TABLE of CONTENTS

CHAPTER I—BLANCHE BETHUNE,

CHAPTER II—A HEART-BROKEN MOTHER.

CHAPTER III—THE ESCAPE.

CHAPTER IV—THE SEARCH.

CHAPTER V—A STREET ACCIDENT.

CHAPTER VI—A FRUITLESS SEARCH.

CHAPTER VII—MOTHER AND CHILD.

CHAPTER VIII—ALONE IN THE WORLD.

CHAPTER IX—OLIVE’S RESOLVE.

CHAPTER X—THE LENHOUSES.

CHAPTER XI—A FRIEND IN NEED.

CHAPTER XII—OLIVE’S PUPILS.

CHAPTER XIII—THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

CHAPTER XIV—A STRANGE LIKENESS.

CHAPTER XV—IN THE STUDY.

CHAPTER XVL—GERALD LENHOUSE

CHAPTER XVIL—TORMENTING THOUGHTS.

CHAPTER XVIII—A PASSAGE AT ARMS.

CHAPTER XIX—A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE.

CHAPTER XX—THE MINIATURE.

CHAPTER XXI—DICK TO THE RESCUE. .

CHAPTER XXII—COLONEL LENHOUSE IS ANGRY.

CHAPTER XXIII—A PEACEFUL REFUGE.

CHAPTER XXIV—TWO STORIES.

CHAPTER XXV—THE COURSE- OF TRUE LOVE.

CHAPTER XXV—A STEADFAST FRIEND

CHAPTER XXVII—A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.

CHAPTER XXVIII—THE COLONEL OUTWITTED.

CHAPTER XXIX—MISS BETHUNE PROVES HER IDENTITY

CHAPTER XXX—THE COLONEL MAKES THE BEST OF IT.

CHAPTER XXXI—DICK’S CONGRATULATIONS

CHAPTER XXXII—IN THE SOUDAN.

CHAPTER XXXIII—OLIVE’S BIRTHDAY.

LIST of ILLUSTRATIONS

- OLIVE LEAPT INTO HER MOTHER’S ARMS

- “INTO BLANCHE’S EYES CAME A LOOK OF ABJECT TERROR.”

- OLIVE’S EYES MET THOSE OF A TALL FAIR MAN

- “YOU DO LOOK SO BEAUTIFUL,” SAID DICK.

- “WHAT IS THE BABY’S NAME?” ASKED OLIVE”

- OLIVE FACED THE COLONEL WITH WILD, DILATED EYES

- LIVE SHOWS THE TATTOO MARKS ON HER ARM.

CHAPTER I.

BLANCHE BETHUNE,

IT was a stormy evening towards the end of January. Ragged clouds chased each other over a wintry sky, the ground was sodden with rain, the air was damp and heavy, no gleam of light spoke of summer days to come; all looked gray, dreary, and desolate, as if life were over and death reigned supreme on the earth. The wind rose at intervals with a moan, as if carrying with it the sighs of sorrowful hearts, the burden and grief, the helpless longing, the sobs of those who were without hope.

Blanche Bethune stood on the steps which led from the door of her beautiful home into the sheltered garden she called especially her own, and knew that the sadness of the outside world echoed her own thoughts. She felt that she cared nothing at that moment for the beauty and comfort which had once been her delight, that she could not breathe freely indoors under her husband's roof, though she could hear in the distance the sound of the wheels of the carriage which was taking him away.

She was a tall, stately woman with dark hair and soft, dark eyes; her mouth was sad, and her beautiful face so pale and stem, that the most casual observer would have read something of the conflict which was raging in her heart. But no one was near her, she was alone with her sorrow. As far as she could see loneliness reigned; the gardeners had left their work, she need fear no observation, and soon no sound reached her but the occasional chirp of a melancholy sparrow.

She had dressed herself hastily, and now shivered as she drew closer round her the cloak she had thrown on, and without a glance at the pleasant brightness of the old house whose windows were already beginning to light up, she hurried down the steps, and crossing the garden, desolate and wind-swept now, hut once to her as a paradise, she found herself in an avenue where hare branches met over her head and the wind sighed a wild song of regret The pathway led towards fields, but no one would he coming through them at this hour; she could count on the absolute solitude she needed. Up and down Blanche Bethune walked in the twilight, battling with the sad thoughts which seemed to overwhelm her.

Disappointment she had lived through, regret and disenchantment; hut now she was called on to face the future, which held for her even a worse fate.

What could she dot What was it best for her to do? Gould she do anything that would help her out of this new trouble? She had been brave and hopeful, but her courage was now ebbing away fast For herself she could bear everything; but could she bear to see her child suffer! Above all, could she bear separation from her child! Was there to be no limit to the patient endurance of her husband’s will!

Little more than five years had passed since she had come to the pleasant old house, which was her husband’s birthplace and his father’s before him, as a bride full of hope, ready to enjoy everything, and caring most truly for the man who had won her first love, and given her his own just when she had most needed it And now she told herself that she hated him—the long years of disappointment had quenched her love. She had borne much with patience, hut she could not bear the life that was in store for her if he kept his evil threat and separated her from her only child. No, she could not live without daily sight of her darling.

There were the nursery windows; the candles were already lighted. What was her poor little daughter doing? She was quite unconscious of the battle that was being fought over her. Was she comforted? had her tears been changed for smiles? or was she still fretting over her baby-griefs? Was she, her mother, to know nothing in the future of her joys and sorrows? Was she never to be able to dry her tears or hear her joyous voice?

“No, no! I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it!” she exclaimed aloud; and the trees gave echo to her moan as they waved their naked branches to and fro.

From thinking of her child Blanche’s thoughts were carried back to her own early life. If dull and solitary it had been happy enough, for she had grown up in the sunshine of love.

Although an orphan she had hardly missed her parents, for she had been the idol of an aged grandmother, whose strict ideas of education had never affected her happiness. She had never been aware that her upbringing was dissimilar to that of other girls, till she had stepped out into the world of men and women, and found that she was as a stranger in a foreign land; and this feeling of strangeness had but thrown her still more on her husband’s companionship, in which she had been happy, till disenchantment came.

Mrs. Maclvor, her grandmother, was a gentlewoman of the old school, far from rich, who had battled all her life cheerfully with small means, and held her head high, priding herself on her ancient family with a gentle pride which brought some gratification to herself and harmed no one.

She had lived all her life in an old-fashioned quarter of Edinburgh, and had always regarded the wandering spirit which led her friends to seek new homes with a sort of compassionate wonder. She had been early left a widow, and had been rather a stem mother to her only daughter, who had married when past her first youth, after long waiting, a man whom her mother thought beneath her in station. That he was also poor had hardly been regarded at all.

But the proud gentlewoman had grown softer with age, and all the love of a truly warm heart had been given to the baby granddaughter, who was thrown most unexpectedly on her charge by the death of both her parents.

Her love was a jealous love—she did not care for others to share in the child’s affection, and she encouraged no acquaintance with friends of her own age. So Blanche grew up in the narrow circle of a few refined and elderly people, timid, gentle, and ready to be led. She was carefully educated, but the education was the limited one thought necessary for gentlewomen in her grandmother’s youth, and she knew more of the past than of the present Of her beauty she had known nothing till, at one-and-twenty, she had met Edward Bethune, and he had quickly won her affection. All her small world talked of him, and she endowed him with the virtues of the heroic beings she met with in her favourite romances. No books of modem date had ever been allowed her, for her grandmother still guided her as if she were a child.

Mrs. Maclvor was pleased. She said it was a suitable marriage, and she would hear of no delay; she was ready for the parting. She would feel content, she said, to know that her darling was not alone in the world.

But another parting came unexpectedly. A sudden illness brought her long life to a close; and very gently the grandmother had fallen asleep, her last words being an entreaty that the wedding should not be postponed.

When the day came, in spite of all her sorrow Blanche had been a happy bride as she stood by her husband’s side in the simple wedding-gown of her grandmother’s choice, and turned to him with unbounded love and trust. The honeymoon had hardly been saddened by her grief, it had been so full of new and wonderful joy; day by day a new world of interest opening before her as they wandered from place to place on the Continent But in the midst of all the excitements of travel her thoughts had turned with longing towards her home, her husband’s home which belonged to him, his English home; for he was only a Scotsman by name, and she often urged that she should be happier there than anywhere else in the world.

Edward Bethune had somewhat reluctantly consented to return to England. Looking back now, Blanche guessed the cause of this reluctance. It seemed to her that a change had begun at once, even from that first day of supreme happiness, when she had stood by her husband’s side and smiled her thanks to the welcomes of his tenants.

Yet the disenchantment had come slowly; for Bethune had made many good resolutions when he married, and for some little time he had kept them.

Mr. and Mrs. Bethune were in much request at all the social gatherings in the neighbourhood, and soon no hostess was so popular as the beautiful bride. Blanche had needed all her husband’s help in this new life, and at first he had given it; but old habits had soon reasserted their sway, he had filled his house with his old friends, and on many of these the neighbours had looked askance.

And these friends had been very different to the men and women his wife had been accustomed to. “Are these really gentlemen and ladies!” was a question which sometimes rose unbidden to her mind.

She had never before been thrown into the society of men, and she now for the first time felt the power of her beauty, and rejoiced in it with innocent delight, caring but little for the flattery which met her at every step, but feasting on the admiration which was to her but another form of kind approval.

Then first had begun the sad awakening; her husband was unreasonable and ill-tempered, and slowly it dawned on her that he was jealous. She was accustomed to the jealousy of her grandmother’s affection, but she had always been just. The unreason puzzled her most Why was her husband different one day from the next!

At last, when no longer master of himself, Bethune uttered words his wife did not even understand. Frightened and shocked, she shut herself into her own room.

The next day his apology made her aware of a fact the world had known for long. From early manhood he had been a slave of the demon of intemperance. For days, even sometimes for weeks, he could resist the temptation; but he was not to be depended on: he might any day behave to his wife, as to all around him, like a madman.

The blow this knowledge brought was so heavy, and brought with it such terror, that Blanche fell ill. Her husband then nursed her with devoted affection, and for a few weeks happiness returned to her, though security had vanished.

Then came her child’s birth; and her husband’s disappointment at not having a son, though it amounted to vexation, could not take away her joy in her baby. And day by day, as hope in her husband’s good resolutions vanished, she gained strength to carry the load, which at first had seemed unendurable, while her love gradually centred on her child.

A year later the longed-for heir arrived, and the pleasure at his birth seemed to call back all her husband’s better feelings, and again came a time of hope. But after a few months the baby died, and all sorrow for the death of her child was lost in distress at her husband’s disappointment —to deaden which he gave himself, without any apparent effort of restraint, to drink.

Since that terrible time three sad years had passed, each one more sorrowful than the last, in which Blanche had seen her husband’s love fade away as his evil habits strengthened, till it was hard to believe that he was the same Edward Bethune to whom she had given her heart in what seemed her far-off youth.

Had she had more experience of the world she might perhaps have influenced her husband more successfully, and in time stayed the torrent which was overwhelming her; but she had none, and, taught to believe that only the lowest and most vicious natures could fall into the habit of intoxication, she turned from him with loathing and disgust.

She was helpless, frightened, sick with disgust and horror, and avoided her husband’s society when she should have sought it; and thus they drifted apart, both quite regardless of the fact that, in the midst of his degradation, Edward Bethune still adored his wifa Gradually she had learned to live alone with her child, her husband often absenting himself for weeks together, not caring to face the scorn and loathing in the eyes which had once beamed on him with admiration. Society had ceased to be any pleasure to her, and acquaintances, no longer welcomed, had dropped away. She could not hear to blush for her husband, and she could not trust him for a day.

And now on this January evening Blanche felt that the misery of her lot had come to a climax; she told herself, as she wandered rather than walked up and down, that these sad years would not have been bearable but for her little child, her beautiful Olive, who was all the more her own that her father appeared to care very little for her. Her life was not worth having out of sight of her child; and her child might be taken from her any day, and where should she find redress ?

For the first four years of her life Olive had lived much in the nursery, with a nurse who was devoted to her, hut who unfortunately spoiled her. She was a self-willed, passionate child, with a high courage, which made her set even her father at defiance when her temper was roused.

An unlucky day came, when her rebellion to her nurse led her into serious mischief, which reached her father’s ears. The punishment which followed had been unreasonably severe, and Blanche’s anger and indignation had worked further harm.

“I hate you! I hate you!” the child had asserted more than once in her passion of despair. And Blanche knew now that her husband had brooded over these unlucky words, and that all his dormant jealousy had been awakened. He had now become jealous even of his child, and he uttered no empty threat when he said he would take his wife abroad and send his child to school.

Some weeks ago the nurse, whose devotion to Olive had always been a comfort to her mistress, in spite of all Blanche’s entreaties had been summarily dismissed, and a successor had been chosen without reference to her wishes, whose character as a disciplinarian had been her chief recommendation.

Olive was so unhappy in the nursery since this change that her mother had kept her as much with herself as possible. This answered as long as her husband was out of sight, but if he were at home it increased the difficulties of her position, for a battle between the father and child drove the mother often almost to frenzy.

Edward Bethune had not the slightest intention of being cruel, but he knew nothing of children and was a tease by nature, and his teasing often degenerated into bullying. Even this might have been borne, and the child would soon have grown accustomed to her father’s ways and learned to control her temper, but when he was under the influence of drink he seemed as if possessed by some evil spirit, and sought occasion for outbreaks which gave him an excuse for harsh and foolish punishments, till both wife and child were in such a state of irritation that they could hardly bear his presence.

Violent quarrels had ensued, and the child had been the object of them. This terrible state of things had this afternoon come to a climax, and the threat which thrilled the mother’s heart with agony had been uttered:

“ I’ll send that brat to school, shut up the house, and take you abroad!”

And yet no great harm had been done, many a time she had been more sorely tried. If she could only have been patient!

Returning to the boudoir after entertaining a visitor in the drawing-room she had missed Olive, whom she had left playing with her toys, and thinking she had gone to the nursery, where she had at least one friend in the little nursery maid, she took up her book and went on reading.

Engrossed in a story, she forgot her darling for perhaps an hour, till suddenly she heard a scream in the distance, a short, sharp scream.

Was it fancy? She started up and listened breathlessly.

No, there it was again. It could only be Olive’s voice, and her husband might have come in.

Fear winged her footsteps as she rushed from the room, and easily guessing from whence the sounds proceeded, she soon found herself at the door of her husband’s so-called study.

It was a room she had once been fond of, but which she had hardly cared to enter of late years—a room where her husband spent hours alone when a drinking-fit was on him, a room full of terror to her and Olive. Yet it was a pleasant room, with a high, wide window, which had once been latticed, but which was now glazed with long panes, overlooking an old-fashioned bowling-green, a far-spreading lawn, and farther still, distant downs and hills. The walls were partly lined with books, but they were wainscotted with dark oak, while a carved mantel-piece of the same, reaching almost to the ceiling, and heavy, carved tables and chairs, gave it a sombre appearance, which harmonized beautifully with the deep-crimson curtains and carpet A pleasanter room could hardly be found than Edward Bethune’s study, yet it was full of horror to those two beings whose lives he was making miserable. Here little Olive was always brought for punishment Many a half hour had she been made to stand on the oak table, gazing wistfully on the pleasant grass, where she loved to dance on summer evenings to the music of her mother’s guitar.

There on that table she was standing when her mother now entered. Her fat whito arm had been slipped out of the short sleeve of her frock, and her father was holding it and doing something to it, while on the table at her feet lay a large wax doll At times the child uttered a sharp cry, but it was given as if against her wilL Her little face was very red, her eyes full of unshed tears.

The mother took in the scene at a glance.

“Oh, Edward, what are you doing to her?” she exclaimed in anger she made no attempt to hide.

The sound of her mother’s voice was too much for Olive, and the little arms were instantly outstretched imploringly.

“ Oh, mammy, I don’t like it, it hurts! Take me! take me!” she cried, trying in vain to twist herself out of her father’s grasp.

“Stand still, I am not hurting you!” said Mr. Bethune angrily. “And go away, Blanche! Don’t he absurd!”

At the moment Blanche had forgotten all prudence. She felt like a tigress robbed of her young, and she snatched the child to her arms. She did not know how she succeeded in getting her away, but she knew she had struggled violently with her husband, that he had been very rough, and that his angry words had been full of menace. Finally he had taken up the doll which lay on the table, and pulling out a drawer from somewhere under the oak bookcase he had thrown it in, and closing it with a sharp snap had told Olive, who was now sobbing softly, that she should not have it at all.

“But I was good, I was good!” said the disappointed child. “ I did not cry, I only screamed three times because it hurt so. I did stand still; I was good!”

Then had followed a violent outbreak of passion, and Blanche could only hurry her away up to the nursery from her father’s presence.

When Blanche came downstairs again, still trembling with excitement, the scene between her and her hushand had been full of bitterness.

Bethune was beginning to feel ashamed of himself, and condescended to explain that he had only been tattooing the child’s initials, O. B., on her arm, that he had not hurt her, and if she had heen good she should have had a doll he had won in a raffle the day before.

Blanche rashly pleaded that the failure in Olive’s patience had been her fault in coming into the room. Then she tried to reason with her husband, pointing out the injustice the child thought she was suffering from, but all to no purpose.

Then she had lost her own temper, and hinted that Olive should not be disappointed. Her husband’s violent anger had been roused again, and he had uttered the cruel threat which had silenced her with horror:

“I’ll send that brat to school, shut up the house, and take you abroad.”

With a taunting laugh which had made her shudder he had then told her he was going into a neighbouring county for a few days’ shooting with a friend, whose very name she disliked, and had left her, without one word of leave-taking, to think over his terrible threat

CHAPTER II.

A HEART-BROKEN MOTHER.

SUCH had been the history of the day. The worst was coming—a calamity Blanche had never dreamed of. She had never doubted her right to the possession of her child, and now she was to be taken from her. She had not entreated her husband to recall his cruel words, because she knew entreaties were useless, and she had not trusted herself to speak, fearing what words would come to her lips in her anguish and despair.

She was really thankful that he had at least left her to herself in her misery, at any rate he was not enjoying the sight of it. Often lately she had thought he enjoyed the power of paining her.

For two or three days at least she should have peace and rest For these days she could make her darling happy, and when these days were over the old misery would begin again, with the horrible dread of separation hanging over her.

Could she bear this separation! No, she could not bear it; but how could she resist her husband’s will! A father had power to do as he liked with his child, such was the English law. Her husband had pointed out this fact to her recently with reference to a case which was filling the newspapers. There was then no appeal.

A sudden thought, bred of despair, rushed into her mind. She would fly, she would carry her child away and hide her, and she should not be found.

Would it not be easy to hide! she knew so few people in England. She was not afraid of chance acquaintances recognizing her if she could once get away unobserved from her own neighbourhood.

Any life however hard would be easier and happier for her, and better for her child, than the present one. Very soon now, Olive must understand all the sad circumstances of her parents’ life, and how would she regard her father! While, if she were sent away, her loving heart would break; for Olive took nothing calmly, and who but her mother knew how to guide her headstrong, generous nature!

The thought became a resolve before Blanche had time to think of all the difficulties in her path; and when she did think of them she put them aside one after the other, while her courage rose as she threw off the hopelessness which had of late almost crushed her. She would go, and a new life should begin for her and Oliva Not one thought of any pain or sorrow that her flight might cause her husband entered into her mind; she believed he no longer loved her, that he had never loved his child. He would be furiously angry, but he must never find them, then his anger could not touch her. Blanche shuddered at the thought of such a possibility.

It was better for her Olive to grow up a good, loving, happy girl in the poorest home, than for her to remain in the midst of all the luxury that wealth could give her, if daily her mind was to be poisoned, her evil passions fostered by her father’s unjust treatment; or who could guess what dreadful place it might be, this school which her father would choose for her?

For herself she cared nothing. What should she miss that she could not easily do without if she had her child?

Very swiftly did the unhappy mother make her plans, though every difficulty presented itself with painful clearness. Her own small fortune was at her own disposal There was money lying now, she knew, to her credit in the bank at Winchester; hut if she drew out any considerable sum she might create suspicion, or the notes might be traced.

Blanche had a clear head, and love and fear sharpened her perception. Little as she knew of the world, she was alive to the danger she was going to run, and was ready to think of every possible precaution to ensure success.

London, she told herself, would he the best place to hide in, at first at any rate. One woman and child could surely easily be hidden in that wilderness of streets.

She must hide among the poor, and live as they lived. She must go to some part unfrequented by people of her own class. The more crowded the quarter the less chance would there be of notice. But she must be careful To overlook one single precaution would mean failure.

Darkness had fallen, but still Mrs. Bethune walked up and down mechanically. Then a light appearing in the window of her own sitting-room reminded her that Olive would be expecting a summons to share her tea, always a great treat, but one only indulged in when they were sure of being alone.

The child would have forgotten her trouble by this time, perhaps even forgotten her disappointment about the doll. Her darling was never sulky.

Hurrying in she found that her dress was wet. A glance into her looking-glass showed her dark rings of suffering round her eyes, and a face so white that she was glad she had not rung for her maid. It would not do to run the gauntlet of curious eyes. She hurried down to her pretty boudoir, where she found the curtains drawn, the tea-tray ready, the silver kettle boiling merrily; and sent for Olive.

In after days her mind often pictured this hour over again. The scene remained with her as a photograph which could never fade.

In a few minutes the door of the room was opened, and a golden-brown head was thrust in. Then there was a pause. Some toy was missing. Presently in the open doorway stood a charming little figure, dressed in black velvet, with wide cherry-coloured sash. Truly an ideal “little heiress,” as people were already beginning to call her.

A moment later and the child was in her mother’s arms, raining kisses on her face, and half smothering her with the eagerness of her embrace.

Olive was a pretty child, even her father vouchsafed at times to be proud of her beauty. To her waist waved golden-brown hair, and her large hazel eyes were beautiully fringed with black lashes; her complexion was dark, but very bright and clear.

People said she was like her mother; but Blanche had often seen her husband’s expression in his child’s face, as she had traced his strong will and passionate temper, and many a pang had the likeness given her when she thought of the future.

Those soft hazel eyes could blaze with anger as she did not think hers had ever blazed. But then she had never been tried like her little daughter; nothing but rose-leaves had strewn her childish path.

But how honest and truth-telling those dear eyes were! And what a generous nature shone from them! They were full of love now as they gazed into her mother’s face, but just a little resentful.

“ It was very unkind of papa not to give me the doll after all, wasn’t it, mammy?” she said, with a little pout and a shake of her fat white shoulders.

“ Hush, darling! never mind that now. Get your little chair and let us have a nice tea together,” Blanche replied, covering the sweet flower-face with kisses.

Very merrily, every cloud vanishing, the child scrambled from her mothers knee, and brought a low chair, placing it as close to her mother as possible. For some minutes she munched her bread-and-butter in silence.

Now and then the bright eyes scanned her mother’s face inquiringly.,

“What is the matter, mammy? Have you been crying too? ” she asked at last. “ Isn’t papa horrid? ” she continued. “ I’m glad he’s out. Where’s he gone? I think he’s gone to the train; he’s got a box.”

“Yes,” said Blanche with a sigh, taking no notice of the first part of her child’s remark, “ Papa has gone away for a few days.”

“Do you think he will stay away long?” asked the child eagerly.

“ I don’t know, darling,” replied Blanche absently.

“Do you think he will give me the doll?” persisted the child.

“ You know I cannot tell”

Olive heard the sadness in her voice, and with quick intuition tried to comfort.

“ My arm doesn’t hurt one bit now, mammy, not one bit!”

Then resentment taking possession of her again, she continued, “ He promised if I stood still he would give it me. I did stand still, really and truly I did. And I only gave one little scream ’cos I couldn’t help it,—just two or fee little screams. ’T was n’t fair not to give it me. Was it, mammy dear?”

“No, darling; but please don’t talk of it any more.”

“You are sorry, aren’t you, mother?” said the child, getting up and clasping her somewhat buttery fingers round her mother’s neck.

“ Yes, I am sorry.”

“Well, never mind. We won’t cry any more, will we?” said the child, repeating a sentence which often fell on her ears. “ P’raps papa will give it me when he comes home. Let us play dominoes.”

“ Yes, ring the bell, and Stagg will take away the tea,’ said Blanche, smiling in spite of herself.

After all, how soon were childish griefs forgotten! How very little it took to make her darling happy! Was she ever anything but happy in her presence, and what would she do without her mother? No, anything was better than such a separation.

Game after game was played, the child full of interest and excitement; the mother with a heavy heart and whirling brain found it almost impossible to fulfil her little daughter’s requirements of attention and interest in the contest.

“I’ve won every time, mother” (musser, Olive said). Just fancy, I’ve won every time!” she cried, clasping her fat hands in ecstasy. “ I never beat you so often before, did I? You did really try to beat me?”

“ Oh, yes; I really tried, darling.”

Then Olive brought a story-book and her mother read aloud to her, till a very severe-looking nurse came to the door and said it was her “ bed-time.”

“ Oh, let me stay up a little longer as papa is out, please do, mammy?” pleaded the child.

“ Miss Olive does not go to sleep if she stays up late, ma’am. I had great trouble with her the last time you kept her up,” said the nurse; and Olive’s colour rose.

“My darling, you had better go,” whispered Blanche, holding her meantime in a close embrace.

She felt at that moment as if she could not bear to lose her from her sight, but she felt too that she could not contend with this nurse’s strong will.

“ Come, Miss Olive, be a good girl and come at once,” said the stern voice, which always seemed to rouse Olive to contradiction.

“Darling, go at once, just to please me,” whispered her mother.

Olive held her round the neck very tightly for some minutes, then with a cloud on her bright little face, and an air of dignified displeasure which would have amused Blanche at any other time, she preceded her nurse from the room.

“No, I will not be led upstairs!” she loudly announced, as the door closed behind her.

All through her solitary dinner, all throngh her solitary evening, Blanche Bethune’s brain worked out the problem of escape. Over and over again she decided every detail of her flight. There should be no chance of failure.

If her husband found her' he would have a good excuse for taking her child from her, perhaps he would even prevent her seeing her for years. The child belonged to her father; no one could give her the right to keep her if he willed it otherwise, and everyone would blame her.

But what was praise or blame to her. She had never complained of her husband to anyone, and if she did complain what could she prove against him? He was not even cruel as the world held cruelty.

Other women’s drunken husbands (lately the stories she found in the newspapers had held a fascination for her) half killed their wives and children, and they seemed to be able to bear it, even to defend these husbands. They were braver than she was; but if she could bear all for herself in silence and patience, she could bear nothing for Olive. Bitter tears fell slowly from her eyes more than once, as she remembered she could never hope again to sit in her pleasant room among the beautiful things collected for her by her husband, through the first happy months of her married life.

And when, later, she stood by Olive’s little bed, draped in crimson brocade, a keen appreciation of all the luxury and comfort of her child’s surroundings came over her, and she felt for a moment that it would be impossible for her to take her away into poverty, as she had planned, into a life where all these pleasant things would be wanting.

Her darling might even have to suffer from hunger and cold. But no, that was impossible; she felt herself strong to work for her child, did not thousands of other women support their children!

But could she go to-morrow? No, not to-morrow. Her husband might relent, at least for a time. She need not decide at once, she was too weary.

After kissing her sleeping child and kneeling long by the little bed, she sought her own, but not to sleep. Over and over again came all the arguments, all the fears, all the doubts. At last she fell asleep, and when she awoke the sun was shining into her room. Everything was looking brighter and refreshed by the rest Her courage rose.

After all, perhaps her husband had been only trying to frighten her, or perhaps he would forget he had ever uttered the threat; he often forgot what he had said. A delicious feeling of relief crept over her.

She was dressing, when the door of her room was burst open and in rushed Olive, her face aflame with passion, her feet bare, her frock half off.

“ Mother! nurse says papa is going to send me to school. That’s not true, is it now? She says she’s going to school with me, but you won’t be there. It isn’t true?’

Angry sobs interrupted each sentence.

“Miss Olive?” sounded nurse’s voice in the passage, “come back at once, you have no shoes and socks on;” and immediately nurse appeared at the wide-open door. “ Miss Olive has been so naughty this morning, ma’am, she doesn’t deserve to have her breakfast with you.”

Olive had reached her mother’s lap, and was clinging round her neck. At the first words the child had uttered Blanche had sunk on a sofa, her heart beating wildly. Her husband had then, already, spoken of his intention; others besides herself knew of the horrible thing that threatened her.

She strained Olive close to her as she tried to make her voice sound natural To herself it sounded far away and strangely hoarse, and there was a singing in her ears. Surely she was not going to faint!

“ Miss Olive is going to be good now, nurse, so she will breakfast with me. Olive,” she added, “go at once and make haste down, I’m nearly ready.”

And Olive trotted off in triumph, having quite forgotten the question which had remained unanswered.

Then it was true after all! Her child was to be taken from her, and already the household knew it.

She hardly said a word in answer to her child’s merry chatter during breakfast, as she ran over again and again in her mind.all the plans she had made the evening before.

At twelve she sent Olive out with the nursemaid, who always made her happy, and going to the nursery she began a conversation on the safe subject of “ clothes.”

She felt sure that the woman was watching her, and had noticed her agitation in the morning. She tried hard, there, fore, to appear unconcerned; and she thought she succeeded when she asked nurse for a list of things wanted in the town, as she was going to drive to Winchester after lunch and should take Miss Olive with her.

Nurse asked which frock her mistress wished Miss Olive to wear.

“ Oh, her serge, the one she has got on; the weather is uncertain, and she is not fond of changing her frock,” she replied hastily, and turned to leave the room.

“The serge is very shabby, ma’am; she let the puppy tear it the other day. I wish you’d forbid her to play with that puppy, ma’am,” said nurse, in her most offensive tone.

“ Never mind about its being shabby, I prefer the serge,” said Blanche haughtily, and she left the room.

She could not trust herself to notice the nurse’s request. How she hated this woman who was always trying to bring blame on Olive, and who had already, it seemed to her, gained an influence over her husband.

Nol there could be no delay. For good or for ill she must go at once, or it would be too late; her husband might even now be making secretly the final arrangements which were to separate her from her child.

CHAPTER III.

THE ESCAPE.

THERE was a train which left Winchester for London at 3.30 p.m.; it went without a delay of more than a few minutes at any station, as far as Blanche could recollect She determined to take that train if possible. She had decided from the first that London would be the best place for her to hide in—at least for a time; though she longed to go to her beloved Edinburgh, where friends would stand by her, where she would feel at home, and not so utterly desolate.

But no, such a plan would be impossible. Her husband would look for her first in Scotland, and she could not so easily be hid there. Only in the most complete obscurity could she be safe from his pursuit.

Olive dined at her mother’s luncheon, and was in such wild spirits at the thought of the afternoon’s pleasure that she did not care much for her dinner. Anxiously her mother pressed her to eat, though she found that her own appetite had completely failed, and she was thankful there was no servant in the room to notice her. Olive’s puppy and kitten had a great feast that day.

After luncheon all Blanche’s mind was concentrated on collecting the few things she could take with her. The small leather bag, which she was accustomed to take in the carriage with her when she drove to the town, was all she dared take; and into that she put the money she had in her dressing-case, which was a little more than thirty pounds. A few old-fashioned trinkets which had belonged to her grandmother she also put into it. Her husband’s gifts, some of them very handsome, she left—she would have none of them. He should not think that she had robbed him of anything that had once been his.

There was a miniature of Olive taken when she was two years old. Her husband had given it to her as a birthday present, taking some pains about it, and inviting the artist to stay in the house. She felt she could not leave that behind, she loved it so. . . . And her grandmother’s Bible —she must have that. Blanche had used it ever since she could read, and in it was her grandmother’s writing.

No other relic of the past dared she take; a few necessary trifles she put in, but the bag was soon full.

Then she thought of Olive, and remembered that it would be through her she would be traced. She should have to disguise her somehow—but howl There was that pair of serge knickerbockers she had bought for the little boy at the lodge, who was about her age. She would take them. But then her bag was full.

Necessity is indeed the mother of invention. Blanche was not long in devising a way out of her difficuly. A shoe-bag was soon tied round her waist under her dress, and in it she put the knickerbockers and one or two other things. Her long mantle would hide all.

In her search through her drawers she came upon her grandmother’s spectacles. She must take them too. They were dear to her; besides, they might help in her disguise, for she must disguise herself. What a pity that she was so tall! Her height could not be hid, and would always give a clue to those who tried to trace her; and for the first time in her life Blanche regretted the inches she had often felt proud of, and the stately carriage her grandmother had prized so much.

She had ordered the carriage at a quarter before three, and before that time she was downstairs expecting it with a beating heart. She felt so nervous for fear she was being watched that she was impelled to give some excuse for her impatience to Stagg the butler, an old servant of her husband’s, who was, she knew, very devoted to his master.

“ What, only half-past two, Stagg!—then my watch must be fast. Send up and ask if Miss Olive is ready. I do not wish to be kept waiting when the carriage comes round, the afternoons are so short And you can get me that large, red book on the drawing-room table. I must return it to the station.”

Blanche threw herself into an arm-chair in the hall, and pretended to read, but every minute seemed an hour, and, as it happened after all, the carriage was a few minutes late.

“To Winchester,” was the only order she gave as the footman closed the carriage door. Then she leant back with closed eyes and tried to feel calm and collected. Should she be in time for the train! Why had she run it so close! She might have ordered the carriage earlier.

“To the station first,” she called from the carriage window as it left the lodge gates. She did not dare tell the coachman to drive fast.

Olive chatted away by her side; but she did not often require an answer to her joyous remarks, and was too young to be critical, if the answers were not given with the interest they usually received.

At that moment Blanche could only think of the probar bility of her missing the train, and of there not being another for some hours.

But her fears were needless; the clock pointed to 3.25 when they reached the station. She had no time to lose, but yet the time was sufficient “ Drive to Fuller’s, and wait for me there,” she said to the footman, adding: “I have a good deal of shopping to do, so tell Berry to drive up and down.”

Then feeling as if those around her must see how she trembled, with Olive’s hand held very tightly in her own, she turned into the station and hurriedly made her way to the ticket-office.

Supposing she met an acquaintance, what should she say! But fortune favoured her; she met no one, everyone else had taken their tickets, so she was not kept waiting.

Remembering that she was well known by sight at the station, she took first-class tickets to a place a few miles off, where she knew the train must stop for at least five minutes There she would not be likely to be noticed, and could take fresh tickets. Olive was carrying proudly the big red book.

“ Put the book down on the book-stall,” said her mother hurriedly as they passed it; and, with wide-open, wondering eyes at the sharpness of her mother’s tone, Olive obeyed.

A minute later they were in the train. A guard, at a sign from her mother, had lifted Olive in, and she had been too taken by surprise to say anything. Now she found her tongue.

“Why, where are we going, mammy?” she exclaimed in her shrillest accents.

The carriage was empty, but Blanche felt she could not speak at that minute. She drew back and drew Olive back, and only breathed freely when the train rushed out of the station.

“ Where are we going, mammy?” repeated the child again in astonishment.

“ Listen, darling,” said the mother, drawing her into her arms. “Papa was going to send you away from me—to send you to school; and I am taking you away from him. Will you come with me, or shall we go back?”

The words came against her will In her misery she felt she must have the approval of her child, baby though she was.

Olive’s eyes flashed.

“ I won’t go to school, I won’t go away from you; take me away from papa, mammy,—let’s run away as fast as we can. Papa is very unkind to we, isn’t he, mammy?”

“ Then, Olive, you must be very good and obedient, and you and I will go away and be very happy together,” said Blanche drearily.

Now that the step had been taken she began to feel acutely all the horror of it What did she know of the life she was going into? If she could hide herself and Olive, how would they live when the money in her bag was exhausted! Thoughts of her husband would not be put aside. Would he mind at all! She had loved him once and he had loved her; perhaps he loved her still—a little.

When the next station was reached she hurried out to get new tickets. She had just time to do this, as it was a junction, and a great many people were waiting to get into the train. Even at that moment Blanche felt that if she had met a familiar face she must have given up her project, but she saw no one who seemed to know her or to take any notice of her. The guards and porters were engaged with those passengers who had luggage with them, and she hurried into a second-class carriage, which was already nearly full, just as the train started off again.

She sat near a corner in which she had placed Olive, and, enjoining silence on the child, she began to feel for the first time that for good or for evil the step was taken which separated her from the past. She could not now go back without her husband, in some way, hearing of her journey.

It was a slow train, and at each station someone got in or out of the carriage; but when the appearance of the houses first spoke of their proximity to London, Olive and her mother were again quite alone.

Never fora moment had Blanche’s brain ceased to work. All must now depend on whether they were traced or not.

“ Now, darling,” she said hurriedly, “ I must do what I can to hide you from papa—I must cut off your hair.”

“Yes, mammy; cut it off, do,” said Olive excitedly, snatching off her sailor hat. “ Papa sha’n’t find me, shall he!”

She had been perfectly quiet all through the journey, casting wistful glances now and again at her mother’s sad face.

Taking a pair of scissors from her bag, in another minute Olive’s wealth of golden-brown tresses lay in her mother’s lap. Poor Blanche felt she was crying; and that the child might not see her tears, she pulled down her veil, which she had never lifted before through the journey.

Olive, with close-cropped hair, was hardly recognizable. Folding the precious locks in paper, with trembling fingers the poor mother put them into her bag.

“I cannot throw them away,” she murmured; “besides, they might be found.”

Then she took the pair of knickerbockers from the bag round her waist, and slipping off Olive’s petticoats (her dress was made with a sailor shirt), in a few minutes she was transformed into a very presentable boy.

“Do I look like a boy?” asked the child in great bewilderment. “You know papa wishes me to be a boy. I heard cook say he would like me if I was a boy.”

“Yes, you are like a boy, my darling; and remember I shall call you ‘Willie,’ and you mustn’t tell anybody you are a girl.”

“No, I won’t tell nobody,” said the child gravely; and then she suddenly clasped her mother’s hand, a look of distress coming into her eyes. She began to sob.

“What is the matter, my darling!” questioned Blanche anxiously. If Olive should wish to return home, what would become of her?—would not all her courage fail?

“I am afraid, mammy, nurse will be unkind to my kitty,” she sobbed; “she won’t give her any milk. James takes care of Noodle, but no one else takes care of my kitty, only me. Nurse hates her, she says.”

Blanche drew her child on her lap, and the next ten minutes were occupied in soothing her fears for her pet Poor Blanche! She felt that even this small regret of Olive’s had made the consequences of the step she had taken more real. What was she really feeling at that moment? Did she in any way repent of her determination? She did not know, she hardly dared to think.

At any rate there was no going back. To be found now would mean the fulfilment of all her worst fears. She must not unnerve herself with thoughts and doubts. All her energy, all her courage, would be needed for the concealment of herself and child.

It was nearly dark when they at last reached Waterloo Station, and, taking a cab, Blanche desired vaguely to be driven into Oxford Street; she had put on her grandmother’s spectacles, and thought she must look in that dim light very unlike the Mrs. Bethune who had started on the journey from Winchester.

“Put me down at the Marble Arch,” she called to the cabman, after he had driven some little way; and on the pavement, in front of the Hyde Park Hotel, Blanche and her child found themselves standing in the lamplight, about 6 p.m. in the cold January evening.

Standing still, to think what she should do next, was quite impossible; and Olive, pulling at her hand, said for the first time that she was hungry. This first complaint uttered by her child, fell on her heart like lead. Was it a prophesy of the future, would the day come when her darling should hunger? She drove away the thought with a shudder.

No, not yet; she had plenty for her yet, and hurrying on she turned into the first pastrycook’s shop she came to, and asked for tea, and bread and butter, buns too; Olive’s smiles must come back to cheer her.

To Olive this was a most beautiful place; she munched her buns with intense enjoyment, and it was only after a rather lengthy meal that she laid her funny little cropped head in her mother’s lap, and remarked with a half-smothered sigh, that she was “ very tired and sleepy.”

“ Could you tell me of a clean lodging for myself and little boy?” asked Blanche, of the mistress of the shop.

“We have come up from the country, and cannot go back to-night”

The mistress turned to a girl standing beside her. “ Do you know any nice place, Ellen, I’m sure I don’t!”

“ Any room that is clean and respectable would do,” said Blanche anxiously. “My little (she felt herself hesitate) boy is tired, I must put him to bed at once.”

“Where I sleep, there is a room to let, I know; you might like that for a night, ma’am,” said the girl civilly. “But it is hardly the place for you; wouldn’t it be best to go to an hotel? ”

“No, I do not care to go to an hotel,” said Blanche hastily; “ I am sure the room you speak of would do perfectly, and I could breakfast here to-morrow morning. Is it very far from here!”

“ No, not five minutes’ walk,” replied the girl.

“You may show the lady the way if you like, Ellen,” said the mistress. “We shall be shutting up soon now, and I can manage; you need not come hack” The mention of the breakfast wanted in the morning enlisted her interest. Who could tell but that the lady might stay on a bit, and she could not do better than have her meals at her house. No doubt she had come up for shopping from the country; she might prove a good customer.

It was a relief to have the prospect of being under a roof again, however humble. Ellen had led them through several small streets; hut, as she had said, the way was not a long one.

Olive was too sleepy to grumble about anything, and was delighted to get into bed, with the promise that “tomorrow night ” she should have a night-gown.

It was rest to lie down once more, and the room and bed were clean, as the girl had promised; but the comforts of the home she had left stood out in strong relief before poor Blanche at that moment She had given up much—yes, all! But she had her child; what did she care for luxuries in comparison with her?

She lay awake thinking of the future, as hour after hour of the night passed on; should she ever be able to stop thinking? She decided that she could not dare to stay a night longer in this part of London; the people round her would read the newspapers. Her dress, her height, would be described; all particulars would be given. She herself had often read with curiosity descriptions of missing persons, and wondered if they were ever found.

Then she pictured all that must have happened at home since she left; she still thought of Barrington as home. The carriage would have at last returned without her, perhaps the men at the station would have told the servants that she had gone away by train. They would have driven home wondering, speculating, talking about her; Blanche’s face burned at the thought of all they might say.

Then, after some hours, Stagg would, no doubt, telegraph to his master, perhaps even by this time her husband would have returned home; but no, that was not possible. Tomorrow early, the news of her flight would no doubt reach him, and it was not unlikely that he would trace her to London. To-morrow he would be looking for her, and she must hide where he was not likely to find her.

She slept a little, but awoke very early, and rousing Olive, dressed her quickly, and both were ready when the girl tapped at the door, as she had promised to do; and led them back to the shop. .

Then after breakfast Blanche set off walking towards Edgware Road. She felt that she must buy some things for Olive at once; she could not bear to see the child uncomfortable.

Soon she found a small shop where the things appeared cheap, and there she laid oat several shillings; then, catching sight of a long gray waterproof of unfashionable cut and common material, which the woman who served her said had been “ greatly reduced,” she bought it. Surely it was just what she wanted by way of disguise. She also bought a very rusty-looking crape bonnet, asking the shopwoman, with a boldness which astonished herself, whether it were “the sort of bonnet that would be likely to suit an old woman.”

She could not carry so many things, so she called a cab.

It was very difficult for her to decide what part of London to go to, for she knew so little of it; but a thought suddenly struck her, as the cabman asked her where she would like to be driven.

A friend of her grandmother’s had once described to her the neighbourhood of Newport Market Refuge; she remembered the name well. There, at any rate, she should be among poor people, and poor people would surely be too busy with their own concerns to notice her. So she told the cabman to take her to Newport Market Refuge, and she saw with relief that he was not even surprised at the request No doubt he had often taken ladies to see the Refuge, or to visit the kind sister who presides over it. Or do London cabmen trouble themselves at all over the destinations of their fares? Looking at his impassive face, Blanche felt quite safe from all fear of discovery. It was a long drive, but Olive was well amused by all she saw, and to Blanche it was rest while it lasted.

Just in time she remembered that she did not wish to-be taken to the door of the Refuge, and she called to the cabman, and told him so.

“Then you had better get down here, for there it is,” said cabby, with a civil “ thank you, ma’am,” for the extra shilling he received.

“ What a funny place,” said Olive, wonderingly; “ and what dirty people!”

Blanche looked round at the dingy dirty houses with some apprehension. Was it here that her child must lire? Olive carried some of the parcels, very proud of her burden, and they hurried along. It was a very cold day, and standing still was out of the question; everyone seemed to he hurrying, and no one paid them any attention.

Blanche looked in vain for a notice of a lodging to let, and at last, in despair, addressed a woman who was standing in a doorway, and whose appearance was pleasanter than any she had met.

“Would you kindly tell me where I could find a lodging?” she asked, trying hard not too speak too eagerly.

The woman shook her head doubtfully.

“ There’s not many lodgings hereabouts, I should say. Mrs. Moore, two doors above, has an unfurnished room, I believe. You don’t want an unfurnished room, perhaps?” she added, eyeing both mother and child with evident curiosity.

Blanche had put on her waterproof, and flattered herself she was looking shabby; but the garment, however common in cut and material, was new and clean, and, therefore, as she found out later, a novelty in the neighbourhood.

“ No, I want a furnished room; I do not mind how small it is,” she replied, all the difficulties she had never thought of, rushing into her mind at once.

The woman eyed her so curiously; was she so very different from the people in the streets she had passed through? Yet she had thought her cloak disguised her past recognition. She began to feel very uncomfortable, and with a hurried “thank you,” was passing on, when the woman stopped her.

“There’s not many furnished rooms about here; you’ll look a long time for one, I can promise you that; but if you like to pay beforehand, I will let you come into a room I have, but it’s a small one. Where’s your luggage, ma’am, eh? But perhaps you’ll like to see the room before you fetch your things? ”

“ Yes, certainly I should,” said Blanche, as calmly as she could. She had never thought of the difficulty of her own respectability being inquired into. “ And I will certainly pay beforehand for your room, if it suits me.”

The woman’s manner changed at once.

“ It’s clean, and I’m respectable; which is more than can be said for all the houses in this lane,—Love Lane, they call it,” she said bluntly, but civilly. “ I’m a stranger here; we’ve only just bought the business; we lived out Hammersmith way till now, but my husband’s brother went out to Australia, and offered us the chance. I’ve no children, so the house is quiet, and the other lodgers are very respectable. I’ve only part of the house, but my niece has been living with me, and now she’s gone, and that’s how I have a room to let. Not that I should have thought of letting, hadn’t you asked the question. One can never tell who one gets into one’s house, but a lady like you is different,” explained the good woman volubly, as she led' the way up a narrow staircase, to a room under the roof. The ceiling sloped, and even on that cold day Blanche felt it close and stifling.

But it was clean and tidy; there was a bed she felt she could sleep in, a chest of drawers, a fireplace, two or three chairs, a small table, washing utensils (which if cracked were at least clean), and it was not very small.

Blanche watched the woman’s face as she went on explaining the advantages of the room, and that the rent she asked, viz.: six shillings a week, was not over much for these advantages. She said she should be always ready to give her lodger hot water, and that would save her a fire when the weather got hot; and she would not mind her using her fire downstairs for a bit of cooking, if she liked; and there was no one to interfere with her, as the other lodgers were out all day; and so on.

Yes, Blanche had decided; she liked the woman’s face. If rough, she looked honest and kind; and at least this rather uninviting room might be a refuge for a few weeks; her limbs were aching painfully, and she was weary with fear and anxiety.

At any moment Olive’s good behaviour might come to an end, and she might begin to cry with fatigue and the discomfort which she must feel as soon as the excitement of novelty was over. So she told the woman she was willing to give her six shillings at once, taking the room for a week, and making her promise to let her know before she let it to anyone else.

“ It might suit me to remain here for some time,” she added.

“And your things, ma’am, when will they come? Can my husband fetch them for you this evening?” asked the woman, evidently pleased with the bargain she had made.

Blanche felt she must avoid all suspicion at any cost. If people once began to talk about her she was lost “ No, thank you,” she replied quietly. “ In the afternoon I will go and see after my things, but at present I must rest; my little boy is very tired.”

“ No, I’m not tired,” declared Olive boldly. “ And this is such a little room we can’t live here.”

Blanche squeezed the little hand she held to enforce silence.

“My child has been accustomed to a larger room,” she said, with an effort at a smile.

Then, happily, someone called “Mrs. Todd, Mrs. Todd!” from below, and the woman bustled away.

Blanche threw open the window. She felt that she could hardly breathe in the close atmosphere. Then sitting down on a ricketty little cane chair, and taking Olive in her lap, she tried to explain to her that she must be careful not to talk; she must just say nothing.

“ And then papa won’t find us, will he, and I sha’n’t go to school!” exclaimed the child, throwing her arms round her mother’s neck.

Her words helped Blanche. If Olive could only be happy under her changed circumstances all would be well; but the child’s next words made her tremble all over.

“ I want to go home, mother; I don’t like to live here, it’s so nasty.”

“We can’t go home, Olive!” began the poor mother, and then she burst into tears. What should she say! Her child was too young to understand the finality of the step which had been taken—too young to know that by her mother’s own act her life had been utterly changed, that the pleasant things she had a right to by birth were hers no longer.

At least for a time, it can be only for a time, thought Blanche, a sudden dread of the future coming over her. But had she made a great and terrible mistake! Would it have been better to have borne her husband’s will patiently, borne even separation from Olive! Blanche could not have done more wisely had she wished to subdue her little daughter. The child had seldom seen her mother shed tears, and in a minute all wilfulness left her. With arms close pressed about her mother’s neck she sobbed softly:

“ Don’t cry, mammy, we won’t go back. I don’t want to go back. I will be good, I will be very good.”

And when her mother threw herself exhausted on the bed Olive lay beside her, quietly watching her with wide-open, loving eyes. And not another impatient word passed her lips.

After a time Blanche recovered her composure, and began again to make plans for the future. But she found that looking forward only confused her and sapped her courage. It was better to think only of the present, when the most important thing was to hide from the search which her husband would undoubtedly put on foot at once, and to keep her child well and happy.

After a few hours’ rest she took Olive out, and they dined at a humble little eating-house. Then asking directions to find the shops in the neighbourhood, she bought a secondhand box of solid and respectable appearance, and calling a cab she drove back to the house, which for the present she must call her home.

She offered the cabman an extra shilling if he would carry the box down Love Lane (the cab had stopped at the top of it) and up into her room, and this he had willingly consented to do.

Mrs. Todd welcomed her with a pleasant smile. The good woman had been secretly a little uneasy at taking in a lodger who was dressed so well and yet appeared to have no luggage, and who gave no reason for her presence in the neighbourhood.

The sight of a respectable-looking box, however, quite satisfied her. The lady had most likely come down in the world, and wished “to live cheap.” She was a widow, no doubt, by the ring on her finger. For Blanche had carefully removed all her other rings before she left her lodging that morning.

CHAPTER IV.

THE SEARCH.

BLANCHE had been within the mark when she had decided that the search for her would not begin till the day after her flight When the coachman at last grew tired of waiting, as he had been bidden, at the draper’s, he drove to the station to inquire for his mistress.

At the station no information could be gained. The porters had changed, the man at the ticket-office had gone away for his tea; no train was expected for an hour. No one the footman inquired of had seen Mrs. Bethune; even the man at the bookstall had not noticed her. A book had been returned early in the afternoon, one of his boys had told him, by the lady at Barrington Court.

Very much put out, the coachman drove through the town again, inquiring on all sides. Then both puzzled and annoyed at the want of consideration shown to him and his horses, he turned their heads towards home.

Mrs. Bethune was a good walker, and she sometimes liked to walk towards home and to be overtaken by the carriage; but this had only happened 'in summer weather, and with due notice given to him. That she should choose to do such a thing on a dark January evening, and with Miss Olive too, was very strange.

However, the servants expected each minute to overtake their mistress, and Berry came up the drive at such a rate that Stagg met them at the front door with alarm depicted on his face, for he had been already much puzzled at the unwonted lateness of his mistress’s return.

What was to be done next? The men sent up to inquire if the nurse or lady’s-maid had any knowledge of their mistress’s intentions for the afternoon, but they knew nothing; and grumbling aloud, the coachman turne'd his horses town-wards again, urged by Stagg to call at the few possible houses where his mistress might have stayed for tea, or where she might have gone if any small indisposition or accident had detained her.

All inquiries were of course useless, and about 8 P.M. the carriage again returned home empty.

The servants were now really alarmed. Some imagined one misfortune had happened, some another. The little nursery-maid dissolved into tears, and even the stem nurse expressed anxiety.

Stagg alone kept his presence of mind. His reason told him that news of any accident must have been bruited abroad long before this; while it was absurd to think that in the midst of a town, where they were so well known, Mrs. Bethune and her child could be spirited away against her will No. He had his own views as to what had happened, but he kept them carefully to himself, and ordering a horse to be saddled rode off to telegraph to his master. But here a difficulty met him. The office was shut up, and he could only leave his message, to be sent the first thing in the morning.

He telegraphed: “Mistress and Miss Olive did not return home last night”

“ If that’s not correct, I can ride in and stop it to-morrow morning,” he thought grimly.

He had no hesitation in frightening his master.

“ It’ll give him a start, and perhaps do him good. It’s time something was done. Most likely he won’t be in a state to read it,” soliloquized the faithful Stagg as he rode home. He had served his master from a boy, and lately his patience with him had been severely tried.

Stagg was not wrong in his surmise. Bethune’s friend had had a bachelor dinner-party the night before, and had given orders that neither he nor his guests should be called till ten.

At that hour the servant took up the telegram, which had been already waiting for some time.

It was mid-day before Bethune opened it. He had glanced carelessly at it. A telegram could wait his pleasure as well as anything else. Some foolishness of Blanche’s, no doubt A year ago Olive had had a sudden attack of alarming illness. Wild with anxiety, Blanche had telegraphed for her husband, and he had returned home angry and resentful, when he found his child out of danger.

It was too bad, he told himself, that his wife should worry him again. So, putting it aside till he had dressed and breakfasted, he forgot it till just as the shooting-party was starting.

“Anything the matter, Bethune?” asked his host, who had watched him open it and seen his face flush.

“ Nothing at all,” he answered carelessly as he stuffed the missive into his pocket with a shaking hand. But his hand shook often now.

He was furiously angry. What did Blanche mean by playing such pranks?

He would punish her. Olive should, most certainly, go to school at once. It would teach her mother to be more reasonable about her. She would soon be accustomed to being without her, and would cease to make the absurd fuss over her she did.

Then he would take his wife abroad, as he had threatened, and yes—he would devote himself again to her, and in time they should be happy again together, as they had once been. No one should come between him and his wife, not even his child.

' Edward Bethune’s conscience was not quite dead, and this day it pricked him hard; perhaps, as Stagg had hoped, “ the start” had done him good.

For he still loved his wife after his own selfish fashion. Now, it is true, he was angry with her—very angry; but he was not going to have a scandal—that must be avoided at any cost. He would keep his own counsel, only he must make some excuse for returning home on the morrow. It was awkward that last year he had been telegraphed to in the same way, and had left suddenly. His host would laugh at him.

Perhaps it was the fear of this laugh which prevented his going back at once, not that any particular anxiety troubled him, but he was impatient to express his anger to the wife who had defied him.

He shot badly that day, and was so savage that no one cared to say much to him.

“ I have to leave you to-morrow,” he said abruptly as he bade his host good night “Mrs. Bethune does not approve of me, eh?” said his host laughing, but annoyed. “ This is the second year, Bethune, you have been telegraphed for.”

“ My wife doesn’t send the message this time; but I have no choice but to return,” said Bethune haughtily. He had kept sober that evening, and he left by the first train, without offering any further explanation to his friend.

Even then he did not get home till the afternoon. He took a fly from the station; the horses were very slow, and his impatience was useless. A sudden access of anxiety came over him during that slow drive. Where could Blanche have gone? It was very strange that she should go to any friend’s house without letting him know. Of course she must have gone to some friend; nothing could have happened to her.

He put his head out of the carriage window, and scanned the windows of the old house as he was driven up the avenue. Surely he should see some sign of his wife or child; surely they had come home by this time. He was not in the least anxious or uneasy, only each hour his anger had been growing.

“Well!” he said sharply to Stagg as he opened the door of the house, almost before the fly had come to a stand-still. Stagg had evidently been watching for his master, and he looked portentously grave.

“ Haven’t you heard anything, sir? ” he asked.

“Speak out, man, will you?” said Bethune angrily.

“Mrs. Bethune has not been seen or heard of, sir.” Stagg had followed his master into the hall, carrying his portmanteau.

With an oath Bethune moved away, and a sudden rush of anxiety made him turn pale.

He went into the dining-room, and poured out some brandy. His hand shook so that he could hardly hold his glass; then he called Stagg in, and throwing himself into an arm-chair, listened with impatience to all that the servant could tell him.

Stagg had inquired at the station again yesterday, and had found out that Mrs. Bethune had taken first-class tickets for herself and little girl to Basingstoke. Stagg had also gone there, and had made all possible inquiries, but had heard nothing that gave him any clua Several half-tickets had been sold that afternoon, but they had all been second-class tickets. A very tall lady had been seen at the station by more than one porter, but no one knew her. It was thought she must have gone on to London by the same train she had arrived by.

Stagg had not known what further inquiries to make, and had expected his master home every hour. He had not liked to make many inquiries in Winchester before his master’s return, thinking he might have had a letter explaining everything, and knowing, as he said, that his master would not like “ to make a talk.”

Before night Edward Bethune was not in the least capable of thinking, or in any way devising a way towards the discovery of his wife’s whereabouts. The faithful Stagg put him to bed, and kept his own counsel. He was much attached to his master, and in his heart he was now blaming his mistress.

“Master will drink worse than ever now; and what is the use of a wife if she don’t stick to a husband, drink or no drink?”

The next day, feeling quite unequal to cope with his trouble alone, Bethune sent for a friend, whose sagacity he thought much of, and begged him to institute the search in such a way that the least scandal should arise.

Now the friend he would naturally have turned to at this juncture was a certain Mr. Jervoise, an old college friend, now a London solicitor, who had for some years been his legal adviser; but he did not care to face this friend’s condemnation. He knew that Jervoise would take his wife’s part Had he not done so the last visit he had paid them?

Even in the old college days Jervoise had been somewhat of a stem mentor, and he knew he would not now fail to blame him secretly, if not aloud. It was more probable he would do so aloud after his old fashion; for Mr. Jervoise had never lost his own individuality in the legal adviser.

Mr. Lock, the friend he called to his assistance, was much more pliable. He vas an idle man, who was always pleased to interest himself in a friend’s concerns—a capable, shrewd man of the world, whose company Bethune found not unpleasant, and whose silence he could depend on, while he need never read in his face the disapprobation he was sure to have found in that of Jervoise.

Of all things Bethune hated the idea of publicity. To have his own and his wife’s name in everyone’s mouth was maddening, hut it could not be avoided. Soon all the neighbourhood knew that Mrs. Bethune had left her husband.

Where she had gone, and why she had left, furnished endless speculation. Everyone had a different story to tell. That she had also taken away her child did not surprise anyone, for her devotion to Olive was well known. Some blamed the husband, some the wife; but no one could offer a solution to the mystery as to where she was gone.

It might be said that the fugitives were traced to London, for the guard of the London train remembered distinctly a lady, whom he thought was tall, and whom he. was sure was very handsome, who was travelling with a child on the day inquired about. Some trifling circumstance made him sure of the day. But then again, he felt equally sure that the child was a boy, with quite short hair, who wore a sailor dress and sailor hat; he had noticed the child, as being the same age as one of his own. He should certainly have noticed it, if the child’s hair had been long as described. These travellers were alone in the carriage. When he took their tickets, he remembered the lady because she was so very handsome; but she had pulled down her veil quickly, and he had only seen her face for a second or two.

“Yes, she has gone to London first, and then up to her friends in Edinburgh. She has done it to annoy or frighten me. She can’t be such a fool as to think she can hide herself or the child. It is too bad of her, she has no excuse whatever,” said Bethune to his friend. He remembered perfectly his cruel threat about sending the child to school; but he was ashamed to speak of it, even to the sympathetic Mr. Lock. His conscience was not giving him an easy time just then.

He ransacked his wife’s desk and drawers, but with no misgivings. In all his foolish jealousy he knew that he had no cause for fear. There were the few letters he had written to her during their engagement tied together—a sorrowful little packet of happy memories. He left them where he found them; he did not care even to touch them.

Then came a few letters of her parents addressed to her grandmother, crumpled foreign letters in faded ink. If he had cared to read them he would have found them full of loving solicitude for the little Blanche whose life was just beginning.

