Margaret M Robertson (continued 11)

“Harry does not make his business arrangements the subject of conversation very often,” said Graeme, gravely.

“He is quite right,” said Mrs Gridley. “And I daresay, young Roxbury would not be a great acquisition to the firm, though his father’s money might. However, some of that may be got in a more agreeable way. Mr Millar is doing his best, they say. But, Amy Roxbury is little more than a child. Still some very foolish marriages seem to turn out very well. Am I not to see Mrs Elliott, to-day? She is a very devoted mother, it seems.”

“She would have been happy to see you, if she had been at home.”

“And she is quite well again? What a relief it must be to you,” said Mrs Gridley, amiably. “And you are all quite happy together! I thought you were going to stay at the West, Rose?”

“I could not be spared any longer; they could not do without me.”

“And are you going to keep house for Harry, at Elphinstone house, or is Mr Millar to have that?”

And so on, till she was tired, at last, and went away.

“What nonsense that woman talks, to be sure!” said Rose.

“Worse than nonsense, I am afraid, sometimes,” said Graeme. “Really, Harry’s terror of her is not surprising. Nobody seems safe from her tongue.”

“But don’t let us lose our walk, altogether. We have time to go round the square, at any rate. It is not late,” said Rose.

They went out, leaving, or seeming to leave, all thought of Mrs Gridley and her news behind them. They met Fanny returning home, before they had gone far down the street.

“Come with us, Fanny. Baby is all right. Are you tired?” said Rose.

“No, I am not tired. But is it not almost dinner time? Suppose we go and meet Arthur.”

“Well—only there is a chance of missing him; and it is much nicer up toward S street. However, we can go home that way. There will be time enough. How delightful the fresh air is, after a whole day in the house!”

“And after Mrs Gridley,” said Graeme, laughing.

“Have you had Mrs Gridley?” said Fanny.

“Yes, and columns of news, but it will keep. Is it not nice to be out? I would like to borrow that child’s skipping rope, and go up the street as she does.”

Fanny laughed. “Wouldn’t all the people be amazed? Tell me what news Mrs Gridley gave you.”

Rose went over a great many items, very fast, and very merrily.

“All that, and more besides, which Graeme will give you, if you are not satisfied. There is your husband. I hope he may be glad to see us all.”

“If he is not, he can go home by himself.”

Arthur professed himself delighted, but suggested the propriety of their coming one at a time, after that, so that the pleasure might last longer.

“Very well, one at a time be it,” said Rose. “Come, Fanny, he thinks it possible to have too much of a good thing. Let him have Graeme, to-night, and we will take care of ourselves.”

They went away together, and Arthur and Graeme followed, and so it happened that Graeme had lost sight of her sister; when she saw something that brought some of Mrs Gridley’s words unpleasantly to her mind. They had turned into S street, which was gay with carriages, and with people riding and walking, and the others were at a distance before them under the trees, when Arthur spoke to some one, and looking up, she saw Miss Roxbury, on horseback, and at her side rode Mr Millar. She was startled, so startled that she quite forgot to return Miss Roxbury’s bow and smile, and had gone a good way down the street before she noticed that her brother was speaking to her. He was saying something about the possible admission of young Roxbury into the new firm, apropos of the encounter of Mr Millar and Amy.

“Harry is very close about his affairs,” said Graeme, with a little vexation. “Mrs Gridley gave us that among other pieces of news, to-day. I am not sure that I did not deny it, decidedly. It is rather awkward when all the town knows of our affairs, before we know them ourselves.”

“Awkward, indeed!” said Arthur, laughing. “But then this partnership is hardly our affair, and Mrs Gridley is not all the town, though she is not to be lightlified, where the spreading of news is concerned; and she tells things before they happen, it seems, for this is not settled, yet, and may never be. It would do well for some things.”

But Graeme could not listen to this, or to anything else, just then. She was wondering whether Rose had seen Charles Millar and Miss Roxbury, and hoping she had not. And then she considered a moment whether she might not ask Arthur to say nothing about meeting them; but she could not do it without making it seem to herself that she was betraying her sister. And yet, how foolish such a thought was; for Rose had nothing to betray, she said, a little anxiously, to herself. She repeated it more firmly, however, when they came to the corner of the street where Fanny and Rose were waiting for them, and laughing and talking merrily together. If Rose felt any vexation, she hid it well.

“I will ask Fanny whom they met. No, I will not,” said Graeme, to herself, again. “Why should Rose care. It is only I who have been foolish. They have known each other so long, it would have happened long ago, if it had been to happen. It would have been very nice for some things. And it might have been, if Rose had cared for him. He cared for her, I am quite sure. Who would not? But she does not care for him. I hope she does not care for him. Oh! I could not go through all that again! Oh, my darling, my darling!”

It was growing dark, happily, or her face might have betrayed what Graeme was thinking. She started a little when her sister said,—

“Graeme, do you think it would be extravagant in me to wish for a new velvet jacket?”

“Not very extravagant just to wish for one,” said Graeme, dubiously. Rose laughed.

“I might as well wish for a gown, too, while I am wishing, I suppose, you think. No, but I do admire those little jackets so much. I might cut over my winter one, but it would be a waste of material, and something lighter and less expensive would do. It wouldn’t take much, they are worn so small. What do you think about it, Graeme?”

“If you can afford it. They are very pretty, certainly.”

“Yes, are they not? But, after all, I daresay I am foolish to wish for one.”

“Why, as to that, if you have set your heart on one, I daresay we can manage it between us.”

“Oh! as to setting my heart on it, I can’t quite say that. It is not wise to set one’s heart on what one is not sure of getting—or on things that perish with the using—which is emphatically true of jackets. This one has faded a great deal more than it ought to have done, considering the cost,” added she, looking gravely down at her sleeve.

There was no time for more.

“Here we are,” said Fanny, as they all came up to the door. “How pleasant it has been, and how much longer the days are getting. We will all come to meet you again, dear. I only hope baby has been good.”

“She did not see them,” said Graeme, to herself, “or she does not care. If she had seen them she would have said so, of course, unless—. I will watch her. I shall see if there is any difference. But she cannot hide it from me, if she is vexed or troubled. I am quite sure of that.”

If there was one among them that night more silent than usual, or less cheerful, it certainly was not Rose. She was just what she always was. She was not lively and talkative, as though she had anything to hide; nor did she go to the piano, and play on constantly and noisily, as she sometimes did when she was vexed or impatient. She was just as usual. She came into Graeme’s room and sat down for a few minutes of quiet, just as she usually did. She did not stay very long, but she did not hurry away as though she wished to be alone, and her mind was full of the velvet jacket still, it seemed, though she did not speak quite so eagerly about it as she had done at first. Still it was an important matter, beyond all other matters for the time, and when she went away she laughingly confessed that she ought to be ashamed to care so much about so small a matter, and begged her sister not to think her altogether vain and foolish. And then Graeme said to herself, again, that Rose did not care, she was quite sure, and very glad and thankful.

Glad and thankful! Yet, Graeme watched her sister next day, and for many days, with eyes which even Fanny could see were wistful and anxious. Rose did not see it, or she did not say so. She was not sad in the least degree, yet not too cheerful. She was just as usual, Graeme assured herself many times, when anxious thoughts would come; and so she was, as far as any one could see.

When Mr Millar called the first time after the night when Graeme had met him with Miss Roxbury, Rose was not at home. He had seen her going into the house next door, as he was coming up the street, he told Mrs Elliott, when she wondered what had become of her. She did not come in till late. She had been beguiled into playing and singing any number of duets and trios with the young Gilberts, she said, and she had got a new song that would just suit Fanny’s voice, and Fanny must come and try it. And then, she appealed to Arthur, whether it was a proper thing for his wife to give up all her music except nursery rhymes, and carried her in triumph to the piano, where they amused themselves till baby wanted mamma. She was just as friendly as usual with Mr Millar during the short time he stayed after that—rather more so, perhaps, for she reminded him of a book which he had promised to bring and had forgotten. He brought it the very next night, but Rose, unhappily, had toothache, and could not come down. She was not “making believe,” Graeme assured herself when she went up-stairs, for her face was flushed, and her hands were hot, and she paid a visit to the dentist next morning. In a day or two Harry came home, and Mr Millar came and went with him as usual, and was very quiet and grave, as had come to be his way of late, and to all appearance everything went on as before.

“Graeme,” said Fanny, confidentially, one night when all but Rose were sitting together, “I saw the prettiest velvet jacket to-day! It was trimmed in quite a new style, quite simply, too. I asked the price.”

“And were astonished at its cheapness,” said Harry.

“For baby, I suppose?” said Arthur.

“For baby! A velvet jacket! What are you thinking of, Arthur?” said Fanny, answering her husband first. “No, Harry, I was not astonished at the cheapness. But it was a beauty, and not very dear, considering.”

