Front matter (continued 2)

Paul looked upon the ground. It was difficult to keep the muscles about his mouth under control. Helen was about to speak when Hazel resumed: for it appeared to her that Paul was considering the matter.

"I dare say you would be rather cross with me sometimes, at first," she admitted, "and think my writing queer and untidy; but I should soon fall into your ways, and my writing is at least legible. I have more of a business head than Hugh," she added, after a pause. "You see, I am not hampered by a love of drawing."

Mrs. Le Mesurier had acquainted her guest with Hugh's difficulties of temperament.

The girl awaited a decision breathlessly, but it was Helen who first spoke, the while Paul contemplated the little brown business head, with its wonderful, drooping hair, in silent and varied emotions.

"It would not do, Hazel," she said quietly. "Neither Paul nor myself would like it, nor think it wise."

Hazel glanced quickly at Paul, only to see him confirm her mother's words by a smiling shake of the head.

"Very well, motherling," she said resignedly, "and, after all, it would be selfish in me not to let Hugh have the trial," she added, more brightly.

Nevertheless, the girl looked down at the two small hands in her lap, and sighed.

CHAPTER V

The next day, Sunday, Hugh, Gerald, and Teddie, the two latter in high and unrelenting collars, well smoothed as to hair, attired in well-brushed clothes and boots of an almost supernatural polish—for Miles, the faithful, had personally attended their toilet—soberly and with elaborate care helped each the other over the boundary fence, intent upon returning, with prompt courtesy, the call their mother had received from Paul Charteris. The three wished to create a favourable impression upon their whilom friend, and a "decent get-up," to use Hugh's own words, was of the utmost importance for producing this desired result. Hugh, who had affected a low collar and loose tie, would have been well satisfied with himself were it not for the annoying circumstance that his new shoes pinched horribly, and that they squeaked, being somewhat low down in the scale of gentlemen's shoes, and bent on blatantly announcing the fact.

"Confound the things," he said angrily, trying various modes of locomotion, and finally adopting a mincing step of airy lightness, which seemed somewhat to pacify his fretful footgear, albeit he was pinched no whit less severely.

"Confoundedly hot in these high collars," Teddie grumbled, as he unfolded a snowy handkerchief and dabbed his moist brow. Immediately there was wafted upon the air the scent of lavender.

Hugh and Gerald regarded their brother in some severity, not unmixed with envy, in that they had neglected to make this elegant addition to their own toilets. "By Jove, Teddie," Gerald expostulated, "you must have literally soused that handkerchief."

"It is a bit damp," Teddie acknowledged composedly, "Comes in very refreshing."

Pursuing the winding paths in as direct a line as the topographical possibilities of the wood admitted, they at length came upon a large lawn that skirted the trees and lay smooth and green before the shady verandah of the south side of the house. Several long, low cane chairs stood invitingly about the verandah, and upon one of these, stretched at full length, in utter and complete comfort, was Paul Charteris, in loose white flannel garb, a cigar between his lips, a novel in his hand.

He sprang to his feet with an exclamation of welcome as Gerald, Hugh, and Teddie made their appearance across the lawn.

"Now, you fellows, just make yourselves comfortable and cool off," Paul said in amused compassion, as he marked the heated condition of the trio, and his quick glance took stock of the unsuitability of their habiliments. "I will look up Jackson, and ask for something to drink."

Hugh, glad to avail himself of the invitation, mincingly mounted the steps, and sank gratefully into the easiest chair, the other two likewise seating themselves.

Paul, disappearing for a few moments, quickly returned, followed by a servant bearing a tray, containing various sparkling liquids in multifarious bottles. Over this good and cooling cheer conversation soon became easy and natural, Teddie becoming so much himself as to refer energetically to stand-up collars as a "rotten invention."

"Look here, Charteris," he said, "perhaps, as you are alone, you won't mind my taking it off for a bit," and he proceeded to unfasten the offending piece of starched linen, in accordance with his host's warmly expressed advice, while Hugh surreptitiously slipped his poor tortured toes from their natural quarters into the main body of the shoe.

"You don't object to a pipe, Charteris?" Gerald inquired, producing from his pocket a well-worn briar-root, and, on Paul's assurance that he often enjoyed one himself, Hugh and Teddie quickly produced two others for his edification.

"Hazel received an invitation last night to spend a week with the Travers," Gerald announced conversationally, when all four were luxuriously smoking. "She is rather bothered about it; she does not care to leave the mater for so long."

"She could cut the visit short," Paul said, not unwilling to suggest so pleasing a solution of the difficulty. "How—er—how would your sister go?" he added, prefiguring himself and Hazel taking the long drive together in his dogcart, through the beautiful countryside.

But Gerald's reply quickly extinguished any such day-dream. "Oh, young Travers would fetch her in the trap; that is easy enough," he said carelessly.

"Is that Digby?" Paul asked quickly.

"Yes," Gerald replied, "he is desperately gone on Hazel—makes an awful idiot of himself."

"How old is he?" Paul asked curtly.

"About two- or three-and-twenty," Teddie broke in. "He is a decent fellow enough if only he would not sing."

Paul's innate delicacy would not permit him to ask that which he longed to know: whether or not that brown-eyed child, Hazel, reciprocated the feeling of the importunate Travers. However, Hugh soon relieved him on that score.

"Of course, Hazel does not guess what he is up to," he said, somewhat scornfully, in no wise trying to hide his contempt of the laboriously arranged and clumsily carried out tactics of young Travers. "How should she? None of us are likely to open her eyes. He only succeeds in boring her fearfully; she keeps out of his way whenever she can."

Paul was conscious of a sudden interest, almost amounting to a liking, for the luckless young man. "What sort of a fellow is he to look at?" he asked, readjusting his tie with some complacency.

"Oh, well enough," Hugh returned, to which somewhat vague description Paul's other guests grunted agreement.

"Greeky," Hugh went on, for his host's better understanding, and the subject was dropped, this graphic portraiture being deemed so eminently exhaustive that Charteris must be criticising a vivid mental picture of young Travers, the while he reclined with half-closed eyes, puffing lazily at his cigar.

"By the way," Paul began presently, turning to Hugh, "has Mrs. Le Mesurier spoken to you of the idea we formed?—just a suggestion, you know; you must, of course, feel at perfect liberty to—er——"

"Yes, thanks, awfully," Hugh replied suavely. "I'll turn up to-morrow. Nine o'clock suit—nine to four?"

For a moment Paul was staggered by such prompt acceptance of the post and subsequent arrangement of detail. "I think ten would suit me better," he said, a trifle apologetic. "I like to go in for various modes of exercise for a couple of hours before beginning work."

"All the same to me," Hugh returned airily. "Ten to five, then?"

"What do you say to having no fixed hour for leaving?" Paul suggested. "Just turn up at ten every day, and we can see what work there is to do, and do it. You will as often as not get through in an hour or two."

"That will just suit me," Hugh declared frankly. "And the salary?"

"Well," Paul said, with hesitancy, "a hundred a year would—er——"

"Phew," whistled Teddie, resorting to his bescented handkerchief; "and to think how I have to slave for a miserable forty!"

"But then, look how distasteful any kind of clerical work is to me," Hugh said ingenuously, gently expostulating with the unreasonable Teddie. "Even one hour is very real hard work to me; whereas Gerald, here, positively likes such business. If you look at things in their right proportions, you will find that I could hardly be overpaid, whatever you gave me."

Teddie did not look convinced by his brother's argument, and Paul, half amused, half dismayed at the outspoken candour of his secretary-elect, could not but determine that, whatever it was that filled the fair, curly head, diplomacy did not number among the gifts of Hugh Le Mesurier.

When, after some further talk, the young men rose to take their leave, Paul insisted upon accompanying his guests on at least part of their homeward way. Friendly relations were now so far established between the houses of Earnscleugh and Hazelhurst, that Teddie strolled with easy grace across the lawn, carrying the obnoxious collar in his hand, ever and anon waving it airily in gesticulation in the course of his conversation with Paul and Gerald; whilst Hugh modestly brought up the rear, stepping gingerly in bright red socks, bearing around his neck the plaintive shoes, slung together by their laces.

Hazel, meanwhile, who had walked with her brothers to the verge of the estate, had settled herself cosily upon the carpet of moss with a book, to await their return. Curiously enough, a desire to accompany them never entered the girl's mind, though it had ever been her habit to join her brothers in their excursions. Vivian Charteris had been well accustomed to the sight of Hazel's little figure among the tall and lanky forms of the Le Mesurier boys. Indeed, he would have sorely missed the bright and gentle girl, whom he had known intimately from babyhood, and for whom he entertained a brother's regard. He had gloried in the Le Mesurier lungs—more especially when voiced by the silvery tones of his little, brown-eyed favourite—echoing through his domain or about his house. But Vivian was Vivian, the grave and serious student, sixteen or seventeen years older than herself. Now, a quite unconscious reticence seemed to withhold the girl, to forbid the old childish freedom. Paul was almost a stranger to her: for, during the earliest years of her childhood, he had only spent at Earnscleugh the brief holidays of the long school-terms. At the age of eighteen he had entered upon his college career, visiting either his home or travelling abroad in the vacations; finally quitting England when Hazel had attained to her tenth year. So that, while familiar with his name, of the actual Paul the girl knew little.

Hazel sprang to her feet as her quick ear caught the sounds of footsteps approaching from the direction of Earnscleugh. Perching herself upon the fence, she peered eagerly down the little, twisting, shady pathway that she well knew led most directly to the house, presently perceiving Teddie's loose and angular form, looking somewhat négligé about the neck, while his collar encircled the crown of his straw hat. Gerald next made his appearance round the bend, the narrow ways being of necessity traversed in Indian-file order.

