Front matter (continued 4)

"No," Hazel said; "I want to leave it at Teddie's lodging."

"Whew," whistled Uncle Percival. "Sits the wind in that quarter? Is the boy out of pocket-money?"

"It is much more serious than that," Hazel told him gravely. "He has no money to pay his rent with, and the landlady is beginning to—to kick, he says."

Mr. Desborough raised his hand and coughed, to hide a smile. "How has he got himself into this mess?" he asked. "I thought he had a rise lately."

"He was given a rise," Hazel admitted, "but he says that from that time his difficulties began. You see," she went on confidentially, "he treated five friends to a champagne lunch, and a theatre or two—I suspect stalls; I did not want to worry him by asking; but Teddie is so generous."

"The young jackanapes," ejaculated Mr. Desborough.

"I must be very, very careful to keep from him that the money comes from you," Hazel said, with charming frankness. "If he knew, or even suspected, I should not be able to get him to accept it."

"Upon my——," Uncle Percival began, but checked himself. "Well," he continued, with pseudo-humility, that sat oddly upon him, "let him think it comes from you, as indeed it does."

"But where should I have got it?" she asked, with dramatic gesture. "However," she added, "let him puzzle, the truth will probably only strike him after he has paid his debts—and then, though he may scold me a little, it will be too late for him to refuse it."

"Well," Mr. Desborough said, "ring, and we will order the carriage and leave the money at the domicile of this grateful young man. He seems to be of a very independent character."

"For anything I know, he will save up and pay you back," Hazel announced cheerfully; "but that can't be helped, can it? We cannot allow him to be turned into the streets. Did you say we would go?"

"If you don't object to an old man's company," he returned.

"How nice," Hazel exclaimed, in genuine pleasure; "and it will do you good, Uncle Percival."

"Humph," was his gruff response, more for the sake of rendering less astonishing the unusual order to the servant, who now appeared—to seem at least in some way his ordinary self—than that he felt any displeasure in the enterprise. Hazel's undisguised delight in the prospect of a drive in his, a cross-grained old man's company, warmed his heart, till he felt almost ashamed of a childlike eagerness to "be off."

With very slight assistance from Thomas, Mr. Desborough reached the carriage step, where he turned, and with courtly politeness helped the lady to be seated. Hazel named the address in Baker Street, and away they drove.

"How well a top hat suits you," Hazel said, eyeing her august relative in frank admiration. "You look like an old Duke."

"Pshaw," he returned, much pleased, and furtively twisting his moustache, "the fitter company then for a little princess like yourself," he added, with old-fashioned gallantry.

Hazel glanced in naïve amazement at her simple cotton gown. "A princess," she said amusedly, "dressed in stuff that cost sixpence-three-farthings a yard."

"No one would notice your dress with——" he ended abruptly and changed the subject. "With that face," he had been on the point of adding, but he disapproved of such outspoken compliments, and was afraid of making the girl vain. One of the chief charms of Hazel's unusual beauty was her complete unconsciousness of it—a charm that Percival Desborough fully appreciated.

Arrived at the lodging-house, Hazel made her way in alone. "I shall not keep you long," she told her companion, "but I have made up my mind to speak to the landlady privately."

"I am Miss Le Mesurier," she announced to Mrs. Walters, who herself opened to Hazel.

"The young gentlemen's sister, Miss, I presume?" the woman inquired respectfully. Indeed the sight of the liveried servants and handsome bays quite awed her, and set her wishing that she had sent Caroline, despite her dirty working apron, to open the door, instead of doing that service herself.

"Yes, and I should like to see their rooms, if you please," Hazel returned, "and I have a letter that I wish to leave on Mr. Edward's table."

"Certainly Miss, certainly," the landlady replied soothingly, manifestly anxious to assure the visitor that nothing could be more reasonable.

She led the way upstairs. "This is the sitting-room, Miss," Mrs. Walters informed her, throwing open the first door on a landing above, "and that is Mr. Gerald's room opening out of it—Mr. Edward sleeps upstairs, as did Mr. Hugh before he left."

The girl looked about her with much interest. It was a poor little room enough, but clean and sunny. Oilcloth covered the floor, with an occasional cheap rug stranded here and there. White lace curtains draped the little bow window, and a struggling geranium wrestled with existence in too small a pot, with pale, caked earth, on a little flower-stand with a green woolly mat. The inevitable horsehair sofa and chairs predominated, covered with the equally inevitable white cotton crochet antimacassars, and a hideously designed clock ticked harshly on the little shiny black mantelpiece, behind which a wonderfully dim and speckled mirror had its place. Upon the walls hung photographs of Mrs. Walters at all ages, sometimes alone, sometimes one of a self-conscious group, attired in ugly large-hipped costumes.

"I don't put many ornaments on the mantelpiece, Miss," the landlady explained. "The young gentlemen likes to sit in them easy chairs, and to put their feet on it." She pointed out two chairs that looked to Hazel something misnamed, seeing that they were shiny and slippery and studded here and there with bristles, with a large lumpy dent in the centre of each.

A small sideboard, rather overloaded with wax fruit under glass cases, stood against the wall opposite the fireplace—Hazel suspected that some of these "ornaments" had given way to the feet, now absent—and a round table occupied the middle of the room.

"I suppose they have meals here?" Hazel asked, regarding it critically.

"Breakfast and dinner, Miss; late dinner, if you please. They get their lunches out."

"Yes, I know," Hazel told her; "but I mean, do they dine at this table?"

The piece of furniture in question, though standing straight, somehow gave one the impression of ricketiness, and the girl's warm heart was yearning over the comfort of her brothers.

"Oh yes, Miss; and there is room and to spare on it, now that Mr. Hugh is gone—he would always have the plant-stand drawn up for the potatoes or the second vegetable."

"I cannot stay long," Hazel announced; "I must not keep my uncle waiting, but I wanted to ask you a thing or two: I know you won't mind. Are their appetites good?"

Mrs. Walters raised her hands and eyes to the ceiling, smoke-begrimed above the gas bracket. "I have never known their like for eating," she declared solemnly. "I have a small appetite myself," she went on conversationally, bringing her eyes to the level of Hazel's face, and her hands to her sides, "a little I must have, but not enough to choke the system."

Hazel looked aghast. "But do my brothers choke their systems?" she asked, somewhat startled.

"No, Miss," the woman returned, hastening to reassure her visitor. "Oh no, but sometimes I can't but think it would not take much more. But there," she added, "it may be that I take so little myself."

"Yet you are not thin," the girl observed with kindly interest.

This was delicately put, for in truth Mrs. Walters was very distinctly stout.

The landlady shook her head. "It is not fat," she announced solemnly, pinching her own plump arm.

"No?" questioned Hazel gently, surprised.

"No," Mrs. Walters averred, with grave insistency, "it is not fat. I am blown out, you know, Miss. Puffy, as you might say."

Hazel crossed the room, and entered the tiny bedchamber beyond. So this was where he slept! Dear, old, plodding Gerald, how she hoped he was comfortable. She made bold to sit on the bed to test its springs. There was not much response to her vigorous bouncing. Everything was clean and tidy, but there was certainly no superfluity of luxury. The sight of the water-bottle put Hazel in mind of the distressed geranium. She took it up and made her way to the outer room again.

"You do not mind?" she asked brightly of the landlady. "I am so fond of tending plants."

Mrs. Walters replied graciously enough, but commented upon the amazing amount of water the plant "took." This expression of opinion went far to reassure Hazel on the subject of the boys' systems; food and drink were evidently subjects on which Mrs. Walters was wont to exaggerate.

Teddie's bedchamber was the counterpart of Gerald's, and Hazel had soon made her inspection of it. There was but one striking characteristic—not unusual to top bedrooms—to mark it from the other: whereas in the lower room all was concise, in pairs and sets, upstairs the ewer did not match with the basin, whilst an enormous tumbler overshadowed a diminutive water-bottle. The mirror was cracked across, making one's features appear horribly defective and out of drawing, and the few cheap ornaments were for the most part oddments—a detail which the girl's quick eye noted as a slight improvement upon the austere, unbending stiffness of the severe pairs, ranged upon mantelshelf and toilet-table in Gerald's sanctum.

The loving sister smoothed and patted the little white pillow—Mrs. Walters had remained without upon the landing—and, from her position at the head of the bed, took note of the exact view of the room that must needs meet her brother's waking eyes in the morning light. It was not particularly cheerful: a rickety chest of drawers, lacking two knobs; and above it, hung all askew, a large card bearing the words, "Lord, remember me, a sinner," was within his direct range of vision. The text was printed in silver letters, surrounded by a maze of pink roses, whilst from behind a large cluster of the same blossoms, upon the left of the card, there arose, with amazing abruptness and lack of warning, an emaciated church spire. Hazel could only hope that Teddie was not prone to lie long and reflect; or if he was, that, for his own peace of mind, he kept a clear conscience.

She left her bank-note in its envelope, together with a scribbled explanation, in a conspicuous place on the little dressing-table. It was conceivable that he would prefer that Gerald should know nothing of it, so that she would not leave it in the sitting-room. She made her way downstairs, followed by Mrs. Walters. At the house-door she turned to say good-bye.

"I hope I have not troubled you," she said. "It is good of you to let me see the rooms: one is so interested, you know."

"Quite so, Miss," the landlady answered, "and I hope you are pleased, Miss."

"I think they look fairly comfortable," Hazel returned, somewhat cautiously, "and beautifully clean. I know," she added, anxious to be just, "I know that you do not ask a very heavy rent, so the boys must not expect anything grand."

Again bidding her good-bye, Hazel tripped down the steps, and seated herself in the carriage, which at that moment had pulled up, after a turn or two up and down the road.

"Well," her uncle said, "I am afraid, if you are to catch the train your mother mentioned, it is about time to be making our way to the station. Do you wish to return first, to fetch your papers and what not?"