“And it is for baby’s mamma, then,” said Arthur, making believe to take out his pocket book. Fanny shook her head.

“I have any number of jackets,” said she.

“But, then, you have worn them any number of times,” said Harry.

“They are as good as new, but old-fashioned? Eh, Fanny?” said her husband.

“Three weeks behind the latest style,” said Harry.

“Nonsense, Arthur! What do you know about jackets, Harry? But, Graeme, Rosie ought to have it. You know, she wants one so much.”

“She spoke about it, I know; but I don’t think she really cares for one. At any rate, she has made up her mind to do without one.”

“Of course, it would be foolish to care about what she could not get,” said Fanny, wisely. “But she would like it, all the same, I am sure.”

The velvet jacket had been discussed between these two with much interest; but Rose had given up all thought of it with great apparent reluctance, and nothing had been said about it for some days. Judging from what her own feelings would have been in similar circumstances, Fanny doubted the sincerity of Rose’s resignation.

“I believe it is that which has been vexing her lately, though she says nothing,” continued she.

“Vexing her,” repeated Graeme. “What do you mean, Fanny? What have you seen?”

“Oh! I have seen nothing that you have not seen as well. But I know I should be vexed if I wanted a velvet jacket, and could not get it; at least I should have been when I was a young girl like Rose,” added Fanny, with the gentle tolerance of a young matron, who has seen the folly of girlish wishes, but does not care to be hard on them. The others laughed.

“And even later than that—till baby came to bring you wisdom,” said her husband.

“And it would be nice if Rosie could have it before the Convocation,” continued Fanny, not heeding him. “It would just be the thing with her new hat and grey poplin.”

“Yes,” said Graeme, “but I don’t think Rosie would enjoy it unless she felt that she could quite well afford it. I don’t really think she cares about it much.”

“I know what you mean, Graeme. She would not like me to interfere about it, you think. But if Arthur or Harry would have the sense to make her a present of it, just because it is pretty and fashionable, and not because she is supposed to want it, and without any hint from you or me, that would be nice.”

“Upon my word, Fanny, you are growing as wise as your mamma,” said Harry. “A regular manager.”

Fanny pouted a little for she knew that her mamma’s wisdom and management were not admired. Graeme hastened to interfere.

“It is very nice of you to care so much about it, Fanny. You know Rose is very determined to make her means cover her expenses; but still if, as you say, Harry should suddenly be smitten with admiration for the jacket, and present it to her, perhaps it might do. I am not sure, however. I have my misgivings.”

And not without reason. Rose had an allowance, liberal enough, but not too liberal; not so liberal but that taste, and skill, and care were needed, to enable her to look as nice as she liked to look. But more than once she had failed to express, or to feel gratitude to Fanny, in her attempts to make it easier for her, either by an appeal to her brothers, or by drawing on her own means. Even from Graeme, she would only accept temporary assistance, and rather prided herself on the little shifts and contrivances by which she made her own means go to the utmost limit.

But there was no difficulty this time. It all happened naturally enough, and Rose thanked Harry with more warmth than was necessary, in his opinion, or, indeed, in the opinion of Graeme.

“I saw one on Miss Roxbury,” said Harry, “or, I ought to say, I saw Miss Roxbury wearing one; and I thought it looked very well, and so did Charlie.”

“Oh!” said Rose, with a long breath. “But then you know, Harry dear, that I cannot pretend to such style as Miss Roxbury. I am afraid you will be disappointed in my jacket.”

“You want me to compliment you, Rosie. You know you are a great deal prettier than little Amy Roxbury. But she is very sweet and good, if you would only take pains to know her. You would win her heart directly, if you were to try.”

“But then I should not know what to do with it, if I were to win it, unless I were to give it away. And hearts are of no value when given by a third person, as nobody should know better than you, Harry, dear. But I shall do honour to your taste all the same; and twenty more good brothers shall present jackets to grateful sisters, seeing how well I look in mine. It is very nice, and I thank you very much.”

But she did not look as though she enjoyed it very much, Graeme could not help thinking.

“Of course, she did not really care much to have it. She does not need to make herself fine. I daresay she will enjoy wearing it, however. It is well she can enjoy something else besides finery.”

They all went to the Convocation, and Rose wore her new jacket, and her grey poplin, and looked beautiful, the rest thought. The ladies went early with Arthur, but he was called away, and it was a little tedious waiting, or it would have been, only it was very amusing to see so many people coming in, all dressed in their new spring attire. Fanny enjoyed this part of the affair very much, and Rose said she enjoyed it, too, quite as much as any part of the affair; and, by and by, Fanny whispered that there was Harry, with Miss Roxbury.

“I thought Harry was not coming,” said she.

“I suppose, he was able to get away after all,” said Graeme, and she looked round for Mr Millar. He was not to be seen, but by and by Harry came round to them, to say that there were several seats much better than theirs, that had been reserved for the Roxbury party, because Mr Roxbury had something to do with the College, and Mrs Roxbury wanted them to come round and take them, before they were filled.

“Oh! how charming!” said Rose. “If we only could. We should be quite among the great people, then, which is what I delight in.”

“I thought you were not coming, Harry,” said Graeme.

“I was afraid I could not get away, but I made out to do so. No, not at Charlie’s expense. There he is now, speaking to Mrs Roxbury, and looking about for us, I daresay.”

“Well, Fanny, you go on with Harry, and Graeme and I will follow,” said Rose. “It would not do to separate, I suppose? Are you sure there is room for all, Harry?”

“Quite sure. No fear; we will make room.”

So Harry gave his arm to Fanny, and Graeme rose to follow them, though she would much rather have stayed where she was. When she reached the other end of the long hall, she turned to look for her sister, but Rose had not moved. She could not catch her eye, for her attention was occupied by some one who had taken the seat beside her, and Graeme could not linger without losing sight of Harry and Fanny, for the people were crowding up, now, and only the seats set apart for the students were left vacant. So she was obliged to hasten on.

“I will send Harry back for her,” said Graeme, to herself. “Or, perhaps, when Arthur returns, she will cross the hall with him. We have made a very foolish move for all concerned, I think. But Rosie seemed to like the idea, and I did not care. I only hope we are not separated for the whole affair.”

But separated for the whole affair they were. Arthur returned, but it was not easy for him to get through the crowd to the place where he had left his wife and sisters, and when he reached it, he saw that it would not be easy to get away again. So as he could see and hear very well where he was, and as Rose seemed quite satisfied with her place, and with the companionship of her little friend, Miss Etta Goldsmith, he contented himself where he was.

Miss Goldsmith had come to town to see her brother take his diploma as doctor of medicine, and she was in a fever of anxiety till “dear Dick,” had got his precious bit of parchment in his hands. And after that, till he had performed his duty as orator of his class, and had bidden farewell to each and all, in English so flowing and flowery, that she was amazed, as well as delighted, and very grateful to his classmates for the applause, which they did not spare. Rose sat beside the eager little girl, so grave and pale, by contrast, perhaps, that Arthur leaned over, and asked her if she were ill, or only very tired of it all. Then she brightened.

“There is great deal more of it, is there not? I must not be tired yet. Why don’t you find your way over to Fanny and Graeme?”

“Where are they? Ah! yes, I see them over there among the great folks—and Harry, too, no less, and his friend and partner. And that bonny little Amy is not far-away, I’ll venture to say. No. I shall stay where I am for the present.”

Miss Goldsmith did not feel bound to be specially interested in anybody or anything, except her big brother and his bit of parchment. And so, when he had given her a nod and a smile, as he came down from the daïs, crumpling his papers in his big hands, she was ready to look about and enjoy herself. And to the unaccustomed eyes of the country girl, there was a great deal worth seeing.

“How beautifully the ladies are dressed! How pretty the spring fashions are! I feel like an old dowdy! Who is that lady in blue? What a love of a hat! And your jacket! It is a beauty!”

It was through such a running fire of questions and exclamations that Rose listened to all that was going on. There was a good deal more to be said, for the law students were addressed by a gentleman, whose boast it seemed to be, that he had once been a law student himself. Then they had some Latin muttered over them, and their heads tapped by the Principal, and some one else gave them their bits of parchment, and then their orator spoke their farewell in flowing and flowery English. And “will it ever be done?” thought Rose, with a sigh.

It was not “just the thing,” all this discussion of hats and fashions; but little Miss Goldsmith spoke very softly, and disturbed no one, breathed her questions almost, and Rose answered as silently, with a nod, or a smile, or a turn of the eye; and, at any rate, they were not the only people who were thus taking refuge from the dullness of the Dean, and the prosing of the Chancellor, Rose thought to herself; as she glanced about. Arthur whispered that the Chancellor surpassed himself on the occasion, and that even the Dean was not very prosy, and Rose did not dissent, but she looked as if it was all a weariness to her? She brightened a little when it was all over, and they rose to go.