"Was Charteris at home?" Hazel called, with all the vaunted strength of the Le Mesurier lungs, poised upon the topmost rung, balancing her lithe body, hands on hip.

"He is here," Teddie called back, and, too late, Hazel discovered the figure of Paul, following close upon Gerald, whilst Hugh still brought up the rear in besocked feet.

Hazel precipitately dismounted from her lofty stand, her sensitive little face growing pale with dismay at what she deemed her unmannerly way of dispensing with the formality of the usual prefix of "Mr.," which, however, Paul thoroughly understood: not as a rude peculiarity in the girl herself—little aristocrat that she was to her finger-tips—but as natural in the circumstance of that girl possessing five brothers.

There was the bare possibility in Hazel's mind that her words had not caught Paul's ear, or, being audible to him, that the omission had not been remarked. With this faint hope to buoy her, she held out her hand to meet Paul's over the fence, the while with flushed countenance she lifted her eyes, half shy, half anxious, and endeavoured to read the handsome face the merry eyes, that seemed laughingly to defy her scrutiny, whether consciously or unconsciously she could not determine.

As a matter of fact Paul was perfectly aware of her embarrassment and its cause, and was much amused. He was bent upon keeping her in a state of uncertainty, however, and merely commented upon the beauty of the day, which mischievous spirit was hardly in accordance with the young man's usual attitude towards her.

With a demure response Hazel moved a little away, soon becoming interested in a cluster of flowers at her feet, Shepherd's Eye, that seemed to gaze up at her in blue wonder and sympathy. She proceeded to pluck the small, starlike blossoms, her brothers and Paul meanwhile sitting upon or leaning against the mossgrown boundary fence, in several and varied poses of ease and comfort, engaging languidly in such broken and disjointed conversation as befitted the heat of the noonday.

"What is the name of that little flower?" Paul's voice broke in upon Hazel's musing. He had followed her unawares, and made as if to take one tiny blue star from her bunch.

But Hazel pressed upon him the whole miniature posy, in frank generosity.

"Take them all," she said. "Are they not sweet? They are called Shepherd's Eye—they grow mostly over there, in the meadow."

"Shepherd's Eye!" Paul said, gratefully accepting the gift. "But here are red ones, exactly like the blue."

"I call them Sad Shepherd's Eye," she returned. "They are eyes that must have been weeping bitterly for hours. I only care for the happy, blue ones."

"They are prettiest, certainly," Paul rejoined; "but I should like one or two of the red ones, to remind me of your pretty fancy. Let me gather them; you will make yourself hot and tired."

But Hazel disclaimed all fatigue, and was presently tying together some of the tiny red blossoms with a wisp of tough grass.

"When are you two coming?" Gerald called. "I say, Charteris, come along home to lunch. The mater will be glad to see you."

Paul looked at Hazel. "May I?" he asked diffidently. "Mrs. Le Mesurier may——."

"Mother says that the house is always open to you," the girl replied in her gracious little way.

Having completed her task, she gave the flowers into Paul's eager keeping, and proceeded to lead the way through the shady tracks of Hazelhurst wood, her brothers affecting to breathe again as they safely went by the great oak-tree with Hazel still in their midst; albeit she had cast a lingering look up into its leafy shade, in passing.

As the significance of the long-drawn sighs caught Hazel's understanding, she faced them swiftly, and still keeping step with the four, danced along backwards, the better to explain away their groundless fears.

Paul thought he had never seen anything so pretty.

"I never climb trees when I am wearing my white dress," she said remonstrantly. "It is the one thing that makes Mrs. Doidge really cross. She says it takes Mattie two hours, every time, to get it up." And Hazel looked down at her simple muslin frock with some pride, in that it should prove to be so important a factor in the weekly routine of domestic labour. Having duly impressed her hearers, the girl faced about and continued the unbroken march in silence, with pretty, swinging motion, all her own.

Presently the booming of a gong came to them on the still air.

"By the way," Gerald said, of a sudden oppressed with his quick transition from guest to host, "you will forgive any shortcomings in the meal, won't you, Charteris? It is of no use attempting to disguise the fact that we are living—well, extremely simply, just now."

"You will be all right, Charteris," Teddie chimed in comfortably. "You are fed by old Miles on roast mutton and rice pudding with such a tremendous amount of ceremony that you are quite deceived into thinking you are in for a royal feast. And, after all, you can always eat up your own dainties when you get back to your place."

"Talking of Miles's impressive ways," Hugh said presently, "the mater had to speak to him once—he was actually serving cabbage round as a separate course, as if it were asparagus or artichokes. Oh, and by the way," he added, "I should advise you not to accept the coloured fluid he offers. No one knows what it is."

Thus warned at all points, the guest was ushered into the presence of Mrs. Le Mesurier. The party soon adjourned to the dining-room, where the fare, if simple, was most excellently cooked and daintily served, and Paul found the refined simplicity very much to his taste, vowing within himself that, with all his wealth, he would for the future practise such simplicity himself: in truth, he was inclined to think the thing could not be overdone. The trouble would be to make his housekeeper and butler view the case in like light—people of their class thought so much of pomp and show. Oh, well, let them be, but he would have his own way when entertaining company.

He did not recall Hugh's caution with regard to the wine—whether to the butler's dismay or gratification would be hard to conjecture. Certain it was that the guest was the observed of Miles, with no small amount of interest furtively bestowed, and some palpable apprehension, as he first sipped the beverage.

Something in the flavour of the vintage rendered Paul reflective, or mayhap brought to mind Hugh's words. For a few moments his countenance was somewhat blank of expression, then, with a slight gasp, he heroically raised the glass to his lips and drained its contents. The next minute the old serving-man was beside him, eager, tremulous, with the fateful decanter poised for discharging.

Paul's fortitude gave way. "No more, thank you, Miles," he murmured hurriedly. "I must not take more than one glass," he added confidentially, eyeing the decanter with solemn conviction; "that is a full-bodied wine."

"Yes, sir," returned the delighted Miles, "and between you and me, sir, it is not what you would call an expensive wine, either. My mistress has better in the cellar, but I had not time to get it up," he murmured in pseudo-apology, for he deemed the vintage good enough as a luncheon beverage for any gentleman, old or young.

Paul nodded response, and asked for water.

The meal proceeded merrily enough when the boys had ceased to choke over the incident of the wine. Happily they were eating fish, so that Miles was in blissful ignorance as to the real cause of their unwonted distress, sternly rebuking his fellow-servants for the careless way in which the food had been prepared as he sat, half an hour later, at his own dinner in the servants' hall.

CHAPTER VI

After luncheon the party adjourned to the woods, Helen promising the young people that she would join them later, and suggesting that tea should be served in the open air at four o'clock.

The Le Mesurier boys composed themselves to rest during the heat of the early afternoon, and ranged themselves each according to his idea of comfort. They chose the spot where Hazel was wont to hold her court of feathery and furry subjects; for, while the trees were sufficiently thick to afford a bountiful shade, there was a commodity of space in which to stretch long limbs, besides the pleasing circumstance that the carpet of last year's leaves was soft and springy, whilst the spicy odour of fir-cones and pine-needles proved grateful to the nostril and conducive to slumber.

Paul Charteris felt no desire to follow their example; probably Hazel would settle herself at too great a distance, and become lost in her book. Neither did he wish to close his eyes, for the real was even more charming than the imaginary Hazel. So, marking that she, too, seemed in no wise disposed for idleness—for she was flitting hither and thither among the trees in restless but evident enjoyment, plucking a flower, cooing to a wood-pigeon, extricating with deft tenderness two creeping plants one from the other, giving to each a fresh start in its race upon the tree-trunk to which they clung—he begged to be taken to the old oak-tree, the wood-nymph's home, to have its many beauties expounded to him. Accordingly the two, unnoticed by the napping Le Mesurier boys, set forth at so goodly a pace that at length Paul cried out in remonstrance, fearful lest such business-like locomotion should see them back to the starting-point within the space of a few minutes.

"Are you so hot?" Hazel asked pitifully. "How thoughtless of me! But I am quite cool—feel," and, craning her slender neck towards him, she tilted her head, that he might the more readily touch her soft cheek and thereby prove the truth of her assertion.

And Paul, nothing loth, delicately stroked the pink cheek once down to the pretty chin; nor durst he linger in the delicious contact, for the girl's spontaneity, bespeaking as it did liking for and trust in himself, however unconsciously bestowed, was as sweet as it was precious to the young man, and woe be to him if word or action of his should startle her voluntary friendship, should cause her to shrink within herself, away from him. Unspeakable happiness might one day be his, if he possessed his soul in patience, and fostered the pretty trust that might daily, all unknowingly, draw nearer, cling closer, till time should ripen friendship into a sweet consciousness, and he might pluck the beauteous flower and wear it for all eternity within his breast. In the meantime he would gratefully, thankfully, sun himself in her esteem.

"Beautifully cool," he murmured slowly. "But do not blame yourself," he went on. "I am not uncomfortably warm—only—it is rather a nice little walk—that is to say, I do not often have you to myself; I don't want to get back too soon."

"You find it companionable, just we two by ourselves," Hazel said ingenuously, by way of making explanation to the young man of his own hardly comprehended reasons for enjoyment.

"Yes," Paul said demurely, "I find it companionable."

"Thank you," Hazel returned politely. "I like it, too; though I am never happier than when I have all the five boys roaming about with me," she added, with blunt but perfect truth. "I suppose you don't remember much of Cecil and Guy?"

"I remember them perfectly," Paul averred. "Is it long since you saw them?"