A few letters from old friends in Edinburgh gave the necessary addresses, and Bethune started for Scotland.

His wife’s friends welcomed him with kindly delight, plied him with questions about her and his child, convincing him at once that they were ignorant of everything.

They were simple, unworldly people, living the most secluded lives, and pretty Blanche Wilson was still very dear to them; but they seldom heard from her now. Bethune found his wife had not written to her Edinburgh friends for months, and after making these inquiries, which assured him he was on a false scent, without even telling anyone of their motive he hurried back to England.

On his way home he visited Olive’s late nurse at Nottingham; she had always corresponded with his wife, and she might know something.

It was not a pleasant interview by any means. The nurse was a keen-witted, warm-hearted woman, who had been devoted to her mistress and her child, while she had held her master in holy horror. She quickly discovered what had happened, as no one else had done, and had given him, with no little satisfaction, what she called “a piece of her mind.”

It served him right, she told him, to lose them. He deserved neither his wife nor child; if she knew anything of them she should most certainly tell him nothing, and so on.

Edward Bethune reached home just in time to be laid up with a fit of delirium tremens, and for weeks his life was in danger. Very devotedly did the faithful Stagg nurse him; while his friend Mr. Lock took up his abode at the Court, and, as soon as his convalescence allowed of it, proved himself an invaluable companion.

Meantime the police continued their inquiries for the missing lady and her child; but they were hampered by the command that no advertisement should be put in the papers, and they were constantly taking up false scents.

Bethune continued morbidly afraid of publicity. He declared he would not have all England talking of him; and Mr,. Lock, thinking his friend’s wife would no doubt soon give signs of life, and totally ignorant of Blanche’s motive for leaving home, thought he was quite right to make her return as easy as possible.

So weeks and months slipped by, and still there was no news of the fugitive.

In Edinburgh the search was the strictest, because in Edinburgh her husband still thought she would try to find a refuge sooner or later. He did not think it likely she would stay in London. She knew so little of it, and had never been inclined to like it.

When he had recovered from his illness Mr. Bethune dismissed his servants; and, leaving the coachman and his wife in charge of the house, with Stagg as his personal attendant, went up to London. He felt that the life at Barrington, even with the companionship of his friend Lock, was insupportable; in London, at least, he should have something to distract his thoughts.

It was now the beginning of July, and London was still very crowded; but even those whom he considered friends were too intent on their own affairs to trouble themselves about him, or to make minute inquiries as to why his wife was not with him.

He determined now to prosecute the search himself. His anger had not faded, but rather increased; though, at the same time, a very real anxiety was taking possession of him, which he strenuously stifled.Had any evil happened to his wife and child! It seemed incredible that no sign of life should be given by Blanche through all these months. He was not quite sure what money she had taken with her, but he knew it could not have been much; while at the bank lay a considerable sum,for she had drawn nothing for some time before her flight, nor had she claimed any since.

He still believed that when his wife was tired of all the difficulties which her position would entail, she would give him notice of her hiding-place, and perhaps try to make terms with him for the future.

Terms which he told himself he would not accept No, she should humble herself; he had a perfect right, as husband and father, to decide what he chose for herself and child; she should he made to feel that she was in his power, and that she could not defy him with impunity.

Not only the law, but all heads of households would be on his side. Public opinion would he with him. Yet it was just this public opinion which he did not wish to lay claim to; he hated the idea of his private affairs being talked of.

It was bad enough to be the talk of his county, but he could at least go away and forget that; while if he made his grief public, he would soon be the talk of London, or even the United Kingdom.

So he carefully kept his own counsel, though he set « detectives to watch every place he could think of, in which his wife might have taken refuge. He knew all her friends by name, she had so few; and to find out their complete ignorance, was not difficult.

But all these efforts proved fruitless; the days went by, and not a single clue was found. Blanche and her child seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.

Growing at last tired of London, Bethune betook himself to Paris, a city he had been very fond of frequenting in his bachelor days. He remembered what a fancy Blanche had taken to that place on their honeymoon; she might have thought herself safer there from discovery, than in England.

So he set the French police to work, and then tried to forget himself in the society of his friends. He spent a great deal of money, drank hard, and was laid up with another attack of illness.

CHAPTER V.

A STREET ACCIDENT.

TEN months had passed since Blanche Bethune had left her home, and still she made no sign.

Recovering from his illness, a great despondency took possession of her husband, and he began to think some evil must have befallen her, and that he ought to have conducted the search in a more open manner.

The outcome of this sudden fit of remorse was, that Bethune decided to see his friend Jervoise, and make a full confession. He might devise some new plan of action. Bethune felt now that he had made a mistake in not consulting him before. And then the idea suddenly struck him, that perhaps, after all, Jervoise was at the bottom of the mischief; and that it was he who had been supplying his wife with money, and thus enabling her to elude his pursuit.

The idea of such a possibility made him very angry, but it vanished as soon as he reached his friend’s presence. Mr. Jervoise was even ignorant of all that had happened; some rumours had reached him, but he had not regarded them.

He was extremely shocked at the sight of his client and old friend. What could he have been doing, he looked so terribly ill? Bethune acknowledged he.had been ill.

“ I’ll? I should think so,” and Mr. Jervoise lifted his eyebrows in a way Bethune well remembered in college days.

Jervoise had always hoped his friend’s marriage would have brought him to his senses. He knew it had been a love match; he had seen him on his wedding-tour, when he had thought him as happy a man as could be found, and in a fair way to become a useful member of society.

Again, he had seen him at Barrington with his wife and child, when he had not been quite satisfied; but he had still no reason to think the marriage anything but a happy one.

Jervoise had heartily admired his friend’s beautiful wife; had devoted himself to her as an honoured guest, and had found Bethune not quite so genial as he ought to have been. He had left them, thinking that whatever his friend’s faults, he was such a fond husband that he could not bear the presence of a third in his Eden.

Since then the friends had not met, for Mr. Jervoise was a very busy man, and he had, meanwhile, married himself. He was unspeakably shocked and astonished by all that Bethune told him.

“But alone? You are sure she was alone with the child?”

His friend’s angry agitation made him desist from the question at once. Of course she was alone. Whatever had become of her, or wherever she had gone, Edward Bethune did not for one moment doubt the honour of his beautiful wife.

He was obliged to tell Mr. Jervoise of the contest which had been going on with regard to the treatment of the child, and of the cruel threat, which he could not help now acknowledging had brought about the catastrophe.

It was the first time he had mentioned it to anyone, and he said as little as he could; but, accustomed to sift evidence, Mr. Jervoise soon had a very fair idea of the life husband and wife had led before they had eventually parted, after a sharp quarrel; when, no doubt, the threat uttered had driven the fond mother to despair.

“ Well, Bethune,” said Mr. Jervoise, breaking the somewhat long silence which had fallen on them, when the story had come to a end, “it is of no use mincing matters; it is not my way, as you know of old. You were drinking all the time, you have gone on drinking in spite of my warnings years ago. Look at your hand; look at your face? You are a perfect wreck; if this goes on you will not long be alive!”

“ And I have never even made my will,” replied Bethune, with a mocking laugh. “ Of course you, being a lawyer, are thinking of that. But it’s all her fault,” he added bitterly.

Jervoise shook his head, but saw that his friend, however much to blame, was not in a state to hear the truth.

“We must find your wife as quickly as possible. You might have found her long ago if you had gone to work properly. We must at once put advertisements into all the leading papers. In one you must beg her to discover herself, with a promise that she shall keep the child. If that does not bring an answer in a week, you must advertise, describing them both minutely. Your wife is too handsome to be easily overlooked, and no doubt the child is like her. I remember her a lovely baby!”

Speak as soothingly as he would, Mr. Jervoise could not but show his own way of looking at his friend’s conduct; while Bethune dwelt fiercely on his own wrongs, Jervoise’s conviction that his wife would very soon be found, driving away the anxiety and compunction which he had lately felt.

He would not now admit any blame to himself, and argued himself into a passion before he left the house.

“By Heaven, she shall pay for this!” he said, between his teeth, as he stepped into the street. He had not dared to say this in hearing of his friend, he had not lost his selfcontrol, and he knew that if he threatened revenge Jervoise would do his best to prevent his being able to execute it.

He knew that his friend’s greatest sympathy was for the poor young wife he had seen and admired in her happy home. .

“Think, Bethune, what the poor thing must have gone through, before she took such a step,” he had said in accents full of feeling.

Bethune walked on, hardly heeding where he was going, so full was his mind of the conversation he had been having with his friend. Jervoise seemed sure that his wife would be found; and hearing him speak with such certainty, made him also believe in the speedy discovery of the fugitives.

With the prospect of soon finding his wife, came the question how he should receive her.

He had often vowed vengeance, and in spite of his late anxiety, angry vindictive thoughts had taken possession of him again. He told himself he could not forgive her. When she had deliberately given him so much trouble and anxiety, she deserved to be punished. And yet Edward Bethune, at the bottom of his heart, was longing for his wife’s love, though he would not own it, even to himself. How she had loved him when she had first become his bridej and how happy they had been together! Conscience would not be silent.

He felt weak and ill, and the horrible craving for drink was upon him. He called a hansom, and told the man to drive him into Oxford Street. There he dismissed the cab, and went into a chemist’s shop. The chemist looked at him, saw what was the matter with him, and giving him what he asked for, added the warning:

“ You had better go home, sir. Go to bed, and send for your medical man.”

Bethune glared at him, uttered an oath, threw down some money, and without waiting for the change hurried away.

The man had talked nonsense, of course; he was not ill now, only weak and out of sorts. A walk would do him good; he would walk across the park. His lodgings were in Sloane Street.

It was a foggy, damp day in November, not a ray of sunlight had visited London for a week. The park was sodden and dripping, but it was not actually raining.

Bethune walked slowly, but he felt better for the exercise, and the sedative he had taken had soothed his nerves.

Very few people were about, for it was four o’clock, and getting dark. Now and then a man, well buttoned to the chin, hurried past him; but he had seen no woman, till he became aware of a tall figure in a long cloak, walking some twenty yards in front of him.

Something familiar in the walk first attracted his attention. Her height, too, reminded him of his wife. With his mind full of her, every woman he saw brought some thought of her.

“Just her height,” he muttered, “and holds herself just like Blanche. She has a bundle, I see, under her arm. How fast she walks!”

Almost unconsciously he tried to quicken his pace, that the space between them should not be increased. But he could not lessen it, he could not walk faster—he had lost his breath as it was. How fast the woman walked! Or was it that he walked slowly? Everybody who passed him seemed to be walking fast.

A vague curiosity gradually grew up in his mind to see the face of this woman, whose gait and figure reminded him of his wife. With a great effort he increased his pace a little, still he did not feel there was any chance of his coming up with the object of his pursuit, till he reached Hyde Park Corner.

There, arrested by the rush of vehicles, the woman had been obliged to stand and wait; she was evidently nervous about crossing, but impatient at the delay.

The streets were a sea of mud. Omnibuses, carriages, carts, cabs, were passing in every direction. The fading light made it more confusing.

Bethune hurried on. Yes, he should just catch her. One glance would be enough, only he must see her face. He was within a yard of her, and she seemed to be preparing for a rush across, when she suddenly turned her head towards him, and he saw his wife’s face. Very pale, very worn she looked, but yet it was Blanche; and he knew that she also recognized him, for into her eyes came a look of terror, abject terror, as of a hunted animal, and without casting another glance before her she rushed into the roadway.

What happened next Bethune could never quite tell. Several vehicles seemed to come at that moment, at full pace, over the spot where his wife had vanished from his sight. There was a scream, confused shouts, a rush of people.

His head swam and he would have fallen, but he clung to a lamp-post. No one noticed him, everyone was taken up with some calamity that had happened in the roadway. What was it?

When he had recovered a little the traffic had begun again. It was too crowded a corner for more than a few minutes’ pause, even if a fellow-creature had been trampled to death. But groups of people were standing talking eagerly in the mud and fog.

“What has happened?” he asked a policeman.

“ A woman run over, sir,” responded the man briefly.

“Where is she? where is she?” asked Bethune, unable to control his agitation. He was beginning to think he had been the victim of a delusion; he had had many lately.

“ She’s been taken to St. George’s. There it is, handy,” said the policeman imperturbably. “ She got under a dray somehow. People say an omnibus knocked her down. This is an awkward corner.”

“Was she hurt badly?” asked Bethune. Somehow the other man’s calmness helped him to control himself, but he felt as if he were in a dream.

“Killed, they say; but the doctors will find that out. They’ll tell you at the hospital if you ask, sir.”

“ Walk across with me, and I will give you a shilling,” said Bethune, taking the policeman’s arm. He could not trust himself to walk alone; he felt as if he could hardly see a step before him.

“ You look shaky, sir. No doubt you saw the accident. It is an ugly thing to see,” said the man, regarding him curiously while he obeyed the request All the time as he crossed, Bethune tried painfully to catch sight of that tall slight figure, which was now, he knew, that of his lost wife.

Of course it was not she, his wife, his Blanche, who had been knocked down and killed. She had no doubt threaded her way among the vehicles and escaped him in the confusion, and some other poor woman had been knocked down. There were plenty about now, coming and going in all directions, mostly with anxious tired faces, like the face that Blanche had turned on him. She used to be very much afraid at the crossings. How she used to cling to his,arm, and how he used to laugh at her!

Now she was afraid of him. Should he ever forget that look of terror!

But he would find her, and—yes, perhaps after all he would forgive her. She must have suffered, she must have punished herself, by her own folly. He felt his anger was breaking down in the remembrance of that look in his wife’s eyes.

What had he done to drive all the love out of them? Why should they have spoken of fear, only fear? Was there no hope of her feeling any gladness in seeing him, her husband, again?

The policeman had left him standing before the door of the hospital.

Perhaps it was all a mistake, he told himself again and again; for he felt he was trembling, and that he must calm himself somehow. Perhaps he had not even seen his wife at all; it was one of his delusions. The chemist was right; he was ill. He would go back to his lodgings and go to bed, and Jervoise must come and see him to-morrow; and he would follow his advice in everything, and put in some message of forgiveness into the paper that Blanche would not resist.

But he must inquire at the hospital. He could not go on his way with this terrible, unreasonable dread pressing him down; no, he must know the worst or dispel the delusion, if delusion it were.

He questioned the porter at the door, but in such a confused manner that the man stared at him, and decided in his own mind that the gentleman had been drinking. Yes, a woman had just been carried in, knocked down by a dray and run over. The doctors were with her now. He the porter could not say how she was; she might have been killed—he did not hear. He had not heard anything about her. No one had told him she was dead. He knew nothing more, and couldn’t disturb the doctors. The gentleman had better call again in an hour’s time if he wanted to hear anything.

A good many medical students were waiting about in the hall, and people were coming and going. Bethune stood watching them. He felt that he would not be able to stand much longer; but he could not go away—no, he could not go away even for an hour, in this uncertainty.

Would no one speak to him? But no one seemed to take any notice of him. He would certainly wait till he saw someone who looked like a doctor. What could the porter know? It was a mistake having spoken to the porter.

He thought all this in a dull, stupid sort of way, as he tried to steady himself by leaning against the wall.

After a time a bright-faced youth with a soft voice addressed him.

“ Are you waiting to see anyone, sir? Can I do anything for you?” he questioned; and Bethune roused himself with an effort.

“Yes, you can. Show me some place where I can sit down; I have been ill and am tired. And tell me about a woman who has been run over. I saw it, and I want to know how she is.”

The student saw him stagger as he left the friendly support of the walL Slipping a hand through his arm and opening a door behind them, he led him into a large room, with a heavy oak table in the middle, and a row of leather-covered chairs placed at intervals round the walls.

A fire burned brightly in the grate, and an arm-chair stood beside it. Bethune sank into this with unspeakable relief.

“ You are ill, I am afraid, sir,” said the student sympathetically. “ Can I call you a cab? It would be better for you to get home at once, I think.”

“ Yes, yes, I’ll go home presently,” replied Bethune impatiently. “ But I must know about this woman. I won’t go away till I hear how she is. Surely you can find this out for me.”

“ Well, yes, perhaps I can,” replied the student doubtfully. “ I’ll try, at any rate,” he added soothingly. “ And perhaps you had better see the house-surgeon yourself; you look very ill.”

“ No, no, I am not ill,” returned Bethune irritably. . . . “ Why do you stay here staring at me? Why don’t you go and ask] It seems simple enough.”

“Not quite so simple as it seems; but there, I’ll see what I can do if you’ll keep quiet till I return.”

The student was beginning to think the same as the porter had thought, and to be doubtful of the responsibility of this imperious visitor.

“Oh, go at once! I’ll keep quiet.” And with a supreme effort at self-control Bethune leant back and closed his eyes.

But closing his eyes only seemed to intensify his mental vision. Plainer than ever his wife’s beautiful, sorrowful, frightened face rose before him — plainer than ever the scream rang in his ears, which might be her scream as the cruel wheels passed over her.

The minutes seemed hours, but like other minutes they came to an end at last.

“Well]” he said sharply, at the same time starting up as the friendly student entered the room.

He tried to read his face by the dim light, but the youth’s impassive features told him nothing.

“She’s badly hurt and unconscious—not likely to live through the night, I’m told. There’s nothing to be done.”

Then for the first time the horrible certainty came over Bethune that this woman whom he had been inquiring about as a stranger, the woman whose death-warrant the youth beside him spoke so carelessly, was really his wife, his beautiful, loving-hearted Blanche, whom he had driven from him by his own wilful cruelty and sin, against whom only a few hours ago he had vowed a cruel revenge.

He rose to his feet, suddenly sober and strong.

“I must see her,” he said hoarsely; “take me to her at once.”

“Oh, no, I can’t do that No one can see her; it’s not allowed,” said the youth, half-frightened. This strange man was evidently not himself.

What could this well-dressed gentleman have to do with that poor, shabby woman he had seen carried in, who was now lying so horribly maimed and crushed that it had been thought merciful not to attempt to do anything but lay her to rest and watch for the end, which was not far off ?

“ I must see her!” said Bethune desperately. “ I tell you, boy, she’s my wife. I have a right to see her, and see her I will! ” All his doubts had fled—all his hope of this poor, injured woman being some other, and not Blanche.

“Your wife!” repeated the student, aghast. Oh, no, you make a mistake. I saw her myself when they brought her in; she was quite a poor woman.”

Astonishment and perplexity quite took away his presence of mind. The gentleman was certainly raving. What should he do next?

“In God’s name why do you stand staring at me, you fool! Take me to her, I say!” exclaimed Bethune angrily.

“Stop, wait one minute. You shall see the house-surgeon,” said the youth, now thoroughly frightened. He rushed out of the room, and two minutes afterwards he ushered in a tall, fair young man, with an alert, eager face.

Bethune had by this time been obliged to sink again into the arm-chair. The effort he had made had been followed by greater prostration than ever.

The doctor silently sat down beside him and felt his pulse. He thought he had probably to deal with a man labouring under some delusion. This idea he had gathered from the student’s rather incoherent account—Or had the man been drinking?

“ I will call a cab, and someone shall see you home,” he said soothingly, but with some authority in his tones. “You must give me your address.”

“ I will not leave the hospital till I’ve seen my wife,” said Bethune quietly but doggedly.

“You think this poor woman is your wife?” said the doctor calmly. He saw that Bethune’s agitation was almost uncontrollable, and while speaking he was deciding what he had better do. There might be some reason in the man’s statement, some tragedy which he had not suspected.

“ I could not let you see her unless you are able to control yourself,” he continued slowly.

“I am perfectly calm,” said Bethune, springing to his feet; but the agony in his face decided the doctor.

“ Come then at once, follow me, and you shall see our patient, whether your wife or no. But you must be prepared to find her altered. She has been terribly mangled, poor thing! Her jaw is broken. You may not be able to recognize her. I think you are labouring under a mistake; but you shall come at once, only be calm.”

Bethune pulled himself together. The calmness of the doctor’s tones had soothed his nerves. After all, it could not, it should not be Blanche I

“It may not be my wife after all,” he said slowly, word by word, with an effort; and then he followed the doctor from the room, and upstairs into a long ward full of beds.

Close to the door by which they entered a bed was screened off. A long figure lay on this bed, in an attitude of perfect repose, one white hand was thrown over the coverlet, and a white face, with bandages round it, was all that Bethune could see. He was trembling violently.

The doctor slipped his hand through his arm, and led him to the bed’s head. On the other side of the bed sat a nurse, whose calm, fresh, rosy face was a strange contrast to the death-like pallor of the other woman’s face on the bed.

Bethune gazed some minutes in silence at the marble forehead, the sweeping, dark eyelashes. Was it his wife, or was this some horrible nightmare? The fine outline of her nose had been untouched, but could Blanche ever look like that!

On the hand was a wedding-ring; the sight of it broke the spell which had seemed to chain his senses since he had reached the bedside. Bethune threw himself on his knees, and taking the long, thin hand in his, gently drew off the ring.

“ Are these letters inside? I cannot see,” he said hoarsely, handing it to the doctor.

“There is a name inside — Blanche,” said the young man gently. Then this strange visitor was not mad.

“Blanche, Blanche, Blanche!” moaned Bethune, laying his head beside the poor bruised face, everything forgotten but his agony of love and remorse.

Slowly the heavy eyelids unclosed, and as if called back to life by the sound of the once-loved voice, into the beautiful dark eyes came a look of recognition not to be mistaken. . .

And was it a mistake or no? Surely there was a look of love, quite unlike the glance of terror which Bethune had last seen in them.

“Blanche, Blanche!” was all he could say, as he rained kisses on the hand he held in both his own. Alas! the lips so dear to him were hidden with bandages.

As suddenly as the glance of recognition had come, so now the expression of the dying woman’s eyes changed to one of anxiety, to entreaty, painful to witness.

What thoughts were passing through the brain? The doctor had no clue. The husband had only one engrossing thought—would his wife forgive him? Would she yet live to forgive him? Surely she could not really be dying.

“ Speak to her; she cannot speak, but she wishes to say something,” said the doctor.

“Blanche, forgive me, forgive me! ” sobbed Bethune. They were the only words he could find; he had forgotten all else but his love for his wife.

She seemed to understand his words, for very feebly she lifted her hand and laid it on his bent head, and there it rested; but still her eyes spoke of anxiety and entreaty, not to be disregarded.

“She wants to say something; she is quite conscious. Perhaps she can write,” said the doctor.

The nurse shook her head.

“ Her right hand is helpless, sir.”

“Ah! I forgot.”

Slowly the light faded out of the beautiful pathetic eyes, and then they closed again; there was no movement to tell of life but the laboured breathing.

Bethune knelt on, still calling on his wife’s name, her hand laid heavily on his head. He felt at last he could not bear the pressure, and he took it again between his own: it was cold, very cold.

No word, no sign, came from the inanimate figure on the bed. Blanche was very far away!

How long he knelt Bethune did not know, nor did he ever remember how he got downstairs, but he awoke to consciousness to find himself lying on the floor, in the room he had waited in. He had walked downstairs with the doctor’s help, and then fainted, and it had been some time before he had recovered.

Only one question in his misery could come to his lips when memory came back, but how could he frame it. The doctor read it in his face, and told him briefly and kindly that all was over; his wife was dead. All that was possible had been done for her, but the case was hopeless from the first.

Then he told him a cab was waiting for him, and he would take him home if he would give him his address, but that he must have medical attention at once. Who was his medical adviser?

Bethune mechanically gave both his own address and that of his doctor, and then, with the help of the house-surgeon and the friendly young student, who was dreadfully shocked at what had been to him a very unexpected tragedy, he reached his lodgings.

CHAPTER VI.

A FRUITLESS SEARCH.

THE faithful Stagg received his master at the door of his lodging, and it was to him that the doctor told the story of Mrs. Bethune’s death.

Stagg was a cautious, reserved man, and had been trained to silence. “Master would not like a talk,” he told himself, so he said as little as possible to the two gentlemen, who were naturally not a little curious to know some particulars that would explain the tragic occurrence of the afternoon.

The doctor who had been named by Bethune had been sent for by a messenger from the hospital, and he arrived almost immediately; but he had not seen his patient for some years, and could only speak of his present condition, which was explained by the shock he had sustained.

Stagg promised to be present at the inquest, as it was evident his master would be unable to attend; then he sent to Mr. Jervoise, and gave all his attention to nursing his master, making no mention of the still missing child. Master no doubt knew where Miss Olive was; perhaps he had known for some time, only did not choose to say. He was “ so close.”

It was not till late the next day that Jervoise arrived, for he had been called out of town. He told Stagg of the interview he had with his master, and the conclusion come to, but could, of course, tell him nothing more. Then he visited the hospital, and heard all he could from the doctors, hoping fully that some clue would be found that would explain everything.

Five pounds in gold had been found in Mrs. Bethune’s pocket, which prevented the idea that she could have been in any want; and this fact, being stated at the inquest, did much to ward off awkward questions being asked.

Jervoise was quite at a loss to guess how the husband and wife had met; whether there had been any conversation between them, whether Bethune knew where his child was. All must remain a mystery till the sick man was able to give some account of what had happened after he had left Mr. Jervoise’s office.

The lawyer arranged that the poor young wife, whose tragic end touched him deeply, should be buried in the family vault at Barrington, and used his influence to pre vent any unnecessary exposure of his client’s affairs. He attended the funeral as the only mourner, and then returned to give all the spare time he could to nursing his friend.

For a fortnight Bethune raved in delirium, and then lay in such an exhausted condition that his life was almost despaired of, and no questions could be asked him. It seemed to be some time before any clear recollection of the immediate past came back to him, and the first to break the silence was Jervoise.

“Where is your little daughter, Bethune?” he asked one afternoon, when the invalid seemed stronger than usual.

“I don’t know,” said Bethune wearily. “How should I?”

“Not know!” exclaimed his friend, in horror. Then fearing to agitate him, he continued in his usual calm tones: “You see I don’t know what happened after you left me that afternoon, but directly you feel strong enough it is most important you should tell me. You see your child must be found. You have no reason to think she is dead, have you?”

Thus urged, Bethune told his friend all he could remember. The account was rather a confused one, but certain parts were clear. .

He had followed his wife across the park, not knowing her. Oh! if he had only known her! He had seen her rush across the road after he had recognized her; he had heard there was an accident—had seen the dying face of his wife at the hospital. She had looked her forgiveness, but had not been able to speak.

It was the thought of her child that had, no doubt, been her last on earth, Bethune told himself with a pang of jealousy. Nothing but that had changed her eyes from speaking only of love to him, to care and unrest He could say nothing, absolutely nothing, towards solving the problem of his child’s whereabouts. The only clue was the neighbourhood of the accident, but then Blanche was coming from Oxford Street. Was she going from or returning to the place of her abode! The hour of the afternoon seemed to point to the latter theory.

All her clothes had been searched carefully, but they gave no clue whatever. The parcel she had been carrying, which Bethune spoke of, must have been lost during the accident; no one else had seen it The initials on her linen would have confirmed her identity had such confirmation been necessary. Her ring was on her husband’s finger.

“It was a shame to take it from her,” he muttered; and then he remembered it was he who had taken it off, as it was he who had put it on, and the two scenes rose vividly before him.

The quiet little Edinburgh church, with the few, very few friends grouped around, and Blanche in her simple white dress, in her brightness and beauty, with eyes full of love and admiration for him;—and then the hospital ward, and the poor crushed body and disfigured face, and anguished, entreating eyes.

He thought he should go mad, and he often told Jervoise so, while in his misery he taxed both his friend and servant to the uttermost. Jervoise tried to turn his thoughts to his lost child. Surely when he found her he would find some consolation. But it was almost useless.

“ Find her by all means,” said the unhappy man. “ As my heiress she is of importance. You must find her, of course, but she seems to me the source of all my misery. If it had not been for her I should have Blanche beside me now. We should never have quarrelled about anything else. How can you expect me to care about her!”

And Jervoise found it useless to try to bring him to a more reasonable state of mind.

It was three weeks and more after Blanche’s death that an advertisement appeared in the principal daily papers, describing Olive, and offering a reward to anyone who could give information that would lead to her discovery.

Bethune gave her personal description from memory, and laid great stress on the length and beauty of her hair. He had no picture to give the police. Blanche had taken with her the only one she possessed.

Jervoise for long expected that inquiries would be made after the accident at the hospital, by someone who had missed the poor woman who had been killed. Surely she must have made some friends. Judging by the clothes worn by Mrs. Bethune at the time of her death, she must have been living as a poor woman among poor people; but the child must have been left with someone, and that someone would surely be interested in finding out what had become of the mother.

But no inquiries were made. The poor woman trampled to death that November afternoon seemed to be missed by no one. No one came forward to claim the reward offered for any information. The workhouses, the refuges, the orphanages, were searched in vain. No little Olive was to be found, and Mr. Jervoise began to think that the child must have died before her mother.

But of this Bethune was incredulous; if Olive had been dead, his wife would not have been afraid to return to him. This seemed strange reasoning to his friend, but he could not contradict it. The husband must know best; but it seemed to him that the child’s death might account for the poor young wife’s fear to return to her husband.

After a time Bethune began to show some sort of interest in the search. A remark of his friend’s, that if he loved his wife he would surely strive his utmost to do something to please her, roused him a little, and after a bit he might be said to spend the little energy he had in the search.

Many false clues were found by the police in their anxiety to find something, but all proved delusive.

Bethune stayed in London all the winter, leading the life of an invalid, and growing more morose every day. Jervoise was the only friend he saw, Mr. Lock having started on a long Indian tour. Stagg did his best for his poor brokenhearted master, and tried to stop his drinking; but it was a constant fight, and try as he would Bethune often returned to his old habits in spite of many resolves to the contrary.

At Jervoise’s request he made his will; indeed he seemed to have a strange pleasure in doing so, and improved so much with the effort that both his friend and Stagg began to hope for better things.

He left all he possessed to his child, but on proof being discovered of her death, he made his half-sister, the wife of an officer serving in the Indian army, his heir, with the further provision that their eldest son was to inherit the property from his mother.

If no proof of his child’s death was found, his sister was to take possession five years after the date of his decease. If his child claimed her inheritance later than that, the money spent by his Bister was not to be accounted for, but his child was to come into immediate possession of everything.

Bethune was morbidly afraid of injuring his child by this disposition of his property, and Jervoise was so glad to see his friend take an interest in anything, that he was very patient with him.

“Just pull yourself together," he urged. “Give yourself a chance, and you will in a year or two marry again and have an heir. If you give way to despondency you have not a chance. Remember, a man is not dying because he makes his will.”

But when his friend said this sort of thing Bethune always grew more gloomy, and muttered “ too late.”

“ Poor master doesn’t care to live,” said Stagg with tears in his eyes, and Mr. Jervoise could not contradict him.

Stagg was provided for by a handsome legacy, and both Jervoise and Lock were remembered in the same way; while Blanche’s own little fortune was divided between St. George’s Hospital and the village church at Barrington, then needing funds for restoration.

Bethune felt that his wife would have approved of this disposition of her grandmother’s little fortune. If his child were found she would be a large heiress, and no one else had any right to it.

When everything was finished he suddenly declared his intention of returning to Barrington Court, and sending Stagg to collect a sufficient staff of servants he wished his friend good-bye. They never met again.

The hope of ever finding his child had grown very faint, and Bethune was beginning to adopt Mr. Jervoise’s conviction that she had died, and that it had been her death which had made his wife afraid to communicate with him.

Bethune lingered through the summer in a miserably weak state, and in the early autumn the first cold weather brought on inflammation of the lungs, from which he seemed to recover; but he never left his bed again, and the end came rather suddenly.

“ Master died of a broken heart,” affirmed Stagg. “ He never drank after he returned home. He said as how it was the mistress kept him from it.”

And then he went on to describe to Mr. Jervoise the last weeks of his master’s life.

He had had his wife’s picture moved from the dining- room to his bed-room. It was a full-length portrait, taken the year of her marriage. From his bed the dying man would lie and watch it, se'dom turning from it through the weeks he lay ill. A world of love was in the eyes which the artist had transferred to the canvas, and in this love Btthune found some rest and peace. Stagg said he often heard his poor master talking to the picture, and he believed that as he grew weaker he in some way confused it with the real living Blanche, and that he felt she stood beside him, and he was forgiven.

Everything that had belonged to his wife and child he had had packed in cases, and these had been sent to Mr. Jervoise some months before, with the request to him and his heirs that they should be kept for the space of fifty years, and then, if unclaimed, destroyed.

Again a funeral procession passed out of Barrington Court, and again Mr. Jervoise was sole mourner; and then he wrote to inform Mrs. Lehouse of the purport of her brother’s will, and the hitherto ineffectual attempts to find his missing child.

During the next four years Jervoise continued the search, ' though necessarily it ceased to be an active one. Everything possible had been done and had failed, and few people hesitated to declare their conviction that the child had long been dead.

There had been a good deal of excitement in the neighbourhood, when it was known through the advertisements in the public papers that Mr. Bethune’s child was really missing. His wife’s sudden departure from home and subsequent accidental death had not been much talked of; it was always supposed that on leaving Barrington she had Sice back to her own friends, and that she had ultimately reined her husband. When the disposition of Mr. Bethune’s arge property was made public, there was a renewal of excitement on the subject of the lost heiress.

Mr. Bethune had left a minute description of his child with Mr. Jervoise; but each year made it of less value. The one point of hope towards a real recognition were the letters tattooed on her arm, and the knowledge of these the lawyer, fearing claimants might be put forward, had always kept to himself. Stagg also had heard of these letters, hut had been told to keep silence, and the nurse, who might have talked of them, had left England.

As years passed by and no discovery was made, all interest in little Olive Bethune’s existence died away, and long before the five years were up Mrs. Lenhouse talked of Barrington Court as belonging to herself, and impatiently looked forward to taking possession.

Her husband’s Indian service was drawing to a close, her large family was growing up, and she was needing much the very large addition to her income.

Few prouder women were to be found in England the day Leonora Lenhouse with her husband and children took possession of the old home, which she had never seen since she left it with her mother when a little child.

She could just remember her half-brother standing at the door, and waving his hand to her,—a boy of fifteen, still in Eton jacket and collar, but a very grand being to his little seven-year-old sister. She had only seen him once afterwards, when he had been present at her wedding.

Edward Bethune’s father had married a second time, when his only son was a very much spoilt, unruly boy of seven. The stepmother had been most unwelcome, and after a time, finding that his wife and son did not get on as well as he had hoped, Mr. Bethune sent the latter to school In the holidays the boy had lived mostly with his father, who was devoted to him, but he had learned to be on friendly if not affectionate terms with his stepmother and the little sister, who was the only child of the marriage.

His father’s death when he was fifteen had broken up the home, for his appointed guardian lived in a distant county. The large landed property was left to the only son, and the widow and daughter were but slenderly provided for. Mrs. Bethune was a Welsh woman, and she went, back to her own county with her little girl. She did not like boys, and had never cared for her husband’s son, so years passed without her caring to see him. She had died before her daughter was grown up.

Leonora Bethune had then lived on with her maternal grandfather till she married. Her brother attended the wedding and gave her a handsome present. He was very glad to think she was comfortably provided for, and thought little more about her.

Her marriage had taken place about three years before his own. She was in India when the news reached her, and after his announcement of the event there had been no further correspondence.

Of her sister-in-law’s death, or of the loss of the child, Mrs. Lenhouse knew nothing till Mr. Jervoise’s letter reached her, telling her of her brother’s death and the terms of his will.

Captain, now Colonel Lenhouse, was, if possible, prouder and happier than his wife at the unexpected turn in fortune’s wheel. In the first years after Bethune’s death he hardly dared count on the hope of the little heiress not being found; but as year after year went by and she was still unheard of, he began to breathe freely.

Once in possession he determined he would put away his fear, and yet it troubled him as it never troubled his wife. She was not a nervous woman, and laughed at him; if the child were alive she would have been found long before this. The lawyers had done their very best; the search was no business of theirs.

The thought of the possible appearance of the lost heiress was so distasteful to him that he enjoined silence on his wife. The children and servants he argued need know nothing of the circumstances of the inheritance.

Time had brought many changes in the neighbourhood, and people had long ceased to take any interest in what had seemed a hopeless search.

In the beautiful parish church in Barrington, about a mile from the Court, a marble slab recorded the death of Blanche Bethune, a memorial erected by her “ loving husband.” His own death was recorded below. On taking possession of Barrington Court, Colonel Lenhouse had added the words—

“ Also to the memory of the infant children of the above.” He wished it to be an accepted fact that Olive was dead, and his eyes rested on the words with pleasure on a Sunday morning, when he sat with his family in the same part of the old church, if not in the same pew, that Blanche, and now and then little Olive, had occupied in years gone by. Year after year passed on, and Colonel Lenhouse began to forget his fears, while his children grew up, knowing nothing of the little cousin whose feet had danced through the same passages, and whose merry voice had echoed through the same old gardens.

CHAPTER VII.

MOTHER AND CHILD.

BUT where was Olive all this time, and what had been the history of those last nine months of poor Blanche Bethune’s life?

It must be told in a few words. But who can tell of all the heartache of those months, as slowly, very slowly, all the difficulties of the life she had entered on by her own act dawned on her brave spirit?

Before many weeks had passed she began to search the newspapers, in the hope of finding some message of forgiveness from her husband. But she sought in vain. Her real terror of him, and of his threat of separation from her child, alone kept her silent; for her loving heart was often wrung with remorse at the thought of having perhaps caused the man pain whom she had thought she hated.

For while her courage rose in rebellion at the remembrance of the tyranny which had crushed her happiness, she was ready to forgive all, to humble herself in any way required of her, if only she could have some promise for the future which would ensure the possession of her darling.

That her child should be happy, that she should not suffer from the great change that had come into her life, was one of Blanche’s daily anxieties. She bought her a big doll, as like as possible the one that had been the cause of so much grief. She allowed her to adopt a stray kitten which she found in the gutter, in the hope that it would make her forget the pet she had left behind her.

Whenever Olive’s spirits seemed to flag economy was forgotten, and books and toys were added to her store, which would have filled the woman of the house with untold astonishment had she seen them.

Fortunately for Blanche’s secret, Mrs. Todd was not of a curious disposition. Her lodger paid her regularly, always a week in advance, and she was too busy with her own cares to trouble herself about anything else, while the fact that she was a stranger in the neighbourhood lessened the chance of her hearing any inquiries which were being pursued around her.

Blanche did not dare to take Olive out till dusk, even in the disguise of boy’s clothes. If the child were not noticed, she herself might be recognized; and notwithstanding the long cloak and huge crape-trimmed bonnet, she might attract attention.

Everybody in the house was friendly, but in no way inquisitive. It was rumoured that the child was very delicate, and as Olive was seldom seen it was easy to keep up this idea, while the presence of a child in the house was boldly denied by Mrs. Todd when the school-board authorities came round.

Olive (or Willie, as she was now called) was always on the alert to the danger of being found by her father, and bravely allowed herself to be locked in when her mother went out alone, as she was sometimes obliged to do.

The discipline of such a life changed Olive'rapidly; and she grew so gentle and thoughtful, that the passionate, high-spirited child of a few weeks before would not have been recognized. No complaints were uttered. Love for her mother sealed her baby lips; and, with a child’s adaptability, she played happily enough in her garret It was a strange life for both mother and child, but the mother felt it most Blanche wasted, and grew holloweyed. She could not sleep for thinking of past, present, and future; while Olive slumbered peacefully, and save by looking paler hardly showed that she felt the imprisonment

This state of things went on until the end of August. The days were so like each other that Blanche almost lost count of them. It was fortunately a cool summer, and only a few days brought the suffering of extreme heat. She began to feel she had not energy to leave the refuge she had found and face the unknown again, though she found the neighbourhood to be far from suitable, and knew that as time went on she must make some change. She must go where she could take Olive out, without fear of the sights and sounds she might encounter.

A change was decided for her one morning by the bailiffs arriving—Todd was bankrupt.

Great was the consternation. Mrs. Todd's wails were long and loud. Poor woman! she had made a brave fight for respectability, but while she saved and toiled her husband spent and idled.

Blanche's thoughts turned sadly to the long purse she had once had. Now she could do nothing to help, nor was there any time for consideration. She collected her few possessions and drove with them to a house in Chelsea, which one of the other lodgers had recommended to her as being “very respectable." The man who had given the advice had taken pity on her evident distress and bewilderment, but little thought of the gratitude he earned.

Blanche’s new home was in a fairly wide street, and she felt with delight that she should at least have some fresh air for her darling. The house was a large one, and was full of people, but hard-working, honest people, who had no time to give attention to their neighbours.

The coming and going of new lodgers called for no curiosity, and Blanche thankfully took possession of a much more airy room than the last It was at the top of the house, but this she preferred. There were two other roomson the landing, but their occupants were out all day; she felt she could not have found anything she liked better.

Blanche had one accomplishment which had made her present life much more possible than it would otherwise have been. In the days of her happy girlhood she had learned to cook, under her grandmother’s direction. Had it not been for this she would now have been sorely at a loss, for kind Mrs. Todd had done much for her, but now she was entirely thrown on her own resourcea The change of air and increased freedom (for Blanche now began to lose the fear of discovery, and to take Olive with her, without thinking it necessary to disguise her as a boy), the long walks in the early morning, through streets which seemed to her airy after those she had lately frequented, brought back renewed vigour to her desolate heart, and she began again to cast in her mind what she should do for the future.

She decided before long that she could not go on living as she was doing. The money she had with her was nearly spent. It was true that she could sell her rings and the few trinkets she had brought with her, but after that she had no further resources.

It was not long before a definite plan formed itself in her mind. She would leave London and go to Paris. There she would find out a lady she had known in Edinburgh, who, she felt sure, would be ready and able to help her to obtain some employment.

She could certainly teach both English and music. She surely would have no difficulty in supporting herself and child, and giving her also an education suitable to her station. Bright vistas seemed to open before her. If not happy, at least she could he content.

Her purse was nearly empty, when Olive towards the end of September had a sharp attack of illness, caused by a chill, which brought on bronchitis. This happened just a week before Blanche had intended to leave England. The first ring she sold went for medicine and a doctor for her darling, and the journey was put off indefinitely; Olive’s illness lasting many weeks, and leaving her delicate.

It was very seldom Blanche went into any part of London but the one she lived in. But in a newspaper she happened to buy one day (she was sometimes seized with a longing to know what was going on in the world, and the hope that her husband would try to communicate with her had never quite died out) she saw an advertisement from a shop in Oxford Street, offering fine needlework at home.

She knew she could undertake such work, and if it only brought a few pence and helped her to pass the hours which hung heavy on her hands, especially wlien Olive was asleep, it would help her. She had no fear of her own powers. She had been taught by her grandmother, who prided herself on her skill with the needle.

It was a long walk, and it needed some courage. She could only take it safely of an evening, and she must go alone. Even then she did it tremblingly, with her thoughts full of Olive locked into her attic, waiting eagerly for the sound of her mother’s returning footstep.

She had at first to deposit money for the work taken; but this she was able to do, and she soon rejoiced over the small sums she earned, and grew bolder. Blanche had made the journey two or three times, and, as I said, she had grown bolder. The short November day had been so dark and wet, there would be so few people, about, surely she would run no risk in starting earlier than usual.

Olive was so unwell she hardly liked to leave her alone. But she had promised to return some work, and she must get something nice for Olive’s tea. Yes, and she must get her a warm frock at once; a really warm one. The one she was wearing was threadbare.

At this moment Blanche remembered sadly how nurse had complained of this same frock being shabby, on that never-to-be-forgotten day. And there was the tear, neatly darned, which had been made by the puppy. She wondered if Olive remembered it; but she was careful never to remind her child of the past.

On moving to Chelsea, to Olive’s intense satisfaction she had returned to her own dress. The knickerbockers were worn out. Blanche hated the deception which she had constantly to inculcate on her child, and she knew of no one who would question the change.

“I shall be home before it is quite dark, darling; and you must not touch the fire, or light a candle,” were her last words, as fondly kissing the now pale little face, she left her child seated among books and toys and then she had hurried away.

She did her business, but there was no more work ready for her, which was a disappointment. Then seeing a remnant of serge in a shop window which she passed, she bought it with her earnings, and that November evening, with her thoughts full of the future, she hurried towards home.

Olive was certainly very delicate; she would be better and stronger out of London, but she must not think of the journey yet, she must wait. She had sold all her rings, and the five pounds she always carried in her pocket for safety would more than pay for the journey. She must spend some of it, but she must go the first week Olive was really better. . . There a new life would open for them both. How happy Olive would be in Paris I she would go to a day-school and have the playfellows she so needed. . . And she, Blanche, would teach, and earn enough for all the comforts she wished to give Olive. And then how delightful it would be to speak to an old friend again, one who had known her grandmother! . . To be away from the dread of discovery, would be a new life to them both. . . These nine months had been like a nightmare. . . Her husband must be tired of looking for her by this time. . . Or perhaps, after all, he had not cared to look for her. . . This thought brought a sharp pang. If he had really cared, surely he would have found her. . . Surely some message would have reached her.

With these thoughts and others like them occupying her mind, Blanche hurried on in the November fog, hardly heeding the outside world around her.

Olive would be in the dark after all, poor child! She must make haste. Olive was too obedient to touch the matches, but had she put them out of reach?

Dread of what might happen to Olive in her absence always tortured the poor mother more or less through these long walks, and she increased her pace, little dreaming who was following her.

She heard no footsteps behind her, the ground was soft and wet; and if she had, she would hardly have turned her head. She did not even glance at the few people who passed her.

When she came to the crowded crossing, she stood and waited for an opportunity. She was nervous, and liked to wait for some pause in the traffic.

She looked round mechanically, rather than from any interest in the people round her, and doing so she caught sight of her husband’s face. Yes, it was her husband, and he looked evil and angry. Surely she had never seen him look so evil before. All her fears returned fourfold.

Terror, nothing but blind terror took possession of her— the terror which a hunted animal feels when the dogs are in sight; and heeding not the roar of wheels, heeding not the tramp of horses’ feet, she fled across the road.

One moment of agony, and then followed a blessed unconsciousness!

We know all the rest that happened, of which Blanche knew nothing. She awoke to see her husband’s face once more. But this time his eyes were full of tears, his face spoke of nothing but sorrowful love, his voice called her name with passionate entreaty; it seemed as if it had been calling her for hours, and, spell-bound, she could not reply; all, all was forgotten in the joy of the meeting.

This joy was but a flash. Then came remembrance of all that happened, and the agony of not being able to speak— the thought of her child.

In God’s mercy unconsciousness quickly followed, for who can dare to think of the horror of the poor mother had she been capable of thinking long of her darling in her dark attic, cut off from all friends, utterly forlorn, waiting for the mother who was never to return to her?

CHAPTER VIII.

ALONE IN THE WORLD.

HOW that child do moan, or it’s my fancy! It makes me quite creepy. And the mother is a nice, tidy-looking woman. What can she be about to let her go on like that? It’s disgraceful. But p’r’aps she’s ill again.”

The speaker was a nice-looking old woman, wearing what had once been a handsome, black silk gown, and a very gay cap, trimmed with violet ribbons; for Mrs. Oats had.donned her best, in honour of the guest who had come to drink tea with her. The pretty, old-fashioned china, which stood on the low table before her, spoke of the pleasant little meal which was now over, for the much-enjoyed visit was coming to an end.

“What child, Nanny? I don’t hear anything,” said her visitor, a lady in deep mourning, who was sitting beside the old woman, with one hand clasped in hers.

“Well, she’s stopped now, but she’ll begin again presently.” Then she added, returning suddenly to her own griefs: “ It is dreadful to think of your going all that way off, dear; and I shall never see you again, it’s not to be expected. Now if it had been France I shouldn’t have minded so much, but Russia. Why, that’s where they do such cruel things. I mind you reading me a story once about it.”

“ Yes, Nanny, I remember it too,” replied her visitor with a smile. “But you need not trouble yourself with fears about me; and perhaps after all I may be in England again in a year or two. We have talked of this going away so long, I can hardly believe in it myself. But now that my little darling has left me I think I shall be glad of a change.”

There was a break in the speaker’s voice, and the old woman pressed the hand she held in hers to her lips.

“Poor dear!’’she whispered, “I can’t bear to think of it.” “ My husband goes to-night, and I follow him in a fortnight,” continued the lady, with a visible effort to speak more cheerfully. “It is a long journey, as you say, but the climate is good. I think I shall like it Leaving you is worse than anything else. I wish I could take you with me.”

“There’s that moaning again! Don’t you hear it now?” said the old woman excitedly.

“Yes, I think I do,” said the lady, listening attentively. “What do you think it is? Not a child? You did not say it was a child. It sounds rather like a dog to me.”

The lady’s face was full of sudden interest It was a quiet, commonplace face, with no beauty now in middle age, whatever it might have had once; but it was a sweet, kindly face, which anyone looking at would feel inclined to trust “ Well, yes, it sounds to me like a child moaning,” said the old woman reluctantly, “ in the room above. A woman lives there with one child—a very respectable woman; all the people in this house are very respectable, leastwise they thinks themselves so,” she added, with a slightly sarcastic inflexion. “ If I wasn’t so crippled with the rheumatism I should have gone up and asked what it was before this, but I really can’t try those stairs, I should never get down again and I’ve seen no one to-day to ask.”

“ Let me go,” said the lady rising.

“ You, indeed! No, there’s no call for you to be troubled. It’s nothing; very likely it’s my fancy! I am nervous often, living up here and seeing nobody.”

“Poor Nanny!” said the lady, smiling sadly as she sat down again. “ Now I’m afraid you’ll be more lonely still; you will miss my visits.”

The old woman wiped away a tear, and for some minutes there was silence between them.

It was a pleasant little room, comfortably furnished, and adorned with all the pretty things collected through long and faithful service; for Mrs. Oats had been Mrs. Hall’s nurse, and had only left her to marry late in life, not long before her own marriage. Now, as a widow with a small competency, she had settled in a quiet room in the part of London she knew best, and within reach of her dear child, as she had never ceased to call Mrs. HalL Rheumatism had lately crippled her, changing her from an active woman to an invalid, and very great had been the trial when she heard that Mr. Hall had suddenly decided to leave England. He was a partner in a wealthy Russian house, and had long talked of going to that country, but the event seemed sudden to poor Mrs. Oats.

To Mrs. Hall it was no new idea, and she had no leavetaking to cost her a pang but that with her poor old nurse. Her parents were dead, her only sister settled in Ireland. She felt that the entire change of thought and scene would be good for both her husband and herself.

Three months before a great sorrow had overwhelmed them. Their only child, a little daughter seven years old, who had been bom nearly the same number of years after their marriage, had been carried off by an attack of diphtheria. The blow had been so sudden, that both parents had been crushed by it “I must go now, dear, it’s getting dark, but I’ll come again to wish you good-bye. You may be quite sure of that,” said Mrs. Hall at last, getting up again. “Listen, Nanny,’’she added, “there is certainly someone moaning overhead. And I shall go and see what it is, just to satisfy myself.”

Mrs. Oats did not try to detain her this time, but hobbling after her to the door, stood and listened anxiously.

Truth to tell, her conscience smote her, for had not that moaning been in her ears all day? Had she not thought she heard a child crying the night before? She was by no means a hard-hearted old woman, but there were many noises in the house often unaccounted for, and she had learned to ask no questions. Then she felt helpless and weak herself for any exertion.

The staircase was very dark—so dark that Mrs. Hall had to feel her way up it. At last she reached the next landing. There were three doors, and as all was now silent, she did not know from which room the sounds which had troubled her could have proceeded.

She tried one door-handle after another, but all the doors were locked.

“ Only one of the rooms has anyone in it; the people left in the others a fortnight ago,” called up Mrs. Oats from below. At this moment the moans were again distinctly audible, and then came Mrs. Hall’s voice:

“ Open the door, dear, open the door,” she said repeatedly; but there was no response for some time.

At last to her ears (for Mrs. Oats could hear nothing) came a weak child-voice:

“I can’t; it’s locked. Oh, mother, mother!” The sad wail being broken by a fit of coughing.

“I’m going to get someone to open the door, dear,” said Mrs. Hall, in cheerful, encouraging tones; and then came her quick steps down the stairs.

“ How long has the child been locked in? The door must be broken open at once,” she said excitedly. “ What a good thing I went up.”

“I don’t know, my dear. I really know nothing about it. I don’t think anybody knows anything,” replied Mrs. Oats, shaking her head doubtfully.

“But who lives there— the woman and child you spoke of?”

“ Yes; and I don’t think anybody knows anything about them. They have been there the last two months. They are very quiet. The child was ill at one time. The doctor came. It was bronchitis—so I heard; nothing catching. I didn’t know that the mother ever left the child for long. I haven’t seen her for weeks. She works for the shops, I’ve been told. There’s Mrs. Cripps down below; she collects the rents from us. She may know something, and she may have a key.”

Mra Hall hurried away downstairs, and soon returned with Mrs. Cripps, who followed her, talking volubly. She had seen the woman who lived in the attic—Mrs. Mac, she was called—go out early yesterday afternoon. She had not seen her come in; but she always did come in, in good time. She never stayed out long, and she had not thought about her.

She was a very respectable person, and the child was too delicate to go to school, so her mother seldom left her. She had to go out sometimes to fetch work from the shops, but she knew nothing more about her. . . She had never doubted but that Mrs. Mac had come in while she was out, she had been obliged to run round to the grocer’s about four last evening, which was just the time she would have been likely to come home. She had heard no sound of a child crying, or she would have come upstairs. She had a key to open all the doors. The lodgers didn’t know it But there—she had it; it was necessary-like, in case of accident.

Mrs. Oats now provided a candle, and without further delay Mrs. Hall followed Mrs. Cripps upstairs, while the old woman, after attempting a step or two, stood waiting .anxiously. She was blaming herself not a little for her previous indifference.

When the door was opened, the forlorn aspect of the room—an empty grate, and a little child stretched on the floor, with her head on a big doll—told its own tale to the motherly heart of Mrs. Hall, and she was quickly on her knees beside the little one, whose eyes were closed, and who breathed with evident difficulty.

“We must bring her to a fire at once,” she said, with prompt decision. “Please help me to lift her.”

Between them, Olive was gently lifted from the floor and carried down to Mrs. Oats’ comfortable little home. The good woman, with ready forethought, had a saucepan with some milk in it already on the fire, waiting for them.

“ If the child was left shut up last evening she has had no food to-day, poor lamb!” ejaculated the old lady, with a sharp pang of remorse, as she set about rubbing the cold little hands.

All this time Mrs. Cripps had a great deal to say. Whereever was the mother? What could have happened to her? Was she a “ deep one ” after all, and had she forsaken the child? What should she do with her? She couldn’t nurse her; and so on.

“ The mother will no doubt come back, but we must do what we can for her now,” said Mrs. Hall. The little form was clasped in her arms, and she was thinking of her own darling who had so lately left them.

Olive opened her eyes as the pleasant warmth of the fire invigorated her numbed limbs.

“Mammy,” she whispered. “Where’s mammy?” But she sighed a little sigh of relief. The kind, loving face of Mrs. Hall bending over her brought her a delicious sense of safety after the horror of the last twenty-four hours.

“ Drink this milk, darling, and then you shall tell me all about mammy,” said Mrs. Hall, putting a cup to her lips.

Olive drank greedily, but she did not seem to hear any questions asked her, and finally closed her eyes again as if to sleep.

Mrs. Oats’ clock struck six.

“I must be going, Nanny, I shall be late for dinner!” exclaimed Mrs. Hall in some consternation. “ My husband may be home now waiting for me. But I cannot leave this poor child like this. Who is to look after her? I tell you what I will take her home with me. When the mother comes back you can tell her where to find her. . . Perhaps she’s some horrible drinking woman.”

“ Oh, that she’s not, indeed, ma’am! ” exclaimed Mrs. Cripps with much conviction. “ She’s a very respectable person—quite the lady, in fact, by her manner of speaking. She’s seen better days, I am sure.”

“And she does not generally go out much, you say?” questioned Mrs. Hall Her eyes were fixed lovingly on the little flushed face resting on her shoulder.

“ No, ma’am, she’s out very little. When she first came here she used to take the child with her, and go out very early. Then the child had the bronchitis, and she has been in for weeks. I have never known Mrs. Mac go out for more than an hour or two, and that only two or three times since she came into the house. . . But there’s somebody calling me. . . Whatever I’m to do if she’s left the child, I don’t know. I have five children of my own, and one of them is ill too. I shall have to speak to the relieving officer to-morrow if she don’t come back.”

Mrs. Cripps was bustling away.

“Will you carry this poor child downstairs for me?” said Mrs. Hall, stopping her. “My carriage is waiting. I will take her home with me, and the mother can be told to come for her. I cannot leave her here. She has bronchitis now, I am sure. How could a good mother leave her child like this? ” she added, with a little touch of indignation.

Mrs. Cripps was delighted to think of this way out of her difficulty, and Olive did not resist, though she did not quite like the transference to Mrs. Cripps’ arms.

“Mother, mother!” she sobbed. “Take me to mother!”

“Yes, darling, mother shall come to you,” said Mrs. Hall, with tears in her eyes. Another sweet childish voice was echoing in her heart “Mother, mother!” had been the last words of her own little daughter.

Wrapping one of old Mrs. Oats’ numerous shawls round her burden, and followed closely by Mrs. Hall, Mrs. Cripps carried her burden downstairs, and lifted it into the carriage, when it was received again into Mrs. Hall’s loving arms.

“ Mrs. Oats will give you my address, and don’t frighten the poor mother by letting her find the child gone. If she returns late to-night she had better come for her to-morrow morning. You can assure her the child will be well taken care of,” said Mrs. Hall.

“ Indeed, ma’am, she is a lucky child,” replied Mrs. Cripps smiling. “ Mrs. Mac will be grateful to you, I am sure; no fear of that. She don’t seem to think of much else but her child.”

By the time she reached home it was plain to the motherly eyes of Mrs. Hall that the child she held in her arms was very ill She coughed constantly, and her breathing became even more laboured “ Maria will be only too pleased to nurse her,” she said to herself, with a sad little smile. “ But what will George say? He will think me rather foolish and impulsive, I fear.’’

An hour later poor little forlorn Olive was tossing on the softest of beds in the pleasant room which had been little Gertrude Hall’s nursery, and her nurse Maria, who had sorrowed at her nursling’s death with almost a mother’s sorrow, was bending over her with loving pity.

“ Poor little thing! I am so glad you brought her home, ma’am. It seems to me it will do us both good to do something for a child again, for dear Miss Gertrude’s sake. She’s going to be ill, poor little dear, I feel sure. I have been looking at her clothes,” continued Maria “ They are quite nice and clean. Her frock is very shabby and all darned; but it’s a beautiful serge, and beautifully made. All her things are patched, but they were once very good, and ma,de of such fine calico too; and there’s a bit of real lace round one of the shift sleeves. She’s not a labouring man’s child, of that I’m sure. Do nobody know anything about her, ma’am? ”

“The mother has seen better days; so they seemed to think. From the description, I should say she was a woman who had perhaps been a lady’s-maid or a nurse, and that may account for the lace and the goodness of the clothes. You see, the things might have been given to her. Perhaps she married badly, poor thing, or has lost her husband. However, we shall hear all about her when she comes. She may be here to-night, but I shall not let her take the child of course. She may be all right after a night’s rest, though she is so feverish now. You see, the poor little thing had been twenty-four hours alone, and as far as we know without food. She must have been dreadfully frightened, and she is quite exhausted. I knew you would be pleased to nurse her, Maria,” concluded Mrs. Hall, with a pleasant smile.

“ Yes, indeed, ma’am, I am quite pleased. There’s master going down,” said Maria, as the shutting of a door was heard in the distance.

“ Yes; I must go down to dinner,” returned Mrs. HalL “ Your master will think us both very foolish people, I am afraid,” she added with a little laugh, as she left the room.

“ Poor master can’t bear to pass the door of the nursery,” said Maria with a sigh, as she turned again towards the little bed.

Mrs. Hall waited till the servant had left the room, and then she told her husband the story of the afternoon, and of the little forlorn child who was resting on Gertrude’s bed.

Mr. Hall was a tall gray-haired man, with an intellectual, eager face. His little daughter had been the sunbeam of his home, the joy of his middle age, and her loss had been a bitter one.

