. How different was it now! She was assured a loving welcome from the children who had tried to drive her from them; and as to her husband, she had an instinctive conviction that he was no longer indifferent to her. Whether he merely liked her because of the comfort and ease which she had brought to his home and because of her easy companionship and friendliness, remained to be seen.

When she arrived at Penrith, Justin was on the platform; he led her out to a beautiful car.

"I've just bought it," he said. "It only arrived from London yesterday. It was one I had seen with a view to purchase before I went abroad. You'll be able to use it when I am away."

"And when may that be?" Anstice asked lightly.

And he responded as lightly:

"When the fit takes me."

"All the small fry wanted to come and meet you," he went on; "but I refused to bring them. They're too much about one in the house. I like to be free of them when I can."

"Your house would be very dull without the children," said Anstice, a sparkle in her eyes.

"To you; I think I could dispense with them—perhaps not the boy."

"How is he?"

"Fairly well. His spirit never flags."

Then, as he neared the house, he put his hand on Anstice's shoulder.

"We're glad to have you back," he said. "I suppose I need hardly tell you this."

"Oh, I like to hear it," said Anstice with her soft laugh. "It's a nice welcome."

She got a very warm one from the two little girls, who dashed out on to the terrace as the car drove up.

Ruffie was in his wheeled chair by the hall fire, for it was a cold, windy evening. His tiny arms were flung round her neck.

"Have mercy, sweetest, you're throttling me," she cried, but quick tears had sprung to her eyes as she returned his eager kisses. It was nice to be loved like this, she thought.

Brenda came forward smiling to take her wraps, but Josie insisted upon accompanying her to her room, and when she got there, shut her door in Brenda's face.

"I want to speak to Steppie. You'll have to wait."

"What is it, darling?" asked Anstice, sitting down by her bedroom fire and putting her arm round the child as she drew her near to her.

Josie clasped her hands nervously.

"Has Dad told you? It was Georgie's fault. I was late one morning. I went to the aviary and was teaching Damon to say 'good morning,' and then when I went into the dining-room, there was that sneak of a Georgie sitting in my place and pouring out Dad's coffee! I told her to get out, and Dad said, 'Oh, let her stay, you were late.' So then I knocked her off her chair. I was furious, and she hit her head against the leg of the table and it bled, and Dad was furious then, and he said he would have his breakfast alone in the future and have neither of us. I told him I hated him, and so I did. But we made it up the next day, only for punishment I've never had breakfast with him again. Don't you think he's a very hard kind of father? You wouldn't have punished me like that. I was only wicked for a minute or two. I felt I would like to have kicked Georgie, but we were all right the next day, only the punishment went on for days. That isn't fair."

"Josie dear, whatever your father does is right. You don't remember that men don't like children fussing round them at breakfast time. And when you fight with Georgie, and nearly kill her—for a blow like that might have killed her—I think the punishment must be hard enough and long enough to make you remember it for the rest of your life. I am sorry for you, and sorry for Georgie, and still more sorry for your father. I hoped he would have found his eldest daughter a success whilst I was away."

Josie gulped down a sob.

"Now you'll be against me!"

"Never, never!" said Anstice, kissing her warmly. "I love you for telling me about it yourself, instead of letting me hear it from someone else. You will be more gentle and self-controlled next time anything annoys you, I am sure. We'll put it from us and forget all about it. Now, after I've had a cup of tea we'll open some parcels. That will be fun, won't it?"

Tea was in the hall, an innovation that Justin had started since Anstice had been away.

"We always used to have it here in my parents' time," he said, "and I like it. You haven't to get into different togs and drawing-room shoes."

"I think it's a very good idea," said Anstice.

The children had had their tea, but were allowed to undo the presents which Anstice had brought them from town. A beautiful paint-box for Ruffie, a set of Dickens' books for Georgie, and a Japanese papier-mâché writing-case fitted up with stationery for Josie. Their father's present was a set of parlour croquet. These gave universal delight, and it was the greatest difficulty to get them to bed at their proper time.

Later that evening, Anstice and Justin sat over the drawing-room fire chatting together.

"I think we must have the Dermots here," said Justin. "Now you have got a good staff of servants, we might entertain."

"I am quite willing, but at this time of year there are not many people in the neighbourhood. The Wykehams are abroad."

"I'm not very keen on the locals. I know some men in town I would like to ask for the shooting, and if you have any friends of your own, we might have them. Not over a dozen—in all. I hate a crowd."

So it was settled that they should have a small house-party. Anstice asked two of her young cousins from town. The Dermots; a Colonel Armour; a Mr. Carstairs, a barrister; a naval captain, by name John Hawk; two yachting friends, Tom Brett and Frank Agnew, with their wives—these made thirteen guests in the house. In addition, they asked Colonel and Mrs. McInnes, with their two daughters, and the Vicar, and a niece who was staying with him, for the first dinner-party.

"We have two men more than women," said Anstice, "but that can't be helped. I don't think we had better try more than twenty."

She was very busy arranging for her guests, as soon as the invitations had been sent out and accepted.

Justin left everything to her. He was hunting now two days a week, and was out a good deal when it was fine—Anstice found the car most useful to take her to Penrith, for necessary shopping. The little girls sometimes accompanied her. They were much excited at the idea of some guests arriving and the empty bedrooms being used.

"We've never had visitors here before, never!" said Josie. "What will they do? Will they dance?"

"They'll be out shooting and hunting most of the time," said Anstice. "They will amuse each other, I hope; and if not, I will see what I can do."

"You can always tell stories," said Josie.

Anstice laughed. If she had any qualms about her power as a hostess, she kept them to herself. And Justin was pleasantly conscious that she would not only be a capable and gracious hostess, but a most fascinating one.

CHAPTER IV

NEIGHBOURS

THE house-party was in full swing. The weather was propitious, and the shooting satisfactory.

Anstice's young cousins, Julia and Mabel Barrett, were very useful to her in many ways. They were as ready to arrange flowers, and make themselves pleasant to the elder folk, as they were to enjoy themselves with the young ones. Anstice had ventured in view of a house-party to add an experienced butler to her household, and he proved a great success, for he seemed ready to turn his hand to anything.

The dinner-party went off without a hitch. In the drawing-room afterwards, Mrs. Dermot said to Anstice: "Malcolm told me so much about your perfections that I came here determined to dislike you thoroughly. I wonder why I can't do it? I think it is because you have the perfect trait of a good hostess; you make every one feel that you really like them. Now, we have nothing in common. I only came here out of curiosity, to see you. Malcolm hinted that there was some mystery in your quiet and secretive marriage. I love the town and hate the country. You do the reverse, and yet as you talk to me, I say to myself, 'She's actually taken a liking to me!' I know you haven't, but the impression remains."

"But, my dear Mrs. Dermot, I do like you," said Anstice, laughing; "your frankness is so refreshing. I love anyone who lets me know a few of their thoughts."

"I wish you would let me know a few of yours."

"At present, then, I'm nervously anxious that our house-party shall be a success. I'm wondering if the young ones will get bored here in the evenings with no dancing. We have no ballroom, and Justin hates gramophones. And I am not up in all the jazz music of the day. Without music of some sort, there can be no dancing. What do you advise? There's the billiard-room for them to go to."

"It strikes me that the youth of to-day needs no amusing; what they want to do, that they do, without any reference to their host or hostess. I am thankful I have no children."

Anstice found that Mrs. Dermot was right; the young people got into the billiard-room together, and were perfectly happy there having a rag, and making a great deal of noise.

Colonel McInnes's daughters were the most lively ones of the party. They were most disgusted when their parents insisted upon departing at half-past ten.

One of them appealed to Anstice.

"Aren't we old-fashioned fogies, going off like this? Father never imagines that we would prefer to be left behind, and come home in the small hours of the morning!"

"You must come by yourselves one day," said Anstice, laughing, "then you can order your car at any hour you like."

"I hope you'll ask us again. Lottie and I have always liked you. We've stood up for you when the gossips said something was wrong between Mr. Holme and yourself. But you're all right, aren't you?"

"Indeed we are," was Anstice's smiling response.

She had had several of these little stings already. And Justin overheard one speech.

It was from Mrs. Frank Agnew. She was the least pleasant of the house-party, a pretty little woman who attracted the men by a certain charm of manner.

"Dear Justin!" she had said to Anstice soon after the gentlemen had joined them in the drawing-room; "my husband and he have yachted so much together. And when he got very sick of his house in these wilds, he would come and stay with us at South Sea. I have received many confidences from him. For several years I have been urging him to marry, but he wouldn't hear of it. When we heard he had really done it at last, and that his bride was no one whom we knew, I was frankly devoured with curiosity. But it was rough lines on you for him to yacht away from you a day or two after your wedding. My husband met him at Gib on the way out, and Justin told him that he was no longer a bachelor. Did you know his ways when you married him? You should have bargained for a honeymoon at least. His yacht will be a powerful rival to his wife. We always said it would. You will have to put your foot down and refuse to be left behind next time. But perhaps you are a bad sailor? I can hardly believe that Justin is a married man again. He really seemed to be a confirmed woman-hater!"

"But there is always an exception to every rule."

It was Justin who spoke, and he laid his hand on his wife's shoulder caressingly as he did so.

Anstice looked at him with her happy smile.

It was Mrs. Agnew who looked a little discomfited.

"Listeners never hear any good of themselves," she said. "I did not notice you were so close to us, or I should have moderated my voice. Still, I have said nothing that is not true. You did run away from your wife directly you married."

"I will not contradict you," said Justin with a sarcastic little bow; "no doubt all the circumstances under which I did it are known to you, so nothing more need be said. Anstice, I think the Rector wants to say good night to you."

Anstice moved away. For the next few days she was much engrossed with her party, but she did not neglect the children, and though their hour after tea with her had to be given up for the time, she never missed visiting them at bedtime. Colonel Dermot inveigled her out for one or two walks with him, and Justin would look at him with an amused look in his eyes, when he began to sound his wife's praises.

"You don't appreciate her, she's one in a thousand."

"I am not a jealous husband," said Justin. "I feel flattered that you should admire her so. It shows my good taste."

They were alone together over the smoking-room fire. The Colonel looked at his friend in silence for a moment.

"No, you are not jealous, you are too cold-blooded, old chap. Jealousy follows love."

"I don't know about that," said Justin. "My wife inspires me with such confidence that I know nothing on earth would make her act in any way to warrant jealousy on my part."

"You are right there."

Colonel Dermot spoke heartily, but conscience gave him a prick or two. He had desperately tried to come to closer quarters than Anstice would permit. He knew that as her husband's friend and Ruffie's godfather, she welcomed and liked him, nothing more. She had shown him unmistakably that she wanted no sympathy for herself and no admiration. She was content with ordinary friendship.

When the house-party broke up, Anstice felt as if a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She was standing on the terrace waving farewell to the last of her guests when Justin joined her.

"Well," he said, "it's over. I really think we can congratulate ourselves upon having got through it remarkably well. I'm thankful to be quiet again for a bit."

"So am I—devoutly thankful," said Anstice with warmth.

"I don't think I could thrive amongst numbers, and yet Mrs. Dermot told me that it is desolation when she is not in a crowd. What a comfort we are not all made alike!"

Life slipped back again to its normal routine.

Then one evening after dinner Anstice said to her husband:

"Do you know some Miss Maybricks by name?"

He smiled.

"Of course I know them both. As young girls they were great favourites, handsome and go-ahead. They were my seniors as far as age goes, and when I was in my teens, I used to adore the younger—Carrie."

"Mr. Bolland has been talking about them. He wants me to go and see one of them. How can I do it? She has not called upon me."

"She doubtless does not know of your existence. Harscale Hall is in the wilds, right amongst the Fells, about twelve miles from us. Why does he want you to know her?"

"He was telling me such a sad story about them. The younger had the property left her by her father's will. She was his favourite, and the elder was furious that she should be turned out of her home, and be treated so by her father. She set up house for herself about five miles away, five miles nearer us she is, for she is in Mr. Bolland's parish."

"She would be. She took an old farm-house and glorified it, making it into a very comfortable home for herself. They've never spoken to each other or met, I believe, since their father died. A case of North-country pride and resentment."

"What terrible people North-country people can be!" said Anstice with feeling. "Mr. Bolland told me that the younger, for want of something better to do in that lonely place, took to betting on horses. For some years she was in money difficulties, and then got into moneylenders' hands, and mortgaged her property heavily. Now the mortgagee is foreclosing, and she will have to turn out. She's in very bad health, and is in great distress, especially as she finds that the elder sister is the mortgagee, and will give her no mercy. She is literally going to turn her out as she was turned out years ago. Isn't it sad? And they're sisters!"

"How has Harriet got the money to buy in the property?" said Justin musingly. "I remember she came in for her mother's money, but it wasn't a fortune."

"Mr. Bolland says that she has been screwing and saving for years to do it. He wants me to go and see Miss Carrie, but how can I force my way in? And he thinks that if I get to know them I may make peace between them, but how can I? He expects impossibilities from me. He went to see the elder one, Miss Harriet, for she is really his parishioner, but he says she is like adamant as far as her sister is concerned."

"I don't see that you need trouble about them," Justin said; "quarrels like that can't be mended."

"Oh, but it's dreadfully sad, and it brings such hardness and bitterness into lives which might be happy and serene in their old age."

"If people can't live at peace, let them part," said Justin sternly; "because you've lived together as children is no reason for continuing to do so when your tempers are contrary and your hearts bitter."

As he spoke, the quarrel between himself and his sister flashed into Anstice's mind.

She looked at him inquiringly, and then impulse prompted her to say:

"Is that a bit of experience?"

"It is," he said shortly.

For a moment there was silence between them, then he looked at her searchingly.

"Your face tells tales," he said; "you've heard from my Aunt Lucy about our family row, I suppose?"

"Yes, I am afraid I did. Oh, Justin, you are not going to continue the ill-feeling between you and your sister all your life?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Another case of these terrible North-country people, eh? I was willing to be friends with her long ago, but, it is useless. If you can patch up the Miss Maybricks' quarrel, you may be able to patch up ours. But you'll be a very clever woman to do either. Now what do you want to do? I wouldn't mind calling on Miss Carrie with you if you like. We could take over the car to-morrow. But if she's ill, she'll hardly be likely to see visitors."

"Mr. Bolland says it is rheumatism, but he says she does see people. For it was an old friend who went to see her who told Mr. Bolland about her. It's very good of you. I think I should like to see her."

So the next day Justin had out the car. He had engaged a chauffeur on a month's trial, so did not drive himself.

It was a lovely day, and as they wound about the Fells, going up through a pass into a still wilder and more desolate country beyond, Anstice turned to her husband:

"Do you think that this wild, bold scenery hardens people's hearts instead of softening? I imagine we are susceptible to our atmosphere."

He laughed.

"Have you found yourself hardening since you have been amongst the Fells?"

"Ah, but we have the lake. I always think water softens scenery, and then look at our woods and pastureland. Here is nothing but crag upon crag. Lofty, steep, rocky heights with scanty grass. I think of the Brontës and their writings, especially Emily's. Powerful, but not pleasant. That is like the landscape about us, isn't it?"