"We have not seen Cecil for years—India is so far," she answered with a little sigh; "but Guy comes to Hazelhurst now and again for a day or two, once in two months or so. He is due now," she continued, "overdue—not having been here for nine weeks. It would be very convenient if he came just now—for money, you know. He always gives me money—generally two or three pounds—once as many as five. You see," she added, "I shall be obliged to spend that eightpence to-morrow."

"At what hour do you intend to—er—to go shopping?" Paul inquired eagerly. "I was wondering whether I might escort you, and help you to carry the—the parcels, you know."

Hazel laughed merrily. "Eightpence will only just buy a couple of peaches," she explained. "Perhaps only one, if they have gone back to sixpence each; and the fruiterer never lets me carry even that. He sends a man and a cart all this way, with it or them in a basket."

"But if I were with you," he protested, with much earnestness, "he would let me take it."

"I doubt it," Hazel said, still dimpling, "unless you disguised yourself beforehand. This is the tree," she broke off. "Come here—stand just so—now look up: that great fork, as you see, forms a broad, comfortable seat, the main trunk being its back. It is my house-place; the only really commodious apartment; and either of the great branches constitutes a couch, though the one on the left is the more comfortable. Higher up—stand a little more so—there are some snug little retreats, though I rarely sit there, as they are only the attics. I go up occasionally to see that no horrible spider is lurking about, but not to stay; for they are rather cramped and, as you see, in places the roof leaks and the shade is rather glaring. So I just get through my household duties as quickly as possible with that twig brush that you can see hanging against the trunk in the house-place, and come down again to my comfortable chair or couch to think or read. On Sundays I hold church to myself there."

"It is delightful, delicious," Paul averred, twisting and craning his neck in all the directions she indicated. "It is—it is heavenly. And the leaves are so thick as to give good shelter, even in hard rain," he added. "Do you ever receive visitors—other, I mean, than your pet birds and squirrels?"

"Hugh and Teddie come sometimes," she replied. "They sprawl along the two couches, while I take the chair. That is very nice, and perfectly comfortable, but once or twice they have all five wanted to come—so that three of them had to sit in the attics. Now, you see, even if they can manage to settle themselves fairly comfortably, it spoils the ease of those below to have them sitting up there, as their legs get rather in the way, swinging right down into the house-place, you know; for there are no couches in the attics, only broken-down chairs, so to say."

"The chair in the house-place looks wide enough for two," Paul observed consideringly.

"Ye—es," Hazel rejoined dubiously, "but it is not: the fork cramps you."

As the two sauntered back to the spot where the Le Mesurier boys had seemingly encamped for the remainder of the day, Mrs. Le Mesurier was entertaining a guest at Hazelhurst in the person of Mr. Hamilton, Teddie's late employer.

"I hope, madam, that in giving myself the pleasure of calling upon you, I have not taken too great a liberty," the courtly, elderly gentleman was saying. "My excuse must be my great liking for that young—that boy of yours, whom I am very eager to see re-established in my office, in pursuance of his former duties there."

"But, my dear sir," Helen interposed, cautioningly, "do you think it wise? That young man, who is, as I understand from my son, nicknamed Carrots——"

"Carrots is gone, madam," her guest interposed with a somewhat grim smile. "For months past I only awaited a good and fair excuse for discharging him, which that young—which your son's behaviour, madam, scarcely afforded me." Here Mr. Hamilton coughed, to hide another and far more genial smile. "Unfortunately for all concerned," he continued, "Samuel Smith was a most exemplary clerk, business-like"—Helen winced—"discreet, punctual to his work, good head for figures."

"My boy was punctual, I trust," Helen murmured, as Mr. Hamilton paused, feeling that of all this list of qualifications punctuality was the safest item to mention.

"Once in a blue moon, perhaps," returned Teddie's superior, "but let that pass. I like the boy, though he requires a sharp eye kept upon him, I can assure you, madam," he continued severely, resolutely checking a strong tendency on the part of his risible muscles to twitch. "He will have to make many promises of amendment for the future—reasonable ones enough, as I think you will admit."

"Mr. Hamilton," Helen interrupted gently, though somewhat proudly, "my son is not asking to be taken back. If you wish again to employ him," she added, after a pause, "I fear you must not hope to wring too many promises from him. He is so proud: it is in the Le Mesurier blood."

Mr. Hamilton shrewdly guessed that the maternal side also had bestowed the characteristic in question, but, being a wise man and a just, he saw and admitted the reasonableness of the gentle rebuff.

"Leave the boy in peace or, taking him, don't nag, you would say, madam," he replied, good-humouredly enough. "Well, I shall have him back if he will come. I have your permission?"

"I shall be very glad to know him once again safe with you," Helen replied graciously. "He is attached to you, and really felt leaving you. He bears you no grudge," she added, "owning that you could not have acted otherwise than you did, under the circumstances."

"Owned himself to be in the wrong, did he—the young scamp? I am glad to hear it. Attached to me, is he? I am fond of the boy myself. Had a son once, about his age—something of his spirit," and Mr. Hamilton turned away toward the window and blew his nose.

"Your only son?" Helen asked pitifully.

"My only child, ma'am," the old gentleman returned, somewhat brusquely.

But she was not hurt by his manner, understanding him.

After further talk of Teddie and other subjects, Helen asked her guest to accompany her to the woods, where her daughter and three of her sons would presently congregate for tea. So together they set forth, Mr. Hamilton in open admiration of all they passed on the way.

In the meanwhile of Gerald, Hugh, and Teddie there is little to tell, unless it is of their dreams, which, to judge by the profound peace depicted upon their countenances, were of a beatific nature. For nigh upon two hours had they three lain thus wrapped in innocent, childlike slumber, the while their sister and Paul Charteris held low-toned converse together, somewhat apart; Paul, in his kindly consideration, deeming it a pity to disturb such blissful tranquillity.

"They had a hot walk this morning, poor fellows!" he said compassionately. "Let them rest."

But Miles had no such compunction, when, a while later, he made preparation for tea, with so much demonstration and clatter—quite at variance indeed with his usual noiseless motion and deft skill in the handling of such rattle- and jingle-begetting articles as cups, saucers, and spoons—that one by one, or rather pair by pair, the blue eyes of the Le Mesurier boys opened and blinked in the light of day, dazed at first somewhat, and blank as to expression, till by slow degrees dire wrath blazed up in their depths—direst in the pair owned by the peppery Teddie—as they fell upon the callous disturber of their peace, and the enormity of the offence began to dawn upon their reviving intellects.

"Hang it all, Miles," Teddie remonstrated, "can't a fellow close his eyes for five minutes without you must come and make such an outrageous row; and for what?" he asked, with a comically injured voice and mien. "That we may feast our eyes on that wretched crockery for two hours and more."

"Yes, Miles," put in Gerald, somewhat more dignified in his sense of grievance, "whatever possesses you to bring out all those paraphernalia ten minutes after luncheon?"

"If it were not for your grey hairs, Miles," added Hugh severely, "you would just have to cart it all back again."

Miles chuckled. He also had indulged in a nap in this, his one free hour in the week, and knowing of its pleasures and of the pain of awakening; being, besides, greatly refreshed, he felt lenient towards his young masters for what he deemed the mere puerile irritation that sometimes besets the young on first being roused from sleep.

"I am arranging the china, Mr. Ted," he explained, with marked emphasis on the word china, in reproof of the reflection cast upon that valuable earthenware, "in compliance with my mistress's wish that tea should be served at four o'clock."

Hazel, who with Paul had been enjoying the foregoing dialogue, at this juncture interposed.

"You silly boys," she exclaimed, laughing merrily, "you have all been fast asleep. And you have had the narrowest possible escape of being surprised by a stranger," she added, looking down one of the pathways leading from the house. "See, who is it, coming with mother?"

The whole party followed the direction of her gaze, to behold their mother accompanied by an elderly gentleman, inclined to portliness, wearing a short, iron-grey beard and moustache. Teddie, rubbing his eyes to observe the more surely, presently gave vent to a long, low whistle.

"Great Scott!" he remarked briefly, and rose uncertainly to his feet.

Slowly the two approached, conversing as they came. By the time they reached the little party, that had risen to receive them, Teddie had completely recovered himself, and, by right of acquaintanceship, advanced to greet his mother's guest.

"Hallo, Mr. Hamilton, this is a surprise," he said cordially, holding out a friendly hand. "I am glad to see you."

Mr. Hamilton took the proffered hand, and stood regarding the lanky youth's honest countenance for some moments before he spoke.

"Thank you, Le Mesurier," he said, with twinkling eyes; "I hope you won't be less glad when I tell you what occasions my visit. The truth is I am shorthanded, young Smith having left me——" He paused and hesitated.

"Is that 'the Lout?'" asked Hazel, who was listening wide-eyed. "Oh, Teddie, then you could go back."

"My sister," said Teddie, shortly, formally. "Hazel, you should not interrupt."

"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said, turning a pair of penitent brown eyes on Mr. Hamilton. "I—I was so pleased, you know."

"Not at all, my dear young lady," he returned, somewhat drily, half incensed, half amused, to note that this lovely girl also, like the mother, seemed to consider all coaxing and persuading in the matter due and necessary to the independent Teddie. "Not at all; but may I inquire what it was you asked?"

"If 'young Smith' was 'the Lout,'" Hazel replied, blushing.

"I did not know him by that name," Mr. Hamilton replied, smiling in spite of himself; "but I dare say it is the same person—the epithet is not inapposite. Well, Le Mesurier," he continued, "what do you say? Like another trial, eh? But, mind, you must keep your ink-pot in your desk; and there must be no further need of raw steaks in my office—it is not a butcher's shop, you know. Is that a bargain?"