“Go and find Fanny and Graeme,” said she to her brother. “Dr Goldsmith will take care of his sister and me.”

Dr Goldsmith was nothing loth, and Rose was so engaged in offering her congratulations, and in listening to his replies, and in responding to the greetings of her many friends as she came down into the hall, that she did not notice that Graeme and Mr Millar were waiting for her at the head of the stairs. There was a little delay at the outer door, where there were many carriages waiting. The Roxbury carriage was among the rest, and Miss Roxbury was sitting in it, though Rose could not help thinking she looked as though she would much rather have walked on with the rest, as Harry was so bold as to propose. They were waiting for Mr Roxbury, it seemed, and our party lingered over their last words.

“I will walk on with the Goldsmiths. I have something to say to Etta,” said Rose, and before Graeme could expostulate, or, indeed, answer at all, she was gone. The carriage passed them, and Miss Roxbury leaned forward and bowed and smiled, and charmed Miss Goldsmith with her pretty manner and perfect hat. In a little, Harry overtook them. Rose presented him to Miss Goldsmith, and walked on with the Doctor. At the gate of the college grounds, their ways separated.

“Mr Elliott,” said Miss Goldsmith, “your sister has almost promised to come and visit us when I go home. I do so want papa and mamma to see her. Brother Dick goes home to-morrow, but I am going to stay a day or two, and then I want Rose to go with me. Do try and persuade Miss Elliott to let her go.”

Harry promised, with more politeness than sincerity, saying he had no doubt Graeme would be happy to give Rose the pleasure, and then they got away.

“Papa, and mamma, and brother Dick. I declare it looks serious. What are you meditating, now, Rosie, if I may ask?”

“My dear Harry, if you think by chaff to escape the scolding you know you deserve, you will find yourself mistaken. The idea of your taking Graeme and Fanny away, and leaving me there by myself! I don’t know what I should have done if Arthur had not come back. To be sure I had Etta Goldsmith, who is a dear little thing. I don’t think her big brother is so very ugly if he hadn’t red hair. And he must be clever, or he would not have been permitted to make that speech. His papa and mamma must be delighted. But it was very shabby of you, Harry, to go and leave me alone; was it not, Arthur?”

“But, you might have come, too,” said Fanny. “I thought you were following us.”

“And so did I,” said Graeme.

“Well, dear little Etta Goldsmith pounced upon me the moment you left, and then it was too late. I did not feel sufficiently strong-minded to elbow my way through the crowd alone, or I might have followed you.”

“I did not miss you at first,” said Harry, “and then I wanted Charlie to go for you, but—”

“He very properly refused. Don’t excuse yourself, Harry. And I had set my heart on comparing jackets with Miss Roxbury, too.”

“Why did you not stay and speak to her at the door, then?” said Harry, who had rather lost his presence of mind under his sister’s reproaches. He had hurried after her, fully intending to take her to task for being so stiff and distant, and he was not prepared to defend himself,—

“Why didn’t you wait and speak to her at the door?”

“Oh! you know, I could not have seen it well then, as she was in the carriage. It is very awkward looking up to carriage people, don’t you think? And, besides, it would not have been quite polite to the Goldsmiths,” added she, severely. “You know they befriended me when I was left alone.”

“Befriended you, indeed. I expected every minute to see your feather take fire as he bent his red head down over it. I felt like giving him a beating,” said Harry, savagely. Rose laughed merrily.

“My dear Harry! You couldn’t do it. He is so much bigger than you. At least, he has greater weight, as the fighting people say.”

“But it is all nonsense, Rose. I don’t like it. It looked to me, and to other people, too, very much like a flirtation on your part, to leave the rest, and go away with that big—big—”

“Doctor,” suggested Rose.

“And we shall have all the town, and Mrs Gridley, telling us next, that you—”

“Harry, dear, I always know when I hear you mention Mrs Gridley’s name, that you are becoming incoherent. I leave you. Quite the contrary. And please don’t use that naughty word in connection with my name again, or I may be driven to defend myself in a way that might not be agreeable to you. Dear me, I thought you were growing to be reasonable by this time. Don’t let Graeme see us quarrelling.”

“You look tired, dear,” said Graeme, as they went up-stairs together.

“Well, it was a little tedious, was it not? Of course, it wouldn’t do to say so, you know. However, I got through it pretty well, with little Etta’s help. Did you enjoy the Roxbury party much?”

“I kept wishing we had not separated,” said Graeme. “Oh! yes, I enjoyed it. They asked us there to-night to meet some nice people, they said. It is not to be a party. Harry is to dine here, and go with us, and so is Mr Millar.”

“It will be very nice, I daresay, only I am so very tired. However, we need not decide till after dinner,” said Rose.

After dinner she declared herself too sleepy for anything but bed, and she had a headache, besides.

“I noticed you looked quite pale this afternoon,” said Arthur. “Don’t go if you are tired. Graeme, what is the use of her going if she does not want to?”

“Certainly, she ought not to go if she is not well. But I think you would enjoy this much, better than a regular party? and we might come home early.”

“Oh! I enjoy regular parties only too well. I will go if you wish it, Graeme, only I am afraid I shall not shine with my usual brilliancy—that is all!”

“I hope you are really ill,” said Harry. “I mean, I hope you are not just making believe to get rid of it.”

“My dear Harry! Why, in all the world, should I make believe not well ‘to get rid of it,’ as you so elegantly express it? Such great folks, too!”

“Harry, don’t be cross,” said Fanny. “I am sure I heard you say, a day or two since, that Rose was looking thin.”

“Harry, dear!” said Rose, with effusion, “give me your hand. I forgive you all the rest, for that special compliment. I have had horrible fears lately that I was getting stout—middle-aged looking, as Graeme says. Are you quite sincere in saying that, or are you only making believe?”

“I didn’t intend it as a compliment, I assure you. I didn’t think you were looking very well.”

“Did you not? What would you advise? Should I go to the country; or should I put myself under the doctor’s care? Not our big friend, whom you were going to beat,” said Rose, laughing.

“I think you are a very silly girl,” said Harry, with dignity.

“You told me that once before, don’t you remember? And I don’t think you are at all polite,—do you, Fanny? Come up-stairs, Graeme, and I will do your hair. It would not be proper to let Harry go alone. He is in a dreadful temper, is he not?” And Rose made a pretence of being afraid to go past him. “Mr Millar, cannot you do or say something to soothe your friend and partner?”

Harry might understand all this, but Graeme could not, and she did not like this mood of Rose at all. However, she was very quiet; as she dressed her sister’s hair, and spoke of the people they had seen in the afternoon, and of the exercises at the college, in her usual merry way. But she did not wish to go out; she was tired, and had a headache, listening to two or three things at one time, she said, and if Graeme could only go this once without her, she would be so glad. Graeme did not try to persuade her, but said she must go to bed, and to sleep at once, if she were left at home, and then she went away.

She did not go very cheerfully. She had had two or three glimpses of her sister’s face, after she had gone to the other side of the hall with Harry, before Miss Goldsmith had commenced her whispered confidences to Rose, and she had seen there a look which brought back her old misgivings that there was something troubling her darling. She was not able to put it away again. The foolish, light talk between Rose and Harry did not tend to re-assure her, and when she bade her sister good-night, it was all that she could do not to show her anxiety by her words. But she only said, “good-night, and go to sleep,” and then went down-stairs with a heavy heart. She wanted to speak with Harry about the sharp words that had more than once passed between him and Rose of late; but Mr Millar walked with them, and she could not do so, and it was with an anxious and preoccupied mind that she entered Mr Roxbury’s house.

The drawing-room was very handsome, of course, with very little to distinguish it from the many fine rooms of her friends. Yet when Graeme stood for a moment near the folding-doors, exchanging greetings with the lady of the house, the remembrance of one time, when she had stood there before, came sharply back to her, and, for a moment, her heart grew hot with the angry pain and shame that had throbbed in it then. It was only for a moment, and it was not for herself. The pain was crossed by a thrill of gladness, for the more certain knowledge that came to her that for herself she was content, that she wished nothing changed in her own life, that she had outlived all that was to be regretted of that troubled time. She had known this before, and the knowledge came home to her joyfully as she stood there, but it did not lighten her burden of dread of what might lie in the future for her sister.

It did not leave her all the evening. She watched the pretty, gentle Amy, flitting about among her father’s guests, with a feeling which, but for the guileless sweetness of the girl’s face, the innocent unconsciousness of every look and movement, might have grown to bitterness at last. She watched her ways and words with Mr Millar, wishing, in her look or manner, to see some demand for his admiration and attention, that might excuse the wandering of his fancy from Rose. But she watched in vain. Amy was sweet and modest with him as with others, more friendly and unreserved than with most, perhaps, but sweet and modest, and unconscious, still.

“She is very like Lily Elphinstone, is she not?” said her brother Harry in her ear.

She started at his voice; but she did not turn toward him, or remove her eyes from the young girl’s face.