The love of his wife and child had been one, and now he felt he had lost part of his very being. Very great had been his tenderness to the sorrowing mother. Perhaps he had, if possible, even felt his child’s death more than she, for he was one of those men for whom childhood has a special delight and attraction.

“Now, George, do you think I have been very foolish? Pray say so if you do,” exclaimed his wife a little impatiently, for she was puzzled by the silence with which he received her narration.

“ I think I should have been just as foolish, Milly,” he replied smiling. “But I am sorry you happened to be there this afternoon, for I know you will make yourself very unhappy over this child if the mother proves unsatisfactory, which seems most likely.”

“Indeed she’s nothing of the kind, George,” returned his wife eagerly. “From what the woman of the house and Nanny told me, she’s a very nice woman. I am afraid some sudden illness must have come on her, or some dreadful accident”

“Oh, well, in that case her first thought will be of course for the child, and you must hear of her .in a day or two at latest If the worst comes to the worst, and something has really happened to her, you will be able to put the child in some good orphanage. I suppose the only other alternative would have been the Union. I shall be curious to hear the end of the story.”

Then Mr. Hall began to speak of the morrow, and of details regarding his journey, and until a late hour husband and wife discussed their plans, and the little waif upstairs was forgotten.

Early the next morning Mr. Hall was to start on his long journey. His wife got up to give him his breakfast. He had forgotten all about the child, and was rather puzzled when his wife said, in a voice full of concern:

“ Do you know, George, the mother has never come, so she could not have returned last night, and the poor child evidently has bronchitis. Maria was up nearly all the night with her, putting on poultices.”

“ Well, you two dear, kind women will nurse her well again, I have no doubt. She is a fortunate child to have come in your way. . . There’s the carriage, I think, but I have another ten minutes to spare.” And seeing the sadness of his wife’s face as the moment of parting drew closer, Mr. Hall felt glad that he left her with something to do, which he knew would help her to bear the time of separation.

A few minutes later he was hurrying downstairs from his room, and passing the nursery door, a thrill ran through him as he heard a child’s voice moan, “ Mother, mother.” He paused, hesitated, and then went in.

On his child’s bed, which he had not seen since the little pale waxen form lay on it, which had seemed dearer to him than his life, lay another child. Her eyes were closed, but wonderfully long dark eyelashes swept the bright flushed cheeks. Such a lovely child-face he thought he had seldom seen, though the brow was contracted with pain, and the breath came painfully from the parched lips.

Just one glance he gave, he could bear no more, then he hurried down to wish his wife good-bye.

“Milly,” he said gravely, “I’ve seen the child. If she is not claimed we will consider what is best to be done with her. Don’t settle anything without letting me know.”

Day followed day, and nothing was heard of the lost mother. Mrs. Hall paid the rent of the room for a week, that nothing might he disturbed; then she had all the things which had belonged to Mrs. Mac packed and sent home to her. She searched the newspapers now and then, but came across nothing which seemed a possible clue.

Meantime the child was very ill with a sharp attack of bronchitis, and the doctor who was called in said she would need the greatest care through the winter and spring.

At the end of ten days her own time for leaving England drew so near, that Mrs. Hall felt she must come to some decision with regard to the child’s future.

She remembered her husband’s last words; what did they mean? Had it struck him, as it had done her again and again, that God had sent them another child to love and to care for?

She wrote to her husband, and told him of her great wish to adopt the little waif which had been so strangely thrown on her hands, telling him to telegraph if he forbade her taking the charge. Her letter was full of the child’s attractive ways and words; for she was now beginning to mend, and was so good and patient that both Mrs. Hall and Maria were ready to love her with all their hearts.

“ Had I not gone that day to see poor old Nanny,” wrote Mrs. Hall, “ the Union would have been the only home this dear child would have known. She is evidently some loving mother's darling. But what has happened to that mother f”

Mrs. Hall went on to tell her husband of many things which made her think there was a mystery surrounding her protegee. She often implored that her mother might come to her, but if questioned about her father appeared very frightened, and said she must hide.

The things found in the room were strangely incongruous, but there was no scrap of writing to explain anything; nor did it appear that the child’s mother had any materials for writing, which led Mrs. Hall to infer that she had no friends to correspond with; nor had she, while in Mrs. Cripps’ house, been known to receive a letter.

Yet there were numbers of books and toys such as no poor woman would buy for her child, and in a locked bag the miniature of a child in the dress of the last century, and yet so like the child herself that it was difficult to believe it was not her. The other thing found, which might some day give a clue as to her parentage, was a small Bible in very old but handsome leather binding, with silver clasps, in which was written the inscription: “Olive MacIvor, from her beloved Mother. Edinburgh, Sept. 6th, 1790.” There was also a paper containing a quantity of golden-brown hair, which the child said was her own, and that her mother had cut it off when she was “Willie,”—a statement which greatly mystified both Mrs. Hall and Maria.

Mr. Hall was by no means unprepared for his wife’s request, and he telegraphed back words which almost expressed pleasure that such an unlooked-for possession should come into their hands.

To the last moment Mrs. Hall did not give up the belief, which almost became a fear, that the child would be claimed. But no single inquiry was made, and before they left England she began to think that the mother had wilfully forsaken her child; or perhaps, after all, she was a stolen child, and this woman was not the real mother.

At the end of a few weeks, the wondering and somewhat bewildered little Olive, after a long sea voyage, found herself at Odessa. She had quickly recovered health on the journey, and directly she gained vigour she showed signs of intelligence and training which daily surprised her adopted parents, and convinced them that she had once lived among very different surroundings to those which had been hers in the Chelsea attic.

She fretted for her mother for some time, and then, in the atmosphere of love and petting, seemed to forget her anxiety; and Mr. and Mrs. Hall were careful not to renew her recollections by any questions, for when reminded of her mother her bursts of grief were painful to witness.

She learned to call her kind friends uncle and auntie. In teaching her these names Mrs. Hall discovered that they were quite new to her.

Before a year was over, all recollections of the past seemed to have faded from the child's mind; but Mrs. Hall carefully noted down any remarks which struck her as likely, in after years, to throw some light on the story of her birth.

CHAPTER IX.

OLIVE’S RESOLVE.

AT the end of three years, when Olive was a fine tall child of eight, Mr. Hall moved to St. Petersburg. Each year he had been growing richer, and every luxury was to be found in the wealthy merchant’s home.

Long before this it would have been difficult to say by which of her adopted parents Olive was most beloved, so completely had she taken a child’s place in their hearts.

Mrs. Hall devoted herself to the training of her adopted daughter, and her education was now begun in earnest Every advantage that the capital could give was showered on her, and for the next eight years nothing that money could bring her was wanting for her enjoyment or benefit; while in the world in which they moved, which included some of the best society in St Petersburg, she was looked upon as the niece and heiress of the popular and much-esteemed merchant From being a very pretty child, Olive grew into a tall, angular, and almost plain but distinguished-looking girl, full of life and spirits. She was much too happy in the present to trouble herself about the past. She lived so much with her adopted parents, and was so necessary to their happiness, that she saw more of society than girls of her age usually do—not that her education was ever set aside, but her evenings were free, and Mr. Hall’s hospitality was unbounded. In the midst of all this happiness a dark cloud rose on the horizon—a time of great mercantile disaster began, and one misfortune followed another, ending with a trusted agent of Mr. Hall’s absconding. Then Mr. Hall’s health gave way under the pressure of long anxiety. His wife and Olive nursed him sedulously (the faithful Maria had married some years before) through a long illness. Then death came, and from the petted child Olive was suddenly transformed into the stay and comfort of the desolate widow.

When Mr. Hall’s affairs were wound up, it was found that nothing remained to his widow but the thousand pounds settled on her when he was a poor man. Mrs. Hall, in bad health herself and almost heart-broken, decided to leave St. Petersburg and return to England. Arriving in Paris, she was so cordially greeted by an old school friend that she gave up the intention, and finally acceded to that friend’s proposal to live with her and allow Olive both to learn and teach in her prosperous school.

The old friends had not met since their respective marriages, but had never quite lost sight of each other; and the meeting was such a real pleasure to both, and the companionship so great a solace, that Mrs. Hall could not refuse; besides, here could be had all the advantages she still wished for Olive.

Mrs. Delabere had married a French professor, but had early been left a widow and dependent on her own exer tions. She had prospered, and her school was now one of the most successful in Paris. But in spite of all her worldly prosperity, and almost unexpected success—for she had gone through many years of adversity,—the poor woman was lonely enough, and she received her old friend and her friend’s adopted child with all the enthusiasm of youth. Her old friend should have her own rooms and feel herself at home, while such an accomplished girl as Olive would be an acquisition to her school, and just the kind of assistant she wanted.

It was a peaceful refuge, and both Mrs. Hall and Olive were thankful to rest after all they had lately gone through; while it delighted the high-spirited girl to think that she was a help, and not a burden, to her beloved benefactress.

Nor was it a dull or unhappy life, when she once grew accustomed to the change; for Olive at the age of fifteen found herself the centre of an admiring circle of girls, mostly of her own age, to whom her great linguistic accomplishments rendered her an object of much envy and admiration.

For eight years she had been taught by a German governess, while other languages had not been neglected. She had even acquired a fair amount of Russian; for that language being useful to Mr. Hall, they had studied it together, while the Russian servants had given her practice in speaking.

At Madame Delabere’s school she found representatives of many nations; and Olive did not neglect her opportunities, as each year she felt more keenly the advantages of acquiring knowledge.

Both Mrs. Hall and Madame Delabere were highly educated and accomplished women, who had in different ways seen much of the world. And the little world of the Paris school was in no way a dull one. In the holidays the trio were especially happy together. For then Madame Delabere indulged in a little society, and entertained the few friends that she had in Paris, while she delighted in showing Olive the sights around her, which were necessarily denied her in school-time.

As long as Mrs. Hall was well enough they spent some weeks of the summer holidays at Fontainebleau; but after a year or two she became a confirmed invalid, and all the little brightness of her life was brought her by her adopted daughter, the warmth of whose love was lavished on her without stint.

Often, lying on her sofa, did Mrs. Hall’s thoughts turn back to that November afternoon when, as it seemed to her now, she had entertained an angel unawares. Poor old Nanny had long been dead. How pleased she would have been had she known that it was through her the joy had come! . . Well, perhaps she did know! And Mrs. Hall liked to talk to Olive of that day, and of all the circumstances of their first meeting; while she urged her, whenever the opportunity offered, to go to England and try to discover the relatives she might possibly have. It was a painful thought to poor Mrs. Hall that she must after all leave her darling but badly provided for; but as she watched her grow from an impulsive, loving girl into a capable, accomplished woman, she tried to still her anxiety.

At the end of five years the separation that Olive had learned to dread came—Mrs. Hall died and left her alone in the world.

The death of her friend brought Mrs. Delabere to a determination long under consideration, and she made up her mind to give up her school and retire to the South of France, to spend the remainder of her life with a sister of her late husband; and so Olive had to decide promptly on her future.

Mrs. Hull had left her adopted child all she had to leave, but the expenditure connected with her long illness and the funeral expenses had almost swallowed up the year’s receipts. It was imperative, therefore that Olive should not delay in finding remunerative employment, and she quickly decided that she would look for a situation as a governess in England, or, what she thought would be better still, in Scotland; for all hor thoughts turned towards that country as tho probable home of her mother’s family.

During the first happy years of Olive’s girlhood, all remembrance of her early childhood had been put away and forgotten. Once having ceased to fret for her mother, in tho midst of all the care and love which surrounded her, she had ceased to remember her; it was only when the trouble came which changed her from a happy, careless child into a woman, that thoughts of her early childhood began to have an interest for her.

It was then, too, that Mrs. Hall, feeling the uncertainty of her own life, and the sadness of leaving her adopted daughter in a perfectly friendless position, began to question her again, and also to piece together all that she could herself recollect of the child’s remembrance at the time she had taken her under her care, many facts of which she had noted down at the time.

That Olive was of gentle birth, and had been accustomed to gentle surroundings, Mr. and Mrs. Hall had never doubted. As soon as they had begun to watch their little ward, they had seen indications of refinement and culture which were not to be explained by any other theory.

That she could read and write a little was not wonderful, but that she should be able to name some of the notes on the piano, that she should recognize a guitar, and be familiar with the names of articles of furniture only found in the houses of the rich, was not to be accounted for, save by the supposition that she had been reared in a very different home to the one she had been found in.

Her mind once fixed in the past, Olive remembered many things which she had never thought of before, and she and Mrs. Hall would go over all the recollections with equally keen interest Very soon, therefore, Olive’s mind was fixed on the determination, encouraged by her adopted mother, that one day she would try to find out something about the mother who had so strangely deserted her.

As long as Mrs. Hall lived these thoughts of the future had been little more than vague dreams, but directly she was left alone, all Olive’s aspirations turned irresistibly towards what had been almost unconsciously the burden of her hopes for some years. She would find her mother— this poor mother to whom something must have happened, or she never could have deserted her so cruelly.

Having made all her own arrangements for leaving Paris, and finding that Olive was not willing to accept an invitation to be her visitor for at least the next winter, Madame Delabere, at Olive’s earnest request, set about finding her the required situation.

“ I promised dear Emily,” she said, “ only to let you go to the very nicest people, and you may be sure I shall take great care that you are not thrown away. I believe, you foolish girl, you would take the first thing offered you, but with your talents, your accomplishments, you ought to pick and choose.”

“ I should accept the very first chance, dear madame, to go to Edinburgh, so please refuse none. Remember it is to Scotland that I want to go,” replied Olive laughing, “so you must not be too particular.”

Finding the desired situation was not so easy as Madame Delabere had at first imagined, and Olive was beginning to grow very impatient, for she knew that she was keeping her kind friend in Paris, when one afternoon madame came home in a great state of excitement, and told Olive she thought she had heard of just the situation that she had hoped for, from an English friend she had been asked to call on, who was spending a few days in Paris.

“ It is in a colonel’s family, my dear Olive, a Colonel Len-house; but a rich colonel, with a beautiful country place. He is here with his daughters. But he has a wife, I made sure of that. I would not let you go anywhere where there was not a responsible lady of the house,” she explained.

“ And do they live in Scotland? ” questioned Olive eagerly.

“In Scotland! Ah, I remember it was to be Scotland. But, my dear child, you must give up that romantic idea, and turn to the grim reality. After all it is only an idea, which you might spend the best years of your life in finding out to be delusive.”

“ But auntie wished it, indeed she did. We often talked of it together,” pleaded Olive.

“Yes, I know she did; dear Emily was always rather romantic. I could not get her to take a common-sense view of the matter. You know and remember so little, and after all it may be happier for you to know nothing more,” replied Madame Delabere.

“ I know what you think,” said Olive colouring. “ Auntie and I often talked it over. My mother may have been a deserted wife, but every one who spoke of her to auntie, spoke well of her.”

“ Yes, I know all about it, my dear. She wore a weddingring; but rings can be bought like other things, and her conduct in leaving you is so very difficult to explain. You know I do not wish to say anything to hurt you, but you must not throw over your chances for the present in these dreams, which may leave you nothing but disappointment”

“ But what became of my poor mother that day she left me?” persisted Oliva “I am sure she loved me dearly; I feel that I remember her love. And auntie said my one cry was for her, that for days I moaned her name. I must try to find her if I can. You do not think that wrong, do you, dear madamel”

“No, certainly, not wrong; only I don’t think you ought to sacrifice your prospects to an idea. You have been given a first-rate education; few girls have had such advantages. If you were a little older you might take a very high salary, and begin laying by for your old age.”

Olive laughed a merry little laugh.

“ Ah! old age seems a long way off to you now, and I do not say what other fate is in store for you. Still it is a comfort, I can tell you, to think of a provision for the future; and, like everyone else, you will grow old some day.” Madame Delabere shook her gray curls threateningly. “ I suppose, like the rest of the girls, it is marriage you are looking forward to, but—”

“No, it is not that,” interrupted Olive calmly. “Somehow, I do not care about that. You may laugh, madame, but it is true; besides I feel quite old already, with all the girls I used to teach grown up and married. Why, there are Cèlie and Clementine, both driving about with their babies—I met them the other day,—and they are not as old as I am.”

“ Well, I am proud of having earned what may be called riches by my own exertions, and I did not expect to have to do so at one time,” said madame a little sternly.

“Proud!” said Olive heartily. “I should think so, dear madame; I too shall be proud to earn independence for myself, and it is very good of you to be so anxious about me. You must not think me ungrateful.”

Madame Delabere was mollified at once. In her heart she was sorry enough to part with the girl, whose high spirits had often cheered her.

“Ungrateful! no, dear; and you must not think me an unsympathetic old woman. You are quite right to wish to find your mother, but you have so little to help you in the search.”

“ I have nothing but the miniature of a little child, which dear auntie said was wonderfully like me, only the dress is of another century, so she used to think it was perhaps my grandmother; then there is my Bible, which has the date 1790 and the name, which I suppose to be my own, Olive Maclvor. As my mother was known by the name of Mrs. Mac, auntie supposed it was her name. And it is the Edinburgh in the Bible which always makes me wish to make inquiries there. Maclvor must be a Scotch name.

Then I have a packet of long, light, curly hair, which I believe was my own hair, though, of course, it is not at all like my hair now, nor did auntie think it very like when she found me; but then, every year a child’s hair darkens. I feel sure I remember its being cut off. Then, you know, I have those tiny letters tattooed under my arm; they are so small, and in such a position that I cannot see them easily. Auntie never found them out for a year or more after she had me; but she said an ‘O’ then was very distinct, but the second letter was uncertain. It is not an ‘M,’ I am quite sure; it is more like a ‘P’ or a ‘B.’”

“Ah!” exclaimed Madame Delabere; “I always told Emily that those letters would be of more value in finding out who you are than anything else. Whoever marked you in that way did not wish to lose you, and it was done carefully not to disfigure your arm. Still I do think it is a pity for you to consider yourself a princess in disguise!”

Olive laughed merrily.

“It is too bad of you to talk like that. You know I don’t think so. And now, tell me some more about your colonel. We have certainly wandered away from him. Is he very delightful, or rather are my pupils that are to be very charming?”

“ I am to take you to see him to-morrow evening,” said Madame Delabere. “ He wants a governess for his youngest daughter and two little boys.”

“Boys!” exclaimed Olive, with a grimace. “What do I know about boys? He’ll never take me!”

“We shall see,” returned madame. “At any rate, if he thinks you will suit him I advise you to close with his offer, even if the salary is not so good as you ought to have.” Olive nearly said she did not care about the salary, but knowing that the sentiment would ruffle Madame Delabere, and feeling also that it was a foolish one, she was silent.

But her thoughts were running on the past this evening, and she soon returned to it “ For years I have been thinking of my mother, and how much she must have suffered if something or somebody kept her against her will from returning to me that evening. I have an idea that we were always afraid of somebody finding us. I think it was my father, but I can’t be sure.”

“ So dear Emily used to tell me. It seemed very strange,” said Madame Delabere, “and I used to tell her I thought you might be a stolen child. Rather a romantic notion, which might make you a princess in disguise after alL Eh, Olive?”

“ No, indeed,” returned Olive laughing. “ I give up the princess readily, but I cannot give up my mother. I am quite sure she was my mother, and it was my father we were hiding from. At least that is my impression, my conviction. You must see, dear madame, that if a nurse had stolen a child the parents would have searched for it They must have advertised, and people would have been talking about it Auntie told me we had been about two months in that house when she found me, and I was with her nearly three weeks in England before she left for Odessa; and she was in the habit of seeing the papers daily, besides seeing many acquaintances, and she is sure that any notice of a missing child would have attracted her attention. She was grieving so much for her little daughter's death just then, that anything about a child would have interested her.”

“And then when once out of England she did not see much of the English papers for years. Well, she found a good child, I will say that, my dear,” said madame, with a pleasant little nod; “and you will not easily find a better mother than yon have had. All I fear is, that you should prepare a great deal of disappointment for yourself if you begin a restless search instead of settling down to the business of life.”

“ Which means for me,—teaching,” replied Olive, a little bitterly.

Madame looked up with some surprise at the tone. She had never seen Olive discontented.

“I own, my dear,” she said kindly, “that you have had great reverses in your short life, and you were old enough to feel them. Still, I hope you will be happy yet.”

“ Happy? Of course I shall be happy!” exclaimed Olive, recovering herself. “And I shall be a most successful governess, and when I have saved enough money I shall come and live with you at Arles.”

Madame Delabere shook her head. “You forget that I am an old woman, my dear. I hope you will make other friends long before that.”

CHAPTER X.

THE LENHOUSES.

IT was at the end of a very hot August day, that Olive, with her friend Madame Delabere, reached the door of the hotel where they were appointed to meet Colonel Lenhouse.

Mrs. Hall had been dead about three months, and Olive’s mourning was growing dusty and shabby. She had wished to wear the same mourning as a daughter, and following the French fashion, her dress was entirely covered with crape, while a long veil of the same hung down behind her close bonnet It was not a becoming dress, and she looked very tall and angular, also pale and tired; certainly not at her best, as madame noticed with some regret, while she consoled herself with the reflection that it was growing dark, and also that it was not likely that the colonel would choose a governess for her looks.

And the good lady, who was truly fond of Olive, told herself with a thrill of pride, that he would search Paris over before he would find a girl so well taught, and so accomplished as her late pupil.

They were shown into a very small sitting-room, the air of which was so close that Olive grew paler still, and they were kept waiting till she grew somewhat impatient.

At last Colonel Lenhouse came in—a tall, portly man, with gray hair and moustache, and rather fierce, prominent black eyes.

Olive rose and bowed, but the conversation was carried on by Madame Delabere, to whom Colonel Lenhouse addressed himself. Olive sat with her back to the light, her own face in shadow; but the colonel hardly glanced at her, while she watched his face eagerly. It did not please her much.

Madame Delabere had quickly launched into an animated conversation, and Olive was immensely amused at hearing herself and her accomplishments described. She had no idea before, as she told madame afterwards, that she was such a paragon.

When at length Colonel Lenhouse addressed her, she told him very simply that she was ready to go to England and undertake the education of his children, and that she accepted the terms he offered if he thought her sufficiently experienced. She had never taught boys. She was not afraid of them, but she knew nothing about them.

The colonel explained that the elder boy she would be expected to teach was an invalid, while the younger would certainly be sent to school in a few months if he proved troublesome.

Then he bowed the two ladies out, promising to write the next morning when he should have seen his two elder daughters, who were with him in Paris. He added that he felt quite sure that Miss Maclvor would suit his children admirably.

“Well, I suppose that is my fate,” said Olive with a little sigh, as they walked towards home.

Madame Delabere had been dilating ever since they left the hotel on the charms of the colonel, and of the beauty and grandeur of the place where he lived, and of the happy home that Olive would have.

“Your fate, indeed!” she repeated indignantly. “Why, you ought to be very delighted. It is true that it is rather dull in the country, but then no doubt the Lenhouses spend part of the year in London. Perhaps they go to Scotland in the autumn. These rich people run about in the most wonder ful way. They no doubt pay a visit to the Continent every year. It is a great thing for you to be with rich people.”

“ Ah, if they will go to Scotland I will forgive the colonel anything! ” said Olive laughing. “ But somehow I did not like him. However, I shall not have to teach him, but his children, which is a comfort.”

“But why don’t you like him? You are unreasonable!” exclaimed Madame Delabere. “ What did you expect him to do or say?”

“ I did not expect anything, and I promise that I will not say a word against him. After all, it is quite right that I should prefer Mrs. Lenhouse, isn’t it?” returned Olive gravely, but with a lurking smile, quite unnoticed by her friend.

“ Well, yes; and I wish we had seen her. I should feel that I had done my very utmost to satisfy my poor, dear Emily if I had given you in charge of a really nice English lady. Why, Olive, it may be quite like a home to you in a few months, this beautiful place. I forget the name— Barrington, Barrington—something like that. The colonel will give the full address in his. letter. You may learn to love them all dearly, and be like a child of the family,” said Madame Delabere, waxing enthusiastic.

“ What, all? ” said Olive mischievously; “ even the colonel? Who is romantic now, dear madame? That is not what generally happens to governesses in books. By the way, madame, are there any sons?—grown-up sons, I mean. In all the stories I have read about governesses they are rather badly treated by their pupils, also by their pupils’ parents, but they find great consolation in the sons.”

“ My dear Olive! . . . But you are so wise and sensible,” exclaimed Madame Delabere, with real horror. “That is a danger I never thought of—one Emily never warned me of. I did not ask if there were any sons, but I shall ask Mrs. Flavel to-morrow when I see her.”

“Too late, too late!” said Olive theatrically. “I cannot now draw back, but I will try, my dear madame, I will indeed try not to fall in love with the sons, and if they are at all like their papa there will be no fear, I assure you.”

But Madame Delabere would have the last word. “ He is a very distinguished, handsome gentleman, and you are very absurd to have taken a prejudice against him. Clever, too, he evidently is, my dear Olive. That is a thing I have missed since my dear husband died; I have been obliged to live so much among women; and I assure you there is no society so delightful as that of a clever man.”

The expected letter duly arrived the next day, appointing the date at which Miss Maclvor was to reach Barrington Court, and accepting her services in due form. The salary offered had not been a large one, but Olive had not cared to raise any difficulties. She was not wanted for another six weeks, and her kind friend was delighted to have an excuse to remain a little longer in her beloved Paris. So she did not feel herself to be a burden.

Olive’s spirits rose considerably when she felt that her future was settled, and she enjoyed every day to the utmost. She did not again revert to the day-dreams which occupied so much of her thoughts. She did not wish Madame Delabere to think her foolish or romantic, but she wove many a plan for the future, when she should have saved money enough to pursue inquiries in Edinburgh, though she wisely determined that she would keep her dreams to herself.

All these thoughts occupied her mind as she stitched away at her dresses. She must have a suitable wardrobe, if she were going to live in such a grand place as madame was fond of describing, and a good deal of ingenuity was necessary to arrive at anything like satisfaction.

Meantime, Madame Delabere interested herself in finding out all she could about the Lenhouses. They had been in India, but many years ago Mrs. Lenhouse inherited a large fortune from a brother. There were two grown-up sons— at least one was decidedly grown up—and two daughters, who had finished their education. Mrs. Flavel described them in glowing colours.

“ What charming companions they will be for you, Olive! Of course they will wish to keep up French and German,” said kind old Madame Delabere, who was quite determined to see the bright side of everything.

And Olive did not repeat her little joke about the grownup sons, or say anything again disparaging to the charms of the colonel, but listened with interest to all her friend’s recollections of the delights of life in an English country house.

Madame herself had been a governess for a year or two after leaving school, and she assured Olive that those years spent with her merry young pupils, surrounded by all the pleasant things, which she enjoyed equally with them, had been some of the happiest and gayest in her life.

And these pupils had been life-long friends; but alas! they were all dead now. The remembrance of their affection was all that was left If the Lenhouses could only be the friends to Olive that the Travers had been to herself, her future was provided for. They would never lose sight of her. She need never feel friendless again.

Olive was quite ready to hope for everything that madame promised, and each day her spirits rose.

Meanwhile Colonel Lenhouse was making a report to his wife of all that he had done during his visit to Paris, towards securing a really valuable governess for his children. No references could be higher or more satisfactory, he declared. Madame Delabere was quite an authority on education in Paris; Miss Maclvor was accomplished in every way, and quite a wonderful linguist. He only hoped the children would have the sense to make the most of such great advantages.

“But what is she like? You have never described her, papa. I do hope she will be able to keep Cis in some order, he is so unbearably rude and spoilt,” said Penelope, the eldest daughter, or, as she was usually called, Pen. She was a tall, thin girl, over twenty, with good features, and considered in her family very handsome.

“ If Cis does not behave properly, to school he goes,” said the colonel with a frown.

“ It was, I feel sure, quite Miss Marvin’s own fault that he behaved so badly to her. Miss Marvin was such a little idiot, and Cis is so bright that he sees everything at once,” said Mrs. Lenhouse crossly. She was quite determined that her darling Cis should not go to school for the present.

Mrs. Lenhouse was a fat, fair, placid-looking woman, who grasped everything slowly, but talked with an air of intense conviction, which made some people speak admiringly of her great common sense. She had been pretty in her youth, and Pen was the ditto of herself, but with a touch more of temper in her face, inherited from her father.

“ I wish you had seen Miss Maclvor yourselves, girls, for your father seems to have noticed very little,” continued Mrs. Lenhouse, in an aggrieved tone.

“Oh, I could not miss seeing Sara Bernhardt for any governess under the sun. You could not expect it, mama,” said Pen sharply.

“ I don’t see that her looks matter at all, mama, as long as she is not pretty. Gerald and Lawrence made themselves so absurd over Miss Marvin, that I suppose it does not do to have a pretty governess,” said Ada, a dark stout girl, who resembled her father in colouring but her mother in expression.

“ Well, I am sure no one could call Miss Maclvor pretty,” exclaimed the colonel, who had been reading a letter, and had only caught Ada’s last worda “ She is very tall, quite remarkably tall, and pale, and rather stern-looking. I did not ask her age, but she might be five-and-twenty. I could not help thinking how valuable her teaching would be to Lawrence, if he would only work with her at French and German during the holidays. This is his last chance for Sandhurst, and if I sent him abroad he would probably idle and do nothing; here he would be under my own eye.”

“ Did you ask her if she would do it, it would save a lot of expense!” said Mrs. Lenhouse, brightening at such a good idea.

“No, I didn’t; it might have frightened her,” replied the colonel “She seemed inclined to be nervous about the boys as it was; said she knew nothing about them. But I daresay she will do what she is asked. She is a splendid linguist, really the children ought to be very fortunate if she is at all what she was described.”

“Well, if she’s five-and-twenty and ugly, perhaps Lawrence will not fancy himself in love with her, and he may consent to let her teach him French, but I doubt it; for if he does not care to flirt with her, he will think it beneath his dignity to be taught by a governess,” said Pen sententiously.

“ Lawrence is a fool, but he will have to do as I tell him,” said the colonel angrily, and the conversation came to an end.

In the schoolroom the new governess was also discussed with interest, but from quite another point of view.

“Papa says she is very grave, and tall, and old,” said Janet, aged fifteen, who was at the moment presiding at the schoolroom tea-table. “ I know I shall hate her,” she continued. “I did not care for Miss Marvin, but we had often plenty of fun with her. I wish she had stayed. I know it was all Lawrence’s fault that she had to go. He would pretend he had fallen in love with her, and mama believed it; so absurd! He falls in love with somebody eveiy holidays.”

There was a fine scorn in Janet’s tones.

“Well, I was quite tired of Miss Marvin, she was such a silly,” said a very delicate-looking dark boy of twelve, whose crutches were leaning against the table beside him. “ She never taught me anything I wanted to learn, and she would not talk to me about anything I wanted to talk about.”

Janet shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t believe she knew much herself; not that I cared about that. Now it will be lessons, lessons all day, I suppose; and if you please, papa says we are to talk nothing but French and German.”

“Catch me talking French or German! Well, if she’s as grave as a mustard-pot I will make her laugh somehow, or I’ll know the reason why!” exclaimed a handsome, merrylooking boy of ten, who had been listening with the greatest interest to his elders’ remarks.

“ I advise you to take care what you do, Cis,” said Janet severely, “ or you’ll be sent, papa says, to the very strictest, hardest school he can find. I heard him tell mama so yesterday.”

Cis had heard this threat before, and he made a mocking grimace at his sister, who forthwith assured him that he deserved to go to school, as he was a great deal too rude to stay at home.

“I don’t care,” said Cis defiantly. “I’d as soon go to school as be taught and bullied by an ugly old horror like this Miss Maclvor.”

“ Her name is of good promise to me,” said Dick as he took up his crutches, and hopped back to a reclining-couch near the low, pleasant window-seat, which was almost covered with books. “Perhaps her name is Flora!” and then he took up a volume of Waver ley, and was soon lost in the world of romance.

CHAPTER XI.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

THE much-talked-of day for Olive’s journey to England came at last, and after a tearful good-bye to madame, full of a new, strange, pleasureable excitement, which the sorrow of leaving the last friend who bound her to the happy past could not suppress, Olive started from Paris.

It was the first time in her life that she had ever stood alone in the world, and in spite of all her courage, she felt very strange and lonely as she drove across London from the Docks to Waterloo Station, with all her worldly possessions in her two boxes on the top of her cab.

Knowing absolutely no one in England, and remembering nothing of it, it seemed to her at that moment like a foreign country, and her thoughts turned back more than once regretfully to Paris, and kind Madame Delabere.

She had received minute directions regarding the journey to Barrington, and so far she had had no difficulty. The voyage had been a fair one and she had enjoyed it, especially the wonderful sights which had greeted her in the river.

Arriving at Waterloo Station, she was confused and puzzled by the noise around her. The crowd seemed to her extraordinary, and no one appeared to pay her any attention. A porter had taken her luggage, and told her he would meet her on the platform. He had pointed out the ticket-office at her request, and after getting her ticket and putting it in her purse, she had followed other people to the platform, where a train was standing evidently preparing to start. But nowhere could poor Olive see her luggage, and for some minutes she ran vainly up and down looking and inquiring.

At last when she was thoroughly frightened she found it, saw it labelled as she had been directed to do, and then she was going to step into a second-class carriage, when an official asked her for her ticket.

She put her hand in her pocket. Where was her purse? It was gone! Had she dropped it? No, that was impossible. She remembered distinctly of putting it into her pocket.

“What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do? My purse has been taken!” she exclaimed, in great distress.

It was a terrible moment for poor Olive.

Her purse contained the only money she had with her. The last remaining shillings of her quarter’s money. Not a penny besides had she in the world that could help her now, and here she was standing among strangers, who probably would not believe her. The guard had turned away and began talking to someone else, as if her misfortune was no business of his.

Her eyes filled with tears, she looked round to see to whom she could turn for help. Surely someone, some lady would see her distress, and offer it Her eyes met those of a tall fair man, who was watching her with evident interest “ I think I heard you say that you had lost your ticket? ” he said, stepping forward at once and lifting his hat.

“Yes, it’s gone, and my purse; and I must go on by this train, for they will meet me. Tell me what I can do, do tell me, my luggage is in! Oh, what shall I do?” exclaimed Olive despairingly.

The stranger glanced at the clock.

“There’s no time to lose, I’ll get you another ticket What station, what class? Tell me quickly.”

“ To Barrington—third class!” exclaimed Olive. She felt that she could not make her debt larger than she could help.

The gentleman had started at full speed towards the ticket-office; she watched for him breathlessly. The guard hurried her into a carriage just as she caught sight of him again, while he sprang in after her, and handed her a ticket with a grave little bow, as the train rushed out of the station.

It was some minutes before poor Olive recovered from the horror of her unexpected misfortune. She could only gasp a grateful “Thank you,” and wonder painfully what this stranger could think of her, as he sat opposite, still a little out of breath with his run. She fancied that there was a look of amusement in his eyes, which, however, were kindly directed out of the window.

Olive recognized that he was very like many English travellers she was accustomed to see in the streets of Paris, well-looking, well set up, dressed in rather rough but quiet clothes, which somehow had an air of wealth and refinement about them.

He wore only a moustache, so that she could study each line of his strongly-marked face. He was not handsome after the French type she had been taught by her schoolfellows to admire, but when he suddenly turned his head and spoke, she changed her mind. She thought she had never seen such blue eyes as glanced at her from under thick dark eyebrows, which contrasted strangely with his fair moustache.

“ I am afraid you have been very much frightened,” he said, in pleasant courteous tones, which set Olive at her ease at once. “ Really a London station is not a fit place for a lady to come to alone.”

“ How can I thank you enough for coming to my rescue; what should I have done if you had not been there!” she exclaimed, in a voice which was still a little unsteady.

“You would have missed your train, I suppose; for there was not any time to lose. A horrid bore that would have been to you, you would not have had time to have gone back yourself.”

“ Ah, but it was my purse I lost, with my ticket in it, so I should not have been able to get another.”

The stranger laughed, as if he thought this terrible news of no consequence whatever.

“I hope there was not much in your purse. I advise you never to take more than you really want in your pocket when travelling, ladies’ pockets are so easily picked. Yon would have had to do what I did once in a like predicament— left your watch with the station-master, then he would have lent you the money.”

“I have no watch,” said Olive smiling. Somehow the stranger’s perfectly matter-of-fact way of treating what she thought so dreadful was quite reassuring. “ Do you think he would have taken a locket, a miniature, instead! It is all I should have had to offer him, and I shouldn’t have liked to have left it with him at all.”

“ Oh yes, he would have taken anything that was of sufficient value, I fancy—that is, if he happened to be good-natured. It was not such a very large sum after all,” added the gentleman with a smile, which lit up his somewhat grave face.

“ You will tell me where I may send my debt to you,” said Olive presently, with a grave dignity, which made her appear many years older than she had done a few minutes before in her distress.

The stranger took out his card-case and handed her a card, on which she read:

“ Captain Michael Keith, Winchester Barracks.”

“ Winchester will always find me,” he said. “ But I am going on leave to-morrow, so you had better wait till we next meet to repay me this dreadful debt You are going to a place I know well, and there are so few houses in that neighbourhood that I think you must be going to stay with some of my friends. Barrington is one station beyond Winchester.”

“ I am' going to Barrington Court, and I am going to be governess to Colonel Lenhouse’s children. Do you know them!” said Olive simply.

“ Are you really! I know them very well,” said Captain Keith, who, to tell the truth, had been not a little curious with regard to his travelling companion.

Olive had left off the heavy mourning she had worn in Paris, and wore a black dress, jacket, and hat, very plain, but all perfect of their kind. Madame Delabere had insisted on everything being made after the best patterns, that Olive might look her best when she began her new life among strangers. But her dress, though so simple, had, even to the masculine eye, a look of novelty about it which was puzzling. She did not look quite like an Englishwoman, yet her English was perfectly pure, and her tones those of a well-bred gentlewoman.

Olive was delighted to hear all that Captain Keith could tell her about the Lenhouses, and from them it was easy for him to turn the conversation back to herself. Long before the journey was over he had heard a good deal of Olive’s former life both in Paris and St Petersburg; not that she was at all inclined to be gushing or over-communicative, but it was impossible for her to resist the pleasant interest shown in her by this stranger, who had been so kind in the time of need.

Topics of conversation were not difficult to find, for Captain Keith knew Paris well, and had a younger brother in the embassy at St. Petersburg. This fact was of great interest to Olive.

“He must have come after we left,” she said, “for I remember the names of everyone belonging to the embassy when I was there. I was not grown up, but my uncle and aunt knew everyone. But then it is five years since I left St Petersburg.”

Olive had never been accustomed to speak to anyone about the mystery surrounding her parentage, and since her conversation with Madame Delabere she had determined never to do so; not that her determination to seek for some trace of her mother had faltered for a moment, but she had come to the conclusion that she must wait patiently till she could follow the only clue she had, and that clue must be followed in Edinburgh.

She was rather startled, when, on hearing her name, which she thought herself bound to give her new friend, he remarked:

“You must be a countrywoman of my own, for I am a Scotsman, though I cannot say I know much about my native land.”

“ You say your native land. So you were bom there? I cannot claim to be Scotch in that way,” .answered Olive, “though my name is Scotch, I do not think I was ever in Scotland. I left England with my aunt when I was about five years old, and I remember nothing before that distinctly.”

It would not do, Olive felt, to be too confidential with this agreeable fellow-traveller. How glad she was afterwards that she had resisted the inclination.

When Captain Keith had followed Olive into the carriage, he had fully intended to get out at the next station under the excuse of wishing to smoke, if he made an excuse at all. But he found her far too interesting and agreeable a companion to wish to fulfil this intention. They had so much to say to each other, that Olive felt when he left her at the Winchester station that she was almost parting with an old friend.

Keith had made her promise not to trouble about her little debt to him till she saw him again, and then he had shaken hands and left her, with heartily-expressed good wishes.

“ It must be all horridly strange to you at first,” he had said so pathetically. “ But I hope you will find everything pleasant after a bit.”

“Oh, yes,” said Olive joyously; “I mean to find it very pleasant.” But even while she spoke a feeling of intense loneliness came over her, and Captain Keith’s last impression of her face, as he turned away, was that it was capable of much sadness.

“ Humph! Well I don’t think I should care to live with the Lenhouses. What a change for the poor girl, and what a handsome, queenly creature she is!” he said to himself as he strolled out of the station; and then he overtook a friend, and dismissed the episode from his mind.

Captain Keith had told Olive that she would reach Barrington in twenty minutes, and she travelled those minutes in a state of great expectancy.

The afternoon’s adventure had been, after all, a pleasing one. She would write of it to Madame Delabere. What would she think of it?

It was very pleasant to talk to an English gentleman again. Olive remembered many she had liked at St Petersburg, but in Paris this element had been totally wanting, and this meeting with Captain Keith seemed to her as a foreshadowing of the pleasant society in which for the future she should have some share.

When the train stopped at Barrington station she looked out of the carriage-window with intense interest and some trepidation. She thought perhaps Colonel Lenhouse would meet her, as he was the only one of his family who knew her by sight. However, she saw no one in the least like the portly colonel.

Very few passengers got out, and she was the only lady. As she stepped on the platform she was accosted by a girl dressed in blue serge, with her hair plaited in a long pigtail down her back. She had rather a pretty, bright face, to which Olive thought her sailor hat gave a very boyish expression.

“You are Miss Maclvor; I have come to meet you; there’s nobody else that could be you,” she exclaimed in a nervous, jerky way, staring hard at Olive meantime, and, as she thought, expressing much astonishment in her stare.

“ Yes, I am Miss Maclvor.” said Olive smiling, “ and you are “ I’m Janet Lenhouse, and I have come to meet you. The pony-carriage is outside. I’m going to drive you home; your luggage will come on in the donkey-cart. That’s there too. We thought it wasn’t worth while to have out the omnibus. There’s your luggage,” she continued, pointing to the other end of the platform; “there is no other, so it must be yours.” .

Olive thought that her future pupil had a curiously brusque manner, but then perhaps she was shy. Olive had had rather a wide experience in girls, but at the moment Janet did not quite resemble any of the types familiar to her. She followed her to the pony-carriage, feeling in a delightful state of pleasurable excitement.

A boy was holding the pony. Janet was evidently driving herself. The idea that her future pupil was shy quickly vanished from Olive’s mind. The girl chattered incessantly and with perfect self-composure, and as she talked she glanced at Olive with keen scrutiny, in which, had she only known it, there was a good deal of pleasant surprise.

“ We are only two miles from the station. We used to have to go to Winchester before this one was built It has only been built two years. If you like driving,” she added graciously, “ you can have plenty, for I can have the pony-carriage whenever I like, and mama does not like me to go quite alone. Cis hates driving, but Dick comes sometimes, only mama won’t let him come alone with me. I hate having a man, and mama won’t let me have a stable-boy.”

Olive did not fully understand the grievance; but she thought she should enjoy some drives through these lovely lanes very much.

“ I don’t think I ever drove in a pony-carriage before,” she remarked. “ Your pony is a very pretty one, and I am very fond of horses.”

Mr. Hall had been noted for the beauty of his horses, and his carriages had been some of the best appointed in St Petersburg. Since those days when every pleasant thing had been hers, Olive had never been in anything but a hired carriage. She had been taught to drive, and at that moment longed to take the reins from Janet’s somewhat clumsy hands.

“ There’s Barrington Court,” exclaimed Janet suddenly. “ We can see it a long way off, it is rather on a hill.”

Olive looked up eagerly, and saw a long, low, gray house standing on a green slope of park-like land, with a background of pine and other trees, some of them already brilliant with autumnal tints.

On just such another lovely evening in October twenty two years before, had Blanche Bethune, a happy bride with no misgivings for the future, first seen her home. And she too had exclaimed as Olive now did, “ How beautiful! how very beautiful!”

Alter a somewhat long pause, in which her eyes had been feasting on every detail of the scene before her, Olive added dreamily: “I must have seen a picture of it, for I feel as if I had seen it before.”

“There are several pictures of it in books about the county. One came out lately, and we have had it photographed several times,” said Janet carelessly.

“You must be very fond indeed of such a beautiful home,” said Olive earnestly.

Janet laughed. “Yes, I’m fond of it, very; but I don’t think Pen and Ada care about it very much. They think it’s dull. I never remember any other home. I was only a little thing when we came from India Cis is the only one of us who was born here; Dick was the baby when we came. Isn’t it funny, we were all bom in different places! Papa and mama were always moving about when they were in India. Cis is very proud of having been bom at Barrington. He is sure to tell you of it; he always says it ought to belong to him because he was born here. But it all must be left to Gerald. Mama can’t help that. It’s rather unfair, I think!”

“ Yes,” said Olive absently. Her thoughts were in confusion. She was trying to remember where she could have seen any picture of Barrington.

“ Dick is quite pleased that your name is Scotch,” continued Janet “He is sure to ask you where you were bom. He hopes you will be able to tell him something about Scotland. Just now he is crazy about Scotland, for he is reading some of Scott’s novels. Look! there’s Cis.”

Janet had stopped for the lodge gates to be opened. Olive followed the direction pointed to by the whip.

Cis was standing on the top of the wall, waiting for the first sight of the somewhat dreaded governess, that he might carry the first description of her to Dick.

Olive looked up at him, and laughed, and nodded. She liked the bright merry face which peered down on her so curiously; if only these children would love her a little she should feel happy, and a little less alone in the world.

Cis returned her nod rather sheepishly, and then scrambled down, and darted towards a clump of trees in the distance.

The carriage was now passing along a winding road through the beautifully wooded park, where groups of Jersey cows were grazing, looking to Olive’s eyes different to any cows she had ever seen.

Janet was much amused at her admiration.

“ Yes, they are beautiful. Papa takes lots of prizes. Cis is very fond of them; he will be so pleased if you are not afraid of them. Our last governess couldn’t bear to go near them.”

Janet drove the carriage to the back of the house, and calling a groom, she led Olive through many passages and up many stairs. She explained carelessly that everyone else was out, and left her when she had opened the door of a small bed-room. “ This is your room,” she said brusquely; and the first room on the right hand at the bottom of the stairs, at the end of that passage, is the schoolroom, you can’t miss it; we have tea at six, and it is nearly half-past five; your luggage will come in about half an hour, I should think.”

Poor Olive! this arrival was not at all what she had expected. Unwittingly she had hoped for something like a motherly greeting from Mrs. Lenhouse, and she was out; she had not even taken the trouble to send her a message.

Meantime Cis, who had reached his brother’s donkey-chair, was giving his report “She looks awfully jolly; she’s quite different to what I thought she would be like!” he exclaimed. And later, when the trio met in the schoolroom, Janet used almost the same words.

“ I think you might go and show her the way down,” said Dick reproachfully. But at that minute Olive came into the room.

On catching sight of Dick’s eager pale little face, and the crutches which lay beside him, a great compassion came into her heart. She held out her hand, then impulsively stooped and kissed his forehead.

“ I hope you will all try to like me,” she said, so softly that Dick alone heard the words.

He blushed furiously; if Miss Marvin had kissed him, he should never have forgiven her. Should he be angry, or was he pleased?

The meal was quite a merry one, and before it was ovei Mrs. Lenhouse came in. Olive was prepared now for disappointment, and her'own manner was very cold and dignified. .

“ Well,” said Mrs. Lenhouse to her husband that evening, “ I cannot say your description of Miss Maclvor was at all a good one, Mark. I never was more surprised. She’s a very striking-looking young woman, and evidently has a good opinion of herself. She is plain perhaps, but I don’t think I ever saw so stately a girl. She tells me she is one-and-twenty, and I don’t think she looks more.”

“I only saw her in a bonnet. But what do her looks matter?” ejaculated the colonel impatiently.

“I think they do matter,” persisted his wife; “and I am not at all sure you made a prudent choice, with the boys so constantly at home.”

“Oh, nonsense! If Gerald and Lawrence are such fools as to fall in love with their sisters’ governess, I’ve done with them.”

“ You must remember that Gerald knows he can please himself. He is independent of you, at least in the future,” replied Mrs. Lenhouse; who was rather fond of reminding her husband that Barrington Court belonged to her, and not to him.

“ You women do make such a fuss about nothing,” protested her husband crossly. “ The governess will live in the schoolroom, I presume, with the children; they will only see her at lunch-time.”

“Yes; I shall certainly not ask her to come down of an evening, as I often did Miss Marvin, to play Pen’s accompaniments. It is a pity to begin that sort of thing. A governess ought to learn to depend on herself for amusement,” said Mrs. Lenhouse placidly.

CHAPTER XII.

OLIVE’S PUPILS.

POOR Olive! Every day after her arrival at Barrington Court brought her some disappointment, till all hope left her of ever finding any fulfilment of the dreams she had indulged in. She at once turned from Colonel and Mrs. Lenhouse in despair. They seldom vouchsafed her a word save on the subject of the children, and evidently did not expect her to address them on any other; while Pen and Ada ignored her as completely.

When, the first day after her arrival, Mrs. Lenhouse had asked her to read French and German- with her elder daughters between the hours of twelve and one, while her pupils left her for a run in the garden, Olive had joyfully acceded; quite regardless of her own weariness, after long hours of teaching.

This was what Madame Delabere had prophesied. At least she would be able, in time, to make friends with these girls, whose had manners struck her even more than their haughty bearing towards herself. But neither Pen nor Ada had any intention of making a friend of their sister’s governess, and the intercourse was strictly confined to the lesson; which Pen took with an air of condescension, Ada with lazy indifference, both managing to imply by their manner that they thought they were conferring a favour on Olive in taking it at all.

After bearing this state of things meekly and pleasantly for a week, hoping to win some sort of favour, she returned their manner with interest. She could not be rude, that would in any case have been contrary to her nature and training, but she too could be coolly and haughtily indifferent.

She soon found that she was to be utterly cut off from the society which came to the house. She was never expected downstairs but for the mid-day meal, when she and the children dined at the family lunch. If strangers came in, as they sometimes happened to do, she was never introduced to them and never expected to speak.

At first she found this so painfully mortifying that she used to dread the arrival of people to lunch; but she soon grew indifferent, and learned to prefer the strangers to the family circle, where the conversation never got beyond the family sayings, doings, and fault-findings.

Strangers sometimes discussed politics or other interesting topics with Colonel Lenhouse, or at any rate they brought with them some whiff of an outer world, rather wider and fresher than that discussed by Pen and Ada.

Olive had been accustomed all her life to the conversation of highly-educated people, and this was starvation indeed. She wondered what Madame Delabere would think of it She dared not say much about it in her letters, fearing to make her kind old friend anxious about her.

She had never mentioned Captain Keith’s name to anyone, but she sometimes heard it; she had put up the small sum he had paid for her ticket in an .envelope, and she often slipped it into her pocket as she went down to the dining-room. The day might come when he would be there, and she must give it him. Her face burned when she thought of what it would cost her to refer to their meeting, and the loss of her purse. Would he know her? or would he not notice her, but treat her as an inferior as everyone else did? It would be galling indeed to meet him on such terms, and to feel herself indebted to him. From longing to see him again, Olive began to dread the possibility.

It was some time before she had understood the manner of those around her. At first she thought simply that the Lenhouses did not like her. This was, however, quite a mistake as far as Colonel and Mrs. Lenhouse were concerned. They thought that they had never had a governess who had saved them so much trouble, and their liking could go no further; while the girls would have scorned the idea of taking the trouble to dislike “the children’s governess,” as Olive had more than once overheard them describe her to friends who had asked who she was.

It was impossible for Olive’s thoughts to help turning to Captain Keith, though she often told herself she was silly to trouble herself about him. She was pleased to think that she had told him at once of the position she was to occupy in Colonel Lenhouse’s household, and that after that he had been more friendly than ever; but then, when he was with the Lenhouses he would, no doubt, do as they did.

Pen evidently admired him very much. The Miss Lenhouses disparaged most people, but Captain Keith was not one of them; and Pen talked of him with a little air of possession, which was very trying.

“Captain Keith is charming. We see a great deal of him. He is quite my favourite partner. I miss him so much,” was a sentiment she had expressed to more than one acquaintance.

It was dreadful to think that he might discuss her with Pen, and give Pen an account of the adventure which had once seemed quite a pleasant one. Yet when she recalled Captain Keith’s last words as they parted, she felt she was doing him an injustice, and took herself to task for growing uncharitable and sour. Truly she often felt that she was becoming ill-tempered. Daily mortification and repression of her true self tried her almost beyond endurance.

Olive learnt to hate the daily half-hour in the dining room. She seldom made it longer, for the children were always impatient to leave the table, and when they were ready, she rose, and they followed her from the room.

Janet had told her on the first day that this was their custom, and it showed her rather rudely that she was not intended to enter into the social aspect of the meal.

If she had only known it, she might have been gratified by the fact that the curious glances which were often directed towards her by visitors, and which she resented bitterly, were often caused by admiration.

There was one old bachelor squire who possessed one of the most beautiful places in the neighbourhood, and was a constant and honoured guest, whom she seemed to fascinate. He always sat by his hostess at the other end of the table, and was too far off to address a word to the governess, even if he had wished it; but Olive felt that he watched her, and was wont to grow very indignant and angry under what she considered the rudeness of his stare. She would hurry through the dinner when Mr. Dodington was present, and sweep from the room with even a more stately air than usual “ Monstrous fine girl that! monstrous fine girl, Mrs. Lenhouse!” he had ejaculated after she left the first day he had seen her. “She reminds me of—” But here he had pulled himself up. He did not think that his reminiscences would be acceptable.

“What is your governess’ name?” he asked. “That tall young lady who left the room with your children is, I suppose, the governess.”

“ Yes, she is. Her name is Maclvor,” said Mrs. Lenhouse indifferently. She was rather provoked with everybody for wishing to hear the name of the new governess.

The old squire shook his head. The name was quite a new one to him.

“ She is a very handsome young lady,” he said presently, with conviction.

“Do you think so?” returned Mrs. Lenhouse, with mild surprise. The one fault she had to find with Miss Maclvor was that she was so noticeable. Everyone did not admire her, or at any rate express admiration, but everyone had something to say about her.

At first this notice provoked Mrs. Lenhouse as much as it did her daughter Pen. (Ada was far too easy-going to be provoked much about anything.) But after a time she began to like it. Mrs. Lenhouse took the admiration of everything belonging to her, in a certain way, to herself. That her sons and daughters, her horses and cows, even her poultry, should be admired, fed the placid state of selfsatisfaction in which she lived.

As time went on, and no inconvenience came of it—for Miss Maclvor emphatically “kept in her place”—Mrs. Lenhouse began to be pleased that people should admire her governess, and would talk about her governess’ varied accomplishments as if they too belonged to herself.

In the midst of all this discouragement and disappointment, Olive had one gratification—her pupils loved her.

Her weeks were one round of weary routine. Try as she would, she could not interest either Janet or Cis in their lessons, but when lessons were once over they were ready to be pleasant enough; while Dick, whose ill-health prevented him from doing much, and who was often in a most irritable state from sleepless nights, was soon devoted to her. .

All her pity and tenderness were aroused by the neglect which generally fell to the share of the suffering boy, and to him she quickly became the embodiment of everything that was noble, good, and beautiful—representing to his mind each of his favourite heroines in tura Olive was immensely amused when she found out the parts she was expected to play, and answered to the names of “ Flora,” “ Minna,” or “ Rebecca,” without a smile. She made Dick promise, however, that he would only talk nonsense when they were alone together; and from pitying poor little solitary Dick she began to love him dearly, and through him she found the heart of the hitherto unapproachable Cis, who was the only one in the house who really understood and cared for the somewhat ungracious little invalid.

Everything that money could give him poor Dick might have, but it was impossible for Colonel and Mrs. Lenhouse to be proud of their crippled boy; so they preferred forgetting him, and he was not often seen by strangers.

His elder brothers and sisters, though not unkind, took little notice of him. Cis alone gave him of his best, and through this love, which each year was growing stronger, Dick was winning more appreciation than he would otherwise have had from his selfish mother. She was wrapped up in her youngest-born, and Cis would take nothing and enjoy nothing that his lame brother could not share.

After lessons all the morning, Olive was expected to walk with her pupils for two hours in the afternoon, Dick following in his donkey-chair. The drives Janet had promised her did not often come off, as Mrs. Lenhouse said she thought the children talked more with their governess when they were walking.

Nothing but French and German were allowed, and Olive most conscientiously insisted on obedience. But such French and German she had never dreamt of! It generally provoked her too much to amuse her; for at first the children resisted, and resented all her efforts of improvement.

The winter had set in early, and Olive found the country very damp and cold. She shivered, and thought regretfully of the brightness and life of the streets in Paris. She had never before seen the country in the winter. The change in Paris gardens at that season had hardly prepared her for the bare trees and muddy lanes. The desolation oppressed her spirits, and all the day through she longed for the evening. Then at least she had some delightful hours, when she could live in a world of her own, and enjoy the books, which were, at any rate, hers without stint Then she could forget the irritation, the slights, the weariness of the day—forget, too, the stately and rather prim Miss Maclvor, and be again herself—Olive.

The boys went to bed at eight, and at that hour Janet was expected to go to the drawing-room. Then Olive would pull an arm-chair close to the fire, and with a lapful of books, prepare for two or sometimes three hours of intense enjoyment. She had never before been within reach of so much reading. The hope of having as many books as she wanted was the only one that had not failed her.

Through Janet she was kept constantly supplied. Directly the books from Mudie’s box were read in the drawingroom she pounced on them and brought them upstairs. Janet had been the last of the three children to give her allegiance to the new governess, but having once given it, the selfish, spoilt girl each day felt her influence more, and though Olive did not know it, she was inclined to take her part against her sisters. She was cleverer than they were, and quickly recognized and acknowledged Olive’s powers.

“ Miss Maclvor knows just ten times as much as you and Pen do!” she exclaimed, when Ada had angered her by some disparagement one day; for Janet never hesitated to be pert to Ada when occasion offered, though she was still a little afraid of Pen.

“ Of course she does,” said Ada placidly. “ But then she’s a governess. I’m sure I don’t care how much she knows.”

On Sundays Olive was expected, if it was fine, to walk to church with the children. It was in the village, about a mile off. The rest of the family always drove.

The old church at Barrington had been restored and reseated with part of poor Blanche Bethune’s little fortune. The large square pew, where she and little Olive had used sometimes to appear, had been done away with, and in its place were five benches appropriated to the inmates of Barrington Court. One of these was occupied by Olive and her pupils. Sunday after Sunday her eyes rested on the marble tablet where her parents’ names were recorded.

To the beloved memory of Blanche, wife of Edward Bethune, Esq., of Barrington Court. Born 15th June, 1840; died November 20th, 1868.

Also of Edward Bethune, her husband, who died September 80th, 1869.

Also to the memory of the infant children of the above.

Olive, gazing dreamily, would weave many fancies round this tablet. The husband and wife had died within a year of each other, and he perhaps had died of grief. To her the simple words of the record conveyed a whole world of sadness. And these people had lived and suffered at Barrington Court. What sort of people were they, and were they already quite forgotten? And their infant children. Did grief for their loss shorten the young mother’s life? How sad that they should have died so young, when they must have had so much to make them happy!

When she came out of church the first Sunday she had asked Janet about them.

“Who were they?”

“Oh,” said the girl carelessly, “Mr. Bethune was mama’s half-brother. He left her Barrington; and it was a very good thing for us that he died. Mama hardly knew him, so she could not be sorry, and she had never seen his wife.”

The answer grated much on Olive’s mood; but Janet would have laughed at what she would have called “ being sentimental,” over the woes of people who had been dead so many years.

Olive’s memory played her strange pranks sometimes, though she was not aware of it. The schoolroom was a large, pleasant room, which had once been her own day-nursery, and had until late years been the same for the young Lenhouses.

It had two windows, with wide window-seats, which had been cushioned, and were very comfortable resting-places. Dick's reclining-couch stood near one of them, and Olive frequently found herself sitting by his side. And then her eyes would turn constantly towards the long avenue of trees, which day by day, as the winter came, grew bare and brown; and every time her eyes searched the avenue she was aware of a curious sense of expectation, and the impression came to her that she was waiting for the sight of someone. But the someone never came, for people seldom approached the house that way.

She used to find herself leaning on the bars, which still guarded the windows from childish accidents, and then with a smile at herself she would turn away.

Was she ever to see a ghost in the avenue—a tall figure walking up and down? And why did she always expect to see a woman's figure, and not a man's?

Many an hour, as a child, had she stood on the window-seat, holding those same bars with her chubby hands, while she watched impatiently for her mother to come in from her favourite walk.