"That's all right," Teddie responded laconically. "Well, Mr. Hamilton, I'll come back; but there is one little thing I'd like to mention—a little hint to help to keep the peace. If you would not mind being a trifle more particular in the future as to the society one works with in your office."

Mr. Hamilton gasped.

"Then that is all right," Teddie said comfortably, "and I, for my part, will try to keep my temper, which, to be sure, is a bit hot when roused; though nothing can be sweeter," he added earnestly, "when people do their best, in a reasonable sort of way—I don't ask too much—to please me."

Mr. Hamilton mechanically received a cup of tea from Hugh's hand, and looked from him to Helen somewhat helplessly.

"Ted," Helen interposed, a little reproachfully, "you must expect to take your chance as to companions. And pray, of what credit is it to you to keep your temper if it is never tried—if you are never tempted to lose it?"

"I don't ask any credit, mother," her son answered, smiling affectionately upon her. "It merely struck me as a pity, being naturally, as I have said, particularly sweet, to rouse it unnecessarily."

It was now Helen's turn to look helpless.

"But you will thank Mr. Hamilton for his kind offer?" she asked, taking the hand as well as the cup that he brought to the little table, for more tea.

"As to that," Teddie replied genially, "he and I are good enough friends, and fully understand each other; don't we?" he added, turning to Mr. Hamilton, who, his sense of irritation completely subsided, was looking immensely entertained.

"Yes, yes," he responded warmly, "we are good friends, my dear boy."

Teddie looked gratified, and, asking to be allowed to present his two brothers and his friend, Paul Charteris, who were congregated somewhat in the background, the conversation became more general.

Hazel, seated near to Mr. Hamilton, took occasion to study him as closely as politeness would permit. So this was the redoubted Mr. Hamilton, Teddie's dreaded "boss," whom Hazel had held to be the most imposing of men. She had once entertained the thought of addressing a letter to him, in Teddie's behalf, but had abandoned the idea as too fearful. So this was he, this kindly looking elderly man, who from time to time threw her glances of much benignity and interest, and who called Teddie his dear boy. What could Teddie have been thinking of, to have made of him such a bête noire? There was, to be sure, at times, a certain severity about the mouth, but the eyes were always kind, the girl thought. If she could but summon the spirit to engage him in talk concerning her own private affairs! Of a surety he would be a most likely person to help her; for was he not an eminent "City man," living in the very thick of that City life of which she, Hazel, knew so little, yet thought so much? Perhaps, even, he was born and bred there, and was as much at his ease, as much at home in its murky atmosphere, among its imperial buildings, as she was here, in her beloved woods. How wonderful to walk the City, the dear, grand City, as he did; to wend one's way through a very labyrinth of courts, alleys, and byways, never to lose oneself, to know one's whereabouts always, as she knew the woods, blindfolded!

Hazel's chin was in her hand, her elbow supported on her knee, and her eyes grew round and deeply reverential as she lost herself in the contemplation of this being from another sphere. The magnetic influence of her gaze presently drew Mr. Hamilton's eyes to meet hers, but so gently did he turn, so quietly did they fall upon her, that the girl was not startled from her reverie, but continued to gaze in reverence, whilst an eager questioning grew up in her speaking eyes.

"You were wishing to say something, my dear?" he asked kindly, and with a sudden impulsive tenderness, new to him, he laid a broad hand upon the girl's brown head.

Hazel hesitated, then glanced about her. Her brothers were engaged for the moment in some discussion together, her mother in interested listening. Paul Charteris, certainly, was observing herself, and, being nearest, would catch her words; but she did not mind Paul: he would not interfere. She even gave him a little smile—an invitation to attend, should he care to do so.

"I know that you do not keep lady clerks," she began, with gentle, confidential eagerness, "but have you ever thought of changing your mind?"

Mr. Hamilton looked his amazement.

"I should like to be one very much," she continued, "most of all yours; and I was wondering whether, supposing you could get two good, serviceable clerks from the same house—people that you knew something of and could rely upon—it would not be worth your while to alter your rule and have a lady."

Mr. Hamilton's eyes encountered those of Paul Charteris for one moment—a moment charged with sympathy, pregnant with feeling—and both men endeavoured to conceal their amusement by pulling at their moustaches.

"Do I understand that by 'two serviceable clerks' you refer to yourself and your brother Edward?" asked Mr. Hamilton, when he had sufficiently recovered himself.

"Yes," Hazel replied cheerfully. "I am much more business-like than I appear—Teddie you already know. I am not saying that the advantage would be all on your side," she went on, "only, naturally I like to think of you first. The advantage to me would be very great; indeed, if you don't take me, I am afraid I shall have to give up the idea altogether, because mother is very particular in her wish that I should not travel or walk alone. Now this arrangement"—and the girl made an airy gesture with her hand in her brother's direction—"would give me Teddie's company from door to door; and if on occasion, say a press of work, he could not take me to lunch, you would see that another clerk went with me, wouldn't you?" and she looked to Paul for sympathy in so congenial a plan.

"I certainly should be very much tempted to make an exception to my rule, if by doing so you would honour me by coming daily to my office," Mr. Hamilton responded gallantly; "but, my dear young lady, with all these brothers, there cannot be the slightest necessity for——"

"Oh, no necessity," Hazel interposed. "Just for pocket-money, you know, and—and to feel that I am doing my part."

"But," suggested Paul quietly, "is it not the part of an only and much-beloved daughter to stay at home, to be a companion to her mother, and to make home a bright and happy place for the workers to come to?"

"I should not be much with mother, certainly," Hazel said reflectively; "but, as to the boys, why, I should be home when they were."

"Apart from the—er—inadvisability on several scores," Mr. Hamilton resumed, smiling kindly at the girl, "your mother could never spare you, my child; an only daughter must be an unspeakable treasure—one that she must always wish to keep near her. And—pardon me if I seem amused at what I see you take so seriously—but, it is not conceivable; one cannot imagine you in the City."

In which sentiment Paul appeared to participate.

"That is what they all say," Hazel rejoined, somewhat mournfully. "Well," she added, more cheerfully, "to stay with her, I suppose, is doing something for mother."

CHAPTER VII

Upon a day—a Tuesday, to be specific—there passed into the gates of Hazelhurst a smart trap, drawn at a smart pace by a smart horse, the smart equipage being impelled by the smart mental qualifications of Digby Travers, dubbed "Greeky." The turn-out was really remarkably smart; the trap itself, with its polished woodwork and brass appointments, glistened and shone in the sunlight, whilst the gleam of the plated harness was reflected in the glossy coat of the well-groomed quadruped.

Paul Charteris had for the space of a whole hour waited and watched in the marble hall of Hazelhurst, his restless pacing only relieved by occasional halts at the foot of the stairway that led—well, to the rooms above, and to Hazel's chamber, that numbered, naturally enough, among the rest. His vigil began at precisely one minute to ten, and the ancient grandfather's clock was even now tremulously clearing its throat with wheezy, whirring sound, suggestive of asthma, preparatory to striking eleven. Truth to tell, it was only with considerable effort that the clock could strike at all, its general feebleness being the more marked since undergoing a very severe operation, not too skilfully performed, by Teddie Le Mesurier, wherein the whole of the worn internal mechanism was taken to pieces and subjected to the hardy treatment—better suited to the constitution of younger clocks—of oil and emery-paper, the massage being administered with no light hand. Furthermore, there was a strong misgiving in the minds of all but Teddie himself as to whether there was not some flaw in the reconstruction of the clock. But the boy was sensitive upon the point, and easily hurt, so that it was only by furtive glances in its direction that the family ever dared to manifest anxiety when sounds, more dubious than ordinary, seemed to suggest that each struggle to give expression to the time of day must surely be the last.

The eleven laboured strokes were just completed when the sound of wheels fell upon Paul's ear. He withdrew his patient gaze from the direction of the remote sanctum above and turned to look uneasily through the arched doorway, to see Travers's trap pull up before it. At the same moment Hazel appeared at the head of the staircase, flushed and important, dragging at an enormous trunk. Paul sprang to her aid, and, bracing every muscle for a mighty effort, nearly overbalanced himself, as the trunk responded to his exertions with the most unexpected and discomposing readiness, being in truth of that light consistency known as wickerwork, and covered with black leather; nor was it one quarter part full.

"Why, it's nearly empty," he exclaimed in triumphant tone, for the fact argued well for the shortness of the proposed visit.

"Nearly empty!" Hazel cried, indignant, "and I have been nearly an hour packing! There are two or three changes of ribbons, and two pairs of shoes, besides what I am wearing, and my best muslin that has just been 'got up,' and must not be crushed, Mrs. Doidge says. I wonder if you would mind going to the horse's head. Digby is waiting to come in," she broke off, as a prolonged whistle was heard from without.

Digby Travers, shading his eyes from the glare, could just discern a man's form, which he supposed by its occupation of trunk-bearer to be that of a servant. Paul, eager to fulfil the little lady's slightest behest, safely deposited his burden near the entrance, and presented himself before the surprised and somewhat disconcerted Travers.

"I—would you be so very good as to mind the horse while I look for a servant?" Digby stammered. "I have come to take Miss Le Mesurier back with me," he added, a suggestion of defiance marking look and tone as he encountered the nascent hostility of the other's glance.

Paul felt resentment in that young Travers should make use of so formal an appellation in naming the girl, knowing well that for years—from earliest childhood—the two had been Hazel and Digby to one another. The formality was for him, then—for his benefit: that he might the more readily comprehend, once and for all, his exact position toward the Le Mesurier family in general, and toward Hazel in particular. He was to understand that he was not accounted friend of the family in the astute eyes of this old and staunch, if somewhat proprietary, ally of the house of Le Mesurier. Yet, with complete though not unnatural inconsistency, Paul in his heart of hearts knew, and, knowing, owned, that the mention of the girl's Christian name would have been quite as distasteful to him.

