Chapter III · —AN UNEXPECTED GUEST.

Three months passed away, and Agnes Rivers was feeling quite at home in her uncle's house. She had lost much of her nervous shyness, but except with Mrs. Mittens she was very quiet and reserved. She was a little afraid of her uncle, as were the whole family; a little in awe of Eddie too, who was still somewhat stately and grand in his manner; and she always had an uncomfortable sort of feeling that Bertie was kind to her just because she was little and weak, and his cousin.

But on the whole she was happy and contented. She ran about the park and gardens all the morning, did no lessons whatever, and amused herself sketching all the pretty bits of scenery, huge trees on the lawn, or Mrs. Mittens' dog and cat, called Punch and Judy, who lived the most useless, indolent, amiable life imaginable in the housekeeper's room. She could hit off likenesses, too, in quite a startling way, and Eddie said he would give her some lessons in painting if she wished. Agnes was enthusiastic in her thanks for what was, after all, but a trifling service, and while the lessons lasted Bertie was rather glum, as he had to ramble about alone, and amuse himself as best he could. But Eddie very soon grew tired of a pupil who after three lessons far excelled the teacher, and as a change, proposed teaching her German. Agnes consented, as she would have done to any plan or project of Eddie's. But that course of instruction also came to an untimely end; perhaps Agnes was a little dull, certainly Eddie was impatient. And then Bertie had his turn: he taught his cousin how to play chess, to spin tops, play cricket (theoretically), regretting every minute that she was not big and strong like Lillie Mayson, the doctor's daughter—the doctor who kept the grammar-school, not the one who came to see them when they were ill.

Once or twice Mrs. Mittens suggested to the master that some one should come and teach Miss Agnes, saying that the child was left too much alone during the day, as the boys went to school every morning. But Mr. Rivers shook his head impatiently. "Leave the child alone; let her eat and sleep and run wild till she's stronger. She ought not to be dull in Riversdale."

Nor was she. How could any one with a deep instinctive love of Nature be dull, or lonely, or sad with a beautiful park to wander in? who with an observant eye could walk through the shady lanes or ramble in the woods without seeing objects of interest and admiration at every step?

"How good of God to not only give us flowers, but eyes to see their beauty and hearts to love them," the child said solemnly one day. "What would the world be if there were not any flowers?"

Bertie, who chanced to overhear her soliloquy, remarked that he thought they could get on better without flowers than trees, vegetables, or even animals; "because, we cannot eat flowers, can we?"

"But if you had read a little about the subject, Bertie," Agnes replied, "you would learn that we could have neither trees nor vegetables nor fruit if we had not flowers first. But it's those dear little wild things that seem to grow here just to make us happy that I love best. I prefer painting flowers to anything."

"I don't; great artists never trouble about flowers," Eddie said, joining them. "When I grow up, I'll paint splendid figures and grand scenes, like the 'Raising of Lazarus,' or the 'Descent from the Cross': those are the kind of pictures great men love to paint and the world to look at."

"But Uncle Clair says people can't paint like the old masters now, and that no one would buy their pictures if they did," Agnes replied.

"I wish some of you would paint up this mask for me like a North American Indian," Bertie interrupted, pulling a hideous pasteboard face from his pocket. "Will you, Eddie? If I attempt to put on the war-paint, I shall make a mess of it." But Eddie indignantly refused to lend his talent to such base uses, and Agnes declared she would paint the face with pleasure, only she had not the least idea what an Indian was like. That was an unforeseen difficulty, but Bertie suggested their looking in the library for a book with pictures, and copying one.

As they approached the house, they were all surprised to see Dr. Bird's carriage at the door. "Some one must be ill, surely—I hope it's not papa," Eddie cried, hurrying on in advance, Bertie and Agnes following. "He seemed quite well this morning. Oh! there's Lawyer Hurst's gig—what can he want? Johnson," to a servant standing at the door, "whatever is the matter? Is papa ill?"

"It's nothing, my dears—that is, nothing to be frightened about," Mrs. Mittens said, as the boys, both startled-looking, rushed into the dining-room. "Your papa had a turn this morning, and I thought it as well to send for Doctor Bird."

"But why is Mr. Hurst here?" Eddie asked.

"I don't know, dearie. I think he just called by accident, or about some ordinary business."