Under the schoolroom windows flowers bloomed in the beds her mother had planned and had had made the year after her arrival at Barrington, and here Olive's baby feet had trotted, as she followed her mother among her much loved flowers.

One day she had been pushing Dick’s light garden-chair through one of the shrubberies, and a storm coming on she had exclaimed:

“ Never mind, I will run you on to the end of this path, to the ‘kiosk.’”

“Kiosk! What is a kiosk?” questioned Dick.

“ What you would call, I think, a grotto or an arbour,” she answered laughing, as she propelled the chair at a running pace towards the spot she had pointed out.

“Stop, stop!” cried Dick; “there is nothing of the sort What made you think so? You have not been here before? How odd of you to say that!”

“Well, here is a tree that will shelter us,” said Olive stopping.

“But why did you think there was a grotto there?” persisted Dick.

“ I suppose I felt that there ought to be one,” answered Olive merrily. “That’s not odd, is it?”

“It’s odd, because there used to be one there. Janet remembers it, but I don’t. It fell down, and all the remains were carried away years ago. Cis always says he shall persuade mama to have another put up,” explained Dick.

“What sort of a grotto did you think it was?” he asked presently.

“ You silly boy, how can I describe what I have not seen?” said Olive laughing.

“ But you can, you can imagine it. If you thought there was a grotto, you must be able to think what it was like. Try, do, dear Miss Maclvor.”

Thus urged, Olive answered: “Well, I think that it was round, and that there was a table in the middle and a seat all round.”

“ That’s just what Janet told me it was like,” said Dick, with some astonishment. “But I suppose all grottos are alike,” he added.

“ Yes, I suppose so,” said Olive dreamily.

“You must have seen one like that in Paris or in St. Petersburg.”

“In St. Petersburg no, but in Paris perhaps, but I can’t remember. It is very odd, Dick, but things often feel to me as if I had seen them before.”

“Perhaps you have second-sight. You are Scotch, you know,” said Dick, in rather awe-stricken tones.

Olive laughed so much at this discovery of Dick’s that he grew almost angry with her, and she had to pacify him.

“Well, dear, I will not laugh; and if you like to think I have second-sight, I will say nothing against it It would really be rather nice, only please do not tell anyone else.”

This had happened soon after Olive’s arrival at Barrington, and Dick had so often reminded her of his theory, that she had almost begun to think that it accounted for her strange fancies.

Although Olive found her life so dreary and irksome, so full of mortifications that she sometimes grew despondent, she was not always unhappy; she had high spirits, and sometimes they rose, almost in spite of herself.

The long walks in mud and rain—for Janet and Cis would seldom think it too stormy to go out—were trying 'to Olive’s town-bred prejudices. But she was now taking more exercise than she had done for years, for during Mrs. Hall’s illness she had almost lived within doors; and this exercise soon brought a colour to her cheeks, and a brightness to her eyes, which had been lacking, while the lines of her fine figure lost the angularity which had marred its beauty.

With renewed health came the enjoyment of life, which under the most depressing circumstances can never be quite extinguished On fine frosty days Janet and Cis found their governess the most delightful of companions for a long scrambling walk, while their admiration of her activity was unbounded.

Olive had been the show-pupil at the school gymnasium, and her feats of jumping and climbing were wonderful even to these country children. That their governess was not only a compendium of useful knowledge, but a marvel of accomplishments, did much to ensure her popularity with Janet and Cis.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

AS Christmas approached, Olive found herself looking forward more to the rest of a fortnight’s holiday, which the children had been promised, than to any change in the monotony of her existence from the presence of the sons of the house, whose arrival was now the daily topic of conversation.

Her little joke with Madame Delabere was not however forgotten, and she wrote: “ I have no hope of finding any consolation in them. I believe they will be just like their sisters.”

Olive’s old friend had been much disappointed by the tone of her letters, and she constantly urged her to bear with the Lenhouses for at least a year; to the wisdom of which advice Olive had agreed.

Lawrence arrived on Christmas-eve. He was the second son, and was preparing with a London tutor for Sandhurst. He had been very angry at the dismissal of Miss Marvin, and as he thought that she had been badly treated he was by no means prepared to be civil to the new governess. No VolksWagon7 introduction was thought necessary, and he took no notice of her whatever.

Olive was sorry she had given a promise to Colonel Lenhouse which she felt it would he very difficult for her to perform with a good grace. About a week before Lawrence’s arrival, she had been astonished at the colonel’s gracious, not to say confidential way of addressing her one day when he happened to overtake her and the children returning from a walk.

All the trouble his sons had caused him, especially Lawrence’s shortcomings—the impossibility of making him work for his examinations, the disappointment of his many failures, these had been the burden of his conversation, and Olive, never unsympathetic or slow to respond to kindly advances, was interested and friendly.

At last the colonel worked round to his point: Would Miss Maclvor be so kind as to take Lawrence in hand for the holidays? She would probably do more for him than any of his tutors. Boys worked so well with a lady, and French and German were so important for them.

Olive did not like to refuse, but with the wisdom born of experience she pleaded that she too wanted a holiday, and that it would be better to give the desired lessons instead of those given to the Miss Lenhouses.

Pen and Ada were for once agreeable. They were not sorry to have an excuse to stop what had never been any pleasure to them.

Olive did not know it, but much of Lawrence’s sulky demeanour towards herself was owing to the peremptory way in which his father had insisted on his working with his sister’s governess during his holiday, and when the lessons began he was so indifferent and inattentive that on the second day Olive lost her temper.

“Now, Mr. Lenhouse,” she exclaimed indignantly, “I’m paid to teach your brothers and sister, and when they don’t choose to learn I make the best of it; but I am not paid to teach you, and if you do not care to learn I shall leave you!”

“ No, I shall leave you!” said Lawrence angrily, also rising and moving towards the door.

They were in the schoolroom.

He was a tall burly young fellow, looking many years older than his real age, and the incongruity of her position suddenly struck Olive painfully. Why should she be teaching this loutish young man? And why should he treat her teaching with a carelessness which meant contempt, save for the same reason that his sisters so treated it?—he considered her an inferior.

Tears of indignation came into her eyes at the thought, and Lawrence saw them, though she did not know that he was watching her. He was not a bad-hearted young fellow, and his chivalry being suddenly roused by the sadness of her expression, he capitulated at once.

“ I beg your pardon, Miss Maclvor. I know I ought to be ashamed of myself. I promise I will do my best if you will give me ahother chance,” he said shyly.

At his first word Olive’s angry indignation had vanished, because for no rudeness, no neglect, had a Lenhouse yet begged her pardon.

“ Let us begin all over again,” she said with a smile, which took Lawrence’s heart by storm. “ I really want to help you, and I think I can if you will let me. We will both try to be very patient.”

After this Lawrence worked industriously, and never needed to be reminded of the hour of his lesson, while the colonel looked on exultingly. His son had told him that he had never before had such a teacher as Miss Maclvor.

For weeks before Christmas, a ball which the Lenhouses were to give in January had been an all-absorbing topic of conversation. It was not to take place till the 15th, as on that day Gerald, who had been staying with friends, was to come home.

Even the boys were excited over the ball, for they were to bo present; and Dick looked forward to watching the dancing, while Cis was never tired of descanting on what he heard from the cook concerning the wonders of the supper.

Janet was almost as full of rapturous anticipation over her possible partners as Pen and Ada, and from her Olive heard a great deal of the glories of the balls that had been given in past years.

" And you’ll come down, of course,—mama says so; and I’ll find you some partners. Miss Marvin danced nearly everything last year. Lawrence insisted on dancing with her six times, and mama did not like it You have never once been down of an evening, which is a shame. What dress have you? I hope you have got a nice one.”

Janet was not happy until assured by Olive that she had ait evening dress which was likely to meet all requirements. Dick, too, was very anxious on the subject The day of the ball, one thought, and one alone, was occupying Olive—should she speak to Captain Keith! She knew that he was coming with several officers from Winchester. His return from leave had been spoken of more than once before her, and Pen was very fond of alluding to him.

“Will he remember me!” thought Olive; “and will he ask me to dance!” Olive told herself she was foolish to expect that, yet she knew that her mortification would be great it he did not '.

“ I must try not to think about it,” she said to herself, as raher late in the evening she dressed by the light of a solidary candle. She had been helping Janet, as the two lady’s maids were too busy to attend to her; and now everyone else had gone down, and she was not ready.

Olive’s toilet did not take long. She had no choice to make. She put on a black velvet dress which she had arranged for herself before she left Paris, out of two that had belonged to her beloved “ auntie,” and as she put it on her thoughts dwelt on that dear friend, who had always liked to adorn her with pretty things.

The dress was long and plain, the train almost too long and heavy for dancing; while the velvet was of the softest, and by candle-light did not look shabby. It was high to the throat, and round that and the sleeves, which reached the elbow, Olive had put the last remains of some beautiful old lace—the only remnant which had not been sold in St. Petersburg when the crash had come.

The wide ruffle of lace took off from the dead blackness of the dress, while it had a quaint, old-fashioned grace which suited Olive’s grave style of beauty. She had no ornament but her miniature; and she decided against wearing that, as it might attract the children’s attention, and she did not wish to be asked questions about it. Nor had she any flowers. She had been forgotten even by Janet She gathered her thick, brown hair into a coil at the top of her head, and ran through it a silver arrow which had been given her by a school-fellow.

Before she went downstairs she held her candle as close as she could, and gazed wistfully at her own reflection in the glass.

“I wonder how I look; I wonder if he’ll know me. What a colour I have to-night!” she said, smiling at herself. As she walked down the wide front staircase, one that she and the children were not expected to use, she caught sight of herself in a mirror. The sight gave her courage. Her dress, if unfashionable, was at any rate becoming. She would make for Dick’s chair; he at least would be anxiously expecting her.

The hall and the dining-room, which had been turned into a ball-room, were already almost crowded. Dick’s chair, Olive knew, was at the top of the room; she had placed it for him herself. She did not notice at all that people turned to look at her, and ask who she was, as she threaded her way with quiet self-possession among the different groups. Dancing had not yet begun, but the music was playing.

“ You do look so beautiful!” said Dick with fervent admiration, as she sat down on the chair he had insisted on having placed for her close to his own. “No one in the room will be as beautiful as you.”

“You silly boy!” she whispered back, laughing; and then she and Dick amused themselves not a little by making remarks on the different couples who were arranging themselves for the first dance.

“ Is your eldest brother in the room!” she asked presently “ Yes, that’s Gerald talking to mama now.”

And Olive looked rather critically at a fair, good-looking young man, who appeared to her more youthful than Lawrence, though three years his senior. He was rather pleasant-looking, but had the same air of supreme self-satisfaction as his mother.

Janet came up before long, and she also exclaimed in admiration at Olive’s dress.

“It may not be fashionable, Pen says it isn’t, but it looks beautiful. You look like nobody else in the room,” added Janet with conviction. “ Everybody is asking who you are.”

This was not altogether pleasant news for Olive, and she was glad when the dancing began. From where she sat she could watch the door, and she knew that she was watching for Captain Keith. She was not sure whether she cared t0 dance or not—so she told herself; but as dance followed dance, she began to feel a little disappointed.

Lawrence had asked her for a dance late in the evening, and had brought her a card on which he had written his name in very large letters. She knew he would have danced with her before had he dared, for she had partially overheard a sharp dispute with Pen on the subject.

But where was Captain Keith?—would he fail to come after all?

“How late they are!” said Ada to her partner as they . passed by; and Olive knew that “they” must mean the officers expected from Winchester.

At this moment she saw Captain Keith standing in the doorway. He would hardly be likely to recognize her, she told herself, as instantaneously as she had recognized him. His keen eyes seemed to search the room, but they did not rest on her; and presently she saw him dancing with Pen.

“ That’s Captain Keith,” said Dick, “ dancing with Sissy. She likes him awfully.”

For the next few minutes Olive tormented herself with the thought that perhaps Captain Keith might ask Miss Lenhouse after the governess he had befriended, and who actually still owed him several shillings.

Olive’s face burned at the idea. It would be better far that he should forget her existence.

She had been arranging Dick’s pillows, and the music having ceased and the stream of dancers having left the room, she had been giving all her attention to him, when she heard Lawrence’s voice behind her, and turned to find Captain Keith standing beside him.

“Miss Maclvor, may I introduce Captain Keith?” said Lawrence a little awkwardly. He was not great at social amenities.

A waltz was just beginning, and with a little nod to Dick, whose delight she saw painted plainly on his face, Olive was soon whirled away. A minute before she had doubted if she cared to dance; she had no doubts now!

But did Captain Keith remember her! So far he had made no sign, and he had claimed no acquaintance, or he would not have asked, as he must have done, for a formal introduction.

Olive was not, however, kept long in doubt.

“ I hope you have not quite forgotten me, Miss Maclvor,” were her partner’s first words when they at last came to a stand-still, rather out of breath, for they had swept round the room several times.

“No indeed, but I thought you had forgotten me,” rejoined Olive; and her face was very bright.

There was not much conversation after that till the waltz was over, and then Captain Keith asked her if she would sit out the next dance with him, as he wanted to hear all her experiences of life since they last met.

He piloted her to a seat in a distant comer of the hall, which Olive had heard Pen point out the day before as especially arranged for a flirtation, and with which Captain Keith had evidently had a previous acquaintance.

“ Now, Captain Keith, please let me pay my debt at once,” were some of Olive’s first words. “ It is in my pocket, and it quite weighs me down—I mean the obligation,” she added, smiling.

“ Have you carried this serious obligation in your pocket all these weeks?” he asked, much amused.

“Not quite; I knew you were coming to-night. But please don’t think my gratitude will cease with the debt; I shall ever be thankful to you for helping me out of my dilemma.”

“ Your gratitude is out of all proportion—I saw it was that day when I was so fortunate as to be of use to you; but if it will make you happier, you may certainly give me it at once. You do not expect me to count it, or anything of that sort!” said Keith laughing, as he took the envelope from her hand. “ I see that you have directed it in due form. I am glad you did not insist on making a public presentar tion and a speech!”

“No,” said Olive, colouring. “Let me confess, I have never mentioned the episode to any of the Lenhouses.”

She was too proud to ask him to keep the same silence.

“No, of course not,” said Keith carelessly. “Why should you? Do you find them pleasant?” he questioned presently.

“They take no interest in me whatever,” replied Olive gravely.

A very few well-directed questions—for Keith was direfully straightforward, in spite of Olive’s rather evasive answers— told him much of her disappointment; but she was nevertheless very guarded. No actual complaint passed her lips.

“ I should have thought, now, that you three girls would be very happy and jolly together,” he said at last;—“though, of course, it must be very dull for you after Paris.”

“The Miss Lenhouses do not consider me their equal,” said Olive, flushing hotly. “ But now let us talk of something pleasanter. Tell me of your brother in St. Petersburg: have you heard from him lately? and did he tell you anything of English people there? I should know their names, perhaps.”

“No, I don’t think he did; and he does not know your name, so I suppose it is not the same as your uncle’s. I stupidly never asked you what his name was,” said Keith.

“ My uncle’s name was Hall.” Then Captain Keith had not forgotten her all this time, if he had written of her to his brother. “ Everybody will remember him still, I think. I believe I was generally supposed to be a Miss Hall You see I was not grown up, so that my name was not known; I hardly knew it myself till I came to England. At Madame Delabere’s I was always ‘ Mademoiselle Olive,’ just as I was in St, Petersburg,—I mean at home.”

Pen and her partner passed more than once while Captain Keith and Olive were talking, and she knew that Pen was far from pleased at her favourite seat being so occupied; but she was too happy to care much what Pen might think or say about her.

Captain Keith had taken her card and written his name in several places, and then he had said regretfully that he was engaged for the next dance. Might he introduce a brother-officer!

“Yes.” Olive felt now that she must go on dancing.

“Where shall I take you!” asked Keith, as the music began again. “ I must go and look for my partner.”

“You need not take me anywhere. I shall go hack to Dick, he has promised to chaperon me this evening.”

But Captain Keith would not hear of this. He had hardly left her by Dick’s side when he returned with a fine-looking man whom Olive had seen lounging in the doorways.

Captain Roberts told people that he did not care to dance, hut when Keith had pressed him to do so he had given way, as he generally did give way, to his more imperious friend.

“You must have seen how beautifully she dances, and she is a stranger, and nobody is looking after her. I want her to enjoy herself, poor girl,” urged Keith.

Olive had no idea how great was the honour conferred on her, or how envious were many of the glances that followed her.

“ I thought Captain Roberts did not dance,” said Pen in displeased tones to Captain Keith, when he at last claimed her, with many excuses for being late.

“No, he does not generally; only now and then when lie is sure of a partner who will suit him, and even then he has to he persuaded. Roberts is an epicure in dancing. Nothing but the best is good enough for him," said Keith somewhat maliciously..

There was no doubt about it, Olive had a triumph that night, of which, however, she herself was only half aware.

“ Who is Roberts dancing with, Lawrence?” asked Gerald. “ Keith was dancing the last waltz with her—that tall girl in black velvet?”

“That’s Miss Maclvor,” said Lawrence rather sulkily, for he had not been pleased at Pen’s interference.

“By Jove!” ejaculated Gerald in some surprise. “The governess! What does my mother think of her taking possession of all the best partners in the room? And how beautifully she dances!”

“Of course she does,” said Ada, who happened to be standing near. “No doubt she taught dancing at the school she came from.”

“ I don’t care whether she taught it or not,” said Gerald loftily. “ They are coming this way. Introduce me, Lawrence.”

Olive was immensely amused at being introduced, actually introduced, to Mr. Lenhouse, who lamented much that his card was full, but asked her to promise him a possible extra at the end of the evening.

Captain Roberts had been much taken with his partner. Always lazy, having once found one who amused him, he did not care to lose her. He asked Olive for the next dance, and then to sit out another, when Captain Keith, claimed her again. As Olive said afterwards laughingly to Dick, she saw very little of her chaperon for the rest of the evening. But Dick was delighted.

Lawrence’s dance was a failure. Olive tried in vain to get on with him, and she saw by his face that he was dreadfully disappointed—she feared angry.

“ I am afraid I dance very badly,” at last he said rather roughly. “I dance well enough for most people, but not for you.”

“ Shall I give you some lessons! I could soon teach you,” said Olive gently. She was beginning to like the young fellow, and to feel that he was her friend.

Lawrence accepted the offer with such enthusiasm that Olive felt obliged to add: “ That is, if Mrs. Lenhouse likes it. I am going to teach Cis, and you must join the lesson.”

The old squire, who had so often annoyed her by his fixed gaze, was standing near her in the course of the evening. His eyes were again fixed on her, and she turned somewhat haughtily away.

“ I am afraid you think me very rude, Miss Maclvor,” he said, addressing her for the first time. But you must forgive an old man. You are so like a dear friend who died many years ago, that I cannot help looking at you. Do you mind telling me what part of the world you come from!”

The radiance of Olive’s smile dazzled the old squire. He had never seen her smile before.

“ I was brought up in St Petersburg and Paris,” she said eagerly.

The old squire shook his head. “ So the Lenhouses told me; but what part of England did your people come from!”

Olive’s face was full of interest. “ I cannot tell you. I do not know.”

She would have liked to have continued the conversation, but at this moment Mrs. Lenhouse came up, and took possession of the squire.

“ I think that girl in black velvet is quite the handsomest girl in the room. Who is she!” asked a very deaf old lady in loud tones, who was sitting at supper next Colonel Len-house.

“ That’s our governess,” he replied, with a lift of his eyebrows, which to those who knew him betokened displeasure. “ She has dressed herself in such an outlandish way, I don’t wonder people notice her,” he muttered. “Isn’t it time for Janet and Cis to go to bed?” he asked across the table, with a frown, at his wife.

Soon after this Olive, who had just finished a third waltz with Captain Keith, was beckoned across the room by Mrs. Lenhouse.

“I must go,” she explained to him, and she would not let him follow her.

Mrs. Lenhouse told her curtly to take Cis and Janet upstairs to bed at once.

“ Everyone is going now,” she added, “ and I am sure you have danced enough.” She laid some stress on the “ you.” “ You will be tired to-morrow, and I have several things for you to do early—some notes I want written. The girls are sure to be late.”

“ But I am engaged for the next dance,” pleaded Olive, feeling decidedly aggrieved. There could be no reason why she should go to bed if the children did.

“Who to?” asked Mrs. Lenhouse.

“ To Mr. Lenhouse,” replied Olive, with a certain amusement in the midst of her annoyance.

“What! to Gerald?”

“ Yes,” answered Olive demurely. “ There he is coming for me, I think.”

Gerald had been coming towards them, but he now stopped to speak to a friend. Olive felt sure that it was the sight of his mother that had stopped him, and she felt indignant “Gerald ought to dance this with Miss Forbes. I have been begging him to dance with her all the evening. She has hardly danced at all Please go at once, Miss Maclvor. I will explain your absence to him.”

Olive followed the children upstairs with as good a grace as she could. Resentment at Gerald’s indifference helped her a good deal Almost everyone was in the supper-room. Captain Keith passed her in the hall. She would have liked to have wished him good-bye, but refrained.

How much she had enjoyed herself! She told herself that she had no business to be cross about anything.

CHAPTER XIV.

A STRANGE LIKENESS.

BARRINGTON COURT was quite full for the night of the ball, but all the guests left the next morning before luncheon, save Mr. and Lady Caroline Foster and their two daughters, who were to remain till the end of the week.

Mrs. Lenhouse was fond of explaining to her intimate friends that she was not a match-making mother, but that at the same time she was careful not to throw her sons and daughters in the way of ineligible people. She was judicious, if nothing else. She had no objection to her sons falling in love with an earl’s granddaughters; so the Miss Fosters were “ very great favourites ” of hers, as she told everybody who cared to listen to her.

They were nice, unaffected, well-educated girls, who from their first arrival in the house were studiously courteous to Olive, and very soon became friendly, making their way to the schoolroom under the plea that a chat in German was a great treat; and once there, finding so much to say that Pen grew quite cross with them.

“ Miss Maclvor is perfectly charming,” Marion Foster assured her. “How fortunate you are!”

“Well, I can’t agree with you,” said Pen sharply. “She is quite the most disagreeable governess, I think, that we have ever had in the house.”

“ I think if you would only forget, and make her forget, that she is a governess, you would find her, as I do, very pleasant,” replied Marion, who was plain-spoken.

“ That is just exactly what I do not intend her to forget,’ answered Pen, who had lost her temper. “ She would give herself all sorts of airs and graces if I let her forget it. Captain Roberts was so astonished when I told him who she was. He had no idea of it. Captain Keith introduced him to her; so he told me.”

“ Yes, and Captain Roberts danced with her after that,” said Marion mischievously, “and sat out another dance. He danced once with me, once with you, once with your sister, and at least three times with Miss Maclvor. He is an old friend of mine, and was rather confidential. I assure you he admired Miss Maclvor not a little.”

“Keith seemed desperately smitten too,” said Gerald, who had heard only the last words.

“ I daresay he was,” said Pen contemptuously. “ She is just the sort of person men like to flirt with. I believe she is very fast.” '

“Well, I should like to say what I think!” exclaimed Marion hotly, as she left the room; and then, to Pen’s astonishment, Gerald said a good many disagreeable things to her. Not that Gerald was at that moment especially pleased with Miss Maclvor, for she had received the regrets he had expressed at their dance having been prevented with an indifference which had not been flattering.

It was the day after the hall, and everyone was rather tired and cross. Olive had been kept hard at work writing for Mrs. Lenhouse all the morning, and when in the afternoon Marion Foster had knocked at the schoolroom door and begged to be let in, Olive had felt rather provoked. She wanted to rest and think of all that had happened the evening before. She had a good many pleasant reminiscences.

But Marion’s friendliness soon won her gratitude, and from books they grew confidential over their partners.

“ She is so very much more entertaining than Pen and Ada,” remarked Marion to her sister that evening. “I must say I think the Lenhouses treat her very badly. They never address a word to her if they can help it, and now that the children have holidays she ought to be asked down of an evening. She says she much prefers being upstairs, but, of course, that is because they make it so unpleasant She is quite a lady; they must see that”

And each day at luncheon Marion Foster addressed much of her conversation to Olive, and as Gerald sat next her, _ she managed to make him do the same, and Olive quite brightened under the notice. There had been a very hard frost for days, and much talk of skating. At last, the ice being quite safe and the weather brilliant, Mrs. Lenhouse had arranged for the young people to spend the afternoon on some ponds at some distance off; while she and Colonel Lenhouse were to drive Mr. Foster and Lady Caroline to Winchester to see the Cathedral.

Janet and Cis were clamorous to be allowed to join the skating party, and Mrs. Lenhouse found it difficult to refuse their request, though at the same time she was dreadfully nervous on the subject, fearing that the irrepressible Cis would manage to get into some danger.

“Miss Maclvor will look after Cis, mama; he is much more obedient to her than to anyone else,” urged Janet entreatingly “ Miss Maclvor! But there is no room for her. If you go, you children will have to take the pony-carriage, and I must send a man to look after you. I cannot trust you alone.”

“Oh, mama!” exclaimed Janet indignantly. “Miss Maclvor can skate, and she would enjoy it so much. I am going to lend her a pair of old skates of Pen’s she gave me last year.”

Now Mrs. Lenhouse knew that she should only feel happy about Cis being on the ice if Miss Maclvor were there. Nobody else would watch him, and Janet said truly that Cis was wonderfully obedient to his governess; so that she began to relent “But Miss Maclvor, unfortunately, knows nothing about horses, and—”

“Indeed she does, mama; she knows quite as much as anybody else. She can drive quite well! ” interrupted Cis, clamorously. “Mama, say yes; do!”

“Miss Maclvor can do everthing, of course. I should not be surprised to hear that she could drive four-in-hand,” said Pen, with a little mocking laugh.

Luncheon was in progress, and Pen sat at the other end of a very long table, the same side as Olive. It is presumed that she did not intend Miss Maclvor to overhear her remark. Pen was given to making trying remarks, which hitherto Olive had always pretended not to hear. The last few days she had grown more like herself, her courage and spirits had risen, and she felt that she could not bear the sarcasm as patiently as she might have done a week ago.

Leaning forward, so that she could address herself to Pen, she said in calm, level, but perfectly courteous tones: “ No, Miss Lenhouse, I have never driven four-in-hand, but I have driven a pair both in a carriage and in a sleigh, and I do not think you need he afraid of trusting the children with me in the pony-carriage.”

“One from the shoulder for you, Miss Pen,” muttered Lawrence, who was sitting beside his sister, and who enjoyed her discomfiture not a little, though he had not thought it wise to take a part in the discussion.

Pen coloured furiously; and there was an ominous silence, broken by Marion Foster offering to lend Olive her skates.

“ I can’t skate a bit,” she explained, “ and Mr. Lenhouse is going to push me about in a sleigh. My skates are quite new, the very best I could get. I hoped they would skate of themselves, but they won’t. I know you will enjoy them”

“It is very, very kind of you, Miss Foster,” said Olive gratefully. “ I have not skated for many years, but if I do go, I would certainly have no chance of looking after Cis without skates. Should I, Cis?”

“ No, of course not; and you’ll be able to look after Janet too, she can’t skate a bit without a hand. We are to have the pony-carriage, and Miss Maclvor is going; isn’t she, mama?” insisted Cis.

Mrs. Lenhouse could hardly do otherwise than give way, though she saw that her eldest daughter looked very displeased indeed.

Pen did not want Miss Maclvor on the ice that afternoon. Captain Keith would no doubt be there, and she could not be sure that he would not again take the notice of the governess that he had done at the ball; she was very much provoked with her mother for not having found some excuse for keeping the children at home.

It was a brilliant winter’s day, and Olive’s naturally high spirits rose as, having seen Janet and Cis start first, she put on her skates for the first time for many years.

She knew that she had, at sixteen, been considered one of the best skaters among the little English community at St. Petersburg, but she must be out of practice now, and would feel awkward at first.

The pond was a very large one, and at the moment very few people were putting on their skates; the pony-carriage had been rather late in starting. Olive could see Pen in the distance; she could skate tolerably, but Ada was labouring along in a very awkward fashion. Gerald too, she could distinguish, pushing Miss Foster in a small hand-sleigh. Presently they came towards her, evidently at Miss Foster’s bidding.

“Do they fit you nicely?” asked Marion.

“ Indeed, yes!” exclaimed Olive, and then with a delicious sense of power she skimmed round and round them, rather slowly at first, but finally at a great pace, her tall figure swaying to and fro with the most perfect grace. Both Gerald and Marion exclaimed in admiration.

“I’m so proud of my skates,” cried Marion joyously. “How splendidly you skate!”

Lawrence now came up, and insisted on Olive’s coming with him.

“ But remember I have the children to look after,” she urged. “All right, we will go to them!” and then he insisted on taking her hand, and they flew over the ice past the labouring Ada, past Pen.

“ That’s what Miss Maclvor calls looking after the children,” cried Pen spitefully, as Gerald and Marion came within hearing. Olive heard the words distinctly, they were carried far in the frosty air.

“ You hear what your sister says, Mr. Lawrence; you had much better let me skate alone,” she said, rather defiantly.

“Yes, I hear,” said Lawrence; “but unless you wish to spoil all your afternoon you’ll pay no attention whatever to Pen. The children are all right; there they are!”

But Olive would not be beguiled by Lawrence into any neglect, and after a few rounds of the pond with him she devoted herself dutifully to teaching Janet and Cis; they neither of them could get on very well, and she was able to give them really valuable help.

Soon growing used to her skates, she could not resist trying if she had lost an art in which she had once excelled, and she cut figure after figure, to the children’s intense admiration.

“ There is a lady at the other end of the pond skating so beautifully,” said a gentleman to Ada. “ Come and see her, it is as good as a lesson to watch her;” and Ada crossed the pond with his help, and found herself obliged to watch and admire Miss Maclvor. She was dreadfully annoyed, but could find no fault, for there were Janet and Cis, in perfect safety, loudly applauding feats which far outdid any they had ever seen.

Now Olive as well as Pen had counted on the probable presence of Captain Keith among the skaters, and she had just begun to fear that she should be disappointed, when he skated up to her.

“ I heard there was a lady on the ice skating most wonderfully, and of course I knew it was you,” he said; and there was a world of pleasant admiration in his tones, very intoxicating to poor Olive, and I fear I must own that for the next half-hour the children were quite forgotten, as she skimmed along with Captain Keith by her side.

They passed Pen and Ada several times; and a spirit of mischief having taken possession of her, Olive almost enjoyed their displeasure. She felt that she would and must enjoy herself this one afternoon.

For some time everything went on most prosperously. Cis had promised to be careful, and he had no intention of getting into trouble; but at last the spell was broken, and Qlive found the wakening a rather rude one.

“ I have just pulled that monkey Cis out of a hole,” said Lawrence, skating up to them. “ But he has promised not to tell; you need not look so frightened, Miss Maclvor,” he said laughingly, for Olive’s face told all the consternation she felt “As no harm is done, why say anything about it, Len-house? You surely do not expect Miss Maclvor to follow that boy about; if she did, she could not help his going into a hole! ” exclaimed Captain Keith, almost angrily.

But Olive would not let her friend Lawrence be snubbed.

“ You are quite right, and very kind to tell me at once; and as he must be wet I will take him home instantly,” she exclaimed, rushing off in the direction Lawrence had pointed out. Both he and Keith followed her; the latter growling as he went, on the shame it was for that “ little wretch” to spoil everything. He had just been going to propose a dance.

They found Cis sitting on the bank looking very crestfallen, while Janet stood scolding him a few yards off. Olive laughed good-temperedly in the midst of her dismay, for she saw that poor Cis was very near tears himself.

It was of no use, duty pointed only one way.

“ I must take him home at once,” she said. “ I cannot let him stay about wet,” and she sat down and began unfastening her skates. Keith was on his knees helping her in a moment, though he looked very black; and Lawrence shouted to someone on the bank to call up the pony-carriage.

“ I do not see why you should go,” grumbled Keith; “the children often drive themselves, I know, for I have met them constantly.”

One skate was off when Gerald and Marion came up, and Olive told them of the disaster. “ Cis is wet up to his knees; of course I must take him home at once,” she said; while Janet loudly lamented the cruelty of her own fate, and made no attempt to take off her skates.

“I’ll tell you what!” exclaimed Marion. “I am quite cold as it is, and I do not want to be out late. I will drive Cis home, and you and Janet, Miss Maclvor, can stay on. There is quite room with a little crowding for you both in the wagonette.”

Now Gerald, truth to tell, was growing a little tired of the sleigh, also he knew that Marion would be pleased if he supported her proposal “ Yes, Miss Maclvor,” he said promptly. “ There is no reason whatever why you should go home. Miss Foster will take good care of Cis.”

“Ah! but will he change his things when he gets home? There will be no one to look after him,” said Olive doubtfully. The temptation was very great.

“ Of course he will,” said Marion. “ Promise you will, Cis?” And she added in a whisper: “Let poor Miss Maclvor have a little more fun, do, Cis!”

Thus urged, Cis gave the desired promise. After all it . was better to go home alone with Miss Foster, who would be sure to be nice to him and sorry for his misfortune, than to be scolded all the way by Janet; so Cis could afford to be magnanimous.

Almost before Olive knew it, Captain Keith had replaced her skate.

“ Come, now, don’t look so anxious. You have done all that was your duty; and now we will enjoy ourselves,” he added softly. And Olive gave herself up to the enjoyment • el the hour, recklessly disregarding the remarks and exclamations made by Pen and Ada, when they heard what had become of Cis and Marion.

“Of course I knew how it would be,” Pen said to everyone in turn. “Miss Maclvor did not come on the ice to look after the children! ”

Lancers and quadrilles were now danced by the best skaters on the pond, and in all Olive shone conspicuously, while in all Captain Keith was her partner. His attentions to Miss Maclvor had certainly been marked that afternoon, and he had not a very quiet conscience on the subject. But, man-like, he excused himself. Why should not this perfectly charming girl enjoy herself? No one would have remarked on anyone else. He was not flirting with Miss Maclvor, but he was determined that she should enjoy herself like everybody else. As he put her into the wagonette, his very lingering hand-shake meant, so he told himself, sympathy for the bad time he felt sure she was going to have, for was not Miss Lenhouse looking daggers at her?

The wagonette was certainly rather crowded, though Janet said she would sit on Miss Maclvor’s lap, and did so. Both Pen and Ada exclaimed at intervals at their discomfort, and glanced angrily at Olive, who, in a blissful dream, heeded their glances not at all. She could only think of the enjoyment she had had, and could not worry herself about the future.

Prompted by Pen, Mrs. Lenhouse came into the schoolroom after the children had gone to bed that evening, and gave Olive a lecture on her carelessness, and the breach of trust of which she had been guilty.

Olive bore it silently. She knew that Colonel Lenhouse had heard from Miss Foster all the real facts of the case, and she did not feel that she cared much what either Mrs. Lenhouse or Pen said. She was quite aware of the real reason of their displeasure, and was only thankful they refrained from mentioning Captain Keith’s name.

“ What did she. say? What excuses did she make? ” asked Pen of her mother later.

“She said nothing; she made no excuses at all How could she? She must feel how improperly she has behaved,” said Mrs. Lenhouse who had been much impressed with her own eloquence, which both her husband and children were in the habit of cutting short remorselessly.

Pen was not over-satisfied; she thought that Miss MacIvor had probably found “ the game well worth the candle.” The next morning the Fosters left Barrington Court. At breakfast Lady Caroline had made a most unfortunate remark:

“ Did you ever notice, Mrs. Lenhouse, what a strong likeness that beautiful portrait in our bed-room has to Miss Mac-Ivorl My husband and I have both been struck by it.” There was a dead silence; and Lady Caroline wondered what was the matter, and looked round her inquiringly. At last Colonel Lenhouse remarked, as if with a painful effort:

"That is the portrait of my poor sister-in-law, Mrs. Bethuna No, I cannot say I see the likeness you mention.” “Oh! is it?” said Lady Caroline, speaking in a shocked tone, she knew not why. And seeing that the subject was distasteful, she changed it at onca Ada repeated what she Galled “ Lady Caroline’s absurd remark ” to Janet, who was immensely delighted, and in her curiosity raced at once to the spare bed-room, which she had seldom been in, to examine the picture for herself. Then of course she told her brothers and Miss Maclvor.

“In what bed-room is this picture?” asked Olive with very natural curiosity.

“ In the one we call the Red Room, the other side of the house. It isn’t so very often used. It is quite the largest bed-room in the house. It used to be Uncle and Aunt Bethune’s,” explained Janet “ Let’s all go and look at it,” urged Dick. “ Everybody is at dinner, so we shall not meet anybody.”

Olive gazed very longingly at the picture of her young mother. She had only one candle, and the light was imper feet, but she saw a tall, graceful figure standing erect in evening dress, and a face so beautiful in its radiant happiness that she exclaimed at once:

“It is nonsense, Janet, real nonsense, saying that I am like her! Why, she’s beautiful, quite beautiful!”

“Yes. I can’t say I see a likeness in the face,” said Janet reluctantly, “but the figure is very like yours; she must have been just your height.”

“ The eyes, and the eyebrows, and the shape of the face are very like, I am sure,” said Dick eagerly.

“Doesn’t she look as if she can see usl” said Cis.

“ Uncle Bethune died in this room,” said Janet presently, with a little shudder, “ and he had the picture moved here from the drawing-room. There was a bare space on the wall when we came, I heard mama say so one day. Her own picture hangs there now. It was painted in London the winter after we came from India.”

Olive had continued to gaze silently at the beautiful face. She hardly heard the children’s remarks.

“ How he must have loved her!” she whispered to herself. She was thinking regretfully of the bright life as she pictured it, cut short in the midst of love and happiness; of the broken-hearted husband, whose last glance had perhaps been given to the fair face looking down on him with such happy eyes from the canvas. And there was no one left to mourn these two, no one left to care to remember them.

“Let us come away now,” said Janet at last impatiently; “ I am sure there are ghosts in this room. I have not been here for ages. Mama says nothing would induce her to sleep here. That is why she chose her room quite at the other end of the house.”

Olive lifted the candle she held above her head, and glanced round. It was a very large room, handsomely furnished in red. The candle did not light it, and the dark corners looked rather ghostly in the gloom, but to Olive it had a strangely natural aspect.

“ I have seen some room like it before, and I don’t think I should be afraid of the ghosts,” she said, as she closed the door after her with a sigh. -

“Why do you look so sad, Miss Maclvor?” questioned Cis when they got back to the schoolroom. “Are you disappointed that the picture isn’t more like you?”

Olive laughed merrily.

“No, Cis, really I’m much flattered at being considered at all like it; but I always think it was so sad for your uncle and aunt to die so young.”

“To-morrow you shall see papa’s study,” said Janet “I declare you have not seen it yet! The schoolroom chimney is going to he swept, and mama is so horrid, she says I must begin and do some lessons, so we are to read in papa’s study to-morrow morning. It’s the only room in the house except the Red Room that mama did not refurnish.”

“ Where is it?” asked Olive. “ I do not know even where it is.”

“ It is on the other side of the house, in the same wing as the Red Room. I am sure you will like it, it is such a beautiful room.”

CHAPTER XV.

IN THE STUDY.

ON entering Colonel Lenhouse’s study the next morning with Janet, Olive looked sound her with interest at every detail of the beautiful room—the old oak wainscot and mantel piece, the old oak chairs and table, the books covering three sides of the room, the high, wide, mullioned window, through which she could see the smooth-shaven bowling-green, and in the distance the undulating outline of downs and hills.

It seemed to Olive as if she saw everything at once, and as she gazed a rush of memories overpowered her, and her mind went back as in a trance to a day when she had gazed on the same scene surely by—no, on the same table. She had stood on the table, and a doll lay at her feet, and all her thoughts were concentrated on the longing to possess it. Then the door had opened, and someone had come in, and she had stretched out her arms and cried.

The scene was, for a moment, so vivid that Olive lost all recollection of Janet, all recollection of herself.

How was it? What was it? Was she going to be ill, and was this a delusion? Did she really remember all this, or did she really possess some sort of second-sight which showed her what had once happened in this room?

Janet had already sat down, and was arranging the books on the table. She now looked up in some astonishment, and then, springing up, came to Olive’s side.

“What is the matter, Miss Maclvor?” And the two gazed out of the window, for Olive’s eyes were fixed on the landscape, though she hardly knew it, for she was trying to force her mind back to the confused memories that were flitting through her brain.

“You look so dreadfully frightened,” continued Janet; “just as if you saw a ghost What is it? Do toll me!”

The touch of Janet’s arm round her waist seemed to break the spell that was over her.

“ Nothing at all is the matter,” said Olive, with a supreme effort at self-control. “ Do you ever dance out there on the green?”

“Dance!—no,” said Janet laughing. “What very odd things you do think of! But of course in France they dance a great deal out of doors. Really I think it is very clever of you to think of itl It would be a nice place for dancing in the summer when the grass is short We play bowls there sometimes, but generally we make it a tennis-court Next summer we will persuade papa to let us have a dance out there. We could ask the— But really there must be something the matter with you, you look so white.”

“No, there really is not,” said Olive sitting down. “I felt queer for a minute or two; I am all right now. Find the place in your book; we must not lose any more time.”

After the lesson Olive allowed herself a further examination of the room. She felt that she was now calm and judicial. It was no use telling herself it was nonsense. She was quite sure that if she had not been in this room before she had been in one extremely like it.

She had often described the scene to Mrs. Hall. It was the only one she had never forgotten—the doll that she had been promised, the doll which she did not have—the something that was being done to her as she stood on the table —her joy at seeing someone come into the room—her despair at being refused the doll, which was suddenly put into a drawer and hidden from her sight. She remembered it all brokenly, but as a vivid dream.

She felt sure that it was a drawer in the book-case which she remembered; but the book-case had no drawers, as far as Olive could sea A narrow shelf ran round the room where the books came to an end, and she could see no handles to indicate drawers.

She examined the books, reading some of their names, with Janet standing by her side.

“Are there no drawers? Surely there are drawers somewhere under the books,” she said, half to herself.

“ No,” said Janet confidently, “ there are no drawers here. Look what a lot papa has in his table, he could not want any more. But the room is exactly as Uncle Bethune left it. Papa said that if he had altered it at all he should have had to pull it in pieces, so he left it alone; I heard him tell Lady Caroline so. But everybody says it is perfect as it is. I think it is a beautiful room; don’t you! Papa seldom sits in it; he prefers the smoking-room.”

Olive left the study reluctantly, when she could make no excuse to stay longer. At luncheon Janet was told there would be room for her in the wagonette, and that she might have another afternoon’s skating.

It seemed to be tacitly understood that Olive was not to be of the party, for Mrs. Lenhouse asked her to take a message for her to a distant cottage.

“There is a new keeper there,” she explained; “and I hear that his wife is a good needlewoman. I want you to ask if she can do some work for me, and then I will send it” “ And I am going to see the young ferrets, and they’re black,” said Cis. So Olive guessed that the walk had been arranged to console him for not going to the ice.

Lawrence was evidently put out, for he hardly uttered a word through the meal, and afterwards found an opportunity of telling her that he was dreadfully disappointed that she was not to be of the party. Some neighbours had been asked to join them. He added that it was “ all Pen’s doing.” Lawrence was to return to London the next day, and Olive felt that she should miss the friendly feeling which had sprung up between them. She thanked him now, and said she really was not so very disappointed, as she had hardly expected to skate again; which was true.

It was a long walk to the cottage, for it stood on the outskirts of the Barrington property, and the children seldom walked so far; also the road was impassable for Dick’s donkey-carriage, so Cis and Olive started alone.

Her thoughts were so occupied with the confused recollections awakened by the events of the morning, that she spoke the truth when she had told Lawrence that she was not disappointed at missing the skating. Even the chance of meeting Captain Keith again was forgotten in the existing bewilderment of crowding memories, which, if not memories, were surely painful delusions.

It was a perfect day; the air was crisp with frost, but so still that it was hardly cold. Most of the way lay through woods and fields, and Cis being in a hurry, they walked at a good pace, he sometimes careering in front of her, sometimes hanging on her arm, chatting too fast himself to notice her silence. '

Arrived at the keeper’s cottage, which was a solitary little habitation under the shelter of a fir-wood, Cis extracted a promise from her that she would wait for him at least half an hour, and rushed off towards the kennel which was behind the cottage, to find the keeper and the ferrets.

At Olive’s knock, a pleasant-looking woman with a baby in her arms opened the door, and begged she would come in. Olive gave her message, and then asked if she might sit down and rest for a little.

She was made very welcome, the good woman remarking, with a smile, upon what a lonely place it was, and how glad she was to have a visitor, while the baby crowed and giggled at the sight of a fresh face.

“What is the baby’s name? ” asked Olive, more for the sake of saying something than for any latent curiosity on the subject, as she stroked the tiny, fat hand which was outstretched to grasp the handle of her umbrella.

“ Olive, miss. It’s rather an uncommon name—my husband only half likes it; but then I always said that if I had a girl, she should be called Olive. I have four boys, and this is my first girl; and I always said if I had one, she should be called after dear little missie.”

“My name is Olive too,” remarked Olive smiling; “so your baby is my namesake. I never met one before. Tell me, who is the little missie she is called after t But yon must sit down, for I am going to wait for the little boy who is with me. He has gone to see the ferrets. Yon are a stranger here, I think.” And Olive prepared to listen, with at least apparent interest She was never selfish, and she felt intuitively that it was a pleasure in this poor woman’s dull life to have the chance of a listener; but her very first words made her interest very real.

“Little missie was dear little Miss Olive up at Barrington Court I was nurse-maid there when I was a girl, miss. We only came here last month, my husband and me; and it is nearly seventeen years since I left the Court, but it seems like yesterday. The other day I saw the old house from the road, and I felt inclined to cry. I could most think Miss Olive was there, and I back again, a slip of a girl I was only just over fourteen when I went there, and my dear mistress was so good to me, it was like a home to me; and I dearly loved little Miss Olivo Many a time I’ve said that I couldn’t love oneof my own more, and I really did believe it till I had one.” Here the poor woman paused and kissed her baby.

“Then you knew Mr. and Mrs. Bethunel Do tell me about them,” said Olive eagerly.

“ They were a very kind master and mistress to me, and it all seemed so terrible sad,” said the woman, shaking her head. “ I often sit and think of it all, such sudden things don’t happen every day. There, I went out with Miss Olive in the morning, and in the evening she was gone! I put on her jacket and hat in the afternoon for her to go driving with her mama, and she said, ‘Good-bye, Bessie; I’ll bring you a bun for tea’ Dear child, she never forgot me 1 And I never saw her again, miss,—never!”

“But do tell me about it all,” said Olive breathlessly.

“Do begin at the beginning. I don’t understand. Mrs. Bethune had several children, had she not?—so it is said on the marble tablet in the church. ”

“I went to live up at Barrington Court as nurse-maid when Miss Olive was about a year old,” replied the woman; “and the little boy was bom about two months after I went there, but he died when he was about four months old. Mrs. Bethune had no other child that ever I heard of. I stayed on with Miss Olive till she went away, as I said. The hours and hours I have vexed over that dear child, wondering what became of her, I can’t say.”

“Became of her!” repeated Olive, feeling as if her heart suddenly stood still. “What do you think happened to her? I thought Mrs. Bethune’s children died.”

“ It’s a long story, miss, and really I don’t quite know the rights of it Perhaps you have heard that poor Mrs. Bethune left home one day quite sudden, taking little Miss Olive with her. We servants thought she had gone into Winchester to do some shopping. She asked the nurse what she should get; and she just drove to the station to leave a book, and told the coachman to wait for her. And we never saw her again. We did not know what had happened that night when they didn’t come back.”

“No, I never heard that. Go on,” exclaimed Olive eagerly. “What happened then? Why did she go?”

“ That’s more than I can say,” answered the woman sadly. “ No one knew—leastwise we servants didn’t. We thought somehow she had had words with master the day before. Nurse thought so. But I couldn’t bear that nurse; she was a new one, and she was so cross and strict with dear Miss Olive.”

“Had words!” repeated Olive. “I thought he loved her so much, and died soon after she did. I always fancied that he died of grief, and pitied him so much.”

“He did love her, miss; and you are right, he did die mostly of grief. I heard that from one who knew. He was a nice gentleman, but he drank sadly; and when he was in drink he was dreadfully difficult and unreasonable, so I have heard say—not that I ever saw anything, but then I was but a child. We servants thought Mra Bethune had gone back to her own relations and taken Miss Olive with her, and that master knew it. That’s what we thought, for he didn’t seem one bit frightened when he came back. He had gone away the day before. But then I was sent away the very next week—sent home to Cromer,—and I heard nothing more for a long time. But there, I loved Miss Olive better than anyone else in the world then; and I grieved, I did, and do now, when I think of her.”

The woman’s voice had grown quite sad, and Olive could see the tears in her eyes.

“ It seems very unkind that they should not have told you more: surely there was somebody who might have told you of her . . . But still I do not understand. When did the poor little girl die—before or after her mother?” questioned Olive.

“ Ah! that’s what I can’t tell you, miss; I wish I could. It’s what I want to know myself.”

“What became of Mrs. Bethune herself?—where did she die? There is a date on that tablet in the church—you must have seen it?” asked Olive. “Surely she was buried at Barrington?”

“So she was, miss; but she never came back here again alive after that day she went away. I heard that Mrs. Bethune was killed by some dreadful accident—carriage accident, I think it was; and master was so dreadfully cut up, he never got over it, and died before a year was over. But I have never heard anything about dear Miss Olive since I came here. I have asked one or two people if they know any thing, but nobody knows nothing particular. They say she died, that’s all; and she did not die till after master, for the place stood empty for years. Mrs. Lenhouse wasn’t to have it for so many years after master’s death, in case Miss Olive was found. People say she died, but it was not found out she died till after master’s death.”

“Put of course somebody must know all about it—I mean when the poor little child died,” said Olive.

“ I suppose so, miss. Colonel and Mrs. Lenhouse no doubt know. Down in the village they say nobody knows. I have only been able to ask one or two people, the village is so far off, and nobody hardly comes up here. The baker and the butcher leave things for us at the other keeper’s cottage, down at Watch Wood, and we fetch them. It’s dreadfully lonesome up here.”

The good woman was wandering away from past troubles to present difficulties, but Olive could only think of the sad and strange story she had been hearing.

“The child must be dead, of course; but it is strange that you should hear nothing certain about her.”

“ Strange! That’s what I say it is, miss; and many a night have I laid awake hours, thinking of it,” responded tho woman.

Olive felt stunned. The conviction that all the memories she had treated as dreams and fancies were things that had roally happened, oppressed her. What if this child who boro her name, who would now if alive be her own age, had really never died? Could it be possible that this was the secret of her parentage. Nothing that she knew of herself made it actually impossible. Yet it was, of course, improbable; and all tho time the Lenhouses and others might havo proofs of the child’s death. All that she had been listening to might be more or less nonsense, the ignorant opinion of the village people who might know nothing of the facts. Who could she speak to? how could she find out the truth of this sad story?—for find it out she felt she must!

“ But is there nobody you could ask—nobody who could tell you?” she faltered. She was afraid the woman must notice the agitation, which she could hardly control.

‘‘Well, miss, there’s one person who knows everything, and that’s an uncle of my own that was butler at the Court when I was there. He it was who got me the place. Just after I left, all the servants were sent off but him, and he stayed on with master and travelled with him. I heard up in Cromer (that’s my home, miss) that Mr. Bethune left him a thousand pounds, or gave it to him before he died; and with that he set up a shop in London—a greengrocer’s shop it was—and he married. His name was Stagg—James Stagg. He was my mother’s brother; but he left home when he was very young, and didn’t take no notice of us. Though I lived in the house with him over three years, he would only speak to me now and again, and I always called him ‘ Mr. Stagg’ like the others.”

“And have you never seen him since?” said Olive.

“ No, I have never seen him from that day to this; but I should know him again anywhere, I fancy. You see, miss, my mother was dead, and my aunt, my father’s sister, brought me up; and she didn’t get on with any of the Staggs. Beyond getting me a place, Uncle Stagg never noticed me; but he was a nice man, I believe, and Mr. Bethune he thought a deal of him.”

“But could you not write to him?” asked Olive eagerly.

“ I don’t know any address, miss, but London; and my husband says that wouldn’t do at all. I know it was a greengrocer’s shop he had, because a Cromer man told me he saw him up in London, and he told him so; and he said he was doing very well, and waiting too of an evening, and had married a widow with a good bit of money.”

The darkening shadows now warned Olive that it was high time for her to be starting homewards, and she rose to go.

“Do you know where Mrs. Bethune’s friends lived?” she asked.

“Yes, miss, up in Scotland; so old nurse used to tell me. But I don’t think she knew much about them, she came to Mrs. Bethune just before Miss Olive, was born. I fancy I heard her say that Mrs. Bethune was an orphan. But then, miss, I was but a giddy girl, I did not notice all she said,” added the woman smiling.

“Poor little Olive!” said Olive, as she stooped and kissed the now sleeping baby; but she was not thinking of the baby, and the mother intuitively knew it.

“Ah, poor little dear! it was sad, wasn’t it, miss, for her to be taken away like that, and then to lose her mama so sudden. And poor, dear mistress, she just doted on the child.”

“What was Mrs. Bethune like?” questioned Olive. She longed to ask a hundred more questions.

“ She was just about your height, miss, and people called her very handsome,” answered the woman, as she scanned Olive curiously. “ It is very odd, miss, that we should be talking so much about her, for you reminded me of her when you came in. I couldn’t think at first who it was you was like. One don’t often see anybody so tall. I suppose it’s that; and she had dark eyes, too, like yours. Miss Olive was very like her mama, and such a tall, fine child. That’s . her photograph on the mantel-piece, but it’s most faded out It was done down at Ryde that last summer on the sands. Missis didn’t like it much, so she only had that one copy for Miss Olive to give to me. Pretty dear, she was so pleased!”

Olive looked, and in the somewhat imperfect light could just distinguish the outline of a little child, with a spade in one hand, a bucket in the other.

“ She has very long hair,” she remarked, seeing that she was expected to say something.

“ Yes. Mistress was so proud of her hair, and so was I; it was such a pretty colour—brown all shaded to yellow at the ends, and it curled of itself. I never saw hair so beautiful I tell my husband baby’s hair should not be cut, and then, p’r’aps, it will grow like Miss Olive’s. Hers was never cut; and my husband says I’m very foolish,” said the woman, with a little laugh.

“Then your husband did not know Miss Olive?”

“ Oh, no, miss; he was never in this part of the country before. I met him up in Norfolk. We came here through an advertisement. I was quite set-upon coming. You see, miss—” .

“ I’m afraid I must go,” exclaimed Olive. “ I shall come and see you again some day. Good-bye.” And she shook the woman’s hand heartily. .

“ Do now, miss; it will be very kind of you to come; it’s dreadful lonesome up here,” said the poor woman sighing.

“ I often think how different it would be if Mrs. Bethune and Miss Olive were up at the Court.”

“ We shall be very late, Cis,” said Olive, as they started off homewards at a good pace. “It’s getting dark. I didn’t know it was so late.”

“ I never heard you calling me; I really never did, and I kept listening; so it wasn’t my fault, was itl” said Cis, who had been supremely happy.

“ No, it was not your fault at all; it was mine,” said Olive, with some compunction. “Now tell me about the ferrets, and let us make all the haste we can. What will Dick say to us?”

But it was in vain that Olive set herself to listen to Cis.

Her thoughts kept wandering back to the strange story she had heard, and all sorts of tumultuous doubts and questions crowded into her mind.

When they at length reached the schoolroom Dick greeted her impatiently.

“ What have you been doing? I thought something had happened to you.” And Olive felt that something had indeed happened.

“You promised to come home early and read to me,” continued Dick plaintively. “ But what a colour you have got, and how bright your eyes are! You look as if something was the matter with you,” he continued, still considering her.

“We walked home very fast, and I am quite hot,” explained Olive. “ I am sorry I did not keep my promise.” And then she knelt down by Dick’s side, as she often did, and laid her head on his cushions. Her heart was beating fast If only she had someone to speak to; someone to tell of all that was surging through her brain!

Was it in any way possible that she could be the lost child, Olive Bethune; and if so, was she really heiress to all the good things that the Lenhouses were so proud to possess? Surely all that she could remember of her life before Mrs. Hall found her pointed to such a possibility.

Yet, after all, she might be deluding herself in vain. Little Olive Bethune might have died years ago, and proof of her death might be in Colonel Lenhouse’s hands; only she could not ask him for it—could not question anybody. It was that which made it so hard to bear.

CHAPTER XVL.

GERALD LENHOUSE

THE next morning a thaw set in, with heavy rain, and even Cis was obliged to acknowledge that it was a wet day, and that all going out was impossible.

After the excitement of the evening before Olive had had almost a sleepless night, and she felt irritable and unstrung. In vain she took herself to task, everything seemed a trouble to her.

Soon after breakfast Lawrence had come to the schoolroom to say “ good-bye ” to her before leaving for London, and he had been so hearty in his expression of thanks for the coaching she had given him—so pleasantly and deferentially grateful—that her heart had gone out towards him, and she had felt as he left the room that she was losing a friend, and that if he had only not been a Lenhouse she could have told him of all the perplexities which it seemed so hard to hear alone.

What Lawrence thought of Miss Maclvor no one had yet discovered. That his appreciation of her had been very different to that which he had accorded to Miss Marvin even the children had not been long in finding out.

Janet had been suspicious at first, when his visits to the schoolroom had become frequent. “ Now don’t go and spoil everything, Lawrence, by falling in love with Miss Maclvor,” she had said loftily.

“ I’d as soon fall in love with the moon, you little fool,” he had responded with brotherly frankness; and Janet had been quite satisfied with the answer.

Lessons that morning were very uphill work, for Janet was tired and cross, inclined only to talk of the delights of the previous afternoon. Captain Keith had skated with her quite as much as he had skated with Pen, and he had asked for Miss Maclvor. A great many people had asked for her, and so on. Pen had asked Captain Keith to come to dinner one day next week, and he was coming.

In vain Olive begged her to be silent She had almost forgotten Captain Keith’s existence during the last few hours. What was the use of her thinking about him? There was no chance of her seeing him again perhaps for months. If she saw him, could she tell him of herself? No, that was quite impossible. However kind and friendly he was to her, she could tell him nothing.

Cis was always influenced by those around him, and was inclined to be very idle, while even Dick was not as willing as usual; so the long hours of lessons passed very slowly.

Wet days were always rather a trial to Olive, for then she was never alone, and did not lose sight of the children till bed-time. This wet day seemed to promise to be worse than usual.

She tried hard to rally herself, and drive away the thoughts that were oppressing her, but it seemed useless. She could not forget the Story the keeper’s wife had told her. Once she hazarded some questions. She wanted to find out how much the children knew of their little cousin.

“How many children had your Uncle Bethune, Janet?” she asked. Lessons were over, and she was teaching Janet some knitting. Janet stared.

“ I don’t know at all,” she answered with surprise. “What made you think of them now?”

“Then you don’t know if they were boys or girls?” continued Olive, disregarding the question.

“ I know there was one girl, because I have heard Gerald say it was a good thing for him she died; but I don’t know how many more there were. They died such ages ago I never cared to ask about them.”

“ No, of course not,” said poor Olive. She felt that her heart was beating. “You see, Janet, you must slip this stitch.”

In the afternoon Dick proposed what the children liked to call a concert, and Olive sat down with more reluctance than usual to the piano. She had always felt it a great alleviation to her lot that her pupils were musical. It was . the one distinct taste that the young Lenhouses possessed. Even Cis did not mind a music lesson so much as other studies, and on wet days it had always been Olive’s custom to play and sing with her pupils through the greater part of the afternoon She had a sweet contralto voice, which, though not very powerful, had been highly trained, and the children were never tired of listening to her songs, for the most part simple French chansons which she had learned at Madame Delabere’s.

Dick was always supposed to represent the audience on these occasions. He chose the programme, insisted on the “ encores,” criticised and approved; while Janet and Cis would hang over Olive, one on each side, sometimes singing with her, but more often listening. And these concerts had often been a real pleasure to everyone; but to-day everything was an effort to poor Olive, and she sang what the children asked for, hardly caring what she was doing.