"Why did you not bring a man with you?" he asked, striving to speak with polite indifference. "But perhaps you are not aware how shorthanded Mrs. Le Mesurier is. There is only one servant here, old Miles, and—well, it stands to reason, he is always busy."

Digby stared politely.

"My name is Travers," he said at length, ingenuously; as who shall say, "Now that I have put aside any doubt as to my identity, you will be spared the trouble of making further communication concerning the Le Mesuriers." "You are Charteris—Paul Charteris," he continued. "I remember your face quite well, though it is ages since we met. Thanks, awfully, for looking to the horse, but I must find Miles to help me up with that trunk," and he eyed with complacent regard the black, dome-topped object just discernible in the shadow of the hall.

"It is very light," Paul returned, not ill pleased to volunteer the information, "Do you know where Miles is?" he asked of Hazel, who appeared at that moment, framed in the great arched doorway—and a very pretty picture she made.

Digby sprang to her, and Paul groaned inwardly as he marked the fervour of the young man's greeting, albeit he found comfort in noting the girl's cool reception of, and most inadequate response to, the same; for she withdrew her hand from the devout clasp that held it, so soon as the orthodox number of moments to be devoted to that ceremony was ended. Nor did her eyes rest upon his face longer than the one direct look—of Hazel's peculiar directness—that kindly interest and innate courtesy alike dictated.

"Why didn't you bring some one with you?" she asked, somewhat severely. "It is not very polite to oblige Mr. Charteris to stand in the sun."

"There was the luggage," faltered Digby. "There was not much room, you know."

He glanced sheepishly at Paul, but there was understanding without sympathy to be read in Paul's countenance; and young Travers inwardly dubbed this old acquaintance and near neighbour of the Le Mesuriers, hard and callous of disposition.

"Well, I'll hold the horse," Hazel said, descending the steps and taking the bridle from Paul's hand, "and perhaps you two would not mind lifting up the trunk. It is not so heavy as it looks."

This matter dexterously accomplished, Digby Travers got to his seat again, expecting Paul to help Hazel to her allotted place, frankly eager to be gone. He was somewhat taken aback when the girl, who had disappeared for the space of a few moments, returned with an enormous umbrella of sombre green hue, which she opened with some difficulty, and proffered to him with both hands, gravely matter-of-fact.

"I shall not be long," she announced, "but I want to see mother again before we start, and—and I did not know Mr. Charteris had called. You don't mind, do you?" she added, "It is rather heavy, but the stick is so tall that you can rest the handle on the seat beside you if you take your hat off, and, though ugly, it casts a cool and restful light."

So saying she re-entered the house, followed by Paul, leaving poor Digby disconsolate beneath an extensive shade; so extensive, indeed, that though noonday was approaching and the sun was high in the heavens, the quadruped also enjoyed the benefit of it, over its hind quarters, well to its middle.

"Have you been here long?" Hazel asked of her companion, as the two paused in the hall, at the foot of the stairway.

The girl's usually bright spirit was clouded for the moment. A while since all had been bustle and excitement—she had made her small plans and arrangements with much of interest and ardour—had packed her small wardrobe with a keen sense of anticipatory pleasure. There had been something of the stirring nature of the heroic in yesterday's farewells to the elongated Monday faces of her brothers; and her tender solicitude was not unmixed with youthful elation at the thought that her mother would miss her right sorely. Now, of a sudden, all this seemed changed. Without doubt or question, she did not want to go, and the vague consciousness that Paul did not wish it either, that he too would miss her, did not tend to lift the girl's despondency; for she was tender, true, and pure womanly, and, being so, knew nothing of the malicious joy of that perversity wherein so many of Eve's daughters delight.

She sank down upon the first stair, rather listlessly, and looked to Paul for his answer.

"An hour," he said, "when you appeared. But Hazel," he added commiseratingly, "you have tired yourself over all that packing. Could not one of the maids have done it?"

"I am not tired, thank you," she answered absently, "at least, I do not think I am."

Paul did not look satisfied. The girl was pale, and the small hands, usually nervous-looking and energetic, lay limp before her.

"I am sorry," she continued, "I did not know. Miles could not have known, or he would have sent us a message. You must have been very dull."

"I wanted you, of course," Paul admitted truthfully, "but I would not have had you disturbed. I ought not to have expected more of your company than the few minutes you could give me on leave-taking."

So saying, Paul Charteris seated himself beside her upon the broad, shallow step, and possessed himself of one of the passive hands.

"What have you been doing?" he asked gently.

Hazel regarded the captive hand, or rather its prison, but her thoughts were not of it.

"Mr. Charteris," she said, timidly lifting her eyes to his, as with an effort she decided to speak her mind, "do you think—would it be very odd, if I sat behind in the phaeton, with—with the trunk, you know? Do you suppose Digby would mind, or think me very rude?"

"He would have no right to object," Paul answered warmly, pleased that she had appealed to him. "If he annoys you, he cannot expect better treatment."

"But that is my trouble," she explained, disengaging her hand to take up and fondle a fluffy ball of a kitten. "He only annoys me by being too nice. So it seems unkind to feel annoyed. If only one could sit with one's back to the horse for fear of draughts and smuts," she went on, "as one would, with one's back to an engine! I want to sit so that he cannot look into my face every time that he says anything."

Paul hastily removed his eyes from her countenance. "Just so," he said, "very naturally." But, though indignant on the girl's behalf, he felt he could not justly blame Digby Travers for this.

"And everything he says has two or more meanings," Hazel continued impatiently. "Now, when you say, 'Is it not a glorious day?' you mean: is it not a glorious day?" She paused.

"And what does Digby mean?" Paul asked quietly, the while feeling he should like to demand the answer from Travers himself.

"I don't quite know," Hazel answered, troubled. "He seems to think that he and I have reasons for thinking it much more glorious than other people. But I must go up to mother," she added, rising, "I cannot keep him waiting long, and—and I feel better, now that I have told you."

Left to himself, Paul paced up and down in deep thought. Did not Hazel's confidence in him authorise him to speak to young Travers? Yet no; Digby would not admit the authority—would ask a much greater right than that of a friend—nay, of a mere acquaintance, as he would probably pronounce Paul, who in the jealousy of his heart sought to keep others from the girl's side, to take away from him, Digby Travers, and from all men other than himself, Paul Charteris, the natural right of trying for, and the gladsome chance of obtaining, the affections of Hazel Le Mesurier. No, he must let matters take their course. He could but advise the girl to cut short her visit, should she suffer any discomfort more marked than heretofore. He would remind her that it was not incumbent upon her to put up with any discomfort whatsoever—that she need not consider herself selfish, or fear that she was wanting in strength to endure, for wishing to return home, and in acting upon that wish; for in such wise, he knew, would Hazel take herself to task: she would resist such weakness, as she would deem it, with all the power of her strong little nature—suffering much, that others should not suffer little, as was her wont. He would counsel her to tell her mother of Digby's importunities, should they become difficult to her own management, or trouble her unduly.

Soon! ah, soon, he might win the right to shield her himself—Paul's pulses stirred at the thought, his heart warmed within him—the right of lover and true knight. Soon, soon. As yet she was a trustful, affectionate child, at an age when a few months only of patient waiting, of wholesome self-restraint, might see her blossom into a loving woman, forced thereto by the very strength and warmth of his unspoken love, even as a bud expands to a flower in the eloquent ardour of perpetual and encompassing sunshine, however mute and unvoiced that sunshine perforce must be.

As he thus mused, Hazel came down again in greatly recovered spirits; for Helen had guessed more of that which disturbed her child's peace of mind than the girl herself could have told her, or had acknowledged even to herself; and with loving tact had soothed her as only a mother can.

"Don't stay away longer than you like, dearie," she had concluded, "and Hazel, you would not wish that your motherling should not miss you, or that the boys and Paul should be pleased to have you gone? They will all be glad to have you back, and will appreciate you more than ever," she added playfully, her heart telling her that there was no need of further appreciation on the part of Mr. Paul Charteris, Paul had not heard Hazel's light step upon the stair, so that she reached the hall and stood confronting him before he knew of her presence.

"I am going now," she said. "Good-bye."

He took the outstretched hand and looked into the upturned eyes.

"You have not been troubling for me," she added anxiously, "about Digby? He is very nice to me, and I don't really mind him—I thought I did, but it was mostly because I did not want to go. I—I don't like leaving mother, you know." So saying, the small hand wrung his, and withdrew itself.

The two then proceeded together across the threshold and down the steps; and, if hard upon the little victim, it was even harder upon him who led her to the sacrifice.

CHAPTER VIII

Comfort, solid comfort, best describes The Beeches, its inmates, and all appertaining to it and them. Solid comfort without luxury, ease without laziness, happiness without a positively cloying sweetness.

John Travers was not handsome, but comfortable-looking; his figure, perhaps, was becoming a thought too comfortable; but then John Travers was fifty-five, and plenty had been his lot for nigh upon eightfold of the proverbial seven years that go to make plenty a really established fact. Then, too, he gave way, perhaps somewhat injudiciously, to a liking for white waistcoats and rather large and conspicuous watch-chains.

Of Elizabeth Travers, his wife, little need be told in description, for much is learned of her ways and days in twenty-four hours. That she, too, was comfortable need hardly be said; else John, who was a devoted husband, would not have been so. But she was not in the least too comfortable to be a fitting wife for John Travers, or the truly motherly mother of his children. For surely a broad breast is the natural haven for young heads, when wearied of the very fulness of the joys of childhood, or stricken with its tragic, if fleeting griefs.