"I did not think you were so fanciful. The last time I saw Miss Carrie was at a garden-party at the Duke of N—'s place. She was in radiant spirits, and very pleased with herself and her world. Here we are."

They had come to a little hamlet at the foot of a great mountain, then turned in at some big gates in a high wall, and for two miles drove through an avenue of beeches which still held some of their brown leaves as if defying winter to strip them bare. Then they stopped before a big square stone house. The grounds were untidy and neglected. When they got to the front door, it was opened by an untidy old woman, who looked like a caretaker.

"Is Miss Maybrick in?" she repeated after them dully. "Well, she is, and she isn't. I reckon she's not in to strangers."

"Take her my card," said Justin promptly; "and tell her I have brought my wife to see her. We will wait in the hall."

It was a bare, desolate-looking house. The stone flooring had threadbare rugs upon it. The oak tables and chairs were thick with dust. The old woman went upstairs, and after some considerable time returned saying that Miss Maybrick would see them.

Anstice tried not to see the dust and decay on all sides of them as they went upstairs and along a corridor to a sitting-room at the extreme end.

When the door opened, they found a blazing fire to greet them. The room originally had been handsomely furnished. Thick purple velvet curtains hung from the windows, but they had a film of dust over them, as had also the old Persian carpet underfoot.

Sitting in a chair by the fire was Miss Carrie Maybrick. She was not a very old lady, and had a mass of untidy copper-coloured hair which was coiled round on the top of her head. She had handsome rings on her fingers and a necklace of emeralds round her neck. She was dressed in a shabby brown velvet gown, and had bedroom slippers on. A novel was in her hand, which she put down as she turned to greet them. The room was most untidy. Cardboard boxes, books and papers, string, tins of biscuits, were strewn about, some on the floor, some piled on chairs or couches. There were handsome pictures on the walls, and old china; but it was neither a pretty room nor a comfortable one. A small brown Pomeranian was in a basket by her feet, and yapped persistently at the intruders, until he was well slapped by his mistress.

Miss Maybrick seemed genuinely pleased to see Justin.

"Can't get up, my feet are swollen with rheumatic gout! Why, you old sinner, you've never given me a call for a good fifteen years or so! And just as good-looking as ever! I thought your wife was dead: is this another?"

She turned to Anstice.

"I'm a dreadfully blunt creature, forgive me, but I feel sometimes as if my wits are deserting me in this out-of-the-way place."

"We have only been married six months," said Justin. "I was a widower for eight years. Why haven't we come across each other all these years?"

"Why? Because you won't take the trouble to come twelve miles to see an old pal. You're never at home. I hear you live on a yacht. Have you got tired of the sea? And are you settling down now that you have such a charming wife?"

"I won't make any promises," said Justin lightly. "Are you living in this great house all alone?"

She shook her head.

"Ah, I shall soon be turned out like a beggar in the street. Haven't you heard? Hatty has got hold of it in her sly way, and is foreclosing the mortgage. I suppose you haven't a few odd thousands you could lend me? No? It's driving me mad. I lie awake at night and plan and plan. My luck has deserted me. If I put on any horse now, I'm sure to lose. I've got rid of all the silver to Lambert in town. I could bear leaving the old place if anyone but Hatty was going to be the owner. Can't think how she has squeezed together so much money. Isn't she a heartless wretch to be turning her only sister out into the world, perhaps to die in the union! I'm penniless, my lawyer tells me. The small farms I have sold to pay my way have dropped into Hatty's hands."

"You should patch it up with her, and both live here together," said Justin.

"I'm willing, but she's the aggrieved party. Says I drove her out once, and now it is my turn!"

Miss Maybrick produced a rather dirty handkerchief and wiped her eyes, but she did not give way to tears.

"I wish I could give you some tea, but I have none myself till supper-time. I can't keep maids in this desolate house. I've only got one old woman and her nephew attending upon me. It isn't worth while to worry over an establishment if I'm to be turned out of it. Now I've made my moan. Tell me the news of the neighbourhood."

Justin chatted away very pleasantly to her. Anstice for the most part was a listener, but when they were taking their leave of her, Miss Maybrick begged Anstice to come and see her again.

"If you have a car, twelve miles is nothing, and you could take me out for a turn. I have no conveyance of any kind, and shall soon be a bedridden cripple. I'm sure you and I would get on together. I love your dimples, and your smile. Will you come?"

"Indeed I will," Anstice promised her.

"I feel," she said to her husband as they were driving home together, "as if it is to be my mission to drag people out of their loneliness in these Fells. I've had a try with a young life, and now this is an old life. What a wonderful thing the love of home and possessions is to some people! Miss Maybrick would be so much more comfortable in a small modern house amongst neighbours. But she clings to that gloomy old house as if it were a veritable paradise."

"Houses and estates are generally sources of family feuds," said Justin.

"Nothing," said Anstice firmly, "is more distressing than quarrels amongst brothers and sisters."

Justin said nothing, and for the time Anstice dropped the subject.

CHAPTER V

FIRESIDE TALKS

IT was not long before Anstice visited Miss Maybrick again, and before she came away, she had been entreated to go to the elder sister and pave the way for a reconciliation between them. At the same time Anstice felt that there was no love in Carrie's heart for her sister, no sorrow for her share of wrong in the past, it was only in hopes of being allowed to stay on in her old home that made her wish for peace.

Justin went up for a few days to town, and Anstice took that opportunity for seeing the elder sister. She was struck, as she entered Borrows Holt, as the farm was called, at the great contrast between the two houses. Here was prosperity and comfort facing you whichever way you looked. Well-kept barns and storehouses, beautiful pastureland, a very pretty garden surrounding the house, and, inside, charmingly furnished rooms.

Miss Harriet Maybrick was the elder of the two sisters, but she did not look it. She was a tall, graceful woman, and except for very fierce dark eyes and bushy eyebrows, and a certain hard compression of her lips, would have been a very handsome woman.

It was an awkward moment when Anstice introduced herself.

"You used to know my husband, and I have been seeing something of your sister at Harscale Hall. It is she who has implored me to come and see you. I hope you will not think me impertinent for doing so."

"I am very pleased to meet Justin Holme's wife," said Miss Maybrick graciously. "I ought, I know, to have called upon you, but I am a busy woman, and gave up society a long while ago. I have been farming my own land. I have heard about you from Mrs. Wykeham. She comes over to see me sometimes."

Her pleasantness made it difficult for Anstice to proceed. They talked about farming and about the lake and Fells, and she asked after Justin's children.

"Mrs. Wykeham has told me that they were running wild. I expect that you have had trouble with them."

"Wonderfully little," said Anstice. "They were mismanaged, and were allowed to get the upper hand of their governesses. I am very fond of them and they know it, but I never mean to spoil them."

Then she suddenly took the plunge.

"Miss Maybrick, at the risk of being thought officious, I come to plead your sister's cause. Have you seen her lately? She is ill and feeble, and very, very miserable. She wants the past forgiven and forgotten. Can you in any way meet her?"

Miss Maybrick's lips were compressed, and her eyes like steel as she replied:

"My sister has run through her fortune and has only herself to thank for the present trouble. She never ceased working on my father's feelings till she got him to make his will in her favour. She boasted of this to me. When she had driven me out of my home, she neglected the property, and let it all tumble into decay and ruin. She became a gambler, and gambled away all that she possessed. For years I have worked and saved and denied myself, so that I should be able to buy back my old home. And now when I have done it, when she knows she can afford to live there no longer, she works upon the pity of strangers and sends them round to me to intercede on her behalf. What does she expect, I should like to know? We are told that, as we sow, so shall we reap. Her harvest has come."

"Yes," said Anstice sadly; "I know that all you say is true, she has been her own worst enemy. It is right and fair that you should take possession of your old home now. But is it necessary to turn her out? Could you not let her have a couple of rooms in one wing?"

A short, bitter laugh escaped Miss Maybrick's lips.

"Did she apportion any rooms for my use after our father's death? He was hardly cold in his grave before she strode into my room and told me that there could be no two mistresses of Harscale Hall. I was out of the house with all my belongings within a fortnight."

"But you had money. She has none. For the sake of your name, and your own high principles of honour and pride, you cannot turn her out of her home as a beggar."

"I think this conversation is waste of time. I never change my mind. If the King himself on his bended knees came and pleaded for her, my answer would be the same. She has made her own bed, let her lie in it."

Anstice rose. It had been a visit made much against her will and liking. And yet, as she shook hands with Miss Maybrick, she could not help saying in her tender way:

"We have all been treated so much better than we deserve. And mercy is such a much grander force than power, that even now I dare to hope that you will find a way out. A way of preserving your dignity of justice, together with a great compassionate love towards the one who has wronged you. May I thank you for listening to me and not being offended at my interference in such a delicate and private family matter?"

Miss Maybrick was speechless.

Anstice returned home feeling downcast at her failure to move or touch the stern North-country gentlewoman.

When her husband came back from town she told him of her visit.

"Would you object very much if I asked poor Miss Carrie to come and stay with us till she could make her own plans? She cannot be turned out of doors. It is cruel and inhuman of her sister to think of doing it."

"No," said Justin sharply, "I am not going to have her here. You have quite enough to do with running the house and looking after the children, without having an invalid on your hands. Miss Harriet will find lodgings for her somewhere; there are several big farms in that neighbourhood where they would take her in. Don't think you have to be benefactor to the whole world!"

It was a day or two after this that, coming home from hunting, Justin paused on his way upstairs outside the drawing-room door.

Anstice was at the piano singing, in her mellow contralto, little songs to the children, and they were joining in the chorus.

He opened the door and stood there listening.

"I want to stay little," said John Clifford Knight;
"The grown-ups are dull, and so old.
They never can run, they're too proper to fight;
They only look at us, and scold."

Chorus:
"But I'll sing when I'm little, and I'll sing when I'm big,
And my song will be Ha! Ha!! Ha!!!"

"They like sitting still, they can't climb a high wall,
They never play games and pretend,
The fairies and bogies they can't see at all,
Their money on sweets they'll not spend."

Chorus:
"But I'll sing," etc.

"I want to be bigger," said Peter McDuff,
"For grown-ups can do as they will;
They eat what they like and have more than enough
Without being seedy and ill."

Chorus:
"But I'll sing," etc.

"They always have money; they don't have to go
Off to bed every night before eight.
Whatever they want, there is never a 'No,'
And nobody scolds when they're late."

Chorus:
"But I'll sing," etc.

The children were rather astonished when a rich bass voice joined in the chorus of the last verse.

Anstice looked over her shoulder and smiled.

And then, just as he was, he dropped into a chair.

"Sing another," he said.

So they sang another one, and then another, and then he moved over to the fire, and Ruffie insisted upon being lifted on his knees.

"You sing very nice, Dad," he said, putting his tiny hand up and holding his father's chin in a way that he had when he wanted to be emphatic. "I think you'll have to come and sing with us always."

"Oh, Dad will soon be going away again," sang out Georgie; "he's been home quite a long time now."

"I'm not going just yet," said Justin.

Then he added, with a slight twinkle in his eyes as he looked over at Anstice: "But when I do, I'm thinking of taking someone with me."

"Not Steppie!" cried out both the little girls. "You shan't have Steppie."

"No, you won't have her, we couldn't do without her," echoed Ruffie.

"But if I told her to come, she would have to do so," said Justin. "And I expect she would like to come."

Anstice looked across at him. Their eyes met. Justin's gravely imperturbable, Anstice's puzzled and slightly perplexed.

"Will you come with me, Anstice?"

His tone was not mocking, and yet beneath his steady gaze, Anstice felt that he was amusing himself at her expense.

"I always keep my promises," she said gently but firmly. "Which is my rightful place by our agreement? And who wants me most? The little ones or you?"

"We do, Steppie, we do," cried the little girls.

"Well, if you won't come out just yet, I must wait for you," said Justin, smiling enigmatically.

And then he got up, and put Ruffie into his wheeled chair with very tender hands.

"I haven't changed," he said; "I must go and have a bath. No hunting to-morrow. If fine, Ruffie, I'll take you on your pony up the Fells to-morrow morning. We'll let the lessons go hang."

Some time later, when the children were in bed, Anstice came to her husband.

"You'll have to go and comfort poor Ruffie. He has got the idea that I am going to run off with you. You shouldn't joke with them so. They don't understand it."

"You run off with me? No, it will be the other way about, but I will go to him."

Ruffie's pillow was damp with tears.

"Dad, tell me on your gentleman's honour you won't take Steppie off! It's bad enough you going, but she belongs to us much more than to you! And when she's away, there's nobody to keep us merry and—comf'able. We couldn't live without her now, we really couldn't. You don't want her as we do."

"I don't know about that, my boy," said Justin, putting his hand on the golden curls. "Your Dad is undergoing a kind of upheaval, turning out of his heart some old rotten roots, and getting into a very topsy-turvy state of mind. I don't know that your song is quite true to life. How does it go?"

"Whatever they want, there is never a 'No.'"

"I've had a good many 'no's' in my life, and am likely to get some more, I foresee."

"We say no, no, no, to Steppie leaving us," said Ruffie with a little sob, "and I'm so 'fraid you'll do it of a sudden, like you go from us gen'ally. We shall wake up one day and find Steppie gone. I'm so 'fraid of it, I can't sleep."

"You're a little duffer," said his father, stooping to kiss him. "Steppie, as you call her, doesn't want to come with me. She would hate it, she would hate leaving you. Wild horses wouldn't drag her."

"But if you want her—"

"If I want her, I shall have to do without her. And if we all want her, the best plan will be for me to stay at home, then we can all have each other. Will that please you?"

"Oh yes, that's a very good plan, the best you could make."

Ruffie gave a sigh of relief, and turned over on his pillow. Five minutes after, he was fast asleep.

After dinner that evening, Justin came into the drawing-room. As a rule he was in his smoking-room for most of the evening.

If Anstice was surprised, she did not show it.

He took the big easy chair by the fire.

"Now," he said, "I want some music. May I have it? I don't see why the children should be your only audience. You sing to them, I should like you to sing to me."

Perhaps his tone was more peremptory than he knew. Anstice looked at him with heightened colour in her cheeks.

"I don't think that was mentioned in our bond," she said in her quietest tone.

He looked quite startled, then smiled at her. Justin's smiles were rare.

Anstice felt ashamed of herself.

"Then I will plead like Ruffie. Please! Please! Please!"

Without a word Anstice seated herself at the piano. She sang first a lullaby, and as she sang Justin leant his head back against the cushion in his chair and closed his eyes.

Then she sang an old English ballad, and she finished with "Robin Adair."

"That's because we're close to Scotland here," she said, laughing, as she left the piano. "I don't sing in public, so you must consider yourself favoured. It is the old simple ballads I sing to the children. The modern young people would be disgusted, but they are not critical yet."

"Thank you. I am not modern, and I like ballads better than the French and Italian operatic music which one hears so much nowadays. Now will you sit down? I want to talk to you. The winter is going. Don't you think that a horse would take you over the Fells better than your two legs? I don't like your wandering about alone. You do ride?"

"Yes, I do," said Anstice. "I won't pretend that I shouldn't like a steed, for I should love to have one, but you mustn't make me give up my walking. It is good for one's health; and to wander out on the short turf up amongst the Fells and mountains is a continual delight to me. You must remember I have the car now. If you could afford it, two rough mountain ponies for the little girls would give them tremendous pleasure. They ride the old pony when they get the chance, but his back is too broad for them, and now Ruffie uses him, they have to be content with walking."