Downstairs Olive’s voice had never been heard. Mrs. Lenhouse was accustomed to tell her friends that her children’s governess was very musical, had been taught by the first Parisian artistes, and that she taught remarkably well; but she was content to know this from Janet’s progress, nor had Pen or Ada cared to inquire further.

They were in the middle of a song, when Gerald’s voice was heard in the doorway inquiring if he might come in.

Olive nodded assent, and then went on singing. She did not intend Mr. Lenhouse’s presence to disturb her. Why should it?

Gerald had always been civil to her, but his civility had been tinged with a condescension which she had quickly recognized and resented. She had never felt inclined to be very friendly with him, yet she knew that she had no reason to find any fault. She could hardly tell him she did not wish him to come into the schoolroom, but she did not intend to let him imagine that she thought herself greatly honoured by his presence.

Lawrence had, latterly, often found his way there, and been made frankly welcome. A few dancing lessons had even come off, though they had not been very successful.

Perhaps Gerald had discovered for himself that Miss Maclvor did not. care to be patronized, even by the heir of Barrington Court; for this afternoon he dropped all' condescension, and made himself extremely pleasant, asking for song after song, and warmly expressing his appreciation, till Olive almost forgot herself and all the perplexities that had been troubling her in the pleasure of the moment.

She had been so starved the last few months from all real companionship that anything like friendliness sent her spirits up, and the next hour passed quickly enough.

At length the schoolroom tea was brought in, and Gerald said he must be going; but he said it regretfully.

“Why don’t you stay, Gerald,—Lawrence often does?” asked Cis.

“No, I don’t think he had better,” remarked Janet. “Mama made such a fuss one day when she found that Lawrence had been here.”

But Olive was silent.

“ I could not stay without a special invitation from Miss Maclvor,” said Gerald, with rather an awkward laugh.

“Which Miss Maclvor is not going to give,” returned Olive, a little defiantly. Gerald noticed the change of tone. He paused at the door.

“ I suppose I ought to apologize for coming in this after noon?” he said, quite humbly. “But would you not come down and sing this evening, Miss Maclvor? It would be really kind of you if you would.”

Olive laughed. “ No, thank you, Mr. Lenhouse.”

“ My mother says you always prefer being upstairs.” Olive was standing up making the tea, and she looked very handsome and graceful as she turned to Gerald, hei eyes full of mocking laughter.

“ So I do, Mr. Lenhouse. I much prefer being up stairs.” .

Even as she spoke, she wondered how Gerald Lenhouse would feel towards her if he knew of all the possibilities that had been in her mind during the last twenty-four hours. That he prided himself not a little on his heirship to Barrington Court she knew; never for a day did his mother let him forget the fact. His brothers and sisters, even his father, treated him with more deference on account of it What would he feel if he were told that he had no right to it whatever ? What if she, the poor governess who had been so persistently reminded by his parents and sisters, if not by himself, that she was in no way his equal, was to stand in his place and take from him all that he had looked on as his own?

For some days Olive was very restless and miserable, and then she gradually learned to tell herself that she was foolish to dwell on what was probably a delusion. Meantime it was plain that she could ask the Lenhouses no questions, and they alone could answer her questions. She must wait patiently, and by and by begin the inquiries she had always intended to make. Everything pointed to Scotland as a starting-point for these inquiries. Mr. and Mrs. Bethune had been married in Scotland, so the keeper’s wife affirmed.

In spite of Gerald’s assertion that he could not come to tea in the schoolroom without a special invitation from Miss Maclvor, he came up the following evening, and giving the excuse that he was too late for tea downstairs, he asked Olive if she would be so charitable as to give him a cup.

The children gave him a delighted welcome, and she did not feel inclined to make herself disagreeable. Gerald, as she had now discovered, could be very pleasant if he liked, and Janet did not again remind anyone of the possibility of his presence in the schoolroom being a cause of displeasure to Mrs. Lenhouse.

Conversation soon became animated. It was impossible for Olive not to feel that a visitor was very welcome after a long day with the children, and she forgot to be proud and dignified, and was her true self, as she only was now when alone with her pupils.

Gerald, who only knew her in the depressing atmosphere of the dining-room, was quite unprepared for the change, and soon acknowledged her witchery. Olive could be very amusing, and her naturally high spirits rose easily. No one enjoyed a laugh more heartily than she did.

Gerald had not the smallest intention of falling in love with his sister’s governess, and she had given him no reason to think that she would allow a flirtation, which would certainly have made his stay at home more amusing and exciting than usual. Far from it. Miss Maclvor had hitherto treated him with an indifference which was almost disdain, and even now that she was more friendly, he felt that he had to be much on his guard not to draw down on himself a decided snub.

Gerald was not accustomed to snubs; the heir of Barrington Court met with a great deal of pleasant flattery from the ladies of his acquaintance. Had Olive been equally prepared to acknowledge his claims, he would probably not have thought twice about her. But as it was, each day he found himself thinking of her a good deal, and each day he found in her new attractions.

A few days passed, and then Gerald appeared again at the schoolroom tea. He knew that it was incumbent on him to be careful, if not for his own sake, at least for Olive’s. But he was supposed to be out shooting, and the rest of the family had driven into Winchester.

Beyond meeting her at lunch every day, Gerald had seen nothing of Olive since he was last in the schoolroom. In the dining-room he was always studiously courteous, but most careful not to attract any attention by his notice of Olive, and even sharp-eyed Pen had made no remarks; for, thanks to Miss Foster’s influence, Gerald had always been remarkably civil from the first to the new governess. Yet in spite of the apparent indifference between them, Olive had unconsciously grown more friendly towards him.

This second evening he made no apology for his appearance in the schoolroom.

“ You give me no welcome, Miss Maclvor,” he said, as he took a cup of tea from Olive’s hand. “You don’t say you are glad to see me?” he added in a lower tone. “You are looking tired, and I am quite sure those troublesome children half kill you.”

It was very pleasant to have her looks noticed. She had been the object of so much love and solicitude all through her life, that the absence of it had been most keenly felt. Dick, and Dick alone, ever made her the object of any consideration. It was not wonderful, therefore, that her glance at Gerald was a grateful one; perhaps more grateful than she intended.

“I am a little tired to-day,” she answered, “and you are welcome, Mr. Lenhouse. It is dull up here sometimes, as you may imagine, and this is a dull time of the year. I am accustomed to city life, and though I am sure I love the country, in the winter it is so sad, so sad and gloomy. However, I have not much time for thinking about it,” she added with a smile.

“ I wish, Gerald, you would persuade mama to let Miss Maclvor have some rides with me and Cis,” exclaimed Janet, who had been listening with one ear. “ She has got a habit, and Ada’s mare wants exercising dreadfully. I heard her say she is always too fresh for her. Ada is so lazy she seldom rides, she much prefers driving with mama.”

“What a good idea of yours, Janet!” said Gerald, approvingly. “It would do Miss Maclvor all the good in the world, and I know she hates the mud which we shall have for weeks to come. Am I not right—you would enjoy some rides!”

Olive’s face lighted up with pleasure at the possibility, but the pleasure soon faded away.

“Your sisters would never allow it,” she said bitterly. “A governess should never ride or drive, or do anything else hut teach.”

“ That’s all very well if they can do nothing else. But you, you who can do everything so well! Why, really—”

Gerald had not intended to adopt a patronizing tone, but habit is second nature, and he was wandering back to it when Olive interrupted him. A very few weeks ago his treatment of the “children’s governess” would have been much on a par with Pen and Ada’s, and Olive knew it.

“ Oh yes, Mr. Lenhouse, my accomplishments are great, and all that. I think we will change the subject;” her laugh was full of mockery; and Gerald, knowing he had no chance in such an argument, was only too ready to do so. He was very much afraid of losing any ground he had gained in Olive’s good graces, and he had but little hope of inducing his mother to look favourably on the proposal Janet had made.

In the midst of a very merry discussion, in which Olive was taking her fair share, the door opened, and in sailed Mrs. Lenhouse, magnificent in black velvet and sables.

She said that the noise—and she laid a displeased stress on the word—had attracted her to the schoolroom; which was probably true, for she seldom visited it. The truth being that she never felt quite at her ease with Olive, who had never but once given her any possible reason for finding fault.

Her entrance, which was a most unpleasant surprise to all present, was followed by a dead silence. While Gerald, who had been lounging in an arm-chair by the fire, sprang to his feet, and glanced at the door as if he longed to escape. Then, recovering his presence of mind, he tried to speak carelessly.

“ You don’t mean to say you have come home already, mother! Did you do all you talked of doing in Winchester? When are the Tryons coming to luncheon? Had that hamper arrived at the station?” ’

“What has brought you in so early, Gerald?” asked his mother sharply, quite ignoring his questions. “ It is a most lovely evening for the time of the year, and I thought you were shooting in the Watch-covers.”

“ It has been much too dark the last hour for shooting, and I came in to have some tea,” said Gerald sulkily. His mother did not very often dare to cross-question him in this way.

“Surely you could have asked Jackson for some tea?” persisted Mrs. Lenhouse, who did not possess much selfcontrol. She was cross, and she wished Miss Maclvor to know it. “ By the way, did you write those notes for me, Miss Maclvor?” she asked haughtily.

“I have not written them yet, but I will do so before post-time,” said Olive calmly. She understood the question perfectly.

“ They are important, and I don’t like things put off till the last moment; it is a very bad habit,” said Mrs. Lenhouse severely.

Now Olive was neither in the habit of forgetting nor of neglecting Mrs. Lenhouse’s demands on her time, which were often both trying and unreasonable, and she coloured with indignation at the injustice, though she wisely kept silence.

Cis, who had been busy with his bread-and-butter, here blundered in before Janet could stop him:

“Oh, mother, do let Miss Maclvor ride with us! It would be such fun, and Polly wants exercise. Ada doesn’t half ride. Do, mother! it is so muddy walking now, and we want so much to go on the Downs.”

It was a most unfortunate time for such a request.

“ Certainly not, Cis; Miss Maclvor has other things to do than race all over the country with you. I am quite sure you were talking neither French nor German just now when I came in,” said his mother severely.

Now, the rule that a foreign language should be always spoken by the children was one which Olive had found most difficult to insist on with the young Lenhouses, and it was often relaxed at tea-time. Gerald’s arrival had, of course, put a stop to everything that evening but their mother-tongue.

Mrs. Lenhouse had now remembered a really good reason for finding fault with her son, and indirectly with her governess, and she was not slow to make the most of it.

“I am quite sure the children were speaking English,

Miss Maclvor. It is very hard that I cannot trust you to enforce a rule, but that I must be always watching them. Gerald, you ought not to come up here, it is your fault. Miss Maclvor ought to have told you that it is my wish that English should not be spoken at teartime.”

By this time everyone in the room was very cross, Olive perhaps less so than anyone else. The comic side of the situation had struck her. She was fully aware of the real cause of the attack on herself, and she generally felt that in an encounter with Mrs. Lenhouse she got the best of it, if she could only keep cool.

“No, Mrs. Lenhouse, we were not speaking French or German either,” she answered frankly. “Mr. Lenhouse’s vocabulary in either language is so limited” (here she gave a mischievous glance at Gerald’s angry face, which fortunately his mother did not see) “that it was really impossible. But the children have been speaking French all day. It is our French day; to-morrow we shall speak German. Even Cis has been improving lately, I begin to understand him. You will have to take Cis with you as an interpreter, Mrs. Lenhouse, the next time you go on the Continent!”

Mrs. Lenhouse was not quite sure whether she ought to be satisfied with this answer or not, she would rather Miss Maclvor had been cross or uncomfortable under her censure; she appeared to be neither. She had had two or three passages at arms with her governess and had always come off badly, inasmuch as she had generally been obliged to acknowledge to herself that it was'hard to find in her any just reason for censure, and Miss Maclvor had always refused to listen with the humility she expected, save on that one occasion when Olive had honestly taken blame to herself.

Gerald did not sit down again, but he drank his tea with ostentatious deliberation. Olive’s coolness had reacted on him, and he admired her more than ever. He told himself that any ordinary girl would have been flustered, nervous, or angry, and she had been neither; the quiet dignity of her manner had quite silenced his angry mother.

“ Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs. Lenhouse? I have a very good one to offer you,” said Olive presently, and not even Mrs. Lenhouse could find fault with her tone.

“No, thank you,” she replied shortly, “I had my tea in Winchester.” But she relented a little, and grew almost gracious as she listened to Cis holding forth in the strange jargon which with him passed for French to Janet, who had prompted the proceeding.

“ If Cis ldarns French well it will be a great help to him, and I am glad to hear that he is making progress. He really seems to speak quite fluently,” she remarked admiringly to Olive, who was immensely amused at the ruse.

“All the while we were riding we should be talking French, shouldn't we, Janet?” continued Cis. Adding naively: “It was no use saying that in French, Janet, because you know mama wouldn't understand it. Mama, I won't speak French for days and days if you do not let Miss Maclvor ride.”

“ Hush, Cis! Do be quiet, you'll spoil everything,” whispered Dick, who had been boiling over with indignation at the blame given to Olive. But fortunately Mrs. Lenhouse had turned away to speak to Gerald, and had not heard Cis's rebellious speech.

She sailed away with an almost gracious “good-night” to Miss Maclvor, but she did not move till she was quite sure that Gerald would follow her.

CHAPTER XVIL.

TORMENTING THOUGHTS.

OLIVE had collected her books one evening, and, ensconced in an arm-chair drawn very close to a blazing fire, she was preparing for the enjoyment of the evening hours, to which she had looked forward all day for rest and refreshment .

The boys had just gone off to bed, and Janet was spending the evening at a house in the neighbourhood. She had heard from the children that the rest of the family were out—not that she often troubled herself about the rest of the family, her evenings had never been otherwise than solitary.

It had been one of those days when all the possibilities of her life, and the strange, confused memories that haunted her, had been more than usually present to her mind. She had tried very hard lately to forget everything but the present, and to do bravely the duties which lay in her path; but she was well aware that she lived in her dreams, and that without them the present would be almost intolerable.

Many were the pleasant webs her fancy wove, and if Captain Keith played a prominent part in her imaginings, who can wonder? She had not seen him since the day she had met him on the ice, but she heard of him often from the children. When they saw him, they never failed to bring her something that was very like a message of remembrance.

He had dined at the Court the week before, and Janet had not been slow to tell her of the questions he had asked about her.

Janet said she had told him of her singing, and he had asked if Miss Maclvor never came downstairs to sing, and if she did not sing duets sometimes with Pen, who had a rather good soprano voice.

“ I am quite sure he thought we were quite horrid in not making you come down, and he would not listen to Pen’s singing one bit,” added Janet with some triumph. “It serves Pen right for being so spiteful to you. Gerald wanted mama to ask you to come down that evening, and I think she would have done so, but Pen wouldn’t let her. I am quite sure Gerald admires your singing very much—he told me he did; and he thinks you wonderfully clever—I heard him say so to papa; and he said how fortunate he thought it was that papa had heard of you in Paris.”

“ It’s very kind of him to think so,” Olive had answered, a little disdainfully. She was tired of being called clever; it was love and not admiration that she craved for. And she told herself that had it not been for the measure of affection she had won from her pupils she could not have remained the winter at Barrington. Dick, dear Dick, would miss her if she went away, so she must be patient a little longer.

The coming of the evening had been especially welcome to Olive this day, for again her mind had been vividly turned towards the past. She had been kneeling on the window-seat by Dick’s side, watching idly the avenue of leafless trees as the brown branches waved to and fro in an easterly gale, when the sight of a tall female figure had sent a sudden rush of colour to her brow. Never before had she seen anyone come np the avenue. There was the figure she had so often looked for in vain—her ghost, as she had laughingly called it Why did her heart feel as if it stood still for some seconds, and why did the scene stand out so plainly in her memory? The long gulf of years was bridged for one moment, and agam as a little child she stood on the window-seat holding the bars, all her thoughts and hopes centred on the tall figure coming towards her under the trees—it was twilight then, just as it was twilight now—and Olive knew, she did not know how, that it was her mother that she was watching for. How she had found a clue to her childish recollections she could not tell, but she had found it, she was sure.

Dick had taken up a book; she was glad he did not notice her. She watched the woman (who was real flesh and blood, and no ghost of the past, as for one second had seemed possible to her fevered imagination) come up the avenue, until she turned away, and she lost sight of her. She had probably gone towards the back-door. Then she tried to calm herself.

When she knew that her voice would be as tranquil as usual, she asked Dick if the bars had been put on the window to prevent Cis from falling out, Gis being an inveterate climber.

“Oh, no!” he answered, “they were here when we came; that is why mama chose it for the nursery, Janet says. It used to be our nursery, and when our old nurse went away and we had a governess it was changed into a schoolroom.” Olive felt that she had expected this answer. Nothing now would surprise her. Everything must fit in to the conviction which was each day growing stronger, though at intervals she mocked at what she told herself was her own folly.

It might be a dream, it might be a delusion, but such as it was it remained with her; she could not drive it away. She had lived in this house before, and if so, she was Olive Bethune. . . . But how could she prove it, even to herself?

It was with a delightful sense of relief that she found herself alone with her books. They at least never failed her as companions. She was anxious not to lose her knowledge of Russian, and some favourite novels by Tourguenieff lay on the table beside her. If anything could distract her mind from thoughts which were fast becoming tormenting, they could.

She was trying her hand at a translation of one of them into French for the sake of the practice. She wrote in pencil, with a small desk on her lap, and got on but slowly, for her thoughts would keep wandering far away. How it would alter her life as by a magic wand if—if—she could find any proof of her parentage! Anything was better than this uncertainty. There were those letters on her arm— she could hardly see them herself, and that only in a looking-glass. But the first letter was an “O,” the second was supposed to be a “P” or “B”; it was no doubt a “B.”

In rain Olire tried to fix her mind on her book. It kept wandering, and her thoughts were rery far away, when a low knock at the door startled her. Who could it be?

“ Gome in,” she said, and then started from her reclining position as Gerald Lenhouse walked in, looking rather flushed and nervous, in evening dress.

“ I am afraid that I startled you, Miss Maclvor,” he said as he met Olive’s astonished gaze. “ I am alone, and it is very dull downstairs. I was not able to go to the Tryons; I had a headache.”

“I heard that you were all out; Janet told me so,” said Olive colouring. She was divided between a wish to tell Mr. Lenhouse that he had no business to come to the schoolroom, seeing how evident it was that his mother disliked his being there, and an irresistible longing not to miss the opportunity of a tête -a-tête with the only one of the family she could venture to question. Never again might she have such another. Surely there was no harm in a half-hour’s chat; she had never had one before. But her French bringingup made her all the more awake to the unwisdom, if not impropriety, of allowing him to stay. He had no business to her, though she was a governess, with greater famili arity than any other lady. It was an intrusion, and she longed to tell him so.

It was this contest in her own mind, rather than any other feeling, which made her for the first time in Gerald’s eyes a little self-conscious, which self-consciousness, if new, was not unpleasant to him.

“ You don’t ask me to sit down, but you won’t send me away,” he said entreatingly, as he took the arm-chair opposite her. “What are you reading?” and he took up the book she had laid down. “What language is it?” he asked presently, in some amazement.

“ Russian,” said Olive briefly. She was still arguing with herself.

“Russian! How wonderfully clever you are!” exclaimed Gerald admiringly.

“It is the business of a governess to be clever, you know,” said Olive dryly.

“ It is most unfair, if you mean that I ever thought or said anything of that sort,” exclaimed Gerald hotly. “I am always thinking how stupid you must find us all.”

“I do, of course,” said Olive, with eyes full of sudden merriment. “Of course I am longing all day to speak Russian. German and French I get with the children. I think Cis’s French, by the way, quite the funniest I ever heard.” And Olive laughed.

Gerald thought how charming she looked, even in her plain and somewhat shabby black dress and rumpled hair; for Olive had pushed her fingers through the orderly little curls, which generally clustered over her brow. Her eyes were bright with excitement, her colour higher than usual.

Gerald saw the excitement in her face, and interpreted it in his own way. He had expected a rebuke for coming in, but he had not received it “ It is all very well for you to laugh. I am sure you are laughing at me; you generally try to do that,” he broke in. “ But it must be horrid for you, perfectly horrid, to have to teach those stupid children, or for you to have to teach at all. It seems such a shame, I cannot bear to think of it.” His tone was one which he had never used before in speaking to Olive, and she pulled him up at once.

“ I think teaching a most honourable profession, Mr. Len-house, and you quite mistake me if you think I pity myself for having to get my own living. I don’t know what you mean by its being a shame. Wealth is a purely accidental circumstance. I think that both men and women who have to work for their living are generally the happiest.”

“ Men—yes,” replied Gerald eagerly. “ But not women.”

“ That’s nonsense,” said Olive, almost sharply. “ What would you do if women did not choose to work? You are surrounded by working women. Why should it be worse for a woman to work in one way than in another! And why should a lady, because she happens to be poor,,and has to support herself, be ashamed of doing so? Are men honoured less for working if their work is honourable? and just simple money-getting is considered honourable for men. Would you be less of a gentleman, Mr. Lenhouse, if you were not heir to Barrington Court, but had to make your way in the world?”

This was a home-thrust indeed, and Olive felt that she was stepping on delicate ground.

“No, of course not,” asserted Gerald; “most certainly not I often think Lawrence and Cis will have the best of it—I mean the most fun; they will go out and see the world. Lawrence wants to go to India, and Cis is to go into the navy. I was crazy to go to sea at his age, but had to give it up. I shall have to stay at home in this sleepy place, and look after my tenants, and take my place in the county, and that sort of thing. Very dull work it will be.”

“ With compensations, Mr. Lenhouse,” laughed Olive.

“Well, yes, of course, there are compensations; but I am not sure that they will weigh against what I shall have to give up.” And Gerald actually sighed.

“ Were you old enough to be glad when you first knew you were to have all this?” questioned Olive. She wished her heart would not beat so fast, and that Gerald would not look at her with what she now recognized as admiration. He had no right'to look at her like that.

“ Yes, I was about eleven when I first saw Barrington, and I was immensely proud and delighted. I knew of none of the drawbacks then,” he said, with a satisfied little laugh which grated on Olive.

“ I cannot see that you have many rough places in your path,” she said gravely; and then she added hurriedly: “On the tablet in the church—you know it is in front of me every Sunday—the date of your uncle’s death is 1869. You were not eleven then?”

“No, oh no! and I heard all about it long before we came here, though until we really were here much was not said to me. My uncle’s was a very odd will; he would not let us take possession for five years after it was made, and he died six months after making it. My father was in India at the time; and it was a most impatient time of waiting for my mother, who was very tired of going backwards and forwards with us children. It was very rough on her; she was bom here, and was naturally longing to come to her old home.”

“What an odd will!” said Olive slowly. She began to feel hypocritical. “What was the reason for it?”

“It was a strange story,” answered Gerald, “very strange. I was talking about it only yesterday to old Dodington. It seems that he was a very devoted admirer of my aunt’s; he says she was the most charming woman in the county. It seems that my uncle went to stay with some friend of his she did not approve of, and she was very angry, and went off to her own relations, taking the only child with her—a little girl of four.—They had lost a boy a year or two before. She did not write to her husband, and he was furious and would not write to her. Then the child caught some illness, and she was too frightened to tell her husband, thinking, no doubt, that he would blame her; and the child died, and she was in such a state of terror that she hid herself.”

“And did not her husband look for her?” asked Olive, trying hard to speak carelessly.

“Yes; at last he grew frightened as well as angry,” continued Gerald. “ He was rather a queer fellow, I believe. He set about looking for her, and at last he found her. That part of the story nobody seems to know anything about, but she was with him when she was killed, or he saw her before she died. She was too injured to speak to him. She was run over at a crossing in some crowded part of London; and my uncle was so upset that he was quite off his head for a time, and would not be persuaded that the child was dead. He continued to look for her till the last, and he made this odd will a few months before he died. I really don’t think such wills ought to hold good.”

“ But don’t you think he was quite right if he did not believe, his child was dead, poor man?” said Olive softly. She hardly dared trust her voice.

“Ah! that was the point,” said Gerald. “You see he would not believe it. His lawyer was a great friend of his, and he told my father that he had done his best to persuade my uncle of his child’s death, thinking that there was a better chance for him if his mind was more at rest. For some reason that I have never heard explained, proofs of her death were difficult to find, or else he was not contented with the proofs—I don’t remember which it was.”

Olive felt as she heard Gerald’s circumstantial account that she ought to believe it — that he believed it himself there could he no doubt,—but it was of no use. What had been the proofs given of little Olive Bethune’s death? and had any proofs been really found? Until she could find someone who had seen such proofs, she must, she knew, still hope and dream.

“And your uncle died of grief? That, too, was very sad,” she said with an effort.

“Well, perhaps grief had something to do with it; at any rate he did not care to live—so people say—but he drank very hard. It was very rough on him that his wife should have gone away like that. Everyone says he was devoted to her, and that she was very fond of him; but you women are such strange, unaccountable creatures.” Gerald’s tone of superiority would have brought a smile on Olive’s face at any other time, but she was too much in earnest now to smile at any affectation of Gerald’s.

“We don’t know half the story, remember, Mr. Lenhouse,” she said eagerly. “ We don’t know what she had suffered, or why she went away, and she may not have meant to have stayed away.”

“No doubt she did not,” answered Gerald carelessly; “ and that is why we feel sure that it was the death of her child that frightened her and kept her away—”

“Then you don’t know for certain when the child died? —you don’t know quite for certain?” broke in Olive eagerly.

“Well, no, not exactly for certain,” replied Gerald as he glanced at her with some surprise. “ At least I don’t—my father does, no doubt. I can’t say I have ever troubled myself about the date, I was such a little chap at the time we came here. I heard no particulars whatever till quite lately, and then only from outsiders like Mr. Dodington. My father and mother not being in England when my uncle died, they heard nothing much at the time; but you may imagine it was very provoking for them to have to wait to come here for all those years.”

“Very,” admitted Olive.

“As you say, Miss Maclvor, wealth is rather an accidental circumstance; it certainly was so iu our case. My father had only his pay, and my mother’s fortune was not very large. But for the accident of my aunt’s quarrel with my uncle, I suppose they might all be here now, and I should be on board one of Her Majesty’s ships.”

Olive’s laugh was rather forced.

“ Then it was a propitious accident for you, Mr. Lenhouse. On the tablet they have put no date for the infant children’s births or deaths.”

“ That tablet seems to have interested you a good deal,” said Gerald with amusement. “ It was my father who added that line, and there was not room for the names and all the dates; so he thought he had better put none.”

Olive dared not pursue the subject further, and Gerald had evidently told her all he knew; yet she could think of no other. Soon her companion rallied her on her silence.

“ I believe you are thinking of what would have happened if this sad and somewhat romantic history had never occurred, and we had never come to Barrington. Then it is pretty certain that my father would have had no money to spend on visits to Paris, and then he would never have seen you, and you would never have come here. What a number of people she never thought of were affected by my aunt’s rasb act that day!—I won’t say by her bad temper, for I see you take her part I am sure you are thinking of all this, you are looking so wonderfully tragic.”

“Am II” said Olive smiling. “I am thinking that it is time for you to go—it is getting late.”

“ No, no, not yet!” he exclaimed. “ This is the first real talk we have had. I wish you would tell me something about yourself. You lost wealth by an accident, did you notl Won’t you tell me all about it?”

Olive coloured, and she knew that her voice trembled. “Yes, my life has been full of accidents, if you like to call them so,” she answered softly. Then fearing what she might be led into saying in her present state of excitement, she began describing her life at St. Petersburg and all the pleasures which had made her childhood happy, and as she did so her voice grew calm enough; no regrets for kind Mr. Hall’s past prosperity or loss had power to move her now.

An hour or more passed quickly, and the entrance of the schoolroom maid with a glass of milk and some biscuits for Olive’s supper startled both her and Gerald. The girl looked her astonishment, and Olive caught the glance and understood it.

“ Please go at once, Mr. Lenhouse,” she said hurriedly, as soon as the maid had left the room. “ You ought not to have stayed so long, and you must not come again at this time; indeed you must not. Go, do go, please.”

“ If you only knew the pleasure it has been to me, you could not be so cruel as to say I am never to come again,” said Gerald sentimentally. .

But Olive could stand no sentiment from Gerald. He was a boy, a mere boy; and if she had been aware lately of a difference in his tone which might have taught her he did not consider himself such, she had not heeded it. She needed a friend in the house, and if only he would be that friend, it would make her life at Barrington much pleasanter. For the first time she saw the danger she was running, in encouraging what she had liked to think only pleasant friendliness on his part, as it was on her own.

“Good-night. Go, please, at once, Mr. Lenhouse, and please also remember that you must not come up again of an evening,” she replied coldly. “ I blame myself for letting you stay; it was very weak of me. But the evenings are rather long sometimes, and I could not resist the pleasure,” she added more graciously.

“Then it was a pleasure?” said Gerald eagerly.

“Yes, oh yes!” said Olive impatiently. “But do go at once, or I must— There is ten o’clock striking, and I am expecting Janet home!”

The thought of Janet’s possible remarks had more effect on Gerald than any other argument, and he left the schoolroom, leaving Olive vexed with herself. What would Mrs. Lenhouse think of her when she heard how her son had spent the evening; and after all, she had found out nothing to satisfy her. Gerald’s story of the child’s death was very plausible, but where were the proofs?

CHAPTER XVIII.

A PASSAGE AT ARMS.

EMMA the schoolroom maid had no intention of being ill-natured, or of bringing Miss Maclvor into any trouble — far from it (Olive was a favourite with all the servants who were brought into any contact with her)—when she whispered to her friend the house-maid of Mr. Lenhouse’s presence in the schoolroom; but before the servants dispersed for the night Mrs. Lenhouse’s own maid, a very grand personage indeed, had heard the story, and was holding forth indignantly to the housekeeper on the iniquity of Miss Maclvor’s “ carrying on in that way on the sly with Mr. Gerald.” But then she (Mrs. Staples) had never had “much opinion of her” though she was “so haughty,” and seemed “ to think she was somebody.”

The housekeeper, who happened to he one of Olive’s admirers, and who was also inclined to be just to everybody, remarked that she thought it was “too bad of Mr. Gerald to get the poor thing into trouble with his nonsense.”

While she was dressing her mistress the next morning, Staples managed to inform her where her son had passed the evening. It was very easy to do this. Mrs. Lenhouse was one of those ladies who like to gather “ useful knowledge ” from their maids, and she had been a good deal put out at Gerald’s refusal to accompany his sisters the evening before.

Mrs. Lenhouse was dreadfully annoyed at Staples’ information. She did not wish to believe that Gerald had feigned a headache, and stayed at home on purpose to enjoy Miss Maclvor’s society unmolested. But that he should enjoy it at all was very dreadful, and she was extremely perplexed.

It was so difficult to know what to do. If she made too much of the affair she might make Gerald angry and wilful, and so do more harm than good. Of course it was Miss Maclvor’s fault, but on the other hand Mrs. Lenhouse did not wish to lose her admirable governess.

She could not tell the story to her husband, for he was sure to be angry with Gerald, and the colonel did not get on over well with his eldest son. If he interfered, a quarrel might ensue, for Gerald was very easily offended. It was most provoking!

Pen and Ada, to whom she confided her trouble, were as indignant as herself, and Pen was not a little triumphant.

“There, mama!” she said. “Didn’t I warn you what a flirt Miss Maclvor was! Of course she must carry on with somebody. I used to think Lawrence was much too often in the schoolroom, only he is such a boy. Gerald is different. Didn’t I tell you how she went on with Captain Keith on the ice that day! And the night of our ball she made herself quite conspicuous. Several people made remarks to me about her, and I did not wonder at it! ”

“Yes,” chimed in Ada; “and Marion Foster was so absurd about her. She did her no good. She has given herself airs ever since.”

It was all very well to discuss Miss Maclvor’s iniquities, but it remained as difficult as ever to decide what was to be done. Neither of Gerald’s sisters, any more than his mother, cared to tax him with making love to the governess; and Mrs. Lenhouse was too keenly alive to the value of Miss Maclvor’s services not to know that she would find no difficulty, even without her recommendation, in finding at once another situation if she gave her cause for offence. Why, there was Lady Caroline, who would be only too glad to engage her for her sister’s children. Had she not the other day written to know if Mrs. Lenhouse could not help her to “a second Miss Maclvor?”

She knew, too, that her husband would blame her if she gave such offence, for he was very anxious that she should remain with them as long as they needed a governess. He had what his wife considered an exaggerated idea of her talents.

Her going, too, would precipitate Cis’ being sent to school, which Mrs. Lenhouse did not at all wish.

Still something must be done, and that without delay; so she sat down and wrote to one of her husband’s sisters, who was living in London, asking her to make some excuse for pressing Gerald to pay her a visit; and then, thinking she had been most diplomatic, Mrs. Lenhouse conned over a little speech she intended to make to Miss Maclvor, for she was much too angry with her to let her go scot-free.

Olive had not been in the least surprised to hear that Gerald’s visit to the schoolroom had been a topic of conversation. She heard of it first from Dick, who had accidentally overheard some remark of his sister’s, and questioned her.

“ Well, I think it was too bad of Gerald to come up, as he knew what a fuss mama always makes about his coming into the schoolroom,” he said hotly. And he made himself so miserable at the thought of Olive’s being blamed, as he said “ unjustly,” that she was obliged to try and console him by laughing at his fears.

“ It’s no use you talking like that; it’s no joke. Perhaps mama will send you away, like she sent Miss Marvin,” he sighed.

Olive drew herself up proudly.

“ No, Dick, she won’t send me away; but I shall certainly offer to go if she is not satisfied with me.”

Dick hid his poor little pale face in his cushions, and burst into tears.

“ If you go I shall die. How can you say such cruel things? You can’t love me!” he sobbed. And .then Olive soothed him with loving words, and promised that she would not leave him of her own free-will It was the remembrance of Dick’s sorrowful face that kept her very patient when, a day or two later (for she had determined to wait till Gerald had accepted the invitation to London), Mrs. Lenhouse came into the schoolroom after her late dinner, and discoursed fluently on, the great need of circumspection in a girl who accepted the onerous position of a teacher of youth.

“I am sorry to find you allowed my son to spend the evening with you on Tuesday,” she concluded. “You cannot afford to allow a breath of scandal to touch you, and you must admit that it Was not a proper proceeding.”

This sentence had been most carefully considered and arranged by Mrs. Lenhouse, and she thought it very telling.

“The breath of scandal! the breath of scandal! I don’t know what you mean,” repeated Olive angrily, and then she thought of poor little Dick. “Mr. Lenhouse must have told you that I begged him to go, and begged he would never come again,” she continued more calmly. “If you heard of it from him, he must have told you that, that— ” She stammered in spite of herself. She could not truthfully say that she had done her best to prevent his staying.

“My son has told me nothing, Miss Maclvor. I have not mentioned the subject to him. Young men will be foolish, but they do not go where they are not welcome. I heard of it through my maid; as you must know, servants will talk. I am most anxious that the colonel should not hear of it He would be so angry. As I said, in your position you cannot be too careful. I am sure you cannot like being made the talk of the house.”

This was too much for Olive’s patience. Her eyes flashed with anger and annoyance. '

“If I am the talk of the house, as you say, Mrs. Lenhouse, I think I had better leave it at once. You can hardly like to trust me with Janet under such circumstances.” She drew herself up proudly, and poor Mrs. Lenhouse was in a flutter of apprehension. She had done just what she wished to avoid.

“ Not at all, not at all, Miss Maclvor. I assure you I am quite satisfied with you. You mistake me altogether. I only thought it right to give you a little good advice, such as I should give to my own daughters, you know. I have said nothing to you that I should not say to Pen if I saw her being a little giddy and foolish. I am quite sure you will never do such a thaing again; and after all it was no doubt my son’s fault,” she said hastily.

Now Pen was an outrageous flirt, as Olive knew, and her mother never interfered with her in any way. She saw that Mrs. Lenhouse was frightened, and felt much inclined to follow up her advantage, and tell her that she had better look out for another governess; but again the remembrance of Dick calmed her wrath and she was silent, upon which Mrs. Lenhouse took courage, and returned to the attack.

“My son is going away next week. He is going to London; so we will not mention the subject again. I shall trust you not to encourage him to come into the schoolroom. Young men like to amuse themselves, and he is, after all, very young.”

“ Mr. Lenhouse is nevertheless old enough to know that I am not in a position to defend myself. He has no right to do what his parents dislike, and then leave me to bear the blame!” said Olive haughtily. “I perfectly understand all that you mean, Mrs. Lenhouse, and I agree with you that we had better drop the subject It is not one on which we can possibly think alike.”

Mrs. Lenhouse left the room feeling rather crestfallen. As usual Miss Maclvor had had the best of it But she did not wish to part with her accomplished governess; so she thought it wise to bear what she told Pen afterwards she considered “ great impertinence.”

As to Gerald, he found out what had been going on from Dick, who was too indignant with him to be silent. He was furious, and longed to refuse to go to London, and would have done so at the smallest encouragement from Olive; but she was so persistently cold and disdainful that he was piqued, for at the bottom of his heart he could not get over the idea that he honoured his sister’s governess not a little by his admiration. So he went, hoping she might miss him, and welcome his return with something like appreciation of his condescension.

Olive was glad when he had gone, though she owned to herself that she missed him; and, unchecked by his presence, Pen and Ada were even more disagreeable than usual.

However, about a week after Gerald’s departure all her thoughts were centred on the sudden and severe illness of poor little Dick. She was not allowed to nurse him as she wished, but all the time that could be spared from her duties in the schoolroom was spent in the sick-room.

It was no doubt a good thing for Olive to be thus distracted from her own thoughts, and her devotion to Dick drew her closer at least to Janet and Cis. They at any rate appreciated her untiring patience if their elders did not.

Never had the schoolroom been so peaceful as through these weeks, and Mrs. Lenhouse faintly, though selfishly, recognized her value, and almost forgot the prejudice which had influenced her ever since she had begun to fear that Gerald’s admiration had been something more than a passing fancy.

He had sulked persistently with his mother, but a sick-house not being agreeable to him, he had now gone on the Continent with a friend, and was not expected home till Easter, at which time Olive had asked for a holiday.

The request had been graciously received, and she felt as if she were actually slowly winning her way to favour, when the news came of Lawrence’s success in the examination for Sandhurst, which he did not fail to attribute partly to Miss Maclvor’s “splendid coaching;” and he wrote Olive a letter full of boyish gratitude, which she sent to Madame Delabere, who she knew would be as pleased as herself.

Only twice all this time did Olive see Captain Keith. Once, while walking on the highroad with Cis and Janet, he overtook them on horseback. Dismounting and giving the delighted Cis his horse to lead, he had walked with them some way; but with Janet’s sharp ears wide open, the conversation had been a general one. Such as it was, it was delightful to Olive.

The second meeting she owed to Cis. She had taken him and Janet into Winchester for some shopping. They were to go to the cathedral service, but when the time came there was still a long list of commissions to he executed for Mrs. Lenhouse; so the children went to the cathedra], and she promised to meet them there later.

Naughty Cis, who dearly loved the independence of strolling about the town by himself, left Janet in the nave, saying he had forgotten something he wanted, and he would return in a few minutes. As he hurried out of the cathedral door he nearly tumbled over a collie which was waiting outside, and after his usual fashion stopped to make friends with it.

He was amusing himself in this way, when Captain Keith came up, and expressing some surprise at finding him so far from home, asked him if he were alone.

“I am with Miss Maclvor and Janet,” explained Cis.

“And they are in the cathedra], I suppose?” said Captain Keith eagerly.

“Janet is there, but not Miss Maclvor. She is doing some shopping. You will find her at Williams’,” shouted mischievous Cis as he ran off. “ I am sure he would like to see her, and I am sure I am not going to tell Pen if he does,” said this precocious young gentleman to himself.

When Olive came out of the draper’s, with the intention of making her way to the cathedral, she found Captain Keith outside, and as he expressed pleasure but no surprise at seeing her, she easily guessed that he had heard of her.

“Where do you hide yourself?” he asked as he walked by her side. “ I never have a chance of seeing you. You need not walk so fast. It is not often that we are so fortunate as to meet, is it?” he added eagerly.

“No, not often,” acknowledged Olive shyly, and then she was silent. Words did not come easily. That she was glad to see Captain Keith there could be no doubt, and she felt that he knew it.

Presently, in answer to his questions, she told him of Dick’s illness.

“ And you have been nursing him, I see. You look far from well Do you never think of yourself I Have they bought you body and soul?” He spoke bitterly.

She glanced at him with some surprise, and met his eyes, which were full of something that brought the vivid colour to her pale face.

“ I am quite well, thank you,” she answered gently. “ I do not mind nursing Dick at all. I love him dearly.”

“Ah! that’s just it,” returned Keith. “You are one of those women who would kill themselves gladly for those they love. Does nobody look after you?”

Olive could not honestly say that anybody did look after her, so she was silent.

By this time they had reached the cathedral avenue.

“ Don’t go in,” entreated Keith. “ The service will soon be over. Let us walk up and down; we have it all to ourselves. No one will notice us, or I would not ask you to do so.”

And Olive did as he asked her, but as the first person came out of the cathedral Keith wished her good-bye, and she hastened into the nave to join the children.

On this meeting Olive fed for weeks, and the thought of it helped her to bear patiently many a weary day; but the thought of Captain Keith was in some way always linked with the problem she was resolved to solve. That he liked her she knew, that she loved him she did not yet acknowledge to herself.

As soon as Dick was quite convalescent, all Olive’s thoughts were turned towards her intended holiday, and journey to Edinburgh. She had spent hardly anything while at Barrington, and counted over her quarter’s salary like a little miser; she did not even care to put it in the savings-bank as advised by Mrs. Lenhouse, who, when she gave it her, had given her also a little lecture on thrift, and the advantage of young people remembering that they would not always have their health and youth.

It was the first money that Olive had actually fingered that she had earned herself, and she was quite proud of her fifteen golden sovereigns. Before the end of April another quarter would be due to her, and she would then have plenty with which to prosecute her search and pay for her living during the month of absence she had asked for.

To Madame Delabere only did she confide her intention of going to Scotland; and that good lady wrote her long letters of advice, in which, if she did not actually reprove her for folly, she treated her intended expedition as a wild-goose chase which it would be wise to give up. Olive should come instead to see her at Arles, where she was ready to welcome her and longing for a sight of her face. Then was she not extravagant to spend all this money?

But Olive would listen to none of this reasoning. She could not be happy, she told herself, she could not settle down to her life as a teacher till she knew something, or had at any rate tried to find out something of her parentage. She had never dared to tell even Madame Delabere of the memories Barrington Court had evoked, or of the wild dream that was predominant in her mind.

She was not imprudent nor extravagant, she argued, for she had drawn nothing that year from the funds, where Mrs. Hall’s little legacy was always awaiting her in case of need. She wrote all she could to pacify her kind old friend; she would come to Arles some day, but as she could not come often it was better to wait for another year.

Many were the thoughts that she now spent in making her plans, and trying to find solutions to the difficulties which she expected to encounter. She would have, she told herself, to examine all the registers of marriages that had taken place a year or two before the supposed date of her birth; and, after all, her mother’s name might not have been Mac-Ivor. The date in the Bible pointed to that name having belonged to a previous generation.

Then she would be looking at the same time for the notice of Mr. Bethune’s marriage. She told herself, when she felt hopeful, that twenty-two or twenty-three years was no great space of time, and there might be many people living who remembered this marriage. Mrs. Bethune was beautiful, and people talked of her beauty; they would not easily forget her.

She determined before starting to visit the keeper's wife again, and find out more if possible. She had only talked of Scotland, perhaps she could assure her that it was Edinburgh where her late mistress had lived, and where her marriage had taken place. - The name of no other town in Scotland had any particular interest for Olive, her imagination was fixed on the capital.

Mrs. Lenhouse had, fortunately, requested her not to mention her proposed holiday to the children till quite the last moment, which saved her being plied with questions. This was a great relief to her, for she did not feel inclined to answer any, not even Dick’s.

There was one room in the house which each day had a more irresistible attraction for her, and that was Colonel Lenhouse’s study—that remained, as Janet had told her, unaltered through these long years. Surely then she might find some clue that would help her, and there could be no harm looking for one.

When she knew that the downstairs party was dining out and the children were safe in bed, Olive would creep down through the deserted passages, and find herself in the silent and seldom-used room. Once there, she would put down her candle and wander round it, examining by a somewhat inefficient light the books and the inscriptions in them with breathless interest. They had all belonged to the late owner. Colonel Lenhouse was no buyer of books.

Olive knew the coat^of-arms well. Very few had anything else in them. Now and then she came upon Edward Bethune’s name or initials.

She had made more than one visit to the study, and was beginning to think them useless and not worth the trepidation she always suffered in making the effort, when she lighted on a small volume of Border Minstrelsy by Sir Walter Scott, in which was written “ Edward Bethune, from Blanche. Edinburgh, Dec. 5th, 1861.” Her heart gave a bound of delight Here was her conviction confirmed. Edinburgh was the place where Mrs. Bethune had lived before her marriage, and most probably she was not married when she gave this book to Edward Bethune, or she would have written “from his wife” or “to her husband;” so Olive reasoned.

Then the date was just the date which was most probable from everything she had heard; it agreed too with her own supposed age. This discovery excited her a good deal. She did not dare to take the book upstairs for fear it should be missed from its place, but she stood turning over its pages for some time in the vain hope of finding another word of writing, and before replacing it in the shelf she pressed it to her lips. Perhaps both her mother and father’s hands had clasped it many a time, and it had been a love-token between them!

She did not sleep much that night.

There was one thing which had puzzled her from the very first, and which continued to puzzle her. How was it that she remembered so persistently, so very clearly, that there was a drawer in the book-case? She felt as if she could point out the exact spot, and yet no drawer or outward sign of a drawer was to be seen.

The dark polished oak was carved, or rather lined, in quaint patterns, yet try as she would she could discover nothing of the drawer she remembered so vividly, into which with childish fury and indignation she had seen the doll put and hidden from her sight If she were mistaken in this, she might be mistaken in everything else, and what she thought memories might be nothing but dreams and creatures of her imagination.

The possibilities which this line of reasoning induced became a torture to Olive, and she returned -to the study whenever she had an opportunity, while she grew pale and wan, and even Mrs. Lenhouse noticed it, and said that she was glad she was going soon to have a change.

CHAPTER XIX.

A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE.

THE time of Olive's holiday was coming very close, and she was each day in a more excited frame of mind, when she heard that Colonel and Mrs. Lenhouse and Pen were to dine at Winchester (Ada had left home on a visit the week before), and she determined to make one final visit to the study, again to search for the drawer.

Unless she found it she would be haunted by the dread that her recollections were all dreams; she must make one more attempt, but it should be the last With her mind full of thoughts of the future, but with very little misgiving (for Olive had grown accustomed to her nocturnal visits, and she had never as yet met any of the servants), soon after nine o’clock she crept downstairs. Her candle lighted dimly the passages and wide oak staircase. She had to cross the hall, which was fitted up as a room. The empty chairs looked ghostly and uncomfortable. Mrs. Lenhouse had pet economies, and one of them made her insist on the light in the hall being put out when the family were not at home.

In the complete silence Olive could hear the sound of her own footsteps with trying distinctness; this part of the expedition was always very eerie to her, and she needed all her courage. Once in the study she felt more at ease.

She set down her candle, and turned first to the book of Border Minstrelsy; she loved to look at the inscription. Then she glanced into a few more books, but always with the same result She found in all the printed coat-of-arms, but seldom even a name or initial.

“ I will, I must find that drawer,—the drawer I know the doll was put in!” she said half aloud, and then she pressed her fingers all along the edge of the book-case, on the side of the room which she fancied she was sure was the right one, trying to discover some hidden spring. If there at all, the drawer must be a secret one, as there were no handles or any visible sign of them.

For some time Olive worked away patiently, she was determined that her search should be systematic or it would not satisfy her. Each inch of wood she pressed in which there could be any possible secret spring. Her fingers were slight but strong, and they trembled with eagerness.

She was on her knees, for in that position she had more power; her head was on a level with the first row of books, and each minute she grew more excited. She had discovered that there was a fine seam in the wood running parallel the whole length of the book-case; it seemed to her meaningless unless it indicated a drawer somewhere. But would she ever be able to find it?

She grew breathless, she forgot everthing in her eager search, no sounds in the house reached her. Suddenly something yielded to her pressure, and she gave a smothered exclamation of triumph as the woodwork opened an inch as if of its own accord. She pulled it further open. It was a drawer. She looked in, and by the dim light could see that it was full of note-books and papers.

At this moment the door of the room opened softly, and a blaze of light was thrown on her face from a lamp held in the hand of Colonel Lenhouse.

“Confound it! Miss Maclvor!” he exclaimed in great bewilderment. Then he set down the lamp, and closing the door behind him came towards her.

Sheer terror kept Olive motionless. She had never fainted in her life; unconsciousness would have brought her some relief, but she did not faint. A horrible feeling of faintness paralysed her; she could not think, she could not speak, she could not feel. She hardly remembered where she was or what she was doing. As in a nightmare, she saw Colonel Lenhouse coming towards her, and a sudden dread that he might touch her made her struggle to her feet.

She faced him with wild dilated eyes and bloodless lips. She could utter no word.

“ What are you doing? What are you doing?” he asked angrily, as he caught sight of the half-open drawer.

Olive’s lips moved but she could not answer.

“ I insist on an answer,” he went on harshly. “ I find you searching my private drawers. Speak at once. Do you hear me? I will know what you were doing!”

He would have laid his hand on her shoulder, but she sprang back. She would have fallen, but coming in contact with a high-backed chair she clasped it to steady herself.

“I will have an answer,” repeated Colonel Lenhouse sternly. “What have you stolen! I shall search you! Yes, I see you are frightened at being discovered. Now, I give you five minutes to recover yourself, and then I shall insist on an answer.”

“Stolen!” repeated Olive, “stolen!”

The word brought back her power of thought with a rush of crimson to her brow. Was she to be taken for a thief?

“I have stolen nothing, I have touched nothing. Look in your drawer and see! ” she continued eagerly.

“No, because you have not had time,” sneered the colonel. “But I caught you in the act This is a very shocking thing, Miss Maclvor. Have you ever been here before!”

“Yes,” said Olive reluctantly. “But I have never touched anything but the books.”

“ Oh, then it accounts for a loss I had some months ago. It was you who took my five-pound note, no doubt!” “Your five-pound note!” she repeated in dazed tones. She was too much aghast to feel resentment “I know nothing of it I never saw it.”

“ You come to my study at night when you think I am out, I find you searching in a secret drawer which no one knows of but myself, and which contains money. You will not even pretend to say what you come for,” continued Colonel Lenhouse. “ I don’t think you will find any magistrate to believe your statement”

“Magistrate!” repeated Olive, and the colour left her face again. Did Colonel Lenhouse mean that she would be brought before a magistrate, and accused of stealing or wishing to steal? For the first time the real danger of her position impressed itself on her mind, and words came quickly enough. She forgot everything, and even whom she was speaking to, in her frantic desire to exculpate herself from this dreadful charge.

“ I was not stealing. I have not touched anything in your drawer—anything in your room even—but the books, as I said before. I have not opened another drawer but that. I knew there was a drawer there. I saw a doll put into it—a doll dressed in red—long years ago, when I was a child.”

Colonel Lenhouse started, and if Olive had had time to notice him she might have seen that his dark face turned livid. She hurried on. “When I first came into this room with Janet to read one day I recognized it all I asked then if there was no drawer underneath the books. She said there was none; but I felt that here there was one at least. . . I could remember that I stood on the table, and someone was doing something to me, and then someone came into the room, and the doll I had been promised was put in there—there into that drawer.”

Olive paused, breathless with excitement, and as she did so Colonel Lenhouse shut the drawer with a sharp bang.

“What does all this mad nonsense mean, Miss MacIvor?” he said hoarsely. But Olive did not notice the change in his voice.

“ It means—that—I believe—that I am—Olive Bethune.” She said the words steadily and proudly. .

The colonel laughed a low grating laugh. “ A thief and an adventuress!” he exclaimed. “Well, I ought to have known better than to have gone to Paris for a governess. I was assured by your own friend that you had lived all your life abroad, but no doubt that and other statements were convenient at the time. I suppose you know, Miss Maclvor, how we treat fraudulent claimants in England.

It is a matter of some years’ penal servitude. You must have heard of the Tichboume case. You had better think better of it, and let us only think of you as a common thief; unless you are a fit subject for a lunatic asylum. Perhaps that would be the best place for you after all.”

The colonel’s tone was icy in its coldness. All his anger seemed to have died away, but the expression of his face frightened Olive, it was so evil, so threatening. She had lately been reading some letters in the papers, which had pointed out how easily anyone who was wanted out of the way could be put into a lunatic asylum by those in command of a long purse, and kept there for years without inquiry. Cases of the same kind had happened too in Paris.

The thought that she might be thus treated filled Olive with blind terror. What if Colonel Lenhouse were to make out that she was mad. She might be carried away and hidden, and there would be no one to care, no one to look for her. Imprisonment would be. infinitely better than such a fate.

“ I am not mad, Colonel Lenhouse. You know that I am not mad. Don’t say that!” she entreated, hardly knowing what she said. And she burst into tears, which, while they relieved her overwrought brain, soothed Colonel Lenhouse’s fears, and therefore softened him a little. It would be after all easy to frighten this girl, but he must have time to make his plans.

“ You had better go to bed at once, Miss Maclvor. You must see that your presence in my room needs some explanation. You are ill, no doubt, and not answerable for your actions. I must beg you to stay in your room to-morrow morning, and to speak to no one. If you obey me I will do all I can for you. Wait, you must not be seen. There is the carriage!” he exclaimed, as the sound of the front-door bell pealed through the house. “Quick, run, or you will meet the servant!” he added, pushing the candle into her trembling hand.

Olive fled wildly upstairs, and into her own room, and throwing herself on her bed lay in a torpor of horror and misery, quite unable to move or think.

Her candle burnt to the socket, flickered, and then went out. The faint morning light crept in, but still Olive did not move; while her brow throbbed painfully, and the dreadful word “ asylum ” seemed to beat on her brain.

A prison or a madhouse. Would she have to choose between these two? And was the busy, easy-going, if somewhat monotonous life with her little pupils over for ever—a thing of the past? Of course no one would again wish her to teach their children. She was disgraced for ever—to be called for the future a thief, or an adventuress, or mad.

In the midst of her despair came the remembrance of the drawer which she had found. Yes, she had found it; it was no dream. She had not been mistaken. It proved, at least to herself, that her memories were real and no delusion. Btit how could she prove anything to other people? The recollection of the expression on Colonel Lenhouse’s face when she had told him the true reason of her presence in the study made her shudder.

At last came a knock at her door, and then the handle was turned. She was not accustomed to sleep with it locked. She knew it must be the maid with her hot water.

“Thank you, Emma. Put it down,” she said; and her voice sounded unnatural to herself. When she heard the retreating footsteps of the maid she sprang up with a resolution which would have seemed impossible a few minutes before, and taking in the can of hot water, she again locked her door, and began to undress.

After redressing herself with care, curling her dishevelled hair, and making herself look, as she told herself with a sad little smile while she gazed at her reflection in the glass, as if nothing had happened, her courage began to rise. She taxed herself with cowardice. Why should she be so terribly frightened?

No one could prove that she had taken anything. If taken before the magistrates she would defend herself. She would say no word more about being Olive Bethune till she found proofs that no one could doubt; and therefore no one would be able to say that she was mad, or had a delusion. She had done nothing wrong; why should she fear?

God, who had cared for her all her life, would care for her still. Had not her dear auntie always trusted in Him, and put away fears for the future?

Olive threw open the window. It was a beautiful spring morning. The birds were siDging. The sun was shining brightly. She knelt down and prayed, with her eyes fixed on the wide landscape outstretched before her, and drinking in the beauty of the scene, her nerves were soothed by the delicious morning air.

After all, how little and unimportant her life was, with all its strange vicissitudes, in face of the Infinite—in face of the eternity which was to come. Why need she fret so much, why need she be frightened? This day would pass like other days, and she should look back to it with a smile perhapa Years hence it might not matter at all how she had passed it.

She would he brave and hopeful. If she were true to herself and did no wrong no one could really hurt her. Of course she would have to leave Barrington at once. Her eyes filled with tears at the thought. And she would not be able to come back. Poor Dick, how he would fret and grieve! The others would forget her in time, but not Dick. If no one else loved her, he did.

And Captain Keith, he would hear of it all. What would he think? Olive’s face burned, and she passed her hand over her eyes. The thought of Captain Keith was bitter indeed; but it had to be borne, and gradually some sort of comfort came. “ If he loves me he will believe no evil against me,” she whispered softly. “I know I should believe nothing against him.”

Long she knelt at the window gazing, and listening to the voice of the coming spring in the song of the birds, the lowing of the cows in the park, the more distant bleating of sheep on the downs, and all the hum of awakening life— God’s creatures rejoicing at the beginning of another day, at the beginning of another year, with all its possibilities of sunshine and happiness.

And fear died out of Olive’s heart, and a great peace took possession of it, as she waited patiently for what might happen next

CHAPTER XX.

THE MINIATURE.

MRS. LENHOUSE and Pen came rustling into the hall in all the glory of evening attire just as poor dishevelled Olive had rushed out of sight.

The colonel met them, and was greeted with anxious exclamations and inquiries.

“ I should have thought it much wiser for you to have gone to bed, Mark. Have you had no return of the bleeding?” questioned his wife.

“ None whatever,” answered the colonel shortly. “What should I go to bed for? I only feared it would come on again.” (A fit of nose-bleeding from which he sometimes suffered had induced him to take a fly and drive home immediately after dinner, which catastrophe had led to poor Olive’s discovery in the study.) “I am quite well, though feeling a little done up, of course.”

“You are looking quite ill. I wish I had come home with you. I came away the first minute I could,” continued his wife anxiously.

“We might just as well have stayed half an hour longer, as far as I can sea What good can we do papal” grumbled Pen in very aggrieved tones.

“ It was stupid enough, I am sure,” snapped her father. “I know that I was not sorry to escape; but it’s bed-time now. Go to bed, Pen, and don’t look so cross.”

Both his wife and daughter recognized that the colonel was out of humour, and they followed him silently upstairs.

Once in his dressing-room he sank into a chair, and began to consider what he should do. He felt terribly shaken by the events, of the last half hour. His thoughts went back unwillingly over a space of ten years or more. Soon after his arrival at Barrington Court, Mr. Jervoise, the executor of his brother-in-law’s will, being with him one day on business, there was a question about some missing papers, and the lawyer had told him of the secret drawer in the book-case, and proposed searching for it.

The colonel had had no idea of the presence of any such hiding-place. With some difficulty the spring had been found, and upon the drawer being opened it disclosed, not the papers they were looking for, or papers of any sort, but a large faded wax doll in a bright red frock. There it had lain untouched, unseen, since the unlucky day when Edward Bethune had thrown it there in his anger, and hidden it from the disappointed eyes of his little daughter.

Mr. Jervoise knew nothing of this story. Bethune had never gone into any particulars of the last quarrel with his wife; but being a father of little ones himself, he was deeply moved at the sight of this relic, speaking as it did of his poor friend’s beautiful little child, whose disappearance from her home had been so strange and tragic.

He had lifted it out of the drawer quite tenderly, and the colonel, who never cared to think or talk of the little lost heiress, had begged him to take it home to one of his . own children.

Paper to wrap it in had been produced at once, and slipping it into his bag, Jervoise, who was going back to London by the next train, had left the house without seeing any other member of the family. Colonel Lenhouse had not seen him since that day. He~Bad not cared to employ his brother-in-law’s friend, so when the necessary business on taking possession of the property had been finished, all communication between them had ceased.

The colonel, who was by nature very secretive and reserved, and who also did not wish anyone to be reminded of his brother-in-law’s child, had never mentioned the subject to anybody, nor had he spoken of the secret drawer even to his wife. It was convenient to have a hiding-place at hand which was as good as a strong-box. His wife had a way of talking, and making confidences, which very often provoked him, and he seldom told her anything he wished kept secret. She was sure in some way to let out just what he wished to conceal.

It seemed now that this girl, this governess, knew the story of the finding of the doll—knew too of the secret drawer. She had, of course, met Mr. Jervoise somewhere, and he had told her the story. She had come into the house, perhaps, prepared to find out all she could, and pose as the missing heiress; or it had been put into her head since coming to the house. His meeting her in Paris had been so purely accidental that the colonel could hardly pretend that he thought the plot had been premeditated.