John and Elizabeth Travers had two sons and two daughters. What could be more comfortable than that? Is not "two of each" in all good things the very acme of satisfaction and contentment? The children themselves were comfortable, considering their years; for if ever there is a period more devoted than another to strange misgivings, fervent hopes, and acute sensibilities, that period is youth; and none of these characteristics can be said to be "comfortable" ones.

Digby, their first-born, now twenty-three years of age, and a student at Oxford, was enjoying the long vacation under the comfortable parental roof-tree. Of Francis, the second son, aged nineteen, was to be made what is known as a gentleman farmer—an ever-increasing interest in the somewhat laborious pursuits of tilling, ploughing, sowing, and harvesting, not to mention a love of animals, making apparent at a very early age the bent of the boy's mind. That he had not Digby's intellect was obvious to those who knew both brothers; but that Francis was going to do very well in his own line was everybody's opinion. His enthusiasm for all bucolic pursuits, together with a keen—no, not a keen; there was nothing keen about Francis—together with a good, sound judgment of all things connected with them, was marked. If his eye lacked quick observation or keen appreciation, as it lighted on some matter of interest or beauty, it was steady, honest, trustworthy, and not without a certain shrewdness. And it were hard upon him to criticise the tendency of lip to part with lip; for there was nothing of weakness or indecision about the large, well-cut mouth, which could close firmly enough at such times when depth of thought or concentration of mind were required of him. Rather should the characteristic be looked upon as the natural consequence of open-air labour, of a nature that demands more oxygen than can in reason be expected to find its way to the lungs by the nasal channel alone; if the fact that to one who frequently studies the sky for signs of changes of weather with the long, earnest scrutiny bestowed by Francis Travers, was not in itself explanation enough for an ofttimes open mouth.

The daughters, Doris and Phyllis, aged sixteen and twelve years, were slim, fair-haired maidens. Doris, the elder, looked upon life with grave eyes, seeing only its serious side, and determinedly facing that aspect with resolute lips and somewhat pale cheeks, quaint and demure. Phyllis, on the other hand, while in no way boisterous—sharing, indeed, in some part her sister's quietude of mind and demeanour—was rosily cheerful and a thorough child. It was quaint Doris's aim to keep her thus; and odd it was to note the enforcement of the staid authority which the slender four years of seniority gave to the girl in the absence of their mother, or of their governess, Miss Manifold.

Miss Manifold—nicknamed "Sins and Wickedness" by Hugh and Teddie Le Mesurier—the daughter of a Lincolnshire squire, long since deceased, was a good woman, well liked by her two pupils, whose well-being she had sincerely at heart. At the present moment she was absent from The Beeches, being once more returned into the bosom of her family for the Midsummer holidays. This fact, meaning as it did freedom of will and action, combined with the pleasing circumstance that Hazel Le Mesurier's impending visit was about to be realised, brought much rejoicing to the girls; for even sober Doris was not impervious to the delights of a few weeks' unrestricted leisure, nor unmindful of the advantages of living for that short interval without the eye of supervision upon her every movement.

She and Phyllis were, for the fourth time this morning, taking a survey of the bedroom that had been allotted to their girl-guest—moving, changing, and rearranging articles of furniture or ornament to suit Hazel's queer taste and odd fancy. The bed they had dragged before one of the windows, for Hazel had once confided to these two friends that she liked nothing better than to sleep with her head pillowed on the sill; only that it was not often that bed and sill chanced to stand in the necessary relative position one to the other. Also the bed must needs be wide enough to permit the full stretch of her limbs, when she had twisted herself to this crosswise position. She assured Doris and Phyllis that to gaze up at the stars until you fell asleep was conducive to the dreaming of the most lovely dreams, whilst the soft fanning of the summer night-air proved most pleasant and refreshing.

"And what if it rains?" her breathless auditors had asked.

"That is nice, too, in its way," Hazel had made answer. "But once," she added ruefully, "when I was sleeping so, I was so sound asleep that it did not wake me until my hair was drenched, and I had to get up and rub it with a towel for nearly two hours."

"How your arms must have ached," Doris said, eyeing the heavy brown mane, half in admiration, half in pity.

"And I was so sleepy," Hazel continued, "that every time I stopped to rest my arms a moment I found myself nodding, with the towel in my lap."

"Didn't you have a bad cold the next day?" Phyllis asked.

"No, I never catch cold," Hazel answered. "It is being so much in the open air, I suppose."

The dressing-table, too, was never to block a window and obscure the view in Hazel's room; and there must always be flowers upon it. Having ascertained that all was to her liking, Phyllis and Doris fared forth to the garden gate, rightly judging that, had their brother found Hazel ready to accompany him, the two must long ere this have made their appearance.

It was a pretty view that stretched away before The Beeches. As they stood at the entrance gate, which faced the road, the girls looked upon a wide, sunny tract of undulating common ground, ablaze with yellow gorse. Trending toward the west in long dark line was a ridge of fir-trees sharply defined and almost black against the even blue of the sky, but merging into soft and softer gradations of consistency and colour on the wood's southern extremity, its outline finally well-nigh lost in a mist of feathery larches. To the east was a low range of hills with brown, thatched, and red-tiled cottages and farmhouses dotted at intervals at its base, whilst a rivulet that flowed past the Travers's estate, forming indeed the boundary on its right flank, wended its way in and out, twisting and twining, a white ribbon shot with sunlight, till lost to sight in the valley.

And there, round the bend came the trap. Hazel, perched high, her hands encased in Digby Travers's thick gloves, was driving, to her own evident delight and self-importance, having successfully eluded her companion's practically demonstrated teaching by declaring that she did not care what was the orthodox way of manipulating the reins; that she and the horse understood one another well enough.

Hazel was delighted with her room, and had no suggestions to offer respecting any change in the position of its furniture. Everything was perfect, she frankly told her gratified friends. Her quick eye had lighted upon a tiny escritoire standing in one corner, and a thought flashed into her mind, an idea as novel to her as it was pleasing. She grasped the delightful idea, seized upon it, and stowed it carefully away in a corner of her brain, until such time as she should have leisure to look into the alluring possibilities it suggested—to cogitate without fear of interruption.

Just now, with very active assistance from Doris and Phyllis, Hazel was removing the dust of travel from her person.

When the three girls descended to the dining-room for luncheon, they found the rest of the family already there assembled; and Hazel received a warm kiss from the motherly Mrs. Travers, whilst Mr. Travers took her right hand, and Francis possessed himself of her left; Doris and Phyllis hovered about her; Digby looked on approvingly. Having been thus duly welcomed and received into the bosom of the family, Hazel, as the party seated themselves around the table, addressed herself to Francis.

"Well, farmer," she said, with bonne camaraderie, "and how are the crops?"

"They are coming on all right," he replied, somewhat sheepishly. He liked Hazel; but considered her a terrible little tease. She had always laughed at his manner of walking, declaring that he swayed backwards and forwards, as a sailor will roll from side to side.

"It comes of always imagining that you are stepping over ploughed furrows," she told him, "just as a horse is trained to step high by having obstacles put in his way."

"And the live stock?" she went on.

"Flourishing, thank you," he returned.

"Hens sitting?" she asked. "And oh, Francis, did that baby pig learn to grunt properly, the one that loved wallowing in the mire?"

But here her hostess claimed the girl's attention, and Francis settled himself to the business in hand—luncheon—inwardly resolving to be even with Hazel yet.

The day passed pleasantly enough, resting with books and work in the shade during the afternoon, walking through the sunlit meadows when the heat of the day was subsiding. In the evening the young folk entertained each other with music, Hazel singing some quaint songs in her own way—an adorable little way in the opinion of Paul Charteris, an opinion shared to-night most fervently by Digby Travers.

Soon after ten o'clock Hazel found herself alone at last, with hours before her, supposing she could manage to keep awake, for meditation upon the scheme that had come to her at sight of the little writing-table. Her own room at home did not boast such a convenience, and it is to be presumed that the publicity of the position of the few desks and escritoires about the house had prevented the idea from occurring to Hazel's mind before.

She would write a story—a thrilling, exciting story—and make all the money she could possibly want! Here, all alone in the undisturbed quiet of her own room, she would write diligently, and her week's visit might result in half-a-dozen stories for Teddie to take to some editor!

Hazel was perturbed by no fear that she might lack talent and ability, but it was not long before she perceived that she was mistaken in the amount of work that she could accomplish in so short a time. She wisely refrained from installing herself at the desk that night, thinking that she could not do better in these first hours, while all was exciting and new in this plan of work, than get to bed as quickly as possible, and devote an hour or two to the evolving of a plot, and to the construction of her first story, before sleep should come upon her.

So far from thinking it hard to conjure up matter upon which to base her tale, the difficulty seemed to lie in the fact that she must perforce write only one at a time, if she wished to be conscientious and systematic. All through the washing of her face and hands, and the brushing of her hair, mechanically performed, her head was teeming with all manner of stirring incidents, which rose up in her imagination, refusing to be placed in any nice order of sequence; inconsistent with one another; contending together—obviously "copy" for many stories of widely different natures.

"And then there is my style," the would-be authoress reflected, as she sank down at length among the pillows. "I wonder what my style will be: whether I have to find one—to settle upon one of many—or whether a particular one will come to me of itself."

And this was as far as Hazel got that first night.

CHAPTER IX

Hazel was awakened next morning by an unaccustomed sound that seemed for some time to have penetrated her sleep-wrapped senses, without rousing them to full consciousness. She lay still, and listened with all her ears; but there was no renewal of the disturbance, and she was about to compose herself to sleep—the clock upon the mantel-shelf telling her she might do so for another half-hour—when the unwonted strains began again. They were not those of a donkey braying, nor of a horse whinnying, nor of a cock crowing, but of a young man singing.