“She is very like Lily—in all things,” said Graeme; and to herself she added, “and she will steal the treasure from my darling’s life, as Lily stole it from mine—innocently and unconsciously, but inevitably still—and from Harry’s, too, it may be.”

And, with a new pang, she turned to look at her brother’s face; but Harry was no longer at her side. Mr Millar was there, and his eyes had been following hers, as Harry’s had been.

“She is very sweet and lovely—very like Lily, is she not?” he whispered.

“Very like her,” repeated Graeme, her eyes closing with a momentary feeling of sickness.

“You are very tired of all this, I am afraid,” said he.

“Very tired! If Harry only would take me home!”

“Shall I take you home? At least, let me take you out of the crowd. Have you seen the new picture they are all talking about? Shall I take you up-stairs for a little while.”

Graeme rose and laid her hand on his arm, and went up-stairs in a dream. It was all so like what had been before—the lights, and the music, and the hum of voices, and the sick pain at her heart; only the pain was now for Rose, and so much worse to bear. Still in a dream, she went from picture to picture, listening and replying to she knew not what; and she sat down, with her eyes fixed on one beautiful, sad face, and prayed with all her heart, for it was Rosie’s face that looked down at her from the canvas; it was Rosie’s sorrow that she saw in those sweet, appealing eyes.

“Anything but this great sorrow,” she was saying in her heart, forgetting all else in the agony of her entreaty; and her companion, seeing her so moved, went softly away. Not very far, however. At the first sound of approaching footsteps he was at her side again.

“That is a very sad picture, I think,” she said, coming back with an effort to the present. “I have seen it once before.”

Charlie did not look at the picture, but at her changing face. An impulse of sympathy, of admiration, of respect moved him. Scarce knowing what he did, he took her hand, and, before he placed it within his arm, he raised it to his lips.

“Miss Elliott,” murmured he, “you will never take your friendship from me, whatever may happen?”

She was too startled to answer for a moment, and then they were in the crowd again. What was he thinking of! Of Allan and the past, or of Rose and Amy and the future? A momentary indignation moved her, but she did not speak, and then little Amy was looking up in her face, rather anxiously and wistfully, Graeme thought.

“You are not going away, Miss Elliott, are you?” said she.

“I am very tired,” said Graeme. “Oh! here is my brother. I am very sorry to take you away, Harry, but if you don’t mind much, I should like to go home. Will you make my adieux to your mother, Miss Roxbury?—No, please do not come up-stairs. I would much rather you did not. Good-night.”

“You might at least have been civil to the little thing,” growled Harry, as she took his arm when they reached the street. Graeme laughed.

“Civil!” she repeated and laughed again, a little bitterly. “Oh! Harry, dear! there are so many things that you cannot be supposed to know. But, indeed, I did not mean to be uncivil to the child.”

“Then you were uncivil without meaning it,” said Harry, sharply.

Graeme was silent a moment.

“I do not choose to answer a charge like that,” said she. “I beg your pardon, Graeme, but—”

“Harry, hush! I will not listen to you.”

They did not speak again till they reached home. Then Graeme said,—

“I must say something to you, Harry. Let us walk on a little. It is not late. Harry, what is the trouble between you and Rose?”

“Trouble!” repeated Harry, in amazement. “Do you mean because she fancied herself left alone this afternoon?”

“Of course I do not mean that. But more than once lately you have spoken to each other as though you were alluding to something of which I am ignorant—something that must have happened when you were away from home—at the West, I mean—something which I have not been told.”

“Graeme, I don’t understand what you mean. What could possibly have happened which has been concealed from you? Why don’t you ask Rose?”

“Because I have not hitherto thought it necessary to ask any one, and now I prefer to ask you. Harry, dear, I don’t think it is anything very serious. Don’t be impatient with me.”

“Has Rose been saying anything to you?”

“Nothing that I have not heard you say yourself. You accused her once in my hearing of being too fond of admiration, of—of flirting, in short—”

“My dear Graeme! I don’t think I ever made any such assertion—at least in a way that you or Rose need to resent—or complain of.”

“Rose does not complain of it, she laughs at it. Harry, dear, what is it? Don’t you remember one night when something was said about Mrs Gridley—no, don’t be impatient. You were annoyed with Rose, then, and it was not about anything that was said at the time, at least I thought not. I don’t wish to seem prying or inquisitive, but what concerns Rose is a great matter to me. She is more to me than any one.”

“Graeme,” said Harry, gravely, “you don’t suppose that I love Rose less than you do. I think I know what you mean, however. I annoyed her once by something I said about Charlie, but it was only for the moment. I am sure she does not care about that now.”

“About Charlie!” repeated Graeme.

“Yes; you did not know it, I suppose, but it was a serious matter to Charlie when you and Rose went away that time. He was like a man lost. And I do believe she cared for him, too—and I told him so—only she was such a child.”

“You told him so!” repeated Graeme, in astonishment.

“I could not help it, Graeme. The poor fellow was in such a way, so—so miserable; and when he went West last winter, it was more to see Rose than for anything else. But he came back quite downhearted. She was so much run after, he said, and she was very distant with him. Not that he said very much about it. But when I went out there afterwards, I took her to task sharply about it.”

“Harry! How could you?”

“Very easily. It is a serious thing when a girl plays fast and loose with a man’s heart, and such a man as Charlie. And I told her so roundly.”

“And how did she take it?” asked Graeme, in a maze between astonishment and vexation.

“Oh! she was as high and mighty as possible, called my interference rudeness and impertinence, and walked out of the room like an offended princess—and I rather think I had the worst of it,” added Harry, laughing at the remembrance. “But I don’t bear malice, and I don’t think Rose does.”

“Of course, she does not. But Harry, dear, though I should not call your interference impertinent in any bad sense, I must say it was not a very wise thing to take her to task, as you call it. I don’t believe Mr Millar ever said a word to her about—about his feelings, and you don’t suppose she was going to confess, or allow you to scold her about—any one.”

“Now; Graeme, don’t be missish! ‘Never said a word!’—Why, a blind man might have seen it all along. I know we all looked upon her as a child, but a woman soon knows when a man cares for her.”

“No wise woman will acknowledge it to another till she has been told so in words; at least she ought not,” said Graeme, gravely.

“Oh, well!—there is no use talking. Perhaps I was foolish; but I love Charlie, dearly. I daresay Rose thinks herself too good for him, because he does not pretend to be so wonderfully intellectual as some of her admirers do, and you may agree with her. But I tell you, Graeme, Charlie is pure gold. I don’t know another that will compare with him, for everything pure and good and high-minded—unless it is our own Will; and it is so long since we have seen him, we don’t know how he may be changed by this time. But I can swear for Charlie.”

“You don’t need to swear to me, Harry. You know well I have always liked Charlie.”

“Well, it can’t be helped now. Charlie has got over it. Men do get over these things, though it doesn’t seem possible to them at the time,” added Harry, meditatively. “I was rather afraid of Rosie’s coming home, and I wanted Charlie to go to Scotland, then, but he is all right now. Of course you are not to suppose that I blame Rose. Such things will happen, and it is well it is no worse. It is the way with those girls not to know or value true worth because they see it every day.”

“Poor Charlie!” said Graeme, softly.

“Oh, don’t fret about Charlie. He is all right now. He is not the man to lose the good of his life because a silly girl doesn’t know her own mind. ‘There’s as good fish in the sea,’ you know. If you are going to be sorry for any one, let it be for Rosie. She has lost a rare chance for happiness in the love of a good man.”

“But it may not be lost,” murmured Graeme.

“I am afraid it is,” said Harry, gravely. “It is not in Rose to do justice to Charlie. Even you don’t do it, Graeme. Because he lives just a commonplace life, and buys and sells, and comes and goes, like other men, you women have not the discrimination to see that he is one of a thousand. As for Rose, with her romance, and her nonsense, she is looking for a hero and a paladin, and does not know a true heart when it is laid at her feet. I only hope she won’t wait for the ‘hats till the blue-bonnets go by,’ as Janet used to say.”

“As I have done, you would like to add,” said Graeme, laughing, for her heart was growing light. “And Harry, dear, Rosie never had anybody’s heart laid at her feet. It is you who are growing foolish and romantic, in your love for your friend.”

“Oh! well. It doesn’t matter. She will never have it now. Charlie is all right by this time. Her high and mighty airs have cured him, and her flippancy and her love of admiration. Fancy her walking off to-day with that red-headed fool and quite ignoring Mrs Roxbury and her daughter, when they—Miss Roxbury, at least—wanted to see her to engage her for this evening.”

“He is not a fool, and he cannot help his red hair,” said Graeme, laughing, though there was both sadness and vexation in her heart. “The Goldsmiths might have called her ‘high and mighty’ if she had left them and gone quite out of her way, as she must have done, to speak to those ‘fine carriage people.’ She could only choose between the two parties, and I think politeness and kindness suggested the propriety of going on with her friends, not a love of admiration, as you seem determined to suppose.”