"Oh, mother's grapes," exclaimed Hazel. "Yes, please, if there is time."

The order home was given, and soon, armed with the same provision for her entertainment upon the return journey, Hazel, still accompanied by her uncle, was driven to the station.

"Come and see me again soon, my dear," the old man said. "And you are quite sure," he added, lowering his voice, that the attendant footman might not overhear his words, "you are quite sure that you won't accept pocket-money for yourself?" for he had been pressing notes upon the girl for her own use.

"Quite sure, thank you, uncle dear. You must not mind. You see, I don't actually need it—Teddie did," and she kissed the wrinkled cheek that was presented to her with real warmth. "Good-bye."

And once again the old man was left alone.

It was in the loneliness of the hours that followed that Percival Desborough made up his mind to go to Hazelhurst.

Alighting from the train, Hazel's eyes encountered Paul Charteris. She looked up and smiled in frank affection, at once setting his anxiety at rest respecting his reception: for he had not asked permission to take the little lady home. Intimating by word and gesture that the guard was welcome to the very considerable amount of literature within the carriage, Hazel followed her charioteer out of the station, and was soon once more seated beside him in the trap. But alas for his new-found peace and elation of spirit, the girl's manner quickly returned to the determined evasion of eye, of question, of himself generally; and again Paul was profoundly troubled. Almost in silence they reached home.

Things had continued in this wise for many long days, when the young man, coming to call at Hazelhurst, chanced upon Hazel in the flower-garden. She made as if to flee, but the next moment, recollecting herself, she stood her ground, and awaited his approach.

"It is my birthday to-day," Paul announced, as they shook hands, feigning not to heed her timorous demeanour.

"Is it really?" she exclaimed, much interested. Hazel was young—a birthday was still a great event to her. "I wish you many happy returns of the day. Mother is in the house; shall we go to her?"

"Certainly," Paul answered, and hesitated. "You will not give me a tangible token of your well-wishing?" he asked wistfully.

Hazel looked her amazement. "How can I?" she questioned. "I did not know in time." How very odd and—and bold of Paul to ask for a birthday present! One did not ask one's nearest relatives!

"It would not take you long to gather me a flower," he answered, unashamed, although he read something of her thoughts. "I should prize that immensely."

Hazel turned at the suggestion, in a little flutter of eagerness, to select a rosebud, or whatever chanced to look most fitting, wherewith to honour the occasion; and after some diligent search was about to pluck, when of a sudden something stayed her hand. In an instant the sweet, unconscious child was gone, and a dignified maiden stood in her stead.

"You may take anything you fancy," she said. "Miles won't mind."

The young man stood appalled. "You—you won't give me one?" he expostulated.

"You can't want it very much if you find it too much trouble to take one for yourself," she answered evasively.

"Hazel," he said, much aggrieved, "you have given me flowers before. Don't you remember the little bunch of Shepherd's Eye?"

Yes, Hazel remembered—she was minded how glad she had been that he thought them so pretty, and had asked for them so eagerly. He was just as eager now—he was fond of flowers. How was it that somehow she could not bring herself to give him one? It was so little to ask of her! What had happened—what had come between her and this dear friend? What was it? It had been much happier then. Surely he was the same? Yet something was not the same, somehow things were different. She looked up: there was troubled questioning in the wistful brown eyes. Was she relenting?

"You will give me a flower?" he asked eagerly, drawing a step nearer.

His ardour frightened her. Had he spoken lightly and affected carelessness—had he managed to hide, or disguise, much of the fervour that marked his simple request, she would perhaps, though troubled and perplexed at her own reluctance, have complied with it. She drew back as he advanced and put her hands behind her, looking half timid, half defiant.

"No," she answered determinedly.

Paul stood regarding her thoughtfully. "Why not?" he asked at length, bluntly.

"I—I don't know," Hazel murmured, truthfully enough. "Won't you please come to the house?"

For a moment they stood thus, regarding one another in silence: the brown eyes still in wistful questioning, the manly blue-grey ones half-angry, half-sad, wholly puzzled.

"I think not to-day," he said at last. Raising his cap, he turned upon his heel, and, retracing his steps, was soon lost in the shadow of the wood.

CHAPTER XVI

Two days later, at the same hour, Paul Charteris was seated in Helen's drawing-room.

"She is so young," Helen was pleading; "such a child."

Paul sat in silence, big, manly, and troubled withal.

"I feel such an unutterable brute to speak to you about it," he returned at length. "If you knew how I have struggled to keep it to myself; but it is too much, it goes beyond my strength."

He groaned, turning his eyes from the delicate face, in remorse at the conflicting emotions he had raised.

If only Hubert Le Mesurier were alive! There would be nothing about which to hesitate; they would talk as man to man. But the widowed Helen, so gentle, so defenceless, seeking only what was best for her child. What a brute he was! And yet, speak he must: he could no longer contain himself. He knew well enough that the next time he encountered Hazel alone he must demand an explanation of her strange manner towards himself. He felt it was highly improbable he could see Hazel without opening his heart to her. It was but right to warn Helen as to how things stood with him: it had become essential that Helen should be told all there was to tell.

"Paul," she said at last, very gently, "you must go away for a time."

Paul's face grew pale. He regarded her in mute consternation.

"It is for her good," she went on. "Does not that reflection make you willing to go—to bear a few months' banishment?"

Poor Paul, his elbow on his knee, his head in his hand, could only groan aloud.

"Do you mean I am to go, uncertain of my fate, before I speak to her?" he asked; and the pain in his eyes made Helen waver.

"Would it not be harder afterwards?" she asked, seeking to argue with him. "Suppose—mind, I do not know my child's heart towards you, though of this I am sure, that she is fond of you in her innocent, frank way—but suppose she—she gives you permission to stay—how can you go then, Paul?"

"I could go then," he cried vehemently, "far more easily than now, when all is uncertainty and torture. It would be hard; but I could go if need be," he added wistfully, "if you demand such trial of me."

"It is not to try you," she made answer. "It is for Hazel's good, that she may remain settled and undisturbed, that she may have time for reflection and to learn her own mind." She paused. Hazel's voice was heard trilling a light air as she passed through the hall.

"You mean that I may speak?" the young man asked, springing to his feet, an eager flush rising to his face. "She will never learn her own mind toward me if I do not speak—she will never think of me in that way. I should only return to find things as they are. You will let me speak?"

The two regarded one another for some moments—the two beings who, of all the world, loved Hazel best. She, with that wonderful mother-love that denies self, that sacrifices all to the good and the happiness of the child, that asks no return; he, with the strong man's heart-whole devotion, yearning, protecting, longing to have and to hold and to cherish, through all changes, but fiercely demanding love's tribute of love.

Helen sighed softly, and smiled.

"Go, then," she said. "I expect you will find her in the wood. And, Paul, if she does not know herself—if she cannot answer you now as you would wish, do not despair. Be hopeful, and leave things to time to put right."

In two strides the young man was beside her. Raising her hand to his lips, he reverently kissed the slender fingers, and without a word turned and left her.

As he walked through the wood, Paul Charteris soon descried the girl's form, flitting now here now there, now eluding his sight like some will-o'-the-wisp, strayed far from home during the night, and thus overtaken by day—a will-o'-the-wisp made visible to the eye now that its light was extinguished, or, rather, absorbed by the sunshine. Of a sudden he came upon her. She was standing in the middle of the clear space that commended itself to the purpose in hand: she was feeding her pets, dispensing crumbs of bread and cake around her. A ringdove cooed upon her shoulder, whilst a pair of squirrels frisked about her feet.

"What a little witch she is!" Paul mused as he watched, himself unseen.

He tried to call "Hazel," but throat and tongue refused their office. Instead, he advanced and discovered himself.

Hazel nodded to him brightly.

"Did you come to see them fed?" she asked. "Are they not fascinating?"

"I came to see you," he made answer. "Hazel, I have something very special to say. Will you listen?"

Hazel looked about her, the brightness dying from her face. There was no escaping him now. The most direct path to the house he himself blocked. If she turned down a by-way he would but follow.

"Will you listen, Hazel?" he repeated.

"Yes," she said, reluctant, half defiant. "Tell me now, whilst I feed the birds," she added imperiously.

"No," Paul rejoined stoutly, "it is much too important and—and serious. I will wait till you have finished."

Although the girl had practically completed her task when he came upon her, the last few crumbs were scattered, one by one, from the small yet seemingly inexhaustible stock still left. And then, when he thought the time had come, when all seemed ready, Hazel sought to fix his attention upon a hundred-and-one different objects—this plant, that tree, the brightness of a pet squirrel's eyes, the bushiness of another's tail, the soft grey plumage of the wood pigeon. Would Paul like one on his shoulder? She believed she could coax it there. Paul was soon nearly frantic, fearful of offending or scaring her, divided between risking the one or the other, torn with indecision, yet determined throughout not to let so fitting an opportunity slip by ungrasped. Hazel had no faintest clue as to how he was minded: she only knew that he was grave again, and, though she had not so much as given one glance at his face, she knew his eyes to be serious and deep and unfathomable. In a word, he was in that tiresome mood that somehow troubled her. She must divert his attention from herself, she must distract his mind with all manner of interests; and these the wood amply afforded.

"Look at that green caterpillar," she exclaimed. "We might——"

"Hazel," Paul said desperately, interrupting her, "will you listen? It is so important—to me."

"You said 'serious' before," Hazel rejoined, a trifle flippantly. Her back was turned upon him. She began busily to collect fir-cones.

"I want to tell you that I love you," the young man said at last, simply and quietly. "I love you, Hazel."

"Thank you," Hazel said in polite good faith, half turning a flushed cheek toward him. "It is—it is very good of you. But if you don't mind, try not to feel serious about it. Of course I like to hear you say it—just once; but I knew it, I—I mean I always felt you were fond of me."