It was not a very tuneful performance, but it was most fervently and expressively rendered; and Hazel, as it dawned upon her that she was the subject of the morning serenade, hearkened with very mixed emotions.

"I suppose he considers it serenading," she said to herself; and she experienced a feeling of importance, intermingled with awe. "I thought they had gone out of fashion," she meditated. "Certainly they have in England: I suppose Digby's continental trips have given him foreign notions."

I stand at your window sighing

As the weary hours go by,

And the time is slowly dying

"Horribly," Hazel's reflections broke in. "Why don't you hurry up, or get some one to mark it for you?"

That once too quick did fly.

"What a good thing that he has not a guitar! It would make a dreadful jumble. You need not wail so, if the pain I have caused you is so exquisite," she apostrophised the anguished lover; and scorn took possession of her. "If you were a cat, one would pour water on you. I am not sure if one would not be justified in thinking you were a cat," and her eyes sparkled with fun and mischief.

Despite the foreign notions laid to his charge, the young man's sense of the fitness of things kept him from standing long under one window in particular, even while the beauty of the flowering shrub beneath the guest-chamber gave excuse for a somewhat lingering gait in passing; so that it was only now and again that Hazel caught a connected line or two of the impassioned refrain; while his sisters, not to mention his father and mother, were regaled with a goodly, if not quite with an even share, till Francis thrust a betousled head from his window and asked his brother to "stow it," a request which caused the disconsolate Digby to wander farther from the house, and to break into fresh melody among the trees that skirted the lawn.

Hazel had unexpected good fortune, in that the morning was passed in almost uninterrupted silence; for, breakfast over, Mr. Travers and his sons furnished themselves with fishing-tackle and, begging the girls to join the expedition and witness sport, the party made their way down to the river side and were soon ranged along its near bank. Hazel was not long in seizing the opportunity thus offered, and was soon lost in her own reflections.

Her mind was quieter now than last night, when, in the first hours of possessing the exciting idea of a scheme of action so congenial to her, all had been pleasurable turmoil. Now she could think more connectedly, could shape her thoughts to some end. She wisely resolved to leave style alone—at all events at first—until she had ascertained for a fact that the style which came naturally to her was poor. She would be careful concerning grammar, but she had always detested the sight of the outside cover of books upon the subject, and so far as she could remember, had never opened one.

She set up an imaginary stage in her mind, bringing her characters one by one to bow before her, and to ask modestly whether they would please her; what relations they were to bear one to another; what influence life upon life. Then the grouping must be pleasingly harmonious or disturbingly discordant: there must be nothing tame nor indifferent about her work.

"We need not be so absolutely dumb," Digby Travers murmured, and Hazel awoke with a start. "I'd rather lose all the fish, if catching it can only be accomplished by not talking to you, or not hearing you talk."

"Hush," Hazel rejoined. "The others don't feel like that, and besides," she added truthfully, "I want to think."

"Oh, well," the young man returned, in a somewhat injured tone, "that is another thing, of course"; and he continued his occupation in gloomy silence, the while Hazel resumed her thread of cogitation. Presently she began to realise that she must be simpler and more methodical in her ideas—less profound. After all, she was not undertaking the writing of a book. Let her conjure up some pretty little story, and write it carefully and faithfully—perhaps the pathos and the humour would take care of themselves.

That night, in the seclusion of her own room, she set to work, in a fever of energy and fervent purpose. She had gone upstairs at ten, but it was nigh upon one o'clock when the girl at length extinguished her light and laid her down to rest. Even then sleep did not come to her quickly, for her brain was thoroughly roused and excited.

Three evenings devoted to this work sufficed to complete her story, and on the fourth, after carefully revising her work, she proceeded to write it out neatly, and the result of her labour was to her own entire satisfaction.

Anticipating the certainty of having all in readiness before she slept, she had, during the day, addressed a letter to Teddie asking him to meet her in town next morning, which epistle she directed to his lodging; for she felt the urgency of completing all such arrangements from her friends' house, wishing as she did to keep all secret until such time as she could ask for sympathy in her disappointment, or for congratulations in her success.

She had little difficulty in gaining the consent of Mrs. Travers to this expedition. She did not deem it necessary to take her kind hostess wholly into her confidence: Mrs. Travers was satisfied with the girl's assurance that her mother would not object to what she was about to do, provided Teddie was with her, and good-naturedly acquiesced in her entreaty that she might be allowed to keep her little secret from every one but the brother, whose aid was essential in the completion of her business.

The following day, immediately after the morning meal, hugging her precious manuscript, she was driven to the station in the company of the four young Traverses, all of whom warmly insisted upon seeing her off. The frame of mind into which these four friends had been thrown, owing to her unwonted demeanour and most mysterious silence concerning this expedition, may be easily imagined. Doris and Phyllis were openly and frankly curious, with that feminine curiosity that knows no concealment; nor did they cease in their endeavours to worm Hazel's secret from her, resorting at length to stratagem, in the hope that the girl, if caught for a moment off her guard, might yet be led into revealing the cause of her mission.

"Teddie will meet this train," was all she would say, "and perhaps you will be kind enough to meet the one arriving here at 3.50," and she turned to the taciturn Digby.

Digby Travers was much more to be pitied than either his sisters or Francis: the latter being genuinely amused, and inclined to chaff Hazel, nor was he troubled one whit with the restless curiosity that beset the girls, or the sense of grievance that lurked in the bosom of his brother. For Digby felt himself to be deeply injured. It is true that he had not, like the others, deliberately asked Hazel to tell him her reason for running up to town: he would not urge her to confide in him, but he was hurt that she did not volunteer the explanation of her movements, at all events to him, even if she wished the matter to remain secret from the others. Hazel was partially aware of the state of his feelings, and looked to see him brighten at her proposal, but the gloom did not lift from Digby's countenance.

"As you like," he made answer, with would-be nonchalance. "Either I or Francis—or the man, if we are prevented."

And then Hazel's eyes were opened, figuratively and actually, and she gazed upon him for some moments in mute wonder and some little distress. While he spoke and acted like the Digby she had known so long, her suspicions were not aroused, her mind being fully occupied with managing him—smoothing the little difficulties that his importunities caused her, keeping him at arm's length instinctively, all unconscious that she was doing so, or that there was any need to do so. But now the situation began to dawn upon her. While he remained attentive to all her little needs and wishes, displaying an odd admixture of slavish devotion and proprietary authority, such as had characterised his attitude towards her so long as she could remember—for even the rough schoolboy had lorded it over the very small maiden—she had taken it all as a matter of course—as Digby's "way." For tenderness, shame-faced at first, had crept in so imperceptibly, so gradually supplanting the old rough-and-ready affection; and the old boyish, somewhat overbearing and dictatorial manner had by such gentle degrees given place to another sort of proprietariness, that these things seemed to have grown with his growth; and the girl, beyond an occasional sense of annoyance at such times, when Digby appeared rather trying and more difficult to manage than of yore, had never given the matter a second thought. But now, with this abrupt change of front, this veering round, so to say, from eager and solicitous attention to a poorly assumed indifference, manifestly born of a certain recklessness and of deeply felt resentment against herself, a horrible suggestion presented itself to the girl's mind, and she looked at Digby Travers in wide-eyed dismay.

"I believe he is beginning to be a sort of lover," she said to herself, and her heart beat a little faster.

She reflected upon this new problem at her ease, after she had been safely bestowed in a first-class compartment with ladies, of whom Digby had inquired their destination, committing Hazel to their charge.

Many little incidents recurred to her mind, that had puzzled her at the time, but now seemed to explain themselves with unmistakable conviction.

"He must not be allowed to propose," for, strange and bewildering as it seemed to the girl, yet, assuming him to be a lover, that was the young man's end and aim—"to propose: it would be too terrible." Besides, he had no right to do so; Hazel must save him from himself—he was deceiving himself: he was not a proper lover, a real lover. It was too absurd. She almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. Intuitively her thoughts turned to Paul for help. The next moment the girl had shrunk within herself—her face aflame. The only place in the whole world that presented itself to her imagination was her mother's shoulder; but she was all unconscious that it was from Paul she desired to hide her face.

Presently she grew more collected, and took herself to task. She told herself that all her good sense and wisest judgment must be brought to bear upon the subject. She did not think she should trouble her mother: she might conceivably confide in Teddie, if she found it expedient to do so, but certainly, oh certainly, in no one else. And perhaps, after all, she could manage unaided; perhaps some coldly proffered hints would bring Digby to his senses. Even now she believed she must be mistaken—it was so preposterous, this new idea.

In the meantime she must set herself resolutely to put the thing out of her mind. Only so could she attend properly to the business in hand. She unfolded the manuscript, re-read it, and found that she was still satisfied with it, although the details of the story began to pall a little, as was natural.

As she finished reviewing the precious document the train drew up in Paddington Station, and there upon the platform, trying hard not to look interested, stood Teddie.

Hazel's eyes lighted on him instantly. Eagerly, almost tremulously, she once more unfolded the manuscript, and, springing from the carriage, ran to his side.

"It is called 'The Victoria Cross, and How it was Won,'" she announced breathlessly to her astonished brother, and forthwith began to read.

"What is?" Teddie asked, bluntly interrupting her.

"Why, the story," she answered, for the moment confounded by her auditor's lack of sympathy and appreciation. "Didn't you know? I have written a story," and she was about to proceed with the narrative, when he again interposed.