“She need not have been rude to the Roxburys, however. Charlie noticed it as well as I.”

“I think you are speaking very foolishly, Harry,” said Graeme. “What do the Roxburys care for any of us? Do you suppose Mrs Roxbury would notice a slight from a young girl like Rose. And she was not rude.”

“No, perhaps not; but she was polite in a way so distant and dignified, so condescending, even, that I was amazed, and so was Charlie, I know, though he did not say so.”

“Nonsense, Harry! Rose knows them, but very slightly. And what has Mr Millar to do with it?”

“Mr Millar!” exclaimed Harry. “Do be reasonable, Graeme. Is it not of Mr Millar that we have been speaking all this time? He has everything to do with it. And as for not knowing them. I am sure Rose was at first delighted with Miss Roxbury. And Amy was as delighted with her, and wanted to be intimate, I know. But Rose is such a flighty, flippant little thing, that—”

“That will do, Harry. Such remarks may be reserved for Mr Millar’s hearing. I do not choose to listen to them. You are very unjust to Rose.”

“It is you who are unjust, Graeme, and unreasonable, and a little out of temper, which does not often happen with you. I am sure I don’t understand it.”

Graeme laughed.

“Well, perhaps I am a little out of temper, Harry. I know I am dreadfully tired. We won’t say anything more about it to-night, except that I don’t like to have Rose misunderstood.”

“I was, perhaps, a little hard on Rosie, once, but I don’t think I misunderstand her,” said Harry, wisely. “She is just like other girls, I suppose; only, Graeme, you have got me into the way of thinking that my sisters should not be just like other girls, but a great deal better in every way. And I shan’t be hard on her any more, now that it is all right with Charlie.”

But was it all right with Charlie? Graeme’s talk with Harry had not enlightened her much. Had pretty, gentle Amy Roxbury helped Charlie “to get over it;” as Harry’s manner of speaking seemed to imply? Or did Charlie still care for Rose? And had Rose ever cared for him “in that way?” Was Rose foolish, and flippant, and fond of admiration, as Harry declared; and was she growing dissatisfied with their quiet, uneventful life? Was it this that had brought over her the change which could not be talked about or noticed, which, at most times, could not be believed in, but which, now and then, made itself evident as very real and very sad? Or was it something else that was bringing a cloud and a shadow over the life of her young sister? Even in her thoughts, Graeme shrunk from admitting that Rose might be coming to the knowledge of her own heart too late for her happiness.

“I will not believe that she has all that to pass through. It cannot be so bad as that. I will have patience and trust. I cannot speak to her. It would do no good. I will wait and trust.”

Graeme sat long that night listening to the quiet breathing of her sleeping sister; but all the anxious thoughts that passed through her mind, could only end in this: “I will wait and trust.”

Chapter Forty.

Graeme awoke in the morning to wonder at all the doubts and anxieties that had filled her mind in the darkness; for she was aroused by baby kisses on her lips, and opened her eyes to see her sister Rose, with her nephew in her arms, and her face as bright as the May morning, smiling down upon her. Rose disappointed and sad! Rose hiding in her heart hopes that were never to be realised! She listened to her voice, ringing through the house, like the voice of the morning lark, and wondered at her own folly. She laughed, as Rose babbled to the child in the wonderful baby language in which she so excelled; but tears of thankfulness rose to her eyes as she remembered the fears of the night, and set them face to face with the joy of the morning.

“I could not have borne it,” she said to herself. “I am afraid I never could have borne to see my darling drooping, as she must have done. I am content with my own lot. I think I would not care to change anything the years have brought to me. But Rosie—. Ah! well, I might have known! I know I ought to trust for Rosie, too, even if trouble were to come. But oh! I am very glad and thankful for her sake.”

She was late in the breakfast-room, and she found Harry there.

“‘The early bird,’ you know, Graeme,” said he. “I have been telling Rosie what a scolding you were giving me last night on our way home.”

“But he won’t tell me what it was all about,” said Rose.

“I cannot. I don’t know myself. I have an idea that you had something to do with it, Rosie. But I can give no detailed account of the circumstances, as the newspapers say.”

“It is not absolutely necessary that you should,” said Graeme, smiling.

“I hope you are in a much better humour this morning, Graeme.”

“I think I am in a pretty good humour. Not that I confess to being very cross last night, however.”

“It was he who was cross, I daresay,” said Rose. “You brought him away before supper! No wonder he was cross. Are you going to stay very long, Harry?”

“Why? Have you any commands for me to execute?”

“No; but I am going to introduce a subject that will try your temper, judging from our conduct yesterday. I am afraid you will be threatening to beat some one.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders.

“Now, Graeme, don’t you call that flippant? Is it anything about the big doctor, Rosie?”

“You won’t beat him, will you Harry? No. It is only about his sister. Graeme, Fanny has given me leave to invite her here for a few days, if you have no objection. She cannot be enjoying herself very much where she is staying, and it will be a real holiday to the little thing to come here for a while. She is very easily amused. She makes pleasure out of everything. Mayn’t she come?”

“Certainly, if you would like her to come; I should like to know her very much.”

“And is the big brother to come, too?” asked Arthur.

“No. He leaves town to-day. Will you go with me, Harry, to fetch her here?”

“But what about ‘papa and mamma,’ to whom you were to be shown? The cunning, little thing has some design upon you, Rosie, or, perhaps, on some of the rest of us.”

Rose laughed.

“Don’t be frightened, Harry. You are safe, as you are not domesticated with us. And I intend to show myself to ‘papa and mamma’ later, if you don’t object.”

“There! look at Graeme. She thinks you and I are quarrelling, Rosie. She is as grave as a judge.”

“Tell us about the party, Harry,” said Fanny.

“It was very pleasant. I don’t think Graeme enjoyed it much, however. I wonder, too, that she did not, for there were more nice people there than we usually see at parties. It was more than usually agreeable, I thought.”

“You are degenerating, Harry,” said his brother. “I thought you were beyond all that sort of thing. I should have thought you would have found it slow, to say the least.”

“And then to make him lose the supper! It was too bad of you, Graeme,” said Rose.

“Oh! she didn’t. I went back again.”

They all exclaimed. Only Harry laughed.

“Can I do anything for you and your friend, Rosie?” asked he.

“Yes, indeed you can. I intend to make a real holiday for the little thing. We are open to any proposal in the way of pleasure, riding, driving, boating, picnicking, one and all.”

“It is very kind of you, Harry, to offer,” said Graeme.

“Hem! not at all. I shall be most happy,” said Harry.

“Oh! we shall not be exacting. We are easily amused, little Etta and I.”

Miss Goldsmith’s visit was a success. She was a very nice little girl, whose life had been passed in the country—not in a village even, but quite away from neighbours, on a farm, in which her father had rather unfortunately invested the greater part of his means. It might not prove to be unfortunate in the end, Etta explained to them, because the land was valuable, only in the meantime it seemed to take all the income just to keep things going. But by and by she hoped farming would pay, and the place was beautiful, and they lived very happily there, if they only had a little more money, Etta added gravely.

Dick was the hero who was to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the family, Etta thought. He was her only own brother. All the rest of the children were only her half-brothers and sisters. But notwithstanding the hard times to which Etta confessed, they were a very happy family, it seemed.

Everything was made pleasure by this little girl. It was pleasure just to drive through the streets, to see the well-dressed people, to look in at the shop-windows. Shopping was pleasure, though she had little to spend. An hour in a bookseller’s, or in a fancy shop, was pleasure. The churches, old and new, were wonderful to her, some for one reason, some for another. Rose and she became independent and strong-minded, and went everywhere without an escort. They spent a day in wandering about the shady walks of the new cemetery, and an afternoon gazing down on the city from the cathedral towers. They paid visits and received them; and, on rainy days, worked and read together with great delight, if not with much profit. Rose, with both heart and hands, helped her friend to make the most of her small allowance for dress; and contrived, out of odds and ends, to make pretty, inexpensive ornaments for her, and presents for her little brothers and sisters at home. She taught her new patterns in crochet, and new stitches in Berlin wool. She even gave her a music lesson, now and then, and insisted on her practising, daily, that she might get back what she had lost since she left school, and so be able the better to teach her little sisters when she went home. In short, she contrived to fill up the time with amusement, or with work of some sort. Not a moment but was occupied in some way.

Of course, Graeme was sometimes included in their plans for the day, and so were Fanny and baby, but for the most part the young girls were occupied with each other; and the visit, which was to have been for a few days, lengthened out beyond the month, and might have been longer than that, even, only Rose had a slight, feverish attack which confined her to her room for a day or two, and then Etta could no longer hide from herself that she ought to go home.