"Child, child," Paul murmured. Then aloud: "Are you fond of me?"

"Oh yes," she answered frankly. "You know I am. But it is not a very usual thing to ask a lady," she added reprovingly. "Teddie says you have to guess at a lady's feelings. By the way, have you had tea?"

Despite his emotion, a smile of genuine amusement, mingled with exquisite tenderness, played about Paul's mouth as his eyes dwelt upon the little kneeling figure, so determinedly turned from him. He must try again. He did not want to startle her, he must endeavour to make his meaning dawn slowly upon her mind; and when he had achieved this, what, ah what would her answer be! Had the girl's feelings toward him only to be awakened? Was love dormant? Or—unspeakable anguish was in the thought—was there no love within her breast for him? He must know—he must know: the pain of uncertainty was becoming more than he could bear. He recalled Helen's words and found comfort in them. "If she does not know herself, if she cannot answer you now as you would wish, do not despair, be hopeful, and leave things to time to put right."

"Hazel," he said gently, "I am so anxious. I should be so grateful to you if you would stand up and—and give me your undivided attention, just for two minutes."

The girl complied, reluctant, wondering, half uneasy at the appeal in his voice, half curious. She stood before him with folded hands and waited.

Paul came a step nearer. "Hazel, it is a usual question to ask, when a man loves a girl as I love you, with all his heart, with all his soul; when he feels he must have her love, or live without it in misery all his days. Then he must ask her if she could ever love him."

For the first time Hazel looked up in his face, her own paling.

"Is this—is this a proposal?" she asked, awe and solemnity widening and darkening her eyes. "Do you mean—you want me to—to actually marry you?"

Paul's lips twitched at the corners. "Yes," he said stoutly. "Tell me—tell me that you will."

There was a pause, passed in agony by Paul, in amazed reflection by Hazel.

"Child, answer me," he said at length hoarsely, possessing himself of her hands.

"I might, after years and years," she said consideringly. "But, Mr. Charteris, I never dreamed you were a—that you felt like that. You are not at all a usual sort." Her mind had reverted to Digby Travers, his looks, his sighs, his serenades. How troublesome he was to manage; how he would always try to get her to himself, when she was longing for the society of others; how he would hold her hand too long at every possible opportunity. That was the lover one read of in stories, one saw depicted in pictures. But—but she began to acknowledge to herself that it was possible that here was a "real one" of another type; his face, his eyes all strenuous, all—all. And he had this in common with the lover of her ideas: he held her hands—both! as if he would never let them go.

Hazel tried to free her hands.

"Yes," said Paul, "when you have told me that you love me."

Silence fell between them.

"If I say I do," Hazel asked slowly, weighing her words, "does it mean I must—does it mean I have got to marry you?"

"It would mean that some day you might love me enough to like to marry me," Paul answered boldly and simply. "But never mind that now, Hazel. Just tell me whether you love me, even—even a little, and I will wait so patiently for that little to grow."

Again she fell to reflecting. "I am fond of you," she said earnestly, "and, yes, perhaps you could call it—call it—just a very little, you know. But I don't know why you need ask me," she said resentfully; "and now will you please let go my hands?"

"Then you care for me—a little?" the young man asked joyfully.

"Yes," Hazel returned with gracious dignity, then, timidly, half in exultation, half in fear, "Am I an engaged woman now?" she asked.

"If you will accept me as your lover, yes," Paul answered. He was all aglow with happiness. It is true that she was timid, shrinking, only now half conscious of what he meant, of what he offered. Yet through it all, nay, because of that very timidity, he felt that she cared for him—a little, and a great yearning filled his soul to make that little much. As yet he must be content that she had not repelled him; for, child as she was, Paul felt assured that the sweet, strong woman-being within her would have rejected his love with none of the uncertainty with which she had half accepted it; would have rejected it finally and with decision—for the time being, at all events. How utterly adorable she was, this queen among girls, this innocent, but half awake, maiden! How could he ever deserve her—how make himself worthy? What an inestimable privilege was his: to teach her love. An intense, an infinite tenderness was astir in the young fellow's strong, manly nature. Ah, how patient, how gentle he must be! Nor could he ever be patient and gentle enough. He would bear that in mind, always.

"Hazel, my little love," he murmured. "Look in my eyes and tell me once more that you love me—a little. Say: 'Paul, I love you, and presently I shall love you more.'"

Hazel raised her eyes obediently, but only to his collar stud. "I—I love you a little," she stammered.

"You won't look at me?" he pleaded.

"I am looking, hard," she averred, blinking at his chin.

"And you won't say, 'Paul'?"

"It would be too silly," she objected, "when you are here, attending to me."

He longed to seal the compact between them with a kiss, a solemn, sacred kiss; but he felt the time was not yet. She had given him so much! Just now he must not ask for more. He must respect her sweet delicacy; he must not dismay or trouble her. He would be patient, gentle, all unselfish. In this wise he might grow to be worthy of her love, and, worthy, might gain it.

CHAPTER XVII

To return to the day of Hazel's visit to her brother's lodgings, Teddie's incredulous delight, when he came home to the rooms in Baker Street, and had toiled up to the little top chamber, somewhat dispirited, to find the bank-note upon his dressing-table, may be imagined. He eagerly seized upon and read the few lines that Hazel had written in explanation. They did not tell him much; only that he might spend the money with an easy mind; asking him to try to keep free from debt in the future, as next time she would find it far more difficult to help him.

Although Teddie knew of his sister's visit to their great-uncle, the thought never entered his head that he could possibly owe this very opportune aid to that circumstance. After much silent puzzling—for he was not going to confide in Gerald on the subject—he came to the conclusion that Hazel had, probably through the medium of Miles, sold her gold bangle, and so provided her distressed brother with pecuniary assistance. Mentally dubbing her a little brick, Teddie proceeded to make his toilet for the evening, with more zest than he had pursued any other of the day's duties. He poured a plentiful supply of water into the basin with the plain red band around its girth, from the ewer that was besprinkled with blue flowers. Removing his coat and collar, and thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, he plunged his hot face into its cool depths, whilst with wide-open eyes he glared glassily at the bottom of the basin, some two inches from his nose, in seemingly futile wrath; then rolled them from side to side in fierce, yet vacant, contemplation of his environments, apparently much to his refreshment.

He emerged blowing like a grampus, and fell to rubbing his rosy countenance vigorously with the somewhat harsh little towel of Mrs. Walters's providing. He seemed to get an astonishing amount of satisfaction from these drastic measures, only desisting when his arms ached and his face was aglow with the friction. After belabouring his curly head severely with surprisingly stiff hair-brushes, he prized open the handleless little top drawer of the chest, which had been pushed injudiciously far in the shutting, with his pocket-knife—a broken, rusty, and blunt implement, long since dedicated to such uses—and supplied himself with a fresh collar and a change of tie. He would have liked to make a more complete toilet, for the Le Mesurier boys religiously dressed for the evening; but dressing meant a fresh shirt, and it frequently fell out that toward the end of the week clean shirts were scarce. To-day was Friday; the linen would be home to-morrow, and Teddie knew without looking that the first long drawer, boasting two knobs and devoted to the warding of his underclothing, was devoid of this particular article of wearing-apparel; for he had recklessly indulged himself this week.

So, perforce content with his hardy ablutions and slight changes of attire, he descended to the little sitting-room, to find Gerald already ensconced in his easy-chair, his slippered feet duly in place against the mantelshelf, luxuriously smoking an attenuated cigarette. He, too, had regulated his toilet with skill and sagacity, in accordance with the day of the week; but, more favoured than Teddie—for Gerald was never in arrear with his half of the rent—he had used a pint milk-jug of hot water sent up from the kitchen from the landlady, by Caroline the hand-maid.

"By Jove, you look pink!" Gerald remarked lazily, as his brother seated himself in the opposite chair and settled his feet in position. "Cold water, I suppose?"

"I prefer it," Teddie answered, briefly but good-humouredly. "Whew, I am peckish! I hope dinner will be punctual."

The cloth was already spread, and in a few minutes Caroline entered the room with a loaded tray, somewhat short of breath.

Gerald carved the mutton, Teddie served the vegetables.

"Oh, if you please, sir," Caroline said before retiring, "missis says will you please to knock on the floor with yer 'eel when ye're ready for the sweet. It is my evening out, and missis says as 'ow I can get ready now and she'll answer yer."

She addressed herself to Gerald, but looked the while deprecatingly at Teddie, who, though perhaps the more severe of the two young gentlemen, and more particular to have things to his liking, was her favourite, even while she stood in greater awe of him.

"Very well," Gerald returned; "but why doesn't she—Mrs. Walters—ask us to ring as usual?"

"She's a-sitting in the cool, sir—she's in the first-floor front sitting-room." Caroline almost whispered this solemn circumstance; for the first-floor front sitting-room was a marvel of shining lustres, hunting scenes, and crimson and gold furniture. "She mightn't 'ear the bell, but she's just under yer 'eel."

"All right," Gerald rejoined, and nodded dismissal. "We will make her hear."

"Don't be late home, Caroline," Teddie put in, warningly. "Back by ten sharp, mind."

"Yes, sir," Caroline answered docilely.

"And tell your young man from me that you are a good enough sort," he continued; "and I would say more, but I don't want to make you vain." He began to attack his dinner with youthful ardour and interest.

"Thank you, sir," the girl answered deferentially. She left the room, quite overwhelmed with Mr. Edward's compliment, a broad smile of pleasure pervading her countenance.

"You are very genial to-night," remarked Gerald presently.

The two had by this time made considerable inroad on their somewhat astonishing platefuls, and were at leisure to take matters a little more easily.

"Am I?" asked Teddie, gratified. "I feel genial." And he beamed about the room.