"Has papa asked for us—for me?"

"No, Master Edward. Now, don't look so scared; there's nothing the matter, only, as I said, he got a turn. I think it was something in the paper, for when I went in with his beef-tea, he had it in his hand, and looked quite sad and white. I hoped he was not feeling bad, and he said 'No, no, Mittens. Put that down and leave me'; then when I was at the door, he called out, 'Mittens, set the house in order. I'm going on a journey; see to it without delay!' That's every word, Master Edward; but knowing as the master has not been anywhere for so long, and seeing him look pale and troubled like, I just took the liberty of sending a line to Doctor Bird, asking him to look in quite in a friendly way. He came at once, and he's with the master now. I left the room as you came in, and the doctor said, 'Your master is no worse—rather better, I think.' So now, my dears, will you sit down to dinner?"

Bertie's answer was practical compliance; Eddie stood for a few minutes at the window, wondering if it were the death of another estranged relative that had affected his father; then he, too, took his place, and ate his dinner in silence. Presently the doctor's carriage drove away, and both boys felt less anxious; but to Agnes there was something terrible in the unusual hush of the house: it seemed as if the servants moved about more noiselessly than at other times, and spoke in hushed whispers. Eddie went to the library, and Bertie went out immediately after dinner, and, left to herself, Agnes curled herself up in an easy chair in the dining-room with a book, and after reading for an hour, she fell asleep. It was dusk when she was roused by the sudden ringing of bells and the hurrying of feet across the passage leading to Mr. Rivers' apartments. For a few minutes she sat quite still, pale, frightened, scarcely daring to breathe; then she opened the door and peeped out timidly, but no one took the least notice of her. Mrs. Mittens crossed the hall hurriedly, looking very pale and anxious; there were strange voices too, somewhere. One, Agnes thought, seemed loud and angry. Then she hurried back to the dining-room and shut the door, pressing both her hands on her heart to stop its beating. Something dreadful was happening, she felt sure, but in that household she was quite alone and forgotten; no one thought of her at all.

The quiet, glorious autumn night closed in; still Agnes sat silent and solitary, hoping the best, fearing the worst. It was quite eleven o'clock when the dining-room door was opened softly, and a fair troubled face peered in. It was Bertie. He alone had thought of her, even in his own great sorrow—and Bertie was impulsive and passionate, and felt things deeply. He remembered the poor lonely little girl, and asked Prudence Briggs if his cousin had gone to bed. The girl started guiltily; she had seen nothing of Miss Agnes all the evening; so Bertie began a hunt over the house for her, and found her at last in the dining-room alone.

"Oh, Agnes! what shall we do? Poor papa!" he cried, bursting into tears; and she clung to him, weeping too, but trying to comfort him, and then brokenly he told her all that had happened. At five o'clock Mr. Rivers became suddenly worse. The doctor had stayed with him, and only sent home his carriage, and when he saw the change he sent for the boys at once. Eddie was in the library, Bertie was out in the grounds. "But it was all the same," the lad added, brokenly; "he was quite unconscious when Eddie reached the room. I was there half an hour after, but he never spoke, and now it's all over! Oh, Agnes! what shall we do? I can't believe papa is dead!"

"Telegraph for Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair," she replied, with the promptness of a person used to act in an emergency; and then Bertie, who had never thought of that, rushed off to the library to suggest it to his brother, who seemed quite dazed by the sudden calamity, while Mrs. Mittens entered the dining-room also in search of Agnes.

"It's all over, dearie; the master meant to go on a journey; instead, an unexpected guest came to him. I'm all dazed and scared like, and can hardly realise it yet; and would you believe it? four gentlemen came from London this evening to see your uncle, and not one of them would believe he was 'gone' till they saw him lying there so still and restful, and one of them now acts just as if he was master of this house, so I suppose he must be Master Edward's guardian. But I do wish there was some one here to manage things!"

"Send for Aunt Amy," Agnes suggested again; and the housekeeper seized the idea gladly.

"That I will, dearie, and for Mr. Gregory too, first thing to-morrow morning. Surely, child, you have an old head on young shoulders! Now come and help me to comfort the poor darling boys. Ah! Miss Agnes, you are all orphans together now; and I how things are going to end is more than I know!"

(To be continued.)