A likeness had been found for her in Mrs. Bethune’s picture. She might hare heard of that; he remembered that he had not liked its being talked of at the tima Perhaps that had put it into her head. She must not speak to anyone, it would he fatal for gossip to take up the story; she must be silenced somehow.

As every detail of the story Olive had incoherently told him came into his mind, a cold perspiration burst from his brow. What if she were really the lost child! What if she remembered more, or had more proofs, and all that he so much valued was to pass from him! Many and dreadful were the thoughts that tempted him. Olive had good reason when she felt afraid of him. In his rage and disappointment his thoughts were not far from murderous; but what could he do? In this nineteenth century you cannot safely murder those who are in your way! He had frightened her this evening with the threat of a lunatic asylum. That had been a wonderfully good idea of his, he would use it again; he only wished that it could he safely carried into execution.

The colonel did not think with Olive that people were easily put out of the way in this fashion. Far from it; there were the doctors to he found and to be persuaded, and there were the Commissioners in Lunacy with their constant visits and inquiries. To try, and fail to get rid of her, would ensure her story being bruited abroad, and would be fatal indeed. It might be argued that Miss Maclvor’s delusion was at least harmless, and that she had not molested him in any way.

He might accuse her of theft. He knew that she had touched nothing in that particular drawer, but that need not prevent him from making the charge. There was the five-pound note he had spoken of, he could press that imputation. He had made the accusation to frighten her, it was true; hut no one would doubt his word, or if they did, they could not prove it false. That was again a good idea of his, he did not think he could have done better on the spur of the moment; but would it be of any use to charge her before the magistrates?The colonel was one himself, and he ran over in his mind their personalities and general way of looking at things.

They would be sure to wish to be very lenient in such a case. There was that “old fool Dodington,” the chairman; he went in for standing up for everyone he could possibly think harshly treated. A distressed damsel would take him by storm, and he had always expressed openly his admiration for Miss Maclvor. Something must actually be found in her possession, or it was of no possible use charging her.

That of course could be managed, and if necessary should be managed. Meantime the accusation of taking the five-pound note was sufficient to frighten her with. The colonel consoled himself a good deal by thinking how very frightened •she was.

Still at the very best it was a horrible affair, and it was most difficult to decide on any course that would be without danger, even if he could manage to get her committed on a charge of theft. What a talk, what an odious clamour there would be! And if she chose to say she was Olive Bethune, as she had done this evening, and brazen the lie out, there would be all the story of the will raked up again, and people would be asking for proofs of the child’s death. It was what he had always dreaded, always hated to think of,—it was as if a gulf had opened suddenly at his feet, and he saw no way across it.

His wife came to his door to assure herself that he was not ill, and he irritably told her to go to bed, and not fuss about him. She retreated in haste, by no means satisfied, and he sat on thinking and weighing all the dreadful possibilities of the future.

Should he try to find out all that the girl knew or remembered—the word somehow would come into his head—and face the worst, or should he shut his eyes, pretend to know nothing, and try to frighten her into silence? After much consideration he decided that this last plan was the best, and having come to this conclusion he went to bed, but not to sleep. All night long he worried himself over every possible action that Olive might take. He had not even locked her into her room, he might find that she had escaped in the night; but then she knew no one in England to go to.

By the time morning came he was looking so haggard, and feeling so ill, that he was thankful to have the excuse of the attack of haemorrhage the evening before to account for his altered appearance, which quite shocked his wife.

When her maid came to the door he gave some message Mrs. Lenhouse could not understand, and then told his wife, with a feeling of relief at being at last able to speak, how upset he had been on returning unexpectedly the night before to find Miss Maclvor in his study. He said nothing about the secret drawer. If it should be spoken of by and by, he could without difficulty explain his silence.

“How very impertinent! How very impertinent!” exclaimed Mrs. Lenhouse in high wrath. “ I suppose she was looking for a book; Janet says she is always reading. But to go there—and to take hooks out without asking your leave! It is quite unpardonable! What excuse did she make?”

The colonel laughed uneasily. “She made none, and what is more, under pressure she owned that she had been there before. . . I did not like to trouble you about it before, Leonora, but I must tell you now, that a five-pound note vanished from that room a few weeks ago. I knew that it would make you uncomfortable about the servants, and—and—you see it was impossible to guess who had tiken it. . . Besides,” added the colonel, “I might have made a mistake in thinking that I left it there.”

“A five-pound note!” repeated his wife in consternation. “You don’t really think that she is a thief? Perhaps she has kleptomania. How very dreadful!”

“Very,” replied her husband drily. “But it would, of course, be cruel to ruin the poor girl utterly, as we should if we talked about it. Only we must part with her at once, and under the circumstances I could not possibly let you give her a recommendation to anyone else. She must go back to Paris. We must give her a good fright. It will be the kindest thing we can do for her, and we must insist on her going back at once. She has friends there to look after her. I might write in confidence to Mrs. Flavel.”

“ Oh, but, Mark, I can hardly believe that she can have taken that money! ” exclaimed Mrs. Lenhouse. “ She is such a proud creature, and certainly a lady. Surely she was looking for a book? When did you lose that notel Why didn’t you tell me about it I I don’t see why you should have kept me in the dark; it might have been one of the servants. I have never fancied the under-housemaid. Miss Maclvor is really very useful with the children, and has improved them so much. I did not wish her in the house again with Gerald, but—”

“Not in the house with Gerald! why!” asked the colonel sharply.

“Well, I did not like to tell you,” explained his wife in some trepidation, “it would have done no good; but I found that Gerald was often in the schoolroom, much too often. One evening when he stayed at home with a headache he spent it with Miss Maclvor. I heard of it from Staples, who very properly thought I ought to know. It was, of course, Miss Maclvor’s fault I was very much annoyed and gave her a good scolding, which she did not take over well, then I wrote to Harriet and got her to invite Gerald, and—”

“But pray, why was not I told of this?” exclaimed her husband angrily. “ It seems that I am not to be master in my own house; but while I am alive I consider this my house, I can tell you, whatever Master Gerald thinks about it!”

The colonel stormed for some minutes, and was altogether so unreasonable in his anger that his wife, thinking he must be ill, accepted all his blame meekly, and ended by begging him to return to bed; which proposal made him furious, so that he banged the door of his dressing-room, and did not speak again till the breakfast-bell rung. Then he returned to the bed-room in a calmer frame of mind, and signing to his wife to dismiss her maid, told her she must help him to decide what was to be done.

“ You may remember that I spoke to Staples when she called you,” he explained. “ I gave her a message for the children, to prevent their going to Miss Maclvor’s room. I said she was ill Now, Leonora,” he added, “ we cannot starve her. You or Pen must take her up some breakfast; I do not choose to have her talking to the servants; and then after our breakfast you must send her to the study to me, and I will see what I can make of her.”

The trio assembled at the breakfast-table discussed the subject from every point of view but the one which was torturing the coloneL He did not breathe one word to his wife and daughter of the secret drawer, nor of the assertion Olive had made.

Pen was very excited, and not a little triumphant She had taken, she said, a great dislike to Olive from the first. She thought her father was inclined to be a great deal too lenient. The magistrates would no doubt be the same, and give her the benefit of the doubt; but it would do her good to have her pride taken down. She did not see why Miss Maclvor should be considered more than anyone else. If they suspected a servant, or one of them had been found in the study under such suspicious circumstances, her father would certainly have sent for the police. "

“Why, mama,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I wonder I did not think of it before! Do you remember I told you yesterday that one of the miniatures is missing from the drawing-room table! I thought Janet had taken it to paint from, but she says she has never touched it. I will look again after breakfast, and question the housemaids. It is that pretty one of a child in a blue frock. If Miss Maclvor goes prying about the house and taking things while we are out, of course she may take anything.”

“ Her things must be searched, of course, before she leaves the house,” said her father. “ And she must be thoroughly frightened. I hardly think she would have the audacity to take the miniature. You will find it somewhere. So far, remember, I have no actual proof that she has taken anything; and even if I had, I should he thought a brute for prosecuting her. It would be much better to get her quietly out of the country. Somebody would be sure to make her out a martyr. We men are not hard-hearted with regard to handsome girls, Miss Pen!”

Pen tossed her head contemptuously.

“ It is most annoying that it should have happened,” continued the colonel, returning to his grievance; “ and it never would have happened, Leonora, if you had been open with me. It is all your fault. I should have sent her away at once, as I am doing now, if I had heard of her carrying on with Gerald. If there is any talk about this, you may be quite sure it will be very disagreeable for us. There are always plenty of people ready to say nasty things. . . It was just like you to be so idiotic.”

“I don’t think so!” exclaimed his wife angrily. She had thought her management so exceedingly clever, it was past bearing patiently that her husband should accuse her of being “ idiotic.” “ I believe you would have done nothing of the kind; you would have had a row with Gerald, and much good that would have done! I don’t believe for a moment you would have sent her away. Why, that very evening that Gerald stayed at home we were dining with the Hoares, and I heard you tell Mrs. Hoare that you considered our governess a perfect treasure!”

“ Well, I should certainly have her boxes searched,” said Pen, returning to her point “ It will be the only way to prove anything. She may carry away a lot of things, and we should know nothing about it till we missed them.”

The Olive who opened the study door when, after knocking,' she was requested to enter, was a very different Olive to the one who had fled upstairs at Colonel Lenhouse’s bidding the night before. The thoughts and prayers which had soothed her overstrung nerves had left their mark in the serenity of her face, which, if pale, was no longer full of fear and dread. Her usual dignity of manner and self-possession had come back, and she had by no means the air of a culprit come to receive sentence, or of a penitent who craved forgiveness.

At the sight of her calm face the colonel grew confused, and stammered. This stately girl did not look as if she could be easily frightened.

“ Well, Miss Maclvor, I think—I think you—you—must expect me to ask you for, for—an explanation of last night’s extraordinary proceedings!”

Olive’s first glance on entering the room had been to the place where she now knew the drawer, which had cost her so much, to be. No sign of it was visible, but its presence there was no illusion.

“ I owe a humble apology to you, Colonel Lenhouse,” she answered calmly, “ for my intrusion into your study. I gave you all the explanation I can give last night, though I hardly remember what I said, I was so frightened. I have never touched any of your things. You said last night that you had missed a five-pound note; I know nothing of it. I must, of course, leave here at once,” she added, with a little break in her voice as she thought of Dick.

The colonel heard the quaver, and told himself that she was not so brave as she appeared. “And leave the house branded as a thief, Miss Maclvor!” he said with a grating laugh. “ For even if I am lenient and do not prosecute you, I shall not allow you to go to other people and take them in, as you have taken us in. Now, I give you one chance more,” he added sternly. “ I will take you back to Paris to-morrow, and say nothing to anybody about this, if you will promise not to return to England. But that is your one alternative: refuse to do this, and I shall certainly prosecute you; and my first word will brand you an adventuress and a thief. Even if you are not convicted, you would never get over the stigma I am a magistrate myself, as no doubt you know.”

It was a cruel speech. Olive remained silent, trying to think and gather courage.

“Since last night I have for the first time heard of your disgraceful conduct with regard to my son,” continued Colonel Lenhouse, determined to crush the brave spirit, which he feared was contemplating defiance. Olive’s eyes now indeed blazed, and though white to the lips she spoke firmly enough “I don’t know what you have heard, Colonel Lenhouse, but evidently not the truth,” she said quietly. “I have no friends in Paris now; it would be useless for me to go there, so I cannot make such a promise.”

“ May I ask, then, where you intended to pass your holi day, as you have no friends in England?” asked the colonel, furiously angry.

Olive flushed brightly but was silent. She did not wish to tell Colonel Lenhouse of her intended journey to Edinburgh.

“Well,” said the colonel in his most bullying tones, “where were you going?—I insist on your answering me.”

At this moment the door opened and Pen came hurrying in, trembling with excitement. In her hand she held a miniature, Olive’s miniature.

“ There it is,” she said, putting it into her father’s hand. “I told you I had missed it from the drawing-room. Mama and I found it in Miss Maclvor’s box.”

“No, no, it is mine!” exclaimed Olive, making a grasp at her beloved locket, which the colonel eluded.

“Indeed it is mine, my very own; I have had it all my life; it belonged to my mother. How can you be so wicked? how can you be so cruel? You shall not take it! Indeed it is mine!”

Tears were in her eyes, and she was trembling all over with distress. She had forgotten everything but the fear of losing her precious relic.

“ How can you utter such a lie?” cried Pen, facing her indignantly. “That miniature has always been on the drawing-room table ever since I can remember. It has never been anywhere else. No doubt, when you were prying about you took a fancy to it I don’t know when I last saw it. You may have had it some days. Of course I don’t count the miniatures in the drawing-room every day.”

“It’snot true, it’s not true! Give it me back!” entreated Olive. “Madame Delabere, who has known me the last six years, will tell you that I have always had it; my schoolfellows in Paris would tell you so too.”

“Madame Delabere may be your accomplice,” said Pen scornfully.

“ Look here, Miss Maclvor,” broke in the colonel impatiently, “it’s no use going on like this. You see I have now the proof I wanted, and with this in my hand you cannot brazen it out any longer. Now, go to your room at once and consider the matter. Make a full confession, and I will decide what I can do for you. I do not wish to ruin your life. You are young, and this may be a warning to you and check you on the road to crime. I give you till the evening to confess. I will see you again at four o’clock, before I ride into Winchester.”

Olive tried to speak.

“ Now, go to your room. It is no use talking—it is no use lying any more!” thundered the colonel. “I don’t believe one word you say. You are either bad or mad! In either case you must be prevented doing further mischief.” The tone in which he uttered these last words was full of sinister meaning to poor Olive, and her brave spirit quailed. The loss of her miniature was an overwhelming blow; how could she prove that it was her own? She had not a friend in England! '

She looked at Pen; her face was hard and cruel It was no use pleading. Why give her the triumph of witnessing her distress? She turned from her silently and left the room, with an effort at composure which was almost beyond her strength, and on reaching her own room she threw herself on her bed and sobbed as if her heart would break.

She heard the key turn in the lock of her door, and knew that she was a prisoner. She tried to collect her senses, but she felt as if she were really losing them; and that the colonel was right,—she was mad! What friend had she to call on for help? What should she do? Was she really to spend that night in prison? It was too horrible!

The thought of Captain Keith’s kind, handsome face came vividly to her mind, and the tones of his voice, always so full of kindly interest and sympathy, rung in her ears. Surely she could count on one friend!

If she could only appeal to him, he would take her part; he would not allow her to be so cruelly treated. But how could she tell him of her trouble? Besides, . . that he should hear her called a thief she could not bear. The hot blood rushed to her face at the thought, and her heart beat wildly with something that was not fear.

Still he was the only friend she had to turn to; and she then remembered that on her journey she had happened to mention to him the possession of her miniature. It was hardly likely that he would remember the circumstance; but if the worst came, she would proclaim the fact aloud and insist on appealing to him.

The thought soothed her inexpressibly, and, worn out with all she had gone through, she fell into a heavy sleep.

CHAPTER XXI.

DICK TO THE RESCUE. .

MEANTIME, downstairs, the colonel was carefully scanning Olive’s miniature and comparing it with the others. The setting was exactly the same. The painting was one he well remembered; it was the one which was always the most admired—the portrait of a little girl in a pale blue frock, with a quaint mob-cap on her head.

There could be no mistake about it, and his heart grew lighter. After all, the girl was undoubtedly a thief. She had heard somehow from that “ rascally lawyer” the story of the doll, and she might have heard from many people something of the story of Mrs. Bethune’s disappearance with her child.

Olive’s assertion that the locket was her own, and that it had belonged to her mother, had filled him with terrible misgivings, but there could be no doubt that this miniature had been taken from the drawing-room table. No one knew where it had last been seen. Pen said that she had shown it with the others to Captain Keith the last time he had dined with them; and he, like everyone else, had especially admired it. Even the housemaid who was supppsed to dust them had not missed it .

The colonel was out at lunch-time; he had taken Janet with him to a neighbour’s house. Mrs. Lenhouse was glad to have her youngest daughter away, for she was full of anxious inquiries about Miss Maclvot The boys, too, were curious, and Cis was difficult to silence. Pen took up a tray with Miss Maclvor’s dinner. Dick watched her narrowly, but made no remark.

After his dinner he whispered something to his brother, and the two boys took themselves off to the schoolroom. Cis was to have a ride; his pony, his mother told him, should be ready in half an hour.

“There’s something really the matter. I don’t believe she’s ill,” whispered Dick as they reached the schoolroom. “ People who are ill can’t eat cold beef,” he added scornfully. “Wait for me, Cis, and don’t say one word to anyone. We’ll stand by her, won’t wel Promise to wait till I come back.” And Dick hopped off on his crutches to his own room. .

Olive awoke with a start to find a tray on the chair beside her, on which were some plates and covers. Who had brought it ini She had heard nothing. She listened, and now heard a gentle tapping at the door of the cupboard opposite her. She sprang off her bed at once.

This cupboard was a large one, in which she hung her dresses. On the other side of it there was another door which opened into Dick’s room. It was hidden there by a curtain and a small chest of drawers which stood against it. While Dick was ill Olive had found out this door, and some nights when he had been especially restless and suffering she had gone in and out by it. She had never talked of these visits to anyone; they had only been known to the children.

Opening her cupboard, she now found Dick standing with a flushed, eager face among her dresses.

“Are you really ill, dear Floral” he exclaimed, using the pet name he was fond of.

“No,” said Olive sadly, “I am not ill.” Her sleep had been so sound, that the thought of all the past, and the terrible horror of the future, had been forgotten for one minute. Now she remembered all.

“What is the matter? what are they doing to you?” asked Dick, looking very frightened.

“They say I am a thief, Dick,” she answered bitterly. “ They say that I stole a miniature from the drawing-room, and they have taken it away from me—a miniature I have had all my-life, and which I love and value more than anything. They won’t believe me, and your father is going to put me in prison.”

“In prison? How wicked!” exclaimed the boy, and then he burst into tears. He was still far from strong. “ How dreadful! Why won’t they believe you?” he sobbed. Olive had sat down and drawn him on to her lap.

“Hush, dear, hush!—please don’t cry!” she whispered, in tears herself. “ Crying will do no good.”

“But why won’t they believe you?” repeated Dick. “Did you never show it to anyone? Hasn’t Janet seen it?—she comes into your room sometimes. I know all the miniatures in the drawing-room quite well How can there be such a mistake?”

“It seems that mine is very like one of yours; it’s a little girl in a blue frook. I have never shown it to Janet; I have never shown it to anyone, or talked of it—yes, I did once speak of it to Captain Keith.”

Dick sprang up, and his eyes brightened.

“Captain Keith!” he exclaimed. “Then he will help you, I know. When did you tell him about it?”

“You remember my telling you one day about my journey here, and how I lost my purse, and how Captain Keith helped me. I remember telling him that day that I had no watch I could have left with the station-master, but that I had a miniature. But perhaps he will not remember my remark,” said Olive despondently.

“Anyhow,” said Dick with energy, “he shall be asked. Don’t you say anything to anybody about it, and don’t you be afraid. Cis and me, we’ll stand by you—”

“ But that’s not all, Dick. Your father—”

“There—somebody coming—hush!” he exclaimed, and vanished into the cupboard just as Mrs. Lenhouse appeared at the door of the room.

“You had better eat your dinner, Miss Maclvor,” she said in cold and rather indignant accents. Pen said she found you asleep when she brought it up. I had hoped that you were thinking of the grievousness of your sin, and the ingratitude of returning all our kindness to you in this way.”

“ Don’t you be afraid; Cis and me, we’ll stand by you,” were the words that Olive was repeating to herself with a throb of renewed hope.

“Yes, I will eat my dinner, Mrs. Lenhouse. I have been thankful for some sleep. I cannot repent for what I have not done,” she answered with quiet dignity. And Mrs,

Leiihouse went down again, locking the door after her; and she told Pen that she never could have imagined “such boldness,” “ such stubbornness.”

Dick having carefully pushed back his chest of drawers and drawn the curtain, hopped away to find Cis, and the two rough little heads were bent close together on the old window-seat for some minutes. Then with a face full of excitement Cis hurried away downstairs into the stable-yard. He hung about while the groom was saddling his pony; he was very much afraid that his father might return and take him for a ride, his mother had said that this was possible.

He had promised Dick to think of everything, and to take great care for fear his intention should be discovered; so he rode slowly down the drive and through the lodge gates. But once on the highroad he started at a gallop, which he seldom slackened till he reached the hill leading towards the Winchester Barracks.

Presently he saw a horseman coming towards him, and gave a shout of delighted greeting.

“ Captain Keith! Captain Keith!” he cried excitedly.

“Well, youngster, what is- the matter with you?” asked Keith with amusement. “ You look something like John Gilpin. What a state your pony is in! Do you know, you ought not to ride so fast I believe you have galloped all the way in?”

“ Yes, I have,” replied Cis, in no way abashed. “ I was looking for you,” he continued eagerly. He had now recovered his breath, and was prepared to tell his story. “ Come back with me, don’t let us waste any time!” and he turned his pony. .

“What has happened?” asked Keith in some surprise.

“I’ll tell you; only come with me. Miss Maclvor is in dreadful trouble, and Dick says he is quite sure you are the man to help her. Dick and I will stand by her, that I can tell you! And if she’s sent to prison we’ll go too!” exclaimed Cis eagerly.

“To prison! My dear boy, what do you mean?” asked Keith, much entertained. This must be some joke he thought, got up by the boys.

“ It is nothing to laugh at,” said Cis solemnly. “ Pen and papa and mama say that Miss Maclvor has stolen a miniature from the drawing-room, and that they found it in her box! . . .”

Keith uttered an indignant exclamation. He was grave enough now.

“ She says,” continued Cis, “that the miniature is her own. I must speak very slowly, because I promised Dick. She says she has had it all her life, and Flora never tells stories. I am sure she never does; Dick and I are sure. She says she has never told anyone of having a miniature but you, and that you won’t remember it. Dick says you will. She says she teld you she had it the day she travelled with you, and she lost her purse. She says she told you then she had no watch, but a miniature. You do remember it, don’t you?” added Cis anxiously, as he came to the end of his long speech with a sigh of relief.

Keith had not interrupted him, he saw that the boy was afraid of forgetting all he had promised to say.

“ Perfectly. I remember it perfectly,” he now answered, and the tone of his voice had changed. Cis read the anger and indignation written on his strong face, and it rejoiced his heart “You’ll come at once, won’t you?” he cried joyfully.

“ Certainly I’ll come at once, and say whatever you like,” answered Keith sternly, and he put his horse to a sharp trot, and Cis’s pony had to resume its gallop.

They rode fast, and said little till they were within sight of Barrington Court,

“Did Miss Maclvor know you were coming to me?” Keith then asked.

“No, she didn’t know it; it was Dick told me to come. He said it was the only thing to do. It was Dick told me about the miniature. She is locked up in her room, and Dick got to see her through her cupboard for a minute, but then he heard somebody coming and he had to hurry away,” explained Cis.

Locked—her door locked! Keith’s indignation nearly overmastered him. “ Then your parents did not know you came to me?”

“ Oh, no; they would be awfully angry. And papa will punish me I know, but I don’t care,” said Cis heroically.

“I was coming to call on your mother this afternoon, and intended to ask to see Miss Maclvor, to tell her of a letter I have received from my brother in St Petersburg. He sends a message from some people who know her there. Now perhaps if I do this, I shall hear of all this—this trouble.” Keith hesitated, he had been conning over his position with some anxiety. It would not be fair to Miss Maclvor to give any cause for gossip connecting his name with hers.

“Mrs. Lenhouse might tell me all about the miniature herself, and I could put it right at once without mentioning you?”

“ That would be a capital plan,” said Cis with some relief. “ But you are quite sure it will be all right, and she’ll be let out at once, and you’ll make them give it back to her? Dick says she loves it awfully.”

“Yes, I promise to make it quite right; everyone will be sorry to have made such a terrible mistake,” said Keith sternly. “ Meet me on the road as I come away, and I’ll tell you all about it. Shake hands, old fellow!” and he gave the little paw outstretched towards him a hearty shake.

“ I see that you are a brave fellow, and will always try to stand up for your friends,” he continued. Cis was mightily pleased.

“ It was Dick, it was Dick too! He thought of it, only he couldn’t come himself!” he said colouring, and then he drew up his pony, and Captain Keith rode on towards the house, after a parting injunction to his little companion to walk his pony up and down till he was cool. It would never do to take him to the stable “ in that state.”

Ushered into the drawing-room, Captain Keith found Mrs. Lenhouse and Pen sitting with their work. As he looked at their placid faces, he almost fancied that Cis had wished to hoax him. He felt that he could hardly control his own agitation to ask politely for Colonel Lenhouse, whose disappearance from the dinner-table the evening before had caused uneasiness to his friends. '

After listening to a reassuring account of the colonel and a few other platitudes, he said (he hoped very calmly) that one of the objects of’his visit was to see Miss Maclvor, and -give her a message of remembrance from some old friends at St. Petersburg, who had been delighted to hear of her again from his brother.

Pen looked meaningly at her mother, and there was an uneasy silence. The colonel had told them that he did not wish the subject of Miss Maclvor’s disgrace mentioned to anyone. But Pen was by no means pleased to find that Captain Keith had been sufficiently interested in the governess to make her the subject of a letter to his brother, and was maliciously determined that he at any rate should hear everything.

“I am sorry to say you cannot see Miss Maclvor. She—” began Mrs. Lenhouse mysteriously.

“ I am sure, mama,” broke in Pen, “ we might tell Captain Keith. He has always been so kind to Miss Maclvor, and he would not say anything to anyone else, I am sure.” And hardly waiting for her mother’s assent, Pen went on: .

“ You remember the miniatures I showed you the other night you were here! Well, yesterday I missed the little girl in the blue frock—the one you admired so much, and it was found in Miss Maclvor’s room in her box, wrapped up in paper. She evidently intended taking it away with her; she was going the end of next week for her holiday. Papa has—”

“ But how did she explain it, there must be some mistake?” broke in Keith impatiently.

‘ Oh, she calmly said it was her own, and that she had had it all her life. But of course she will say anything. . . . It is perfectly absurd! As if two miniatures could be so exactly alike that we should mistake them! Besides, is it likely she would have anything of the kind?” said Pen in scornful tones.

“ But I happen to know that Miss Maclvor had a miniature!” exclaimed Keith, trying to speak calmly. “She told me she had one. It is quite possible for two miniatures to be alike, if painted at the same date. They may be the work of the same artist. You should not lightly make such a dreadful accusation, Miss Lenhouse.”

“ No doubt when she told you that she was already intending to take it,” sneered Pen.

“ No, Miss Lenhouse,” returned Keith sharply. “ That’s impossible, for she told me of it on her way here the day she came. I was at Waterloo Station, and saw her in distress over the loss of her purse. I got her a railway ticket, and afterwards in talking over with her what she might have done if I had not helped her, she explained that she had no watch to have left as a pledge with the station-master, as I said I had once done under like circumstances, but that she had a miniature in her hag. And I remember telling her that that would have done equally well”

“My dear Pen, did you ever hear of this before? Did you ever hear her say that she had met Captain Keith in this way?” exclaimed Mrs. Lenhouse in much astonishment. ' “No, of course not!” returned Pen, who was now very angry. “She was much too sly to tell us anything of the sort I wonder if she really lost her purse, or if it was an invention. Besides, this is certainly our miniature. I cannot make a mistake in a thing I have seen all my life, or ever since I can remember. She may have another, but this is certainly ours!”

“Will you send for her, Mrs. Lenhouse?” said Keith turning to that lady, and with difficulty controlling his indignation. “ Send for her and she will explain it all It is too dreadful for anyone to lie under such a cruel charge, and not he able to defend oneself. Miss Lenhouse calls her sly, which is unnecessary. Why should she have mentioned the loss of her purse to you?”

Keith was by this time so angry that he could not hut betray the keen interest he took in the matter. He felt that he could not trust himself to speak to Pen again, and fortunately, at this juncture, the colonel arrived on the scene.

He looked very black when he heard what was the subject under discussion.

“I did not wish this unhappy affair spoken of,” he explained to Keith in annoyed tones. “ I don’t wish to ruin the poor girl. Perhaps she is suffering from kleptomania. Who can tell? I shall ship her quietly back to Paris to her friends, and nothing need be said.”

Then Keith repeated again the story of the railway journey, and Miss Maclvor’s assertion that she possessed a miniature which she greatly valued. .

The colonel shrugged his shoulders and tried to look unconcerned. “ That,” he said “ was no doubt a figment of her imagination. She is evidently an hysterical, dreamy girl, who ends by believing her own fancies. Very romantic fancies, no doubt. . . Well, Keith, as we have taken you into our confidence so far,” he continued confidentially, “ I will tell you more. But I am sure you will be silent. As I said before, I do not wish to injure the poor girl—the miniature is Only part of this ugly business. Some little time ago I missed a five-pound note. . . Of course I have no proofs, but last night when I came home at an earlier hour than I was expected, who should I find in my study but Miss Maclvor. . . And, well—I have not even told my wife this before—her hand was actually in one of my drawers, or at any rate she had opened it.”

The colonel corrected himself with the air of a man who was very anxious not to exaggerate. “ And what is more,” he added impressively, “it was not a drawer I expect other people to open.”

Both Mrs. Lenhouse and Pen exclaimed indignantly in a breath, “There, Captain Keith, what do you say now? ” Keith kept his self-control, he had determined not to lose it. He would not betray himself. Nor did he know truly, till that minute the impression Olive had made on him; how much he had thoughtrof her. Was his idol shattered! Did he believe one word that was being said to him! He did not know. But he could not express disbelief in the colonel’s circumstantial narration. The usages of society prevented it, unless he wished to give Colonel Lenhouse the lie in his own house. He must keep silence.

“You will send her back to Paris, you say!” he said quietly. “ Has she any friends there! I think not.”

“Yes, she has one friend there, I know,” asserted the colonel. “ Come and look at the miniature. You will see that the setting is the same, so it is quite impossible there should be a mistake.”

And feeling it a relief to move, Keith followed the colonel across the room to a small table, on which a good many miniatures were lying.

“There it is,” said the colonel; “no doubt you will remember it?”

Keith took up the one indicated; he remembered it well.

“ It appears to be the same that I saw the other night; it is very like it; but there might be differences I should not notice. The setting is certainly the same as the others,” he said reluctantly, after some minutes’ examination. “ But I should like to see Miss Maclvor, I should like to hear what she says. I have a message for her from friends at St. Petersburg, as I have already told Mrs. Lenhouse. They might befriend her. I wish to give her my brother’s message.”

“It.would be too painful for her,” said the colonel, who was much alarmed at the request. “ I hardly think it is kind to oblige her to see you after all this. She shall have any message you like to leave for her.”

They were all still standing by the table, and had been so engrossed that they had not heard Janet come in. An exclamation of surprise from her, as she caught sight of the miniature still in Keith’s hand, was the first notice they had of her presence.

“Why, how did it come back! Why did she send it back?” she exclaimed, pointing to the miniature.

“What are you talking about? What do you mean?” said Pen impatiently.

“ You had better go back to the schoolroom, Janet,” said her father sharply. But Janet had no idea of being snubbed, and she took no notice of either remark.

“ Why, Ada says in her letter to me that she took that miniature to wear at the theatricals. She says she quite forgot to tell mama that she had taken it, and I am to tell her. Don’t you remember, Pen, you asked me if I had touched it yesterday? Why did she send it back? The theatricals do not come off till to-night, and Ada says in her letter that the miniature of the little blue girl will be such an improvement to her dress of a lady-in-waiting!” Janet spoke very fast, and her auditors looked as they were, mystified.

Captain Keith was the first to speak.

“There, I told you you were mistaken!” he said triumphantly. “ This is Miss Maclvor’s own miniature, and not yours!”

The faces round him were a study, but he was too eager to notice them much, though it struck him that the Lenhouses were rather disconcerted than pleased at Janet’s communication. But then it was naturally annoying to have made such a dreadful mistake.

“Isn’t that ours?” asked Janet in much astonishment. Then taking it from Keith’s hand she exclaimed, “Why, no, of course not. Her eyes are brown, and ours are blue. I remember we used to say they were like Pen’s. How very odd! Why, the dress is exactly like, so is the frame. The face isn’t quite like. I see a difference. Whose is this? Did you say it was Miss Maclvor’s?”

The question was addressed to Keith, and he answered it, trying hard to steady his voice, for his anger was rising every minute.

“ Yes, it is Miss Maclvor’s, and I think it ought to he returned to her at once. It is quite terrible for her—”

“That’s it, is it? That’s why she is ill! That’s why you have shut her in all day! How cruel, how wicked of you, Pen! You said she had taken our miniature! I’ll never forgive you! How horrid, how wicked!”

Janet’s indignation choked her, and she began to sob. Keith could have hugged her on the spot.

“Go out of the room at once, Janet. I will not allow you to speak to your sister in that way,” said her mother severely.

But the colonel did not wish to lose sight of his youngest daughter in her present state of indignation. He could not trust her obedience. He made a sign to his wife to keep quiet, and when Janet dashed away he called her back imperatively.

“ A mistake has been made—a most unfortunate mistake,”, he said loftily. He had again been startled out of his equanimity by hearing that Olive really possessed this miniature, which was so strangely like the other. How could such a coincidence be explained?

Keith here produced a letter from his pocket, and Colonel Lenhouse was afraid he was again going to press to see Miss Maclvor, but he was mistaken. Keith felt that he could not trust himself to see her in his present frame of mind.

“ Will you please give Miss Maclvor this letter,” he said, turning to Mrs. Lenhouse. “ It will interest her, and you can return it to me when she has done with it We shall meet to-morrow, no doubt, at Hurseley. She will like to hear of her old friends.”

He had determined to ignore the imputations under which Olive still lay, but Colonel Lenhouse again returned to the subject.

“Of course I shall say nothing more,” he remarked airily. “ She will return to Paris, and find employment there. We could not possibly give her a recommendation after what I told you; but we shall say nothing, of course we shall say nothing.”

Keith shook hands silently. He could not trust himself to speak. He was thankful to find himself on his horse once more, and then remembered his promise to Cis. Did he believe this story of the Lenhouses?—certainly not! He told himself that he believed nothing against Miss Maclvor; but his heart was as heavy as lead.

CHAPTER XXII.

COLONEL LENHOUSE IS ANGRY.

ON the highroad, but not far from the lodge gates, Keith met the two boys, who had been waiting for him somewhat impatiently. Dick was in his donkey-chair.

Keith dismounted to speak to him. The poor little fellow’s face was very white, and he had evidently been crying.

“It’s all right, dear Dick!” said Keith tenderly, as he took the thin hand outstretched to him between his own. He did not forget that it was this little hand which had been Olive’s only succour in time of need.

“What did you say? Did you tell them I came for you?” asked Cis eagerly, who was beginning to feel a little uneasy at the thought of facing his angry father.

“ No, there was no need for doing so. Janet will tell you all about it. Your sister Ada had taken the miniature with her,” answered Keith. At that moment he was wishing he had been braver, and had insisted on seeing Olive, and hearing where she would find a refuge.

“But she’ll go, I know she’ll go,” said Dick sorrowfully, as if in answer to these thoughts; and Keith could not contradict him. She must go, but where? And there was this horrible accusation hanging over her. It maddened him to think of it. What could he do? Had she a friend to go to in Paris? His mind was full of angry misgivings with regard to the conduct of the Lenhouses. Nothing, he told himself, could excuse their accusation about the miniature, in face of Miss Maclvor’s assurance that it was her own. No doubt she could explain everything, and he had not given her the chance. With sudden determination he drew out a pocket-book, and tearing a page from it, wrote on one side—

“ Mrs. Griffiths, Ivy Lodge, near Kingshridge, South Devon;” and on the other, “Go to this lady. You will find her expecting you. She will give you a hearty welcome. Do not he afraid.— M. K”

“Give her that,” he said, putting the slip of paper into Dick’s hand, “ and tell her—tell her that I have heard everything; mind, say everything.”

And shaking hands heartily with the boys, but feeling quite unable to say more, Keith remounted.

Dick put the slip of paper carefully into his waistcoat pocket. “We must not read it, Cis; it’s for Flora, you know,” he said, when his brother expressed his curiosity. “ Make haste home now. I want to give it to her as quickly as possible.”

Olive had spent the afternoon in packing. Whatever happened, she told herself, her things must be packed, and she must leave Barrington Court at once. The occupation did her good, and her spirits rose again. Dick’s cheering words had comforted her, and she was now fully determined to call on Captain Keith to support her by his testimony that she had the miniature in her possession when she arrived at Barrington. The sense of wrong inflicted on her had roused her spirit. She was much less afraid of a prison than of Colonel Lenhouse’s assumption the night before, that she Was mad. Nothing should induce her again to refer to her early recollections. She deeply regretted that those unlucky words had escaped her.

She had finished her work, and was beginning to feel very cold and exhausted, for it was a chilly evening, and she had not been inclined to eat much dinner, when again she heard the tap on the cupboard door, which announced Dick’s presence. No one had been near her all the afternoon, and it was a welcome sound.

Dick told her of the expedition Cis had made into Winchester, and of Captain Keith’s visit, and all Captain Keith had told him. He had not yet seen Janet. Then he gave Olive the scrap of paper, and watched the colour come back to her face again as she read it.

“ How kind and good of him,” said Olive, repeating the words aloud. Tears were in her eyes. Here at least she had found a friend. And Dick, dear Dick, how could she thank him enough for his ready help, and Cis tool She begged Dick to thank him. She wondered how much Captain Keith had been told. Had he heard her called a thief and an adventuress?

‘ He said, tell her I know everything—everything.’

Dick repeated his message very faithfully.

Then he questioned her eagerly. What was she going to do? Must she really go away, even if everybody begged her pardon? This was Dick’s own idea and way out of the dilemma; if everybody begged her pardon she might forgive them.

For the first time she now told him the story of the night before. She had determined to mention the drawer to no one unless Colonel Lenhouse did so. Without betraying the strange uncertainty of her parentage, she could not explain the recollections which had made her look for it.

“ I had no business to go to your father’s study, Dick.

I was wrong there, and everything is against me; but you, I know, will trust me. I was doing no harm. Of course I never touched the five-pound note your father says he has lost, or ever saw it. The only things I have touched were the hooks. I have looked into many of them,” she concluded sadly, and Dick pressed her hand to his lips. He would not let her blame herself.

“ What harm was there in your going there to look at the books? You had not been told not to go,” he said eagerly. “Cis and I will never believe you touched anything, and Janet won’t either.”

“ Your father said he should speak to me at four o’clock, and it is long past that. I think you had better go, dear Dick,” said Olive, drawing him close to her as she spoke.

“Will you come in to-night when I am in bed, and tell me what father says to you, and what you are going to do?” pleaded Dick sadly.

And Olive promised. A few minutes afterwards she fancied she heard footsteps coming along the passage, and Dick hopped softly away.

It was not a false alarm. The colonel’s voice was presently to be heard outside her door, telling her to follow him to the study. And Olive nerved herself for the interview by reading over once more Keith’s message.

Great had been Colonel Lenhouse’s wrath and alarm at the turn affairs had taken. He had controlled his anger in Keith’s presence; but directly he had left the house it broke forth, and in violent language he upbraided his wife and daughter. What did they mean by deliberately disobeying his commands?

He stormed till his wife cried, and even Pen was frightened. It was not often the colonel so forgot himself. What had been done was the very thing he had carefully guarded against. Now all the world would talk, and the sympathy of outsiders would he enlisted in Olive’s favour. Keith had been quite ready to disbelieve everything.

This, of course, was not what he said to his wife, and they argued at cross purposes, as she and Pen in vain strove to convince him that Captain Keith was the last person likely to talk of Miss Maclvor’s ill-doings, or to set any reports going about her. .

When at length the colonel regained his self-control, and recognized the futility of talking about what could not be undone, he read through the letter which had been given him for Olive.

Mr. Keith wrote evidently to answer questions made by his brother. He said that a young lady he knew well had a most affectionate remembrance of Miss Maclvor as an old playmate. Then he went on to speak of the Halls as her uncle and aunt, of their great wealth and high social standing, and of the sad collapse of their fortunes. Many people still remembered them well. They had been held in high esteem in the English community in St. Petersburg, and had been much regretted. Miss Boss’s family had been in England at the time of Mr. Hall’s failure, and had so lost right of his widow and niece, whom Vera Ross remembered as a tall angular girl, who promised to be handsome, and was talked of as likely to be a great heiress.

The letter ended with a message to Olive from Miss Boss, begging her to write to her, and Mr. Keith added that he advised Miss Maclvor to do so, as Vera Boss was quite bent on befriending her old playfellow. She talked of inviting her to spend a year with her in St. Petersburg, that they might renew their friendship. Her parents were very rich and very kind people, who were ready to accede to all their daughter’s wishes.

In one way it was a tranquilizing letter to the colonel.

Olive Bethune could have had no uncle and aunt of the name of Hall. Then this invitation to St. Petersburg might be accepted. If Miss Maclvor were once out of England he could forget her. On the other hand, it was again a reminder that she was not actually friendless, and that he must be careful how he dealt with her. In short, Colonel Lenhouse’s state of mind was far from enviable.

All his plans had been put to rout by the fact of Keith being in possession of every accusation he could bring against Olive.

The strange likeness between the miniatures had been another blow to him. A net seemed to be woven round him which it was impossible to break through. At one moment it seemed wise to prosecute Olive for the supposed theft of the five-pound note, and take the chance of what he would be able to prove. At the next it seemed safer to let her leave the house without another word on the subject, and trust to her friendlessness to ensure her obscurity.

Her assertion that she believed herself to be Olive Bethune had been torturing him all day. How much did she know of the story of the lost heiress? He groaned in spirit when he remembered that he had no proof to show her of the child’s death.

Now he should have to return her miniature, and to give her Keith’s letter. He dared not even delay doing this. It would be a fatal mistake, too, to appear frightened. It was better perhaps not to allude again to the statement she had made. By so doing he might admit uneasiness on the subject. So after long pondering he determined to make one more attempt to frighten her into returning to Paris. He would hold the threat of exposure over her; but he would be careful not to drive her to extremity, or he should have her appealing to Keith.

When he felt sufficiently calm, and the lateness of the hour made further delay unadvisable, he went upstairs and summoned Olive to his study.

Even when he entered that room he had hardly decided what he should say or do. But the miniature must be returned at once; there was no object in delay.

“ Here is your miniature, Miss Maclvor,” he said, with lofty condescension, as he handed it to her. “ A mistake was made. The mistake was Pen’s. It is rather like one of ours, whieh Ada very improperly took away with her without telling us. I hardly feel inclined to apologize; your conduct last night gave a warrant to any suspicions.”

Olive received her much-prized miniature with a throb of joy. But she showed no sign of pleasure or surprise; her perfect calmness tried the colonel’s nerves. .

“ I again offer to let you return to Paris,” he continued, “and in case of such return to pass over in silence the events of last night, which you must feel, if known, would blacken your character irretrievably.”

The colonel stopped short of adding the alternative. It would be awkward to be defied, and he read defiance in Olive’s eyes.

“I told you, Colonel Lenhouse, that I did not wish to return to Paris,” she said firmly. “My friend Madame Delabere is not there; she has gone to Arles. By and by I may go to her if I fail to find employment in England, but not at present.”

“No one would take you without a recommendation from us, and you could not expect one. Consider what you are about; you will soon be starving,” said the colonel sternly.

“ Here is a cheque for your quarter’s salary due next week,” he added. “ I must beg in any case that you leave this house early to-morrow, and remember that you leave it under grave suspicion of theft—a suspicion from which I see no chance of your clearing yourself unless you can prove yourself subject to hallucinations.”

Olive was silent. She dared not enter into a war of words with Colonel Lenhouse on that subject. Her one longing now was to get out of his sight, out of his house. Her fancies might be hallucinations till she could prove them true.

“ And where are you going if not to Paris?” he now asked sharply. Her silence impressed him more than any words could do.

“ I am going to Kingsbridge, in Devonshire,” answered Olive promptly, thankful that she remembered the address without hesitation.

The colonel was a little relieved by the answer. If she had friends in Devonshire it was natural that she should go to them. He had been dreadfully afraid of her applying to the Fosters for help. He knew that she must have their address in Wiltshire.

“You.are going to friends, I suppose!” he questioned, speaking more courteously than he had hitherto done.

“ I am going to a lady who will receive me, but whom I do not know personally,” returned Olive steadily.

“ I must insist on having your address. If you remain in England I cannot lose sight of you. I may discover other losses,” he said, renewing his bullying tone. He was growing angry. If he could only break this proud girl’s spirit he would. Her calmness nearly drove him frantic.

Olive gave the address, only omitting the name of the lady, which omission the colonel did not notice.

“Captain Keith was here to-day, and he gave me this letter for you to read. You had better do so at once, it will not take you long.” He wished to gain time to consider his last words, and to watch Olive’s face, in which he could read nothing.

He longed to ask her of her former life, but was afraid to express curiosity. Mr. Keith’s letter, as I said before, had quieted his fears somewhat. The Halls were called her uncle and aunt. No mystery was hinted at in her past As Olive read her face lighted up with pleasure. She remembered her old playmate well It cheered her to think that she too was not forgotten.

“ Your relations seem to be remembered in St. Petersburg,” said the colonel, suddenly breaking the silence.

“ Oh, yes, my uncle was so beloved, and he knew everybody. I don’t think he could be soon forgotten,” exclaimed Olive eagerly. “And my aunt, too—everyone who came near her loved her.”

“ I advise you strongly to accept the invitation which it seems you are likely to have,” said the colonel majestically.

“ I should like nothing better,” answered Olive frankly. She was so full of delight at the thought of seeing her old friend again that for one moment she forgot the present trouble.

Colonel Lenhouse began to feel reassured. She would certainly be afraid of these friends hearing of the charge made against her.

“What time will you be ready to start to-morrow, Miss Maclvor?” he asked, as she handed him back Mr. Keith’s letter. “ You must understand that there can be no delay in your leaving this house; you have abused my hospitality too far.”

“I will leave by the first train that goes to London, Colonel Lenhouse. If you please tell me what time it goes, and to what address I can send for a fly,” replied Olive icily. Her face, which had flushed with pleasure, was again very white, but there was no sign of fear in her eyes. The colonel met her proud glance and cowered. He did not dare insult her again; he felt that she might be dangerous if driven to bay.

He said that a carriage should be ready to take her to the station at 8 AM., and Olive swept out of the room, which held so many painful memories, without a glance behind her, and the colonel felt all his fears revive.

In her bed-room Olive found her tea waiting for her, and she had not returned to it many minutes when she heard the key turn in the lock, and knew that she was again a prisoner.

But the humiliation could not take from her the joy of knowing that she still had a friend in Captain Keith. The thought of him, and the pleasure of hearing again of her old playfellow, drove away all painful recollections for a time, and wrapping herself up in a warm shawl, she watched from her window the evening shadows grow darker with a feeling akin to exhilaration. She was ready to go; she longed to get out of what now seemed to her as a prison, into the new life all unknown to her, which might hold joy and good things; only there was the night to be gone through first. She did not wish to sleep; she longed for daylight.

Soon after eight she told herself that Dick would be in bed, and she must fulfil her promise to him. She must wish him good-bye. Poor Dick! She was sorry for him; he would miss her.

When she reached his room she found Cis by his brother’s side. The warm-hearted little “ pickle ” had crept across the passage from his own room, and his greeting was boisterously affectionate. Dick said very little, but he made Olive sit on the bed and hold his hand.

Cis was full of his afternoon’s exploit, and Olive had to hear, though not unwillingly, all Captain Keith had said, and how “ awfully angry ” he had looked. She let him talk on as long as she dared, but when dinner was over Mrs. Lenhouse sometimes came upstairs to see that Cis, who was given to many pranks, was safe in bed. So at last she told them she must say good-bye. She had already told them of her intention to leave the house the next morning, and of her destination. Then she sent her love to Janet The boys had not seen her since the morning, she had been rude to Pen, and was shut up in her room—so their mother had told them— when she had come to the schoolroom at teartime, and Olive guessed that Janet too, had taken her part.

It was a sorrowful leave-taking. Dick broke down utterly, and Cis sobbed in sympathy. Olive was very glad when it was over, and she heard from the other side the curtain drawn, the chest of drawers pushed back, and the patter of feet along the passage, which told her that Cis had returned to his room. It would never do for Dick to get into trouble on her account. As it was, she was afraid he would make himself ill again, and in that case he would miss her more than ever.

Bed-time came, and the excitement dying away, she began to know how weary and exhausted she really was; but she felt that she could not go to sleep without communicating with someone. She must know that she would be called in good time on the morrow.

She rang her bell, and after rather a long pause someone came to her door and asked her what she wanted. The voice told her that it was Staples.

“ Please ask Emma to call me at six to-morrow morning,” said Olive.

“ Don’t you go ringing the bell again, and bringing me up for nothing,” said the maid insolently. “ You’ll be called in good time, you may be sure of that, and you’ll have to be ready to go at eight The sooner you are out of the house the better.”

Tears of mortification rose to poor Olive’s eyes. They were ready at hand, for the parting with Dick had made her very sad. Silence could be her only refuge.

She put everything quite ready for the morning, corded with some difficulty the old-fashioned boxes she had brought with her, and feeling quite spent with all she had gone through, was thankful to get into bed and forget herself in sleep.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A PEACEFUL REFUGE.

KEITH rode back to Winchester almost as fast as he had ridden out, for he was anxious to catch the afternoon post. He must write and prepare his aunt, for such was the relationship between him and Mrs. Griffiths, for the visitor he was sending her.

Very tumultuous were the feelings that were tormenting him. He had no hesitation in standing as Olive’s friend, in disbelieving everything that might be said against her until it was proved; but was he prepared to go further? was he prepared to acknowledge even to himself the true state of his feelings towards her?

If she had been in a different position, would he not long ago have found out that he loved her? He told himself now that he did not mind her position in the least. It would be imprudent to marry a penniless girl, whoever she might be; but other men so married. He had always thought himself . too prudent to commit such a folly. If he did it, it would be with his eyes open, knowing all he would have to give up. He would have to go to India, probably have to leave his regiment What would his aunt say? It was selfish not to think a little of her.

Then there was this horrible accusation hanging over this girl, whom he now knew that he loved; that must be cleared up. Having heard it at all made it almost impossible that he should still think of her. Then he pictured her as she had appeared to his delighted eyes the night of the ball—a queen among women, filling her difficult position with gentle, well-bred dignity.

Would she accept him? Had he any right to think that he had won her love? She had been friendly, it is true, but only simply friendly.

Was this all a fabrication of the Lenhouses? But it was impossible to think that the colonel had lied on purpose. What could be the explanation of the ugly story?

What would his aunt think of her? Would she guess at once the reason of the interest he took in the forlorn girl accused of theft (the word made his blood boil), whom he was sending to her protection?

He wrote his letter very carefully; he did not wish any hint of his feelings to escape him. After all, he had said and done nothing which could not be accounted for by kindly feelings of friendship, and the chivalry which all men owed to the weak and oppressed.

The old lady who received Keith’s letter the following day was very pleasant to look at as she sat at luncheon in her old-fashioned, low-ceilinged dining-room. She smiled over the letter more than once, but she did not look at all disturbed; and when, a little later, a maid came into the room, she told her in very matter-of-fact tones that she expected a visitor, who might arrive that afternoon, and that a room must be prepared for her.

“Michael always stood up for the distressed ever since he was a boy,”she mused; “and this time it is a distressed damsel.” And then she read over the letter again. Keith had given a sketch of Olive’s history as he knew it, in the briefest possible terms; the story of the miniature, too, he told with much indignation; and then he had added, “I must tell you that the Lenhouses say more than this against her, things not proved, but which require some explanation. I know, my dear old auntie, you love to succour those in need, and that you will not grumble at me for sending you this poor girl, who has not a friend in England. A little rest with you will do her good, and give her the chance of going to these people at St. Petersburg who, Robert says, remember her, or of making some other arrangement; and I feel sure that personally you will like her.”

“ I have long wanted a companion myself, and have often told Michael so. But he has never liked the idea; he says he must have me all to himself; and I could not send a companion away every time he was expected,” said the old lady to herself. And then she fell into a reverie, and wondered what this girl who was so suddenly cast on her hospitality ' would be like.

That she was accused of being a thief was rather dreadful, and Mrs. Griffiths hoped that she had not kleptomania. The thought disturbed her not a little.

Her nephew did not say what she was like or her age, but he had evidently taken a great interest in her even before the unfortunate circumstance which had induced him to come forward as her champion, or he would not have written to his brother about her. So the old lady shrewdly argued to herself. .

Michael and Robert Keith had been left orphans when mere boys, and had found a home with their mother’s elder sister, who, a widow and childless herself, had given them a mother’s affection. •

Mrs. Griffiths loved both her nephews, and was very proud of them, but the being she loved best in the world was her nephew Michael. The boys had small private fortunes, and had early decided on their professions. They had both fulfilled the hopes she had centred in them. While other people’s boys seemed often a torment, hers had been only a pleasure. So she told herself very often.

Her home was still their home, though they had long been men; and whenever they liked to come to her, they had a hearty welcome. For some years she had been expecting to hear that they intended to make homes for themselves. Her nephews told her that she was inclined to be a match-maker. But she said no, she was no match-maker; only very anxious that her future nieces should be worthy of her nephews.

Olive saw no one the morning she left Barrington Court; Mrs. Lenhouse had taken precautions to ensure the boys not getting up. It was raining hard, the landscape was all blotted out by fog; she hardly glanced at the old house as she left it, nor did she look out of the carriage window during the drive. It was with a feeling of intense relief that she found herself in the train and moving out of the station.

She had a nervous dread of seeing Colonel Lenhouse again; he might even now stop her! At Winchester she looked out for the first time. Its empty dreariness depressed her. No one was to be seen, no one seemed travelling but herself; and where was she going? how should she ever reach a haven of rest! She was so tired, so utterly tired. She travelled alone till she was very near London, when a lady got into the carriage; and she took courage to ask her for information with regard to her journey, which her fellow-traveller was both able and willing to give her.

All the afternoon and evening Mrs. Griffiths, knitting in her arm-chair, pondered over her nephew’s letter, and speculated on the personality of her expected guest.

It was a dripping wet day, and no visitor came to break in upon her thoughts. A large gray-and-white cat lay on the rug, but she was as contented as her mistress and never moved.

When time came to prepare for dinner, Mrs. Griffiths told the maid to beg the cook to delay a little; and then she sat in the firelight with folded hands and waited, feeling just a little anxious and nervous. The front door was on the other side of the house, so she did not hear the fly drive up, nor did she hear the bell. And there Olive found her sitting in the firelight when she was ushered in, and to her tired eyes the sweet-looking, high-bred old lady, with her white curls, in her black dress, white shawl, and old-fashioned cap, seemed the embodiment of peace and rest.

“Welcome to Ivy Lodge!” she said cheerily, meeting Olive with outstretched hands; and at the sound of the kind words the girl’s eyes filled with tears and her lips trembled. But the old lady could see none of these signs of emotion; she could only hear the quiet tones of the voice which said, “Thank you so much, so very much!”

“ Now, my dear, dinner is waiting for us, and you must be hungry. Jane will show you your room,” said Mrs. Griffiths briskly. And Olive followed the maid upstairs, feeling that she had suddenly found a home. After the many humiliations of the day before, it had seemed impossible that anyone again should speak a kind word to her.

A cheerful fire was burning in her room, and everything prepared as for an honoured guest “ Does she know what is said of me, or must I tell her?” she thought sadly. And then her boxes having been uncorded for her, she decided that she could not dine with that beautiful old lady in travel-stained garments; so she put on her evening dress, the only one she possessed.

She was not long in making the change, and her entry into the drawing-room quite startled her hostess, who had fallen into a doze. She looked up in wonder at the tall, queen-like figure in velvet and lace, and guessed her nephew’s secret at once.

Nothing could be more unlike the trembling, oppressed girl she had pictured to herself than this stately lady, with her grave voice and sad eyes. No wonder Michael had attempted no description of her. But had he been wise in becoming her champion! was she worthy of his chivalry! what would it all lead to? The poor old lady had misgivings which she tried in vain to stifle.

During the dinner, however, she kept up the conversation bravely. Olive was almost too tired to talk, and her mind was too full of anxious thoughts to turn easily to lighter subjects She kept wondering what this kind old lady knew of her past history. Had she heard of Colonel Lenhouse’s dreadful accusation! Who was she! She had not mentioned Captain Keith, but to him and to his account of her she owed this welcome. What had he said?

Later, when they reached the drawing-room, Mrs. Griffiths handed Olive an album, telling her that the photographs in it would interest her, as they had been sent by her nephew from St Petersburg.

“Your nephew! Then Captain Keith is your nephew!” exclaimed Olive joyfully, meeting frankly the inquiring glance of a pair of keen blue eyes, so like another pair that she wondered she had not seen the likeness before. “ He has been so good and kind to me, I must be grateful to him all my life long,” she added eagerly. “ But did he tell you what is said of me—did he tell you that Colonel Lenhouse says I stole a five-pound note!”

The ice was broken, Olive’s voice and manner had changed completely. Mrs. Griffiths, watching her face, tried to read it again. In its bright eagerness all the sad lines had disappeared, the dark eyes spoke only of indignant protest “No, my dear,” said the old lady kindly, “he did not tell me that, he left that for you to tell me; he told me only about a miniature which you were accused wrongfully of taking. Suppose you tell me the whole story as we sit by the fire. I am sure you are too tired to work or read this evening. Here, put this screen to shade your face, and come and sit close beside me.” And she patted Olive’s hand with a reassuring little caress.

Olive burst into tears. She had so craved for sympathy and kind words through the long months she had been in England, and now when she least expected them they came.

“ How good and kind you are!” she said, when in a few minutes she regained her composure; and at once she determined to tell Mrs. Griffiths everything, to hide nothing of the strange story of her life.

If this dear, gentle old lady, with her white hair and beautiful face, did not believe in her, who would? She had intended before telling her story to wait till she had found proofs of her parentage, but in justice to herself she could wait no longer. It was better for Mrs. Griffiths to think that she laboured under a delusion than to think her a thief.

“ You won’t tell anybody—you promise you won’t telll” she began nervously.

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Griffiths gravely, “ if you trust me with the truth, I do not think you need fear that I should repeat anything you do not wish. I do not like to make promises in the dark.”

Olive raised impulsively the wrinkled hand she held to her lips. “ Forgive me for asking such a promise,” she said humbly. “ But you will understand it when you hear all. I only hope I shall not tire you”

“No, you need not be afraid of that, I am very anxious to hear your own account of yourself. You must remember, I only know what my nephew wrote to me yesterday in a great hurry.”

Olive’s story was a long one. She tried to be clear in her statements but some of them were necessarily confused.

She saw the surprise and bewilderment depicted on Mrs. Griffith’s face, and she fancied that she sometimes read incredulity. At last it came to an end.

“ You don’t disbelieve me?” she said entreatingly, for the old lady was silent. .

“ No, my dear, I don’t disbelieve anything you have said; but I believe you may be deceiving yourself sadly. This child you think you may be, probably died, as you have been told, many years ago.. It may be quite a fancy on your part that you remember that room and that drawer. You see, your head has been full all this time, by your own account, of the uncertainty regarding your own birth, and hearing this story it may have affected your imagination vividly. Imagination plays strange tricks with us. I do not doubt your own belief in ail this for one moment. .. Now,” added Mrs. Griffith’s after a silence, which Olive did not care to break, “let us go over the facts again carefully. You say that you have letters tattooed on your arm. Did you ever hear that this missing child was so tattooed?”

Olive shook her head. “ I have heard so little about her; but I will show them to you. Then I have this miniature— it is like a large locket.”

“It must be strangely like those at Barrington Court,” said Mrs. Griffiths, “or it could hardly have been mistaken.”

“Yes, it must have been very like,” said Olive. “I never saw the miniatures at Barrington, but from what Miss Lenhouse said, it must be almost exactly like. Colonel Lenhouse said it was only ‘ rather like.’ ”

“ Well, that likeness might be accounted for by its being by the same artist; the settings ought not, though, to be alike. It is a curious coincidence,” said Mrs. Griffith thoughtfully.