"I'll see what I can do in that way, but if they ride, they'll be getting into mischief."

"I don't think so. It will keep them out of mischief. I wish you were a little fonder of your small daughters."

He contracted his brows.

"They're too like their mother," he said shortly.

"That isn't their fault, poor mites! They're conscious of your indifference to them, which is bad for you, and bad for them. I don't want to ask you about the past, but doesn't time make us more tender with the erring? If you could have gentler thoughts—"

He interrupted her.

"Do you think I can ever forget," he said in a tone of concentrated bitterness, "that it is owing to her failure as wife and mother that my only son is as he is. He might have been a strong, sturdy youngster, in full health and strength of body, instead of which he is a suffering, mutilated cripple. Whilst I have him before my eyes, do you think I can ever have gentle thoughts of his mother?"

Anstice had never realized how much he felt his boy's deformity. She said very gently:

"Poor darling Ruffie, it seems a sorry thing that his beautiful little presence should be the means of keeping up hatred and bitterness in your heart. Whatever his body may be, God in His mercy has given him great gifts of soul. Not only his charming, loving little personality which makes us all adore him, but in mental capacity and artistic genius. I believe he will do wonders with his pencil and paints if he lives to grow up. You have great reason to be proud of your boy. And his sweetness and cheery patience set us all an example of endurance and fortitude."

Justin did not speak. He was gazing into the fire before him. Then he looked across at his wife.

She was in a russet brown cloth tea-gown, with a little soft lace about her throat, and she was a picture of dainty sweetness and grace.

"Perhaps," he said slowly as his gaze rested on her, "you will in time get me to believe again in woman's sincerity. I have had a bitter disillusion."

"Yes, I can believe you have, but you are sufficiently a man of the world to know that there is every variety of woman, as well as every variety of man. If you happened to make a bad choice, that is your misfortune. Perhaps you were as little suited to her as she was to you. Forgive me for touching upon the subject, but sometimes it is better to talk a matter out, than let it fester inside into an unwholesome sore."

"I dare say I was an exacting and intolerant husband," said Justin gloomily. "She hated this place, and I made her live here. Her friends were not mine, and I would not have some of them inside the house. We were like two snarling dogs on the same chain! Thank God, we only had four years of it, but it was hell for both of us for that time, and then, as you know, she took the law into her own hands and made a bolt."

"Well," said Anstice slowly, "she left you three sweet children. For their sakes, forgive their mother and realize that you may have been hard and unyielding. We are so faulty ourselves, that we ought to bear with others' failings, but that seems an impossibility, does it not?"

Little more was said between them, but Justin was softened by the talk, and Anstice noted that from that time he was less curt with his little girls.

CHAPTER VI

AN ERRAND OF MERCY

SPRING was on its way. Justin seemed happy and content in his home. There was no talk of going off with his yacht. Occasionally he suggested a trip round the coast of Scotland with all of them on board, but Anstice was very doubtful of Ruffie's being able to stand it, and Justin would not hear of taking the girls without him. He would often take his little son up into the Fells in his basket chair on the pony. And to Ruffie, these expeditions were entrancing.

One lovely sunny morning, they had mounted a considerable height, and stopped on the crest of a Fell to look over the lake and surrounding scenery.

Ruffie's blue eyes blazed with fervour and delight. Then he drew a long breath:

"If I get to heaven before you, Dad, I'll look down at you like this. Do you see our house? Just a teeny bit of the chimneys behind the trees there? I shall always be watching it and seeing you come in and out. I shall have stronger eyes there, you know."

"We don't want to imagine you in heaven," said his father, with a short laugh.

"Oh, but I love to! Fancy! Before Steppie came, I knewed nothing about it, I didn't even know that God loved me, and that Jesus came into the world to show us that He did. Do you love God very much, Dad?"

"I don't think I do, my boy. I don't know much about such things."

"I 'spec's you'd better ask Steppie to talk to you, same as she does to us. You see, God is my other Father, so of course He loves me. And the funny thing is, He's your Father too. Steppie will explain it to you out of the Bible."

Then, as the sun streamed out of some passing clouds which cast blue shadows on the distant hills, Ruffie stretched out his tiny hand:

"Oh, isn't the sky and world glorious! And God made it all for us to live in! Wasn't it kind of Him?"

Justin could make no reply. These kind of conversations with Ruffie very often took place. Sometimes Justin was amused, sometimes embarrassed, sometimes interested. A little child's strong faith and perfect trust in his unseen Father must always touch and soften those who witness it.

One day Justin took Anstice to task about her teaching.

"Don't overdo the youngsters with religion," he said; "I have a horror of pattern prigs and precocious saints! Ruffie sometimes seems away from earth altogether. I want him to grow up a natural boy."

"It is not unnatural to love and serve our Creator," said Anstice warmly. "It is the children's heritage. They compose the Kingdom of Heaven in a large majority, and are safe inside it, when so many of their elders are still outside and far away. And as for your children being prigs, it isn't in them. They would tell you they have a perfect horror of it themselves. If they're anything in the world, they're perfectly sincere and natural."

He said no more. He accompanied Anstice to church, and acknowledged that he enjoyed the Rector's sermons, but he refused steadfastly to be drawn into any religious arguments.

Anstice prayed for him; she felt that at present she could do no more, but she had a strong belief that prayer would accomplish what she could not.

One morning, she was busy in the conservatory. She was fond of her flowers and attended to most of the plants there herself. Suddenly Neale, the butler, came to her.

"There's a lady arrived in a car, asking to see you, ma'am. She won't come in till she knows if it is convenient to see you, as it is in the morning."

"Did she not give her name?" Anstice inquired.

Then, without waiting for a reply, she went out quickly to the hall door, wondering who it possibly could be.

To her surprise she found it was the elder Miss Maybrick. In a few minutes, she was seated in Anstice's morning-room, and pouring out her story.

"I have come to ask you to come back with me at once. My sister Carrie is very, very ill, and she keeps asking for you. You know that we are both at the Hall? I did not mean to take your advice. I gave her a date last week on which I meant to take possession and I warned her that I was going to have painters, carpenters and paperers all over the house. And then to spite me, she went out of doors on that awful day of rain we had about a week ago. She walked through the woods, and I believe sat out, and when she came in she would not change her wet boots. Of course, as she expected, the next day she could not rise from her bed. The doctor came, said she had rheumatic fever, and then rode over to give me the news. I knew she would circumvent me, if she could. We've had to get two nurses in, but she keeps crying for you, until I could stand it no longer, so I've come over to fetch you. The doctor told me this morning that she would not pull through. Her heart is affected. Can you come at once? You've been seeing a good deal of her, I suppose? Anyhow, only your presence will satisfy her."

"Poor dear! I must come, I suppose, but I must just leave a note for my husband. I was going for my first ride with him this afternoon. How can I get back?"

"I'll send my car back with you, of course."

Anstice went to her writing-desk and scribbled a note.

"DEAR JUSTIN,—

"I am so sorry. I hope you will not mind, but Miss Maybrick has called to take me to her sister, who she fears is dying. She wants to see me. I hope I shall be back by tea-time. She will send me back in her car.

"In haste.

"ANSTICE."

Then she went upstairs to put on her outdoor things, and in ten minutes' time was being whirled along towards Harscale Hall.

Miss Maybrick seemed inclined to talk. Her dark, keen eyes looked miserable.

"I can't believe she's dying. She has aged so wonderfully since I saw her last. I think of her as a laughing, merry child, when I used to mother her. I little thought then how we should spend our last years. You did well to talk to me as you did; it made me write her a kinder letter than I had intended to do. I told her of a farm about four miles off, where I would make arrangements for her comfort and pay for her board if she liked to go. I knew we could never live together in the same house. We are both too masterful. But you see she was determined not to go."

"I can't believe she would determinedly try to make herself ill," said Anstice. "Perhaps she was feeling rather desperate and wandered out in the wet to think things out. She told me she was very fond of walking in the woods."

"I know Carrie better than you do. When I arrived at the Hall, she looked at me over the bedclothes. 'You can't turn me out now,' she said, 'Dr. Walters won't allow you to.' And then she turned her face to the wall, and wouldn't speak to me again until to-day. All last night she cried for you. 'Fetch Mrs. Holme, I want her. I'm going to die, fetch her!' And when I went into her this morning, it was the same old cry; so I spoke to her."

"'Cheer up,' I said; 'I'll fetch her. I'll go at once.' And off I came. She looked at me suspiciously, but had the grace to say 'Thank you,' and then the pain seized her, and that's the last I've seen of her. I suppose you think I feel remorseful about it? I don't! I only feel that in the long run people's greed and covetousness find them out. They have to suffer. But I almost feel sorry for her now that she's such a wreck. I'll do my best to ease her last hours on earth."

"I'm sure you will. I'm so very sorry for you both."

Then Miss Maybrick lapsed into silence, and Anstice did not feel inclined to break it.

She went straight up to Miss Carrie's bedroom when she reached the Hall, and found her with fever-flushed cheeks and parched, dry lips, wrapped in cotton-wool, and giving plaintive cries like some child in pain. As Anstice bent over her, she opened her eyes and a look of recognition flashed into them.

"I'm going to die," she gasped; "and you're a good woman. I know you are. Help me."

"May I be alone with her?" Anstice asked Miss Maybrick. "And don't you think Mr. Bolland might be sent for?"

"I'll send, if you think it's any good. She doesn't know him, and the Vicar here has gone away for his health and there are only locum tenens who come over for the Sunday services."

The day nurse rather unwillingly left the room, and then Anstice knelt by the bed.

"Miss Carrie, our Lord is here close to you. Won't you speak to Him yourself?"

"I don't know how," she whimpered. "I'm in too much pain."

"Can you say after me, 'Lord, have mercy on me and receive my soul'?"

She murmured the words. Her breathing was distressing her.

Anstice bent over her.

"'Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out.' Those are our Lord's words. He will receive you."

She stretched out her hot shaking hand and clutched hold of Anstice.

"All the sins of my sixty years," she murmured. "Lord, have mercy on me. Don't leave me."

But the nurse was back, pushing Anstice aside.

"My patient must have no agitation. Her heart is very weak."

Miss Carrie gave an angry cry.

"She is not to leave me. I won't have it."

Her face was purple. She panted in her excitement.

Anstice reseated herself by the bed in spite of the nurse.

"I'm not going to talk, but I'm here, dear Miss Carrie, and I'm praying for you."

Miss Carrie heaved a sigh of relief.

"I hate these strange women," she murmured. "I want only you."

*      *      *      *      *

Anstice arrived home about four o'clock in the afternoon.

Justin met her in the hall with an angry light in his eyes. He said nothing before the servants, but followed her into her morning-room. She sank into a chair with pale cheeks and an exhausted air, but her husband was too wrapped up in his grievance to notice her looks.

"Didn't we arrange to have a ride together this afternoon? Do you think nothing of breaking your engagements with me? Are you aware that Fenton sent a horse over from Penrith for you to try?"

"Oh, I am so sorry, that was to be a surprise for me then, for you never said anything about it. I thought I was going on the old pony. You got my note?"

"The note does not alter the fact of your breaking your engagement with me."

"Oh, Justin, I apologize; but Miss Carrie is dying: they do not think she will last through the night. She sent for me; I had to go. Surely you would not have me refuse her?"

He stood by the window, like a thwarted, angry boy.

Tired as she was, Anstice rose from her seat. Putting her hand on his shoulder, a thing she had never done before, she said in her tenderest tone:

"Forgive me. Don't be angry. But I couldn't have refused a dying woman's call."

"You are not a parson, and you are not called to do a parson's work. Your place is at home with me and my children."

She dropped her hand, and then he wheeled round swiftly upon her.

"My claims come first," he said sharply.

"Your children's claims do," said Anstice very quietly, "but I do not acknowledge that yours do. You mustn't be a tyrant, Justin. Women are not chattels. And I must have my own independent judgment about things. I could not live anywhere stifling my ears to the cries for help from anyone, rich or poor. Imagine yourself struck down suddenly upon a sick-bed, knowing that you will never get up again alive, that you're on the brink of eternity, going into an unknown life with no hope in your heart. Wouldn't you like somebody to help you? To try to throw a ray of light across your darkness?"

Justin stood looking at her with sombre eyes. Then he turned round again and looked out of the window.

"I'm a fool to want you," he muttered.

Anstice smiled, though she did not feel like smiling.

"We mustn't quarrel," she said. "I don't think I have had an angry word from you before. I am truly sorry I disappointed you. Don't tell me I was wrong to do so."

"I wonder if you ever own yourself in the wrong?" Justin's temper was under control again. He spoke in his natural voice, and when she did not answer him, he drew her towards him. "I warn you, Anstice, I shall make claims on you. I am not at all satisfied with our present position, are you?"

He had imprisoned her hands in his, and was looking searchingly into her face. Then suddenly he released her.

"You are tired, poor child, and I'm a selfish brute. I always have lived for self alone. You will have to teach me to be different. We'll have tea in here. Women always feel better after a cup of tea, don't they?"

He left the room, and Anstice, feeling the strain of what she had been through both at Harscale Hall and in her own home, sank back into her chair, and putting her hands up to her face, surprised herself by giving way to some quiet tears. Then, as Neale brought in tea, she made her escape up to her room. When she came down again she was her bright natural self; but Justin, as he took a cup of tea from her, saw the traces of tears in her eyes, and felt ashamed of himself.

He talked of different things for the next twenty minutes, as if nothing had happened between them, and then, as the little girls' voices were heard coming down the stairs, he said quickly:

"Don't go to the children to-night. You're tired. They must do without you."

Anstice shook her head.

"I will never fail them, unless I am ill," she said.

She left him after tea, and he heard music going on in the drawing-room and the children's happy voices. But he sat on over the fire with moody, discontented eyes.

"I shall get jealous of my own children," he muttered. "Who was it told me I was too cold-blooded for jealousy? Why, it was Malcolm Dermot. He was wrong."

He sat there cogitating; an unhappy man, who was just beginning to see chinks of light through the clouds of mistrust and bitterness that were spoiling his life.

When the children's hour was over, Anstice came back to her room and was surprised to see her husband still there.

"Do you want me gone?" he asked her, making a movement in his chair.

"Oh, no," she said gently; "I like to see you there."

He looked up at her.

"Come and put your hand on my shoulder as you did a short while ago and tell me that you forgive me for my selfishness and bad temper. I won't be a tyrant. You must prevent my being so."

She came up to him.

"There is nothing to forgive," she said. "I ought to feel glad that you wanted me with you this afternoon."

She did put her hand on his shoulder again, and Justin was thrilled by her touch. He felt inclined to take her in his arms and kiss her, but he controlled himself.

He was sweetness itself for the rest of the evening. The next morning at breakfast he said to her:

"Well, what are your plans for to-day? Shall I 'phone to Fenton to have the horse brought round again this afternoon?"