Without further comment the two finished with the mutton, and began a solemn tattoo upon the floor with their heels; becoming so interested in the martial sounds produced with military precision and kettledrum-like effect, that they only desisted on becoming aware that Mrs. Walters was calling desperately from below, "I'm comin'."

The "sweet" of which Caroline had spoken proved to be baked sago. When the landlady reappeared to remove this dish, Teddie, with well-assumed carelessness, addressed her.

"By the way, Mrs. Walters," he said, "I believe I have an account to settle with you." He drew from his pocket the five-pound note, and handed it to the mollified woman. "Give me the change at your convenience," he added; "don't trouble now."

Gerald, from his armchair, turned and regarded his brother in speechless amazement. Recovering somewhat, he glanced with apprehensive interest at Teddie's waistcoat pocket, trying to ascertain whether the huge Waterbury watch—which, by the way, if sold, might bring the owner half-a-crown—was still there. The silver chain was in its place, and he fancied he heard the tick of that strong and renowned piece of mechanism.

"Where the deuce——" he began, but Teddie frowned at him warningly.

"And I wanted to tell you that I wish to give a dinner to two or three friends one day next week," he went on, quite informally. "I think it would be more homelike to give it here, and less expensive. You could get in some cooked things, so as not to have too much to do: a meat pie, for instance. You could manage soup, fish, and a joint, could not you? One entrée would do, game or something. There only remain the sweets and the savoury, cheese and dessert, and, of course, coffee."

"I should have to get in help," Mrs. Walters announced; "me and Caroline could never manage alone."

"No?" Teddie asked. "Not a simple little dinner like that? However, that is your look-out. Get all the help you want; and, by the way, have you another table that we could shove up against this, and cover the two with one cloth?"

When Mrs. Walters withdrew Teddie sat him down to write his invitations.

"It is only old Hugh," he told his brother, who was puffing at his pipe in silence and in seeming insouciance, but was in truth very anxious to know the meaning of Teddie's sudden affluence. "It has bothered me all along that the old fellow left us without our giving any farewell ceremony."

Gerald grunted. "Who is to meet him?" he asked.

"Well, I thought old Hamilton might like to come," Teddie answered. "He has seen Hugh once or twice, and has taken a liking to him."

Gerald nodded. "Any one else?" he asked.

"What do you say to having Charteris? He does run up to town for a dinner occasionally."

The notes of invitation were written and posted, and, before going down to Hazelhurst next day, Teddie had another interview with Mrs. Walters.

"It is settled for Monday night," he told her. "I don't like to have these things hanging on. As far as I know at present, there will be three guests. You have got about two pounds in hand—refund yourself from that if the stuff makes you out of pocket. Anything over and above you can mention in the bill."

But once more at home, Teddie got the whole truth out of Hazel, and dire was his wrath. He partially forgave his repentant little sister on hearing the history of her first visit to her uncle, and the fate of the former note.

"And we are such good friends now," Hazel told him, "that, although I could not possibly take anything for myself, I felt I could ask for you, Teddie: I was so miserable about you."

Teddie was mollified, when he learned that his sister had informed her uncle, that she should endeavour to keep secret how she came by the money. But Monday afternoon found him seated in the library of the house in Lancaster Gate, in conversation with that august relative.

Mr. Desborough's surprise was extreme when the curly-headed youth was announced, and, truth to tell, he was very much interested and amused in the subsequent conversation.

"I never expected to be sitting here," Teddie declared ingenuously. "But as I believe there is some talk of your visiting us at Hazelhurst, I don't mind meeting you half-way."

"Thank you," Mr. Desborough said drily.

"As to what has brought me here," Teddie went on, "you may perhaps guess. I have only just learned from my sister, that she actually asked you for money with which to help me in my—in my private affairs."

"What then?" Uncle Percival asked gruffly as Teddie paused.

"What then?" his nephew repeated hotly. "You don't suppose for a moment that I can sit down in that knowledge without making a protest, do you?" He regarded his uncle fiercely, and awaited an answer.

"I don't know, I am sure," Mr. Desborough replied at length. "I have forgotten how I should have felt at your age. I think I should have taken anything I could get."

"I don't believe you," Teddie rejoined warmly. "You may be a cantankerous old man, but I wouldn't make myself out worse than I am if I were you."

Mr. Desborough was about to expostulate angrily with Teddie on this somewhat intemperate expression, but when he had recovered sufficient breath for the purpose Teddie was, with bland indifference to his feelings, pursuing the conversation.

"I shall, of course, pay it back with all the speed in my power," he said. "Unfortunately it is already spent, or you should have the very note back. But I won't leave this house more in your debt than I can help." He rose, and, ransacking his pockets, produced four shillings and fivepence halfpenny, which he proceeded to place beside his uncle.

Mr. Desborough had much ado not to break into a hearty laugh. He began to think that the young fellow was as pleasing in his way as his little favourite, Hazel.

"Look you here, my boy," he returned, bent upon pacifying his irate nephew, "give an old man the pleasure of feeling he is of some use to his young relatives."

"I can't do it," Teddie declared, with, however, a softened mien, for he was touched by the unmistakable note of appeal in the old man's voice; "but I am forced to accept what is already spent on the rent and on to-night's dinner."

"Ah!" Mr. Desborough exclaimed. "To-night's dinner, eh? What are you going to have?"

Teddie rehearsed the menu, then began to explain matters further, as he became conscious of his uncle's extreme surprise.

"Oh, we don't fare like that every evening, simple though it is," he said in self-justification. "This is an entertainment long owed to my brother Hugh, and a couple of friends are asked to meet him."

Silence fell between them. Once the old man cleared his throat and was about to speak, but checked himself. When he did speak, he had evidently put something of moment aside.

"What shall you give them to drink?" he asked, in kindly interest.

"Whisky and soda or bottled beer," Teddie told him with prompt decision. "I did hope to give them a glass of decent claret, but that is off, of course."

Again a silence.

"Look you here, my boy." Uncle Desborough seemed bent upon having it out. Fear of rebuff had caused him to hesitate, and a strange sense of the unwonted good-fellowship of what he was about to propose made him awkward. "What do you say to asking me to your dinner? Would not that square matters?"

"We shall be delighted," Teddie made answer, very stiffly. "But, of course, we cannot let one of our guests pay for his dinner."

"An old fellow like myself won't be in the way?" Mr. Desborough asked.

The half-wistful tone of the question, meant to be brusque, was not lost upon his nephew.

"Not at all," he replied, more genially. "We shall be glad of your company. A quarter to eight, then, to-night."

A few hours later Gerald and Teddie were receiving their four guests with hearty welcome. The amazement of Gerald and Hugh when Mr. Desborough was announced can hardly be conceived, for Teddie had mischievously kept dark the circumstance of his coming. Their innate good-breeding and natural courtesy prompted them quickly to overcome the tendency to stand petrified with open mouths; for after only a momentary pause they were shaking hands warmly, as if their uncle's condescension were the most natural thing in the world.

"You are Paul Charteris, of whom my niece Hazel spoke?" Mr. Desborough asked of the latest arrival.

Paul flushed at the sudden mention of that name.

"Yes," he returned, "I have the good fortune to be a near neighbour of the Le Mesuriers."

It was marvellous to witness the little party being chivied about by the bustling landlady and her handmaid, till at length, finding it impossible to congregate about the hearth or by the window, the expedience began to dawn upon the group of dispersing singly. Thus they sat in formidable array round the walls of the room, whilst Hugh and Mr. Desborough conversed amicably together, seated side by side upon the horsehair sofa.

Presently Mrs. Walters, very red and important, beckoned Gerald out of the room to discuss with him the subject of chairs; for, beside the two miscalled easy-chairs, there were but two others in the boys' sitting-room, and under no circumstances could the landlady of the Baker Street rooms be induced to lend any of the gold and crimson furniture of the "first-floor front." She always said it would be "robbing Peter to pay Paul," but it was natural that her tenants should not see the connection, or, seeing, bring themselves to regard the matter in that light. This evening she was willing to make a great concession. Mr. Gerald might have the music-stool from the "first-floor front." It was against her rules, as he knew, but the company must be seated somehow, and the music-stool did not belong to a suite, so that it could be replaced readily, should any mischance overtake it.

The boys were, of course, at liberty to use their bedroom chairs as they pleased; so that when the guests were finally seated, Mr. Desborough and Mr. Hamilton occupied the two chairs of the sitting-room; Paul Charteris was accommodated with the cane chair from Gerald's bedroom, its somewhat low stature being at once remedied and rendered easy by a pillow; Hugh was perched upon the music-stool, whilst Gerald and Teddie affably dispensed hospitality, seated side by side on the sofa, which had been drawn up for that occasion.

"I am awfully sorry," Gerald said, "there is nothing much to offer in the way of drink." He glanced apologetically at the little sideboard, where bottled beer, whisky, and syphons of soda-water were arranged.

Uncle Percival cleared his throat.

"I—er—took the liberty," he said—and he glanced deprecatingly at Teddie—"I took the liberty—I hope an old uncle may be excused—of bringing some wine with me. My servant is still below, if you like him to bring up some sherry for the soup."

"Uncle Percival, you are a brick!" Hugh exclaimed, whilst Teddie gave his august relative an approving nod.

Thomas answered the bell, with decanter and glasses. A well-trained servant was he; for nothing could exceed his grave and deferential respect as his eyes lighted upon his master, seated upon the left hand—for Hugh was the guest of the evening—of the two flushed and eager young hosts upon the sofa. Yet the scene must of a surety have put a severe strain upon the risible muscles of any human being, necessitating a strong curb upon his sense of humour. Burgundy was handed round with the joint, and presently a suggestive "pop" from the region of the sideboard brought Mr. Desborough's eyes to meet Teddie's guiltily.

"Uncle, you are a trump," declared Teddie, slapping his uncle upon the shoulder.

Gerald rose and, leaning over Teddie, solemnly and in silence gripped his uncle's hand.