"I know nothing," he said with an injured air, "but that you wanted me to meet this train, and did not give me time to say I could not; it was dashed inconvenient, I can tell you."

For a moment the girl's ardour was damped.

"Oh, Teddie, I am so sorry," she exclaimed, "but I wanted to take it at once to an editor. I had to be quick, while I was at the Traverses, as I could not take it from home without confiding in mother, and it is a surprise for her."

Her bright face clouded, and she regarded her brother wistfully. "Is it very inconvenient?" she asked.

Teddie's generous young heart was touched. "Oh, it is all right," he answered gruffly. "Let us hear it."

Hazel, nothing loth, began once more as the two strolled down the platform, hardly pausing, in her absorbed interest, as she handed her ticket to the amused collector.

Teddie, though gradually becoming fired with something of her enthusiasm, was hardly yet so engrossed but that he had sufficient sense left of his surroundings to be aware of the unsuitability of the place for either reading aloud or listening. He therefore guided the unconscious girl, without again interrupting her, to a waiting-room, which he noted with satisfaction was empty. Here the two ensconced themselves, and Hazel read on to the finish, Teddie hearkening with all his ears; nor did he once remove his eyes from her face, where a bright spot of colour, born of excitement, was glowing on either cheek.

"That is the end," she announced triumphantly. "What do you think of it?"

"Jolly good," Teddie declared with gratifying warmth. "Come on," he added, springing to his feet; "let us get a cab."

"A cab? Oh, Teddie, ought we to?" she asked timorously. "What made you think of it?"

For all answer Teddie led the way from the station, hailed a passing hansom, and helped her into it.

"Don't you see?" he explained presently, after directing the man through the trap. "Don't you see that the story will pay you again and again for a cab?"

And as they bowled along in silent enjoyment, Hazel could not but marvel upon the rapidity of the change that prosperity, through authorship, had wrought upon her life.

"Who are we taking it to?" she asked presently.

"A fellow I know of," Teddie replied. "Or rather, two fellows, Langham and Fielding. A friend of mine got a story taken by them not half so good as this."

"I am glad I asked you to help me," Hazel returned gratefully. "I only hope it won't matter very much taking you from your work, you know."

"Say no more about that," Teddie responded complacently. "It was a bit awkward, but how was I to know that it was all for such a good purpose? Here we are," he added, as the cab drew up before a building, and Hazel, timidly lifting her eyes, read in gold letters upon the window-pane, "Messrs. Langham & Fielding, Publishers."

They entered the building, and found themselves in a large, bare place that looked to their inexperienced eyes to be a combination of book-warehouse, office, and shop, for new books were stacked upon shelves all round the apartment; parcels of all sizes were piled upon the floor, among which, in an adjacent corner, a man in a leather apron was busy sorting. Some clerkly looking young men sat or stood at high desks, whilst a long counter ran down the room, rather to one side, which an office-lad seemed to be engaged in polishing.

A fellow-feeling for the clerks, a wish not to disturb them in their arduous tasks, made Teddie Le Mesurier turn to the boy.

"This lady," he said, intimating Hazel, who trembled slightly, "wishes to see one of your principals—the editor of the —— Magazine, if possible."

"Who is it from?" inquired the office-boy mechanically, as, without a vestige of expression, his gaze seemed to fix itself on Teddie's left ear.

Hazel looked blank. "Who is it from?" she reiterated, at a loss.

"Now look here," said Teddie angrily, "none of your office gibberish. Just take up my card and say——"

At this juncture a pleasant-faced clerk stepped forward. "Get back to your work, Tommie," he said briskly, and he turned to the pair. "What can I do for you?" he asked, looking from one to the other.

Teddie repeated his formula and handed the young man his card. "We are on the lady's errand," he explained, "but she has no card," and Hazel felt mortified, she scarcely knew why; but it seemed so terribly young not to possess cards, although she had never before felt the lack.

"Is it an appointment?" asked the clerk. "Will your business be known?"

"No," Teddie returned stoutly, "but there must be a beginning, you know. We wish to submit a manuscript."

The young man left them, to reappear in a few moments.

"The editor will see you at once," he informed them. "Please step this way."

He led them up a flight of stairs, and, showing them into a room, closed the door behind them. It was large and comfortably furnished, with more of the private library than office about it. The only occupant, a tall, good-looking man, of some fifty years of age, rose to receive them, tendering Hazel a chair near his own desk, the while Teddie seated himself somewhat in the background.

"I wish to submit a manuscript which I think you will find very suitable for the —— Magazine," Hazel began, with an easy confidence and graciousness of manner that generally proved very pleasing from the little lady. "Are you Mr. Langham or Mr. Fielding?"

"My name is Charles Langham," he answered, bowing, a slight smile relaxing his somewhat grave features. "It is a short story, I presume?"

"Yes," Hazel returned. "My brother Edward," intimating Teddie, who looked very much at home, sitting well forward in his chair, his stick between his knees, his chin resting upon its knob, "has known you to take a story, not nearly so good, he says."

"Not half, by Jove!" put in Teddie.

"You would not like to read it now?" suggested Hazel. "It would not take you long."

"I think not," Mr. Langham replied. "You see, that is not our usual way; but if you will leave it with me, I will place it in the hands of our reader, who will give me his report."

"Yes, I see," Hazel said, a trifle disappointed.

"You don't think you could make a concession for once?" asked Teddie.

"I think not," Mr. Langham repeated, pulling at his moustache. "It would be very irregular."

"Of course," responded Teddie politely. "You see, Hazel, that is what readers are for: to save the editors the trouble and loss of time incurred in reading a lot of unacceptable rubbish."

"And Mr. Langham cannot know that mine is not rubbish," Hazel rejoined, wishing to be reasonable. "It is called 'The Victoria Cross, and How it was Won,'" she continued, turning to the editor. "The hero goes to the front, and there is a tremendous battle, which I think I have succeeded in making very realistic."

"Stunning," put in Teddie.

"And then," she resumed, waxing eloquent in her theme, "afterwards, upon the battlefield, when he is lying wounded in the moonlight, a fearful vision rises before his eyes."

"Blood-curdling," remarked Teddie, sotto voce.

"But it is only his delirium that distorts things and makes them fearful. In reality it is his mother."

Mr. Langham did his utmost to appear properly interested, and endeavoured to keep his countenance, wherein he was only partially successful. It was a delightful pair, he thought: this handsome young fellow and lovely, dainty girl. And, busy as he was, he made no move to hurry Hazel. The girl's spontaneity was refreshing, her ardour and evident good faith in her attempt at authorship were touching to a man of his sympathetic and benevolent nature. He was quite anxious not to precipitate their departure by word or sign.

"I know I must not keep you," Hazel concluded, rising from her seat; "but you will be glad to hear that it all ends peacefully and happily, and his great bravery is fully recognised."

"That is very satisfactory," Mr. Langham returned, rising also. "Stories should always end happily, I think."

"I think so, too," Hazel returned. "Good-bye," she added, giving him her hand. "I hope we have not kept you too long."

Mr. Langham released the hand with something of reluctance, and preceded his visitors to the door. He shook hands with Teddie, and was somewhat astonished at the warmth of the young man's grasp.

"Yes," Teddie agreed, "I hope we have not kept you too long." And the pair passed out.

"Do you know"—and Hazel's head reappeared as Mr. Langham was about to close the door—"do you know, before I saw you," she said laughing, "I had quite made up my mind not to speak at all—except, of course, to answer any questions you might put to me. I thought it would be the business-like, correct way; and, besides, I had a sort of notion that editors were rather terrible—as a class," she added hastily, fearful of wounding the sensibility of the editor in question. "Even now I cannot help thinking you are an exception. Good-bye." And she was gone.

Charles Langham, this exception to his kind, stood listening to the sound of their dying footsteps, then turned to his interrupted work with a smile and a sigh.

"And now," said Teddie, looking at his watch, "I must take you back to the station and get on to the office."

Hazel had intended to spend the whole morning with her brother, and probably lunch with him, before she returned to the Traverses: hence her injunctions to Digby to meet her, or cause her to be met, by the 3.50 train. She was, therefore, disappointed; but of this she would let nothing appear. Teddie had already given enough, and too much, of his time at so short a notice.

"Very well," she said cheerfully. "And Teddie—I know it is all right—I shall get the money for my story in time—but, as we have not got it yet, had not it perhaps better be an omnibus?"

To this economical arrangement Teddie—himself less glowingly optimistic than he had been a short while since—agreed. At the station they found, somewhat to their dismay, that there was no train for a couple of hours or so—it was now but little past eleven.

Teddie considered the situation. "Well," he said, "you won't get home till past two o'clock. I had better get you some buns and leave you in the waiting-room. I am awfully sorry, but it cannot be helped. Do you think you will be all right?"

"Perfectly," Hazel returned brightly.

Teddie left her, to return a few minutes later armed with a magazine, and a paper bag containing twelve halfpenny buns.

Left to herself, Hazel began to read; but her mind being preoccupied, she found the stories and jokes uninteresting, and presently fell a-thinking. Was it not near here that her mother's uncle, Percival Desborough, lived? Why should she not utilise the time that must perforce elapse before she could embark upon her return journey by visiting him? Something within her urged her to go, though the prospect was somewhat terrifying. She had heard so much of this uncle's hardness of heart and violence of temper. Poor, lonely old man! how many a time had she wished to see him and judge for herself if he were so hopelessly unamiable and unapproachable as all who knew him averred—all but her mother, who had never lost the belief that there was a soft spot somewhere in the poor, selfish old man's heart.

She had plenty of time, for it would be just as well to take the train by which the Traverses would expect her to arrive—the one after that which Teddie had supposed she would take.