Anstice hesitated, then she said in her pleasant, even voice:

"I had better tell you straight out, though I fear it will annoy you, that I promised Miss Maybrick, if I did not hear from her this morning, that I would go over to Miss Carrie again this afternoon. She dreads being left with her, I think, and is afraid she may die whilst she is in the room. It is all very sad. Miss Carrie would hardly let me leave her yesterday. She literally clung on to my hand and would not let it go."

Justin put a great restraint upon his feelings. He responded in as quiet a tone as hers:

"Very well, we must leave our riding for the present."

But they had hardly left the breakfast table before a telegram was brought to Anstice. When she opened it, she drew a long sigh, and handed it to her husband. It was very brief:

"Carrie passed away eight o'clock this morning in her sleep: writing.—H. M."

"I hardly thought she would die so soon, but the doctor said her heart was very feeble, and evidently it has been very weak for a long time. Well, it is a merciful release for her."

"Now what are you going to do?" asked Justin. "Are you still going over?"

"Oh, no, I shall wait till I hear. What a sad homecoming for Miss Maybrick!"

"A peaceful solution of their difficulties."

"I suppose so, and yet I can hardly imagine that Miss Maybrick will have a happy time by herself in that old house. She so very nearly turned her sister out to die."

Anstice looked so sad that Justin said a little impatiently:

"At any rate you are not responsible for either of them. How you were called in at all, I cannot imagine. They were both strangers to you a few weeks ago."

"But they are old friends of yours, Justin. Don't you feel at all interested in them? I think, when people get old and self-centred as those sisters have, it is so tragic when they have to face death and realize what it means. I am comforted about Miss Carrie. She so genuinely repented and cried for mercy. And though it was a death-bed repentance, I believe in the saying:"

"'Betwixt the saddle and the ground
He mercy sought and mercy found.'"

"But her sister, who is now realizing the sad fact of her death, must be conscious what a sad, wasted life Miss Carrie's has been, and what a hard, loveless one her own is. For years, she has bent all her energies and will to turning her sister out of her inheritance. Now she has the desire of her heart; but when her call comes, and this will remind her that it will come, how will she be able to meet it?"

"We really need not make ourselves miserable over other people's lives. Now, as you are not going over to them, will you see the horse this afternoon and try him?"

Anstice shook off her grave thoughts. She felt that at present Justin could not sympathize or understand with her in her deep interest and concern in other people's troubles, so she brought light into his eyes again when she agreed to do as he wished.

The horse was brought over in the afternoon. He had a black satin coat, and soft intelligent eyes; his motion was all that was desired. Anstice slipped into an old habit of hers, and was mounted from the front terrace, the children all looking on. Justin and she rode along by the lake, and then went up and had a canter on the soft grassy paths that wound in and out of the Fells. The exercise brought colour to her cheeks and light to her eyes.

"You like him?" her husband asked.

"Yes, what is his name? I love his swift, easy stride."

"Hereward they call him. Then he shall be yours."

"It's really very good of you. I don't know how to thank you."

"No thanks are needed. You have a good seat, and are evidently at home in the saddle. I am sorry you have not ridden before. It is the best way of getting about our Fells."

"It will be a great delight to me. And if you will get the little girls two safe ponies, they and I will have many a pleasant ride together when you are away."

"I'll see about it."

For the rest of that day Justin was his pleasant self. He was proud of his wife's skill in horsemanship, and looked forward to a good many rides with her. She was always good company, and her delight in the lake scenery and in the lonely beauty of the Fells drew an answering chord in his heart.

That evening, he joined the children in the drawing-room, and all of them sang together. Just before they were called away to bed, Josie and Georgie ran out to attend to Joshua, whom they had left in the garden. Ruffie was on his father's knee, and Anstice was putting her music by. Having done that, she was kneeling before the fire stirring it to a blaze, when Ruffie suddenly said:

"Steppie, Brenda says you have a big heart and love everybody—do you?"

"Oh, no, darling, I haven't as big a heart as that, I am afraid."

"Well, do you love Dad?"

Justin gave a slight start, then he looked across at Anstice with a little of his boy's impish mischief in his eyes.

"We must have an answer, mustn't we, Ruffie; but the question isn't at my instigation, I beg to state. It's a discussion we were having yesterday as to who loves who. To Ruffie there is no middle path. You either love or hate."

Anstice laughed to hide her embarrassment.

"But I have a middle path, Ruffie; I always have had one."

"But you do love Dad, don't you?" persisted the child. "He said yesterday he had nobody who loved him but me, and I told him there was you, and he said: 'You mustn't tell tales, sonnie, or our confidential talks will be over.'"

Justin was evidently uneasy as to what might be coming from Ruffie's frank revelations.

And then Anstice, still stirring the fire to hide her hot cheeks, said in her easy, pleasant way:

"We all love each other, Ruffie, I hope. And if anyone is weak or ill or helpless, we must show our love, even to animals. I saw a little boy yesterday clutching hold of a kitten in spite of its cries. It wanted to go to its mother, and he wanted to keep it with him, so as he was the strongest, he used force, instead of showing love for the poor little mite."

Ruffie hung his head.

"I wanted to make it love me best," he said. "If it had loved me proper, it would have wanted to stay with me."

Josie and Georgie appeared, and the conversation ended.

But when Anstice went to give her good night kiss to Ruffie, he said to her, with an old-fashioned shake of his curly head:

"I think Dad would like you to love him like you do me. He said he felt lonely sometimes. And I told him I used to, but you knowed how to kiss loneliness away. He said he wished you'd try it on him!"

"Oh, Ruffie, my precious," said Anstice, laying her cheek against his, with her rippling laugh, "don't you worry over Dad. He and I understand each other. And he won't be lonely when he gets to his yacht again. He will be leaving us soon."

"I'm going to ask God about that," said Ruffie mysteriously. "I think God could get rid of that yacht for us. None of us like it taking Dad away so often, and God can do anything in the way of storms, can't He?"

"Go to sleep, and never pray that anything may be destroyed, darling."

"Not even the wicked Devil?" asked Ruffie, but he was sleepy and tired and did not wait for an answer to that question.

And Anstice said to herself as she left him:

"If he feels lonely, don't I feel so too? I wonder if we shall ever be anything but lonely in this strange life of ours!"

CHAPTER VII

OFF ONCE MORE

MISS CARRIE'S funeral took place three days later, and Justin and Anstice both attended it. The little churchyard away in the lovely Fells struck Anstice as peculiarly beautiful. There was a great stillness about it, a peace. Miss Maybrick did not attend. They were told that she was not well enough to leave her room, but a week later she sent for Anstice.

"You seemed to be so interested in my sister," she said, "that I thought you might like to hear that we made up our quarrel about an hour after you had left us that day. She asked for my forgiveness, and I asked for hers. The last thing she said to me that night was—"

"'Good night, Hatty—I feel easier now—and thanks to Mrs. Holme, I'm hoping to have made my peace with God.' I tell you this, for I think you ought to know it."

"Thank you, I am so glad to hear it," said Anstice.

"Quarrels are a mistake," said Miss Maybrick slowly, "and even a reconciliation doesn't do away with the stings of them. They remain to haunt one. I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life. She was my last relative left."

Anstice was touched by the pathos in her tone. The stern, indomitable pride of the woman was crushed. She had a long talk with her, and promised to ride over and see her from time to time.

The spring came on slowly but surely. The little girls got their ponies. Their joy was intense, but their father absolutely forbade them to ride about the Fells alone.

"For a year at least, you must have some one always with you," he told them. "There are too many dangerous places for you to wander about at your will."

They were very rebellious over this edict at first, but they were allowed to ride round the lake, and along the lanes, and with this, they learned to be content.

One day, when Justin was hunting, Anstice took the three children over to see the Nixons. They had tea there, and Ruffie was highly delighted with old Tommy's queer carved walking-stick. The old man took a great fancy to him; and before he went, presented him with a carved pipe.

"'Tis for you to smoke when you get to be a man," he said.

Ruffie gazed at it adoringly; then put it into his pocket. "I'll certainly smoke it every day," he said. "You know I shall be able to do most things men do when I grow up—except just the leg part of me."

His happy pluck evoked an exclamation from Tommy as he turned to Anstice.

"Blest if I ever heerd the loike! He's grand, mem, grand! An' he'll be a sweeter nut then his feyther!"

But Anstice, as she looked at the fragile little figure, wondered sadly if he would ever live to come to his heritage of manhood.

She was very happy these spring days. Justin and she rode a good deal together, and in their rides, became closer drawn together. Once or twice, she and the children went out upon the lake in his motor-boat; as the weather improved, they were much out of doors. The budding gorse, the sweet clusters of primroses in the lanes, the blossoming hawthorns, and the young bracken uncurling beneath their feet, all added to the attractions of the lake and the surrounding Fells.

And then one morning at breakfast Justin said suddenly: "My skipper writes that the yacht is ready for a sail. She's been having a fresh coat of paint; but now I need wait no longer."

Anstice looked across the table at him with a queer little smile.

"So you'll be off again! Where are you going this time?"

"I thought I would go to Norway for some fishing. I have not settled anything further. I will wait and see what sort of fishing is going. I may run over to Iceland afterwards."

"Oh, well, you will not be so far away from us this time."

"I haven't decided what I shall do. I could go on to America later."

"And how soon will you go?"

"The day after to-morrow, I think."

Anstice felt startled.

"So soon? But of course, a man's packing is not like a woman's! You must let me help you with it. I am a very good packer."

"Thanks."

Then he fixed her with intense, imperative gaze.

"Will you be sorry for my departure?"

"Why should I be?"

She spoke lightly to hide the disappointment at her heart; and yet afterwards wished that she had answered otherwise.

"This is too quiet a life for a rover like you," she went on. "Ruffie is the one who suffers most for your absence. I hope that he may grow strong enough to accompany you in a few years' time."

Justin's brow clouded. He crumbled a bit of toast in his fingers nervously.

"I thought we were friends, Anstice," he said after a minute's silence.

"So we are," she responded quickly.

"Friends are not entirely indifferent to absence," he said; "at a word from you I would stay at home altogether."

The colour rose in Anstice's cheeks, then she said in her quiet aloof tone:

"I would never be the one to say that word, Justin. You must remember that in our agreement you told me that I was to look upon you as a negligible quantity; that our marriage would not affect you or touch your life. I am content to carry out that agreement, to keep your house and look after your children. More you cannot expect from me."

Justin pushed back his chair from the table, walked out of the room and banged the door violently behind him.

And Anstice surprised herself by a fit of tears.

"He must see," she told herself, "that it is not for me to beg him to stay. If he wants the conditions altered, he must say so. How can I tell him the truth, that I shall miss him beyond words? It may be propinquity, but I never thought I should get to lean upon him, and be so happy with him! And now he is angry and hurt; but how could I answer otherwise!"

Very soon every one in the house knew that the 'Squire' was off again on his travels. Justin was always a rapid packer; he was here, there and everywhere for the next two days, saying very little, quite courteous and pleasant to his wife, but nothing more. Ruffie was the only one who made open lamentation for his departure. All preparations made, Justin went off at ten o'clock in the morning. And upon the spur of the moment, rather fearing the awkwardness of bidding him farewell before the children, Anstice said she would drive to the station with him to see him off.

Her husband seemed pleased with her decision. As they were driving along in the car together, he suddenly laid his hand upon hers.

"You have made my home a very happy one," he said. "When I contrast it now with what it was before you came into it, I feel I cannot thank you enough. I shall see it in my mind's eye when I'm the other side of the ocean."

"Home is a woman's kingdom," said Anstice. "I have only done what scores of others would have done, but I'm glad you appreciate it."

He was about to say more, but the words seemed to stick in his throat, and Anstice began to talk rather nervously about the children.

Then they reached the station, and there was the usual bustle before the train went off. At the last moment, Justin made Anstice get into the first-class compartment with him where he was the only passenger.

"I won't say good-bye in public," he said. Then he put his arm round her and kissed her warmly. "Don't tell me this is not necessary according to our compact," he said; "you are my wife, and I'm inclined to let that agreement of ours go hang! Anstice, tell me, shall we make a fresh start when I come home again?"

Anstice looked at him and smiled, but her eyes were misty and Justin's keen gaze noted it.

"Shall we wait and see?" she said.

And with this, he had to be content.

He was gone, and Anstice, driving home, was conscious that her sun was dimmed, that the future, even amongst her beloved Fells, looked dreary and forlorn.

She went over to see Miss Maybrick a day or two later, and found her rather desolate in her old home. She welcomed her gladly.

"I am having it repaired and restored," she told Anstice as she took her over the newly decorated rooms; "but I am the last of my family, and I ask myself why I am spending so much money upon it! It will only be sold at my death to some Liverpool or Manchester merchant. Nobody will care for our old family treasures. I am beginning to like the Book of Ecclesiastes. It does seem to echo some of my thoughts. What is the good of anything in the world? Nothing will last."

"Love lasts," said Anstice thoughtfully.

"I have had no use for love," said Miss Maybrick sternly. "It is the source of a good deal of misery and crime."

"Not the right sort. The love that comes from God."

Miss Maybrick deliberately turned to other topics.

When Anstice came away, she felt that sometimes the desires of the heart turned to dust and ashes, when they were obtained. She asked the Rector if he would go and see Miss Maybrick as often as he could. He had at last got a rough pony which took him over the Fells to see some of his far away parishioners.

"You will know what to say to her, and she likes you. I have the greatest pity for her."

"She is not my parishioner," he replied, "now she has left her farm, but I will go as a friend. I think perhaps that God is slowly leading her towards Himself. Her goal down here has been reached, and is evidently not satisfying her."

Then one day Anstice was astounded by a visit from Louise. She appeared one morning about twelve o'clock, and Anstice kept her to lunch.

"Are you having your holiday now?" Anstice asked her.

"No," she said; "haven't you heard? Uncle is very ill and I have come home to him. He wrote and asked me to do so. And I came back last week, and do you know, I am giving up my work in town for the time, and am going to look after him and cheer him up? I never knew that he was so fond of me. His housekeeper is very good, and makes him comfortable, but he is funny and old-fashioned and won't make a friend of her, and he is pounds better since I came. He got influenza, and was not getting up his strength. He wasn't able to browse amongst his beloved books, and so got moped and thought he was going to die. His doctor thought he was, he told me so."

Louise looked and spoke like a different creature. She was tastefully dressed, had lost her discontented expression, and was quite a pretty-looking girl. Anstice was unfeignedly glad to see the change in her.

"I am afraid you will find it very dull after town life, but I do think you've done the right thing. I confess that I have not been over to see your uncle as often as I might. It is a long way, and I don't seem to get the time for these long expeditions, though I love them."

"Well," said Louise, settling back into her chair with a very contented look upon her face, "it's simply delicious to be here with you! I have longed to see you. You will be glad to know that, through absence, I have learned to love these lovely Fells of ours. As I drove along the Ramdale, I was having little happy thrills in my heart. The air, the birds, the mossy banks were all so sweet, and the lake! Ah! The ponds on Hampstead Heath and the water in the London parks have given me such a home sickness for the lakes! I never, never thought I could come back to it with such happiness."

"How long are you staying?"

"As long as uncle needs me. Do you know, the farms and the cottages have given me quite a welcome! And I'm going to set a few things going. I shall have a little gathering for the women—a Mothers' Union meeting—they want one badly. They seem out of everything out there, and I want them to be happy."