"I thought it might help with the evening's joviality," murmured the recipient of these attentions. "My dear fellows, what an excellent dinner you have provided—my compliments to your cook."

Which was tactful of Uncle Desborough.

Presently Paul Charteris rose and asked whether he had permission to propose a toast to the guest of the evening. Hugh modestly cast down his eyes as the company responded to the call with enthusiasm; Teddie meekly petitioning Providence that his shadow might never grow less.

Hugh rose to return thanks. He made a short speech, to the effect that, though happy in the capacity of Charteris's private secretary, he could never cease to regret that he had broken up the happy trefoil. He was half sorry that his brothers had not asked his whilom boss to this festive gathering, but that, perhaps after all, they had done rightly: Mr. Hooper might not have cared to come. He and Hugh had never had the luck to hit it off together as his brother Edward and his superior, Mr. Hamilton, had always done. Mr. Hooper was one of those men who did not appreciate the earnest endeavours and well-spent energy of the best years—or rather of a best year—at all events nine or ten months of a fellow's life. He had never liked or encouraged his, Hugh's, taste for drawing. He concluded by expressing his pleasure at finding himself in such thoroughly genial and sympathetic company, and he heartily returned his brother Edward's wish concerning his shadow—might all their shadows expand, if there must be any change in them. He begged to propose the health of their uncle, Percival Desborough.

Mr. Desborough acknowledged the courtesy and begged to be excused from either rising or speaking. His gout troubled him somewhat, and he had no gift for putting choice words together. He could but say he was sincerely glad to be among them all that night.

Upon this Teddie rose and asked the company to drink to his superior, Mr. Hamilton, to whom he had, he feared, in times gone by, been somewhat of a trial in his wild days. That, however, was all over. He had grown steady and was better understood than of yore. Nothing could exceed the happiness of the relations now existing between them.

Mr. Hamilton rose, was about to speak, but instead he broke into a hearty laugh and slapped the steady young man on the back. He declared that he would not say more than that he heartily concurred with all that his young host had deposed, and that he sincerely reciprocated his young host's feeling towards himself.

Gerald rose and said that since no one seemed inclined to name him, he thought he would waive ceremony and drink to himself if they would all join him, which they did amidst shouts of laughter. Gerald proceeded to remark that if he might be permitted he toasted his fellow-host Edward, more generally known as Teddie, who had taken upon himself almost the entire trouble and responsibility of the little dinner they were now enjoying. The company responded with cheers, waxing so warm that at length Teddie felt it incumbent on him to rise modestly and bow, which he did, somewhat bashfully.

He was about to reseat himself when Gerald gave him a sharp dig in the ribs and murmured a word, lost to the company amid the general turmoil. Teddie nodded comprehendingly and, placing his hand on Gerald's shoulder, together they stood and awaited silence.

"Gentlemen, you may smoke," issued from their lips, as through one mouthpiece, so soon as quiet was attained; and the two proffered their dilapidated cases, containing the excessively lean cigarettes they were in the habit of smoking.

The glances of the two elderly men present had met more than once during this unique entertainment—they met again now, and each drew from his pocket a well-stocked cigar case, and offered in return their contents, the while, in perfect gravity, they courteously accepted of their hosts' store.

Paul also came to the fore well provided with cigars, at the sight of which the boys' eyes glistened.

"Smoke your own stuff, any one who would rather," Teddie said graciously. "Thanks, yes," he added, "I'll have a cigar."

So that, while the hosts and their brother Hugh puffed contentedly at the fragrant and ever-coveted weed, Mr. Desborough, Mr. Hamilton, and Paul Charteris feigned to enjoy the worst cigarettes it had ever been their fate to taste, praising them most unduly in that they did not "bite," and were a pleasant, light change for an after-dinner smoke.

"Quite so," Teddie agreed: "those who like a light smoke will—er—will find them light. For myself I confess I prefer a cigar. But then, you know," he added ingenuously, "cigars are rather beyond my means just now, and are consequently a treat."

"I am glad you are thinking of running down to Hazelhurst for a visit," Gerald said conversationally, addressing his uncle. "Run down with me and Teddie on Saturday."

Percival Desborough was suffering from remorse. What an old fool he had been! What an unconscionable old fool! All these years, these bitter, lonely years of mental and bodily pain, years that were a nightmare to look back upon, were of his own contriving. These three handsome young fellows, of whom any relative might be proud—what an interest they would have brought into his life, and to what better purpose could he have put his money than to educate them and start them fair, upon a better footing in the world, than could be attained by their own and his poor niece Helen's unaided efforts? There were two more, he remembered, conceivably as artless and ingenuous as the four of Hubert Le Mesurier's children with whom he was already acquainted. What a fool, what a fool! He saw it now, and all for what? Fancied slights, imaginary affronts, from this or that member of the Westmacott family; probably the outcome of a distorted mind, fed upon morbid fancies, rendered irritable by bodily pain. Real or fancied, they no way included his niece Helen; but in shutting himself away from the world, his injustice had embraced all within its narrow, bigoted bonds; contention and discord had rankled in his poor, warped mind, and burned fiercely, with little or nothing to feed the fire but his own imaginings.

As, in the long hours of the evening spent alone after Hazel's visit, when the determination came upon him to accept the invitation to go to Hazelhurst, so, in the lonely night hours that followed the entertainment provided by the Le Mesurier boys, did Percival Desborough make up his mind to agree to Gerald's proposal to run down with his young relatives the following Saturday.

CHAPTER XVIII

"I don't see how I can go on being engaged to you," Hazel announced.

It was a chilly day in October. Autumnal tints abounded in splendour. Hazel herself suggested autumn to Paul's mind. Her soft, nut-brown hair was surmounted by a little scarlet cap, fur-trimmed; and she wore a scarlet coat, edged also with brown fur. She seemed a combination of wych-hazel and mountain ash. They were driving in Paul's trap, on visiting intent. The persons about to be honoured were Bobbie Boutcher and Bobbie Boutcher's mother.

"Why not?" Paul asked, in no wise visibly dismayed.

"The boys," Hazel declared tragically. "You don't know what I have to endure: you have no idea. Even Uncle Percival teases now."

"What do they do?" Paul asked, much interested.

"Some of it is too—too awful to repeat," she averred solemnly. "But the names they call you—and me!"

"Give me an example," Paul said encouragingly.

"Yesterday, for instance," the girl pursued, "Teddie said: 'Hazel, I have not seen old Peter for two whole hours: I wonder if he has fled the country—you must not be too surprised if he has.' Sometimes they call you Moses, and bring up the old joke: Why is it known for certain that Moses wore a wig—only, of course, they don't apply it to you."

"I would not mind all that," Paul returned, laughing.

"There is one person who calls you Pau—calls you by your rightful Christian name," the girl amended hastily, "and that is Uncle Percival; but then he spoils it by putting the adjective 'elderly' before it."

"How do you mean?" Paul asked, somewhat startled.

"Oh, it is a silly old joke," she answered scornfully. "Months ago," she continued, with an emphasis that seemed to intimate years, "before I was seventeen, I had an absurd notion that you were about middle-aged. Of course, you are no longer young," she went on, in frank self-justification; "but when I told him—Uncle Percival—that you were over thirty, he asked if you were bald, and has ever since asked after you as the elderly—er——" she hesitated, slightly embarrassed.

"Paul?" suggested that young man, and he broke into a hearty laugh. "Child," he pursued, his laughter subsiding into a merriment something mischievous, "can't you even quote my Christian name, let alone call me by it?"

"It comes to the same thing," Hazel returned severely, "and I don't at all see why one must call you by it, because one happens to be engaged to you."

"You'll have to come to it, Hazel. What do you call me at home?"

"By it, sometimes," she admitted, "but I don't often mention you."

"Would you not think me very stiff, if I called you Miss Le Mesurier?" he asked, seeking to plead with her.

"Yes," she confessed, "but that is—that is different." Then she glanced up swiftly. The appeal in his voice was not lost upon her, and she wanted the evidence of her eyes to aid in reassuring herself, that he was not really hurt—that he did not seriously care. The eyes that met hers were brimming with fun, but beneath shone love and tenderness—love and tenderness so unmistakable, so all-convincing, that even Hazel could read, though she hardly understood. And just discernible, though on the surface only, Hazel comforted herself, was a faint, wistful shadow, a tiny cloud over the depth of brilliant happiness, and all because she could not bring herself to take the leap—such a little leap it must appear to him—of calling him Paul to his face.

"I will try some day," she said piteously, "but you must not mind if I can't. You don't mind, do you?" she asked anxiously.

"I should like to hear you say it, Hazel," he answered gravely, tenderly. "Is it so very hard, little one?"

For all answer the red cap nodded vigorously.

"Then I must be patient a while longer," he said, suppressing a sigh. When would the child know her mind and love him? It was inexpressibly sweet, this shy reception of his loving attention and most inadequate response to the warmth of his advances. There was an indescribable charm in the quick glance that returned his steady regard, in the slight, cool pressure of the little hand that could only be retained in his warm clasp very much against its will. She still preferred the presence of her beloved brothers with herself and Paul, to being alone with him.

Then, to his comfort, a vivid recollection of her face recurred to his mind, when he had told her he was going away for some months. She had faced round upon him quickly, looking very white and perplexed.

"But you can't," she had persisted again and again. "You can't—you are engaged to me."

"I promised your mother that I would go," he returned, watching her face closely. "Only she can release me, but I shall not ask her to do so—it would not be honourable. Shall you care, Hazel? Shall you miss me?"

But she would not tell him.

A few days later Helen, with her gentle smile, had most unexpectedly cancelled the sentence of banishment.

"It is of no use your going, Paul," she had said. "The child will fret and you—you will be miserable."

"And so you feel you cannot endure the boys' banter?" Paul asked of his companion, somewhat ruefully.