“Then there is my Bible, with what has always been considered my own name in it; for when I was found by Mrs. Hall, I said my name was ‘ Olive,’ and my mother had gone by the name of ‘ Mrs. Mac.’ It belonged to an Olive Maclvor who lived in 1790. She might have been my grandmother. Then there is the packet of hair, a child’s hair evidently, which I believe was my own; and I have, too, dear auntie’s account of her finding me, and all she could remember about me, with her diary of that year. She wrote it not long before she died, and sealed it up for me to keep. I have never liked to break the seal, but she read it all aloud to me.”

“ That will give the exact date of her finding you, no doubt,” said Mrs. Griffiths, and if that agrees with other dates with regard to Mrs. Bethune, it will be of great importance, but at present we know nothing of her accident or death. Somebody must know what really happened, and the real tenor of Mr. Bethune’s will If the Lenhouses did not take possession of Barrington for nearly five years after Mr. Bethune’s death, the fact proves their having no right to do so, but does not prove that this poor child was alive. It may be as you were told, that it was a very strange will, and that it was accounted for by a delusion of Mr. Bethune’s on the subject of his child’s death, as young Lenhouse said.”

“ I must go to Edinburgh at once,” said Olive. “I must try and find out who Mr. Bethune married, and I must inquire what people have lived there of the name of Maclvor. I have always felt that my mother could not willingly have deserted me that day.”

“ You can find out Mrs. Bethune’s maiden name without going to Edinburgh. There is a much easier way of satisfying yourself on that point. You must find out who were Mr. Bethune’s executors, and the trustees he appointed under his will. They would tell you at once the exact truth, and give you proofs of the child’s death, if such proofs exist,” said Mrs. Griffiths.

“ But how could I possibly find them? I could not ask the Lenhouses anything, I am so afraid of Colonel Lenhouse. He might say I was mad, and put me into an asylum,” said Olive, with a little shudder.

"That’s not so easily done, my dear girl Don’t alarm yourself on that score,” answered the old lady cheerfully. “ You must go to Somerset House and pay a shilling to see Mr. Bethune’s will; that will give you every information.” Mrs. Griffiths smiled at Olive’s puzzled expression, and explained to her how easy this advice would be to follow.

“ Then you don’t think I had better go to Edinburgh,” said Olive, giving up the idea which had filled her imagination so long, somewhat regretfully.

“Certainly not,” answered her hostess with decision. ‘‘ To hear of little Olive Bethune you must do as I tell you. The great point is to find out whether she really died or no, and the executors can alone tell you with authority on what terms Mrs. Lenhouse came into the possession of her brother’s property. You may pursue the inquiries as to your own parentage in Edinburgh later, but if you are Olive Bethune they will not be necessary. You will hear everything in London that you could hear there.”

“ You understand now, dear Mrs. Griffiths, why I wanted you to promise not to tell anyone,” said Olive shyly. “ I cannot hear anybody else to know . . . and perhaps call me an adventuress as Colonel Lenhouse did;” and she coloured painfully at the remembrance of her humiliation.

“Then my nephew knows nothing of this?” said Mrs. Griffiths, meeting the dark eyes, bright now with excitement, with a look of keenest inquiry.

“Indeed no, he knows nothing. I wouldn’t let him hear of it for the world. You will promise now not to tell!” the girl said entreatingly.

“ Yes, I will give the promise now willingly,” said Mrs. Griffiths with a very reassuring smile. “ No one else shall share your confidence, and we two will put our heads together and solve the riddle.”

“ Of coarse I don’t know what Colonel Lenhouse may have told Captain Keith,” remarked Ob've anxiously.

“Don’t trouble yourself about that, my dear. Michael will tell me all he knows when I ask him. You shall give me Mrs. Hall’s account of your adoption to-morrow to read, and show me the miniature. I am a little tired now, and I think I had better have a nap, as I sometimes do of an evening. You go into that arm-chair opposite, and perhaps you will get one too. Now give me a kiss, and let your mind rest a little.”

And with a heart overflowing with gratitude and thankfulness Olive obeyed.

CHAPTER XXIV.

TWO STORIES.

WHEN Keith met Colonel Lenhouse in the hunting-field the next morning, the colonel at once handed him back his brother’s letter, remarking that Miss Maclvor had left Barrington by the first train. The eager interest which he read in Keith’s face was not lost on the colonel, who was watching him anxiously.

“ I only hope she has friends to look after her, and I shall hear no more of her,” continued the colonel. “ I think she is a most dangerous person, and that we, after all, escaped very easily with the trouble and annoyance we have had.”

“What do you mean?” asked Keith sharply. “In what way do you think her dangerous? You own that you have no proof of what you accuse her. She may have meant no harm in going to your study. Even opening a drawer might have been accidental curiosity.”

Keith had wearied himself with trying to find some excuse for Olive’s strange conduct, and was quite determined to ask for an explanation from herself.

“Accidental curiosity!” said the colonel, laughing scornfully. “ Hullo, Keith! you are bound to find excuses for a handsome woman, eh? I should have had Gerald in a frantic state, I suppose, if he had been here. She tried her hand at him too. Dangerous! I may well call her dangerous! A most designing young woman, with a head on her shoulders too. I suppose she knew that Gerald could snap his fingers at me!”

Keith, in a white heat, could hardly control himself to answer carelessly,

“You talk in riddles, colonel I suppose you mean that your son admired Miss Maclvor.”

“My dear fellow, what do you think I found out?—but only since this row began,” said Colonel Lenhouse, dropping his voice to the most confidential tones. “ I found that she used to encourage Gerald to spend his evenings with her up in the schoolroom. You know she never would come downstairs. It was, to say the least, a most improper proceeding. The servants of course began to talk, and his mother got frightened and hurried him out of the house on a visit to his aunt. She very foolishly never told me of this till yesterday, or I should have packed off the young lady at once, and we should have been spared all this trouble. I ought to have inquired more about her before engaging her.

I had only one introduction to her, and that from a lady I knew nothing off.”

“That letter of my brother’s proves that she was what she represented herself to be,” said Keith sternly. How he hated the colonel! '

At the first opportunity he left the field, and rode back to Winchester; and before post-tune he sat down impulsively, and wrote to two old friends, high in place in the War Office, urging his claims to be sent to the Soudan.

He must cure himself as quickly as he could, so he thought sadly. This Olive described by Colonel Lenhouse was not the woman he now knew he had loved, or if he loved her still, he must forget her. She was no wife for him.

The following morning he received a letter from his aunt, telling him of Miss Maclvor's arrival, and of her own perfect faith in the explanation she had given of the unhappy event which had led to her leaving Barrington Court. M rs. Griffiths said she was not at liberty to repeat Miss Maclvor’s statement, adding that she distrusted the Lenhouses utterly. “What sort of people are they? What do you know of them?” she questioned. Miss Maelvor was happy and well, and sent “ grateful remembrances.” She was a very pleasant companion, and she thanked her nephew for his kind thought in sending her such a one.

The sarcasm of the last sentence was lost on Keith.

“ Ah! she is very bewitching,” he thought sadly. “ But it is hardly fair that I should let my poor old aunt be taken in if . . but why should I doubt her! I have only the Lenhouses’ word against her. I have never given her the chance of explaining anything. But why should there he any secret? . . my aunt is shrewd enough. She is not often taken in.”

He went about sadly, and longed to be up and doing and to forget himself. The easy-going life of routine duty was a burden to him in his present state of mind.

A day or two later he happened to meet Mrs. Lenhouse in the town. Now, Mrs. Lenhouse was exceedingly aggrieved at her husband’s constant reproaches with regard to her silence about Gerald, also the house had been much disturbed since Miss Maclvor’s departure—the children had all been in disgrace; Cis was quite unmanageable,—and she dearly liked to air a grievance, but had been forbidden to talk. Captain Keith had already been taken into their confidence. She was delighted to meet him.

“ Well, you heard from the colonel, I know, that Miss Maclvor left us the next morning,” she began. “ I cannot tell you what I have gone through on the subject. We heard of a new governess to-day, but the children are so unhappy at having a new one. I don’t know how they will get on with her. Dick is quite ill. He was so fond of that atrocious young woman! I can call her nothing else. Do you know, I believe she wanted to get up a flirtation with Gerald. One evening when we were out, she allowed him to go up to the schoolroom and sit with her. Of course she pretended that she tried to prevent it, and told him never to come up again. But, as I told her, he would not have gone where he was not welcome! The colonel says if he had heard of it he would have sent her away at once, but that is nonsense! ” Mrs. Lenhouse had now got on her other grievance. “ I am quite sure he would have blamed Gerald, and there would have been a row; but he would never have sent Miss Maclvor away for that. Miss Maclvor was by no means inclined to be found fault with meekly by him or anyone else. And after all, I don’t see how she could have been blamed exactly, as it only happened once; she was barely civil to Gerald as far as I could see. But no doubt she was very sly, and I thought it wise to be on the safe side, for one never can tell the fancies young men may take. It has been a most unfortunate affair altogether, for she really managed the children beautifully ”

Mrs. Lenhouse talked on till she grew breathless, and Keith listened eagerly. Generally Mrs. Lenhouse bored him to extinction. This afternoon he found her most agreeable, and he walked down the High Street, saying little himself, but listening to every word that dropped from her lips.

Colonel Lenhouse had lied to him. But what motive had he for so lying? Keith wondered in vain. He could make no guess at the colonel’s motive, but he knew that his heart was much lighter that evening.

The next morning a missive reached him from the War Office, with orders to be ready to start for the Soudan by a trooper which left England that day week. He read it with a sigh.

Three days ago he would have rejoiced at receiving it, now he was not sure but that he had made a mistake. But there was no time to be lost. Of course he must see his aunt before leaving, and an hour later he was speeding on his way to Devonshire. His musings on the road were not very definite, but he was aware of great impatience to reach his journey’s end. His aunt would he sorry to part with him, and Miss Maclvor . .? Well, he had felt the other day that he never cared to see her again. He was not aware of any such feeling now.

Olive, sitting in the firelight ready for dinner, and waiting for Mrs. Griffiths to come down, was not a little startled when Captain Keith walked in unannounced. He had expected to find his aunt in the room, which was rather dark, and Olive’s exclamation of surprise first made him aware of her presence.

As they shook hands she stammered something, she did not know what, but she meant her words for thanks; and Keith was not more coherent in his disclaimer of them.

The embarrassed tête-à-tête which followed was on no more interesting topics than the weather and his journey.

Then he left the room, saying that he must find his aunt and get ready for dinner, and Olive sank into rather a troubled reverie, wondering bitterly what Captain Keith had heard from Colonel Lenhouse, and what he believed.

At dinner-time Mrs. Griffiths was the liveliest of the party. She was enchanted to see her nephew, and was too accustomed to his sudden appearances to think they needed an explanation.

She watched her guests with some amusement, and a keen enjoyment of the joke it was, for her dear Michael to imagine she was stone-blind!

Later in the evening, at her request, Olive went to the piano and sang song after song, and long before the evening was over Keith knew that he had fallen in love with her over again. Or was it that now for the first time he knew that he really loved her!

Olive made an excuse of feeling tired, and went early to bed. Mrs. Griffiths, she knew, would have much to say to her nephew, and she knew too that she must be the topic of conversation.

She dared not trust herself to explain anything to Captain Keith. She could not do so honestly without telling him what she most wished to conceal.

What could he think of her? He had changed towards her, all his old friendliness was gone.

When Olive had left the room Captain Keith was not slow in asking questions. But first feeling it to be his duty, however odious, he conscientiously told his aunt everything the Lenhouses had asserted about Miss Maclvor, asking anxiously if this account at all tallied with her own.

Mrs. Griffiths acknowledged that it did on certain points, and told the story in her own way, feeling that she did so rather lamely, for she was dreadfully afraid of saying too much.

“But why did she go to the study at all? The fact of her going there you say is true; she must have given you some explanation. Besides, you said in your letter you were not at liberty to repeat what she said. What did you mean by that? And why should she have opened a drawer at all?” asked Keith, who, after Colonel Lenhouse’s untruthful exaggerations the last day he saw him, had been hoping for some much clearer explanation of Olive’s strange conduct.

“Girls are curious, my dear hoy; and she had no one to speak to, nothing to amuse her. She lived a most solitary life, the children her only companions. There was nothing wrong in the curiosity that took her to that room. She never touched anything but the books, and they interested her much. The drawer was one that opened with a spring. It opened under her hand just as Colonel Lenhouse came into the room. It was full of note-books and papers, a secret drawer which she could not be supposed to know anything of. She had no wish to pry into Colonel Lenhouse’s affairs. She touched nothing. She did not put her hand into the drawer. Your friend the colonel behaved very brutally, and at once accused her of stealing a five-pound note. Naturally the poor child was dreadfully frightened, and found it difficult to defend herself.”

Mrs. Griffiths had arranged in her own mind the details of this explanation more than once. They- were all quite true as far as they went, and she felt that she had been imprudent ever to have hinted at a mystery. “Women are curious, my dear,” she said afterwards to Olive, “ but my experience teaches me that they are by no means so inquisitive as menl”

“ That fellow Lenhouse with his pompous airs is a blackguard, I believe. I have proved him to be a liar. There is something or other at the bottom of all this, but I don’t know what,” gaid Keith angrily; and then he proceeded to tell his aunt of the discrepancies between the colonel’s and his wife’s statements.

Mrs. Griffiths had heard from Olive of the episode of Gerald’s visit to the schoolroom, and was as indignant as her nephew at the injustice of the colonel’s insinuations.

She questioned him as to what he knew of the Len-houses, saying she had heard from Olive that they had spent some years in India. -

But Keith could tell her no more than she already knew —the colonel had spent some years of his life in India; Mrs. Lenhouse had inherited the property from a halfbrother, everything .being settled on her eldest son. The colonel was supposed to be living very carefully, and to he putting by for his younger children. He was rather a popular man than otherwise in his county.

There was something queer about Mrs. Lenhouse’s brother. He had quarrelled with his wife, and had made a very curious will The story of the missing heiress did not appear to. have reached him, and Mrs. Griffiths was careful not to arouse any curiosity by her questions.'

“ What does Miss Maclvor intend to do now? Does she intend to remain in England!” Keith asked, speaking as carelessly as he could.

“ Miss Maclvor will stay with me for the present, my dear Michael. You know I have long wished for a companion, and as she is not disagreeable to you, I hope it will not he as objectionable as you imagined it would be not to find me alone,” replied the old lady dryly. “ A companion will be very useful to me,” she continued. “For instance, I have long wished to pay a little visit to London. I have some business to do there, and some old friends I should like to see again. A servant is an inconvenience; I want somebody to go about with me. Directly the weather is more settled Miss Maclvor and I shall stqrt off on this little trip.”

“ Really, you don’t mean to say so?” and the joyful ring in his voice was not lost on his aunt. “ Then do come np at once, it was quite warm to-day. .. I am very glad, very thankful as you like her, hot to leave you alone, dear aunt Mary! ” he went on, stumbling somewhat in his sentences. And then he told her of his appointment, and of the necessity of his leaving England within a week.

Mrs. Griffiths was very much disturbed by the unlooked-for news. But her nephew did not tell her that he had pressed for the appointment. And being a soldier’s wife herself, the call to active service came to her as the simple call of duty, not to be lamented over with many words. Besides, the blow fell more lightly than it would have done a few days before; for her head and heart were very full of Olive’s story, and the shrewd old lady never for a moment doubted the feelings which had prompted her nephew to send her the guest who was each day becoming dearer to her. Only, she determined that she would not force his confidence. She would ask no questions, and let events take their course.

“ It would be such a good plan for you to come up now,” continued Keith, pressing his point “I must be in town for three or four days. Let us be together. It will be great cheer for me to have you there, and I can at least look after you till I go.”

It required some self-control-on Mrs. Griffith’s part not to talk over with her nephew the strange story her guest had unfolded. Olive had. shown her the marks on her arm, which she had made out to be distinctly an “ O ” and a “ B,” though the latter letter was not quite perfect She had examined the miniature and the Bible, and read through Mrs. Hall’s diary, and her written statement of the circumstances under which she had adopted her. Mrs. Hall, in the latter, had taken a loving delight in setting down many of the childish sayings, which struck her at the time as giving some clue to her parentage. And as she had read these Mrs. Griffiths had grown less sceptical. All seemed to tally so strangely with the account Olive had heard at Barrington of the sudden flight of the mother and child.

“Michael has such good judgment, it’s a pity I cannot talk it all over with him,” she thought regretfully.

Olive had it pointed out to her with suppressed excitement, that the date of Mrs. Hall’s finding her differed only by one day from the one she remembered on the tablet in Barrington church, recorded as that of Mrs. Bethune’s death, and therefore it exactly agreed with Mrs. Hall’s account of the child’s having been left by her mother the evening before. And the old lady grew almost as excited as Olive herself.

“We’ll go up to London together, my dear, directly the weather is warmer,” she had exclaimed with decision. “You shall take care of me, and I will take care of you.”

Michael Keith and his aunt talked to, what was considered by the latter, a very late hour, and before they parted for the night it had been decided between them that they should meet in London, and stay together at an hotel which Keith recommended.

He had to return to Winchester the next day, which would allow the ladies one for their preparations, then on the following evening he would meet them at Paddington Station. .

He would thus spend his last few days with them, and Mrs. Griffiths explained that she should probably stay on in London till the following week, which would take them into May. She wanted to see some pictures. Miss Mac-Ivor would be a delightful companion for a little sightseeing.

“ Do the Lenhouses know that she is with me, Michael?” asked the old lady abruptly, as her nephew followed her upstairs.

“I have said nothing. I don’t know what she may have said,” replied Keith.

“ She gave them this address, that horrid man insisted on it, but she did not mention my name. Would they be likely to know it?”

“ I think not. I don’t think I ever mentioned it”

“ That’s jnst as well,” said the old lady with satisfaction. “ I mistrust that colonel of yours.”

CHAPTER XXV.

THE COURSE- OF TRUE LOVE.

OLIVE’S surprise was great the next morning, when on coming down to breakfast she heard from Mrs. Griffiths that Captain 'Keith had already started on his return journey to Winchester, and still greater when she heard of the decision Mrs Griffiths had come to, to go to London on the following day. The reason for so doing gave her a pang. So he was going abroad—he was going into danger, and perhaps she should never see him again!

“ You see, my dear,” explained Mrs. Griffiths. “ It will be a great pleasure to me to see Michael these last days, and though he will be very busy we shall have him with us of an evening. And then arriving in London, we should find him at the station, and he will be easier about me than he otherwise would. He does not like my being in London without him, so he says, though he thinks you’ll take good care of me. Then he will arrange with a friend to look after us a little when he is gone, and to see us off. I own that I am not fond of a London railway-station. It is one of those places where I acknowledge that a man is of great use. Then, my dear, when he has left us, we will do our business quietly.”

Olive was too busy and excited all day packing for Mrs. Griffiths to think much; but she was aware that new thoughts, new hopes, new longings, had taken possession of her. Her life, which had seemed so sad and lonely only a few days ago, had been transformed as with a sudden ray of sunshine.

She told her kind hostess that she felt as if she were dreaming, and feared she should awake and find herself again at Barrington. She would willingly forget there was such a place if she might only stay at Ivy Lodge, and the old lady assured her she should so stay if her inquiries proved useless.

She had one reminder of the past, in a funny, affectionate little letter in pencil from Cis, posted without a stamp. He said that Dick was ill, and could not write himself, and that he was to go to the seaside; that he was very glad he was going. They did not like their new govemesa “ She is not one bit like you,” wrote Cis. “ I hate her, and I am going to school after the holidays. I am sorry Dick can’t come too. Janet’s very cross, and says she will go to school too.” It was a pathetic little letter, in its ill-spelling and warm expressions of love, and Olive was grieved to think she might not answer it—grieved, too, to think of her dear Dick in his suffering and solitude.

But it could not be helped. Some day, she told herself, with a thrill of exhilaration, she might be able to prove to her “ dear boys ” how grateful she was for their championship.

The. journey to London was safely accomplished the next day, and they found Captain Keith waiting for them at Paddington Station.

It was a delightful novelty to Olive to be again taken care of, to be again an object of solicitude, to be petted and watched over, and as the hours of these pleasant days passed on she lost her reserve, and was to Keith much as she had been at former meetings—frank, friendly, and sympathetic; while he, if different (as she sometimes told herself), was different with a pleasant difference. What was it?

And so the days passed on only too quickly for all of them. Keith was very busy preparing for his journey; but still he managed to be a good deal with his aunt and Olive. All the evenings he was with them—and very pleasant these evenings were, spent talking over the fire. For Mrs. Griffiths jvas afraid of going out at night; nor had either of them any wish to go into the crowd, which was now making London gay.

The last evening Keith had come home very late, and had not given the minute account of his doings that he usually did. It was only when Olive had gone to bed— which she always did rather early, that the aunt and nephew might be alone together — that Mrs. Griffiths, finding him silent and absent, began to question him as to how he had spent the afternoon.

“I have been making my will, Aunt Mary,” he said rather nervously, “ and I want to tell you about it Only I knew it would surprise you.”

“Surprise me! Not at all, my dear boy; it is what everyone should do,” said the old lady cheerfully; though she was aware of a twinge of pain, as her thoughts flew in spite of herself to possible contingencies.

“ Yes, yes; but I wish to tell you that I have left everything to Olive Maclvor. and I don’t know what you will think of it,” continued her nephew, with an evident effort to calm his voice to the commonplace.

“ I want you to promise to explain everything to poor old Bob, if there is ever any reason for such explanation. I know, dear Aunt Mary, you will . . You see you do not want money, nor does Bob; and if anything happens to me I know you will give him my share. You have never made any secret about your will, like the kind, good - auntie you are! ”

As he spoke he bent his head and kissed one of the wrinkled hands which lay on the arm of the old lady’s chair, and the other was instantly laid as in blessing on the head so bent.

“ My dear, dear boy,” said his aunt softly, and he knew that her tears were falling, “ you must not talk like this, or I shall lose all my courage. . . But you did not imagine, did you, that I have not guessed your love for Olive—that you threw dust in your old auntie’s eyes, eh?”

“My old auntie is always so terribly sharp-sighted that I have never all my life succeeded in deceiving her. I have often tried,” he replied with a laugh, in which the old lady joined. “Yes, it is quite true,” he went on. “I love Olive Maclvor, though I did not know how much till the other day, when she was in trouble; and I could not go away thinking she was in the world dependent on her own exertions or the kindness of others—penniless or nearly so. You say she has about a thousand pounds in the funds. With my five thousand she will at any rate be provided for if—if I don’t come home. If I do, I intend to ask her to be my wife.”

“ And you will go away without speaking to her?” said his aunt in some surprise.

“Yes,” he answered firmly. “I have thought it over well; I fancy I have thought of little else these last few days, and I have determined to wait Yon see, she might refuse me, or— Well, why should I sadden her life! If I did not return she is happy and safe with you. She has seen no one yet, positively no one. I am ten years her senior. Why, she might accept me out of sheer gratitude. She exaggerates strangely what little kindness I have shown her. . . No, I have quite determined to wait. I may not be away many months. I think myself we shall all soon be home again.”

“Well, perhaps you are right, Michael,” said his aunt musingly; “but fifty years ago I don’t think I should have liked your uncle to have gone away without speaking to me, though those three years of waiting for him while he was in India were anxious years enough.”

At two o’clock the following afternoon Captain Keith had to catch a train which would take him to Portsmouth.

All the morning Olive waited on him, doing little scraps of needlework, which his aunt’s failing eyesight made it impossible for her to undertake; and as she stitched away, almost in silence, she felt how pleasant such work was, and she longed to express all the gratitude she felt in her heart. But was it gratitude alone? No, she knew it was not, and she told herself she was proud to own that she loved him.

Only once had she been able to thank him for the kindness which had given her a friend and a home; and then she felt that she had done it lamely, for the right words would not come, and he had so evidently disliked being thanked that she had never recurred to the subject again.

Now, she told herself, she would be able to show her gratitude by her devotion to his aunt, whom he loved with a son’s affection. And what happier task could she find than such devotion? Somehow the dreams and aspirations which had been paramount in her mind for months had all faded into obscurity. Did she really care as much as she once thought, to find out the secret of her birth?

Mrs. Griffiths was to go to the station with her nephew, that she might have some last words with him. To Olive adieu must be said before he left the hotel; and Keith schooled himself to positive coldness, so afraid was he of betraying himself.

A hearty, somewhat lingering, handshake, a commendation of his aunt to her care, and he had hurried out of the room, and followed Mrs. Griffiths downstairs to the cab which was waiting for them.

Left to herself, her sense of loss, the knowledge of how her heart was aching, came to poor Olive with a crushing weight, and she threw herself on the sofa, hiding her face in the cushions. Her eyes were tearless. What right had she to weep? But oh, how lonely she felt in her misery! How much she cared for him,- and he would never know it! And now he was gone, and perhaps she should never, never see him again! '

Just as he was stepping into the cab Keith asked his aunt if she had taken a letter which had arrived for him at lunch-time, and which he had not opened.

No, she said; she had left it on the mantelpiece.

“I’ll get it; I won’t be a minute!” he exclaimed, and he rushed upstairs again.

In her misery Olive had heard nothing till the voice she had learned to love spoke her name in quick, passionate tones:

“Olive, Olive!”

She sprang up in bewilderment, her face was very white and sad, and her voice trembled.

“Yes, Captain Keith. Can I do anything?”

And then she suddenly realized that his arms were round her.

“ My darling, say you love me: say you will be my wife when I come back Say it quickly, for I must go!” he exclaimed passionately.

“ Yes, yes,” said Olive; “ oh, yes, I love you!” And then many kisses were rained on her willing lips, and she felt for a few short seconds so happy that the sorrow of the parting was quite lost, quite forgotten.

“My darling, I must go. I dare not miss this train.” A few more kisses, a few more broken words of love, a lingering embrace, and he was gone.

Olive rushed, with her face full of happy love though her eyes were dim with tears, to the window, and watched him spring into the cab, and she'did not take her eyes from it till she lost sight of it down Park Lana He was gone, but she was too happy to grieve yet. Did he not love her? was she not his promised wife? She felt as if no other woman in the world had ever been so happy before.

“ Well, if you are not late, Michael, I shall be surprised. What a mistake it is not to give yourself more time,” said Mrs. Griffiths. “Was not the letter on the mantelpiece? I am sure I saw it there.”

“The letter! What letter?” repeated her nephew ab sently; and then she glanced at his face, and read the strong emotions written on it, and was silent.

“ Oh, I remember,” he said presently. “ No, dear Aunt Mary, I did not find the letter. You must post it to me to-night. I did not look for it— There! don’t laugh at me. I could not help it All my good and wise resolutions have gone to the winds. Olive has promised to be my wife! ” Long before they reached the station Mrs. Griffiths was sorely tempted again to tell Olive’s secret Nothing but her promise restrained her; for it seemed to her as if now her nephew had a right to know everything.

“ You will take care of her for me, I know, Aunt Mary,” were some of his last words, to be repeated with smiles among her tears on her return to Olive, whom she found waiting for her in a fever of expectation.

“ Say you are glad, dear Mrs. Griffiths. Say you will love me too,” whispered Olive.

“ Yes, my dear, I am very glad indeed. I think you and Michael will suit each other admirably. Don’t imagine that the old woman has been quite blind. Now, I suppose I must give you all his messages. Will you have them all at once or one each day, that they may last the longer?” said the kind old lady, kissing her affectionately. “That nephew of mine certainly has the knack of putting off things till the last minute. There is that letter; he did not take it after all. It must be posted to him at once. Will you redirect it?”

“ Then he came hack for that,” said Olive, colouring hotly. “ And oh, do you think—do you think it was only because he saw I was so—so miserable?”

Olive had begun her sentence impulsively, hardly knowing how she should end it. She knew that she did not really doubt Michael Keith’s love.

“ You want to be assured again that he loves you, silly child,” said the old lady smiling. “ I think you may feel perfectly satisfied on that score. Last night, niy dear, he told me that nothing would induce him to ask you to be his wife till his return to England, fearing he might bring you anxiety and sorrow. He was afraid, too, you might accept him from some mistaken feeling of gratitude; but he has made a will leaving you all he possesses. There, my dear; I ought not to have told you that, but I made no promise to be silent.”

“I am glad you told me,” said Olive, deeply moved. “I have been thinking that it was not possible he should love me as much as I love him.”

Then Mrs. Griffiths told her how hard she had found it not to tell her nephew of the quest which had brought them to London “ Then you do really believe I am Olive Bethune, dear Mrs. Griffiths!” said Olive with a smile of triumph. “You do not think, as you did at first, that I may have made a mistake! But do you think that he will care! I have been thinking this afternoon that I care no more about it”

“He means Michael, of course, and that is a most loverlike sentiment,” said Mrs. Griffiths smiling; “ but I assure you that in years to come you will both think Barrington Court of some little importance. So, my dear, our inquiry shall begin at once. I have a most unchristian-like desire to punish that Colonel Lenhouse, who I think behaved very badly. I believe myself that he was very much frightened, and wished to silence you.”

The next day Mrs. Griffiths and Olive'drove to Somerset House, and together pondered over Mr. Bethune’s wilL The legal verbiage puzzled Olive, and Mra Griffiths had often to come to her help.

It was soon clear to them both that the child Olive Bethune was not dead when her father made his will, or that he did not know of her death, also that no proofs of it had been forthcoming through the years which were to elapse, if such proofs were not found, before Mrs. Lenhouse came into possession; also that the subsequent finding of the child, after these years of waiting, was carefully provided for.

Olive looked in vain for any mention of Mrs. Bethune’s maiden name.

Three trustees and executors were appointed—Henry Jervoise, Hugh Lock, and Anthony Dodington: And Olive told Mrs. Griffiths of the kind old squire, and his remarks on her likeness to a friend who was dead. She had never had a chance of speaking to him after that night of the ball.

The first-named trustee was appointed sole guardian of the child if found.

“ That’s the gentleman we must go to,” said Mrs. Griffiths with decision. “ This Mr. Jervoise, if he is alive, must know everything. He was evidently Mr. Bethune’s legal adviser, no doubt also a personal friend. The first thing to do now is to find out his address.”

It seemed wonderful to Olive that the difficulties she had thought so much of were so easy of solution.

Mr. Jervoise’s address was easily discovered, and Mrs. Griffiths wrote to make an appointment for an interview on the following day.

“We shall know everything by this time to-morrow, my dear,” she said as she closed her letter. But the post had just brought one from Portsmouth, and Olive hardly heard her.

CHAPTER XXV.

A STEADFAST FRIEND

A LETTER from Mr. Jervoise the following morning fixed the hour of the interview, and by the time Mrs. Griffiths and Olive arrived at his office it would be difficult to say which lady was the more excited.

Ushered into a large, handsomely-furnished room, they found Mr. Jervoise awaiting them—a small, active-looking man, grown a little gray, a little bald, but as full of vigour as on that day when Edward Bethune had in that same room unfolded the story of his quarrel with his wife.

“ I don’t think I have the pleasure of knowing you," he said, turning to Mrs. Griffiths; “but your daughter’s face is very familiar to me, though I do not remember the name,” he added as he placed chairs for his visitors.

“ That young lady is not my daughter, and I don’t think you have seen her before, though you may remember somebody like her if you search the past,” said Mrs. Griffiths.

Mr. Jervoise looked puzzled, and then shook his head, and waited to hear the motive of the ladies’ visit.

There was a pause. All Olive’s anxiety had come back. She looked imploringly at Mrs. Griffiths, who had promised to speak for her.

“We have come to ask you a question, Mr. Jervoise,” said the old lady, trying hard not to appear nervous. “You were one of the executors of the late Mr. Bethune’s will, and appointed guardian of his child. Was that child’s death ever certified? Had you any proofs of it, and if so, when did it take place?” .

“Ah!” said the lawyer cautiously, “you have heard that sad story;” and he glanced at Olive.

“ Does that mean that you wish to know what we have to say before you answer my question?” said Mrs. Griffiths smiling.

“Well, yes,” said the lawyer. “It means that I must wait to answer your question till I see good reason to do so. The story is such an old one, and it only interests the persons concerned; they only have a right to ask for proofs.”

Mrs. Griffiths at once took from the bag which Olive handed her a letter, and began to read Mrs. Hall’s statement, with the date given, of her finding the deserted child in Chelsea, and her reasons for believing that there was some mystery connected with her.

As she read, Mr. Jervoise’s face grew full of interest and excitement After the first few sentences Mrs. Griffiths stopped and explained that she also had the diary of that year written by this lady, who was now dead, and she also explained under what circumstances the statement she was reading had been written. Then she begged Olive to give, herself, a sketch of her life as she remembered it, and all the circumstances which led her to believe that she was Olive Bethune.

Olive told her story well and clearly, never faltering until she was obliged to explain the position Colonel Lenhouse had found her in, and of the accusations he had made. Was it possible that Mr. Jervoise too might think her a thief and an adventuress?

Hitherto she had touched but lightly on the strange fancies and recollections which had puzzled her all the time she was at Barrington Court. Now she told the story of her fixed impression with regard to the doll which had been promised her and had afterwards been put into some drawer in the book-case.

She described her secret visits to the study, her search for this drawer, and her final success in finding it just as Colonel Lenhouse had entered the room. She went on to describe his angry threats and the accusations which had frightened her.

At the first mention of the doll, Olive, who was watching Mr. Jervoise’s face, fearing to read some incredulity, saw it change from its look of eager interest to one of astonished, delighted conviction.

“In that drawer there was found a doll!” he exclaimed. “ I found it there myself with Colonel Lenhouse. He cannot fail to remember the circumstance, though it happened just after he took possession of the house. I brought it away at his request to give to my youngest daughter. Now, Miss Bethune, will you show me the miniature you have spoken of?”

The name had slipped out unawares. “ I beg your pardon.” added the lawyer. “ Yon may have a right to that name or no. I most not give it yon again though, till I have other proofs of your identity. By what name have you heen hitherto known?”

“Maclvor,” said Olive. “Oh, do tell me if—if Mr. Bethune married a Miss Maclvor? I have been thinking of going to Edinburgh to find that out.”

“ No, he married a Miss Blanche Wilson; but her mother was a Miss Maclvor.” Mr. Jervoise’s tones were by no means as calm as they had heen.

“ Here is this Bible,” said Mrs. Griffiths, taking from the bag the little worn volume with silver clasps. “See the date and inscription.” Mr. Jervoise read it, and then held out his hand for the miniature, and Olive told him of the mistake made at Barrington and all the pain it had caused her.

“ This is not an old miniature,” said Mr. Jervoise as he, examined it critically. “ This was a likeness taken of little Olive Bethune. The dress was copied from one of the old miniatures at the Court, one, I think, of Bethune’s grandmother. I know the artist well; I saw him only last week; you will find his initials, ‘A. A.’—Alfred Allen,—in the comer if you look closely. Mis. Bethune took away this likeness with her, we know. And yes, I own,” he added, glancing keenly at Olive, “ that I trace a likeness to you in it; also I will acknowledge that you bear a wonderful likeness to my poor friend’s wife, which puzzled me when I first saw you.”

“Then you do believe me!” exclaimed Olive in great excitement “And the child never died, or you have no proof of her death?”

“ No, I will admit that we have no proof of the death of Edward Bethune’s child. Every stone was turned to find some trace of her, but with no success,” said Mr. Jervoise gravely. “ But one other proof is wanting before I, for one, can believe in your identity with her.”

His face was full of suppressed excitement, and Olive saw he was by no means as calm as he pretended to be. She was thoughtful a minute. Had she any other proof to offer? Then her face lighted up.

“How stupid of me,” she exclaimed, “not to tell you before that I have two letters tattooed on my right arm! One is an ‘ O,’ the other I have always believed was meant for a ‘ B,’ but it is not quite perfect”

“Then!” exclaimed Mr. Jervoise, getting up and coming towards her with outstretched hands, “ I do not see why I should doubt any longer that I have the happiness of seeing my old friend’s lost child, my ward too, though you are beyond my guardianship, for you were of age last year, Miss Bethune.”

Olive shook hands heartily with her father’s old friend. She was deeply moved, and longed to ask the many questions which had so often troubled her. Now, at last, she should hear particulars of the death of the mother, the sense of whose devoted love had never left her; but she must wait, she could not speak now.

Mrs. Griffiths came to her rescue, and began telling Mr. Jervoise of their visit the previous day to Somerset House, questioning him as to the conditions of the will, and from that she went on to speak of Colonel Lenhouse’s treatment of Olive.

“ Of course, I do not know if Colonel Lenhouse told anyone of the finding of that doll, and therefore I really believed it possible that you might have heard the story and made it an excuse for being in his study, or that you were a deliberate impostor; but after what was said, had he wished honestly to find out the truth, he would, I should have thought, have made some further inquiries. The threats he used go much against him,” said Mr. Jerroise. “ Does he know,” he continued, “ that you are likely to try to make your assertion good, Miss Bethune?”

“ No, he knows nothing; I was much too afraid to say anything more. I was afraid he would put me into an asylum, as he said that I was mad. Besides, he says still, you know, that I stole that fire-pound note,” replied Olive.

“ A very cruel accusation,” said Mr. Jerroise indignantly. “Does he know where you are now, and that you have found a friend in Mrs. Griffiths?”

“ No, he knows nothing, but that I have gone into Devonshire. He made me give him the address.”

“ Then I think our wisest plan,” returned Mr. Jerroise, “ will be to say nothing; in fact, to keep our own counsel until we have collected every link in the chain of evidence which will prove you beyond a doubt to be Olive Bethune Now, tell me,” he continued,—“this Mr. and Mrs. Hall you say are both dead. When and where did they die?” “Mr. Hall in St Petersburg in 1878—he is still well remembered there; and Mrs. Hall last year in Paris. She died at a friend’s house, who heard all the story from her, and who now lives at Arles. I correspond with her. She knows I intended to try to find out who I was before I left Paris.”

“ And was there no one else—no servant, for instance, who can remember the fact of your being found as you describe?” asked Jerroise.

“ Yes, oh, yes!” said Olive eagerly. “If she is still alive, there is Maria, who was Mrs. Hall’s maid and my nurse till the first year we were in St Petersburg, when she married an English coachman—his name was Williams. He was coachman to one of the princes. I wrote to tell her of Mrs Hall e death, but never heard from her since. The prince her husband was with, used to go to Germany and Italy, and she went too; but I think she could be found.”

“ Well, we must try to communicate with her at once,” said Jervoise. “A living witness would be of great value. Can you think of anyone else!”

“No; but of course there are people in St Petersburg, and even I suppose at Odessa, who remember me as a child with Mr. and Mrs. Hall. But I was always called their niece; I don’t think they ever talked about me to anyone.”

“ The nurse who was in the house when you were taken away from Barrington died very shortly afterwards,” continued Mr. Jervoise. “ She with myself and one other alone knew of the tattoo marks. She had seen them. I have a drawing of them, and a description written by your father.” Then Olive told Mr. Jervoise of her visit to the keeper’s cottage, and of the former nursemaid’s account of the child’s disappearance, which had first led her to think that she had found a clue to her own parentage.

“And she said nothing of letters on the child’s arm?” questioned Jervoise.

“ Nothing whatever. But she did not seem satisfied about her death. She was very anxious to hear how it happened, and she spoke of a man called James Stagg who was her own uncle, who had been butler at Barrington, and who would know, she thought, all about the child’s death. She said he was now a greengrocer in London. At one time I thought I would look for him.”

“ James Stagg I know very well,” exclaimed Mr. Jervoise, “ though I have not seen him for the last five years, when, strange to say, he came to me with a story which I noted down at the time, wishing much I had come across it before.” Mr. Jervoise opened his desk and turned over the pages of a note book.

“ It seems,” he continued, “ that Stagg had married the year before, a widow, a certain Mrs. Todd, and one day accidentally relating to her the strange story of the disappearance of his late master’s child. She assured him that at the date that Mrs. Bethune left her home she was living near Newport Market Refuge (she was sure it was on a day the end of January or the beginning of February, she had some good reason, I forget what, for remembering the date), and a very tall handsome lady, with a child dressed as a boy, had, seeing her at the door of her shop, asked her where she could find a lodging. She had a room to let, and she had taken them in. She had always thought the lady was hiding from someone, for she seldom went out, and when she did so she wore spectacles, which she did not seem to require in the house. This lady had lived on in her house, making her very regular payments, until the end of the following August, when Mrs. Todd and her husband becoming bankrupt she had left them.. She did not know where she went, but she believed she must have gone to the neighbourhood of Chelsea, as she was quite sure she had one day seen her in that direction; but to her surprise, the child, which she said she also recognized, was dressed as a girl She had followed her some way wishing to speak to her, but had lost sight of her, and had never seen her again.

“ Before leaving her house, this lady, whom she had grown very fond of, had given her as a keepsake—a little old-fashioned brooch of no particular value, and which Stagg could not remember over seeing his mistress wear, but he discovered the letters ‘B. W.’ scratched inside, which initials he knew to have been Mrs. Bethune’s before her marriage. . The faithful fellow was very excited over this story, and he had come to me without any delay. He was firmly persuaded that he had, at last, come on a trace of his missing mistress and her child, for the guard of the train who that day had taken the tickets at Waterloo had noticed a tall lady answering exactly to the description of Mrs. Bethune, only she was accompanied by a little boy.”

“ Ah! you will see when you read through Mrs. Hall’s account of me,” exclaimed Olive, “ that I used to puzzle her much by saying that I ‘ used to be Willie,’ and that I did not ‘ like being a boy,’ and I have a quantity of long fair hair which was found with the other things.”

“ Willie was the name Mrs. Stagg said the little boy went by.” said Mr. Jervoise turning to the pocket-book. “I do not think there can be any doubt but that this is another link iu the chain of evidence.”

Mr. Jervoise now gave Olive a short sketch of the terrible accident which caused her mother’s death, and of the nature of the injuries which made it impossible for her to inform anyone of her child’s whereabouts.

Both Mrs. Griffiths and Olive shed tears over the tragic story.

“ I always felt, I always knew that my mother did not desert me willingly,” said Olive. “ As a child, when I first began to think about it at all, I used to be so miserable at the idea of people thinking that possible.”

“ Mrs. Todd’s lodger called herself Mrs. Jones,” remarked Mr. Jervoise. “Was that the name your mother went by in the house at Chelsea?”

“ No, she called herself Mrs. Mac,” replied Olive sadly.

“ She was painfully anxious to hide herself, and till after her death no real search began,” said Mr. Jervoise. “But it was no doubt the accident of your being taken to Russia which entirely baffled us later. The most important witness will be Mrs. Hall’s maid. Do you still know an address in St. Petersburg to write to her?”

Hereupon Mrs. Griffiths explained that her nephew, Mr. Keith, would be able to make the necessary inquiries, and put Mr. Jervoise in communication with this woman, if she were to be found. She and Olive had agreed that no mention of the engagement to Captain Keith should be made to anyone, until Olive had fully established her right to her name and inheritance.

“ Then there is the Mrs. Cripps who lived in the house in Chelsea. She would remember all about me. She was not an old woman, and may still be alive,” remarked Oliva “She must be looked for at once,” said Mr. Jervoise. “ Finding her we should find another link for our chain. I have no misgivings, Miss Bethune; but you must leave with me all these records of the past, and I will ensure their safekeeping.”

It was agreed that, as the necessary inquiries must take some time, and as, till they were completed, it was wiser to give no hint of Olive’s claims, she and Mrs. Griffiths should return at once to Ivy Lodge, holding themselves ready to return to London any day Mr. Jervoise thought advisable.

While driving back to their hotel, Olive gave a sudden exclamation of something like dismay.

“ What is the matter, my dear!” questioned Mrs. Griffiths, as a hansom passed them.

“ That was Colonel Lenhouse in that cab, and he saw me, I am sure. I am so glad that we are going home to-morrow,” she explained with a little shudder.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.

IF Olive was alarmed at the sight of Colonel Lenhouse, he was far more alarmed when he recognized her in a cab in Oxford Street. He had passed her so quickly that he had not been able to see whom she was with, but he did not think it likely that she was alone. Had she lied to him, and was the Devonshire address only a blind?

He had only come up to London for the day, but before leaving he sent a return telegram addressed to the post master at Kingsbridge, asking who lived at Ivy Lodge, and whether a Miss Maclvor had lately arrived there. No harm, he argued, could be done in asking the question. The answer from the postmaster told him that Mrs. Griffiths lived at Ivy Lodge. That a Miss Maclvor was staying with her. That both ladies were away for a few days.

The following morning the colonel rode into Winchester, telling his wife that he was going to call on Keith. On his way to the barracks he met Captain Roberts, and heard from him, with not a little surprise, of Keith’s sudden departure for the Soudan.

“ The lucky dog asked for an appointment and got it at once,” explained Roberts. “ I heard from him from Portsmouth yesterday. He was just going off”

“ Do you know if he has any relations in Devonshire? ” asked the colonel with a sudden suspicion.

“ Yes, he has an old aunt he goes to see sometimes. He will come into money from her by and by. He is very fond of the old lady, and went straight down to see her when he heard of this,” answered Captain Roberts, who thought he was doing his friend a good turn by speaking cheerfully of his prospects. Of course the old lady would leave him something. Colonel Lenhouse had the reputation of being keen that his daughters should marry men of good fortune.

“Does she live at Kingsbridge?” asked the colonel carelessly.

“ I don’t know. I forget the name of the place, if I ever heard it; but it is somewhere in South Devon, not far from Plymouth, I fancy,” replied Roberts.

“ But of course he had to be in London to get his traps together before starting,” said the colonel, with an air of conviction which amused Captain Roberts, and made him think he took a very great interest in Keith.

“Yes, he came back from Devonshire and went up to town the following day. I wanted to go up with him, but he said he should be with his aunt, so I thought I should be in the way. The old lady is very fond of him, I fancy, and no doubt somewhat exacting,” explained Roberta Colonel Lenhouse turned his horse’s head, and rode home in a white heat of anger and fear. Miss Maclvor had outwitted him. She had somehow managed to communicate with Keith; it was with his aunt she had found a refuge. But then, how explain his volunteering for the Soudan? For he had so volunteered, and if he had the intention of bringing her forward as a claimant to Barrington Court, he surely would not have left England!

The colonel found it very difficult to decide what he should do next. He felt that he had held a trump card and thrown it away. Why had he not prosecuted her for theft at once! To have dragged her name through the mire would have been the best way to prevent her making any claims, or, as he put it to himself, pretending to he Olive Bethune; no one would have listened to the assertions of a girl who had been proved a thief.

Then he went on to comfort himself with the assurance that she evidently had no proof of her identity with the missing child, or she would have given it Supposing even . that she were Olive Bethune, the only claim she could put forward was the foolish, childish recollection about the doll, which after air might be hysterical nonsense, and in any case could never be admitted as evidence in a court of law.

After much pondering the colonel at last decided that it was wiser to keep quiet; Miss Maclvor had found a friend who might interest others in her behalf; it was a risk to meddle with her now. But inaction, and the suspense he could not get rid of, were very trying to his nerves; and Barrington Court was by no means a peaceful abode as the weeks passed on, for the colonel’s temper became so morose that his wife was seriously alarmed. Ada, too, on coming home got a violent scolding, which she revenged by sulking with Pen, whose fault she said it was that such a ridiculous mistake had been made about the miniature.

The new governess had pronounced the children quite unmanageable. Cis was always in disgrace, and even his mother began to feel that she would be glad when he went to school, as it was settled he should do after the Eastei: holidays. Janet, too, had behaved so badly since Miss Maclvor’s departure, that her father talked of sending her away from home.

The new governess, an amiable but rather weak woman, could do nothing with either of her pupils; even Dick was restive and disobedient when he returned home after a fortnight at Southsea, which he had spent with his old nurse. Neither Gerald nor Lawrence had come home for Easter, both were staying with friends, and their father felt their absence a relief.

His nervous apprehension lessened a little as the weeks passed on, and he satisfied himself that Miss Maclvor was living quietly with Mrs. Griffiths at Kingsbridge. But her stay in London had been a very short one, and he was beginning to gain a serener frame of mind, when one lovely May morning about a month after Olive had left the house, coming in from a stroll in the garden rather late for breakfast, he espied a letter directed to himself which had an unmistakably business-like air. He was expecting no business letter, and his hand shook as he torefit open and at once glanced at the signature—Henry Jervoise.

There was no doubt about it, the blow was going to fall! '

His wife was too busy with her own letters to notice him, The girls had not yet come down. He walked to the window, pretending to pull down a blind, and then, with his back to the room, read Mr. Jervoise’s letter.

It was brief, no details being given, but it informed Colonel Lenhouse that the missing heiress of the Barrington estates and personal property of the late Edward Bethune, Esq., had most unexpectedly been found, that the executors of the said Edward Bethune’s will being fully convinced of her identity, would shortly call on Mrs. Lenhouse to fulfil the terms of the said will, which made dne provision for such finding. The fact that the child had been adopted by strangers and taken to Russia would account for the difficulty the executors had had in tracing her before. Would Colonel and Mrs. Lenhouse, or their solicitor, call at Mr. Jervoise’s office on the 24th inst., that all the proofs of Miss Bethune’s identity might be laid before them! If Mrs. Lenhouse remained unconvinced, after hearing these, of the rights of the said claimant, the executors were prepared to enforce her rights in the Chancery Division of the High Court of Justice.

Pen and Ada had taken their places at the table. Mrs. Lenhouse had finished reading her letters, but still the colonel stood by the window with his letter in bis hand.

“My dear Mark, why don’t you come to breakfast, everything will be cold?” said his wife plaintively; adding with some curiosity, “Your letters must be very interesting this morning.”

“ One is interesting at any rate, I am sure you will agree with me. And you have to thank yourself for it,” he said savagely, as he threw the lawyer’s letter into his wife’s lap, and with scowling brow sat down to breakfast.

He must brazen it out, it would not do to show the white feather at this moment. So vile was his temper that he gathered a certain satisfaction from his being now able at last to punish his wife for her disobedient confidences to Keith.

. “What do you mean? You are always saying things are my fault, Mark,” said his wife in injured and rather frightened tones; and then, receiving no answer, she began reading the letter.

“What nonsense!” she exclaimed at the first words. “What an impertinence! What does it all mean, Mark?” And she burst into a laugh, which, in the present state of her husband’s feeling, nearly threw him into a frenzy.

“Read the letter through, Leonora, and don’t be such a fool if you can help it,” he thundered.

Whereupon Mrs. Lenhouse began to cry, and the girls looked at each other with frightened glances.

“What is the matter?” asked Pen, at last breaking the ominous silence which followed.

She was not so afraid of her father as the others, having a temper very like his own. They sometimes had sharp contentions, and as he could not frighten her he respected her.

“ You can read the letter if you like. Your mother does not seem capable of it. If you and she had not been such chatter-boxes we should have been spared a good deal of annoyance,” he said in more moderate tones.

Pen took the letter from her mother’s hand, and Ada, intensely curious, crossed the room and looked over her sister’s shoulder.

Mr. Jervoise’s letter was very clear, it was impossible for either of the girls to misunderstand the meaning of it But Ada was not to be disturbed.

“What will you do, papa?” she asked placidly. But her father vouchsafed only an angry grunt as answer; Ada was not worth noticing.

“ You think it is Miss Maclvor who says she is Uncle Bethune’s child—she used to talk about having lived in Russia!” exclaimed Pen indignantly. “Surely she will be punished for making up such a story. I never heard of anything so atrocious! What you mean by saying that this is our fault, I don’t know. If you mean our telling Captain Keith about the miniature, I happen to know that he came over that day on purpose to tell us that he had heard her speak of having one. Cis rode into Winchester and told him the story, and he came out at once. Cis boasted of it to me yesterday.”

“ Cis shall have the soundest flogging he ever had in his life!” muttered the colonel, rising from the table. But Mrs.

Lenhouse now broke forth into violent reproaches to Pen for her wickedness in telling tales of her little brother, and in the angry discussion that followed Mr. Jervoise’s communication was-almost forgotten.

The colonel finally told his wife, sarcastically, that she need not trouble herself about Cis, as his flogging should stand over. She would probably in time find out that he was not of much importance one way or another. Was she prepared to go up to London with him the following day? But Mrs. Lenhouse could not bear to leave-home; above all she could not bear to be hurried, and her husband in his present temper would not be a pleasant companion. She answered that she saw no reason why they should pay any attention to that absurd letter. It was, of course, an imposture; and if, as her husband thought, Miss Maclvor was the impostor, they knew her to be also a thief, and what was the sense of making such a fuss about it. The colonel, of course, must go up (Mrs. Lenhouse acknowledged to herself she should be thankful to have him out of the house for a few days).

“ You see, Mark,” she concluded, “ your account of that horrid young woman’s conduct in this house will put a stop to all this at once, and I have promised to take up Pen and Ada for a fortnight in June. I really cannot go now.” Colonel Lenhouse had always set his face against seasons in London; he was bound, as he told everyone, to provide for his younger children; but his wife and daughters generally managed to get a few weeks in the metropolis during the season under the plea of shopping.

The colonel shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. Perhaps it would be better for him to be alone; it would evidently be perfectly impossible to persuade his wife of the serious nature of the statement made by Mr. Jervoise without in some way admitting his own misgivings.

“Of course it was Lady Caroline’s saying she was like Aunt Bethune’s picture in the bed-room that put it into her head," said Pen knowingly. “ Old Mr. Dodington, too, he may have told her the same, for the night of our ball I overheard him say that she was like someone he had known a long time ago. And one day I made him tell me who it was, and he said she was certainly rather like my aunt. I could not imagine whom he meant at first”

“Dodington!” exclaimed her father; “he is one of the executors. Most unfriendly of him, I must say, after all the hospitality he has received from us, not to give me a warning of this plot”

“Oh, she might have heard the story from lots of people,” broke in his wife. “Mrs. Gray, that new keeper’s wife, was here the other evening, and Staples tells me she related the whole story in the servants’ hall. It seems she was nurse-maid to Edward’s child at the time her mother took her away. I remember I sent Miss Maclvor with a message to her one day in the winter.”

“ And no doubt all the time she was here she was plotting and planning,” remarked Ada.

“Now, remember this is not to be talked about I will not have a word said to anyone,” said the colonel sternly. “I’ll ride over and see Dodington at once; perhaps it will not be worth while for me to go to London either. I must send word to Moreton to keep the appointment That rascally fellow Jervoise was very angry at my taking the business out of his hands, and giving it to another man. Perhaps it was not a wise thing to do. He is at the bottom of this, I am pretty sure.”

Half an hour later the colonel was on horseback and on his way to Dodington Manor. As he thought over all he intended to say, he saw a good chance of being able to frighten the old squire out of any predisposition he might have to recognize his old friend’s child in a girl he, Colonel Lenhouse, intended to denounce as a thief and an adventuress; but on his arrival at the manor he met with a disappointment, which rather depressed him.

Mr. Dodington had gone up to London two days before, his servant said. He had left his club address for letters to be sent to, but no other was known.

As the colonel rode homewards he felt that his horizon was looking blacker than ever. Ill-luck dogged him. Here was this woman actually on the estate who remembered the missing child. A nurse maid, too; who would probably be ready to swear to anything. And he had brought her with her husband from Norfolk. He had always preferred employing strangers to people of the neighbourhood.

He groaned as he remembered that Miss Maclvor herself had actually been engaged by him. If he had not heard of her she might never have come to England at all.

The difficulty of deciding what to do was very great. One chance seemed alone left to him. He must manage somehow to throw discredit on Olive’s statements, and there was no time to be lost A bold policy was generally the best. He would charge her with the theft of the five-pound note, and he would discover other losses. Once thoroughly disgraced, she would not be readily believed. Keith was out of England. Mrs. Griffiths was an old woman, who would probably be easily frightened. Colonel Lenhouse had a very low idea of the courage of women generally.

The only fear was that Captain Keith was a possible suitor for her hand. At this remembrance the colonel gnashed his teeth. But for his wife’s meddling the girl might have been in love with Gerald, and if the worst came to the worst everything might have been hushed up.

On his return he sat down and wrote to the superintendent of police at Kingsbridge, stating that a young woman calling herself Olive Maclvor had left his house a month ago, after being for six months governess to his children, robbing him, as he had lately discovered, of money and several articles of value. He had traced her to the house of a Mrs. Griffiths who lived at Ivy Lodge, who knew nothing of her antecedents—and he begged that she might be immediately arrested. He requested a telegram with information, and would then follow his letter.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE COLONEL OUTWITTED.

IT was such a lovely morning that Olive had enticed Mrs.

Griffiths into the garden after breakfast. The dear old lady led such a busy life that her guest seldom saw much of her during the hours between breakfast and luncheon, which were generally spent in what she liked to call her “ den,” which was a small room looking out on the same side of the house as the drawing-room, the windows of both rooms opening on the lawn, now bright with flower-beds, which sloped down to, and was bounded by a coppice of nut-trees.

Here Mrs. Griffiths read and wrote and received visitors, generally her poor friends from the outskirts of the neighbouring town, among whom she had worked in years gone by, but whom she could not visit now.

This particular morning Olive had pleaded that it was really too lovely for her to shut herself up indoors. It was like summer, the first really summer morning they had had, and Mr. Jervoise’s letter had excited them both. They must talk it over; why not do so in the sunshine!

Mr. Jervoise had written to tell Olive that he had communicated to Colonel Lenhouse the fact that someone claiming to be Mr. Bethune’s lost child had been found, and that he had appointed the 24th as the day on which he and Mrs. Lenhouse should meet her at his office, and hear everything regarding her claims, that they might decide on what course they would pursue before legal measures were taken by the executors of the will to enforce them.

Mr. Jervoise added that every link was now complete. Mrs. Cripps had been easily found. She had changed houses more than once in the fifteen years, but had never left the neighbourhood, where she was well known and respected.

Mrs. Williams had been traced by Mr. Keith, after careful inquiries. She had lately become a widow, and had been delighted to return to England at Mr. Jervoise’s request. She was in poor circumstances, and to have her journey home paid, was a great boon to her.

Mr. Jervoise told Olive for the first time of an interview he had had with her late nurse, remarking only that it was . “ very satisfactory.”

A great deal had been accomplished in the three weeks since Olive and Mrs. Griffiths had left London. It was now the 21st day of May.

“ Well, my dear, we will go up on Thursday, that is the 23d. I don’t see the object of being in town before it is necessary,” said Mrs. Griffiths. “There may be a good deal of business for you to do later, which will keep us there. I’ll go in and write for our rooms. I suppose you wish the same?” she added with a smile; “they will have pleasant memories, eh?”

“ Oh, yes, the very same,” said Olive laughing.

She was so gay! She felt a very child again in her lighthearted happiness, and sometimes wondered if she could be the grave, rather taciturn governess of Barrington days, and whether Dick would recognize her.

“ Mr. Hitchcock wants to speak to you, ma’am,” said Jane, coming down the garden path towards them.

“You have asked him to sit down?”

“Yes, ma’am; he is in your room.”

“ My dear, Mr. Hitchcock is a busy man. I can’t keep him waiting, I must go in at once.”

Olive strolled at Mrs. Griffiths’ side towards the house, and then glancing at the window towards which they were directing their steps, exclaimed:

“Why, it is a policeman, Mrs. Griffiths! What has he come for?”

“Well, my dear, Hitchcock is our superintendent of police. He is a very old friend of mine. He was in your uncle’s regiment at one time.” Mrs. Griffiths often previsioned the relationship that was one day to exist between them, and Olive was fast learning to call her “Aunt Mary.”

Then the old lady stepped over the grass and in at the open window, leaving Olive standing in the sunshine.

It was delicious to her, so to stand and drink in the sweet sights and sounds of the summer. The cuckoo was singing in ceaseless monotone—to Olive it seemed a chant of triumph,—while from every bush the birds were warbling love-songs. The smallest chirp seemed to speak to her of happiness, love, and thankfulness. A few white clouds flecked the blue sky, and a light breeze now and then lifted the curls on her forehead, and fluttered the folds of her pale-blue cotton dress, which had been chosen for her by Mrs. Griffiths, with the. remark that blue was Michael’s favourite colour.

The beds were gay with flowers; the early butterflies were hovering round them. Olive followed and watched one as it lighted on a rose. All the sights and sounds of country life had an interest for her. At Barrington she had small enjoyment of them, here in the sunshine everything had a meaning. She did not know that tears were in her eyes, but she felt that her whole being was full of praise and gratitude and song.