"Louise, you have soul happiness yourself!"

Anstice spoke eagerly. Louise smiled at her.

"Yes, thanks to you, and to Miss Montmorency, the principal of our school, and to our Vicar there. You three have made me long for, and seek, and find, the one thing needful. And I know that whether I am buried away in Ramdale, or in the bustle of town life, I can work and serve, and do a little to bring happiness to others. But I won't pretend I am coming back here wholly because I think it is my duty. The Fells call me back. I never knew how I loved them till I lost them. We may have bits of water in London to remind me of our lakes, but we have no lovely green sloping Fells, no mountains; and it is these I find I love. The scent and the smell of their moss and bracken, and moist pools in between the crags. Oh, there's nothing like them in the world!"

Anstice laughed at the enthusiastic girl, and marvelled at the change in her.

"And what does your uncle say at your giving up your work?"

"He looks at me with a smile and light in his eyes that I have never seen before. He tells me, he used to watch me out of his study window, and loved to see me flitting about the garden; but his silence had encrusted him so, that it was hard to break through it. He is on the couch now, but very weak and thin. Still, the doctor says he believes he will recover. Do you know Dr. Ogilvy? He has only come lately, and lives at a farm with an invalid sister. He seems very clever, and has got the liking of all our people."

"I have heard of him, but he lives too far away from us. We always have the doctor from Penrith."

They talked on together, Louise pouring out all her London experiences, and when she went, Anstice could only wonder again at the change in her since she had first come across her.

She did not lack for visitors. Since Justin's departure, a great many of her neighbours had come to see her, Mrs. Wykeham foremost amongst them.

"I did think Justin was settling down," she said to Anstice; "he seemed so much brighter and more sociable in every way! What a vagabond he is! I think you are a saint to put up with his wandering habits."

"Oh, we understand each other," Anstice said lightly. "His hobby is yachting: why should he give it up because he married me? I think it is very bad for men who have no special occupation to be continually at home. Of course, he farms and is very interested in his estate, but it isn't much of a life for any man here."

"You're a sensible woman," Mrs. Wykeham said. "I must confess that when you first arrived here, and he went off and left you, I thought it very queer indeed. And then, knowing how selfish men are, I began to put two and two together. His house was a ruin, his children were little fiends, he left you to battle with it all alone and get it straightened out, and then when you had made a thoroughly comfortable and happy home of it, back he comes to enjoy it. Don't contradict me, for you know that it is true! I have known Justin for many years, and he is not one to ride over obstacles, he simply slips round them."

"I won't hear you disparage my husband," said Anstice pleasantly, with great firmness.

And Mrs. Wykeham knew that she had gone far enough. But afterwards, when she was alone, Anstice began to think about her absent husband. She knew that the charge of selfishness was an accurate one; he had always been accustomed to take the easy path through life, and when catastrophe came to him, he could not get over it. It had made him a sour, embittered man. But lately, Anstice could bring to her mind many little actions of his which made her realize that he could be unselfish at times. He had twice given up fishing expeditions which he had planned out for himself: once to take Ruffie up the Fells on his pony, at his urgent request; once to take Anstice over to Penrith in the car for some necessary shopping.

He had gone off one day, and scoured the neighbourhood for a special fern for which Anstice had expressed a wish. She had wanted it for her fernery which she was making. He had often left his smoking-room where he was enjoying a quiet read, and had joined the children for their hour in the drawing-room. This was generally for Ruffie's sake, who had sent one of his sisters to summon him.

"No," she said to herself, "he is not an out-and-out selfish man. And I think he would not shirk disagreeables, if he felt they were necessary. I suppose we all take the easy path if we can."

Then presently she laughed at herself at her effort to defend her husband's character. "What does it matter to me? He goes his way, and I go mine, and we don't wish for anything different. We disagree very seldom, and when we do, he gives in quite as often as I do. We get on very happily together; but if I were to ask him to stay at home altogether, it would be a great mistake. He would get restless and miserable, and then he would be irritable, and we should drift into a captious couple. We have not the foundation for a happy wedded life, there is no love between us, so we have to be doubly careful as to our behaviour towards each other."

All this and more she told herself, but deep down in her heart there was more than a real liking for the handsome, self-willed man. She would not acknowledge that the tone of his voice and laugh, the sound of his quick, active feet about the house, that mischievous twinkle in his eyes which so often appeared in his talks with her and with Ruffie, brought a thrill to her soul.

Sometimes she wondered if he were still indifferent to her. She knew he appreciated her and respected her. He thanked her again and again for what she had done to the house and to his children. But there were times when he would put his hand on her shoulder, and speak to her in almost a tender tone. She always laughed such moments off, but often she felt nearer to tears. When he seemed to soften, she herself would harden, but she did it in self-defence. Never, she assured herself, would she show by word or touch or look that she craved for the love of his heart. He had warned her when they married that she must not have any expectations in that quarter. And she meant to stand by his conditions and not go one iota beyond them.

CHAPTER VIII

AN ENCOUNTER IN THE FELLS

ONE afternoon Anstice asked the little girls if they would like to ride over the Fells with her to Ramdale.

"I am going to see Louise," she said; "and it will be a lovely ride."

They were of course delighted to accompany her.

"Why can't I go too?" demanded Ruffie.

"It is rather too long for you, darling," Anstice told him. "You mustn't be unhappy at staying at home. To-morrow, if it is fine, it will be your turn. You and I will go off together, and Josie and Georgie stay at home."

"But there's always two of them, only one of me," objected Ruffie; "it isn't fair."

"I can't alter your number," Anstice reminded him.

"If only Dad was here!" sighed Ruffie. "Him and me are always happy together."

But in the end, he was comforted by Brenda saying she would take him up to Hocher's Farm on his pony, to have tea there.

Anstice and the little girls started directly after lunch. When they left the lanes, and struck across the soft springy turf, their ponies showed their signs of approval by being rather skittish, but the long uphill climb soon made them settle down into a steady walk. The keen mountain air, the sweetness of the young bracken and gorse, and the carpets of bluebells in sheltered dells, all brought a feeling of joy to Anstice. She was never happier than when riding or walking over the Fells, and she was almost sorry when Ramdale was reached. Josie and Georgie had never ceased their happy chatter, but as they came round the lovely little lake called Dameswater, and saw it set like a turquoise in a circle of emerald green, Josie exclaimed:

"I've never been here before! Is this where Louise lives? Fancy hating this!"

"Oh, but she doesn't! That was only an idea," said Anstice hastily.

As they approached the Vicarage, Louise spied them in the distance, and hastened out to meet them.

The horses were taken on by a boy who worked in the garden to the small hotel a short distance off, and then Anstice and the little girls went in and saw the Vicar, who was sitting up in his study looking very white and frail. The room was bright with flowers, and Louise showed them with pride, the garden in which she had toiled a year ago, now rewarding her with its blossoms, and early roses. Anstice sat down and talked to the old man. She had heard from Louise that his heart was weak after his illness, and that he had to be kept extremely quiet. The little girls ran out of doors to play about till tea-time. It was not till tea was over, that Anstice found an opportunity for a quiet talk with Louise.

She took her into the drawing-room, which she had improved in many ways since Anstice had seen it before. Some fresh chintz coverings and curtains, a rug or two on the drab carpet, and books and pictures scattered about, made it quite a cosy room.

"Now," said Louise, "I have such a lot to tell you that I don't know where to begin. I have made a fresh friend in Minna Ogilvy. She's the doctor's sister, and she lives with him at a farm about a mile away from us. She's such a sweet girl! She came here for her health; Dr. Ogilvy left a good practice in Liverpool for her sake. The doctors said she must live in the country, in good air. It was the only chance for her. I'm afraid she is not getting better. I don't think her brother thinks she will ever entirely recover. But you've no idea how bright and amusing she is! I have never laughed so much in my life as I do when I am with them. She is devoted to her brother, says his skill is wasted here, and that this desolate country gives no scope to him to use his talents, but that he is doing it entirely for her sake."

"I am so glad you have friends near you," said Anstice; "it must make a great difference."

"It does, an enormous difference! And I have no desire to go back to town. I couldn't leave Uncle Edgar at present. He is not able to take any services, and I have to arrange for locum tenens to come once every Sunday, and do a good deal of what uncle used to do. Then a great blow has fallen upon us. I have said nothing to uncle about it, for it may not come to pass in his lifetime, but a lot of engineers have been out here with a view to making our lake into a huge reservoir to supply one of the big northern towns with water. And to do this, they're actually going to submerge our dear little church, and the hotel, and perhaps this vicarage itself. They're going to raise the level of the lake by damming it up. I don't understand how they're going to do it, but this dear little quiet corner will be no more. I remember how I hated it, and only a year ago! It's a kind of judgment upon me, isn't it? Only of course it will take a long time to complete, and at present they're only at the discussion stage. They say the church will be moved elsewhere, but that won't be the same at all. I dare not let uncle know. He is not to be worried about anything, Dr. Ogilvy says."

Anstice was really distressed at this piece of news.

"I have never seen such an exquisite spot as this is," she said. "I felt it afresh to-day as we rode round the edge of the lake. It seems sacrilege to drown a church, and that a mediæval one. Are you sure it is true?"

"Yes, I spoke to the head engineer myself. The town corporation have bought thirty-six miles of it. Isn't it a shame? It makes me very determined to stay here as long as I can."

Their talk was interrupted by Dr. Ogilvy's appearance. He came to see the Vicar every few days, and this was one of his days. Anstice saw him before she left. He told her that the Vicar was failing rapidly, and that he doubted if he would outlive the summer. And then, before he went, Anstice noted something that sent her home much comforted as regards Louise. She could not mistake the look in the young doctor's eyes as he walked with Louise to the gate of the Vicarage, and stood there talking to her, before he took his departure. Anstice was quick to scent the budding romance, and rejoiced in her heart at the thought of happiness rewarding Louise's devotion to her uncle.

Yet a little sigh followed her pleasant musings; and she was suddenly roused from them by Josie saying:

"You're much duller, Steppie, when Dad is away than when he is home. You always seem shut up to thinking."

"Am I?" laughed Anstice. "I must open myself at once then, Josie! I don't like dull people. I never could bear them."

And after that she exerted herself, and the rest of the ride was a lively time with them all.

It was only two weeks later that Louise wrote to tell Anstice of her engagement.

"I don't know why God has been so good to me," she wrote. "If I had stayed in London I should have missed this joy. I little thought that I would meet my fate in this most lovely backwater. But I should never have married in town. I never saw anyone there whom I cared for, and I may honestly say who would have looked at me. There are such thousands of girls there, and most of them with a certain charm and grace to which I could never attain!"

"As for George, he's all that a girl could desire. He is good, really good, and clever, and brave and unselfish, and I'm a lucky girl to have such a husband in prospect. We are both perfectly happy, as you can imagine; and quite content in our surroundings. I do not mean to leave uncle. The sad thing is, that he may not be here much longer—George has prepared me for that. And he has his sister to look after. But nothing in the world matters when one loves! You must have felt this, and so can understand."

Anstice laughed, and sighed again, and then sat down and wrote Louise a loving letter of congratulation.

About a week later, she took Ruffie out on his pony to the lower Fells near the lake.

Josie and Georgie were having tea with Mrs. Fergusson. Her son was home for his Easter holidays, and he and the little girls were great friends.

Anstice loved having Ruffie to herself. He was full of quaint fancies about the Fells, and knew the names of all, and endowed them with separate personalities of their own. Having passed most of his small life on a couch indoors, this new freedom on the back of a pony who bore him miles away up to the heights which he had dreamed inaccessible to him, almost intoxicated him. His blue eyes blazed ecstatically, and he would frequently break out into song.

"We're getting nearer and nearer God," he announced to Anstice. "I wish I was either a lark or an airman, then I could get nearer still."

They were away in the heart of the hills now, and came out upon a carriage track which zigzagged up across a pass, through two steep ranges of Fells. And then they came upon a broken-down motor-car, and a lady, seated on a bank near, called out for their assistance. She was disappointed when she saw no man was with them.

"It is a bad break somewhere near the axle," she explained to Anstice. "My chauffeur has gone off for assistance. There is a farm we passed a mile or so off. I think it's a screw broken. Happily I am unhurt. I am trying to get through to a friend's house the other side of this pass. I would walk, but I'm suffering from gout."

She was a handsome-looking woman, with white hair and flashing dark eyes, but with an unhappy face, and she regarded Ruffie with great intensity.

"What a lovely little face! Who is he?" she asked abruptly.

Ruffie took off his cap with a gallant air.

"My name is Rufus Holme," he said. "I wish I could lend you my pony to ride, but I can't walk without him, and I'm too heavy for Steppie to carry."

She smiled at him. She had given an involuntary start when she heard his name, but quickly recovered her equanimity.

"Thank you for the wish," she said; then, turning to Anstice, she asked if there was any house within her reach where she could rest.

Anstice considered. "I think there is a small farm round the corner, about a quarter of an hour's climb from here."

"I can't do it," she said with a little impatient sigh; "I must just wait till my man comes back. You might sit down and enliven my solitude, if you can spare the time. We are strangers, but it is a lovely afternoon. It is the loneliness that I dislike so much."

Anstice was quite willing to oblige, and Ruffie's pony was only too ready to rest. She took the little boy off his pony into her lap, and he, as well as she, talked to this strange lady of the Fells which they loved so much. The stranger did not give her name, and asked no more personal questions.

But presently Anstice said:

"I really think the quickest way will be to send off some one to get a car to drive you home. Would you like me to walk on to the farm above us, or do you think your chauffeur will have sent already?"

"He is too stupid to do that," said the lady irritably; "I told him to get some men to come and mend my car. That is all he will think about. The car is the first thought in his mind, not his mistress."

"Then I will go to the farm and send some one off to the inn at Stapp. That is the nearest place where they keep cars. Do you mind taking care of this little boy? I shall not be long."

"Thank you. Perhaps that is the best thing to do."

The afternoon was warm and sunny. Anstice took the cushions out of Ruffie's basket chair, and made a "nest" for him, as she called it, upon the ground close to the stranger. Then she tethered his pony to a stout mountain ash, close by.

"Now, Ruffie, you're a little gentleman, and you must take care of this lady till I come back," she said to the child when she had settled him comfortably amongst his cushions, and wrapped a warm shawl round his legs.

Ruffie held up his head gallantly. This was after his own heart. No shyness was in his composition, and when Anstice had left them, he turned to the stranger with his most angelic smile.

"I could spare you the littlest of my cushions if you would like to lean your head against it."

She smiled at him.

"No, thank you. I wouldn't take one of your cushions for all the world. Who is that lady? Your governess?"

"Oh, no, that's Steppie. She's a kind of mother, you know. Daddy made her into one. She's a wunnerful person, most comf'able to lean your head against when it aches. And I'm tremenjously fond of her. She makes you laugh when you feel like crying, and she gives the most lovely surprises in the world. She got me my chair for the pony, and Josie and Georgie their ponies. There's nothing she can't do, but the thing we like best about her is her stories. She has bookfuls in her head, and most of them she makes up herself."

"Who are Josie and Georgie? Your brothers?"

"Oh, no, they're only girls."

Ruffie's tone was pitying.