"Oh well," she answered cheerfully, "I must, for the present. It is rather nice being engaged to you," she continued naïvely, "and it is so convenient."

"Convenient?" poor Paul echoed blankly.

"You see," she explained, "I never could get about anywhere: the boys being almost always away, and Miles busy. Besides, it was very lonely, with only a servant, about twenty yards behind you. But now, now I can go great distances, in the trap if we wish, and we can talk, and altogether it is very comfortable."

"Very," agreed Paul, at once amused and dismayed.

Something dry in the tone of his response made her look up quickly.

"I hope you don't misunderstand me," she said timidly. "I should not like you to think I was only making use of you. I—I am very fond of you," she added, her voice sinking, "and I enjoy being engaged, very much."

Paul sighed. It was a great admission, this, from her; but oh, how unsatisfying! It was but a whet to his appetite, it made him hungrier than ever.

A silence fell between them.

"You have not yet told me what the boys call you," he said presently, trying to speak lightly.

"I really could not," she replied, and he was surprised and distressed to see that she shrank from him, albeit the movement was scarcely perceptible.

By dint of long and earnest persuasion he wrung from her a promise that she would tell him—some time—and then, with a sense of being hunted and driven to bay, their destination reached, Hazel, with a desperate courage, feeling that she had better get over the inevitable at once, seized the opportunity when Paul's back was turned to her—whilst he examined the horse's hoof for a suspected stone—to whisper almost inaudibly, somewhere near the region of his ear:

"Mrs. Charteris."

Paul caught the words, and, starting up to capture and question the whisperer, was surprised to find that, quick as were his movements, he was already too late. The small back of the future Mrs. Charteris was already presented to him as she stood sedately, some yards away, knocking at the door of the Boutchers' cottage.

Mrs. Boutcher opened to Hazel with a gratified beam upon her shining, pink, well-favoured countenance.

"You're welcome, miss," she said, with a quaint, bobbing curtsey, "and the gentleman too, I am sure. Won't he come in, miss? It is a poor place, but he is heartily welcome."

Hazel glanced behind her. Paul was securing the horse and trap to the stone post of the gateway.

"Thank you," she returned, "Mr. Charteris will like to come in, I know. We came to see little Bobbie, and I wanted to give you a pinafore for him, that I have made all myself, after Mrs. Doidge had cut it out."

Bobbie himself, present, but invisible behind his mother's back, was now dragged forward.

"For shame!" Mrs. Boutcher exclaimed, gently shaking him. "Don't you know the young lady what saved you from the very jaws? Say ''Ow do you do?' this moment, and none of your nonsense. He'll understand some day what an obligation he is a-labouring under to you, miss," Mrs. Boutcher hastened to explain apologetically. "At present he is no more grateful nor what he would 'ave been if you'd just let him be."

Hazel had been to see her protégé twice before to-day, and found the constant references to what Mrs. Boutcher termed her "'eroism" somewhat embarrassing. Nevertheless, the good woman's conversation caused her much diversion. One singularity of hers was never to mention death by name, though the meaning of the dread word was conveyed to her audience frequently, in all manner of ingeniously wrapped up and elegantly expressed phrases.

Paul came in, and Mrs. Boutcher, with ready hospitality, dusted a second chair and asked him to be seated.

"And if I might make you a cup of tea after your drive, I'm sure I should be honoured," she assured her guests.

She proceeded to bustle about, on hospitality intent, whilst Hazel lost no time in coaxing Bobbie to come to her and try on his new pinafore. She had a way of her own with children. She did not appear to notice the small individual himself, but seemed deeply interested in the toy he held, and begged to look at it more nearly. The boy drew nearer, lost his shyness little by little, and was soon exhibiting his treasure and expounding its many virtues to an apparently absorbed auditor.

"It is wonderful," Hazel commented. "I have something in this parcel besides the pinafore. Come and sit on my knee and see if you can untie the string."

Presently the child was seated in Hazel's lap, contentedly eating chocolates. He was a pretty, fair-haired, blue-eyed boy, and Hazel felt real affection for the little fellow. Beside her innate love of children, she felt a proprietary interest in Bobbie, whose life she had undoubtedly saved. Mrs. Boutcher regarded the pair with admiration and maternal pride, her head on one side, a steaming kettle in her hand, poised for discharging.

"Look at that, now!" she exclaimed, turning to Paul for sympathy, "and him so shy as he'll run away when the minister shows his face at the door, as if it was the bogeyman's." She approached Paul and lowered her voice. "You'd never guess, not to look at him," she said confidentially, "as it's but three months ago as he was rescued from out the Valley of the Shadow. Dear me," she continued, shaking her head, "yes, it was a mercy—not vouchsafed to all of us neither. There was Mrs. Jones's now—she's moved since, and it's no wonder—her little boy fell into the water, just as it might be my Bobbie, and he crossed the River," she whispered hoarsely.

Paul looked relieved.

"The child could swim? That was fortunate."

"Law bless you, no, sir. Swim? He went down like a stone in the middle of the stream."

"I understood you to say he crossed the river," Paul explained, nonplussed.

"The Jordan, sir," Mrs. Boutcher returned in a hushed voice, somewhat shocked at the practical way in which her guest interpreted her words—it was not clear to her whether in ignorance or wanton inadvertency—"the River as we must all cross some day, to reach the Golden Shore."

Paul nodded comprehendingly.

"Poor little fellow," he murmured.

"You should hear our minister speak, sir," Mrs. Boutcher went on. '"E just draws the tears to your eyes. But you don't attend our chapel?"

"No," Paul admitted, "but Miss Le Mesurier often takes me to church. We have a clever preacher there."

Hazel, catching her name, looked up. "Yes, Mrs. Boutcher," she said, "it is so nice. I used to go very seldom: the boys were often lazy or careless, and sometimes really tired after their week's work. Mother, of course, could not go so far."

Mrs. Boutcher had fervently spread a fair white cloth, and poured out two cups of tea. She now begged her guests to be seated, and whilst they refreshed themselves, she again took up the conversation.

"Our minister," she said solemnly, slowly shaking her head, "surpasses all I ever 'eard in the preaching line. Preach? His father preached afore him, and he has two sons what preach."

"A clever family," Paul commented.

Mrs. Boutcher's feelings did not allow her to find words readily, but presently she wisely gave up endeavouring to express herself, and went on in lighter vein.

"It seems to come to them natural like, the moment they ascend the pulpit. It's just child's play to them, father and sons alike, as it was child's play to the minister's father afore them."

For one brief moment the eyes of Paul and Hazel met, but they very creditably maintained their gravity. Paul wondered what a clever preacher, and a good earnest man to boot, would feel if he could hear the strenuous endeavour, the never-ceasing watching, praying, and battling of his life, pronounced child's play.

Hazel could not let it pass. "Mrs. Boutcher," she said gently, "we surely cannot call the great and good work of clergymen child's play to them. It is his work, is not it? and the cleverer he is the more he is bound to do his utmost, as an artist would, for instance."

Mrs. Boutcher was not convinced. "It may be with some," she admitted, "but it's no work to our minister, Miss. You should hear him—it just flows from him, with no effort on his part."

It began to dawn upon Hazel, that her hostess had not used the term child's play in its usual sense, a suspicion that was confirmed a little later, when the good woman placed a large log upon the fire.

"That is a fine fellow," Paul remarked. "Couldn't I chop him in two for you, Mrs. Boutcher?"

But the hospitable Mrs. Boutcher demurred. "I could not think of troubling you, sir. To be sure, it's a fine log," she agreed, "a regular masterpiece."

Paul and Hazel did not stay long with the Boutchers: they had promised themselves a half hour with the Traverses that afternoon. They set forth again, therefore, so soon as tea was finished, reaching The Beeches within the space of a few minutes.

Hazel breathed again when, on entering the drawing-room, one glance assured her that Digby was absent. There was the usual warm reception: Doris, Phyllis, and Francis, who was present with his mother and sisters, could not do enough for the young couple—surrounding them on all sides, besetting them with questions and attentions. Finally Hazel was ensconced upon the sofa—in the very middle—with cushions at her back, a hassock under her feet, Phyllis and Doris on either side of her, and Francis gracefully reclining on the floor in front of her. Mrs. Travers and Paul were seated together a little apart from this sociable group, but their interest seemed to be with it; the eyes of both were directed upon it and upon the little gracious central figure, and Paul could have embraced his hostess there and then for the affectionate admiration and motherly pride that beamed from her kind eyes.

"I have congratulated you before," she said, turning to him, "many times, but I must do so again. I think you a very fortunate young man, and, if I may say so, I also think you are worthy of your happiness," she added warmly.

"Ah no," disclaimed the devout lover, "who could be that? But I shall never cease to try to be so."

"Do you always do your hair up now?" asked Phyllis of Hazel.

"Always," she replied, "except week-ends, and when I am riding."

"Riding?" Phyllis and Doris exclaimed in unison, breathless with interest. "Oh, do you ride? Who with?"

"With him," Hazel replied, nodding towards Paul, without looking at him. "We go for the most lovely rides—twelve and fifteen miles."

"Oh, how lovely." The breathless auditors were again in unison.

"I wish I was engaged," sighed Phyllis.

The elder sister nudged Hazel to gain her attention. "Try not to appear too happy," she whispered earnestly. "You know the trouble I have with her—how I try to keep her a child."

Hazel nodded sympathetically. "But I am afraid I cannot help it," she whispered back. "I am so happy, you know. What shall I do?" she added helplessly.

"Can't you hint that for many things you are sorry that childhood is over?" suggested the demure maiden, anxiously regarding the fresh, sweet, rosy face, the happy brown eyes.

"But I am not," Hazel replied, bluntly frank.

"Oh, Doris, don't keep Hazel all to yourself," Phyllis exclaimed plaintively. "Hazel, have you got a riding habit?"