“I hope I shall not find that this pleasant time has spoiled me. I think papa and mamma are somewhat afraid. I mean to be good, and contented, and helpful; but I know I am only a silly little thing. Oh! Rosie! if you were only going home with me for a little while!”

“I should like it very much, indeed,” said Rose.

“Of course, everything is very different at our house, but you wouldn’t mind that. Miss Elliott, don’t you think you could spare Rose to me for a few days?”

Graeme shook her head.

“I think I have spared her to you a good many days. I have seen very little of her for a long time, I think.”

Miss Goldsmith looked grieved and penitent. “Nonsense, Etta,” said Rose; “she is only laughing at you. She has had you and me, too. And I should like very much to go with you. This is the nicest time of the year to be in the country, I think. What do you say, Graeme?”

Little Etta clasped her hands, and looked at Graeme so entreatingly, that Rose laughed heartily. But Graeme said nothing encouraging. However, the very hottest days of the summer came that season among the first June days, and, because of the heat, Graeme thought Rose did not recover from her illness so quickly as she ought to have done. She is languid and pale, though pretty busy still, and cheerful, and Graeme proposed that she should go with her friend for a few days, at least. Etta was enchanted.

“I am afraid my resolutions about being good, and helping mamma, and teaching the little ones, would have fallen through, for I know I am a foolish girl. But with Rose to help me, just at first, I shall succeed I know.”

“Don’t be silly, Etta,” said Rose. “You are a great deal wiser and better, and of a great deal more use in the world, than ever I was, or am like to be. All my wisdom is lip-wisdom, and my goodness lip-goodness. If they will help you, you shall have the benefit of them; but pray don’t make me blush before Graeme and Fanny, who know me so well.”

No time had to be lost in preparations. The decision was made one day, and they were to leave the next. Harry, with his friend and partner, came up one night to bid Miss Goldsmith good-bye, and heard for the first time of Rose’s intention to go with her. Harry did not hear it with pleasure, indeed; he made no secret of his vexation. There was a little bantering talk between them, in the style that Graeme disliked so much, and then Rose went away for a few minutes.

“Graeme,” said Harry, “what is all this about? It seems to me Rose ought to have had enough of her little friend by this time. What freak is this she has taken about the country, and a change of air, and nonsense?”

“If it is a freak, it is mine,” said Graeme, quietly. “Rose needs a change. She is not ill, but still she is not quite well, and I am very glad she is to go with Miss Goldsmith.”

“A change,” repeated Harry. “Why could she not go with Fanny to the seaside, if she needs a change?”

“But Fanny is not going for several weeks yet. Rose will be home before that time. She will not be away more than a fortnight, I hope.”

“A fortnight, indeed! What has the time to do with it? It is the going at all that is so foolish: You astonish me, Graeme.”

“You astonish me, Harry! Really I cannot understand why you should care so much about it.”

“Well, well! If you are pleased, and she is pleased, I need not trouble myself about it,” said Harry, sulkily.

“What has happened to you, Harry?” said Fanny. “You are not like yourself, to-night.”

“He is a great deal more like the Harry of old times,” said Graeme. “Like the Harry you used to know long ago, Mr Millar, than like the reasonable, dignified person we have had among us lately.”

“I was just thinking so,” said Mr Millar.

“Why should not Rosie go?” persisted Fanny. “I think it must be a very stupid place, from all that Etta says; still, if Rose wishes it, why should she not go?”

“I believe it is the big brother Harry is afraid of,” said Arthur, laughing. Graeme and Fanny laughed, too.

“I don’t think it is a laughing matter,” growled Harry. “How would you like it if she were to throw herself away on that red-headed giant?”

Arthur and Fanny laughed, still, but Graeme looked grave. “It would be just like a silly girl like Rose,” continued Harry, gloomily.

“Harry,” said Graeme, “I think you are forgetting what is due to your sister. You should be the last person to couple Rose’s name with that of any gentleman.”

“Of course, it is only among ourselves; and, I tell you, Graeme, you are spoiling Rosie—”

“Harry! be quiet. I don’t choose to listen to you on that subject.”

“I declare, Harry, you are getting morbid on the subject of Rosie’s conquests. It is the greatest folly imaginable,” said Arthur.

“Well, it may be so. At any rate, I shall say no more. Are you coming, Charlie? I must go.”

He went to the foot of the stairs, and called: “Rose, are you coming down again? I must go.”

Rose came flying down.

“Must you go, Harry? I am just done with what I needed to do. Don’t be cross with me, Harry.” And greatly to his surprise, as she put her arms around his neck, he felt her tears upon his cheek.

“Why, Rosie, what ails you? I didn’t mean to be cross, Rosie, my darling.”

But, in a minute, Rose was smiling through her tears.

“Rosie, dear,” whispered her brother, “you are a very silly little girl. I think you are the very silliest girl I know. I wish—” Rose wiped her eyes.

“Don’t go yet, Harry. I will come in immediately; and please don’t tell Graeme that I am so silly. She wouldn’t like it at all.”

“Graeme is as silly as you are,” growled Harry.

Rose laughed, and ran up-stairs, but came down in a minute with Miss Goldsmith. Harry had brought a great paper of sweets for the little sisters at home, for which Etta thanked him very prettily, and then she said:

“I hope you are not afraid to trust Rose with us? We will take great care of her, I assure you.”

“Since I am too silly to take care of myself,” said Rose.

They had a pleasant evening enough, all things considered, and it was some time before Harry and his friend went away.

“I must say good-bye for a long time, Miss Rose,” said Mr Millar. “I shall have sailed before you are home again, I suppose.”

“You go in the first steamer, then?”

“I don’t know, I am not quite sure yet. I have not quite decided.”

“Of course, he goes by the first steamer,” said Harry. “He should have gone long ago. There is no use dwelling longer over so simple a matter.”

Rose opened her eyes very wide.

“Is that the way you speak to your friend and partner?” said Fanny.

“Really, Harry, I am afraid your fine temper is being spoiled,” said Rose. “I think Mr Millar is very good not to mind you.”

“I understand Harry,” said his friend.

“You don’t understand yourself, nor what is good for you. Good-bye, dear, silly, little Rose.”

“Good-bye, Harry. Don’t be cross.”

“Rose,” said Graeme, when they were up-stairs alone for the night, “I think it is the big brother that put Harry out of temper to-night.” Rose laughed.

“He seems quite afraid of him,” continued Graeme.

“And you are a little bit afraid of him, too, Graeme, or you never would have told me about Harry.”

“No. But I am just a little afraid for him.”

“You need not be. Harry thinks my desire for admiration insatiable, I know, but it is too bad of you, Graeme, to intimate as much. I have a great mind to tell you a secret, Graeme. But you must promise not to tell it again; at least, not yet.”

“Well,” said Graeme.

“If I should stay away longer than I mean to do at present, and Harry should get very unhappy about me, perhaps you might tell him. Harry thinks I cannot manage my own affairs,” added Rose, a vivid colour rising on her cheeks. “And he has a mind to help me. He has not helped me much, yet. Ah! well, there is no use going over all that.”

“What is the secret you are going to tell me?” asked Graeme.

“I don’t know whether I ought to tell. But it will be safe with you. Graeme, the big doctor is engaged.”

“Well,” said Graeme.

“It is not all smooth sailing, yet. I am afraid it may interfere somewhat with his success in retrieving the fortunes of the family, as Etta has always been hoping he might do. But she is quite pleased for all that, poor dear little thing. See that you don’t tell Harry.”

“Well, is that all you have to say on the subject?” asked her sister.

“Graeme! I do believe you are as bad as Harry. Do you fancy that it is I to whom Dr Goldsmith is engaged? By no means. I am afraid it is a foolish affair; but it may fall through yet. She is a young widow, and has two children, and a little money. No. It is very foolish of Harry to fancy things. He is very stupid, I think. But you are not to tell him, because, really, the secret is not mine, and besides, I have another reason. Good-night, dear.”

And so they went away in the morning. Rose’s visit to the country was quite as agreeable as had been Miss Goldsmith’s to the town, judging from the time she stayed there, and from the letters she sent home. The country was lovely, and she wondered any one would live in the city who could leave it. She kept a journal for Graeme, and it was filled with accounts of rides, and drives, and sails; with, now and then, hints of work done, books read, of children’s lessons, and torn frocks, of hay-making, and butter-making; and if Graeme had any misgiving as to the perfect enjoyment of her sister, it could not have been her letters that had anything to do with it.

At last there came word of an expedition to be undertaken to a lake far-away in the woods, where there were pond-lilies and lake trout in abundance. They were to carry a tent, and be out one night, perhaps two, and Mr and Mrs Goldsmith were going with them, and all the children as well. This was the last letter. Rose herself came soon after, to find a very quiet house, indeed. Fanny and her son had gone to the seaside, whither Graeme and Rose, perhaps, might go, later. Mr Millar had gone, too, not by the first steamer, nor by the second, however. If Rose had been home two days sooner, she might have seen him before he went, Harry told her; and Rose said, “What a pity! If I had only known, I could so easily have come!” That was all.