Meantime Mrs. Griffiths had greeted the inspector cordially, remarking that it was long since she had seen him, and then she looked at him inquiringly. He was too busy a man to pay anything but a purely business visit at this early hour. As she glanced at him she saw that his eyes were following Olive with keen interest.

“ Ah, that young lady is a visitor,” she said smilingly. “ And you are such an old friend, Hitchcock, and so safe, that I think I may tell you a secret But it positively is a secret.—One day Captain Michael hopes to make her his wife. And I hope the day is not far distant; there is every chance of our troops coming home now before very long.”

The old lady looked so happy, and the girl as she stood in the sunlight was so beautiful in the superintendent’s eyes, that he grew quite confused, turned very red as he put his hand in his pocket, and to gain time pretended to search for something.

There was no lady in the neighbourhood he loved and respected as he did Mrs. Griffiths (the “ colonel’s lady,” as he still liked to call her), and this morning when he had read Colonel Lenhouse’s letter he had been positively alarmed on her account. That she should have a young woman in her house who was a thief was too terrible; and directly he could he hurried off to see her and warn her himself. No one else would he trust.

Mrs. Griffiths did not notice his silent embarrassment. She too was watching Olive admiringly.

“ Well, Hitchcock, what is it?” she asked presently, without looking at him.

“ I’m very sorry, ma’am, very sorry indeed, but I had this letter this morning, and so came to you at once. Perhaps you had better read it yourself. I hope it won’t frighten you; there’s some mistake, I think. That can’t be the young lady spoken of in this letter,” he said apologetically.

Mrs. Griffiths adjusted her spectacles, and read through the letter he handed her without indulging in any comment. Having finished it, she expressed the indignation she felt “Then you know it to be all false?” said the superintendent, in a tone of relief. “ But it may cause the young lady a deal of trouble, unless she can bring some evidence at once. I am afraid if this Colonel Lenhouse has a spite against her, he’ll bring her before the magistrates on this charge and no one can prevent it They don’t sit till tomorrow, but he may be here this afternoon; there’ll be all the talk. . . Of course your bail will be accepted, she won’t be interfered with farther than that. . . But, as I say, there’ll be the talk. . . And she going to be Captain Michael’s wife! Couldn’t you stop this Colonel. Lenhouse somehow? Of course he could be prosecuted for libel. But then again there’ll still be the talk.”

“ Just so, Hitchcock,” said Mrs. Griffiths promptly; “and I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take her out of the way at once. I cannot explain the whole story to you, but you will know it all within a few weeks, I promise you. Meantime I will answer for the young lady, and produce her if she is really wanted. We were going up to London on Thursday, and I think this is plainly a plot to stop our going. Now, you telegraph to the colonel that we have gone to London, and you will hear no more of this story, I will answer for it; and I know you will keep silence.”

“ I’ll send you up a fly, ma’am, at once,” said Hitchcock rising. “You could catch the 12 30 to Paddington if you left this about eleven. It’s now a little after ten. Will that give you time enough?” he asked eagerly.

“ Quite time. We owe you many thanks, Hitchcock, Captain Michael and I,” said the old lady, with the smile which had made Tom Hitchcock her devoted slave ever since he had entered the Oth as a boy of eighteen, when a severe illness had brought him under the notice of “the colonel’s lady.”

“Olive, Olive!” called Mrs. Griffiths from the window directly the superintendent had left her, and Olive woke from her day-dream and came smiling towards her with her hand full of roses.

Mrs. Griffiths told her at once the motive of the policeman’s visit Olive’s colour rose, and her eyes flashed. To be disgraced even for an hour in the eyes of the world, now that she was Captain Keith’s promised wife, seemed more dreadful than ever.

“ Quick, dear! put your things together; we’ll abuse him all the way up, there’s no time now!” said Mrs. Griffiths comically, and Olive laughed away her anger.

On arriving in London, instead of going to their hotel they drove at once to Mr. Jervoise’s residence in Wimpole Street. He was much surprised to see them, and insisted on their remaining his guests. Olive, he said, should not be out of his sight till he had proclaimed her rights to the world. Colonel Lenhouse must be a desperate man to risk his own reputation by such dastardly acts.

Colonel Lenhouse drove into Winchester at an early hour to inquire for his expected telegram, and was prepared to go at once to Kingsbridge after receiving it. But no telegram had come. He waited about impatiently for an hour or more. At last, at half-past eleven, he received the following message:

“ Mrs. Griffiths and the young lady have gone to London.”

Nothing more. The colonel felt bitterly that he had made his last move, and had been checkmated. But he telegraphed back at once for Mrs. Griffiths’ address in London, and the reply came promptly that it was not known. Then he drove home, and ordering his horse rode at a good pace to keeper Gray’s cottage. His wife, it was said, had been nurse-maid to the lost child. Perhaps he might be able to do something with her, only he must be careful A false step would be dangerous now.

He met the keeper a few yards from his cottage, who said his wife had gone to London that morning to stay with an uncle. She had taken the two youngest children with her. He did not know the address she had gone to. She was not sure of it, and her uncle was to meet her at the station. It was somewhere near Hyde Park. His wife would be writing to-morrow, and then he should have it.

That evening the colonel took his wife so far into his confidence as to tell her that he felt that they had real reason for some alarm; this claimant might cause them annoyance; and that she must come with him to London, and be present at the interview on the 24th. Their solicitor would also be present It was well for them to hear everything, and be prepared for the worst. He wished nothing more said to the girls.

Mrs. Lenhouse at once became very frightened, and so lachrymose that her husband found it advisable to cease scolding her.

CHAPTER XXIX.

MISS BETHUNE PROVES HER IDENTITY

ON the eventful day which was, in some way, to decide Olive’s fortune, Colonel and Mrs. Lenhouse were the last to arrive at the place of meeting. They were so much behindhand that Mr. Jervoise began to be impatient, and had just said that as Mr. Moreton was there to represent his clients he should proceed to business, when they were ushered in.

It was naturally a trying moment to both of them, and both had taken refuge in an air of haughty indifference.

The room seemed to them to be very full of people, but among all it was impossible for them not to recognize at once their former governess.

To the last Mrs. Lenhouse had been incredulous as to her being the claimant. It seemed too preposterous. But there she was, looking radiantly happy, on the sofa, with a most distinguished-looking old lady by her side.

It was very difficult for Mrs. Lenhouse to believe that this handsomely-dressed, fashionable young lady, who was evidently the cynosure of all eyes, was the governess she had rated and trampled on whenever she had had an opportunity. And she pretended to be her niece—her only brother’s child!

Mr. Dodington was sitting on Olive’s other side, and his bow to the Lenhouses had been of the stiffest description. He had made no attempt to cross the room to shake hands with them. Mrs. Lenhouse did not know any of the other people in the room—but, yes, there was actually keeper Gray’s wife, looking very red and excited. That man should lose his place at once!

Mr. Jervoise began by saying that he was anxious for everyone’s sake to be as clear in the statement he had to make as possible. There had been a most unfortunate delay in the discovery of Mr. Bethune’s daughter, and those who were affected by this discovery had every right to hear all the evidence possessed of her identity before they either gave up the property, which was really hers, or failing to acknowledge such identity, suffered the chance of further loss by contesting the claim.

He then read Mr. Bethune’s will, after which he read some notes of the events attending the sudden flight of Mrs. Bethune with her child from Barrington Court, of her subsequent death, and of the fruitless search for the missing child, marking carefully the different dates, and giving an account of all the evidence and information which had ever reached them, and which, though at the time too vague to be of much use, had never been contradicted. Then he called on Mrs. Stagg to come forward.

Mrs. Stagg, explaining that she was at that time Mrs. Todd, told the story we have already heard, of the lady calling herself Mrs. Jones, who had taken refuge with her about the time named as that of Mrs. Bethune’s flight from home, and on being shown a photograph of that lady she recognized it. She also produced the small brooch which had been given her as a keepsake, and the initials scratched om it were pointed out and explained by Mr. Jervoise.

The next witness he called on to speak was Mrs. Cripps. She, too, recognized the photograph, and described the lady and child; but the child was now a girl. She described her lodger’s manner of life, the child’s illness, the mother’s apparent devotion to her child, and her strange disappearance, giving the date, and saying she could call on two friends who had been living in the house at the time to witness to the date as well as herself. She went on to describe the finding of the child by Mrs. Hall, and her being taken away by that lady, also the taking away of everything belonging to her lodger, who called herself Mrs. Mac. She remembered, among these things, a picture of a child, and a book with clasps. Everything had been removed from her house but a pair of spectacles in an old green shagreen case. These had been found in a drawer after Mrs. Hall had left London, and old Mrs. Oats had taken them, and before she died she had given them to Mrs. Cripps.

These were now produced, and Mr. Jervoise pointed out their evident antiquity, and that the maker’s address was one in Edinburgh, remarking on their probable identity with the spectacles which Mrs. Todd had remarked on as being used more for disguise than for use.

Mrs. Williams was now called forward, and with a few tears, for she was a broken, nervous woman, and the ordeal of speaking before so many people was great, she gave a description of her mistress bringing home the child, of their taking her to Odessa about a fortnight after her being found,, of the subsequent move to St. Petersburg, where she had last seen her, of Mr. Hall’s death, and Mrs. Hall’s removal to Paris, from which place she had heard from her old mistress. Miss Olive was always called Mrs. Hall’s niece; but the child knew that she was no real relation, and the true story of her adoption. Mrs. Hall liked trying to find out what she could remember of her former life, and was always quite sure, as she was herself, that the child had at one time been surrounded by comforts and luxuries not to be found in the house in Chelsea. Then she described Olive’s evident fear of her father, and repeated a few remarks that she remembered her making.

Mr. Jervoise now read Mrs. Hall’s diary and the statement which she had left with Olive. Many of the stories which she told he called on Mrs. Williams to remember. He then took from his desk the relics of her mother, which Olive had always kept and valued.

He held up the miniature that every one might see it, and he called on his friend Mr. Allen to say under what circumstances it had been painted, and the artist pointed out his initials in the corner, showing them in succession to every one present. He turned then to an old note-book, and read the memoranda he had made at the time of painting it, and giving the amount of the money paid him for the commission. He had spent a week at Barrington Court to paint as a miniature the likeness of Mr. Bethune’s child, the dress being carefully copied from that of an old family miniature.

Mr. Jervoise testified to and recognized the portrait, and also read some notes regarding it left in Mr. Bethune’s handwriting. Then he called forward James Stagg and Bessie Gray, who also remembered it, as did Mrs. Cripps and Mrs. Williams, and he re-read Mrs. Hall’s description of it The name in the old Bible, which he now produced, showed, he pointed out, that it had belonged to Mrs. MacIvor, the grandmother who had brought up Mrs. Bethune.

Mr. Bethune had also left a careful description of this book, as of one of the few things he knew that his wife had taken with her. Mrs. Williams’ testimony and Mrs. Hall’s written account verified its being found with her child, and that she had said it was her mother’s Bible.

The long locks of curly hair, which had given poor Mrs. Bethune such a pang to sever from her child’s head during that sad railway journey, were the last relics of the tragic past, and poor old Mr. Dodington blew his nose violently, and ejaculated “Bless my soul!” fervently more than once, in tones of suppressed emotion.

Then Mr. Jervoise read a letter from Madame Delabere, giving an account of her friend Mrs. Hall’s arrival in Paris, and all she had told her with regard to her adopted child, and describing the miniature and Bible, also speaking of Olive’s fixed intention to make inquiries in Edinburgh in the hope of finding some clue as to her parentage.

“Now,” concluded Mr. Jervoise, “I come to the final proof of the identity of this young lady with the child, Olive Bethune, who has been so long sought for in vain, and one which I think all present must be obliged to acknowledge is conclusive. I have refrained from alluding to it till now. . . Here is a note recording a fact in Mr. Bethune’s own handwriting, which I have never communicated to anyone, fearing that children might be put forward as years went by, and it was difficult to recognize the child.”

Mr. Jervoise broke the seal of a letter, and read: “On my child’s right arm were tattooed by me her initials—‘0. B.’ The ‘B ’ was not quite finished. The lower part of that letter may become a little indistinct in time, but they are likely to last for life. You should acknowledge no child that has not these marks. Below I draw the letters as I think they will be found.”

“ James Stagg,” continued Mr. Jervoise, “ will testify to his master having told him of these letters. It seems Mrs. Gray did not hear of them, but they were done only the day before the child was taken from home, and she did not wash and dress her that morning. She remembers, however, that the child complained that something had been done to her by her father.”

A murmur of excitement ran round the room as Mr. Jervoise finished speaking; and Mrs. Williams made a statement describing how she and Mrs. Hall had found these letters on the child’s arm, as soon as she had recovered from a severe illness, which had followed her adoption by Mrs. Hall. They were only noticed the day before they left England. These letters were also noticed in Mrs. Hall’s account of her protègtè. Mr. Jervoise read the paragraph he had purposely omitted,

“ And presently,” he said, “ I will call on Miss Bethune to show us these marks on her arm, which she described to me the first day she came to me, but which I have not yet asked to see. First, however, I must remark that I have not yet alluded to the recollections Miss Bethune has of her infancy. These recollections are necessarily somewhat vague and confused. From a strange combination of circumstances she has lately spent six months in her own home in a dependent position. From the first day of her arrival at Barrington Court she was puzzled with the tricks her memory played her. She recognized parts of the garden, and some of the rooms in the house. Above all she recognizcd her father’s study, which had been in no way changed since she was a child. Now, she had one very distinct memory of her childhood (it is alluded to in Mrs. Hall’s account of her), and that was of standing on the table in that room, and being promised a doll if she would submit to something her father wished to do.

“ My own firm conviction is that it was the tattooing of these letters on her arm which was in question. For some reason, which she, however, cannot remember, the doll was after all refused her, and she saw it put away in a drawer under the book-case.

“ On going into this room and recognizing it, as she did at once, she could see no sign of this drawer she remembered so well, and anxious to prove to herself that her memory did not deceive her, she hunted for it. Being sure at last that it was a secret one, she pressed the woodwork till she found a spring, and a drawer flew open, disclosing no doll, but books and papers.

“Colonel Lenhouse can bear witness to finding her kneeling by this drawer,” added Mr. Jervoise, turning towards the colonel, who looked very white. He, however, made no remark; he knew what was coming, and he forced his wife, who wished to protest, to silence.

“'Well,” continued Mr. Jervoise, “eleven years ago or more, when I was last at Barrington Court, I showed Colonel Lenhouse that secret drawer, and on opening it he and I found a large wax doll in a red frock That doll he gave to me for one of my children, and I brought it to London. I regret to say that it has gone the way of all well-beloved dolls; but my daughter carefully kept the frock, which I am now able to show you.”

Mr. Jervoise opened a small parcel, and shook out a crumpled red silk doll’s frock “ Colonel Lenhouse will support my testimony as to this incident,” he concluded, glancing again at the colonel.

“I decline saying anything at present!” he said fiercely.

“Bless her dear heart, how she cried over that doll!” exclaimed Mrs. Gray, suddenly losing her shyness in the excitement of the moment.

“Then you remember the doll, Mrs. Gray?” questioned the lawyer smiling.

“I never saw it, sir; but the day before mistress went away little Miss Olive was in great trouble over some doll her papa wouldn’t give her. She cried for an hour or more, and I couldn’t comfort her anyhow,” explained the good woman.

“Now, then, Miss Bethune, will you be so good as to show us these letters on your arm?” said Mr. Jervoise; and all eyes were turned with eager interest on Olive.

Olive had, at Mrs. Griffiths’ suggestion, removed the sleeve of her dress, and she now slipped off a jacket she wore over it, and came forward to the middle of the room with quiet self-possession.

She made a pretty picture as she stood in her slim girlish gracefulness, her head proudly raised, her face flushed with suppressed emotions; and a smothered murmur of something like admiration ran round the room.

“ The letters are at the back of my arm, and so high up that my sleeve covers them; consequently I have seldom seen them myself, but they are still quite distinct,” said Olive in firm clear tones.

Old Mr. Dodington put on his spectacles and hurried forward, as he said afterwards ‘to satisfy'his own eyes,’ retiring with many ejaculations of delight; and then Mr. Jervoise took up the drawing of the letters made by Mr. Bethune, and compared them critically with those on the fair round arm, calling especially on Mr. Lock, the third executor, and on Colonel and Mrs. Lenhouse, with Mr. Moreton, their solicitor, to examine and satisfy themselves as to the likeness of these letters to those described. Olive glanced at the colonel’s face, remembering still rather bitterly the cruel words he had silenced her with on that terrible night; but it expressed nothing but stony, scornful indifference, while Mrs. Lenhouse looked utterly bewildered and frightened.

They were the first to leave the room. When they were gone, Mr. Jervoise, in the name of the three executors, told Mr. Moreton that they gave his clients a fortnight to. decide whether they would contest Miss Bethune’s identity or no.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE COLONEL MAKES THE BEST OF IT.

IT is well to draw a veil over the conversation which followed when Colonel and Mrs.' Lenhouse found themselves alone once more.

On Mrs. Lenhouse’s slow brain had at last dawned the fact that the claimant she had so scoffed at might, after all, be her brother’s lost child. To contest Olive’s claim, if such were the case, had no place in her mind as it had in her husband’s. She was quite unfit to plan and to plot, she could only lament.

Much of the evidence she had heard had been lost on her, so persuaded was she that Olive was a thief, and therefore, of course an impostor. But the letters on her arm had been a visible proof to which she could not shut her eyes, and had left her convinced. She could not even pretend that she did not believe in her, so complete was her conviction. Then she remembered that her husband had not dared to deny that extraordinary story about finding the doll. He surely would have done so had it been possible. By his silence he had admitted the truth of Mr. Jervoise’s statement She had not been Colonel Lenhouse’s wife twenty-four .years without finding out that he only told her as much as he chose.

She was very angry at having been kept in the dark, and wept and lamented and scolded by turns. She could not understand what he meant by blaming her. None of his schemes for silencing Olive were within the grasp of her understanding. It was only when he began to taunt’ her with sending away Gerald, and thereby preventing the chance of his falling in love with the heiress, that she understood and felt his reproaches.

This fatal mistake did really .bring bitter repentance to poor Mrs. Lenhouse. What would Gerald say?—would he ever forgive her?

To have not only her husband, but her son blaming her,, was too dreadful. Her pride in Gerald had always been great. Now, if he and his cousin were attached to each other, the blow at least would have fallen more lightly even on herself.

It was most unfair, she said, that Gerald should be robbed of what he had been brought up to consider his own. In all justice, this girl ought to marry him. She should never like her, and. it would be terrible to have to turn out of Barrington even for a son’s wife. But at any rate it would make some amends to feel that Gerald was not the loser.

She advised her husband, as soon as she grew a little calmer, to write to Gerald at once, and beg him to propose to his cousin; and then she said she should make it a bargain with Olive, that she would acknowledge her at once as her niece if she would marry Gerald.

“After all,” she said at last almost cheerfully, “Gerald was immensely taken with her. He wouldn’t have married a governess, he had too much right feeling to wish to displease us; hut he was very much in love with her—I saw that—and of course she was in love with him; and he was always so nice to her, and such a handsome fellow as Gerald is, she could not marry more suitably.”

The colonel scoffed aloud at the sentiment, and asked his wife whether she thought the girl was an utter fool, for he had not found her so; adding that if the lawyers could see no way of disproving her statements, they had better walk out as soon as possible, “bag and baggage;” and his wife might feel grateful to him that they did not begin life again on a pittance.

When they were both tired of recriminations, they travelled home in sullen silence, arriving so late that Pen and Ada were surprised to see them.

They met their parents with much curiosity depicted on their faces, and at the first glance saw that a calamity had befallen them. Their father’s black looks awed even Pen, and it was not till they followed their mother to her room that they dared ask questions, and then heard the full account of all that had been said and done.

“ Of course you’ll fight it to the last,” said Pen. “ If you make her go to law, there is still a chance of her failing to prove who she is.” Which remark showed that she was her father’s own daughter.

Ada began to cry, and said she should hate being poor, and it was “most unfair” that after all these years they should have to give up their home.

The colonel strenuously enforced silence on his wife and daughters. It would be a fatal mistake to admit anything till it was quite decided what course was to be pursued.

After a day or two Colonel Lenhouse was summoned to London again by his solicitor. All the facts of the case had been laid by him before more than one of the highest authorities in the legal profession, and all had agreed that the proofs brought forward by Olive were without a flaw. No link was missing in the chain of evidence which proved her to he the lost child. There would be no chance, they declared, of any jury deciding against her, and contesting her rights would most probably bring great odium on Colonel and Mrs. Lenhouse.

The possibility of his missing child being found after his sister had come into-possession of Barrington had been fully provided for in Mr. Bethune’s will She had now been in . possession nearly twelve years, and during that time scant justice had been done to the estate, while a large portion of the annual income had been invested in Colonel Lenhouse’s name.

All this would come out in a court of justice, and Mr. Moreton pointed out to his client that it must tell against him.

The fear that some day he might be called on to recognize the missing heiress, the knowledge that the Barrington estates could only be enjoyed during his wife’s lifetime, had all tended to make the colonel niggardly; there was no worse landlord in the county. His wife had never interfered in any way; as far as the management of the property was concerned, she was a mere cypher.

The rents that had accumulated during the years that had to elapse before Mrs. Lenhouse took possession amounted to a large sum. These, too, Colonel Lenhouse had invested in his own name.

All things considered, the colonel was obliged to allow that he had made “ a good thing of it;” and he was well aware that investigations would not be pleasant. He was obliged to own, at least to himself, that he was afraid of them.

A lawsuit which would, the lawyers said, be certain to go against him, would half ruin him, while it would also blot his reputation for honesty of word and deed; while now he could retire unmolested with a good income, and with both pity and sympathy from his friends and neighbours.

He would hive the reputation of being an unfortunate, ili-used man for the rest of his life, hut no one need say one word against him.

The colonel repented bitterly but silently of his harshness to Olive. Until that fatal evening he had been almost friendly with her, at any rate he had never disliked her. If he had only won her liking, she might have turned to him now for help and advice in the management of her large estates. The idea of her falling in love with Gerald seemed a remote one to his father. And as to proposing the marriage as a return for their quietly giving up possession, Mr. Moreton had pointed out that they were not in a position to make a bargain in the matter.

The terms of the will were clear; no others would he listened to by the executors. There was nothing to be done but to walk out with a good grace.

The colonel consoled himself with the hope that it was still on the cards that Miss Be thane might be inclined to do something for his younger children. The game being lost, it was well not to throw away any of the chances that might come to them.

Before leaving London he agreed in his wife’s name to everything proposed by Mr. Moreton. The acknowledgment of the rights of Miss Bethune were to be given at once, and with all courtesy.

After dinner that evening, his wife having in vain questioned him for news before, he told her the conclusion come to, and remarked in his surliest tones that the sooner she prepared to move out the better. Delay could do no good. All the furniture they had bought was theirs; but she must be careful to take nothing that did not belong to her. Then he left the room, banging the door angrily after him, and went out to smoke. If Olive had only known it, she was revenged at that moment The colonel’s bitterest thought was, what a fool he had been to lose all chance of being on a friendly footing with her for the future.

At this sadden confirmation of her worst fears, Mrs. Lenhouse, who had been very despondent ever since her return from London, went into such violent hysterics that the whole household was electrified and alarmed. Dick, lying on his sofa under the schoolroom window with his hooks by his side, was so frightened by the strange sounds which reached him, that he took up his crutches and hopped to the door and listened. Cis and Janet had both gone to . school the week before. Miss James had departed, and the lame boy had the schoolroom to himself. In some ways this was a gratification to him, though he missed his brother and sister. .

He now spent three hours every morning at the rectoiy, learning as he could with the rector’s boys, while the afternoons. were spent out of doors, and the solitary evenings in the schoolroom, preparing his lessons for the next day.

It was some time before Dick could get anyone to tell him what was the matter, but at last Ada listened to him and came in.

“Well?” she said, somewhat scornfully.

“ What’s the row? What a screaming! ”

“ It was only mama having hysterics, but she’s better now. She is, of course, dreadfully upset,” explained Ada; and then she told him the story of their change of fortune in rather a confused fashion, with many harsh words of dislike to Olive, or as she still called her, “ Miss Maclvor.”

This was indeed most wonderful and overpowering news for Dick!

He very quickly, though, took in the situation. He knew all about the lost child. Ada’s explanations were unnecessary. He had lately heard the story at the rectory, and it had touched his imagination; not that the rectory family had personally known the Bethunes, but some of the children had heard the story from people in the village, and had entered with delight into its flavour of romance.

Dick, full of dreams and fancies of his own, had been enchanted to find so interesting a theme of conjecture, and lately the missing child, in whose nursery he spent so many hours of his life, had been the centre of his imaginings, the heroine of the stories he loved to tell himself. He had even begun inditing a poem to her memory.

That his beloved and admired “ Flora ” was really the lost heiress, whose sad fate he had been bewailing, filled him with so much joy and triumph that he quite forgot the loss he would himself sustain, though no one of the children cared for Barrington Court as he did.

His expressions of exultant surprise and joy were very trying to Ada, who at last told him he ought to he ashamed of himself; not to care for them at all, and to he glad that a stranger had turned them out of their home. This remark a little damped his joy, but he would not acknowledge it “Of course if it belongs to her we have no right to it whatever,” he said sturdily; “and she is Olive Bethune, our cousin, therefore she is not a stranger. I for one am very glad to be her cousin, and I am quite sure she will invite me to stay with her sometimes, and she will not leave off loving me; and I’m sure she will be very good to Cis and Janet, and she will wish to be friends with Lawrence. I know she likes Lawrence. Gerald, too, was always kind to her, I believe; but you and Pen were horrid! Quite horrid! I don’t wonder that you are in a way. Fancy Pen accusing her of stealing that miniature! I hope she is sorry now. I shall certainly write to ‘ Flora’ at once, and tell her how glad I am!”

“That you won’t!” said Ada angrily. “For I shall tell papa, and he will be very angry. He’s furious, I can tell you. A pretty life of it we shall lead now!” and Ada began to sob.

“Tell if you like!” said Dick scornfully; “but I shall write if I choose, and I shall write to Cis and Janet. You may tell whatever tales you like, I don’t care!” and he returned to his sofa, and would not utter another word. though Ada descanted for some time on the treacherous dealing of “ that horrid girl ” coming into their house to worm out all the secrets.

The next morning Ada fulfilled her threat. She told her father that Dick said he would write to Miss Maclvor. Would he not forbid it? Dick was in the room, for he came downstairs now for breakfast.

“ Write to her by all means, Dick,” said his father approvingly. “ And let me beg you for the future, Ada, to give your cousin her own name.”

The colonel had been wondering and considering all the morning how he could hold out the olive branch to his now wealthy kinswoman. He wished above all things to obliterate in her mind the remembrance of the past. Nothing could be better than Dick’s spontaneous congratulations.

Ada stared at her father in round-eyed astonishment, and Pen tossed her head and uttered some remark he did not choose to hear. Mrs. Lenhouse was going to keep her room for the day.

When his father had left the room, Dick was very triumphant and jubilant; but he did not dare to be saucy to Pen.

It was Sunday morning, so he had no lessons to interfere with his letters, and before the day was over he had accomplished three.

Meantime Colonel Lenhouse was sending the information of the change in their fortunes to his elder sons, taking care to inform them both that for the future they must expect nothing from him beyond an allowance of fifty pounds a year. He must now spend on the education of his younger boys. Dick was likely always to be a burden on him.

He told Gerald he must immediately fix on some profession. Perhaps he could still get into the army as a University candidate. He knew that he had at one time wished to do this, and his mother had objected. Or perhaps his cousin might like him for a bailiff; she would hardly be able to manage her property herself.

“Your mother,” he concluded, “fancies you may still persuade her to marry you, but I am not sanguine on that point; you will know best what chance you have with her. I am told some love-passages passed between you . . . but then you were the knight who rode away, and fair ladies are not always generous and forgiving.”

There was a sneer conveyed in these last words. The colonel had never been quite just to his eldest son, having always been jealous of his position as undisputed heir of Barrington, and he now felt less for his son’s disappointment than for his own.

To Lawrence his letter was pleasant, and he advised him strongly not to lose all chance of favours to come by showing useless resentment; the shooting at Barrington as he knew was not to he despised. The colonel thought bitterly, as he wrote, how little chance he himself had of enjoying it again. Lawrence, as he pointed out to him, had always been good friends with his cousin. It would he a pity for him not to make the most of that friendship.

CHAPTER XXXI.

DICK’S CONGRATULATIONS

OLIVE stayed on in London with Mrs. Griffiths to await Mrs. Lenhouse’s decision, for it was with her that it nominally rested, and when it reached her the dear old lady’s joy and exultation were for the moment Olive’s greatest pleasure. Ever since the day she had spoken to Mr. Jervoise she had been troubled by no misgivings; at any rate she now knew that she had not deceived herself, and that she was really Olive Bethune.

That the Lenhouses would try and resist her claims to the property she had thought likely, remembering the way Colonel Lenhouse had behaved to her, but she had no real fears for the future. All she was now impatient for was to be able to write to Michael Keith, and tell him the whole story. She had waited to tell him anything till she could tell him all.

Olive was by no means so selfish as to forget in the midst of her happiness that her own good fortune brought disappointment to others. It was difficult to be sorry for either Colonel or Mrs. Lenhouse, they had both behaved so unkindly to her when their kindness would have been so gratefully accepted. Pen and Ada, too, had done their best to make her miserable; she could not remember a kind word or thought of theirs. "

Mr. Jervoise explained to her clearly how very much the Lenhouses had benefited by their twelve years’ ownership; benefited in fact almost dishonestly, for the estate had suffered. Colonel Lenhouse had laid by enough to provide very amply for Ins children, and they had no claim on her whatever.

Olive thought with some compunction of Gerald. He had seemed to her to have so few ideas beyond the heirship of Barrington Court. What would he do now!

The compunction was mixed with some amusement, as she remembered his affected regrets for the dull life to which he would be condemned. Now he could go out into the world and carve his own fortune. Well, if she could she would help him. Lawrence, too, should always find her kind and cousinly; she owed him nothing hut kindness. He had always, after that first day, treated her with courteous conoderation.

Then the children, her dear children, who had taken her so warmly. Did she not owe Dick everything? How they receive the news'! Dick loved his home with intensity perhaps Olive alone had understood. Would grieve dreadfully to leave it) For him at least she would do something. He should feel that she was grateful to him, and that without delay.

She told Mr. Jervoise of the invalid boy, and of the solitary and somewhat uncared-for life that was before him, and asked whether he thought Colonel Lenhouse would allow her to adopt him—to undertake the cost of his education and provide for him in the future. She explained that the boy was prematurely old and sensitive, that he had already begun to fret at his helplessness. His father had allowed him more than once to feel that he considered him a burden and expense. She must relieve Dick from this at once. She must make his life perfectly free and independent or she should not be happy. If she had so much, and could do as she liked, there need be no delay.

Mr. Jervoise said he did not think she would find Colonel Lenhouse likely to make any difficulties, and the proposition should he made at once. He would think it over, and propose to her later the settlement she wished to make on her little cousin. But his “dear ward,” as he liked now to call her, must remember that she was very young; time might bring changes. Another day someone else might have to be consulted.

Olive blushed, hesitated a moment, and then told her father’s old friend frankly of her engagement to Captain Keith, and of his utter ignorance of her real name and fortune, adding that beyond making this arrangement for her little cousin, which she knew Captain Keith would wish as much as herself, she intended doing nothing till his return. Her letter had only been posted the day before, and it must be many days before it reached him. She did not even know exactly where he was. When he last wrote he was at Dongola.

Mr. Jervoise was not a little surprised, and duly impressed by the romance of his ward’s story, he promised to keep her secret till she gave him leave to speak.

“I see,” he said smiling, “you have quite made up your mind on that subject; all advice however good would be thrown away on you. I can only hope this Captain Keith is worthy of his good fortune.”

It was on the 7th of June that Colonel Lenhouse in his wife’s name had acknowledged the rights of her niece, Olive Bethune, to the Barrington estate, at the same time expressing himself ready to turn out of the house in a month from that date, taking with them, as was their right by the terms of Mr. Bethune’s will, all the furniture that had been bought during their occupancy.

Mrs. Griffiths had grown tired of London, and begun to feel the heat, so Olive agreed very willingly to return with her to Ivy Lodge on the 12th to await the course of events.

At the Kingsbridge station they happened to catch sight of Superintendent Hitchcock. At a nod from Mrs. Griffiths he hurried forward to welcome her home.

“Well, Hitchcock, have you heard anything more of your colonel!” said the old lady with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“ Not one word, ma’am,” said Hitchcock emphatically.

“Will you come round and pay me a visit the first evening you have to spare, and I will tell you the story I promised! We shall soon be having Captain Michael home now,” she added, glancing at Olive triumphantly.

Awaiting her Olive found what she called “ quite a stack of letters.” She looked at their postmarks with much interest. She had so few correspondents. And then it suddenly dawned upon her that they were one and all from the Lenhouses.

“ I will open them after dinner, dear Aunt Mary,” she said laughing. “ If I once begin them I shall be late for dinner. I wonder what they will all say. Dick, Cis, Janet, Lawrence; I know their handwriting. And can this possibly be from Gerald!”

So sitting by the drawing-room window on a stool at Mrs. Griffiths’ feet, the cool breeze blowing in with the most delicious freshness after the heat and dust of the day, the sweet voice of a blackbird singing his evening song in a laurel bush on the lawn, Olive merrily opened her correspondence. .

She first took up Dick’s letter. She cared more, she told Mrs. Orilfiths, for what he said than for all the rest put together. '

It was one long rapturous paean of triumph from beginning to end. Not one word of regret did he vouchsafe for himself or his family. And he signed himself, with quaint, old-fashioned precision,Your loving cousin and kinsman, Richard Peveril Lenhouse.”

Olive’s tears rose to her eyes. She had won somebody’s love at Barrington at any rate.

Cis’s letter came next, and she was much amused at its beginning. Cis had evidently been puzzled as to how he should now address her, for there were several erasures. Finally he had decided on “ My dear cousin.” He too expressed much hearty pleasure in her change of fortunes; but he could not quite forget what he had lost, He reminded her that he had been bom at Barrington, which nobody else had, then added that he had just remembered that she too had been bom there, before he had. He said boldly that he hoped she would invite him to spend the holidays with her sometimes, and Dick too; and then it would be “so awfully jolly!” And would she please take care of his rabbits for him? He heard they were now going to live at Southsea, which he should like for some things; but there would be no chance of his father letting him keep rabbits. This letter was dated three days later than Dick’s.

“Now for Janet’s!” exclaimed Olive, when she and Mrs. Griffiths had finished laughing over Cis’s effusion, and most remarkable spelling.

Janet’s was a very precise, prim, well-written epistle. It began, “ My dear Cousin Olive,” and she gave her congratulations with a studied politeness which disappointed Olive not a little.

“I would much rather she had written naturally, and expressed her sorrow and disappointment. Of course it is very hard for her,” said Olive hotly. “ I hate humbug, and she knows it.” Then she glanced at the postscript and burst out laughing.

It was scribbled in pencil, and rather difficult to decipher, but it ran thus:—“I was obliged to write all this nonsense. Papa sent me a rough copy, and Miss Slade had to read it over. I can’t be exactly glad, you know, because it will be a horrid bore leaving home, but I am awfully glad you are to have it. And you’ll let me come and stay with you, won’t you? And won’t it be fun? Do, do write to me, and tell me you’ll be friends! I shall soon be grown up; I was sixteen yesterday. What a rage Pen and Ada must be in! I can’t help laughing when I think of that miniature.”

“ Now for Lawrence!” said Olive. “ I told you about him; he is the boy I worked with for Sandhurst. He is really a nice fellow, and we were always good friends. I hope he will be pleasant. I do so enjoy having a few relations, dear Aunt Mary. I suppose people who have had them all their lives won’t understand the feeling.”

Mrs. Griffiths smiled at the bright face lifted towards her. “You have a loving heart, my dear. The gift of being able to love is as rare as other good gifts. Prize it, by all means.”

Lawrence’s letter had cost him much consideration. He had not the pen of a ready writer. In comparison to Dick’s letter his effusion was boyish; but he wrote very heartily, and offered his congratulations without alluding to his own loss, which, indeed, he did not feel to be great He hoped to be in India before another year was over, and he had never expected much from his father.

“ He takes it all very calmly,” remarked Mrs. Griffiths,

“ and will evidently be ready to accept any kindness you may show him.”

“ Oh, yes! And do you know, I think Michael likes him very much. I remember hearing him say so. But it is Gerald who is really to foe pitied. I cannot help wishing I fcould do something for him.”

“Yes, my dear; but from what you have told me,” answered Mrs. Griffiths, “ it will do that young man a world of good to stand on his own feet. If it had happened a year or two later it would have been much more serious for him. At his age he has the world before him. I am quite curious to hear what he has to say. It strikes me your relations with him were more complicated than with his brother.”

Olive glanced over Gerald’s letter, which was rather a long one, and then she coloured hotly, and uttered an exclamation of something like anger.

“ Well, my dear, what is the matter?” asked Mrs. Griffiths, who was watching her.

Now, to Gerald his father’s news had been, as you may imagine, a tremendous blow. It had fallen as a “ bolt from the blue,” as he would have described it himself. No hint of any insecurity in his position as heir to the Barrington estates had ever reached him.

His first feeling on realizing the finality of his loss was of intense provocation against his mother for interfering with his flirtation with “Miss Maclvor.” That he had really admired and liked her, that he had been on the verge of falling very much in love with her, he knew to be true; that he had been prepared to marry her as his sister’s governess was not the question.

But he now told himself that he might have won her love, ne might have allowed his own feelings to have had full play, and he might now have been the affianced lover of the heiress! If he had only been let alone everything would have been right.

Well now did he remember the conversation that evening about the lost child, and the curiosity expressed by Miss Maclvor as to her fate; a little more and she would have confided her own history to him, and he would have been likely to have guessed at her identity with the lost child.

His father’s hint that his mother still thought he had a chance with the heiress was not needed. His thoughts centred instantly in the hope that he might resume his relations with Olive where he fancied he had left them off when he had last seen her. .

His letter was a love letter, coupled with an entreaty to Olive to let him have the chance of winning her affections. She must have seen, he said, that he had fallen in love with her at Barrington, and that nothing but his mother’s interference had prevented him from asking her to be his wife. Might he at once come and see her?

The world would say he was influenced by. mercenary motives, but he believed her to be too noble to care for what the world said, for she knew that he truly loved her. He had kept away from home that he might not see her again out of respect to his mother’s wishes.

“ I can’t read that aloud. You must read it for yourself, Aunt Mary! ” exclaimed Olive rather indignantly. “ What am I to say to him? How can he talk such nonsense? Why, I snubbed him dreadfully. I don’t think I was ever civil to him at all, except that evening when I forgot everything but my wish to find out how much he knew. How horrid to be obliged to answer him! Aunt Mary, you must tell me what to say. It would be unkind, I suppose, to say the truth—that if there was hot another man in England I would not marry him!”

In her excitement Olive had risen, and was pacing about the room with flashing eyes and heightened colour.

“ No, my dear,” said Mrs. Griffiths as she laid down the letter in her lap' and resumed her knitting, “such plain speaking is hardly necessary. At the same time let no false kindness lead yon to be anything but very clear. This young man will evidently not easily take no for an answer. It seems a pity that you cannot at once tell him of yonr engagement to Michael; but I believe you still wish to keep silence on that subject till his return.”

“Yes, till his return!” exclaimed Olive, with a happy smile; “and that must be soon now, everybody says so. He will be here, perhaps, in August The mail must be in to-morrow, I think. You shall tell me what to say to Gerald to-morrow, Aunt Mary. And now you shall have your nap, and I will take a turn in the garden and cool my face. How it bums!”

The next morning the letters had to be written, and some of them were a great pleasure to Olive. To Cis and Janet she promised merry holidays at Barrington Court. Dick was told that his own room should still be his, he should always find it ready for him. Lawrence was reminded of their pleasant hours of work together; he too, she told him, must some day be her guest. He must not forget that she was his cousin, and that she had no other kinsfolk.

Her letter to Gerald presented many difficulties, but they were surmounted at last She tried to say no more to pain him than she could help, but her tone was too decided for anyone to mistake it She felt that the change in his prospects must be very trying to him. He was careless about his expenditure, even in the eyes of his admiring mother.

She could not insult him by offering him money, but she wrote to Mr. Jervoise to consult him on the subject Through her lawyers something might be done for Gerald without wounding him. He really might be in difficulties.

“ Now, dear Aunt Mary,” said Olive that evening, “ the Lenhouses leave Barrington on the 8th July. Do, do let us go there at once! I shall have almost to refurnish, so Mr. Jervoise says, but you and I should be happy in a few rooms. I don’t wish to do much till Michael comes home, but I have made up my mind to meet him there, in my own home—my very own!” she added proudly; “and I want to spend my birthday there. Mr. Jervoise says I am twenty-two on the 1st of August.”

CHAPTER XXXII.

IN THE SOUDAN.

LYING in the hospital tent at Dongola, Michael Keith had shut his eyes in the somewhat vain hope of forgetting himself in sleep. -

For ten days he had been laid up with fever. Each day he felt himself growing weaker. How would it all end? Should he ever see old England and those he loved again?

He knew he was despondent; he knew it was weakness that made him feel so miserable; add he tried, but tried in vain, to smile at his own forebodings.

He had come out to find the fighting at an end, and the tedium of inaction in the trying climate had brought much sickness to the camp. The one desire of everyone now was to get home, and to forget the country which had been the grave of so many heroes.

Keith had told himself more than once that in his impatience he had made a great mistake; that he deserved all the-discomfort and disappointment he had brought on himself.

Why had he not trusted Olive? He worried himself with the thought that he had actually been going to leave her when she most needed his help. That he was utterly unworthy of her. That he had never even had the courage to tell her that he had volunteered for active service as the easiest way of forgetting her. Would she ever forgive him if she knew the truth?

His brain was as weak as his body, and he felt that he could not argue with, or defend himself in any way. The hot air came in now and then through the tent door, in puffs which brought sand with it How. his eyes ached with the sand! If he could not control himself and think of pleasant things, sleep was out of the question, and sleep seemed like life to him just then.

With an effort he transported himself in fancy to Ivy Lodge, and pictured Aunt Mary in her easy chair, sitting in the bay window with Olive by her side, or perhaps they were sitting under the copper beech, where Olive wrote that she loved to sit and work while Aunt Mary read aloud to her. How would it be when one day they would expect him, and he should walk across the soft lawn, which he pictured so refreshingly green to his hot tired eyes, and find those two sitting together waiting for him, Olive in a pale blue dress as Aunt Mary had last described her!

He had never seen her in anything but black, and looking rather grave and tired; but Aunt Mary described her now as gay and bright, full of mirth and happiness, and Michael Keith knew that he craved for a sight of his promised wife as men crave for water in a thirsty land. A mail must be in again soon, to-day perhaps, he thought with a sigh, and then he fell into a troubled sleep, to be awoke by a neighbour lying beside him exclaiming “The mail!” in an accent of delight. And then he opened his eyes and came back from his confused imaginings to the reality of sand, heat, and weakness.

An orderly had come in, and was distributing letters at the different bedsides. Keith stretched out his hand languidly; even that effort seemed a trouble to him, though his eyes brightened.

A moment later they had clouded with disappointment.

A letter from Bob, another from Roberts, but none from Ivy Lodge. •

Never had Aunt Mary and Olive forgotten him yet, never had they missed a mail. But the mails were often irregular; letters sometimes came in batches. He had had two from Olive last mail He had no reason to grumble, yet he was aware of an unreasonable feeling of disappointment and depression.

“ How wretchedly weak I must be!” he pondered, as he opened Roberts’ letter. His brother’s was a long one, he would enjoy that at his leisure. He had not heard from his friend for many weeks.

It was written at Winchester, and was full for the most part of regimental news, regimental gossip. Every trivial incident was interesting to Keith, and he smiled languidly over many of his friend’s remarks. The letter was a longer one than usual, and he laid it down once or twice.

At last he came to a sentence which made him feel as if his heart stood still, and a mist came before his eyes which made the letters dance. He read through the sentence twice before he could take it in.

“ It is the talk of the town that the lost heiress of Barrington has been discovered, and the Lenhouses have to turn out at once; and what is more, it is said that this heiress is no other than that handsome governess you introduced me to at their ball last winter. Do you remember? Oh, Mick! why didn’t you or I go in for her? We have both lost a chance; I know we both admired her not a little. I wonder if it is too late for us now! I suppose so, for they say she is to marry that ass—young Lenhouse, which is no doubt a very convenient arrangement for the family, though it is somewhat hard lines on our friend the colonel, who, however, they say has feathered his nest tremendously, and now retires to Southsea.”

Keith read and re-read this piece of news. It was impossible to think that anyone but Olive was alluded to. Yet what could it all mean? He remembered dimly that he had heard something about a child having been missing for years, and that it was on her death that the Lenhouses had come into possession of Barrington.

Why had not Olive written to him herself? he questioned rather bitterly. He was too weak to be very reasonable.

“ If she is going to throw me over, she might do it handsomely,” he muttered. “ Perhaps it is part of the terms of the will that she should marry her cousin. People said it was a queer one. ’ But she loves me, and I am a brute to doubt herl Yet I could hardly expect her to give up this large fortune—sixteen or seventeen thousand a year, I have heard it called—for my sake.”

Poor Keith groaned at his own helplessness, and with impatience, to think what days and weeks must pass by before he knew the truth of Captain Roberts’ statements.

And Aunt Mary! Why had she not written to him? Her first thought at least would be for him. Coulcl she be afraid of telling him the truth?

Then he took some of Olive’s letters from a desk within his reach, and began re-reading them.

Now, Olive’s letters had never quite satisfied him. They were a little stiff, a little conventional; they were not like herself, they were decidedly cold. Did she really love him?

Keith tortured himself with every sort of reason for the imperfections he discovered in Olive’s letters but the right one, which was that she had never been accustomed to write in English. Had she written in. French she would have been frank and unaffected; writing in English she translated her thoughts from French, and with the fear of writing sentimentally always checking her pen, she grew stiff and cold.

She had never written English letters before, she had had no occasion to. Madame Delabere she always wrote to in French. English, as far as letter-writing was concerned, had remained a foreign language.

. All that night Keith tossed in restless sleeplessness, tormented and tantalized by visions of Olive. He saw her standing as he had first seen her at Waterloo Station, her heavy black dress clinging to her tall figure, her face pale and anxious, her eyes full of tears as she looked round imploringly for help in her alarm at the loss of her purse.

He saw her standing beside him in her queenly beauty in velvet and lace as he had seen her next, when her face grew radiant, and she had seemed to forget everything but the enjoyment of the moment He pictured her at every other time of their meeting, when he had always read sad thoughts in her dark eyes, and longed to chase the shadows away, and to stand between her and trouble.

Then he pictured her as he had seen her at Ivy Lodge, and her joy at meeting him; the joy he had heard in hei voice, for he could not see her face. And then again in London, busy in his service, anxious to do all she could for him; waiting on his aunt with loving watchful attention. . . . And then his last sight of her, her face full of sorrow as she had met him on his unexpected return to the room, and all the love, all the rapture he had read in it when he had declared his love.

Could he doubt her? Could he for one moment doubt her? But oh, for one word of certainty to still his throbbing brain! Why had she not written?

When the doctor came round the next morning he looked grave.

“ We must get you home at once, it is yottr only chance, I am afraid. Now try to keep quiet, and in three days we may get you off with General B—. Forth and Barret are going too,” added the doctor, naming two other invalids. “ A convoy goes on Thursday, if only, my dear fellow, you will keep yourself quiet, and be a little less impatient and restless, you may get off too.”

This was joyful news for Keith. The thought of returning to England proved the best sedative, and he slept well that night Three days afterwards, still very weak, but with hope again throbbing in his veins, he was on his way home.

It was a painful journey at first to one so weak, but he never gave way to despondency again. All his thoughts were of Ivy Lodge, of Olive, of Aunt Mary, waiting for him there. He sturdily put away all thought of the strange story his friend had told him; it might all he a mistake, some foolish rumour. He would wait to think about it till he knew that it was true.

As the days went by and he approached the shores of England, the fresh breezes invigorated him, and he gained strength. The long sea voyage, and the rest of body and mind seemed to bring him new life. He had been too much of an invalid to cross the Continent, which he had been tempted to do in his impatience, and he was rewarded by feeling almost strong when he landed at Gravesend.

On reaching London rather late in the afternoon he went at once to the Great Western Hotel, that he might be ready to start for Kingsbridge early the following morning. He had attempted no letters since leaving Dongola, he had sent no telegrams. He had enjoyed thinking of the pleasure of surprising Olive, of seeing the joy in her face when he suddenly appeared before her.

But now a sudden thought came to him. In her last letter she had mentioned an intended visit to London. His aunt, too, had alluded to the probability of her going up again to town for a few days. He had thought it strange that she should so suddenly take a fancy for being in London, when for years she had never cared to leave home. Perhaps they were in London now?

He sent a return telegram to Ivy Lodge, addressed to his aunt.

Are you at Ivy Lodge? If not, where? Michael.

The servants would be sure to answer such a message.

The answer came in due time, but not before he had grown very impatient, and made up his mind that something was amiss.

“ Mrs. Griffiths is at Barrington Court, near Winchester.”

Keith stared at the words in bewildered surprise. In his longing to see Olive, Captain Roberts’ story had almost faded from his mind.

Then it was true! How much of it was true? If his aunt was at Barrington Court, at any rate one part of his friend’s statement was false. How could he have believed it for moment? Olive as an heiress—Olive mistress of Barrington! It was all very wonderful! But it was too late to go on to-night. He would telegraph in the morning to his aunt, and follow his telegram. Now what he wanted sadly was sleep. What a horrible scarecrow he looked!— Olive would not know him.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

OLIVE’S BIRTHDAY.

IT was Olive’s birthday—the 1st of August. The hot summer’s day had begun some hours, but was still young, for it was hardly more than seven o’clock when Olive came downstairs, and pausing one moment at the door to glance round with delight at the lovely scene which greeted her, she ran down the steps into her mother’s garden—her own now!

She was closely followed by a skye-terrier puppy—Mr. Jervoise’s gift, and a lemon-and-white spaniel, which really belonged to Dick. Olive dearly loved all living creatures.

The evening before she had told Mrs. Griffiths that she intended her birthday to be a long day, and that she should begin it early; she wished to enjoy every hour of it. She should write to Michael, though it was not mail-day, and she should be out as much as possible. She had invited all the children in the village to tea in the afternoon—their parents too, as many as could come. Swings were to be put up in a meadow for them. Her afternoon mast be given to them, but the morning was her own, and she must begin it early.

Olive had not wished to be the object of any demonstration on her arrival at Barrington, and she and Mrs. Griffiths had taken possession of the dismantled house one evening quite unexpectedly. When Michael came home, Olive said, she would have some great entertainment for her tenants, but not now. She liked to hear how glad they were to welcome her, and such assurances were not few, but she could do nothing without Michael. The Lenhouses had almost stripped the house of furniture, but Olive was firm in her determination to wait till Captain Keith’s return before she would do anything to refurnish it. She and Mrs. Griffiths made the study their drawing-room, and turned a little sitting-room near it, which had been used by Pen and Ada as a morning-room, into a dining-room.

Olive had taken for her own bed-room the one in which was her mother’s portrait. Janet had said it felt full of ghosts; but she had no fear of them, and she liked the room because it had once been her parents’.

A room close at hand she had fitted with every comfort for Mrs. Griffiths, and Jane and another maid were established near them. The rambling half-furnished house was rather alarming to the old lady after the snugness of Ivy Lodge. Olive had persuaded Stagg and his wife to come to her at least for a time, and they had gladly given up the London shop, a promise of a lodge whenever they liked it being an attractive offer.

It had been carefully given out in the neighbourhood that the mistress of Barrington would not receive callers for the present, so no visitor had appeared beyond the very few old friends who had known her parents.

When Olive planned, as she was fond of doing, the things she would do for her people by and by, Mrs. Griffiths would smile and say, “ You will have to wait till after your wedding, my dear, that is evident.”

And Olive never contradicted her, she must wait till Michael could share everything with her.

Wandering up and down in the garden her mother had loved so much, examining her flowers with loving admiration, picking them here and there to add to a bunch in her hand, Olive sunned herself. She hardly cared to cover her head with her parasol while her eyes drank in the beauty around-her, but her thoughts were far away in the distant land, where she pictured her lover. What was he doing now? Was he thinking of her?

How had he received the wonderful news she had sent him? Would he come back to her soon? Or was she to have all joys but this joy—was she never to see him again? That thought she drove away, she could not bear it for a moment.

She glanced lovingly at the old house.

“I don’t feel that I should care for anything without him,” she murmured, and her eyes grew sad.

Then she roused herself; she must forget her anxiety. It was her birthday, and everyone would like to see her gay, dear Aunt Mary must not be depressed. She fetched a book from one of the shelves in the study, and ensconced herself on a garden seat Half an hour later the breakfast-bell rang, and singing gaily the refrain of one of Michael’s favourite songs—the very last she had sung to him,—she went in to find Mrs. Griffiths.

A few minutes before, all unknown to Olive, a telegram had been brought to the old lady’s bed-room, which she had opened with not a little trepidation. A glance was, however, enough to relieve her anxiety.

“Arrived here last evening. I start for Winchester by 9 a.m. train. Quite well. Michael.”

Mrs. Griffiths read it aloud to Jane, whom she had brought with her from Ivy Lodge.

“ Now, Jane, you must keep a secret for once,” she said.

“ I shall go in and meet Captain Keith myself, and bring him home for a birthday present for Miss Olive!”

Jane was almost as excited as her mistress, and promised silence.

“ Go and tell them downstairs to say nothing of the telegram,” continued Mrs. Griffiths. “ I hope Miss Olive won’t see the telegraph-boy, or she will think something is the matter.”

“ Miss Bethune went out into the garden soon after seven, ma’am. She is there now, in her own garden, as she calls it,” explained Jane.

“ That’s right; I hope I don’t look too happy,” said the old lady, smiling as she glanced at herself in the glass. “ I don’t wish my secret to be guessed.”

She reached the breakfast-table before Olive came in from the garden.

“Very many happy returns of the day, my dear! You look as fresh as your flowers,” she said, with eyes full of affectionate admiration as Olive entered the room, looking in her white dress like an impersonation of Summer. She had put flowers in her hair, flowers in her waistband; her face spoke of nothing but serene happiness.

“ Very many happy returns of the day too to you, dear Aunt Mary!” exclaimed Olive kissing her. “I began my birthday early, as I told you I should.”

“ My dear child, you will be tired before the evening, I’m afraid.”

“Tired! Oh no! I shall wish the day could be longer,” answered Olive joyously. “ The tables are to be laid under the trees in the avenue; the day is so hot everyone will want shade. Besides, that avenue used to he my dear mother’s favourite walk. I must have trotted up and down there with her when I was a tiny child; and Stagg was telling me yesterday that she used to walk up and down with me there when I was a baby in arms. The children are to arrive at four. Stagg has undertaken to have everything ready for them.

I am so glad he and his wife are here. I like having my friends round me to-day. I have asked Mrs. Gray and her children to come early, for she wishes to help cut up the cakes.”

Olive now caught sight of a framed photograph of Mrs. Griffiths—a birthday present and a surprise.

“ Just what I wished for, dear Aunt Mary!” she exclaimed, after her thanks had been given. “ I should like one the same size of Madame Delabere. Here is a letter from her—such a long one! and another from Mr. Jervoise; and one from Dick with inclosures, I see. What a fat letter!”

“ Eat your breakfast, dear child, I am going into Winchester directly we have finished. I should like the carriage at ten o’clock; will you kindly order it for me?” said Mrs. Griffiths, trying not to look mysterious.

“Why did not you order it, Aunt Mary?” asked Olive laughingly. “You actually treat me with ceremony. It is too bad of you. But isn’t it very hot for you to go into Winchester?”

“ Not at all,” said Mrs. Griffiths. “ I have some business I must do this morning.”

“ I should like to go with you, only I promised myself not to leave the garden to-day,” said Olive presently.

“ No, my dear, I don’t want you,” returned the old lady briskly. “ I shall be home by twelve, and I promise you I will rest then, and be quite fresh for the evening.”

Olive opened Dick’s letter and read a few sentences.

“ He is so enchanted, dear boy, at the thought of living at the rectory,” she remarked, “and having his donkey-carriage as usual. He says he shall drive up and see me every day, and they are all three delighted at the prospect of a fortnight with me at the end of their holidays. The rest of the family it seems are going abroad. They will come here on the 3d of September. Surely, Aunt Mary, Michael will be in England by that time at latest. I cannot help being a little fidgety at not hearing from him. He has missed two mails now. Are you anxious? Do tell me the truth if you are!”

“ No, my dear, I am not anxious,” said Mrs. Griffiths as naturally as she could; “ill news travels fast, as I have often remarked to you. He was not feeling very well when he last wrote, perhaps he has not felt up to letter-writing lately.” Then seeing Olive’s face grow very grave, and fearing she might he tempted to let out her secret, she said she must go and get ready for her drive. '

“ Good-bye,” said Olive, “ and come and find me in the garden when you come hack.”

Left to herself, Olive decided that it was better to go out, and wait to write her letter till the heat drove her in, and taking the correspondence she had received that morning and a book, she established herself in a basket-chair on the grass under the study window, which was now in deep shadow.

Mrs. Griffiths’ hint that Michael Keith had probably been ill troubled her. At last she felt that she must try to think of something else, and she opened Madame Delabere’s letter.

Very hearty were that kind friend’s congratulations and good wishes. “ You see, my dear,” she wrote, “ you were after all a princess in disguise! I will accept your kind invitation some day. It must be in warm weather, for though in theory I love nothing so well as an English country house, I am so afraid, of the cold that I think the south suits me best, and I hope you will come and see me.”

Olive had read all her letters, and opened a volume of Browning’s poetry. She turned over the leaves reading here and there, but often gazing dreamily on the beautiful landscape outstretched before her. Truly her lot was cast in pleasant places!

“If he—if only he were here to enjoy it all with me!” she whispered.

The heat was great, she had been out many hours al-• ready. She felt sleepy, or more properly speaking dreamy— deliciously dreamy. Everything, even her great happiness seemed unreal. Should she wake up and find herself again a waif, a stray, without any knowledge of her parentage, gaining her living painfully in friendless isolation among strangers!

Then her thoughts wandered back again to Michael Keith. He had loved her in her friendlessness. Should she lose him now? Was she never to see him again? Oh! why did he not come back to her?

Presently, as if in answer to her thoughts, she dreamt she saw him coming towards her. Of course it was a dream. But how painfully real it was! He looked ill, something had happened to him. It must he some dreadful warning, some vision to tell her evil had befallen him.

She rose to her feet, determined to wake herself at any cost—and found herself in her lover’s arms.

“Michael! Michael!” she cried in wonder, “is it really you?”

And then all anxieties, all misgivings, were forgotten in the joy of the moment.

Very merrily rang the bells of Barrington Church when Olive Bethune and Michael Keith were married, one lovely morning towards the end of September. The church was full of spectators, for all the country round was interested in the event. But the wedding guests were all old friends of the bride or bridegroom. Neither Michael nor Olive cared for the presence of strangers on this, the happiest day of their lives.

Mr. Jervoise gave Olive away. Marion and Ella Foster were her bridesmaids, with Janet Lenhouse and Nina Jervoise—the girl who had played with Olive’s doll in years gone by. Captain Roberts was Keith’s best man, Lawrence was another groomsman. Dick and Cis were there in highest spirits.

Kind old Mr. Dodington beamed on Aunt Mary, making her his special charge; while Mr. Lock, brown and rugged with wanderings in many lands, escorted Madame Delabere, arrayed in gorgeous attire. It had been a crowning pleasure to Olive that this kind friend had been persuaded to come from her distant home to witness the marriage, and that she and Mrs. Griffiths had struck up a friendship which was likely to last.

And there were Mrs. Cripps and Mrs. Williams, and the Staggs and the Grays, all invited guests, and full of loving admiration for the beautiful bride.

The honeymoon was to be spent in Scotland, so Olive had chosen. She must go at last to Edinburgh, and try to find some of her mother’s old friends. But it would not be as a friendless stranger, but as Michael Keith’s happy wife.

THE END.