"They've always wished they were boys, but God didn't mean them to be. Steppie says nobody can't have everything they want. They can't be boys, and I can't have my legs, and she can't be a little girl again. And—" here his face twinkled impishly—"you can't have your car to go home with!"

"I'm afraid I can't," the lady said with a grim smile. "Go on talking to take my mind off my misfortune. Is your father at home?"

"No."

Ruffie's face became dejected.

"He's always, nearly always at sea in his yacht. He's been longer at home this last time than I ever remember before, and I did hope he'd forgotten the sea. I believe, if Steppie coaxed him very hard, he'd stay at home always. She's got such a coaxing face with holes in her cheeks when she laughs, and she puts her face down next yours, she's so soft and cuddly, that it makes all your wicked thoughts go away, and you hug her, and—and do egsackly as she tells you. Dad said to me, he 'spected she was happiest when he was away, and when I asked her was she, she wouldn't answer. I wish I could think of a kind of spell like the fairies and witches make in stories, that would keep Dad from going away from us. A kind of line that we could draw round the lake, and our house, which he couldn't possibly step over."

"The only spell that could do that would be love," said the lady gravely, "and your father has only loved one person in the world, I believe, and that is himself."

Ruffie's colour rose. He looked at the lady indignantly.

"You don't know Dad; he loves me, he loves me from the very bottom of his heart, and I love him!"

"I knew your Dad when he was a little boy and he always loved himself first."

"Did you know him as a little boy? Did he know you?"

This was quite an exciting discovery to Ruffie.

"Yes, we knew each other through and through. You are rather like him in face."

"Just the top of my body," said Ruffie with pathetic pride as he placed his small hands across his waist, "is quite all right, isn't it? And with this shawl covering me up, you might think I was all right all through. But Steppie says that I'm like a treasure cupboard, where the best things are on the top shelves. She says some little boys have their legs all right, but their heads are no good to them. And so I'm glad God took extra pains with my head. I'm not very clever really, but I'm going to be a painter when I grow up, and I've got a notebook where I write down the pictures that I shall paint when I'm a man. Steppie is going to find some one to teach me drawing and painting properly. Would you like to hear a few names of my pictures?"

"Very much."

Ruffie produced out of his jacket pocket rather a dirty and well-worn little notebook. Then he began reading:

"The Fells on Fire."

"Dad being carried by Angels to Heaven when he's very old."

"An Arab Steed chasing a Tiger."

"A big War in the Air."

"A Fairies' Wedding on the Lake."

"The Garden of Eden."

"A Puppies' Tea Party."

He paused.

"I think your ambition is great," said the lady, looking at him with a smile, "but I have always heard that artists' souls soar beyond their brushes."

Ruffie would have this explained to him.

Then he said:

"I dream of pictures in the night. And then I put down the names in the morning. Did you ever play leapfrog with Dad when he was a little boy?"

"I don't remember."

"Did you go to his house, and he come to yours?"

"No," said the lady, a grim look coming over her face. "We won't talk about those times any more. Do Josie and Georgie want to paint pictures like you?"

"Oh, no, indeed." Ruffie laughed merrily. "Georgie is going to write books when she grows up. She says she'll have read all there is to read by that time, and she'll want some more, so she'll make them herself. And Josie is going to play to the King and Queen at Buckingham Palace, and have nosegays of flowers flung at her for doing it."

Conversation did not languish between the two.

When Anstice returned, she found them on a very friendly footing. She had sent a farm boy off post-haste for a car, and it actually arrived at the same time that the chauffeur appeared with a blacksmith. The lady did not wait till her car was repaired. She took the hired car, and did not pursue her journey.

"I shall be glad to get home," she said. Then she turned to Anstice very graciously: "I am glad to have met you, and as for this small Rufus, I should like to run off with him, for he's the best company I have had for many a long day."

"Where do you live?" Ruffie asked her.

"A long way off from you," she said, "and I don't think we shall meet again. It is not very probable."

"But wouldn't you like to see Dad now he's grown-up?" Ruffie asked.

She shook her head. "Not at all, thank you. Good-bye. Perhaps one day I may send over for you to come and cheer up a very lonely old lady, but it's only a possibility, not a probability."

She turned to give directions to her chauffeur, and then, as Anstice was busy putting the little fellow into his basket chair, she came over and stood beside him.

"Will you give me a kiss?" she asked suddenly.

Ruffie coloured. He was not particularly fond of kissing strangers; then he put his little arms round her neck and pressed his soft, rosy mouth against her cheek.

"I like you," he said. "I like your eyes, they make me think of Dad's. You move them about like he does."

The stranger murmured something to herself, and Anstice caught the words: "May I be preserved from being like him in any way."

And then with a flash of intuition, Anstice guessed who she might be. But she said nothing.

Farewells were said, and then Anstice and Ruffie turned homewards.

"It is too late to go on farther to-day," Anstice said. "As it is, we shall be late for tea. What did you talk to that lady about, darling?"

Ruffie told her as much of the conversation as he could remember.

Anstice was very quiet on the way home. She wondered if it would have been best to ask for the stranger's name.

"But then she might have refused to give it to me," she told herself; "she evidently did not wish us to recognize her. I am glad she has met her nephew. It may do good. I hope it will. I shall tell Justin about it when he comes home. If I write to him about it, he will ignore it, and we shall be no 'forrarder.'"

BOOK III

LOVERS

CHAPTER I

"I CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT YOU"

THE children's hour was over. Anstice sat outside on the terrace enjoying a rest. She heard their happy chatter in the rooms above her, as they were being got ready for bed. It was a lovely evening in late June. Roses were just beginning to riot in the rose-beds and over the walls of the old house. There was a sweet scent of jasmine and of stocks coming from the flower-beds by the hall door. She looked across the park, which was golden in the evening sun, to the still, dark-blue water of the lake, and to the purple Fells beyond it. Much as her soul was enjoying the peaceful beauty of the scene before her eyes, her thoughts were on a certain yacht in Norwegian fiords, and very much with the owner of it.

She and Justin had exchanged a few friendly letters, but she had not heard for a fortnight now, and could not write till she had received his fresh address. He had been gone a month. She wondered if he were on his way to America, and a certain wistfulness gathered in her eyes as for the hundredth time she began to speculate upon her future. She was so engrossed with her thoughts, and so screened by a tall myrtle tree in a tub, that she neither heard nor saw an arrival at the house.

A few minutes later, a shadow came between her and the setting sun; and looking quickly up, to her amazement she saw that it was Justin himself. He stood looking at her for a moment in silence, as she rose to her feet. His eyes were upon her with a grave, inscrutable gaze, but his words were simple and to the point.

"I could not keep away any longer," he said.

Her hand was in his, and he held it, but he did not stoop to kiss her.

The colour had risen in her cheeks. To Justin she had never appeared more beautiful. She was in a soft creamy tea-gown, with a bunch of pale pink roses at her breast. Her eyes looked into his with her soft, sweet candour, and the dimples played in her cheeks, as she smiled him a welcome. If her colour had risen, and her hand trembled ever so lightly as it lay in his, her voice was steadiness itself.

"This is a pleasant surprise. Has a letter gone astray? We did not expect you so soon."

"No. I suddenly determined to come home. I had finished what I went away to do, and so I am back."

He hesitated, then the noiseless Neale appeared.

"If you please, ma'am, the young ladies are in the hall, they and Master Ruffie have seen—"

Justin turned sharply round with an exclamation of impatience.

Anstice said with her happy laugh: "Ruffie has sent them down to bring you up, Justin. They are not in bed yet. What a state of delight he must be in! Come along!"

She led the way into the house.

Josie and Georgie in their blue dressing-gowns stood in the hall. Their notion of proprieties had prevented them straying farther.

"Oh, Dad, we're not asleep. Ruffie is having his milk and biscuits, and he wants—he wants you at once."

Justin's brow was smooth again.

He stooped and kissed them.

"I see well you're not asleep," he said, then he sped up the stairs, and the next moment had his boy in his arms. Ruffie, laying his soft cheek against his father's tanned one, whispered:

"God has answered me much quicker this time. Oh, Dad—I b'lieve I've just prayed and prayed you back, till you couldn't keep away any longer!"

"And that's just what I have said to your mother," replied Justin, pressing his lips to the red gold curls resting against his shoulder; "I couldn't keep away any longer!"

Anstice left him to his children. They met half an hour later at the dinner table, and their conversation was limited to Justin's fishing experiences in the fiords.

There was a good deal of correspondence awaiting his return, and to Anstice's surprise, he shut himself into the smoking-room with it for the rest of the evening.

He wished her good night courteously but hardly affectionately, when she came to him to say that she was going to retire. And then, as she was leaving him, he spoke:

"Anstice, to-morrow morning I want your undivided attention. I am not going to stand any interruption, so will you come out with me directly after breakfast? I see that my only chance will be to get away from both house and children. We're in for a fine spell, so we'll take our lunch in the motor launch."

Anstice hesitated.

"I promised—"

"Whatever promises you have made must be broken. I have come home to have a talk with you, and that talk must be had to-morrow."

"Very well," she said quietly. "Your claims come first. I will send a message through Brenda to the Nixons to say I will go over another day."

She left him, and went upstairs to her room, but she did not go to bed, she sat by her window looking out into the hushed moonlit garden, and her thoughts grew complicated and confused. She heard her husband come up to his room soon after midnight, and later she was conscious of his restless pacing up and down the room.

When she finally went to bed, sleep forsook her. And, as so often when she had sleepless nights, her soul rose upwards in prayer to the One in Whose care and love she was resting.

"My past," she murmured, "has been full of mistakes. Do not let me take a false step now!"

And then at last she fell asleep, and did not wake till the sun was high in the heavens.

But when Justin came to breakfast, she had done all her housekeeping, and was ready for anything that he might require. At half-past ten their luncheon basket was in the launch, and they pushed off on a still, blue lake. The children had made a great outcry when they heard that both "Dad" and "Steppie" were going to disappear for the day, but Anstice promised them that she would be back to tea; and as Justin agreed to this, they were forced to be content.

Justin was unusually grave as they crossed the lake; Anstice began giving him bits of local news to which he barely responded. She saw he was preoccupied with his own thoughts, and waited his time for unfolding them.

He landed at a most delightful little cove away in the hollow of the Fells, a veritable nest of mossy turf against a bank of bracken, overshadowed by a drooping mountain ash. They took out their rugs and luncheon basket, and settled themselves comfortably down, then Justin drew a long breath.

"Now we're alone at last, we can't have any interruptions and you won't be able to get away from me till you've heard me out."

Anstice laughed, but it was an effort to be her natural easy self.

"You are very mysterious; but, as you say, you can now have my undivided attention."

"Why do you think I have come home?" he asked her abruptly.

"I don't quite know, but I think you are getting fond of your home and children."

"I haven't come home with any thoughts of the house or the children. I have come back, wholly and entirely, because of you."

He paused. Anstice did not speak. Her hands were loosely clasped round her knees, and she was gazing out upon the lake before her. On the opposite side was their home, set at the higher end of the beautiful sloping park. Its old chimneys rose behind the big shrubbery on one side, the sun was shining full on the glass in the windows. The cattle grazing under the big trees in the park, the fresh green of the wooded heights behind, and the buttercup meadows edging the lakeside below, all formed a picture of a sweet English home.

But though Anstice's gaze was dwelling on what she loved, her heart was hammering loudly. This masterful man by her side was not the indifferent husband of a year ago. She knew a crisis was now in their lives, and she was not sure whether she was ready to meet it. She would have liked to slip on a little longer in the way that they had been going.

So she did not respond to him. She just listened to what he had to tell her.

"I went away," he said, "because the situation had become impossible for me, and I went to consider the relative values of things. As I fished in Norway, I threshed the subject out, but your figure was always before me. Looking back now, I see what a brutally selfish bargain I made with you. But my ideals of women were shattered, and I only cared for my own peace and comfort. Then, when I returned home, and saw what a good woman's presence and influence could do and how my home and children were transformed, I settled down selfishly still to bask in the sunshine, and to enjoy the fruit of your labours. But as time went on, Anstice, I began to see that such a life would not satisfy me. You yourself, not by any premeditated effort on your part—I think that would have choked me off—but by your personality, your power, your love for every one and everything needing love, in this world; your infinite patience, and may I say your delicious lapses from the divine to the most common things of this life, all this built up afresh for me the ideal womanhood as it should be. It gave me back my faith in women, and in God. I never spoke to you of my mother."

He stopped, and pulled out his watch. Opening the back of it, he held it out to her, and there was an exquisite miniature of a white-haired, dark-eyed woman, a woman with sweet, tender mouth, a determined chin and keen, purposeful eyes. Looking from her face to his, Anstice exclaimed:

"You are like her."

He shook his head.

"She was all that a mother and wife ought to be, and I expected my wife to be like her. I only tell you this to excuse myself. And having once been disillusioned, I had no use for any women afterwards. You knew this when you married me."

"Yes," said Anstice very quietly; "I knew and understood."

"Why did you marry me?" he asked her. "Knowing you now, I know that the mercenary side of it could have no weight with you, but at the time, I thought it might."

"I think it was a dream that made me," said Anstice very simply. "The thought of the poor neglected children had most weight with me. I dreamt that they were in an open boat helpless at the mercy of the waves, and calling out to me to rescue them."

"I have wronged you," said Justin; "and I ask your forgiveness."

"No," said Anstice quietly, "that is unnecessary. I have been thinking that I wronged you. I have taken different views of life since I came here, and I think that no two people ought to wed unless there is real love between them. It is binding two souls in chains; you, a man, ought to woo the wife of your choice, not be tied down by legal marriage to one for whom you have no liking, nor perhaps respect."

"Don't talk like that."

Justin's voice was almost sharp.

"I respected you from the first day I saw you. And you must know that I've had more than a liking for you. Well, the long and short of it is, that we have started our married life all wrong, and we're going, I hope, to put it right. Anstice—" he dropped his masterful tone and became almost humble—"there is only one thing that will keep a man's life straight and pure, and that is faith in a woman. I've been without it these many years, and though I've steered away from some evils through natural distaste, I've given myself over to rancour and bitterness and selfishness. You've given me that faith again, Anstice. May God help me to profit by it."

Anstice sat silent. Her eyes were misty, her hands clenched each other tightly, then after a moment she said:

"It is faith in God, not in woman, that you need, Justin. Faulty, erring woman will let you down over and over again."

"Well, all this has been simmering in my mind whilst I fished in Norway," Justin went on, "but through it and above it surged a great flood which has swept me to your feet. Right or wrong as our past has been, I can offer you all my heart's love, Anstice. I want you, not for what you have done, and are still doing for me, but for you yourself. And this, and this alone, has brought me home. I cannot live without you. I don't want to be like a polite stranger. I want to be your best beloved, as you are to me. Can you take me with all my selfishness and make a better man of me? We have been good comrades and friends; I want to be something truer and deeper. Have I taken you by surprise?"

Anstice still looked away over the lake, but she turned her head at last, and her eyes sought his in wistful appeal.

"Are you sure that your heart wants me, Justin?"

"As sure as the sun above us," said Justin fervently, and then he put his arm around her, and drew her close to himself.

"Have I really won you? Tell me with your own lips."