How quiet the house was during those long summer days! It was like the coming again of the old time, when they and Nelly used to have the house in the garden to themselves, with only Will coming and going, till night brought the brothers home.

“What happy, happy days they were!” said Rose, with a sigh.

“They were happy days,” said Graeme. “Very happy days.”

She did not seem to hear the regretful echo in her sister’s voice, nor did she take her to task for the idle hands that lay folded on her lap, nor disturb by word or look the times of silent musing, that grew longer and more frequent as those uneventful days passed on. What was to be said? The doubts and fears that had made her unhappy in the spring, and even before the spring, were coming back again. Rose was not at peace with herself, nothing was easier to be seen than that; but whether the struggle was with pride, or anger, or disappointment, or whether all these and something more had to do with it, she could only wait till time, or chance, or Rose of her own free will, should tell.

For Graeme could not bring herself to speak of the trouble which her sister, sad and preoccupied, in so many nameless ways betrayed. She would not even seem to see it, and so strove to make it appear that it was her own industry, her occupation with book, or pen, or needle, that made the silence between them, on those days when Rose sat listless or brooding, heedless of books, or work, or of whatever the day might bring. And when the fit of gloom wore over, or when, startled by some sudden fear of being observed, she roused herself, and came back with an effort to the things about her, Graeme was always ready, yet not too eager, to make the most of excuses. Either the heat made her languid, or the rain made her dull, or the yesterday’s walk had been exhausting; and Graeme would assent, and warn or reprove, as the case seemed to require, never intimating, by word or look, how clearly she saw through it all, and how she grieved and suffered with her.

And, when seized upon by restlessness or impatience, she grew irritable and exacting, and “ill to do with,” as Janet would have said, Graeme stood between her and the wonder and indignation, of her brothers, and, which was harder to do, shielded her from her own anger and self-contempt, when she came to herself again. She went out with her for long walks, and did what was kinder still, she let her go by herself, to rest her mind by tiring out her body, at times when the fever fit was on her, making her fret and chafe at trifles that would have made her laugh if all had been well with her.

It was an anxious time to Graeme. When their brothers were with them, Rose was little different from the Rose of old, as far as they could see; and, at such times, even Graeme would be beguiled into a momentary belief that she had been letting her fears speak, when there was little cause. But another day would come, bringing the old listlessness or restlessness, and Graeme could only watch and wait for the moment when a cheerful word, or a chiding one, might be spoken for her sister’s good, or a movement of some kind made to beguile her into occupation or pleasure for a little while. But, through all her watching, and waiting, and anxiety, Graeme spoke no word that might betray to her sister her knowledge that something was amiss with her.

For, indeed, what could she say? Even in her secret thoughts she had shrunk from looking too closely on the cloud of trouble that had fallen on the life of her young sister. Was it misunderstanding, or wounded pride, or disappointment? Or was it something which time and change might not so easily or so surely dispel? There were no words to be spoken, however it might be. That was plain enough, Graeme said to herself, remembering some years of her own experience, and the silent life she had lived unsuspected among them all.

Not that any such trouble as had befallen her, had come upon Rose. That was never for a moment to be believed. Nothing that had happened to Rose, or was like to happen, could so change life to her as hers had been changed. Rose was wiser and stronger than she had been, and she was younger, too, and, perhaps, as Janet had said, “of a lighter nature.” Graeme comforted herself thus, saying to herself that the cloud would pass away; and she waited and watched, and cared for her, and soothed or chided, or shielded her still. She did all this sorrowfully enough at times, yet hopefully, too, for she knew that whatever the trouble might be that, for the present, made the summer days a weariness to the desponding girl, it would pass away; and so she waited, and had patience, and prayed that, out of it all, she might come wiser and stronger, and more fitted for the work that was awaiting her somewhere in the world.

“Graeme,” said her sister, one day when they had been sitting for a long time silent together, “suppose we were to go and see Norman and Hilda this fall, instead of in the spring, as they propose.”

“Would you like it?” asked Graeme, a little surprised.

“Yes. For some things I would like it;” and Graeme fancied there was suppressed eagerness in her manner. “It is a better season to go, for one thing—a better season for health, I mean. One bears the change of climate better, they say.”

“But you have been here so short a time. What would Arthur say, and Fanny? It would look as if you only thought yourself a visitor here—as if your home was with Norman.”

Rose shrugged her shoulders.

“Well! neither Arthur nor Fanny would be inconsolable. The chances are it may be my home. It is worth taking into consideration. Indeed, I have been considering the matter for some time past.”

“Nonsense! Don’t talk foolishly, Rose. It is not long since you wished me to promise that we should always remain together, and I have no thought of going West to stay very long.”

“And why not? I am sure Norman has a right to grumble at our being here so long.”

“Not at you, Rosie.”

“No. Not at me. And, besides, I was not thinking of Norman, altogether. I was thinking of making a home for myself out there. Why not?”

Graeme looked up, a little startled.

“I don’t understand you, Rose.”

Rose laughed.

“No, you don’t. But you think you do. Of course, there is only one way in which a woman can have a home according, to the generally received opinion. It must be made for her. But one might fancy you should be beyond that by this time, Graeme,” added Rose, a little scornfully.

Graeme said nothing, and Rose went on.

“It would not be easy here, I know; but out there you and I could make a home to ourselves, and be independent, and have a life of our own. It is so different there. You ought to go there just to understand how very different it is.”

“If we needed a home,” said Graeme. “But, Rose, I am content with the home we have.”

“Content!” repeated Rose, impatiently. “There is surely something better than content to be looked for in the world;” and she rose and walked about the room.

“Content is a very good thing to have,” said Graeme, quietly.

“Yes, if one could have it. But now, Graeme, do tell me what is the good of such a life as we are living now?—as I am living, I ought to say. Your life and work are worth a great deal to the rest of us; though you must let me say I often wonder it contents you. Think of it, Graeme! What does it all amount to, as far as I am concerned, I mean? A little working, and reading, and music; a little visiting and housekeeping, if Fanny be propitious—coming, and going, and smiling, and making believe enjoy it, when one feels ready to fly. I am sick of the thought of it all.”

Graeme did not answer her. She was thinking of the time when she had been as impatient of her daily life as this, and of how powerless words, better than she could hope to speak, had been to help her; and though she smiled and shook her head at the young girl’s impetuous protest against the uselessness of her life, her eyes, quite unconsciously, met her sister’s with a look of wistful pity, that Rose, in her youthful impatience and jealousy, was quick to resent.

“Of course, the rest would make an outcry and raise obstacles—that is, if they were to be consulted at all,” she went on. “But you ought to know better, Graeme,” added she, in a voice that she made sharp, so that her sister need not know that it was very near being tearful.

“But, Rose, you have not told me yet what it is you would do, if you could have your own way. And what do you mean by having a life of your own, and being independent? Have you any plan?”

Rose sat down, with a little sigh of impatience.

“There is surely something that we could do, you and I together. I can have no plan, you know quite well; but you might help me, instead of—” Instead of laughing at me, she was going to say, but she stopped, for though Graeme’s lips were smiling, her eyes had a shadow in them that looked like coming tears; and the gaze, that seemed resting on the picture on the wall, went farther, Rose knew; but whether into the past or the future, or whether it was searching into the reason of this new eagerness of hers to be away and at work, she could not tell. However it might be, it vexed and fretted her, and she showed it by sudden impatient movements, which recalled her sister’s thoughts.

“What is it, Rose? I am afraid I was thinking about something else. I don’t think I quite understand what you were saying last,” said Graeme, taking up her work as a safe thing on which to fix her eyes.

“For I must not let her see that I know there must be a cause for this sudden wish for a new life,” said she to herself. If she had done what she longed to do, she would have taken the impatient, troubled child in her arms, and whispered, as Janet had whispered to her that night, so long ago, that the restless fever of her heart would pass away; she would have soothed and comforted her, with tender words, as Janet had not dared to do. She would have bidden her wait, and have patience with herself and her life, till this cloud passed by—this light cloud of her summer morning, that was only mist to make the rising day more beautiful, and not the sign of storm and loss, as it looked to her young, affrighted eyes.

But this she could not do. Even with certain knowledge of the troubles which she only guessed, she knew it would be vain to come to her with tender, pitying words, and worse than vain to try to prove that nothing had happened to her, or was like to happen, that could make the breaking up of her old life, and the beginning of a new one, a thing to be thought of by herself or those who loved her. So, after a few stitches carefully taken, for all her sister could see, she said,—

“And, then, there are so few things that a woman can do.”

The words brought back so vividly that night in the dark, when she had said them out of a sore heart to her friend, that her work fell on her lap again, and she met her sister’s eye with a look that Rose could not understand.