"Yes, a lovely one, made by a London tailor. Uncle Percival gave it me—he is always wanting to give me dresses, but mothie does not like him to."

"What colour is it?" Doris asked, interested herself, and deeming her little sister's interest in this subject—and possible envy—legitimate.

"Brown," Hazel made answer—"almost exactly the colour of my horse."

"Your horse?"

"He did," Hazel said, anticipating the question, again nodding in Paul's direction.

"How many hands?" inquired Francis from below. He had never taken his eyes from Hazel's face.

"Sixteen," she answered promptly.

"What breed?" he inquired further.

"Now, Francis," Phyllis said, "don't begin a lot of your tiresome farming questions. Hazel, how brown it must all look! I suppose one can hardly notice whether your hair is down or not. But why do you have it down for week-ends?"

"The boys," Hazel explained laconically. "It entices them to tease and call me names if I have it up. Besides," she added resignedly, "they only take it down, so what is the use?"

"So should I," observed Francis lazily. "I wouldn't have it up now, if I were Charteris."

"But you look so fearfully young," she complained. "And you must remember that I—I am an engaged wo—, that I am engaged, you know," she amended.

"Perhaps I shall be in four or five years' time," Phyllis said, with a little eager bounce of anticipated pleasure. "Oh, I wish the time would come."

"Phyllis!" poor Doris remonstrated, appalled. "Be young while you can, dear," she urged.

"Hazel does not look any the older for it," retorted Phyllis. "Oh, Hazel, do tell us some of his pet names for you."

Hazel gasped and glanced hurriedly at Paul. Paul, who had not caught Phyllis's words, smiled at her and wondered within himself whether he read her glance aright: it seemed to appeal to him for help.

Francis came to the rescue. "Look here, Phyllis," he expostulated, "don't make any more of an enfant terrible of yourself than you need. I say," he continued, tactfully seeking to change the conversation, "how sick Digby will be when he hears that you called."

This announcement effectually turned the current of Hazel's thoughts. She tried to appear properly concerned, but relief and gratitude were all that Francis could read in the look she turned upon him.

Paul somehow contrived to bring Mrs. Travers and himself nearer the sofa, and the conversation became general.

When the adieux were made, Phyllis's contrite look was rewarded by an extra good-bye kiss and a forgiving little squeeze of Hazel's hand.

CHAPTER XIX

But that was to befall which gave Hazel cause to wish that Digby Travers had been present, during Paul's and her visit to his father's house. It would have proved uncomfortable, embarrassing, a sore trial of endurance for the moment; but once over, once the inevitable first meeting after the event of the engagement was ended, she could but have felt immensely relieved, albeit her heart would have ached with compassion for the poor young man, if, indeed, she saw reason for such emotion. She was always buoyed with the comfort of that doubt. Perhaps he was no "lover." He and Paul were as the poles asunder; and Hazel could not doubt Paul. Therefore, either Digby was not in love with her, or there were many sorts of lovers and many grades of being in love. Paul seemed to be of a somewhat high grade, she thought.

Hazel was walking through the Hazelhurst woods alone, pondering these matters in her heart. She had set out for an hour's brisk exercise at about three o'clock in the afternoon, intent upon completing a favourite round within the limit of that time, a round that took her across the comparatively open space where she was in the habit of feeding her pets, past the great oak, down many winding paths to the boundary fence, then, turning at right angles, a short way terminating in a hazel copse, and thence home.

She walked rapidly: the early November air was chill and crisp, making quick movement enjoyable and exhilarating. The woods were almost dismantled, but the many trees that were evergreen did not allow their thinness to be very marked, nor their nakedness too pronounced. Everywhere stood clumps of sturdy green that endured through all changes, brave and gravely cheerful, as if possessed of spirit too strong to know airy flights of imagination or mournful droopings of soul. They were never more than gravely cheerful, even in springtime's tremulous joy or summer's triumphant glory: sober enough, indeed, to give one—at such seasons—occasional vague feelings of irritation at their seeming stolidness. But ah! the gratitude with which one gazes upon these reliable, impervious old friends, when all else green in the dear woodlands is shrivelled and dead; whilst the more sensitive trees, that undergo so many phases of experience, are fortifying themselves with the long sleep of winter.

Hazel was grateful to the evergreens now, as she sped along, throwing them many and admiring glances, vividly realising their sterling qualities. She was just emerging from the hazel copse, all aglow with exercise, when a shadow fell across her path, and Digby Travers spoke her name.

"At last," he said, "and alone."

Hazel's presence of mind did not desert her.

"Why, Digby!" she exclaimed, "how did you know I was here?"

"It was rather early for calling when I arrived," he answered, somewhat wearily, "so I strolled about in the woods; and presently I caught sight of your scarlet coat through the trees."

It had been but one o'clock when the poor young man reached Hazelhurst, and for two hours and more he had been roaming the woods.

"How dull you must have found it," she returned, a trifle puzzled. "You ought to have gone straight to the house. Being early does not matter with informal old friends. Come with me now and have tea."

She was concerned for him: he was pale and haggard, but she dared not express her sympathy too openly, and tried to appear brisk and matter-of-fact.

"Tired!" echoed Digby Travers, in a somewhat hollow tone. "If that were all!"

"You are not ill?" she asked quickly, in alarm.

"I wish I were," he answered, with a short, mirthless laugh. "I am sick to death of living; but no, I am not ill in the ordinary sense of the word. I am fortunate to have met you," he continued. "I have longed and yearned to see you alone, if only for a few minutes, to satisfy myself with my own eyes that you were happy."

It was not quite clear to Hazel why he must see her alone to ascertain that fact, but she did not care to question him upon so delicate a point.

"Are you happy?" he asked, as she continued silent.

"Oh yes, very, thank you!" she assured him fervently.

But the assurance did not seem to gladden him.

"So I hoped and supposed," he rejoined, with increased gloom. "And that being so," he added, after a pause, "what does one crushed spirit matter?"

"Do you mean yours?" asked Hazel blankly.

"I don't blame you," he went on, evading the question. "From the first you tried to show me that my attentions were unwelcome, and I am a fool not to have overcome my feelings long ago."

His words could leave no doubt in Hazel's mind. He certainly was, or had been, in love. She was at a loss what to say to him, but she was, nevertheless, profoundly pitiful, for occasional glimpses of understanding were beginning to come to her; brief glimpses of slow-dawning light, that grew grey again before any vivid pitch was reached, were now and again permitted her youthful mind and tender sensibilities, rendering her capable of a depth of compassion toward the poor young man, that would surely have brought comfort to him, had she but expressed something of what she felt. And, all unknown to herself, it was Paul's influence and Paul's teaching that were thus awakening her woman's heart.

"I am dreadfully sorry if I have crushed your spirit," she said at length; "I never meant to. I cannot quite imagine how it has come about. You have always had me for a friend, and you have me still. Now you have another friend in him, haven't you?" she added, seeking to cheer him.

Digby groaned. Now indeed was he convinced that his suit was hopeless. Il she had spoken of "Mr. Charteris," or even of "Paul," it might conceivably mean that she had yet to learn her own mind; but when a girl alludes to "him" simply, that girl was lost for ever to Digby Travers.

"You like him, don't you?" Hazel pursued, slightly startled at the reception that met her question.

"Oh yes, well enough, that is, very much," poor Digby stammered, writhing under her innocent and puzzled look. He could not, in justice to Paul, feel that the girl's heart had been stolen from him, for he knew he had never for one moment possessed it. Yet there was always the possibility that she might ultimately have grown to love him, if Paul Charteris had not come between them. And now he was asked to look upon "him" as a friend!

"Then try to be happy," Hazel said persuasively, giving him her hand, "and don't feel crushed any more. You shall—shall stay with us, you know, often, and we will all be such friends. Still, of course, that will not be for years yet," she added, blushing.

But this was too much for his fortitude. He dropped Hazel's hand, and, turning very pale, he walked a few steps unsteadily, leaned against a tree as if for support, and, sinking his head upon his arm, stood motionless, save for the laboured heaving of his breast. Hazel hovered about him in greatest distress.

"Digby, Digby," she cried, "I never thought you would mind so much. You shall see a good deal of me; you shall indeed. I will ask him—I will ask him if he would mind your living with us, if that would comfort you," she added desperately. "But you must wait. We don't want to—we don't want to do it yet for years."

"Hazel," Digby answered, speaking in short, panting breaths, "you don't know what you are saying. How should you? You are only a child. But for God's sake, don't tantalise a poor wretch like me with such cruel words."

"Cruel?" poor Hazel exclaimed, with a sob. "When I am thinking all the time of what I can do and say and promise to comfort you! What can you mean, Digby? And a child indeed! Me a child!"

Digby raised his head, and regarded her with haggard eyes. A very tender smile played over his drawn features. He seemed suddenly to have become a grave and thoughtful man—ten years older than the Digby she had known but a few months since.

"Yes," he said, quietly persistent, setting his back to the tree, and folding his arms upon his breast, "a child, a sweet, kind, impulsive, gentle little girl; and as such you are distractingly adorable. Well"—he straightened himself and advanced a few paces—"God make the man of your choice worthy of you, and capable of loving you as I would have loved you."

"I did not exactly choose him," Hazel said quickly, seeking to justify herself in Digby's eyes, "he—he chose me. Not but that I like being engaged to him very much," she added hastily, fearful lest he should misunderstand her.

But Digby understood her better than she understood herself. He read the new happiness in her face aright—the shy and almost tender light in her eyes when she spoke of Paul. And he envied Paul, as he had envied no man yet, the hour to come when the realisation of her love for him should dawn and break over her soul. He smiled again, a brave smile, and held out his hand.

"Good-bye," he said, making a resolute effort to compose himself. "You are just home: I will leave you here."

"You won't come in?" she asked piteously, holding him fast.