"I have been yours for a long time," said Anstice.

"Then why have you been so cold and cruel to me? Why did you not let me see a little of your heart?"

Anstice shook her head, and smiled into his eyes.

"How could I? A woman cannot take the first step. You impressed upon me in our first meeting that you meant to be nothing to me; that I was to have no hopes of being anything more than a caretaker and housekeeper. Why should I show you my feelings towards you, before you showed me yours?"

"I have been miserable," Justin owned. "I have almost been jealous of my own children when they gathered round you in the evening. I could not stand it any longer. I had to get away. You seemed so aloof and indifferent."

"I wasn't really. I knew you were not happy. I am quick in reading faces, and I read yours like an open book. I longed to comfort you, and yet how could I? You have been looking so lonely and so wistful, that my heart ached for you."

"I have felt like a lost soul. I was so close to you, and yet so far."

Then he stooped and kissed her passionately.

"I shall demand a great deal of comfort from you now," he said in a tone of such exquisite satisfaction that Anstice broke into a low laugh.

"You are such a boy sometimes," she said.

They had their picnic lunch in that mossy hollow, and every barrier rolled away between them. Hours sped away like moments. Justin took her over the lake again, and they talked of many things. When they eventually reached home about four in the afternoon, their faces were radiant. Josie met them in the hall, and said with her usual frankness:

"Why, Steppie, you look glorious! You must have had a topping time! And Georgie and me have been quarrelling all the afternoon. You've left us such a longtime!"

"Have I?" said Anstice. "But you mustn't depend upon me to keep the peace between you."

"We began to argue about you and Dad. Georgie said you didn't really like Dad being home. You were happier with us, when there was no one to interfere, and I said you laughed much more when he was in the house, and that you were quite miserable the first day he had left us; and then we got to who you really liked best; and then after Ruffie, I thought you liked me, and she said you liked her, and then she reminded me of all the nasty things I did and said to you, and I reminded her of her disgusting ways, and then we went on and on until we came to hate each other. And then we knocked each other down, and now she's locked herself into our room, and I can't get in. Will you come up and make her open the door?"

So Anstice was brought down from Paradise to earth, and she left Justin and went upstairs to assure the little girls, as she had often assured them before, that she liked them equally well, but that the only thing she did not like and would not have in the house was bad temper and quarrelling.

Bob Falkland came over to see Justin when he was at tea, and Anstice and he did not have any more time together till they sat out on the terrace after dinner was over.

It was a lovely evening; the lake lay like a pool of glass under the dark purple Fells. And Anstice, looking up into the bright starlight sky, suddenly put her hand very gently upon Justin's arm.

"I have been thinking, Justin, that this day will be one of the happiest in my life. And I have been thanking God for having given it to me. There is only one thing I want now; and I think I want it even more than I want your love."

"Don't say that," said Justin. "What is it?"

"I want you to know and believe in the Love of God for yourself."

Justin was silent for a moment, then he said, "You shall teach me anything you like. You have restored my faith in woman; you may teach me to have faith in God."

She said no more, for her heart was full.

Justin lit up his cigarette; then his eyes roved over the beautiful lake in front of them, but they did not stay there, they wandered to the old stone house behind them, and finally rested on his wife's sweet face.

"This is your kingdom," he said. "I only ask to be a subject in it."

Anstice protested at once. "My kingdom must have its king," she said. "We'll rule together, Justin. I in my domain, and you in yours."

"I've been an idler," he said, looking at her with a spice of mischief in his eye, "and I dare say I shall get you to be an idler too. Will you come off in the yacht with me round Scotland? I should like you to see the Scotch lochs."

"Some time I may like to do so, but you won't be off again just yet?"

"Perhaps not. You are more than enough for me. I am content at last."

He drew her to him, and they sat on in the fast deepening twilight, feeling the peace and beauty around them typical of what was in their souls.

But when Anstice was alone in her room that evening, she took her small Bible in her hand and tried to find some verses that were running in her mind and thoughts. She found them at last.

"And the woman which hath an husband that believeth not, and if he be pleased to dwell with her, let her not leave him, for the unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife . . . For what knowest thou, O wife, whether thou shalt save thy husband."

"If any obey not the word, they also may without the word be won by the conversation of the wives."

Musing upon these suggestive words, she knelt in prayer. She had a tremendous belief in its powers, and when she rose from her knees, hope—almost certain hope—was filling her heart.

"If I can't do it, God can. He will lead him to the Way, the Truth and the Life. We both began our wedded life without any religion; if I was led to the right path, Justin will be. I will trust and not be afraid."

CHAPTER II

RECONCILIATION

"ANSTICE, will you come out for a ride with me?" Justin put his head in at the nursery door one afternoon with this request.

Anstice and Brenda were both busy cutting and shaping some frocks for the little girls out of some white serge on the nursery table. Ruffie was lying on his couch by the window, very busy with pencil and paper. He hailed his father's appearance with joy.

"Come and see what I am drawing. And wouldn't you like me to come on my pony with you?"

His father came over to the couch.

"No, my boy. I want Steppie by herself. When you are with us, she is too busy talking to you to talk to me."

"I will come in ten minutes," Anstice said, looking up from her cutting-out.

"Then I'll order the horses. Ruffie, my boy, what awful tragedy are you depicting?"

"It's a car turned nearly topsy-turvy on Scawfell, and there's the lady crying, and Steppie and I coming to rescue her. It's all true, and she said she knew you as a little boy. Wasn't that funny?"

"Lots of people knew me as a boy," said his father.

He was looking at his son's picture with a mixture of admiration and amusement. Ruffie's figures were wonderfully clever, and looked alive, though technically there were many mistakes.

"She had eyes like yours, Dad."

Then the observant child looked straight into his father's face.

"But your eyes smile now, they never used to; and they seem to melt when you look at Steppie. You won't take her for a very long ride, will you, and forget all about tea, and us afterwards?"

"I'll try not to," his father assured him, and then he left the room, and twenty minutes later he and Anstice were starting for a ride amongst the Fells. He was talking to her about Ruffie's talent for drawing, and they were arranging that he should have lessons from an artist whom Anstice had heard about and who lived in Penrith, when she suddenly said:

"Do you know the name of the lady whom we met on the Fells?"

"No; one of our neighbours, I suppose."

"It was your sister."

Justin did not speak for a moment, then he said, "Did she make herself known to you?"

"No, I saw she did not wish to do so, but she seemed to be much impressed with Ruffie. Justin, cannot we be friends?"

"What would you have me do?"

"I know you have made overtures to her. You have told me so before; but won't you make another effort? Just one more. It seems so sad to me that the children should not know the only relative they have."

"She is an unforgiving woman."

Justin's voice was hard.

"A North-country woman," said Anstice with a smile; "but North-country people are as deep in their loves as in their dislikes. What can we do? How can we win her?"

"Why should you trouble yourself about her?"

"Well, ever since Miss Maybrick's death, I have been wanting you to make it up with her. That seemed such a tragedy; and now, too late, the one sister left, mourns for the one she quarrelled with. Life here isn't very long; and your sister is getting old, much older than you, isn't she?"

"Not so very much older. People say she has aged quickly. I would do anything to please you, Anstice dearest; but I really don't know what I can do in this matter. I think you are dispelling all the bitterness in my nature, for I can think of Grace now with pity. I was really more to blame than she was. I'll write to her if you like. I can but have another try."

With this promise, Anstice was content. She was so happy herself, that she longed for others to be so too. She could not forget Miss Holme's unhappy face. When they returned home, Justin shut himself into his smoking-room. And later on, when the children were safely in bed, he showed her his letter. It was very brief.

"MY DEAR GRACE,—

"From what I hear, you happened upon my wife and boy the other day in the Fells. Will you come over one day next week to lunch and renew your acquaintance? Let bygones be bygones. I was to blame, and ask you to forgive and forget the past.

"We lunch at one.

"Your affec. brother,

"JUSTIN."

Anstice smiled up at her husband, then placed her hand on his shoulder caressingly.

"You'll carry a light heart now, and I believe she will respond."

The letter went its way, and two days later the answer came.

"DEAR JUSTIN,—

"I was impressed with your small son, and I confess should like to see more of him. We will consider the past as a sealed page. Expect me on Tuesday.

"Your affec. sister,

"GRACE."

"Ruffie wins everybody's heart," said Anstice.

"And what about you?"

"Oh, I'm a negligible quantity," said Anstice, laughing. "Now, Justin, you must explain your sister's existence to your children. You can do that better than I can."

"I will try," he said, and he went straight away and did it.

The little girls were much interested.

"Have we really an aunt? Where has she been all this time? Why has she never been to see us?"

"She doesn't live very near us," said Justin rather awkwardly.

"And she's the lady who said she knew you as a little boy," said Ruffie; "how very funny that she did not know she must be my aunt! She didn't speak nice of you, Dad; she said you only loved one person, and that was yourself, and I told her you loved me!"

"You were right to stand up for your old Dad," said Justin. "Perhaps I had better tell you straight out that, long ago, your aunt and I disagreed about something, and we thought it was best for us to live away from each other. But we're going to be friends again, and I hope you'll all be very pally and nice to her when you see her."

"Oh, Steppie will be nice to her," said Georgie. "We'll see what she's like first, before we get pally with her."

So on the following Tuesday, Miss Holme came over to lunch, and her brother greeted her in a very quiet, matter-of-fact way.

"Glad to see you, Grace. I want you to know my wife."

"We do know each other a little, don't we?" said Anstice, with her bright smile. "I have so often wondered how you fared after that motor misadventure of yours."

Miss Holme was graciousness itself to Anstice, and if she were rather stiff at first towards her brother, it soon wore off. By the time that lunch was over, she seemed thoroughly at home; and when the children appeared, she devoted herself to them.

Josie and Georgie condescended to approve of her, and frankly told her so.

"We only knew a few days ago," said Josie, "that you were an aunt of ours. Ruffie seemed to like you when he met you in the Fells, but we weren't there. Some aunts in books are horrid."

"But I'm not in a book, thank goodness," laughed her aunt.

She invited them over to spend the day with her before she left, and Justin said he would send them over in the car. Then she took hold of Anstice's arm and led her off down the garden. When they were quite alone, she said:

"What have you done to Justin? You have tamed him entirely. I never saw a man so altered. I heard about you from Myra Wykeham. You certainly have done wonders. Most awful accounts were given me of the house and children, but they now seem most desirable to me! I was tempted more than once to come over in Justin's absence; but pride forbade me. I suppose we owe our reconciliation to you. Family quarrels are a mistake. But I was treated very badly. Justin was a spoilt boy, and grew up a masterful, domineering man. He met his match in his first wife, she was an outrageous flirt, and I can tell you this house was no home after she set her foot inside it. But I could not feel sorry for him. He chose her himself, and when he tried to dominate her, she rebelled, flouted him, openly scorned him, and filled the house with her old admirers. It was a shocking state of affairs. He rued his marriage bitterly. You were a brave woman to come and tackle her children. They do you credit."

She did most of the talking. Anstice listened, she liked her; but saw that both she and Justin were too self-centred to get on amicably together. Still her visit was a complete success, though Justin heaved a sigh of relief when she had gone.

"Now," he said, turning to Anstice with a spark of humour in his eye, "I'm at peace with the whole world. The family skeleton has been taken out, and is no more!"

It was very soon after this, that Justin came to Anstice with a request.

"I don't want to insist upon it, if you're not agreeable, but I want you to discontinue playing the organ in church on Sundays."

"Why?" asked Anstice. "It would be very difficult to get anyone to supply my place."

"Oh, I'll manage that. I'll stand the salary. There must be numbers of men or women who would like a small job of that sort. I want you in my seat with me as my wife. Don't laugh! You've made me into a regular church-goer, but I like to have my family with me, and the fidgets of the small girls is more than I can stand. Ruffie suggests that he might come to church. How can I manage the lot of them? You can go to the choir practices, and play the organ as often as you like on weekdays, but I do need you on Sundays. Are you very much set upon being organist?"

"No, not at all. When you are away, it is awkward. I have only done it to help Mr. Bolland. If we can get someone, and you're able to defray the expense of it, I will willingly give it up."

Then she added: "I shall love sitting by you. We shall be able to enjoy the services together."

"I haven't got to the enjoyable stage yet," was her husband's rejoinder. "I'm interested in Bolland's sermons, he seems to make an extraordinary lot out of quite a commonplace text, and he's original and interesting; but to be frank, the service itself bores me!"

"It won't always bore you."

He shook his head sceptically, and changed the subject, but he managed to get his way. An organist was found, and Anstice enjoyed her Sundays more when she was no longer responsible for the church music. She did not entirely give up the organ. Sometimes in the week, when she passed that way, she would go into the church and have a quiet time by herself. She could always get an organ-blower from the sexton's cottage next the church, for there were boys there of different ages.

Ruffie got his wish, and was taken to church in his chair, but in the sermon, he always found his way into his father's arms. The Rector had found favour in his sight, and he expressed his opinion very quaintly after his first experience in church.

"The organ and singing are lovely, specially when I know the words and the tunes, but I get tired of the reading and muttering. I like Mr. Bolland's part most."

"What do you mean by muttering?" his father asked.

"Oh, when the people put their heads down and mutter into the floor under their seats. I s'pose it's their prayers. I used to mutter prayers into my hands. Brenda taught me to, but now Steppie says I can talk to God just as I like, and so I always have the window open and speak up into the sky."

"And you like the sermon best? So do I. Your mother would tell you worship ought to come first."

"I like it when Mr. Bolland smiles at us; he always smiles when he says something 'ticularly nice, like God and Jesus loving us."

"Don't make Ruffie too good," said Justin to Anstice a day or two later. "I don't want him to sprout wings and fly away from us. It's unnatural for a small boy to be religious. I never was, as a boy."

"You led a more active life than Ruffie. He has time and opportunity to think out things. But I don't think it's unnatural for children to be religious. They take to it like ducklings take to water. It is their natural atmosphere. 'Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.'"

"I don't want him to soar above me," persisted Justin. "He has always thought the world of his Dad. I am afraid of him learning to criticize my ideals, to find them empty and rotten, and then have a profound pity and contempt for me."

"Oh, Justin, nice children are never critics. Ruffie will never be a prig. I remember, as a child, I always thought every grown-up person was naturally good, with the exception perhaps of thieves, drunkards and murderers. Don't you think it would be possible to raise your ideals above Ruffie's head and keep them there?"

Justin looked at her with a smile. They were sitting together on the terrace, as they generally did after dinner, he smoking, she with a bit of work between her busy fingers.

"What are my ideals?" he said slowly. "I am changing them, you know, since I have known you. A year or two ago, they were to be free of all worry and responsibility, to laze in the sun in foreign climes, to be beyond the reach of civilization's claims. I think to-day my ideal is to make myself worthy of my wife. I want her to respect me, as well as love me. If I reach her standard, I shall be content."

"Oh, Justin!" Anstice's voice was almost pained, then she smiled. "And if we love, it makes all things easy. If we love the One who loves us, we shall try to reach His Standard, and do what He would have us do. We must try together to reach God's Standard."

Justin shrugged his shoulders.

"I shall never be as religious as you are," he said, "but I wouldn't have you otherwise; for you're just perfect in my eyes!"