“You are not thinking of what I have been saying. Why do you look at me in that strange way?” said she, pettishly.

“I am thinking of it, indeed. And I did not know that I was looking any other than my usual way. I was saying to myself, ‘Has the poor child got to go through all that for herself, as I have done?’ Oh! Rosie, dear! if I could only give you the benefit of all my vexed thoughts on that very subject!”

“Well, why not? That is just what I want. Only, don’t begin in that discouraging way, about there being so few things a woman can do. I know all that, already.”

“We might go to Norman for a while together, at any rate,” said Graeme, feeling how impossible it would be to satisfy one another by what might be said, since all could not be spoken between them.

“Yes. That is just what I said, at first. And we could see about it there. We could much more easily make our plans, and carry them out there, than here. And, in the meantime, we could find plenty to do in Hilda’s house with the children and all the rest. I wish we could go soon.”

And then she went over what she had often gone over before, the way of life in their brother Norman’s house—Hilda’s housekeeping, and her way with her children, and in society, and so on, Graeme asking questions, and making remarks, in the hope that the conversation might not, for this time, come back to the vexed question, of what women may do in the world. It grew dark in the meantime, but they were waiting for Harry and letters, and made no movement; and, by and by, Rose said, suddenly:

“I am sure you used to think about all this, Graeme—about woman’s work, and how stupid it is to live on in this way, ‘waiting at the pool,’ as Hannah Lovejoy used to say. I declare it is undignified, and puts thoughts into people’s heads, as though—. It would be different, if we were living in our father’s house, or, even, if we had money of our own. You used to think so, yourself, Graeme. Why should Arthur and Harry do everything for us?”

“Yes, I remember. When Fanny first came, I think I had as many thoughts about all this as you have now. I was very restless, and discontented, and determined to go away. I talked to Janet about it one night.”

“And she convinced you that you were all wrong, I suppose,” said Rose. “And you were content ever after.”

“No. I don’t think she helped me much, at the time. But her great doctrine of patience and quiet waiting, and circumstances together, convinced me, afterward, that I did not need to go in search of my work, as seemed to me then the thing to do. I found it ready at my hand, though I could not see it then. Her wisdom was higher than mine. She said that out of it all would come content, and so it has.”

“That was not saying much!” said Rose.

“No. It did not seem to me, much, when she said it. But she was right, all the same, and I was wrong. And it has all happened much better than if I had got my own way.”

“But, Graeme, all that would not apply in the case of women, generally. That is begging the question, as Harry would say.”

“But I am not speaking of women in general; I am speaking about myself, and my own work; and I say Janet was wise, though I was far from thinking it that night, as I mind well.”

There was a pause, and then Rose said, in a low voice.

“It may have been right for you to stay at home then, and care for the rest of us, but it would be quite different now, with me, and I think with you, too. And how many women have to go and make a way of life for themselves. And it is right that it should be so; and Graeme, we might try.”

Instead of answering her directly, Graeme said, after a little while,—

“Did I ever tell you Rose, dear, about that night, and all that Janet said to me? I told her how I wished to get out of my useless, unsatisfactory life, just as you have been telling me. Did I ever tell you all she said to me? I don’t think I ever did. I felt then, just as you do now. I think I can understand your feeling, better than you suppose; and I opened my heart to Janet—I mean, I told her how sick I was of it all, and how good-for-nothing I felt myself to be, and how it all might be changed, if only I could find real work to do—”

And Graeme went on to tell much that had been said between them that night, about woman’s work, and about old maids, and a little about the propriety of not setting one’s face against the manifest lot of woman; and when she came to this part of it, she spoke with an attempt at playfulness, meant to cover, a little, the earnestness of all that went before. But neither in this nor in the rest, did she speak as though she meant Rose to take the lesson to herself, or as though it meant very much to either of them now; but rather implied by her words and manner, and by many a pathetic touch here and there, that she was dwelling on it as a pleasant reminiscence of the dear old friend, whose quaint sayings were household words among them, because of their wisdom, and because of the honour and the love they gave her. Her earnestness increased, as, by and by, she saw the impatience pass out of her sister’s face and manner; and it never came into her mind that she was turning back a page in her own experience, over which Rose had long ago pondered with wonder and sadness.

“I could not make Janet see the necessity that seemed so clear to me,” she went on. “I could not make her understand, or, at least, I thought she could not understand, for she spoke as though she thought that Fanny’s coming, and those old vexations, made me wish to get away, and it was not easy to answer her when she said that my impatience and restlessness would all pass away, and that I must fulfil papa’s last wish, and stay with the rest. I thought the time had come when the necessity for that was over, and that another way would be better for me, certainly; and I thought for Arthur and Fanny, too, and for you, Rosie. But, Oh! how much wiser Janet was than I, that night. But I did not think so at the time. I was wild to be set free from the present, and to have my own will and go away. It was well that circumstances were too strong for me. It has come true, as Janet said. I think it is better for us all that I have been at home all those years. Fanny and I have done each other good. It has been better for us all.”

She paused a moment, and then added,—

“Of course, if it had been necessary that I should go out into the world, and make my own way, I might have done as others have done, and won, at least, a measure of success. And so we might still, you and I together, Rose, if it were necessary, but that makes all the difference. There is no question of necessity for us, dear, at present, and as for God’s work, and work for our fellow creatures, we can find that at home. Without separating from the others, I mean.”

But Rose’s face clouded again.

“There need be no question of separating from the others, Graeme. Norman is out there, and there are hundreds of women who have their own place and work in the world, who have not been driven by necessity to look for them—the necessity of making a living, I mean. There are other necessities that a woman must feel—some more than others, I suppose. It is an idle, foolish, vain life that I am living. I know that I have not enough to fill my life, Graeme. I know it, though I don’t suppose I can make you understand it. I am past the age now to care for being petted, and amused, and made much of by the rest of you. I mean, I am too old now to feel that enough for my satisfaction. It is different with you, who really are good for something, and who have done so much, for Arthur and Fanny, and us all. And, besides, as you say, you are content; but as for me—oh! I know there is no use talking. I could never make you understand— There, I don’t want to be naughty, and vex you— and we will say no more to-night. Shall I get a light?”

She stooped over her sister, and kissed her, and Graeme, putting her arms round her, said softly,—

“Only one word more, Rosie. I think I can understand you better than you believe, as Janet understood me that night, though I did not see it then, and you must just let me say one thing. My darling, I believe all that is troubling you, now, will pass away; but, if I am wrong, and if it be best that you have your own way about this work of yours—I mean, if it is right—circumstances will arrange themselves to that end, and it will all come easy for you, and me, too. We shall keep together, at any rate, and I am not afraid. And, love, a year or two does make a difference in people’s feelings about things, though there is no good in my saying it to you, now, I know. But we will wait till Will comes home. We must be here to welcome him, even if his coming should be delayed longer than we hope now. I don’t like to think of any plan for you and me, out of which Will must be left. And so many things may happen before a year is over. I remember how restless and troubled I was at that time. I don’t like to think of it even now—and it is all past—quite past. And we will stay together, whatever happens, if we can, and, darling, you must have patience.”

All this was said with many a caressing pause between, and then Rose said,—

“Well—yes—I suppose we must wait for Will.”

But she did not say it cheerfully, and Graeme went on, after a little:

“And, dear, I have noticed more than once in my life that when a quiet time like this has come, it has come as a time of preparation for work of some sort; for the doing, or the bearing of God’s will in some peculiar way; and we must not lose the good of these quiet days by being anxious about the future, or regretful over the past. It will all come right, love, you may be sure of that.”

The last words were spoken hastily, for Harry’s voice was heard, and Rose went softly out at one door, as he came in at the other; and when, in a little, he called from the foot of the stairs, as he always did, when he did not find her in her parlour, she came down, affecting surprise.

“So you are here at last, Harry? Are there any letters to-night?”

Yes, there were letters. Harry had read his, and gave them the news with a little grumbling, while the gas was being lighted. His friend and partner seemed intent on making the most of his long delayed holiday, and was going to lengthen it a little, by taking a run to Paris, perhaps even to Rome.

“With whom do you think, Graeme?” added he, his face clearing up suddenly. “With his brother Allan, and our Will. Won’t they help one another to have a good time? Charlie takes it quite coolly, however, I must say. It was an even chance, at one time, whether he would go at all, and now, there is no telling when he will be back again. That is always the way. I wonder when I shall have my holiday? ‘The willing horse,’ you know, Rosie.”

“It is very hard on you, Harry, dear. But I fancied you had a little trip yourself, lately, and enjoyed it, too. Was that in the interest of your friend?”

“Hem! Yes—indirectly. I did enjoy it. Fanny says she has had a very pleasant summer; and, if you are going down at all, Rosie, it is time you were going. They seem to have a very nice set of people there. I think if you were to go at once, I would take a run down with you—next week, perhaps. I think you would enjoy it.”