"No," he said; "I could not face the others to-day. And don't let me feel I have been a brute and distressed you. I shall get over it some day—and——"

"Do you think you will soon?" Hazel asked eagerly, raising tearful eyes to his face.

"Perhaps quite soon," he returned cheerfully, with a slight gulp. "And then, as you say, we shall all be friends. Good-bye." He wrung her hand and walked abruptly away.

Hazel was not to be deceived by this sudden assumption of lightheartedness. She stood for a few moments looking after him. He did not look back—never even halted in his walk, but kept straight on, turned a bend in the path and was gone.

She walked slowly through the flower garden, and, blinded by tears, went stumbling up the steps, and would have fallen over the threshold if she had not, instead, fallen into Paul's arms, outstretched to receive her. And there she remained passive, like a wounded bird, fluttered home. Paul found the situation too blissful to risk the result of speaking for the moment. But Hazel had no intention of moving just yet. The breast of that tweed coat, now that she was shut in before any alternative had been given her, was a very convenient place, safe from his scrutiny; she was conscious of a sense of comfort that began to steal over her, and was vaguely surprised to find how very pleasant it was, to have strong protecting arms about her, just when she was feeling weak and helpless and sad.

He knew that she was crying, for he had seen her face as she came up the steps. He tried to obtain a glimpse of it now, but she kept it hidden in his coat. He gently removed the red cap, and softly kissed the tumbled hair. He must know what it was that troubled her. So, tightening his hold, he asked her gently what the matter was.

"It is Digby," she answered, suppressing a rising sob. "It is all dreadfully complicated. He is very unhappy at my being engaged to you. It—it seems that he wanted me himself."

Paul smiled broadly. The next moment he was grave enough.

"What right had he to say such things to you—now? I must ask him to explain himself," he rejoined.

Hazel could divine from the energy with which he spoke that Paul was angry.

"If you want to fight," she said, a little nervous tremor running through her, "you will have to wait. He is too weak just now, he—he had to lean against a tree to talk. But oh, you would not be so unkind, would you? He is so unhappy," she added beseechingly.

"No, no," Paul hastened to reassure her. "I don't want to fight the poor fellow. But he ought to have been man enough not to have troubled you, Hazel."

"He was so unreasonable," she went on. "I tried to comfort him, and he told me not to tantalise him with cruel words—cruel he called them."

Hazel raised her head a moment in order to see what Paul thought of such perverseness. Paul, who made a very shrewd guess at the nature of Hazel's "comforting," hurriedly raised his hand and stroked his moustache. Hazel's head hastily resumed its former position, after one brief glance.

"But he was very manly," she pursued earnestly, anxious to do poor Digby justice. "I have never known him so—so nice as he was just at the end. He—he said he should get over it soon," she added, more cheerfully, "but—but he does not seem to want to live with us."

"What?" Paul cried, with such vehemence that Hazel jumped. "What?"

"He seemed so fond of me," Hazel explained modestly. "So I said, if he liked I would ask you if you would mind his living with us—in after-years, you know. I am sure I did not want him," she added plaintively.

"Hazel," Paul said, gently bantering, "I begin to see that to the seclusion of your life alone is owed the fact that our future home will not be overrun by disappointed swains."

By this time Hazel was so far recovered as to be able to emerge from her place of hiding. As she sought to release herself from the enfolding arms, Paul bent his head and looked tenderly into her flushed, tear-stained face.

"Little one," he whispered, "may I, just for once, kiss away those last tears from your eyes?"

"Oh no, thank you," she said hastily, somewhat frightened at the suggestion. She proceeded energetically to dab her eyes, in order to remove all temptation, and, making a more determined effort, succeeded in freeing herself, Paul most reluctantly releasing her.

He opened the inner door of the hall. As Hazel entered, her eyes fell upon Hugh's back, or, rather, upon the back of an easy-chair, above which the top of Hugh's head was revealed. A fire blazed and crackled on the hall hearth, and the young man was enjoying its warmth, very much at his ease. He and Paul had been up to town that morning, the former to see his uncle; and, returning to Hazelhurst together, Hugh had soon settled himself to marvel over the restlessness of a lover in the absence of his beloved; whilst Paul, learning from Miles that Hazel was out walking, had taken up his position on the threshold, impatient for her coming, yet afraid to venture forth, not knowing by which way she would come.

Hugh did not look round on their entrance: hearing Paul's voice, he at once concluded that Hazel had returned. Hazel made her escape upstairs to bathe her eyes. After succeeding in removing all traces of her late emotion, she entered Helen's room to propose that her mother should come with her and hear the result of Hugh's visit to their uncle. Helen readily consented. They were all much interested concerning Hugh's future prospects. As for Paul Charteris, he was relieved as well as interested; for the farce of Hugh as secretary was apparently about to terminate most agreeably—a circumstance almost as pleasing to his employer as to Hugh himself. He was to study art for a time, and if he fulfilled the hopes his uncle had been led to entertain of him, he was to be provided with a studio of his own, and started in life.

"Don't you trouble about finishing up work at my place, old fellow," Paul said to him. "You will like some time off, before beginning the new work."

Hugh readily acquiesced. "All right. I do feel the need of a bit of a holiday," he admitted.

"So do I, by Jove," Teddie observed. He and Gerald, noiselessly opening the inner door, had overheard Hugh's remark. "Hullo, Mrs. Char—! Hullo, Charteris, I did not see you."

The two proceeded to place hats, coats, and portmanteaux aside, whilst the group about the hearth pushed their chairs farther back, at once enlarging the circle and inviting the new-comers within its hospitable radius.

"If I had not completely forgotten it was Saturday!" Hugh commented, regarding his brothers something patronisingly, as one to whom all days in the week were alike, so far as momentous settings forth and comings in were concerned. For was not Hugh a gentleman at large?

Gerald and Teddie did not take possession of the two vacant chairs that Hazel—who had not forgotten to expect them—had been careful to provide, preferring to seat themselves upon the rug and support their backs against mother and sister, in such pose as should render the stroking of the two curly heads a natural and easy occupation.

When Hugh's affair had been thoroughly discussed, Helen produced two letters from her absent sons, Guy and Cecil, each announcing his intention of being home for Christmas. Further debate followed this gratifying news; and many and ingenious were the propositions tendered by the Le Mesurier boys for the entertainment of their brothers; till interruption on the part of Miles roused them all to a sense of the present, and to the necessity of dispersing, in obedience to the butler's peremptory injunctions, as voiced by the gong.

CHAPTER XX

Teddie Le Mesurier sat in the inner office with his superior. Mr. Hamilton had a knack of contriving to get the boy to himself, in a manner which eluded the particular notice of the other young men in his employment, and which seemed always perfectly natural and without artifice. Neither did Mr. Hamilton keep rigorously silent throughout the long working-hours; for, greatly as he believed in discipline, Teddie's ingenuous talk had an odd fascination for this elderly man, bereft of an only son; and there were times when, if not directly encouraged to lay aside his pen, Teddie at least found a most attentive and appreciative auditor, when he was pleased to regale his friend with stories and anecdotes pertaining to his and his brothers' younger years.

"Get on with your work, my boy," Mr. Hamilton would say, with a brusqueness that was supposed to cover any ill-concealed delight that might have been apparent to Teddie; whilst many a burst of hearty laughter was of a sudden checked, in the hope that such mirthful sounds had not yet reached the ears of those in the outer office: thus seeking to save his own dignity, and his young friend from any possible ill-feeling among his colleagues.

To-day Teddie had not been invited to sit in the private office; but, preferring Mr. Hamilton's society to that of his fellow-clerks, and calling to mind that the leather-padded chair was more desirable than his own high stool, and that the writing-table was pleasanter to write upon than his own desk, he decided to make use of these advantages.

Gathering together his working materials, he walked boldly in, after a slight but withal a defiant knock, seated himself, and was immediately profoundly wrapped in his task. Mr. Hamilton looked up, somewhat surprised, coughed to gain the young man's attention, and ejaculated: "Well, upon my word!" But Teddie, beyond one abstracted look and mechanical nod, sat on imperturbable, his elbows on the table, his fingers run through his hair, so deeply immersed—only, indeed, altering his attitude for the purpose of distractedly turning over papers—that Mr. Hamilton, passing his hand over his moustache, and giving vent to a suppressed chuckle, at length desisted from his attempts to attract Teddie's eye or ear, glad enough not to press for an explanation of such unaccustomed behaviour; for he liked the boy's company above any other, and was secretly flattered that Teddie had evinced a similar feeling. But he decided that the young rogue, as he mentally termed him, should not go unpunished.

It was early—about ten; work for the day was but just begun. For two long hours not a word was exchanged. Soon Teddie's most exaggerated ardour began to wane. He plunged his fingers into his hair less feverishly, and turned over papers in a less distraught manner. Slowly but surely he assumed his normal bearing: calm was succeeded by lassitude. Teddie yawned, stretched, fidgeted, and drummed softly with his fingers upon the table. Never had he known his superior so unsociable.

Finally he leaned back in his chair and deliberately regarded Mr. Hamilton, upon whom he had hitherto bestowed only fleeting and furtive glances. All to no purpose: his companion remained deeply engrossed with the work in hand. Never had Teddie known him so utterly impervious to his surroundings. In the outer office he knew well enough that occasional murmured remarks were made now and again, or a joke was cracked: all helping to pass the tedium of the long morning with less insupportable dryness than seemed to be his fate here. Three hours had now elapsed in unbroken silence. With an impatient sigh he languidly resumed his work. But that sigh was too much for the soft-hearted side of Mr. Hamilton's nature. He looked up. Teddie was viciously making a full-stop with the point of a long-suffering pen. In truth, so hard had he dug into the paper that the withdrawal of the pen caused a splutter of ink, destroying the fair surface of the foolscap. With a low-breathed imprecation he, too, looked up, somewhat guiltily, and met his companion's eyes.