He would seldom be drawn into religious argument; and yet there was nothing he liked better than being an unseen listener to Anstice's Sunday stories, and talks with the children.

She did not worry him with overmuch talk, but she prayed for him earnestly and continuously.

One day, she had a letter from Louise telling her of the death of her uncle. She at once went over to her, and stayed with her till after the funeral.

For the next few weeks Louise was a good deal at Butterdale. She was going to be married almost at once, and Anstice insisted that she must be married from the Manor. Justin was willing; he took a liking to the girl. Her brightness and naturalness pleased him; and he promised, if she had no nearer friend or relative, to give her away.

"I have no one," she said simply; "there are not many with so few relations as I." And then she talked to Anstice about her future prospects. "I am going to live in the farm with George and Minna. She is very ill, I'm afraid, but I shall be able to nurse her."

"My dear child, what a sad beginning to your married life!"

"Oh, no, we love each other, and George is devoted to her. I'm so glad to think we shall be all together for a little while still. I shan't have very much of our Fells and lake; for if Minna dies, George will go back to a busy doctor's life in some big town. I don't want him to stay where he is wasted. I shall go gladly with him, but I know now from experience how I shall miss our wild country when I have it no more!"

She was very busy settling a sale at the Vicarage, then on one beautiful summer day, she was married in Butterdale Church by Mr. Bolland, and took her leave of Anstice with a tearful, radiant face. She and the young doctor took no honeymoon, for poor Minna was in the last stages of decline, and, just three weeks after the wedding, passed away.

It was not very long after that, that George Ogilvy heard of an opening in Liverpool. The old doctor with whom he had worked before asked him to come back to him, as he would soon be retiring, and a younger man was wanted to take over the practice. So once again, Anstice had to part with her young friend. But she felt happy about her now. And Louise, up to the last, persisted in saying that all her happiness had come to her through Anstice.

Justin, in hearing the story, said to his wife, "Another subject in your kingdom! You reach out your hands to every one. What a benefit I conferred upon the neighbourhood when I brought you here, and how little I thought what a power my wife would become! The opinion all over the Fells is that the 'Maaster ha' gotten a wife a power too good for him,' which is of course a fact that no one can gainsay!"

"Oh, Justin, don't be ridiculous!" Anstice laughed as she spoke, then she tucked her hand inside her husband's arm.

"The opinion of the Fells about the Squire or Maaster is very simple. 'He be good at heart, and sound as a bell, a raal great-minded mon!' That has been said to me over and over again, and it is music in my ears."

"Ah," said Justin with a short-breathed sigh, "they know how to get on the right side of you, but you and I know better." Then he bent and kissed her. "Sweetheart, believe in me a little. I pray I may give you no cause for doubt."

And Anstice returned his kiss and murmured:

"I feel that you will never fail me."

CHAPTER III

IN THE SHADOWS

JUSTIN came in from a ride one afternoon to find Anstice waiting for him in the hall with an anxious expression in her eyes.

"Anything the matter?" he asked lightly.

"I hope not. Josie is not very well. I am wondering whether I shall send for the doctor."

"She was running about in the garden before breakfast."

"Yes, but she has had a sore throat since yesterday morning, and this afternoon was so heavy-eyed and flushed that I have put her to bed."

"Oh, she'll be all right to-morrow, I expect. Children often have ailments."

Justin seemed perfectly unconcerned; but Anstice knew that if it had been Ruffie, he would have been anxious at once.

"I have just heard," Anstice said slowly, "that there is an outbreak of scarlet fever in the village, and I am sorry to say that Hal Cross is down with it. Stephen has just been up to tell me so."

"Hal? But, good heavens, he was drawing Ruffie round the garden in his chair two days ago!"

Justin was startled and alarmed now. He had just had the telephone installed, and made his way towards it. "We'll have the doctor round. You're afraid that Josie has got it?"

"I may be mistaken."

"We mustn't risk anything. Keep her apart from the others. I think Georgie had not better be with Ruffie. She and Josie are always together."

Justin rang the doctor up.

"I always feel," he said, turning to Anstice with concern in his tone, "that if Ruffie caught any bad illness, he would never weather through it. If anything happened to him, I should go mad!"

The doctor 'phoned that he would come round, and in two hours' time did so. But he confirmed their fears, and told them that Josie was undoubtedly sickening for it. Anstice immediately made all preparations. She moved Ruffie down on to the next landing, and told Brenda that she was not to come near Josie.

"I shall nurse her myself, and we must have this landing to ourselves."

Poor Georgie was, as it were, between two fires. She was not allowed by her father to go near Ruffie, neither was she allowed to go near her sister. For two miserable days she wandered about the house alone, and then came almost triumphantly up to her father.

"I'm going to get the fever. I've got a sore throat."

He looked suspiciously at her. "Are you inventing it?"

"No, on my word and honour, it's true. May I go upstairs to Steppie and Josie?"

"Go into your room and stay there till the doctor comes," said her father sharply.

Georgie went upstairs slowly and miserably. She did not feel well, was half frightened and half excited at the thought of being ill herself, and wanted Anstice to pet and comfort her.

Her father went to Ruffie's room, fear knocking at his heart. He missed Anstice, who had wholly given up herself as sick nurse to Josie.

The very thought of his idolized boy being struck down by this infectious disease filled his mind with terror and dismay. He was relieved to find Ruffie his usual bright little self, and taking him up in his arms carried him out into the garden and deposited him in a small hammock under the tree which had been rigged up for his use and comfort.

Before another day had passed, Georgie had been put in the same room as her sister. Anstice was nursing them both. Neither of the little girls had the disease severely, but it was bad enough to make them very querulous and uncomfortable. The doctor insisted upon a nurse being sent in to help Anstice. Justin was vexed with her for devoting herself to the little girls, but nothing would induce her to act otherwise.

As the days went on, Justin began to congratulate himself upon Ruffie being proof against infection. He was with him a great deal, and took him up amongst the Fells on his pony, feeling that the open-air life would be the best thing for him at present. Ruffie missed Anstice and his sisters, and was always talking about them.

"Shall you and I catch it next, Dad? What fun, when we're all in bed together!"

But Justin did not feel inclined to joke about it. He was still watching his boy with breathless suspense, noting any feverishness or heightened colour with anxious eyes. Brenda tried to comfort him.

"He need not have it, sir. The little girls had measles once and he never took it. They say that delicate children often escape illnesses."

Hope allayed his fears for the time. And then one evening Ruffie grew fretful over a game of chess with his father. He grew careless over his moves, and when he was not winning, he threw out his little hand and overturned the pieces.

"I'm tired, my head aches."

His father took him in his arms, and tried to soothe him. Ruffie put up hot little fingers and stroked his cheek. "I love you, Dad, but I miss Steppie dreffully. I want to feel her velvet dress against my cheek."

"She can't come to you, sonny; she's nursing your sisters."

"But they ought to be well by now. They've been ill such a long time. I want Steppie!" He was half crying.

"You mustn't be a baby," his father said. "Cheer up! If your head aches, what does Steppie do?"

"She puts eau-de-C'logne on her hanky and dabs my forehead."

"Oh, I can do that," said his father with alacrity.

He found the eau-de-Cologne, and tried his hand at cooling Ruffie's hot head. But either his hands and movements were awkward, or the child was impatient, for he suddenly pushed him from him, and burst into tears.

"I want Steppie! I want Steppie. I feel mis'able!"

Brenda came to the rescue.

"I'll put him to bed, sir. He is tired and hot; he will be all right to-morrow."

Justin hardly slept that night. Ruffie, and Ruffie only, was in his thoughts. He stole into his room in the early morning, and found Brenda bending over the child's bed with an anxious face. Looking up, she made an effort to speak lightly:

"He's been very restless and feverish all night, sir. I hope he may be better now. He's had a nice sleep since six o'clock."

"He's no better at all," said a plaintive little voice from the pillow. "He's very ill indeed, very!"

Justin came and put his hand on the little forehead; the curls were moist with heat, and the anxious father looked at Brenda with scared eyes.

"I must get hold of Mrs. Holme. We'll let the doctor see him when he comes."

He sped along to the upper corridor and to the nursery wing which was set apart for the girls. He dared not go near his wife, because of carrying infection to Ruffie, but spoke to her from a distance. She spoke to him with pale face and tired eyes, but she spoke encouragingly.

"Ruffie often has feverish nights, but let the doctor see him by all means. Is his throat sore?"

"I have not heard him complain of it."

"Brenda will nurse him. She is accustomed to these feverish attacks of his. We'll hope it is nothing more."

Justin went back to his boy. He felt that he could not leave him.

Two hours later, the doctor arrived. Justin paced up and down in the passage outside Ruffie's room till the doctor had finished his examination. His face was haggard when the door opened and Dr. Forsyth joined him.

"Is he all right? Is it anything serious?"

"I am afraid," said the doctor gently, "that he will be our next patient."

"He has taken it, then?"

"I think so. The symptoms are that way."

Justin said nothing. Now the blow had fallen, he seemed stunned for a time. Dr. Forsyth went on upstairs to see the little girls. When he came down he found Justin waiting for him on the terrace.

"You'll pull him through, Forsyth? I can't tell you what he is to me." His voice choked. He turned abruptly away.

"Oh, yes," the doctor said in his cheerful professional manner; "there's no reason why he should have it more severely than the little girls. They have done splendidly. I'll call to-morrow early."

He was gone.

And the following day left no room for doubt. The rash appeared, and Ruffie was too ill to take any notice of his father. Anstice, of course, at once came to him. She was thankful that Josie and Georgie no longer needed her. She and Brenda devoted themselves to Ruffie, whose temperature was up to an alarming height and kept them intensely anxious. Justin would not be shut out of the sick-room, but he could do little there. And as the days went on, Ruffie seemed to slip farther and farther into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. He was so frail that Anstice felt it would be impossible for him to pull through.

She faced the doctor at last with a white face.

"Dr. Forsyth, he is sinking. I feel he is. You don't think he will pull through?"

"You know the old saying, 'While there is life, there is hope.' If he does not rally within an hour or two, the end will come."

He was an old man and experienced with children. Anstice knew that he had given up hope. She said nothing, but her heart rose in passionate prayer to God to preserve the little life, if only for his father's sake. And then when the doctor had left, she went to Justin. He had seen Dr. Forsyth as he left the house and had heard his opinion. Anstice found him sitting before his writing-table in the smoking-room, his head bowed in his hands. She put her hand very gently upon his shoulder. He did not speak, but a low groan escaped him. Then suddenly he faced her with hard, despairing eyes.

"If he is taken from us, my faith in God will go. It is tyrannical cruelty to spare the girls, and take him!"

"Hush! Hush! My dearest!" And with tears in her eyes, Anstice leant her cheek against his. "I'm praying still. All things are possible with God. He loves him, and He loves us. We won't doubt His love."

A short time after they were both in Ruffie's room. The fever had raged in his tiny body, and now his temperature had dropped. He lay like a little waxen image, his beautiful eyes closed, and only the very slightest rise and fall of his chest told them that he was still breathing. The nurse was sitting by his side. She had been giving him from time to time a little drop of stimulant in a teaspoon. For days he had been unconscious. Justin sank on his knees beside the bed, and Anstice signed to the nurse to leave them.

"I will take your place," she said, and the nurse, who had been on duty for some hours, went.

To Anstice, it seemed as if angels were already hovering over Ruffie ready to waft his soul to the Home for little children. She almost felt as if she could wrestle in prayer no longer; and yet, as she looked at her husband kneeling there, and knew his agony of soul, she again pleaded that the precious life might be spared. Justin had taken one of the little wasted hands in his and pressed it to his lips. There was a quiver of eyelashes, and then the brown eyes gazed at him, and a slight quivering smile crossed the face.

"Daddy dear!"

The words were but a whisper; yet both Anstice and Justin caught them.

"It's his good-bye," said Justin with a choke in his voice, for the eyes had closed again, and Anstice put her hand gently over the little heart to see if it was still beating. Five minutes of breathless silence. They waited, both feeling they were in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and then the nurse stole in again. She stood at the foot of the bed, then softly opened the window as wide as possible.

"Don't bend over him. Give him as much air as possible."

Anstice at once took the hint, but Justin remained on his knees. Anstice saw his lips were moving, and she knew that he was praying. And then the nurse drew nearer.

"He is sleeping," she said. "Leave him to me; if he sleeps, he may wake the better for it."

Husband and wife reluctantly left the room, Anstice to go to the little girls, Justin to pace up and down the terrace outside beneath his boy's bedroom. All that night they watched and waited, and then towards morning, the child's pulse seemed stronger and his temperature rose. When the doctor came, he heard the good news with a smile.

"If he has improved at all, there is hope."

And before he went, he laid his hand on Anstice's shoulder. "He has turned the corner. With careful nursing, I believe we shall pull him through."

It was indeed true. Ruffie's little feet had been very near the margin of the river, but no farther. He had been given back for a few more years to rejoice his father's heart. A few days later, when his recovery was a joyful fact, Anstice wandered out into the garden to get a little fresh air. She was too tired to walk much, for the strain of Ruffie's illness, on the top of the nursing of his sisters, had almost proved too much for her. She sat down on the lawn under one of the old trees. The beeches were turning colour, and the elms and oaks were already carpeting the green turf with their fallen leaves. It was a calm autumnal day. Anstice's heart was full of thanksgiving; she could think of nothing but the mercy and loving-kindness of God.

And then presently Justin joined her. He had come straight from the boy's room. But though his head was erect and steps light, there was a great gravity on his face. He sat down on the garden seat by the side of his wife. Then he bent his head and kissed her.

"You are worn out, sweetheart!" His tender, sympathetic tone sent the tears with a rush to Anstice's eyes.

"I am only so thankful, so thankful!" she said.

He was silent for a moment, then spoke:

"These past weeks have been hard on both of us. For myself I own, I've never been in such trouble before. I think I'd like you to know that when Ruffie was given back to us, I gave God my heart and life."

He stopped. Anstice slipped her hand into his and gave it a little squeeze.

For a moment she could say nothing. Her heart was too full for words.

Then she said softly: "It has been worth the strain and stress of these past weeks to hear you say that."

They sat looking out upon the blue, still lake in the distance. Anstice was thinking of her short and strange married life, and how through Ruffie's illness, she had obtained her heart's desire.

Then she turned again to Justin. She knew that to such a proud reserved man as himself, his confession had cost him something.

"We are both beginners," she said, "but we can help each other. I always hoped that you and I would eventually have the same aims, the same goal! Don't you like these lines? I read them this morning in a little book I have:"

"'The race Thou hast appointed us, with patience we can run;
Thou wilt perform unto the end, the work Thou hast begun.'"

FINIS

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Table of Contents

- HER KINGDOM
- CHAPTER I
- CHAPTER II
- CHAPTER III
- CHAPTER IV
- CHAPTER V
- CHAPTER VI
- CHAPTER VII
- CHAPTER VIII
- CHAPTER IX
- CHAPTER I
- CHAPTER II
- CHAPTER III
- CHAPTER IV
- CHAPTER V
- CHAPTER VI
- CHAPTER VII
- CHAPTER VIII
- CHAPTER I
- CHAPTER II
- CHAPTER III
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE